What if we were both kids who had become entangled in dangerous things beyond our understanding, and you just want to be loved and take great care in upholding a cute persona to be liked, and I just want to be loved and uphold a persona to seek it through shallow relationships and being desired, and while you were protected and became a protector I was harmed and became harmful. What if we both need to be needed. What if we both craved attention and were overly willing to give it. What if we’re both sidelined and dismissed and whereas I came to loathe the world and want it reduced to ashes you see beauty in it everywhere, what if you brought me understanding and elation, an actual connection that I hadn’t had since my life became a cycle of pain and trauma and acting. What if I said I hated butterflies because they act all pretty and fancy but without their wings they’re actually really ugly, and you told me that they had to live as ugly caterpillars before earning their pretty wings. What if I was a caterpillar and you were a butterfly and I love you but I hate you but I love you but I hate how you might leave me. What then.

"When I’m with you I feel like a kid again." Alois just stab me, it’ll be less painful than hearing you say this to Lizzie

At first in my drafts I had these lyrics of Someone to Stay written all around them but if you’re not in an intense aloizzy mindset it looks crazyyyyy lol. I still made it an alt version and put it under the keep going line though. Also I made them wear each other’s eye color hehe, blue and green <3 Oh yeah man the sketch for this was from yearssss ago and the lineart it’s gotta have been a solid year as well… Look I just have tons of wips and I’m a slow artist. But yesss this is one of my guilty pleasure OTPs… Even as a kid I was a rarepair shipper gbdgdg. So uh this is my obligatory aloizzy post!! There will be more, hopefully

Fic recommendation!! Ice into intimidation is visceral and childish and timeless and universal. It touched me as a 11 years old and my appreciation for it has only grown as I became less and less childishly innocent like Lizzy and more acquainted with the horrors of the world that Alois has lived and seen. THIS FIC Y’ALL. CHANGED MY NEURONS. It’s like bruised ribs, an all-encompassing hug that softly hurts. It probably influenced my tastes in ships and fiction a lot gdbgdgd. I will never recover from it being discontinued, I will forever dream and wonder about what could have been. They’re so tragic. I’m gonna draw so much fanart of this fic when i can. Like just for his post I took the opportunity to go back and read the "butterflies are ugly" scene and the last chapter and many more excerpts and it makes me go rabid it makes me on the verge of tearssss, I could make a whole essay about this fanfic… Though! CW for ptsd, but otherwise it’s all very implied and not told. If you’ve seen the season and Alois’ character you know you have to prepare for actual dark shit. The fanfic isn’t graphic at all as I said, but if you know Alois’ backstory you know. As mentioned I did read this as a 11 years old and the dark stuff flew over my head it’s chill 👍

My aloizzy playlist!! I have a longer one but it’s 16+ because of aforementioned dark themes and I don’t wanna post it here. If you’re curious about some of my other playlist picks though, I recommend Appetite of a People Pleaser & Hansel by Soddiken

For better or for worse i don’t know But for what it’s worth I made you my whole world

— October passed me by, by Girl in red

Artober Day 8 | I Take Care of Myself 

Fickle is as fickle does, as solitary links My, oh my, it's hard because she says just what she thinks

You Will Never Be Alone Again | Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

(Epilogue of The Aftermath of Losing Everything)

moodboard/sketch/gifs made by me, please don’t repost :)

Summary: Each morning, he’s there, holding you with his smiling lips pressed against your neck and his heart beating against your chest.  (Set after S2) Rating: M   Word Count: 3018 Warnings/Tags: Soft!Din, FLUFF, no use of ‘Y/N’, suggestive content

[PART I] // [PART II] // [PART III] // [Read on AO3] // [Series Masterlist]

xi. 

It’s strange not waking up by yourself, strange to feel blanketed in a kind of warmth and comfort, not even the early morning suns could radiate.

Sometimes, you think this must be some wild fantasy, a sweet sublime dream that could evaporate into smoke if you dare open your eyes.

But each morning, he’s there, holding you with his smiling lips pressed against your neck and his heart beating against your chest. It’s no secret you love him, it’s written all across your face even with a peripheral glance. Falling for him happened fast and a long, long time ago. Yet in these quiet moments when you’re in the place between wakefulness and sleep, you think you’re still cascading over the crest — falling for the tiniest pieces of him that others would need a magnifying glass to see.

Like those delicate wrinkles that frame the corners of his brown eyes when he looks at you, the way they deepen as he smiles. It’s hard to describe how beautiful those lines are… what they mean. Wrinkles don’t develop overnight. No, he’s smiled enough times for those creases to permanently etch themselves into his skin. It makes your heart soar knowing that, despite all he’s been through, he’d allowed himself those sparse moments of happiness. You’ve hopelessly fallen in love with the lines beside his eyes, evidence that a bright side can exist even in the darkest of hours. 

And still, perhaps something you love even more is the way he kisses you until you forget every night you’d ever lay awake feeling alone in the universe.

It’s all so strange in the best, most beautiful way.

Din has given you so much and you only hope he can see your heart, the words carved on it — poems about him, his eyes, the charming lines that tug at the corners. You hope he can see how you’ve kept every word he’s every whispered against your skin, how you’ve inscribed them onto your beating soul: secrets and promises only the two of you will ever get to know, your own name scribbled by his lips a thousand times. You’ll treasure the invisible markings forever. Your heart’s covered in him and you just hope he can see.

With Din, life seems more meaningful, peaceful, beautiful… full. And though frightening shadows still lurk, you know you don’t have to face them alone.

Of course, there are times you worry, moments when he still seems trapped in his head, sinking into deep waters with that silver ball clutched in his hand. But he has you now, his liferaft, one with patched up holes and dents that will always come to pull him back up to the surface.

On those nights when he gets lost in the treacherous tsunami of his mind, you try to give back to him everything he’s so generously offered you. And even as you draw rasped sighs and choked cries and broken moans from his lips, your fingers painting patterns across his body… you know what heals him most are the moments after: the way your breath slows down to match his, how your lips press so gently over his eyelids until they close and project dreams of you as he sleeps.

Meant for me, he’d once said. Or maybe, meant for you.

—

xii.

In the sacred moments you and Din have to yourselves — no quarry to chase, no demons to face — you find yourselves on beautiful secluded planets like this one, surrounded by towering trees and lush rolling hills and long blades of grass and calm creek cadences. Somehow, each new system is more stunning than the last, and every time he opens the ramp to his ship, he intently watches your wonderstruck reaction as your eyes take in a fantastical new planet and gorgeous environment.

Visiting new planets off-duty comes with its own routine. He walks with you as you explore with wide eyes, sits beside you when you find a colorful plant to draw, lifts his helmet ever so slightly when the desire to kiss you — your cheek, your temple, your shoulder — becomes too overwhelming. And when night falls, you both retire to his ship, where he can freely remove every piece of armor and kiss every inch of your skin until it’s all you can dream of.

Since the confrontation at the Imperial base, Din’s also taken it upon himself to train you. Not in the ways of the Jedi, of course. That, you’re learning to study on your own. Din trains you like a Mandalorian — a zealous approach to weapons and warriorship. He’s a patient and compassionate teacher, and it only ties your heart to his in a tighter knot. With his gentle guidance, handling a blaster is hardly an obstacle and it only takes a month or two before you become well-acquainted with the darksaber he’d hidden in his storage cabinet for so long.

When he’d finally told you the story of the ancient weapon of legend, gravity had seemed to press harder against his back, making his shoulders slope and his head hang even lower. Because, on the day he’d parted with his son, he’d not only removed the mask of his Creed, he’d also acquired the crown of a cursed planet. And he still doesn’t know which one weighs heavier atop his head.

After that, you’d dedicated yourself to training with renewed vigor — wanting to be prepared if ever the target on his back brought upon old Imperial enemies or new ones who sought to usurp him from the throne he never wanted.

Today, much like the other times you’d trained with him, it’s mostly just chopping at trees and bushes. You can’t deny how much stronger you feel just holding the Mandalorian weapon and knowing you can defend yourself even without the Force.

There’s a part of you, however, that feels like Din’s holding back. Whenever you’d asked when you’d be ready to spar with him, eager to test your newfound skills against something that can actually fight back, he’d simply readjusted your stance with gentle hands and asked you to show him the different sword strokes he’d taught you.

“Very good,” Din praises as you step forward and swing the darksaber through the air, slicing clean through a thin branch.

“Well, that tree had it coming,” you scoff, crossing your arms with over-exaggerated toughness. “I’ve had enough of your bark, tree. It’s about time you leaf.”

“Puns. You’re upset,” he says, not a question.

“I’m not upset,” you lie, trying to put on your best sabacc face. But his helmet tilts in a way that’s far too knowing for a darkened, T-shaped visor, and you sigh in defeat under his scrutinizing stare. “Fine. I just… I just think I’m ready to up the ante here. And I feel like you’re holding back.”

He stares at you for a moment, studiously looking you up and down.

“Your posture is too slouched,” he explains, changing the subject again. “Go back to ready position.”

“Don’t do that,” you heave out another exasperated sigh.

“Ner kar’ta...”

“No, don’t ‘ner kar’ta’ me. Just because you’ve got this shiny sword,” you argue, the glowing saber humming in your hand as you brandish it back and forth, “and you’re technically a king or whatever—”

“Mand’alor,” he interrupts. “And I’m not.”

“—doesn’t mean everything you say is law. I want you to fight me. I’m ready,” your voice softens, stepping closer to him as your pleading hands wrap around the back of his neck. “I want to really learn from you.”

“We’re not doing this,” he answers, despite willingly staying trapped in the cage of your arms.

But you don’t back down. Instead, you lean forward, lips barely a hair's breadth from his helmet before you boldly kiss the spot where his mouth would be, lingering and watching how the tinted panel fogs up. The print of your mouth marks the dark visor and it makes you grin. 

“Fight me, Mando,” you whisper, all sultry bravado laced with a tease that prickles the skin beneath Din’s armor.

“Ready position,” he rasps like he’s annoyed at himself. 

A metallic, musical sound rings in the empty forest as he unsheathes the beskar spear behind his back. And like a giddy child, you bounce on your feet and step backward, swinging the darksaber in your hands before taking your stance. 

Din stands sturdy just a few feet away, spear gripped tightly in his gloves. He slowly lowers himself, knees bent just slightly, an air of strength and confidence surrounding him. Then, hardly perceptible, he nods.

You dig your heels into the soil, your boots squashing the grass below your feet. With your legs spread wide, you draw the darksaber up to the side of your head, the blinding glow casting a white halo on your cheek. Narrowing your eyes and taking a deep breath, you charge forward at lightning speed, zeroing in on the shiny armor in front of you.

At the last second, Din dodges your attack, stepping to the side and watching as you rush past him. You somehow manage not to trip over your own feet and hastily twirl around to face him again. But Din’s already got the point of his spear aimed at the side of your throat.

“You’re relying too much on your speed,” he explains, spear hovering just below your ear. “Size up your opponent first. Figuring out their weakness is more valuable than using up all your strength. Go again.”

You huff at him but get back into ready position, breathing deep in through your nose and out through your mouth. This time, you take a moment to assess him for weak spots. There aren’t many of course, not visible at least. But you decide the side of his stomach is your best bet.

The moment he nods his head, you take a leap forward and twist your wrist, swinging the blade toward his waist. His spear spins swiftly to block the strike, your weapons meeting in a clash of sparks and high-pitched whistles. You summon all your strength to push the saber against his spear, watching as the silver metal turns orange under the intense laser’s heat. And just when you feel like you’re gaining the high ground as Din’s body bends under your advance, he sweeps his boot beneath you and you fall backward, losing grip of the darksaber.

“That was better,” he says with approval, scanning your body as you lay on the ground and groan loudly. “You okay?” He gently wonders, coming closer and extending a gloved hand toward you.

With shaking fingers, you reach for him. And the moment you feel his grip tighten around your hand, an idea sparks. Without another thought, you yank him forward onto the ground beside you. He lets out a surprised grunt when he hits the dirt and you take full advantage of his shock, straddling his hips and trapping his arms beneath your legs. You extend your hand out to the side and, within seconds, the darksaber comes flying back into your fist. With a bright flash, you ignite the laser blade near his throat.

“That’s cheating,” he says, but you can hear the proud smile in his voice.

“I simply assessed my opponent’s weakness,” you grin, retracting the saber into its hilt and leaning down until you’re nose-to-nose with his helmet. “Just so happens, his weakness is me.”

“Good girl,” he says, and you can’t fight the way his praise sends a fluttering warmth to your belly.

You kiss his helmet again with an exaggerated smacking sound before getting off of him and saying, “Let’s go again.”

Din spars with you for nearly two hours, offering gentle advice each time he bests you (which is most of the time) and showering you with praises whenever you find a way to get the upper hand. It fills you with unmatchable strength and confidence.

“That’s enough for today, verd’ika,” he says, slightly breathless as he brushes dirt off your clothes. “It’s getting dark. Let’s head inside.”

You smile at him, filled with an intense urge to kiss him. So, you reach for his helmet, slowly, just in case. His head turns left and right, checking if the coast is clear, before nodding. You lift the beskar slightly, just enough to reveal his mouth and his neatly-trimmed mustache, and press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Thank you, Din,” you whisper as you set his helmet back in its place. You can almost see the bemused look on his face as he stares at you.

And as you walk back to the ship, a re-energized bounce in your step, you decide to tease him one last time, turn around, and smirk. “Meet you in the fresher.”

— 

xiii.

Din’s hair hangs in waves over his forehead as he gazes down at you, leaning on his left forearm to stay suspended over your body. 

He smells delicious, like his herb-scented soap and the delicious meal he’d cooked for you tonight. His skin is glazed in a radiant sheen and his eyes somehow glow in the dim lighting of your shared quarters.

You’ve learned to appreciate rare nights like this, when there are no jobs to keep him away from you for days at a time. When your eyes get to unabashedly roam over the golden expanse of his skin, without heavy armor or layers of cloth in your way. When you get to listen to his voice for hours on end as his hand traces lines and circles into your skin.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask him, noticing how his entranced stare focuses on your lips when you speak.

He strokes a calloused finger over your cheekbone, then under the curve of your lips, until his thumb finds a resting place over your chin and gently swipes back and forth.

“You,” he answers honestly, leaning down to kiss you, tasting your smile on his tongue. He lingers there for a long moment, hanging from your lips like a man on the edge of falling though he’s already fallen countless times before.

“That’s all?” You whisper, feeling his hot breath brush against your mouth.

He rests his forehead against yours, his nose rubbing along the side of your own.

“And how much the kid would have loved this planet,” he continues wistfully. “Running through the grass and catching frogs or whatever he could eat.” 

Your soft laugh is bittersweet as he reminisces over his son, the corners of his eyes wrinkling mere centimeters from your face.

“Thinking about how he would have liked watching us train together. He’d probably cheer for you to win,” Din chuckles when you scrunch your nose and shake your head doubtfully. Then, his face softens and his eyes glisten. “Grogu would have loved you.”

An errant tear falls from Din’s lashes and drops onto your cheek, and there's little you can do to keep your own from getting mixed in — a tiny melancholy river forming atop your skin. Your hands cup either side of his face, and you lean forward to kiss the spot where the tear had left a small trail right below his eye.

“In some ways, it’s like I know him now,” you murmur against Din’s cheekbone. “Because I know you. I can feel it — the pieces of you that will be part of him forever. I would love him too. I already do.”

He whispers your name again and again, and each time, it’s like he’s making a wish on a star. 

“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum,” you whisper, kissing his lips sweetly.

When you draw backward against your pillow, he latches onto your mouth once more and kisses you until you’re breathless.

“There aren’t words, ner kar’ta, ” he says quietly, fingers brushing gently over your hair. “Nothing can explain what you mean to me.”

When Din makes love, you can feel nothing else but him — his body, his soul, his heart. Every touch and movement is energized by a deep intention to let you know what he sometimes struggles expressing in words. But you’ve become fluent in him, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt how each kiss translates to: I love you.

Each thrust of his hips means: I want you.

Each ragged moan reveals: I need you.

Each soft caress says: I’d do anything for you.

And each time his forehead meets yours, he declares: I have found my family.

As you both try to catch your breath, he flops back down onto the bed beside you. He hums happily when he feels you hold tight to him, squeezing his middle with your arms and placing a kiss over his heart.

“Good night, Din,” you mumble, yawning as you nuzzle your face against his chest and bury yourself deep beneath the covers.

“Sweet dreams,” he says, pressing his lips into your hair.

You tilt your chin up just slightly, wanting the last image you see before you drift off to be his beautiful face. But his stare is far away, lost in thought once again. You follow his line of sight, beginning at his shining eyes and landing on the collection of drawings hung beside his door. And the pictures that reflect in his glossy irises are the finished portrait of him beside the sketch of you and Grogu displayed proudly in the center.

Someday, you swear to yourself, those images will be more than just pencil scratches on parchment. Someday, your small chosen family will be whole.

When you close your eyes — your head resting over the warm skin of his chest, his heart marching steadily under your cheek — you dream of the day Din and his son finally reunite, with you standing by his side. And even if that’s still a far-off fantasy, you can rest easily knowing two things for sure:

Tomorrow, you’ll wake up wrapped in Din’s arms. And, for as long as you live, neither of you will ever be alone again.

End Note: Thank you to anyone who's read this story. It's been a labor of love for me and I'm especially grateful to readers who left encouraging feedback. As for me, I'll be around. I'm working on another Javi x Reader story (inspired by yet another TS song — off evermore this time). If you haven't read my other one, please check it out! It's called "If I Could Never Give You Peace." Talk soon! Mando’a Glossary: Ner kar’ta = My heart (kar’ta = heart [kah-ROH-ta]; ner = my [nair]) Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum. = I know you forever [nee kar-TILE garh dah-RAH-soom] ⎿ “It's the same word as 'to know,' 'to hold in the heart,' kar'taylir. But you add darasuum, ‘forever,’ and it becomes something rather different.” — Republic Commando: Triple Zero Verd' ika = Little Warrior (affectionately) [vair-DEE-kah]

Please reblog & comment to show your support! I’d love to hear your thoughts!!

Taglist: @sarahjkl82-blog @pedro-pastel @mavendeb @tailormotelkamzoil @unexistant @karkii @hwjdykqueillmjwkqu @httpwale @chiara-cannot-sleep​ @niiight-dreamerrrr​

Inked

Still on hiatus. But I found an old piece of writing and I revamped it just a smidge! It was originally published in 2018 on calumh-excess. Which is now deactivated. Hooray for finding pieces!

Calum's been watching Jay for a while. She's cute, talented, but a bit of mystery. Should he really give into her? What will it take for him to admit he has a crush?

Enjoy my masterlist (on hiatus)

______________

He watched her sometimes for far too long. The way her tongue stuck out as she pulled the skin and her hand worked steadily with the needle made it hard for him to resist. Her face always seemed to catch the harsh fluorescent lights and reflect it back so that it twinkled against her skin. A slight sheen, but nothing just of ethereal. He wasn’t even interested in any new ink, not seriously anyway. He had slowed on the ink train, but the shop his tattoo artist owned was a nice place to hang out sometimes. When he wanted to get out of his house but didn’t want to actually go somewhere, he could hang out here, listening to the buzz of the tattoo gun, poke his hand at trying a design here or there. They weren't great. He hadn't considered him this kind of artist, but the shop felt like a second home.

Besides, having her around was a more than welcomed bonus.

He wasn’t even sure what it was about her. She showed up about a year and a half ago, under an apprenticeship. Calum’s artist was unsure of her, much like everyone else that asked to work under him. A hazard of the job, according to the job, according to Calum's artist. However, her drawings spoke volumes; the colors and line work were impeccable. She had talent and knew it without being cocky about it. Well, sometimes she wasn’t. Calum watched her run into the occasional asshole that tried to belittle her; she always put her foot down in those situations. He didn’t fault her.

Today’s no different. When Calum walks in, he greets the guy at the front desk, eyes searching for her. He spots her in the back with her oversized frames creating a small glare over her brown eyes. He never quite got the appeal of the grandma-shaped glasses trend, but on her, they worked. She looked wise but soft. The glass pulled him in, felt like she was seeing into his soul. Maybe she was; maybe the pain made people more vulnerable than they anticipated--entrusting someone, a stranger in some ways, to permanently mark you and not fuck it up. Whatever the reason, looking at her felt timeless. Like she had seen it all, and you are just waiting for you to spill all the secrets.

“You finally going to get some new ink?” Calum’s artist teases.

Calum shakes his head, turning his attention away from her. “You finally took her training wheels off?”

“Your girlfriend’s got mad skills. I couldn’t baby her forever. Jay works hard on each piece, learned fast. Got a steady ass hand and pretty gentle for handling a needle.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, because you haven’t hardly even talked to her. Go for it, you wuss. What’s the worst she says? No?”

Calum exhales a chuckle. "I mean, the worst she stabs me with the tattoo gun. But considering the ink I'm already sporting, I doubt that's really all that bad.”

“Jay would not do that unless you asked for it, ff course. But really, go on, ask her out.”

Calum glances back at Jay. It’s a nickname. No one in the shop calls her by her full name. The only reason Calum heard it was when a client came asking for her. Jay was quick to correct them.

She wipes, clearing excess ink, before dipping back into the small cup. Jay smiles up at her client. Calum's sure they appreciate the reprise. Getting tattoos weren't always fun, but bearable enough to forget about it and get more.

Calum turns his gaze away. “I recommended you to a friend,” he says, hoping that he’ll escape the teasing. It’s not likely to happen. But at least he tries to minimize the ridicule.

"I appreciate it. Are they a first-timer?"

"A second-timer, but they're visiting town and want some new ink. I figured best not to fuck them over."

The two men laugh before Calum's escorted back to look through some new designs. Just in case something sparks his interest. Calum's visit is supposed to be short, but there's not much else on his to-do list for the day. He could kill a few hours here.

When Calum comes out from the back, after spending too much time pretending art was ever a talent of his, he looks for Jay again. She’s not in her corner, nor is she at the front. Calum shrugs, figuring she might have gone for lunch, or home depending.

As Calum walks to his car, he checks his phone. Nothing major's happened.

“Leaving so soon?” A voice states. Calum knows that voice, a little gravelly, mostly sweet. He’s dreamt of it every so often. He prays to hear it when he visits the shop.

He turns to Jay, who leans against the bricks. A vape is wrapped in her fingers. “Gotta get some dinner, maybe make a run to the grocery store," Calum returns. "I've gotten lazy."

She nods. “This reminds me that I can't survive off BLTs forever," she laughs.

"You could try, but I think you'd need other vegetables and some fruit in that mix too."

She pushes up on her glass with a nod. "Ah, yes, gotta get the whole food pyramid." It goes silent between them and Calum gives another nod, raising a few fingers to signal his departure while still keeping his phone in a secure enough grip.

"Hey, wait!" Jay calls out again, taking a half step forward. Calum turns to her. "Can I give you something before you leave?”

Calum nods, not trusting his voice. What would she give him? She nods back to the front door, taking back that initial half-step. “It's inside. Give me like two minutes.”

She disappears inside and Calum stands, his phone still in his hands, staring at the spot she once stood. Just as quickly as she disappeared, Jay reappears. In hand is her portfolio. She flips through before stopping and slides the heavy-duty drawing paper out.

Calum stares down at the green and black drawing. It’s his face, for the most part, that stares back at him. It’s distorted by a crystal ball that glows green. Inside are some instruments and something else, but right now he can’t really put it all together. His eyes keep moving over the lightning bolt, the crystal ball, the uncanniness of his face on a piece of paper, his three-dimensional face somehow translated perfectly into a 2-D space.

“Holy shit, this is amazing,” he breathes. “Thank you,” he says looking back up to her.

She shrugs with a smile. “You’re welcome.”

“Seriously, this is so fucking awesome. I’m going to frame it,” he gushes. He’s too excited to be nervous, or be embarrassed. "What are the dimensions?"

“I'm just really glad you don’t find it too creepy. I was watching you a couple weeks ago when you stopped by. It just sort hit me, the image of the crystal ball and lightning bolt; I had to draw it,” Jay elaborates. "And it's 8.5 by 11--standard printer paper size."

Calum shakes his head, staring over the drawing again. It feels so delicate suddenly in his hands. It’s almost like Jay recognizes the change in his handling. She shuffles her load in her hands and pulls out an empty plastic over. “Here,” she laughs handing it over. “So it doesn’t smudge or anything if you're worried."

Calum slides it in. “Thank you. Again. Seriously.”

“You’re welcome, Calum. Good luck with your grocery store trip and dinner,” Jay nods and then heads back inside. Calum watches the way the denim stretches across her hips, the way her hair billows just a little in the breeze of her strut.

For a moment, Calum can't move. The weight of the paper in his hand is hardly ounces, but it holds him--traps him to the point of the sidewalk. Jay thought enough of him to draw him. What did it all mean? Should he have found the courage to ask her out? He could walk back inside. But what if she didn't like him like that? Would it be too weird?

Calum blinks up into the hardly settling sun and thinks to himself, the second he can come back here, it better be with a bit more courage and possibly a gift certificate. No one can be made about free food, right?

It’s months before Calum can visit the shop again. The tour is a whirlwind and he only gets a few days off between legs. Not long enough to get back home or feel like he had any energy to drive out to the shop. But now that he's settled back in at home, he knows exactly where he's going.

It’s not his typical practice to just walk in and ask for a tattoo. But given the ink already on him, worse things could happen. When he pulls open the door, he notices it's kind of slow. Jay greets him at the front desk. “Hey, stranger,” she grins.

“Hey, how are you?” he asks in return.

“Pretty good. How was it? The tour? See any cool places?”

He nods. “Yeah, got to explore a few cities.” He taps his fingers against the wooden desk. “Do you have an appointment anytime soon?”

Jay shakes her head. “My 2 o’clock had to reschedule. I’m here until 4 before I see anyone. Why? What's tickling your fancy?”

“I was wondering if you could do a tat for me? I know this is very last minute and if you need me to come in another day this week, I totally can.” His words run into each other; his palms start to sweat. He wipes them on his jeans.

Jay laughs, holding up a hand. “Whoa, pump the brakes. One, what are you looking for?”

“You know that drawing you did for me?” She nods. “I was kind of hoping you could create something with just the crystal ball and lightning bolt. I know the drawing itself is kind of big.”

A grin lifts her cheeks; Calum’s heart settles for a second. “I think I can do that. Where are you thinking to put it?”

“Inner bicep.” He watches her gaze land on his arm. The t-shirt is baggy, he at least thought about that with enough advance.

“Give me 30 minutes to come up with some sketches.” Jay pushes away from the front desk and heads to the back, but not for calling to the shop to watch the front desk.

Calum slides into the seat at the front, leg bouncing as he settles down. This isn’t even his first tattoo, but the nerves flood his body. His scalp tingles. The thirty minutes move by too fast, but also too slow simultaneously. The seconds feel like hours but move by milliseconds.

Eventually, Jay resurfaces, waving him over to her. He walks back and looks at the sketches she places out in front of him. There are two different ones. One’s a bit more minimalistic, which is her style, with the lightning bolt in the background and a simple crystal ball at the point. The other is a bit bolder, the ball has a slightly warped edge where it connects to the bolt. It looks like the bolt is melting the glass ball.

“I can whip up more if neither one of them are quite right. But I wasn’t sure if it wanted something a bit more crisp and sharp or not,” Jay explains.

Calum admits that most of his tattoos are more cleaned up and sharp. He likes the idea of playing with a new style. “I like the second one,” he says, tapping it.

“You sure?” He nods, he’s never been more sure of something in his life. “Which bicep? Let me line it up and make sure it’ll fit.”

Calum lifts his left arm up for her. Laying the stencil over his skin, Jay notes she has to make a couple small tweaks. But after that, she’ll be ready. They discuss full color, or just outline, or shading, price, and a few other details before Jay concludes with, “Hop in my seat. I’ll be there soon.”

Calum nods and walks over to her station. Her stuff is already laid out, probably for her canceled 2 o’clock. It’s about five more minutes before Jay returns with the final stencil. Calum rolls up the sleeve of his shirt before she places the stencil. Happy with the placement, he stretches out on the table.

Jay gets herself ready before she brings the needle over his skin. The first puncture always makes him jolt a little, the first jab of pain causes his heart to race. “Do you plan on relaxing now that you're back home?"

"Yeah, for a little bit. I might go see my family, but I know we'll be back in the studio soon. Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"

"I mean exciting things happen every day at this place. But it's not like I could recall them all now."

Calum hums, acknowledging her statement, but not quite sure what to say next. Luckily, Jay's faster to fill in the silence. "You do realize you didn’t have to get a tattoo to have a real conversation with me?” Jay teases, pushing up her glasses.

Calum’s cheeks heat. “It’s not like that,” he chuckles.

“Well, that’s how it seems.”

“You were always busy when I stopped by. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Not always,” she laughs. “But it’s alright. You’re going to have plenty of time while I’m stabbing you to say all those things you didn’t.”

A chuckle escapes him; of course, Jay would have this sense of humor. “Wow, I can’t believe I’m paying so much for people just to stab me and act as a therapy. Maybe I am a masochist.”

“So are a lot of people. Sometimes you just take the emotional pain out in the physical realm.”

“I always imagined people that worked in a tattoo shop to be more heavily tatted,” Calum hums, taking in scattered ink across her arms and one pokes out from the V in her t-shirt.

“I focused it more on my back and legs and not so much my arms. I’m getting there. So, why this one today?”

Calum goes to shrug, but stops himself as he hears the gun nearing his skin again. “Not really sure. It looked cool. I guess it also serves to remind me that fate isn’t linear. There’s going to be twists and turns, maybe some trouble. And that’s okay. Don’t be afraid of the journey. Also, it's really fucking cool art.”

Jay hums her laugh, “Why thank you. Wise brain you got there. Besides, it seems like you also have people you keep close to you.” She eyes the initials and the name under the bird. “Whoever they are to you, I hope you all stay close.”

“Those are my parents' initials,” he explains. “And my sister’s name. They’ve been with me through it all--I love them dearly.”

“So sweet. I wish my parents and I were closer. I tattooed my brother’s jersey number on me. It was my first tattoo.”

“What did he play?”

“Soccer, or for your kind, football.”

“Hey now, it’s played with the feet, it makes much more sense.”

Jay laughs, wiping off excess ink. She cocks her head to the side a little, then goes back in for the black ink. “I’m only teasing. Us Americans are so dumb sometimes. Like why is our football not called something else? Literally, the only thing that happens with the feet is the running. We carry the fucking ball.”

“I’ve wondered that as well!” he laughs. "Does your brother still play?"

“Yeah, the whole knucklehead still plays for his college.”

“What position?”

Jay laughs. “I'll have you know my job as the older sister is to show up and cheer him on. Something defensive? I don’t remember off the top my head.”

“I’ll give you credit for that. I’m sure he appreciates it.”

“He does until he sees with me in face paint on and then he’s acting like he doesn’t know me. Oh, oh wait, I think remember what he does. It’s defensive,” she pauses, lips pursed together, “something fielder.”

“Defensive midfielder?” he asks.

“Yeah, that. But like I said, I show up when I can and scream. That’s it. When he’s old enough, I’ll buy him a beer after his games too.”

“How old is he?”

“Nineteen, we’re three years apart.”

“The only sibling you have?”

“Nah, got a baby sister too. She’s fifteen. If you’re impressed by my eyeshadow thank her. Because she’s the one that taught me how to do it.”

Calum finds himself staring at the red and gold coloring her eyelids. “It looks really nice,” he breathes.

“Why thank you.” She pauses to bats her eyelashes. “I even managed to get those godforsaken falsies on right too. They look good, but the raise hell.”

“I think you’re the first woman I’ve met in LA that’s not obsessed with makeup,” he notes.

“Oh, you were doing so well. There are a lot of people of who aren’t huge in the makeup scene.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he tries to backtrack. “I’m sorry. In my experience, it’s not like that. They’re hiding the fact they aren’t wearing makeup--embarrassed by it or something.”

Jay nods, pushing up her glasses yet again. “Yeah, it’s not easy. We’re told to be perfect, but in reality, we’re just like everyone. We’re human, imperfect and flaw-full and beautiful.”

“Not in spite of, but because of.”

“Exactly,” she chuckles. Silences settles in around them. Calum wonders why she said she was closer to her family, but the way she talks about her siblings doesn’t match. She’s cheering her brother on at his game; she’s sitting down to learn makeup with and from her sister.

“Can I ask a bit of a personal question?” he asks.

“What kind of personal? Do I get a lifeline?”

Cal exhales a laugh. “You can always say no.”

“Hit me with it.”

“Why say that you’re family isn’t close but you clearly take a lot of pride in your siblings?”

“An observant one on my table, I see. It’s my parents. They don’t like that I’m pansexual, say I’m going to hell. My siblings don’t fucking care. I’m still the crazy-ass sister that loves and supports them.”

With a hum of acknowledgment from Calum, it goes quiet again around them for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He knows it doesn’t really fix anything for her; it doesn’t take away the potential years of her suffering. It’s the only thing he can offer her though. It feels right to say.

“Oh, no need for you to be sorry. It’s not like you threw me out of the house.”

“Ouch. You’re making it though right?”

“Yeah, now that I work here, things are on the up and up.”

“That’s good; I’m glad.”

“Thanks.”

“Favorite tattoo you’ve done?” he asks, wanting to hear her voice again.

“This one,” she laughs. “Though I had someone ask for a pin-up witch, which was also pretty fucking cool to do.”

Calum remembers seeing that on her Instagram. “That one was amazing! Her lips looked so good; I know that’s a strange thing to admit.”

“Don’t worry. I am quite proud of that myself.”

“Do you have a favorite tattoo on you?”

“The blue jay on my shoulder. My parents would take me on walks when I was still an infant. According to the legend, while they were sitting on a park bench a blue jay landed on me. I didn’t cry; it didn’t hurt me. It just landed for a second and then flew off. They called me Blue Jay ever since. I just shortened the nickname as I got older.” She gives one more wipe. “Finished. Check it out.”

Calum sits up, walking over to the mirror. He grins seeing the melting ball sitting against his skin. He grins over to Jay. “It looks amazing. Thank you.”

“No problem.” They head back over to her station. Jay cleans it and wraps the fresh ink. Calum carefully gets his sleeve back down with a little help from Jay. He pays their agreed price with his card, but slides two fifties over to her. “You do know that’s more than double a twenty percent tip right?”

Calum shrugs. “Is it? I’m bad at math,” he grins. “Treat your sister to a new palette or something. Treat yourself to something.”

“Thank you. Now next time, you come by, I hope we don’t talk while I’m stabbing you repeatedly.”

Calum shakes his head, a grin still on his face. Of course. He had forgotten to get the gift certificate. But possibly asking Jay to dinner wouldn't be such a bad idea. “Give me your number and I can promise the next time we talk, it won’t in your chair.”

She holds out her hand, waiting. He hands her his phone, after unlocking it. She puts her number in. She goes to hand the phone back but just before his fingers touch it, she draws it back. "I mean it--actually text me. I adore memes, dogs, TikToks, your favorite songs."

"I'll actually talk to you. I promise."

Jay hands over his phone with a smile. Calum steps outside the glass doors. Why should he wait? He could do it now. For fuck sake, the last hour had been the groundwork for a clear sign a date was absolutely an option. His fingers hovering over her name. He taps it, and then presses for a call. Holding the phone to his ear, he listens to it ring for a second.

“I can still see you, you know?” Jay laughs.

Calum turns around, catching her leaning against the front desk. “I told you the next time we talked you wouldn’t be inking me.”

“What can I help you with, Calum?”

“Dinner, tonight-- I may have ordered too many appetizers for just little old me."

Her laugh trickles in over the speaker. She drops her head, giving it a shake before looking back up to him in the afternoon sun. “I think I can help you with that. Give me the time and place."

Calum rattles off the name of a restaurant that he had been wanting to try. Nothing too upscale, but not something that would be too casual. "How does 8 sound?"

"I love it there. I'll see you at 8."

“Bye, Jay.”

“Bye, Calum.” As he walks to his car, his phone buzzes yet again. This time a text from his artist, I’m being fucking replaced, I see. I can’t be too mad since it’s Jay. Calum laughs as he slides into his car. Maybe he is getting replaced; maybe he’s not. Calum’s not sure. He is sure that he needs to figure out if he can make reservations and what to wear for tonight.

(Art not by me! Rough Sketches by @queenieboo22 , Lines, and Colors by @seaselfships, uploaded with permission by the both of them!)

“You should be honored to see the power of a wind witch, I promise it’ll be an enlightening experience-...”

“No no, I’m really Taika, I’ve just been turned into a child by a faerie, I need a place to hide-... wait, you really have candy? M-maybe some will help calm me...”

Behind-The-Scenes/Context: Another OC! You might think this one is brand new, but, she’s actually a rework of a bonafied FOSSIL of an old OC! The original Taika concept was actually made not too long after Scarlet, and I was always a little fond of the concept (A Powerful Witch turned into a child by a curse and weakened, but capable of returning to her adult form to do some cool things), but it took me a while to solidify her reworked concept!

When I pitched the concept to my friend Queenie, she loved it, but at the moment was unable to color her art, so she lined the rough sketches, and then we got her friend Seaselfships to help color it, over time, we gradually got it all done, and now we have all forms of the OC Done, and I think she turned out great!

This is Taika Virtanen , a powerful wind magic user who hails from a country in the cold north (Like Finland!), she calls herself a Witch, and is a legend in Scarlet’s world, 400 years ago, she split a mountain in two by conjuring a great storm, and caused enough rainfall for a new lake to be formed, bearing her name, her enemies feared her, and all who knew her respected her and looked to her for guidance.

Then, one day, she simply vanished into thin air! No matter how hard people tried, they could not find the witch, and all manner of stormss came up. Some say she gave up her physical body to become wind, others believe she was kidnapped by the fae, and others believe she became too haughty, and was struck down by the gods, sealed away in the lake of her own name

In truth... She WAS Kidnapped by the Fae, in particular, she was kidnapped to be the Young Twilight Princex Maxime’s playmate! They wanted a mage that could entertain them, and a powerful wind witch fit the bill! MUch to Taika’s dismay, she was at last outmatched, and reluctantly performed for Maxime. Days went on, and Maxime found her grumpy attitude not fun at all, and figured that if she wasn’t so old, she wouldn’t be so cranky! WIth a powerful hex, Maxime removed decades of years from the Witch, reducing her to a mere 8 year old child, while her power wasn’t as diminished, it was much harder to control, and Maxime enjoyed her company far more, so much so that he made the change permanent! Again, much to the (now child) witch’s dismay

Then, after about a month or two, Maxime simply said “I’m bored with you, you can go now!” and had Taika escorted to a random mortal world portal, and was once more in the mortal world... but, not hers. And not unchanged, her ears elongated due to fae magic, and a prominent Star Mark was now permanently etched on her cheek, sometimes being a single star, sometimes being two, and sometimes becoming star shaped freckles.

Now, lost, not in control of her powers, and forever a child, Taika seeks to return to her homeland, dealing with fae threats and problems, as well as others, all while trying to avoid Maxime and his playmates, who wish to have her again.

Unfortunately for her, her “time’ is not synced, and months, sometimes even years pass by in the blink of an eye whenever she goes to the Fair Lands, and Larutan has gone by 400 years without her, so even when she gets back, she’s in for a shock!

Though hexed she may be, through great force of will, and a lot of magic, she is able to temporarily lift the curse on herself, nad return to her Adult form (Clothes and all), it is fleeting, but when she is like this, she is capable of using her ancient magic to spell ruin for her foes! ... Before inevitably returning to being a child. She hopes to one day lift the curse on her, but, even then, sometimes she can’t deny how nice Eternal Youth is...

The High Fidelity Remake is Good and my Identity is Irreversibly Linked to Music Consumption

Hi! So, I’m kinda insane about playlists.

This year I’ve made a lot of them. They’ve been short and snappy on index cards, scanned and pasted in a book and uploaded to the internet. (I’ve really fallen in love with index card playlists and they’re my thing now and I think everyone should do them always and forever.) They were easy to churn out as a retrospective exercise because the music I listened to as a teenager really defined my high school experience. Also, I have most of my favorite songs from that period in a very dramatic playlist I started in 2014 so it was really a game of copy-and-paste. 

Making these smol boys in batches has been a really peculiar experience because for years now, I’ve only made one playlist at a time. In my second semester of college, I’d officially burned myself out listening to only CHVRCHES for three months and began venturing elsewhere. (Don’t get me wrong, CHVRCHES absolutely bangs, but you can only listen to “Never Ending Circles” so many times before getting seasick.) All of the random songs I was listening to made me feel kinda hazy and purple, like I’d done all of this before. So I made a playlist full of them and called it “Deja Vu.”

I added to it all semester, and then suddenly it was summer and I didn’t feel purple and hazy anymore⁠—everything was blue and crisp on the way to South Haven as my friend blasted “Settle Down” by Kimbra in her beat-up Honda. So I started a new playlist and named it the first word that popped into my head: “Roots.”

Using Deja Vu as a rubric, I developed some ground rules for the playlists I would go on to create. They are pretty nonsensical but also exceedingly firm because if I don’t make rules for every area of my life I feel like I’m falling into a deep and limitless void. Health! Anyway, the rules are:

The playlist’s title has to be a short noun (seven letters maximum).

This has since transformed into a noun that is also a verb.

To generate a title, I ask myself what short word I would use to describe the phase of life I’m currently in. The answer comes quickly and reflexively, and I choose the very first word I think of.

One song per artist, no repeats!

Exceptions are made for artists who are featured on a track.

There have been times when I’ve obsessively listened to a whole album or an artist’s entire discography, so I have to choose just one song that represents the very best of that album or artist.

Tracks are added chronologically, based on when I first hear them and/or start listening to them compulsively.

The playlist has to contain an amount of tracks that is divisible by five.

If a song in a playlist is deleted from Spotify, I have to find a replacement asap that is accurate to what I was listening to when that playlist was being created.

and, most importantly, 

I can’t make a new playlist until I feel I’m finished with the current one.

These playlists represent seasons of my life, cycles in which I change and evolve and stagnate and fuck up and try again. The only rule I have for beginning a new playlist is that I feel done with the current one—those songs are a little stale and don’t represent me anymore. These “seasons” don’t have any set length, and I can never predict when I’ll feel like a new being who needs new songs to define her. So far, my life has looked like this:

Deja Vu - 176 days (12.03.16 - 05.28.17) Most common lyrics: now, love, time, need, take

snow that covers ivy that covers bricks, towers made from dining hall dishes, smiling at the bus stop without knowing, sheet masks in the dorm bathroom at 2am, pink string lights and pink crocheted blankets and pink shag carpeting, cheap beer behind tarps and walking everyone home

Roots - 111 days (05.28.17 - 09.16.17)  Most common lyrics: love, one, give, wanna, know

t-shirt tan lines, mozzarella and tomato and basil and singed spaghetti, sunset walks around abandoned high schools, green leaves outlined in watercolor, the smell of mildew and old paper in banker’s boxes, sweat-soaked french braids, the knife twist of eye contact, tarot readings under lamplight

Walls - 110 days (09.16.17 - 01.04.18)   Most common lyrics: wanna, know, baby, take, feel

crying in the gender-neutral restroom, pretty boys holding guitars or rolling rock, photos in the forest, blue carpeting and lofted bedframes, pitch-black bonfires, sitting in the dining hall to just watch the people pass, snow on eyelashes in large wet clumps, laughing at lies

Bite - 78 days (01.04.18 - 03.23.18)    Most common lyrics: know, love, stay, come, need

impatience at the airport, texting on the laundry room floor, nervous night drives, five grilled cheese sandwiches, acne like freckles, ceiling photos taken in secret, watercolor lines and paper houses, broken glass on the sidewalk, ink-stained forearms, notebook paper comics, writing small on basement walls

Windows - 131 days (03.23.18 - 08.01.18)   Most common lyrics: love, now, know, baby, fall

books piled up by the bed, rum and coke and orange juice and vodka and cheap white wine, rainy day night walks, streetlights turning the leaves orange, echoes from the party upstairs, solo trips to the grocery store, always leaving the blinds open, aperol and chai lattes and smørrebrød, never coming home

Grip - 136 days (08.01.18 - 12.15.18)    Most common lyrics: know, boy, lost, girl, night

read receipts, the creaking of an empty house, sand and bricks and traffic cones, sitting on the curb and shaking, applause at dinner, bubble tea, bike rides in torn jeans, mr brightside blasting at 10am, doodles during lectures, embroidery at the kitchen table, blue bus panic attacks, half an apple for lunch

Wait - 117 days (12.15.18 - 04.11.19)  Most common lyrics: heart, want, one, back, know

crying in the lobby, measuring oats by the quarter cup, drunken voice memos, shoes on power lines, another bowl of granola, reading all the lyrics, photos taken with the flash on, sleeping on strange couches, shoeboxes full of photographs, wire catching the sunlight, fifteen minutes of windchill

Wave - 108 days (04.11.19 - 07.28.19)  Most common lyrics: wanna, know, now, love, come

dancing on the porch, reading on the roof, tipsy trips to the corner store, silent heavy parlor air, chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting, barred windows and string lights and exit signs, highlighting the important parts, nails tapping on wooden tables, wet wind before the storm, biking straight into the smoke

Home - 178 days (07.28.19 - 01.22.20)   Most common lyrics: down, know, now, wanna, think

steep downhill walks, fingertips covered in graphite and lead, blank faces on green walls, forest walkways, hands gripping thighs too tightly, light leaks in darkrooms, the handwriting of strangers, chains trapped between teeth, white words left unread, twirling at the tennis court, yellow becoming blue

Hand - 63 days (01.22.20 - 03.25.20)   Most common lyrics: know, time, love, die, back

masking tape messages, laughing four shots in, BiC .07mm HB mechanical pencils slipped into coat cuffs, cheeks blushed with red ink, green floodlights and kissed knuckles, windows fogged from the inside, falling asleep with earbuds in, finger guns and everything in boxes, wedging open locked doors

_______________________________________________________________________

It’s interesting to look back at these playlists altogether, see them as self-contained units, little stories I tell about myself, about the people I used to be. Adding a song to one of these playlists was like making a vow, entering a relationship with a collection of sounds. It’s like I was saying “this song is now a part of me.” I constructed this little world for myself in the space between my ears, and it, in turn, created me.

I really mean it when I say that the first word that floats to the front of my mind becomes the title of whatever playlist I’m making. I never question what the word means, and its meaning always ends up describing that season of my life. 

“Roots” became a period of reconnecting with essential pieces of myself I thought I had abandoned. 

During “Grip,” I was holding on so tightly to things that had left me ages ago, and I think I knew that, even if I was unable to admit it to myself. 

“Wait” revealed itself in two ways: it was a time in which 1.) I felt stagnant and restless, unable to be patient, and 2.) I was forced to grasp with a physical and emotional weight that had been bearing down on me. 

The mind is a magical thing—it processes what we refuse to recognize. 

Speaking of which, these playlist covers have been driving me up the wall for ages. They’re like nails on a freaking chalkboard for my synesthesia. Is “Bite” a heavily blue playlist? Sure. But is “Home” purple? Is “Grip” pink??? I think the fuck not! 

(I could do a whole goddamn blog post on synesthesia, and I might.)

Now that I know how to switch out playlist cover art (can you believe it’s taken me this long to figure out how to do that?), I have decided to issue myself a challenge/project/way to procrastinate actual work I have to do. 

I’d like to make a piece of cover art for all of the above playlists. And because I am, to reiterate, insane, I’m setting up some Rules For Creation:

All works must be the same size, on the same type of paper using similar materials (tbd but probably graphite, colored pencil, watercolor, fineliners, and/or collage).

The preliminary sketch for each cover must be created while listening to the playlist.

Each piece can (must?) incorporate the five most common lyrics as listed above because goddammit I did not spend four hours compiling lyrics in a web-based word cloud generator for nothing.

If I’m not having fun, I won’t make myself do it because this is literally just for laffs. 

Anyway, I’m looking forward to creating some fun weird art! I know nobody is gonna read this and nobody is gonna comment but if, by some miracle, you feel like it, comment a playlist you’ve made that you’re really proud of! Or comment if you have some weird playlist rules! Or cyberbully me! Anything’s fair game. 

TL;DR playlists are fun and I’m a maniac :)

Imagine Jamie being a young and important visual arts professor at university, and Claire following his lessons and then find out she's attracted to him..

Mod Gotham says: No universities in this story, but I think you’ll like the setting of this one even better!

When the telephone rang, she adjusted the volume on theradio and set down her teacup.

 “Randall residence.”

 “It’s ready.”

 She sat up a bit straighter. “Really?”

 “Yes.” Not even the static crackling on the line couldmask the burr in his voice. “I canna wait for you to see it.”

 With her free hand she flicked off the radio and slipped onher shoes. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

 --

 It was just a few steps from the townhouse on 68thStreet to the Third Avenue Elevated. Claire thrilled in riding the subway highabove the traffic, peering through the windows of buildings as the car chuggedby. Watching families eat dinner, housewives hang laundry, husbands pore overthe sports pages. Secret glimpses into lives she would never know.

 Claire Beauchamp Randall was quite good at keepingsecrets.

 In less than twenty minutes she disembarked at 14thStreet, carefully made her way down the iron steps that swayed as the trainspassed back and forth, and walked in the shadow of the elevated tracks on ThirdAvenue until she turned left at 12th Street.

 Halfway down the block was the iron gate behind which shehad found so much. The gate guarded entry to what appeared to be a smallcourtyard, but was actually a cluster of four carriage houses – two facinganother set of two, with a small patch of grass in between – which thirty yearsago had been where the wealthy families in the area had boarded their horses.Many had been destroyed in the name of progress, now that the automobile ruledthe city’s streets – but time had barely touched this leafy block, packed with dozensof graceful diagonal stoops leading into brownstones.

 Four boys played stickball in the street, taking nonotice of the well-dressed woman pass by.

 Finally she arrived – and he was there, waiting for her.Jamie opened the gate, and she nodded a quick hello, removing her hat as shestepped into the courtyard. Jamie locked the gate and turned to enter hisstudio; she didn’t need him to ask her to follow. Thirty five steps later theywere safely inside the main studio on the first floor – the ceiling twenty feethigh, the late afternoon sunlight pouring through the five round windows, the sharpsmells of tempera and turpentine jolting her senses.

 Before she could put her hat and coat on the table, shewas in Jamie’s arms.

 --

 Shyly she reached out to touch the edge of the canvas. “Ican’t believe that’s me.”

 Jamie’s lips lifted in that half smile she always lovedto kiss. He looked at his work – then back at Claire, naked and flushed andrumpled on his bed – and then back at the painting.

 “It’s you,” he insisted. “It’s how I see you.”

 Frank Randall had commissioned a portrait of his wife incelebration of her thirtieth birthday. Something grand to hang in the entrywayof their townhouse – to show her off to the revolving door of socialites and businessassociates and politicians who attended the parties that Claire held everyweek. Frank limited her volunteer work at Bellevue to just ten hours a week –and to punish him for that, she spent more than half his income on extravagantsoirees and balls and cocktail parties and salons.

 Beautiful, witty, charming, with a tongue saltier than aseasoned sailor – an invitation to Claire’s parties meant that you had arrivedon the New York City social scene.

 Jamie Fraser – photographer, painter, poet, and sometimestaxi driver – secured an invitation through Edward Gowan, a successful lawyerturned amateur painter to whom he gave art lessons twice a week. He had literallymet Ned on the street – collided with him on the corner of Second Avenue andSt. Mark’s Place, his arms full of fresh canvases – and this chance meeting hadblossomed into a fruitful partnership.

 For Ned was still the Randall family attorney, despitehis advanced age, and as such had an open invitation to any and all events atthe Randall townhouse. Six months prior, in the dead of winter, he had paid fora new suit of clothes for Jamie and shared a cab with him uptown.

 It was the easiest commission Jamie had ever received –he had been half distracted with the incredible Art Nouveau furniture andmirrors and light fixtures – and he had let Ned do all the negotiating.

 That was the first night he had met Claire – Claire,vibrant in a floor-length dress of electric blue, her untamed curls wild aroundher face, sipping from glass after glass of illegal champagne. Her eyes so sad.

 Three days later was her first visit to his studio. Theyhad spent that first day just talking – her about Klimt and O’Keeffe andPicasso and Man Ray; him about how he had learned to paint from his mother, howhe frequented the German beer halls down on the Bowery to fill notebooks withdrawings of faces and hands and shoes, how much he loved photographing theentryways of old buildings.

 The connection was instant. Undeniable. But she wasmarried.

 It truly began once they agreed on a pose for theportrait – standing in her parlor, one arm leaning against an exquisite antiqueChinese side table, the other arm on her hip, gazing head-on at the viewer.Challenging them. Showing just who exactly was in charge of this domain.

 Jamie had asked her to wear the dress he couldn’t get outof his dreams – bluer than the sky, bluer than her eyes. Happily she hadagreed.

 Several sessions, then, at his atelier in the East Village.She stood still as he sketched, telling her about his family back in Scotland, thelove for art that his late mother had instilled in him, colorful anecdotes ofhis artist friends and the odd jobs they took to make ends meet.

 He had served her tea and cigarettes. She had brought himpaper and pigments, knowing from experience what her artist friends preferred.He had made her smile and laugh, and had brought light to her troubled eyes.

 One session at the townhouse, so that he could carefullysketch the drawing room, the antique furniture and Persian carpets and framedJapanese prints neatly hanging on the walls. Heedless of Frank Randall frowningat him from the doorway, warning him to not break anything.

 And then the next session with Claire was back at hisstudio, focusing on the details of her eyebrows and hands.

 She was the perfect model – she held perfectly still. Evenwhen he tentatively reached out a confident hand to adjust the tilt of her jaw,the angle of her head. Leaving behind smudges from the charcoal he so dearlyloved to scribble and rub and shade on the paper she had brought for him.

 Seeing his fingerprints on her porcelain features stirredsomething within him.

 And then, nine sessions in, as he mixed his pigments to createthe perfect shade of blue, she quietly opened up to him.

 The parents who had died when she was five. The husbandwho sought comfort in the arms of other women. The abandoned dreams ofministering to the sick. The emptiness of parties and caviar and champagne andthousands of air kisses with women who envied her and whom she hated. Thechildren her husband would not give her.

 All the while he let her speak; mixed the colors; thoughtand thought and thought.

 At the end of each session, it was customary for him tohelp her into her coat and walk her to Third Avenue, where he would catch a caband make sure she was safely on her way home.

 But at the end of that session – when she had changedfrom the blue gown back into her gray dress, stood waiting for him to help herinto her coat – he had quietly walked up to her, looked into her eyes.

 “Stay,” he had breathed.

 The one word that had shifted everything.

 She could choose to leave – and he would help her go. Butshe chose to stay; chose to let him help her out of her dress, lead her to thebed, and show him just how much he had come to mean to her.

 That night he had filled fifteen sheets of paper withsketches of her – sleeping, reclining, sitting. Smiling. Nude, clothed.Drinking coffee, eating an apple. Always smiling.

 His mind burst with thousands of ideas for photographsand paintings and drawings and lithographs. He whispered these ideas to her,and she kissed him with all her might.

 Slowly the portrait took shape; slowly he accumulatedmore and more material of her.

 He photographed her in the nude, standing in the middleof a sunbeam on the floor of his studio, arms raised ecstatically toward theheavens.

 He painted her wrapped in a Japanese kimono, hair sweptinto a sober chignon, sipping tea in the courtyard.

 He drew her sleeping beside him, the contours of quiet joyvibrant on her face.

 And now – now the portrait was complete.

 The setting and background were as agreed; so was herdress, and her pose, and the style of her hair.

 But her face –

 “You have brought joy to my eyes,” she whispered. “I lookawake. Alive.”

 “That’s how I see you,” he repeated softly, settlingbeside her on the bed, carefully balancing the painting across their laps.

 “Frank won’t recognize me,” she mused.

 “He won’t need to.” Jamie swallowed. “Right?”

 Claire nodded. “Right. Your offer still stands?”

 He didn’t even have to think. “You know it does.”

 Then she smiled, so wide. “Let’s get dressed.”

 “I’ll roll up the canvas. How long will it take you to gatheryour things, once we’re there?”

 “Just a few minutes – I packed my bags a long time ago,you know.”

 He dipped her in an exaggerated kiss, mindful of thepainting.

 “I can’t wait to begin forever with you,” she breathedagainst his lips.

 “But not until we show him what he so foolishly threwaway,” Jamie murmured.

 Another quick peck of the lips – then a whirlwind ofactivity as they dressed.

 “I was thinking that we would hang your portrait abovethe bed,” Jamie mused, helping Claire button her dress.

 “That’s a lovely idea.” She turned, smiling, and restedher hands on his shoulders. “Only if we hang the nude beside it.”

 Now it was his turn to smile widely. “How I love you,Claire.”

 She kissed the tip of his nose. “Love you more. Shall we?”

still life

here to ruin your day don’t @ me (just kidding pls do)

X

She is a focused painter. Her lips are a thin line and the radio drones in the background. Neither of them like silence anymore. When she paints she wears her hair in a ponytail, like she hasn’t in years. Not Nadezhda and not quite Elizabeth either. She’s someone in between. And she paints, wearing one of his old shirts, one of the two he brought. She swims in it, looking impossibly small and infinitely powerful.

The canvases are modest in size; paint is expensive and unnecessary. But the Centre has made the two of them comfortable, well-looked after. The apartment is bright and clean and close to a supermarket that always has fresh apples. The bed is large, and at night they cling to each other like magnets, afraid of what will happen if they let go.

He stands behind her chair with a cup of tea. Outside the sky is rosy with dusk, and she’s recreated the color perfectly, her brush moving in confident strokes. He kisses the back of her neck where new hairs curl towards her nape.

“Hey,” she says quietly, eyes fixed on the canvas.

“You should get changed. He’ll be here soon.”

“I know. This light is good. I don’t want to lose it.”

He settles into the armchair in the corner, watching her. Beneath his shirt her legs are bare, except for a pair of gray woolen boot socks. He is overcome with the need to tell her he loves her, but he knows she knows. So he sits and reads until she finishes her painting, swishing the brush around in a jar of cloudy water, the signal that she is done.

He comes up behind her again, his arm settling across her chest, and studies her work. A lump settles in his throat when he sees it: the pitch of the roof, the windowsill, the glow from the lamp in the corner. And outside, below, in the driveway, a white car. A hockey goal. Two shadowy figures in the twilight.

“It’s springtime now,” she says. She drops her head and kisses his forearm.

There’s a knock at the door. He squeezes her shoulder and murmurs, “That’s Gabriel.”

When Philip answers the door, Gabriel says, “You didn’t have to come all this way to return the favor of hosting.”

Philip smiles. “But we did.”

Gabriel laughs and pulls him into a hug; the handle of the ceramic dish he brought presses against Philip’s back. They open a bottle of wine, Philip checks the chicken in the oven. Gabriel compliments the wallpaper in the kitchen.

Philip is at the sink when Elizabeth comes in, and hears only Gabriel’s chair pushing back against the floor and a sharp intake of air from his wife, not a sob but something close. He turns to see them hugging, and they stay that way for a long time. When they pull back they both have tears in their eyes.

“It’s good to see you,” Gabriel says finally. “Both of you.”

The painting in the other room catches his eye and she follows him in, talking in low but uplifted tones. Philip hears the sliding of canvas on canvas and knows she’s showing him the others. His own favorite is the view from the bridge, that first night. All the lights alive in the darkness, saying welcome home, saying you are a stranger here.

At first she’d drawn, sketched really. He’d find her on the couch with a pencil, drawing on the back of a bookmark, or a piece of mail. He bought her a sketchbook because he knew she’d never buy one for herself, and that she’d never ask. The paints and canvases had been harder to come by. Most of them are small, but he’s been able to find a few larger ones, even if they are costly. “What else are we going to spend it on?” he asked when Elizabeth protested.

She and Gabriel wander back into the kitchen, talking about how the three years since he’s seen them feel like ten.

“I wanted to come sooner,” Gabriel admits, and Philip thinks he might actually be chastened. “To see you, to say hello. But the Centre advised me to wait.”

They sit at the small wooden table and eat chicken with lemon, some marinated carrots. For a few moments it feels like the old days, those first few meetings when Gabriel had returned to the states. Elizabeth is more relaxed than he’s seen in weeks; she and Gabriel always had a special bond. She tells him about their plans for Odessa in the summer and she lights up, a peaceful smile across her lips, all tension gone from around her eyes. Philip can almost forgive Gabriel everything if it means she’s truly happy, even if it’s only for a few hours.

“You two are heroes,” Gabriel says after the dishes have been cleared and a game of Scrabble sits before them on the table. Elizabeth doesn’t usually play but she joins tonight, her features soft. Her jaw shifts at Gabriel’s words, only slightly.

“We were doing our jobs,” she answers evenly. On the board, she lays down estuary.

“The Centre appreciates your efforts,” Gabriel insists. “And all that you’ve sacrificed.” He meets Philip’s eyes when he says this. A thousand retorts rise to Philip’s lips but he bites his tongue. He meets the old man’s gaze with an unwavering stare, and then Gabriel pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket.

“This was the best they could do for right now, but we’ll keep trying.” He places the envelope on the Scrabble board and Elizabeth freezes. The package is thin, and from the size and shape can only contain photographs.

“We didn’t… who authorized this?” Philip asks. Elizabeth’s eyes haven’t moved from the envelope.

“I did,” Gabriel answers.

Elizabeth reaches for the envelope but she pauses and finds Philip’s gaze. Her hair is still pulled back in a ponytail and for an instant they are twenty-two again, her expression filled with the same fear and longing as the moment they met. She gives him a small nod and he takes the envelope in his hands; it’s lighter than he expects.

“I can’t guarantee any kind of regularity, but… I thought you’d want to see.”

Just as he suspected: photographs. Five or six. Black and white. Taken from a distance. Philip’s heart thuds in his throat as he studies the images of his son: walking down the street with a passel of friends, backpack slung over his shoulder; sitting bent over a book at a desk in the library; driving a car Philip’s never seen before beside a vaguely familiar girl with an afro; Henry on the ice; on the ice; on the ice--

“Where’s…” Philip flips through them again, thinking he missed one, thinking they can’t all be of Henry. There have to be some of Paige. He can think her name but he can’t say it aloud, can’t bear to see Elizabeth’s face crumple. She’s grabbed the stack of pictures from him and grips them tightly, her knuckles white, bending the shiny surface, slack-jawed in wonderment at the image of her boy, her baby boy.

“She’s been a little harder to track down,” Gabriel says, and reaches into his breast pocket again. A single photo this time, more grainy but in color. He and Elizabeth both lean in and squint at the figure with a ballcap pulled down low on her head, hair the color of her mother’s hanging down her back. It’s blurry, but it’s her.

“Where?” Elizabeth asks, barely a whisper.

“Two weeks ago, at a rest stop on the Blue Ridge Parkway.”

“Two weeks…” Elizabeth says, unable to conceal the awe in her voice. It was how she’d sounded when she looked up at Philip in the hospital and said in disbelief, she’s so tiny.

Philip’s throat constricts and he holds Elizabeth’s hand, Scrabble tiles jolting off their squares. Grief pulls at the corners of her mouth, making her chin quiver.

“She’s not running but she’s not sitting still either,” Gabriel explains.

“That was never her strong suit,” Philip says, his voice thick.

Elizabeth makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and they sit like that for a full minute. Gabriel doesn’t stay much longer, and hugs them both before he goes, with a weariness that Philip doesn’t remember about him. A heavy shuffle in his step, his head low and his shoulders stooped beneath the mantle of his thick, gray coat.

_________________

Philip towel dries his hair and puts on a t-shirt and flannel pants, but she’s not in bed when he exits the bathroom. He finds her in the other room, curled up on top of the covers of the bed that was supposed to be for--

“You used all the hot water,” he says, lying down beside her.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, and pulls him closer.

Her painting from this afternoon sits drying in the corner, the pink sunset the only thing he can see in the inky blackness. She is warm against his chest. She works a knee in between his and they shift. Lately it seems like she’s trying to fuse with him, like maybe if they lie close enough nothing bad will ever happen again. They can just float here forever in the bardo, close to something final but safe on stygian shores.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks.

“Anything,” she says.

“Gabriel told me--a long time ago, he told me that you… that the first person the Centre picked for you--”

“I didn’t like him,” Elizabeth says.

Philip smiles into the darkness. His eyes have adjusted and he can make out the moonlight on her cheekbone, her smudged eyeliner, a freckle. “Uh, why not?”

“He was arrogant. Too sure. He wouldn’t have lasted under deep cover. He wasn’t... right. For the job or for me.” She squeezes his knee between her own. “Why?”

“I just wondered if you ever… after all this, I just wonder if you ever wish you’d chosen differently.”

Her hand is on the back of his neck, fingertips pressing, insistent. Her forehead touches his. “How can you ask that?” she whispers.

He can’t meet her eyes. “If we hadn’t been so… different at first, nothing would have turned out this way.”

“You don’t know that. A thousand things could have happened.”

“Yeah…” He doesn’t believe her, but she sounds so sure that for a moment, he thinks she might be right. She kisses him softly with her eyes closed, and he lets the weight of her body atop his convince him some more.

ALL!!!! (also the gemini sqUAD LOL)

im gonna enjoy a nice cup of water while doing this bc idk a tea (update i didnt drink water at all and now im dying of thirst,, also undercut bc many)

1: Golden mornings or peachy sunsets?

i dont wake up early enough to see the sunrise and when i do i never manage to take pics bc of school so peachy sunsets

2: Sugar cones or waffle cones?

idk what a sugar cone is but i like waffle cones!!! havent eaten ice cream with a cone in forever though,, i rarely eat ice cream now

3: Do you wear scarves often? do you have a favorite?

listen…. its about 33 degrees everyday but even if im in a colder country i dont wear scarves

4: How long do you lay in bed before you finally get up?

this depends?? on how motivated im feeling lmao never more than 10 minutes though because if i lay awake for that long ill just fall back asleep

5: Is there a food you’ve never had but always wanted to try?

i dont think so?? im bad at trying new things especially food

6: What does your umbrella look like?

i dont.. go outside often and whenever i do i take public transport so basically everythings sheltered so i never had a need for umbrellas

7: Do you listen to ASMR?

ive only listened to one everybody please listen to this gift

8: Rain storms or a light drizzle?

both, preferably when im indoors

9: What’s a little thing in life that you love?

hm??????????? my tags lmao 

UPDATE: i also really like reading other people’s tags and their rambles that is all

10: Favorite color aesthetic?

does the word aesthetic make this question any different from a normal favourite colour question???? if it doesnt then sky blue 

11: Wobbly lines or using a ruler?

in this house we draw lines with no ruler like men (but also because even if i did use a ruler it wouldnt be like… straight idk i cant use rulers

12:  Bright colorful living room or neutral cozy living room?

neutral cozy living room but i also love basking in sunlight 

13: Do you have any candles? what scents are they?

im not a big fan of heavy smelling products so i dont own any candles

14: Have you ever rode a horse?

i dont think so??????? ive seen horses before though

15: Do you have glasses?

without my glasses i wouldnt be able to read these questions lmao and . .. theyre also a result of watching pokemon too closely to the tv at a young age… its been like 10 years since i got glasses

16: What’s a language you’d like to speak?

japanese i tried speaking it but i got 2 embarrassed to say anything properly while i was in japan (i cant even speak english properly to a friend whyd i think i could speak another language to a stranger beats me) 

17: What’s your favorite season and favorite month in that season?

my singaporean no season ass: ? but autumn and november (is this cutting it too close to winter? idk my seasons)

18: Do you have a favorite pair of socks?

hm not really i just wear blue ankle socks a lot but my friend did give me a pair of pokemon and gudetama socks before and i adore those although i lost the gudetama ones in the uk last year she got me another pair whatd i do to deserve her?

19: Favorite Ghibli and/or disney movie

m .. um? big. hero 6?????? 

20: Disney, Dreamworks, or Pixar?

my dumb ass didnt know they were different

21: What snacks do you usually get at the theater?

i rarely go and watch movies anymore but when i did watch a lot of movies with my friend at the theater we’d get afternoon shows and sneak mcdonalds in lmao

22: What’s an underrated video game/ movie/ show you love and think it needs more recognition?

how about band? day6 i only ever play pokemon + sif + bandori so i cant say much and i rarely watch movies and a show? if its an anime id say the one i mentioned before in my one text post 

23: Would you fill your house with plants if you had a green thumb?

not really rip 

24; All plants are great but do you have a favorite?

HM mmmmmm there was this one but i forgot the name lmao pass

25: Do you have a favorite type of art style? (eg: soft looking, no to little color, sketches, crisp and clean, minimalist, pixel art etc.)

when im the … audience? what do u call it???? i like seeing all kinda of art styles!!! everyone has their own unique art style and i love it all :o

for ME,, , ive been doing art for 6 years maybe and i still cant do shit

26: What would you do if someone gave you flowers?

i would die straight up die thats such a soft concept i cant imagine myself receiving flowers thats 2 sweet oh my god wtf id combust??? i prefer leaves though is that weird i picked some nice leaves recently and im gonna give those to my friends

27: Do you like nicknames?

giving and having nicknames is my favorite past time

28: Do you still watch shows you watched when you were a kid? even from time to time?

pokemon lmao thank u 4 not ending it…. the animation has only improved and im so proud to have been watching it since the start pokemon is my special thing i love it so much!! an interest that never died down, with an anime that stays super like idk to my preference? i tried watching the new digimon stuff but i just couldnt :^( im glad they made ash stay the main character 

29: Do you still like old memes? (tell the truth)

never forget dat boi

30: Favorite Halloween costume you dressed up as? (if you don’t celebrate halloween have you ever cosplayed or would you like to? who did you cosplay as?)

we dont celebrate halloween and i would never cosplay, big shoutout to cosplayers though!!! they put in so much effort and just, respect!!!!! 

i dont know if this is an actual memory because i dont remember well but when i was younger i thiNK? i had to dress up as a swan thing i have no clue i dont even remember the performance but i might have had to ?? and dance??? or act i dont remember everythings fuzzy but i dressed up a swan once? in kindergarten ????? 

31:  Are you a fashionable person?

i have the worst fashion sense and even though jeans are nice once again the weather here doesnt allow me to be as fashionable as i can be

32: Do you like watching holiday movies?

not realyyy??? the jack frost (rip) movie was ncie????

33:  Cookies or brownies?

i live 4 chocolate chip cookies but too much is . . not preferable

34: Do you blow in the cold air just to see your breath?

no i hate breathing in & out from my mouth

35: Do you find the crickets chirping outside your window relaxing?

WELL from the great cockroach ordeal last night id probably die bc we live in an apartment building so the only way id be hearing crickets would be if they were in the ROOM 

36: Do you like cobblestone streets?

my only knowledge of cobblestone is from minecraft so idk

37:  How often do you doodle?

when school was still relevant i would doodle as soon as i picked up a pencil lmao i try not to anymore bc i doodled on my math assignment and forgot to fucking erase it and my math teacher called me out

38: When was the last time you blew bubbles?

a year ago?? i dont remember but i do remember when i was younger id try and blow bubbles at the void deck do yall kno what that is its just a space near the lift lobby anyway i swallowed the soap thing idk u know how ur supposed to blow? well i sucked the soap in yum

39: What’s your favorite random piece of decor in your house and room?

in my room its the bed and in the house its the water bottle that contains water

40: Do you bite your fingernails off or clip them more often?

i………………………… i dont actualy kno how to clip my nails and my mum would kill me if i tried but i dont bite my nails either

41: Any birthmarks?

not that i know of

42: Thoughts on freckles?

ive never actually seen someone with freckles in public before but theyre good stuff i gueess?? i dont actually have an opinion on them? everyone says theyre cute and all but im just ??? not that i hate freckles tho if u have freckles? thats cool! 

43: First video game you ever played?

pokemon pearl?? either that or megaman on my ps3 OR the bomb square guy????? idk the game name but.. ya

44: what type of bird do you hear most often outside your door?

i dont know what the bird species are but theyre small black birds not crows idk

45: Do you use gifs/ memes a lot when replying to people?

memes yes gifs no bc im not lame like jen

46: Thoughts on spring?

no comment?? i mean? its nice??????? i guess ??? if we had a spring

47: Ideal temperature outside?

oh boy 20 degrees would be enough for me but its never gotten that low before sunny island’s life

48: Cloudy, partly cloudy, or clear skies?

i like clear skies when its bright! but not too sunny and not too warm!!!!! clouds are nice to look at too though

49: How often do you hear airplanes outside?

yeah we live near an airport i dont think anybody uses????

50: Do you enjoy windy days?

windy days are my SHIT back in school our basketball court was open spaced and whenevr wind blew we could feel it man thats the life right there but i hate windy days when im sitting at home bc it flows the curtains rigth into my face i like the feel of the wind and the smell of fresh air but… curtains in my face? not 2 great so rip i close all the windows lmao

okay thank u so much 4 asking falen i love you and wow this was a lot

#ChoicesCreates: Friendship

Title: Quaintrelle (The Royal Romance) Summary: Quaintrelle - a woman who emphasizes a life of passion, expressed through personal style, leisurely past times, charm, and cultivation of life’s pleasures. Enid Zuberi (MC) writes to a dear friend.

Dear Seraphina,

It’s still hard for me to accept what happened but I’m trying my best. Your mother stopped by a few days ago with a box that you left for me. I didn’t get the courage to open it until last night.

The first thing I saw was the handmade sketchbook you got at an arts and crafts fair a few years ago. I remember you telling me that you wanted to use it someday but you were also afraid of ruining it. You always wanted to save it for your masterpieces. It makes me sad to think of all the wonderful art you could have drawn. I always wished that I could draw as well as you.

The sketchbook was kept on your self, waiting for the right occasion to be used. You wanted to open it on a towel laying on the sand with your art supplies spread out, ready for inspiration to strike. A relaxed breezy day on the beach with just the two of us. Funny how we took days like that for granted until time starts running short.

We never thought the sketchbook would be opened in a dreary space that became your second home whether you liked it or not. instead of being surrounded by paintbrushes and pens, there were IVs and equipment. It hurt seeing you struggle with holding a pencil, those once fluid lines turn wobbly and unsteady. That was the summer that marked the beginning of the end.

No matter how hard it was, you challenged yourself to fill one page with your art. I always admired your determination, even when things were bleak. During the time you stayed at the hospital, you sketched whatever came to mind and when I visited I would bring some of your art supplies. Looking through your sketchbook, I have to say that a lot of these are masterpieces.

I don’t know why you left this for me though. I understand the pictures and your camera as you were an avid photographer. And that nautical keychain I helped you win at a fair after spending several tickets trying. Your jar of paper stars we made the night after we graduated high school with our wishes written inside them.

But why your sketchbook? You left a letter for everyone in an envelope but you stuck mine in the book. In the PS, you told me to keep making masterpieces to fill it up. I wasn’t sure what you meant since my drawing and art skills are nowhere near yours. I guess that’s why it took me over a week to finally respond to you. It feels weird doing this so I can’t promise you that I’ll keep up with this but it’s worth a try. At least I’m feeling a little better getting my feelings out like this. So that’s what I’m gonna do with your sketchbook.

To quote you: “Someday we’ll meet again in the far future and you’d better have a lot of stories to tell me. Hell, I’ll come back to haunt you if you’re just sitting around mourning for an eternity. Promise me, you’ll live, Enid. Not just for me, but for you, for us.”

That was the last thing you ever said to me and I’ll never forget it. So I’ll fill these pages and when we meet again, I’ll share my stories.

From your best friend forever, Enid

P.S. - If you are gonna haunt me at least give me a sign so I know it’s you!

Today would’ve been your twenty-second birthday. So for you I’m rowing a boat and releasing a balloon in the air for you. It’s light blue, your favorite color, and I tied one of your favorite ribbons at the end, the light pink lace one that you like to wear in the spring. The balloon actually reminds me a lot about you, a free spirit letting the wind carry her away.

Remember the hidden cave at the beach where we often spent our summers? Hard to believe that it’s been a few months since we last came. It feels strange being here without you. Of course I couldn’t come alone and took Ollie with me. We couldn’t stay long, it was too much for us. That’s why I suggested that we spend the rest of the day on the boat. Ollie also wrote a message for you on the balloon, I didn’t see what it was though - keeping that a surprise for you!

We were out until pretty late, so late that we almost didn’t notice it was getting dark and the boat was going in the opposite direction. Instead of going down memory lane, we just sat and watched the world around us. If you were there you’d be pulling our your paints and a canvas to capture the scenery. I kept an eye on your balloon until it faded into the evening sky. Now you can wander the stars at your heart’s content.

Happy birthday Sera.

I never thought I’d end up back in the waiting room of the hospital so soon. This is the sixth time I’ve been in this position.

First my grandfather, who I barely remember. I think I was around two or three and blissfully unaware.

Second time was my aunt, around the time I was able to understand that sometimes it doesn’t get better. A year later I attended a funeral for the first time.

Third was my grandmother and by then we knew it before the doctor told us. She kept her head up until the very end.

Fourth was my father after a long battle. You and Ollie were there for me and my mother from the diagnosis to his final moments. I can’t thank you two enough for helping us through a difficult time.

Fifth was Seraphina Castiglioni, my best friend. You fought twice before, triumphant each time. But after years of remission it came back stronger than ever and your days were slowly fading away. Still, you lived every day to the fullest and left the world with a smile while holding my hand.

Now I’m back in the waiting room, sixth time with my mother. It’s been a few weeks and she’s gone through a lot of tests. I’m afraid but I have to stay strong for her, for us. At least Ollie’s here with me so I won’t be so alone. I really hate being in this room.

Sera, I miss you so much. Please give me the strength to get through the next few days.

I did it. I went out to the cave alone. And I’m glad I did.

I can’t remember the last time I was at the beach, it feels like such a long time ago. But I guess that happens when your life changes at an instant. Ollie’s doing well in school, I insisted that he’d go back instead of taking the semester off like he wanted. I feel bad for him since he’s close to Mom but we didn’t want him to drop everything for us. Mom made him promise that he make the Dean’s list again. I promised to keep him updated on her condition.

Mom’s doing as best she can. Still, there are days when she can’t do anything at all and I feel terrible for her. You know how I hate being helpless. It hurts seeing her like this. And the same for seeing you and my father go through the same. Why do things like this happen to people? Why?

At least today was a good day for her. She insisted that I go out and treat myself. I think the new medications are helping out a lot but her doctor says it’s too soon to tell if things are getting better. I’m glad that she’s able to spend the day out of bed and doing stuff. When I left, she was working on her garden, which looked more lively now that she was there. I told her not to wear herself out and she laughed and said that it’s a mother’s job to worry about her daughter, not the other way around. Then she told me to be back home in time for dinner.

It took a bit longer than expected to reach the cave. The sky was a bit cloudy and it got sort of windy later on. Finally after some difficulty, I made it to the cave. Walking in there alone felt like I was going down memory lane. I can still see us running around and hear us talking about things like it was yesterday. But at the same time it feels like a lifetime ago.

Remember how we used to go treasure hunting? You always knew the best places to find sea glass and seashells. What about the first time we went cliff diving? Ollie and I were nervous while you just dove right in. And how we’d have picnics in the cave? I noticed that there’s a basket left in the back where we hid stuff.

Then I found a small box hidden behind it. I opened it and saw a note that was in your handwriting. It said “To Ollie, with love, Sera.”. Underneath was a silver bracelet with our names engraved on it. This was your present to Ollie, something you meant to give him when he came back from college. I remember seeing you stop by a jewelry store to pick something up.

Was that why you wanted us to go with you to the cave last summer? I know you told me not to dwell on the past too much but seeing that box, I wished that we went out that day. It still wouldn’t change much but still, I’d give anything to have one more day with the three of us hanging out.

With all the things going on later that summer, it’s no surprise that you forgot about it. There’s a few other things we left in here like some old pictures, a few treasures we found, and some notes that are too hard to read now. It’s hard to believe that a year has passed since you left the box in there and the last time the three of us spent the day in the cave together.

You were always stubborn, you know that? By then you could barely get out of the house but you insisted on going to the cave. Possibly for the last time, like you were saying goodbye to an old friend. Despite your frail appearance, you looked as bright as ever. That was the last time you stepped outside.

The next day you thanked me and Ollie for one of the best days of your life. For as long as I live I’ll never forget that day. You wanted us to remember you in a way that makes us happy. That’s why I want to hold on to that day, to remember the bright, lively Sera who lives by the wind and sea.

CEO!Namjoon

And now it is time for the second half of the 94 line, our amazing leader, my lowkey spirit animal who looked so cute at Jungkook’s graduation dinner, like the hair was niCe, the clothing was nice as always, it was just a really good look, very boyfriend material, Kim Namjoon aka Rap Monster aka joon

This is gonna feature a bit of father!joon bc I can’t resist (all of the father related posts are here) this is also gonna feature youtuber!joon (here)

Visuals are up first bc I got some images in my head and I need it

I’m gonna add in some blonde!joon bc have you ever seen blonde!joon in a suit it screams CEO!joon

Blonde!joon is such a nice look like whether it’s the blonde with the buzzed sides or the blonde with the fringe or even the grayish/silver blonde pretty much all the blonde shades on Namjoon have been incredible and I never get tired of it

Like he’s been blonde a few times and you’d think by now it wouldn’t really affect me like I should be used to it but nah it still hits me every time bc he looks s o good do you ever just see a picture of Namjoon and have to appreciate it for a minute bc he’s just so breath taking and then you remember that he has an amazing personality too like woW

But CEO!joon does change his hair color all the time, every few months, he’ll go to the office with a different color, he’s done pink, purple, blue, red, pretty much all the colors

Namjoon’s fashion is v v important to him, he likes to put in the time to make sure he’s looking niCE, he wants to make sure he’s representing his business well with his cute lil outfits

He switches it up when it comes to suits, he likes to keep the classic black suit with a white dress shirt for date nights and more personal events but his office suits are more varied, sometimes he’s got a dark blue suit (if anyone remembers the Epilogue concert teaser, you’ll know the exact look I’m talking about bc that look is entirely CEO!joon) sometimes it’s red or pink or white

Some days he’s got a tie, sometimes it’s a bow tie and on some days he just ditches the tie idea entirely (also side note I just thought of joon with a loosened up tie and a white dress shirt and the black dress pants and it’s just oh shi T)

He doesn’t always wear suits, it depends on why he’s going into the office, if he has a meeting or something more business related, he’ll wear a suit but if he’s just going in to check on the products or the employees or to design something, he’ll wear one of those amazing Kim Daily outfits

Okay so Namjoon is a fashion designer and his company grows s o much so quickly bc he’s got all of his subscribers supporting it and spreading the word

It starts off with him just showing some design sketches he’d made and then everyone was telling him he should sell them as merch and that they’d love to wear it and after a few weeks of thinking about it, he finally launches his first few shirts and coats and a scarf

He doesn’t expect too much from it but then everyone loves it and he sells out so quickly so he has to restock the following week and then soon he’s releasing more designs, more products, he gets some dresses and skirts and pants onto the site

Pretty soon, he’s starting an official fashion line and he becomes an official designer and he’s just s o happy bc he expected maybe one or two people to buy the original shirts and now here he is, the CEO of an extremely popular fashion company

Now he’s got his own office, he’s got people calling him and asking him to dress their celebrity clients for awards shows, he’s got his collections in fashion shows around the world

He started off in this tiny apartment in LA, making random videos about his day and now he’s got so many different stores all around the world selling his clothes

He’s starting to work on building his own store in LA but since his bby girl was born a few months ago, he puts it on the back burner bc she’s his top priority

His office would have a view of LA, similar to his old apartment, he gets to look out at night and see all of the lights come on and it’s really beautiful

His office is a bit messy bc he has sketches everywhere, he’s got fabric swatches hanging off of everything, he’s got color swatches, notebooks, pens, glues everything he needs to design

The furniture is all really modern, they don’t have the typical angles like the bookshelf looks like a giant Tetris piece but he makes sure everything is still functional and he gets really protective over bby girl when she visits the office bc she’s in that exploring phase that most toddlers have so she wants to see what’s up with the book case but that’s a real easy way for her to bump her head on it

It happened once and Namjoon felt s o bad bc she was crying and kept rubbing at her head and it was obvious that it hurt pretty damn bad and he just kept giving her head gentle kisses and he had to give her five pieces of chocolate before she’d calm down, after that day, he doesn’t let her out of his sight around the office

Okay but head canon that Namjoon has fashion collections for both of his bbys, he designs a bunch of kids’ clothing bc he figures it’s time for an actual collection since people have been asking for it forever

He makes a video about it for his channel and he has bby girl and bby boy model the clothes and he’s giggling behind the camera the entire time as they’re “strutting” down their “runway” and posing and he can’t stop smiling bc those are his munchkins looking so proud to represent their father’s clothes

He’s also got several collections based off of you, the very first one he did, he actually spent a really long time designing it and getting every detail right and he gets s o fucking happy whenever he sees you wearing anything he made but especially when it’s the collection he made for you

He even lets them design a few things and they’re actually pretty cute so he makes them one of a kind clothing so they get to wear their own designs

He’s makes a lot of custom clothes for bby girl and bby boy like a lil jacket with “Kim #~″ on the back (you and joon are #1 and #2, bby girl is #3 and bby boy is Kim #4)

He takes this one picture for Instagram where all of you are wearing your jackets bc he’s proud as fuck of his cute family

“My Kims”

The Aftermath

by Sergeant_Darwin

On October 16th, 2009, a boy by the name of Finn Carlton walked into the band room of my high school and closed the door behind him. He pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and fired six shots. Then he tied his belt around a pipe on the ceiling and hanged himself.

Six shots; seven bodies. That’s what the authorities found when they entered the room. Finn’s victims were apparently made to kneel in a straight line before they were executed, and their half-eaten lunches had been spoiled by the carnage. Six rounds. Six heads. One bullet each.

Chloe Cannon—15 years old, loved the color blue, played the French horn. Cute in a mousy sort of way. Murdered.

Xavier Mayweather—15 years old, on the track team, always rode his bike to school. Murdered.

Ronald “RJ” Saldaz—16 years old, had a notebook he sketched in, already bought his tickets to the midnight premiere of the new Harry Potter movie. Murdered.

Zach Trainor—15 years old, 280 pounds, played the tuba. Refused, several times, to join the football team. Murdered.

Marianne Ortega—15 years old, barely spoke English, liked horror films. Murdered.

Christopher Carlton—16 years old, played the French horn, secretly dating Chloe Cannon. Murdered. By his older brother, no less.

I didn’t know any of these students in life. But I know them all too well in death. And I hate each one of them with my whole heart.

This all went down during my junior year. Our school was closed for a few days, but it’s amazing how quickly business as usual returns. A grief assembly, a memorial plaque in the band room, and bam—it’s like everyone’s forgotten. Everyone’s moved on. Everyone except me.

Myself, I never experienced the grief. I didn’t know any of these kids, and while I felt for my peers who were close to them, my life wasn’t really affected by their gruesome ends. Sure, there was the existential shock, the “life is fleeting” realization, but I’d already lost a sibling in a freak accident years before. I was familiar with death. That’s why, in the weeks following the tragedy, I didn’t have any trouble sleeping.

So there I was, a month after the shooting, on a school night, not having any trouble sleeping. I had forgotten to silence my phone, so when I got a text, it buzzed on the wooden nightstand near my bed. Groggily, I rolled over to check it and was instantly jerked awake by what I read:

IM GOING TO KILL HER BOTH OF THEM SURE WHY NOT

“Jesus,” I muttered, eyes fixed on the macabre message, a threatening collection of black pixels backed by a heartless electric glow. I found a morbid fascination then, as I do now, in letters—meaningless squiggles, by themselves, which can combine to strike with more terror than the steepest cliff or the most menacing beast. The combination of these particular squiggles drilled a strangely familiar fear into my heart.

I glanced to see what number the message had come from, but that field was blank. It appeared as though the text had not been sent by anything at all. Frantically, I hit reply: “What? Who is this??” I waited for a few minutes, but received no response. Unsettled, I got out of bed and turned on the light. I wanted to do something, I just didn’t know what. Finally, after staring around my room for a moment, I decided I’d splash my face with water.

I went to the bathroom and looked myself in the mirror. A good, long, hard look. Staring myself down, willing myself to get a grip. Finally, I splashed my face with the icy pour from the tap. I patted dry with the hand towel and went back into my room. My phone’s LED was blinking from the nightstand—I’d received a text message. I shut the door, turned off the lights and took a step toward my bed, wondering somewhat anxiously if the new message was a reply from whoever had sent the previous one. But I’d barely moved before I stopped dead in my tracks.

I wasn’t alone. There, hovering in front of my nightstand, faintly luminescent and barely visible, was a girl—a tiny, mousy-looking girl, a girl who was strangely pretty in a non-obvious way, a girl who would never celebrate her Sweet 16 or stretch her undersized legs to reach the pedals of a car. A girl who was dead.

Chloe Cannon wore a thin blue nightgown that reached her knees. Her feet did not touch my floor. She bobbed slightly, up and down in the air, seemingly staring not at me but at a point in the wall directly behind me. She appeared both solid and not—her skin had a distinct silver pallor yet I could see the light on my phone blinking through her torso. Her face looked vaguely sad. I could not move; I could not speak.

We remained still, together, for what felt an eternity. Finally, I convinced myself that I was imagining things. I took a step toward her. Then another. Another. But not another. I could not bring myself to step closer, because as I neared her, her face began to change. Her left cheekbone began to sag. Her skull began to dent. Her eyeball began to rotate and protrude from its socket. A dark spot began to appear amid her fine, silvery hair. I backed away in horror and the bullet’s fatal blow faded from sight as quickly and seamlessly as it had appeared. In desperate panic, I flicked the light switch up.

She was gone. I heaved a sigh of relief. I had been seeing things. I thought perhaps the shooting had affected me more than I’d let myself believe. Still, my knees wobbled—I could barely even stand. Bracing myself against the wall with my arm, I stared at the blinking notification light on my phone. Eventually, my curiosity over who had sent that morbid message was too much. I flicked off the light—no hovering girl, that was good—and scrambled into bed. Safely under my covers, I grabbed my phone and opened the second text message. This time, I found no morbid fascination in the squiggles before me. These five letters and two punctuation marks, backed by a harsh glow in the comfortless dark, carried only dread.

CHLOE :)

I didn’t know Finn Carlton. To this day, when people hear what high school I went to, they usually ask me if I was acquainted with the scrawny kid who murdered his brother and five others before stringing himself up in the pipes. They ask it with a sort of reality-show fascination, and it feels like they’re only asking so they can later tell their equally fascinated friends that they knew a guy who knew the guy. And their face always falls a bit when I say no, no I didn’t. I’d never seen him before.

Of course, that’s not entirely true. Finn actually didn’t live too far from me, and we both walked home from school most days. I was a year younger than him, and we truly didn’t know one another in the least. Not a word was ever exchanged between us. Still, I knew who he was. I stared at his backpack some days on my way home—black, with bright green trim. The green was my favorite shade. I have to admit, it was a pretty cool backpack.

I suppose part of the reason I tell people I didn’t know Finn is that it’s simpler than going into detail about how I really didn’t know him but I knew of him and sometimes stared at his backpack when I walked home from school. But there’s another reason, too, and I’m reminded of it every time his victims come to me, when I’m scared and cold and in lonely moments: I’m ashamed.

I checked myself into a loony bin (oh, pardon me, a psychiatric hospital) the year after I graduated. That’s how bad things had gotten. I’d never seen Chloe again, but I’d seen all the others. By this point, Xavier and Zach chilled in my room practically every night. They never hurt me—but if I got too close, their faces would fall out of place and their death wounds emerge.

If I’m being perfectly honest, they didn’t scare me that much. They didn’t seem to bear me ill will—apart from that bizarre message the night I saw Chloe, they seemed content to merely hang about, and their presence had become almost comforting. If they were real, I figured I could handle that. No, what truly frightened me was the idea that they might not be real, that I might in fact be out of my fucking mind. All I wanted was to live a normal life. Xavier, Zach and the others weren’t getting in the way of that, but a mental illness certainly would.

I thought it would be an easy process—“Hey, doc, I’m going nuts, can you lock me up for a while and hit me with some meds?”—but it’s not that simple. As it turns out, there’s a lot involved in admitting oneself into the farm, not the least of which is a series of probing interviews with psychiatric professionals. I know they mean well, but in my experience, chats with these quacks usually do more harm than good. They drag up stuff that your mind hides, and sometimes your mind hides that stuff for a reason. I must have met a dozen people who went in for a five-minute checkup and came out remembering how their uncle used to touch them when they were kids.

For me, it didn’t happen quite that way. I was in my third and final interview, this one with the head of the institution herself, when I finally remembered. It wasn’t gradual. It came all at once. I broke down sobbing, realizing what I’d done, what responsibility I bore. It’s a surreal experience, to forget. Not just to have something slip your mind, like where you put your keys, but to really, truly, forget. I wish I had forgotten forever.

Seeming a bit taken aback by my outburst, the hospital administrator signed a piece of paper and tried to hand it to me, telling me it would account for at least a ninety-day stay. But I barely heard. I wiped the snot from my nose, blinking back tears, and stared behind her in horror, where Chloe Cannon hovered, the strange sad look still etched on her face. It was the first time I had seen her since that night, long ago, in my room. I pointed behind the lady, shrieking.

“She’s there! She’s there!”

Now thoroughly alarmed, the administrator whipped her head around, and then, apparently seeing nobody, pressed a button on her desk. The paper she had been trying to hand over fluttered to the ground. As the men in the white coats came to restrain me, I wrenched my gaze from Chloe and looked at the paper, face up on the concrete floor. And as they dragged me from the room, I saw a message written, in the unmistakable handwriting of a teenage girl, where the administrator had signed:

WITH MY DADS GUN I GUESS OF COURSE I KNOW WHERE HE KEEPS IT

Chloe’s face, twisted in a cruel smirk, was the last thing I saw before all went black.

October 15th, 2009. Chloe Cannon and her friends had less than 24 hours to live. Of course, they didn’t know that then. Nobody did. It was just a regular day in our regular town.

School had been out for half an hour, and I was on my way home—and who was right in front of me? You guessed it, boys and girls, Finn Carlton. I walked a few dozen paces behind him, my feet crunching the leaves on the sidewalk, my breath barely visible in the brisk autumn air. I stared at the green trim on his black backpack. God, it was a good-looking backpack.

His head hung and his shoulders were slumped. That was odd. I mean, the kid never had great posture, but on this day he looked like his books weighed a hundred pounds. He was sniffling a lot, too. I can’t be sure, but I think he was crying.

I didn’t care much about that, though. Finn Carlton’s problems were none of my concern—at least, that’s what I thought at the time. No, most of my thoughts were on my mother. She didn’t have work that day, and that usually meant she had a damn fine meal waiting for the family at home. And I know you all think your mothers can cook a damn fine meal, but trust me, they wouldn’t even compare.

Anyway, Finn had barely even crossed my mind until he reached in his pocket. He pulled out a ringing cell (a flip phone—2009 was a simpler time) and answered it.

“What do you want?” His voice seemed thick, like a guy trying to sound more masculine than he felt.

At first, my ears barely even registered the first half of the conversation.

“No, I can’t . . . I can’t ask her . . . Because, man, I think you already know . . . Dude, she’s with Chris . . . Yes, my brother Chris, what other fucking Chris would I be talking about?”

My ears perked up a bit. Drama. Just what I needed to take the boredom out of this brutally dull walk. I quickened my stride somewhat, hoping to get a bit closer and catch more of the conversation. I took care to avoid the leaves on the sidewalk, not wanting to draw Finn’s attention to my presence. He continued:

“No, I’m not guessing, I saw them kiss . . . I don’t know, next to the band room . . . Are you fucking high? Of course it was her . . . Yeah, you’re telling me. I feel like shit. I’m losing my fucking mind over here.”

I didn’t know who the girl he mentioned was, but I did know of his brother Chris. He was a year younger than me, and it always struck me as strange that he and Finn were related—while Finn was quiet, scrawny, and a bit morose-seeming, Chris was a handsome, upbeat kid who gave off the impression that he was going places in life.

“Oh yeah, dude, that was the last straw,” Finn continued, his voice shaking with rage. “You have no fucking idea how done I am with this shit.” Then he was silent for a long time. Finally, he spoke again, and his voice sounded different. Lower. Meaner.

“I’m going to kill her . . . Both of them, sure. Why not?”

My blood instantly turned to ice. I stopped dead in my tracks. Did he just say what I think he just said?

Finn laughed, a harsh, excited laugh, then spoke again. “With my dad’s gun, I guess . . . Of course I know where he keeps it.”

My head was reeling. I stood, alone, on the sidewalk, my breath short and my heartbeat quick. I tried to force what I had just heard from my mind. Surely he couldn’t be serious. But God, he sounded like he was. He sounded deadly serious. I don’t think I’ve heard that tone of voice from anyone else in my life.

Finn had continued walking and was almost out of earshot. He stepped further and further away, and I had no interest in hearing any more of his conversation. I felt sick to my stomach. I was only close enough to hear one final sentence before he trailed off:

“I don’t know, man—tomorrow’s as good a day as any.”

It happened the next day, at lunch. I was in the cafeteria, sitting at the usual table with the usual people, when a pop, muffled but clearly audible, rang through the air. A few seconds passed, then another. Another. Another. By the third pop, the cafeteria was silent. By the sixth, pandemonium had ensued. Students trampled over one another in their flight to the west exit, away from that sound. Teachers tried unsuccessfully to give the mob order. Everyone—myself included—was getting the hell out of there.

As I ran with the crowd, my thoughts were with Finn Carlton, who was presently undoing his belt and staring at a pipe on the ceiling of the locked band room. Those pops rang in my head, grisly echoes playing over and over and over, getting louder and louder and louder. This is your fault, is all I can think. This is your fault.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang!

The final knock on my cell door awoke me. Perhaps cell is too harsh a word—it was a nice room. They took good care of me. Still, when I climbed out of bed and saw those beautiful words on my calendar—DAY 90—I dressed with a little pep in my step.

I could have left at any time, of course, but the paperwork would have been so complicated. That, and I couldn’t think of anything better to do on the outside. So I stayed, for three long months, talking to therapists and swallowing pills and sharing my feelings in hilarious group circles with other inmates who were actually crazy. And that’s the thing, the one thing I learned from my time in the funny farm: They were crazy. I wasn’t.

No, Chloe Cannon was real, in life and in death—as real as my fingers flying over my keyboard right now, telling you my story. Her secret boyfriend, Christopher Carlton, he’s real too. So is Xavier Mayweather, and Marianne Ortega, and RJ Saldaz, and every last pound of big Zach Trainor. They’re all real, realer to me than they ever were alive, even though they’re all lying in the frozen December ground with traces of lead still in their heads. They’re all real, and they won’t leave me alone, and why should they?

I’m the reason RJ never got to use those Harry Potter tickets. The newspapers reported tirelessly on the victims after the shooting, and one of the details they really harped on was that RJ was a huge Harry Potter fan and that he’d bought tickets for the upcoming midnight premiere months in advance. I think J.K. Rowling even sent some nice shit to his family. I didn’t catch the movie in theaters, but I got it on Redbox a few months later. I wish I could say I was alone when I watched it, but RJ didn’t miss a single frame.

I’m the reason that the kiss shared between Chloe Cannon and Chris Carlton, the kiss they meant to hide but that was seen by a jealous brother anyway, was their last. I’m the reason Xavier never broke five minutes in the mile, the reason Marianne never learned better English, the reason Zach never lost all the weight he’d meant to. I’m the reason they’re all dead.

I got Chloe’s final message in an email two years ago:

TOMORROWS AS GOOD A DAY AS ANY

--CHLOE :)

Though I see her every night, she hasn’t spoken to me since. There’s so much she could say, but I think she’s choosing—somehow, some way—to let it remain unsaid. Isn’t it better if I fill in the gaps?

What’s it like to still be alive?

How can you live with yourself?

You could have saved us.

She never says it. None of them ever do. I don’t even know if they can. But as they crowd around my bed every night, all six of them, I can feel it in their stares. They all want to be alive, and they’ll haunt me as long as I draw the breath they crave. I’m not crazy, I’m not hallucinating, I’m not a freak—I’m simply and overwhelmingly consumed by guilt.

I have a gun that I keep in the corner of my closet, a gun not unlike the one Finn Carlton stole from his dad’s dresser, in a box that you could only find if you’re looking for it. I look for it sometimes. I pull it out sometimes, too. And every once in a while, I put a bullet in it, close the chamber, and hold it to my temple with a trembling, sweaty palm. Every time I do, I feel my six friends, my six tormentors, cheering me on. But I’ve never pulled the trigger. Not yet. I guess the time’s just never seemed right, but perhaps there’s no sense in putting it off any longer. From where I sit now, I can see the box—just the corner, peeking out from the top of my closet. Taunting me. Daring me. When will I give in?

I don’t know, man—tomorrow’s as good a day as any.

The Good, The Hard, and The Half-Finished Window Seat

Okay, listen, to be fair, it’s a mostly finished window seat.

And at this exact moment in time–the moment where I’m on a roll building assorted cabinetry, and my mom and I are having a blast working between our two houses on the weekends, and there hasn’t been a farm crisis in the last couple of weeks, and I’ve actually got the time and energy to sit down and write this post–things are good. Really good. I’m living the dream (as long as we all understand “the dream” is covered in sawdust and still doesn’t shower or do the dishes quite as much as is socially acceptable.)

But let me also tell you that while things in this moment are good, it’s only because I have been living right on the cusp of “what the actual fuck” for the last several months, unsure if I’m going to tip right over the edge into crazy-squirrel-lady-who-has-given-up-on-doing-anything-she-loves-ever-again or, you know, manage to claw my way out of that hole until things feel right in my life again.

(I’m not joking about the Crazy Squirrel Lady part. They invaded the house and started hiding walnuts in my laundry.)

Here’s the thing. My life is not now, nor will it ever be, a study in balance. I’m a creature of extremes. Of periods of time when I’m in the grips of a big project or a physical challenge and feel like I have the energy and vision and drive to take on the world… and times when I don’t. When I feel the absence of that energy so acutely that even though I know that it’s just a recovery period, and that I will find myself engaged and energized in my own life again at some point in the future, there’s a part of me that says (very loudly and incessantly), “Welp, that’s it. I guess I’m never going to do anything good again, and everything feels off in my life, and I’m just going to be exhausted forever. Awesome.”

I’m compelled to say that out loud, because what I really want to do is skip over all the things that have sucked lately and just talk about is how awesome it feels to be building all kinds of shit right now. But, even though I haven’t been in the right space to update this site as frequently as I used to, telling an authentic story is still the most important thing to me.

And life is (almost surprisingly) good right now, but only because I’m on the other side of some shit that has been really hard.

First, because I burned through a ton of energy this summer making a pretty big career change and spending a lot more time away from the farm that I’m used to.

And because I spent a solid 8 months training for a solo 50 mile hike in Iceland…

(I crushed it–finishing in 2.5 days instead of the 4-5 I planned for– but also very quickly felt the post-adventure blues. It’s a real thing.)

And then because the very worst thing happened… I lost Bubs.

I mean, I did not misplace him, obviously. I lost him to cancer (which, I know, sounds very melodramatic for a cat. After being otherwise healthy and acting normal he stopped eating one week, and then I found out his intestines were riddled with tumors and he didn’t make it out of the surgery to try to remove them.)

I get that cats are not humans, and for most people cats are not even dogs, but this cat in particular has been my companion for the last 12 years. He was literally the inspector for the very first big project I completed on my first house (the first badass pergola)…

And has been with me through every house, every relationship, every project…

And every blog post since…

I understand all of the intellectual things about how he had a great life, and we got to spend 12 years just hanging out together…

But it still fucking sucks, and I miss his cat face every day.

(Although I did find a desiccated bat on the middle of the living room rug two weeks after he died and was like HOW ARE YOU STILL DOING THIS TO ME WITH THE BATS, BUBS?! I do not miss waking up to dead bats in the bed, but I do miss my cat.)

So, that was hard. 

Not only is it tough not to have him around, but within a couple of weeks, the squirrels moved out of the attic and started hiding walnuts around my house. (The one I found under the covers of my bed was the last straw.)

Also, the mice started hiding Bubs old cat food in my shoes.

That’s not… I’m not making that up. It happened a handful of times before I realized some creature was doing this to me on purpose.

I mean, I knew Bubs was good at catching shit, but I had no idea how much work he was doing on a daily basis to keep the house free of rodents.

So, just to recap: New job, big adventure, post-adventure blues, dead cat, rodent invasion, and also this has been a tough year for a lot of my friends in a lot of different ways, so just add all of that into the general mix of hard shit and, oh, I’m sorry, did you come here to read about a window seat?

Yeah, so, I managed to come out on the other side of that mess of feelings, a little worse for wear, but with my sanity mostly intact. And then I built a window seat.

As one does.

I had my HVAC guys come and move the baseboard heat for me because it required a bit of finagling. Then I bought a piece of 10′ plywood, made a napkin drawing, and went to town.

It looks civilized from the outside, but the inside is just a mess of blocking.

Originally I was going to make the storage in this thing drawers (see drunk napkin sketch above) but then I realized that after I accounted for the baseboard heat, the drawers would only be 5″ deep. So I went for the next best thing…

Flip top! (A couple of stainless steel piano hinges did the trick.)

I only expect to access this storage space once or twice a year (it currently contains my window AC unit and a bunch of canning jars.)

And just to provide context for the size of this beast…

It’s over 9′ long. Like everything else in this house, weirdly oversized, but we’re just going with it.

I finished the top of the bench with iron-on veneer on the cut ends…

Legitimately the only use this iron ever gets. Also, if you ever have qualms about iron-on veneer, I also used this exact stuff on the tables I built for the office at my last job. Those tables have been in the common area of that office (used by 50 people or so daily for the last 3+ years) and the veneer held up beautifully.

Back to the project at-hand though…

The last step was to trim out the front so that it looks a bit more in line with my cabinets.

Trim is always the critical factor in taking a project from “what the hell are you doing?” to “Huh. That looks pretty damn good.”

Also, you can’t beat the view…

It needs to be painted, obviously, and I’m in the process of ordering a custom cushion, and then if you need to find me after that, I’ll just be laying in this window seat for the next eternity.

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL.

Did I or did I not say I was on a roll with the cabinet-building?

After three years of staring at the ass-end of these cabinets, I finally got my act together and finished them.

This whole project was a study in creative problem solving and using what I had on-hand.

First, I wasn’t entirely sure how I wanted to handle the trim on these, but I knew I wanted to replicate the look of the cabinets because the big blank panel that used to be there (before I added a 3rd cabinet) kind of drove me nuts.

Because I custom-built that end cabinet with a wrap-around toe-kick, I had to get creative with the trim (which also meant replacing some of the facing on that cabinet because I didn’t think far enough in advance 2 years ago, apparently.)

And then, of course, once I figured out how I wanted to do the trim, I found out that none of my local lumber suppliers sell 3/8″ thick trim boards in any kind of usable length and width. Turns out, however, that I have a bunch of 3/8″ thick tongue and groove pine planks from an unfinished project upstairs, and if you rip the tongue and the groove off?

Perfect trim boards.

But then there was the question about how I should hold the the pieces of trim in place while the glue dried in the spots that had no usable clamping or nailing surfaces.

No problem.

Also, funny story, that is not paint in my hair. That’s legit all the gray hair the last four months seven years life has given me that I stopped coloring for a minute because I was too busy not having a meltdown to care about.

Good news, I did not have a meltdown. My hair is very gray. And the back-side of my kitchen cabinets look like this.

  I am considering that the bottom trim board really needs to be a bit beefier, and weighing that against my desire to screw around with this anymore when I’ve got a couple more drawers, and secret cabinets, and at least seven sheets of plywood’s worth of built-ins I’m hoping to get done soon.

I’m telling you, it was a long, hard end to summer but I’ve got a wave of energy when it comes to building cabinets right now, and I’m going to ride it as long as I can.

from https://ift.tt/2EEiMcT

The Good, The Hard, and The Half-Finished Window Seat

Okay, listen, to be fair, it’s a mostly finished window seat.

And at this exact moment in time–the moment where I’m on a roll building assorted cabinetry, and my mom and I are having a blast working between our two houses on the weekends, and there hasn’t been a farm crisis in the last couple of weeks, and I’ve actually got the time and energy to sit down and write this post–things are good. Really good. I’m living the dream (as long as we all understand “the dream” is covered in sawdust and still doesn’t shower or do the dishes quite as much as is socially acceptable.)

But let me also tell you that while things in this moment are good, it’s only because I have been living right on the cusp of “what the actual fuck” for the last several months, unsure if I’m going to tip right over the edge into crazy-squirrel-lady-who-has-given-up-on-doing-anything-she-loves-ever-again or, you know, manage to claw my way out of that hole until things feel right in my life again.

(I’m not joking about the Crazy Squirrel Lady part. They invaded the house and started hiding walnuts in my laundry.)

Here’s the thing. My life is not now, nor will it ever be, a study in balance. I’m a creature of extremes. Of periods of time when I’m in the grips of a big project or a physical challenge and feel like I have the energy and vision and drive to take on the world… and times when I don’t. When I feel the absence of that energy so acutely that even though I know that it’s just a recovery period, and that I will find myself engaged and energized in my own life again at some point in the future, there’s a part of me that says (very loudly and incessantly), “Welp, that’s it. I guess I’m never going to do anything good again, and everything feels off in my life, and I’m just going to be exhausted forever. Awesome.”

I’m compelled to say that out loud, because what I really want to do is skip over all the things that have sucked lately and just talk about is how awesome it feels to be building all kinds of shit right now. But, even though I haven’t been in the right space to update this site as frequently as I used to, telling an authentic story is still the most important thing to me.

And life is (almost surprisingly) good right now, but only because I’m on the other side of some shit that has been really hard.

First, because I burned through a ton of energy this summer making a pretty big career change and spending a lot more time away from the farm that I’m used to.

And because I spent a solid 8 months training for a solo 50 mile hike in Iceland…

(I crushed it–finishing in 2.5 days instead of the 4-5 I planned for– but also very quickly felt the post-adventure blues. It’s a real thing.)

And then because the very worst thing happened… I lost Bubs.

I mean, I did not misplace him, obviously. I lost him to cancer (which, I know, sounds very melodramatic for a cat. After being otherwise healthy and acting normal he stopped eating one week, and then I found out his intestines were riddled with tumors and he didn’t make it out of the surgery to try to remove them.)

I get that cats are not humans, and for most people cats are not even dogs, but this cat in particular has been my companion for the last 12 years. He was literally the inspector for the very first big project I completed on my first house (the first badass pergola)…

And has been with me through every house, every relationship, every project…

And every blog post since…

I understand all of the intellectual things about how he had a great life, and we got to spend 12 years just hanging out together…

But it still fucking sucks, and I miss his cat face every day.

(Although I did find a desiccated bat on the middle of the living room rug two weeks after he died and was like HOW ARE YOU STILL DOING THIS TO ME WITH THE BATS, BUBS?! I do not miss waking up to dead bats in the bed, but I do miss my cat.)

So, that was hard. 

Not only is it tough not to have him around, but within a couple of weeks, the squirrels moved out of the attic and started hiding walnuts around my house. (The one I found under the covers of my bed was the last straw.)

Also, the mice started hiding Bubs old cat food in my shoes.

That’s not… I’m not making that up. It happened a handful of times before I realized some creature was doing this to me on purpose.

I mean, I knew Bubs was good at catching shit, but I had no idea how much work he was doing on a daily basis to keep the house free of rodents.

So, just to recap: New job, big adventure, post-adventure blues, dead cat, rodent invasion, and also this has been a tough year for a lot of my friends in a lot of different ways, so just add all of that into the general mix of hard shit and, oh, I’m sorry, did you come here to read about a window seat?

Yeah, so, I managed to come out on the other side of that mess of feelings, a little worse for wear, but with my sanity mostly intact. And then I built a window seat.

As one does.

I had my HVAC guys come and move the baseboard heat for me because it required a bit of finagling. Then I bought a piece of 10′ plywood, made a napkin drawing, and went to town.

It looks civilized from the outside, but the inside is just a mess of blocking.

Originally I was going to make the storage in this thing drawers (see drunk napkin sketch above) but then I realized that after I accounted for the baseboard heat, the drawers would only be 5″ deep. So I went for the next best thing…

Flip top! (A couple of stainless steel piano hinges did the trick.)

I only expect to access this storage space once or twice a year (it currently contains my window AC unit and a bunch of canning jars.)

And just to provide context for the size of this beast…

It’s over 9′ long. Like everything else in this house, weirdly oversized, but we’re just going with it.

I finished the top of the bench with iron-on veneer on the cut ends…

Legitimately the only use this iron ever gets. Also, if you ever have qualms about iron-on veneer, I also used this exact stuff on the tables I built for the office at my last job. Those tables have been in the common area of that office (used by 50 people or so daily for the last 3+ years) and the veneer held up beautifully.

Back to the project at-hand though…

The last step was to trim out the front so that it looks a bit more in line with my cabinets.

Trim is always the critical factor in taking a project from “what the hell are you doing?” to “Huh. That looks pretty damn good.”

Also, you can’t beat the view…

It needs to be painted, obviously, and I’m in the process of ordering a custom cushion, and then if you need to find me after that, I’ll just be laying in this window seat for the next eternity.

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL.

Did I or did I not say I was on a roll with the cabinet-building?

After three years of staring at the ass-end of these cabinets, I finally got my act together and finished them.

This whole project was a study in creative problem solving and using what I had on-hand.

First, I wasn’t entirely sure how I wanted to handle the trim on these, but I knew I wanted to replicate the look of the cabinets because the big blank panel that used to be there (before I added a 3rd cabinet) kind of drove me nuts.

Because I custom-built that end cabinet with a wrap-around toe-kick, I had to get creative with the trim (which also meant replacing some of the facing on that cabinet because I didn’t think far enough in advance 2 years ago, apparently.)

And then, of course, once I figured out how I wanted to do the trim, I found out that none of my local lumber suppliers sell 3/8″ thick trim boards in any kind of usable length and width. Turns out, however, that I have a bunch of 3/8″ thick tongue and groove pine planks from an unfinished project upstairs, and if you rip the tongue and the groove off?

Perfect trim boards.

But then there was the question about how I should hold the the pieces of trim in place while the glue dried in the spots that had no usable clamping or nailing surfaces.

No problem.

Also, funny story, that is not paint in my hair. That’s legit all the gray hair the last four months seven years life has given me that I stopped coloring for a minute because I was too busy not having a meltdown to care about.

Good news, I did not have a meltdown. My hair is very gray. And the back-side of my kitchen cabinets look like this.

  I am considering that the bottom trim board really needs to be a bit beefier, and weighing that against my desire to screw around with this anymore when I’ve got a couple more drawers, and secret cabinets, and at least seven sheets of plywood’s worth of built-ins I’m hoping to get done soon.

I’m telling you, it was a long, hard end to summer but I’ve got a wave of energy when it comes to building cabinets right now, and I’m going to ride it as long as I can.

from Bathroom & Home http://diydiva.net/2018/12/the-good-the-hard-and-the-half-finished-window-seat/

from The Good, The Hard, and The Half-Finished Window Seat

The Good, The Hard, and The Half-Finished Window Seat https://ift.tt/2EEiMcT

Okay, listen, to be fair, it’s a mostly finished window seat.

And at this exact moment in time–the moment where I’m on a roll building assorted cabinetry, and my mom and I are having a blast working between our two houses on the weekends, and there hasn’t been a farm crisis in the last couple of weeks, and I’ve actually got the time and energy to sit down and write this post–things are good. Really good. I’m living the dream (as long as we all understand “the dream” is covered in sawdust and still doesn’t shower or do the dishes quite as much as is socially acceptable.)

But let me also tell you that while things in this moment are good, it’s only because I have been living right on the cusp of “what the actual fuck” for the last several months, unsure if I’m going to tip right over the edge into crazy-squirrel-lady-who-has-given-up-on-doing-anything-she-loves-ever-again or, you know, manage to claw my way out of that hole until things feel right in my life again.

(I’m not joking about the Crazy Squirrel Lady part. They invaded the house and started hiding walnuts in my laundry.)

Here’s the thing. My life is not now, nor will it ever be, a study in balance. I’m a creature of extremes. Of periods of time when I’m in the grips of a big project or a physical challenge and feel like I have the energy and vision and drive to take on the world… and times when I don’t. When I feel the absence of that energy so acutely that even though I know that it’s just a recovery period, and that I will find myself engaged and energized in my own life again at some point in the future, there’s a part of me that says (very loudly and incessantly), “Welp, that’s it. I guess I’m never going to do anything good again, and everything feels off in my life, and I’m just going to be exhausted forever. Awesome.”

I’m compelled to say that out loud, because what I really want to do is skip over all the things that have sucked lately and just talk about is how awesome it feels to be building all kinds of shit right now. But, even though I haven’t been in the right space to update this site as frequently as I used to, telling an authentic story is still the most important thing to me.

And life is (almost surprisingly) good right now, but only because I’m on the other side of some shit that has been really hard.

First, because I burned through a ton of energy this summer making a pretty big career change and spending a lot more time away from the farm that I’m used to.

And because I spent a solid 8 months training for a solo 50 mile hike in Iceland…

(I crushed it–finishing in 2.5 days instead of the 4-5 I planned for– but also very quickly felt the post-adventure blues. It’s a real thing.)

And then because the very worst thing happened… I lost Bubs.

I mean, I did not misplace him, obviously. I lost him to cancer (which, I know, sounds very melodramatic for a cat. After being otherwise healthy and acting normal he stopped eating one week, and then I found out his intestines were riddled with tumors and he didn’t make it out of the surgery to try to remove them.)

I get that cats are not humans, and for most people cats are not even dogs, but this cat in particular has been my companion for the last 12 years. He was literally the inspector for the very first big project I completed on my first house (the first badass pergola)…

And has been with me through every house, every relationship, every project…

And every blog post since…

I understand all of the intellectual things about how he had a great life, and we got to spend 12 years just hanging out together…

But it still fucking sucks, and I miss his cat face every day.

(Although I did find a desiccated bat on the middle of the living room rug two weeks after he died and was like HOW ARE YOU STILL DOING THIS TO ME WITH THE BATS, BUBS?! I do not miss waking up to dead bats in the bed, but I do miss my cat.)

So, that was hard. 

Not only is it tough not to have him around, but within a couple of weeks, the squirrels moved out of the attic and started hiding walnuts around my house. (The one I found under the covers of my bed was the last straw.)

Also, the mice started hiding Bubs old cat food in my shoes.

That’s not… I’m not making that up. It happened a handful of times before I realized some creature was doing this to me on purpose.

I mean, I knew Bubs was good at catching shit, but I had no idea how much work he was doing on a daily basis to keep the house free of rodents.

So, just to recap: New job, big adventure, post-adventure blues, dead cat, rodent invasion, and also this has been a tough year for a lot of my friends in a lot of different ways, so just add all of that into the general mix of hard shit and, oh, I’m sorry, did you come here to read about a window seat?

Yeah, so, I managed to come out on the other side of that mess of feelings, a little worse for wear, but with my sanity mostly intact. And then I built a window seat.

As one does.

I had my HVAC guys come and move the baseboard heat for me because it required a bit of finagling. Then I bought a piece of 10′ plywood, made a napkin drawing, and went to town.

It looks civilized from the outside, but the inside is just a mess of blocking.

Originally I was going to make the storage in this thing drawers (see drunk napkin sketch above) but then I realized that after I accounted for the baseboard heat, the drawers would only be 5″ deep. So I went for the next best thing…

Flip top! (A couple of stainless steel piano hinges did the trick.)

I only expect to access this storage space once or twice a year (it currently contains my window AC unit and a bunch of canning jars.)

And just to provide context for the size of this beast…

It’s over 9′ long. Like everything else in this house, weirdly oversized, but we’re just going with it.

I finished the top of the bench with iron-on veneer on the cut ends…

Legitimately the only use this iron ever gets. Also, if you ever have qualms about iron-on veneer, I also used this exact stuff on the tables I built for the office at my last job. Those tables have been in the common area of that office (used by 50 people or so daily for the last 3+ years) and the veneer held up beautifully.

Back to the project at-hand though…

The last step was to trim out the front so that it looks a bit more in line with my cabinets.

Trim is always the critical factor in taking a project from “what the hell are you doing?” to “Huh. That looks pretty damn good.”

Also, you can’t beat the view…

It needs to be painted, obviously, and I’m in the process of ordering a custom cushion, and then if you need to find me after that, I’ll just be laying in this window seat for the next eternity.

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL.

Did I or did I not say I was on a roll with the cabinet-building?

After three years of staring at the ass-end of these cabinets, I finally got my act together and finished them.

This whole project was a study in creative problem solving and using what I had on-hand.

First, I wasn’t entirely sure how I wanted to handle the trim on these, but I knew I wanted to replicate the look of the cabinets because the big blank panel that used to be there (before I added a 3rd cabinet) kind of drove me nuts.

Because I custom-built that end cabinet with a wrap-around toe-kick, I had to get creative with the trim (which also meant replacing some of the facing on that cabinet because I didn’t think far enough in advance 2 years ago, apparently.)

And then, of course, once I figured out how I wanted to do the trim, I found out that none of my local lumber suppliers sell 3/8″ thick trim boards in any kind of usable length and width. Turns out, however, that I have a bunch of 3/8″ thick tongue and groove pine planks from an unfinished project upstairs, and if you rip the tongue and the groove off?

Perfect trim boards.

But then there was the question about how I should hold the the pieces of trim in place while the glue dried in the spots that had no usable clamping or nailing surfaces.

No problem.

Also, funny story, that is not paint in my hair. That’s legit all the gray hair the last four months seven years life has given me that I stopped coloring for a minute because I was too busy not having a meltdown to care about.

Good news, I did not have a meltdown. My hair is very gray. And the back-side of my kitchen cabinets look like this.

  I am considering that the bottom trim board really needs to be a bit beefier, and weighing that against my desire to screw around with this anymore when I’ve got a couple more drawers, and secret cabinets, and at least seven sheets of plywood’s worth of built-ins I’m hoping to get done soon.

I’m telling you, it was a long, hard end to summer but I’ve got a wave of energy when it comes to building cabinets right now, and I’m going to ride it as long as I can.

Kit

Elizabeth Tower in Bloom

Finally! It took forever, but it's done! I'm going to assume no one remembers this old Paris Project I did a couple of years ago. It was a sort-of bonus project for my high school art class, as it wasn't a regular class assignment that was graded. It was for a contest-type-thing? I'm not entirely sure. It went to a college and got an Honorable Mention.   Well, when I was due for another project for my current college class, after having some time away from the original to shake off the post-required-creation-dissonance (because you can tell from the description that initially when I got done with it, I was fed up with the whole thing by then), I thought maybe a recreation or sequel could work. I asked my teacher, she liked the idea. And in terms of a sequel, based on location alone, my first thought was Big Ben in London. For what it's worth, I got a two-pack of 18"x24" Canvases, the same size as the original Paris Project, and when I started trying to measure and draw out the Clock Tower (Big Ben is actually the name of the bell inside), I almost immediately said "Nope, too hard!" And switched to the Golden Gate Bridge instead. But then my mom came in, and after talking to her a little more poking around with references, I went back to Big Ben on the second canvas. (Which means I will most likely pick the Golden Gate Bridge up again if there is ever a third one of these). Honestly, the longest and most tedious part (not counting mixing paint and ink colors because good Lord did that take waaaay longer than it should have), was probably sketching out the Clock Tower and trying to get the proportions right. It is a very illustrative/stylistic model, but the original project did more or less the same thing with the Eiffel Tower. I was trying to keep mostly in line with that, as well as realism is just not something that interests me. There is an entire debate to be had here, but I feel like, if you're going to learn art, that realism is easier to learn that stylistic. Though I am admittedly biased in this opinion since I'm basing my conclusion in part on my experiences with realism and at least two art Youtubers that I'm subscribed to that are used to doing realism and have both said on more than one occasion that they've struggled to learn to draw more stylistically. Anyway. After that, I really just had to paint the tower and then get to the fun part of adding all of the stuff sticking off of it.   That process began with the clock itself. I did not have the patience to draw all those teeny little details out by hand, so luckily my computer was able to help me out with that bit. So with two naked clock faces at odd angles, I was then left to ask what I wanted to do about the hands. In the meantime, I glued two thin layers of foam stuff to the faces, outlined the details with glittery gel pens, and got them attached to the canvas. I ended up going to Micheals, hoping for a clock stamp or stencil or stickers or something. Would you believe there were no clock stamps? Or at least none that I could find/that would fit my needs?  And I only found one pack of stickers that were all clock themed; the four little clocks you see in the upper-left and bottom-right corners, and even it was out of place. I thought I was going crazy! Why no clocks?? But then I stumbled upon an actual clock-making section. It wasn't very big and there wasn't a ton of stuff to pick from, but they did have some actual clock hands, so I picked up those. And I was admittedly thisclose to buying a set that had the hands and a motor for making the clock actually tick/tell time, but I vetoed the idea because I was not confident in my ability to punch a hole in the canvas where I needed it, etc. And which clock face would I have picked anyway? And it might not even tell time correctly since the shapes of the clocks are weird...and so on. Also, I didn't even know where to begin with picking a specific time for the clock to display, so I just went with where I initially just kind of haphazardly placed them to see how the little rhinestones I wanted to use (and did use) to cover up the holes at the base of the hands would look. The hands were already oversized, so I thought the "kooky clock" thing would work nicely. All the pieces made a nice happy little-sandwiched family after making the acquaintance of some liquid glass (think hot glue but squeezable and room-temperature). Then I realized I was not the most thought-out designer because I decided I wanted to outline the clock tower bits around the clock face with the gold tinsel pipe cleaner. The addition of the clock face made this a bit trickier, at least as far as placement goes. And then I discover that tinsel pipe cleaner, apparently, basically repels glue . I taught it a lesson after cleaning up the mess and borrowing my mom's hot glue gun, though. I then uncovered just how badly a project like this is begging for a die-cutting machine. If you don't know what that is, it's essentially a printer for fancy paper cut-outs. You put the paper and a stencil in a special tray formation thing, send it through the machine, and it spits out the paper cut out according to the stencil. I made the mistake of watching the Home Shopping Network one night where they were using one of these things, and I have honestly never been more tempted to actually purchase something from them. And once I learned how crazy in-efficient trying to cut a butterfly stencil with segmented wings out with nothing but an Exacto knife and scissors is, I really wished I had...I still kind of do, but the cheapest ones are around $70, not including the materials. I just don't think I'd use it often enough to warrant the price. But I did eventually muddle through with the resources I had to craft the little two-layer butterflies you see flying towards the clock face. I placed them that way with the idea that the clocks here are more or less flowers, and the text on each butterfly's backwings is theoretically readable. (I say theoretically because while it is facing the correct way, it is still a looping, stylistically messy cursive print, with even I have trouble making out.) The top layer is just printed stamps going in all directions. I wanted those to have wing segments poked out, but the process of doing that by hand was just oh-so-tedious I couldn't stand it. I had to do something else to keep my sanity. (And to be fair, I was kind of on a deadline here.) Which reminds me, I love my mother, but this project taught me exactly why I usually don't get her involved with a piece until it's either finished of I've reached a stalemate. She had all these ideas and experiments and things to try. It was good to have someone to bounce ideas off of, but I really did not appreciate when I would tell her I didn't like an idea and she just would not let it go. Especially after one instance where she wanted to use these little stamps to make holes in the butterfly wings and I told her what I was picturing in my mind looked tacky and I didn't want to try it, but she would not rest until she did, and then she agreed that it looked tacky. After I got the butterflies put together, I put together the leaves and the clock stickers. Some of the leaves were actually leftovers from my Why, Curious Butterflies! Piece, but I did make a few new ones. But ultimately it didn't matter because I ended up flipping them all over and using my green Tombow brush markers to color them again.   At that point, the individual pieces were good, but the overall piece (with the objects just temporarily stuck on with tape) just looked kind of naked. Fortunately, I was able to find some cheery blossom stickers I bout but never used for the Paris Project. They filled out the edges pretty nicely and made the clock-flowers seem more at home. But there was still something missing. Mom had let me borrow some leftover fabric from an apron-making fit she had a while back in case I wanted to use it, so I ended up cutting out the bird on the bottom left and the nest in the top right. There was a hummingbird too, but I couldn't cut the felt I attached to all three for a little more dimension and stability on him to suit me, so he was ultimately nixed. Since I had few of each thing printed on the fabric and they were scraps anyway, I cut out some pieces and used some tiny wood shapes to try and emulate these dimensional sticker things I've also seen on the Home Shopping Network. It's not very obvious when you look at the piece straight-on, but I think the problem has more to do with me being afraid of how far out the individual pieces should stick than a flaw in the idea. I had also originally purchased some floral wire from the dollar store, thinking I could outline the Tower and some details with it, but I learned very quickly that once the stuff gets bent or bumped, it's very difficult--dare I say impossible--to get it smooth and straight again, which wasn't going to work for what I wanted to do. So that idea got scrapped. But I was just tinkering around with it, trying to think of how else to fill out the canvas, and came up with the idea to do swirlies, kind of like vines for the clock flowers. Now, in my last WIP picture, you could also see some very thin silver swirlies too, but I ditched those because they didn't really fit with much else and I really just made them because I was in class, out of other things to do, and did not feel like or have enough time left in class to pursue a classroom hot-glue-gun to start attaching things. (If there's one thing I know how to do, it's pittle around and waste time ) Still, there was something missing. So before I started gluing, I went with an idea that had been lurking in the back of my mind all along. I took the last butterfly stencil with wing segments that I had, grabbed one of my Tombow markers, took everything I could off of the canvas (so everything but the cherry blossom branches and the tower and it's clock face bits) and started printing the pattern by hand. I did essentially the same thing with paint in blue and pink on the Paris Project, but those two stencils ended up getting stuck to the canvas to bring out a couple of the butterflies. There, the butterflies were sort of additional flowers. Here, my intentional was a leaves/vines kind of look. The palate was so warm otherwise, I felt like it was begging for an additional, much cooler pop of color, and my eyes really liked the green from the leaves, so I went with that. In hindsight, maybe I could've done some green and some about the shade of baby-blue that the eggs in the bird's nest are, but that didn't cross my mind at the time. I also thought to do some in gold, but the one shade I had that I could've used was just too yellow for my liking. And thus, here we are. (And for the record it was a pain in the neck to try to stencil those things around all the stuff that was stuck to the canvas!) My mom thinks it's busy and there's a lack of cohesion. I can understand where she's coming from, but I like busy. (This arguably relates to our fashion sense as well; I like busy, she likes plain) And I also think she may have gotten too used to seeing it in-process when it was mostly naked. Ultimately, I wouldn't say it's perfect, but my vision has for the most part been fulfilled, and thus I am happy with it. It's a good thing I took a picture of it though because lord only knows when I'll be getting it back  But I will get to see it at least one more time for the college's art festival Thursday night. Hopefully, with the holidays right around the corner, I'll find time to finally start working on personal pieces again. I just haven't had the time these past few weeks.  (If nothing else, expect a supply test from me after Christmas--the Faber Castell Polychromos are here! In the house! I touched the box!  But I can't have them until Christmas. ) Also, I'm working on a website as one last class assignment, so be on the lookout for that! I'm actually having a lot of fun with it! ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram