#SORRY.. trying to be more active. I want to make and sell sculptures again. sell all of my spare clothes too. stuff. things.. aaa.. *** | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

butter-egg-toast · 3 years

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YouTuber Girlfriend ▶️

I got a bunch of requests for this one. . 👍

Requested by @dragonwolfs

Long post be prepared.

I'm so sorry I couldn't think of Albert, Kadea, and Aii

Enjoy 🤗

Haru: 🎨

🌙You're a mix media ArtYouTuber.

🌙You do various art forms like painting sculpture, Ink art, ceramics, etc.

🌙You're usually not on Camara, most of your videos are focused on your art work.

🌙On some occasions Haru would draws something for you

🎨" Look (y/n), it's a Mackerel sculpture"-Haru

🌙 Haru gives art tips on the channel for beginners.

🎨"Art and swimming are similar...just go with the flow"-Haru

🌙He goes shopping with you for art supplies.

🎨" We literally only bought 4 items and it came to 40 dollars?!-Haru

🌙You and Haru did a couple of drawing challenges like:

Draw with left hand challenge,

Draw each other challenge

Draw with your eyes closed challenge

🌙At the end of the day Haru secretly enjoy making art with you.

🌙You have a simple following of 50k

Channel name: HoneycombArts.

Matoko: 🐱

🌙You're an animal YouTuber

🌙You work at a pet adoption center. So you encounter different types animals like:

Cats, dog, rabbits, birds, and many more

🌙You invited Matoko to help you with the feral kittens and cats; immediately after hissing at you and the other employees they warm up to Matoko.

🐱"Wow.. they really love me!"-Matoko

😸" Woah Her fur is so fuffy and pretty"-Matoko

🌙You give tips about properly taking care of animals.

🌙Matoko usually not on Camara that much (he's kinda shy)

🌙But when he is on Camara, The videos with the most views are usually with Matoko washing kittens.

🐱"You want to make sure the kitty is calm and not scared of you. Make sure you talk to them to calm them."-Makoto

🐱"Its okay little guy, you're gonna be a nice and clean kitty"-Makoto

🌙 You have a simple following 80k

Channel name: PreciousPets

Nagisa: 🎬

🌙You're a movie/TV show commentator. Comedy skits, you comment on badly movie reviews or simple commentary.

🌙You and Nagisa something reenact scenes from movies and TV shows.

🎬" Oi!!! Look at me when I'm talking to you *bad acting*" -Nagisa

🌙Nagisa cant get his lines right and he always laugh. That's what makes it charming.

🎬" Dont go...I..ummm... *laugh* I forgot (y/n) chan.. what's the line again?"-Nagisa.

🌙Sometimes there are cheesy skits you do together for fun.

🌙 there are some occasions were both of you and Nagisa forgot your lines and you both had to improv.

🎬" Noooooo... how.. could you betray me? Nagisa fell to his knees. "Well...you shouldn't have took my... taco.." trying your best to hold in your laughter. Nagisa confused at your choice of words. "Eh?..."-Nagisa

🌙He Loves being on Camara most of the time

You have a simple following 50k to 80k

Channel name: Tomatometer

Rei: 📘

🌙You're a History YouTuber. Educational videos, learning , science, and technology

🌙 You go over the latest new technology and you have sponsors that send you laptops and phones

🌙You have a mini segment were Rei goes over interesting fun science facts

📘"The strongest muscle in the body is the tongue"-Rei

📘" People who speak two languages may unconsciously shift their personalities when they switch from one language to another.

🌙 You and Rei do a myth busting, where you answer questions from viewers.

🌙There was even a time were you both performed a chemistry experiment that failed.

📘" *cough * see this is why its important to have safety precautions"-Rei

You have a simple following of 50k to 60k

Channel name: Learn Something Today

Rin: 🛠

🌙You're a DIY YouTuber, building and create easy life hacks

🌙You build random projects you find on Instagram, Twitter, Pinterest or viewers suggestion

🛠" (y/n)? That a cool sculpture"-Rin

🌙Rin is never in your videos. The only time he showed his face is when you both did a challenge together.

🛠" Woah!! This looks complicated. But nothing's too complicated for me. What do we need ,(y/n)?"-Rin

🌙Rin sometimes goes shopping with you to find your supplies.

🛠 "Huh?! This is a lot of wood (y/n), what are you making today?"-Rin

🛠" what type of wood you need?"-Rin

🌙You sometimes give away or sell your projects depending on the occasion.

🌙Rin helps with your projects on his day off, because he's curious how the project will turn out.

You have a simple following of 80k

Channel name: Fix it Make it

Souskue: 🥙

🌙You're a cooking Youtuber

🌙Sousuke something does voice overs talking about cooking traditional Japanese food and giving cooking tips.

🥙" Okonomiyaki is a simple pancake that is cook with cabbage."-Souskue

🌙People always send you emails asking to show your boyfriends face because they love his voice so much.

🥙" They really like me? I dont think my sounds like honey"-Souskue

🌙You sometimes do food challenge and completions with your friends and Souskue. (Souskue always win)

🌙You make a variety foods all over the world

🥙"Can you cook pork cutlets?"-Souskue

🌙The meals you and Souskue cook, you both give to homeless shelters and orphanages.

🌙Every special occasion you bake a themed caked.

🥙"Is that a shark?! How did you make this?!"-Sousuke

You have a simple following of 70k

Channel name: Cookie dough gummies

Momo: 🎮

🌙You're a Gaming YouTuber

🌙You play a wide variety of games like horror, dating Sims, action,Platformers, 3D, and many more

🌙Multiplayer with all your friends (Among us)

🌙Momo definitely loves playing adventures and scifi games with you

🌙Momo likes to bring Puyysuke with him to the gaming sessions.

🎮"Puyysuke is good luck!!"-Momo

🎮"Puyysuke is just as excited as I am with this game. "-Momo

🌙You and momo sometimes compete with each other in fighting and racing games.

🎮"Awwww no fair (y/n) that's cheating !!"-Momo

🎮" Ahhh how you keep winning"-Momo

You have a simple following of 60k

Channel name: Beetle juice

Seijour: 💪

🌙You're a health and fitness Youtuber

🌙Health and fitness tips from professionals and Seijour.

💪"Having a perfect form is the most important and effective way of succeeding"-Seijour

🌙Breaking down the human body to benefit different bodies types.

💪" This exercise plan I used on the samzuka swim team. I guaranteed you will bulk up👍"-Seijour

💪No pain no gain. Keep pushing YOUR ALMOST THERE!!! You can do it!!"-Seijour

🌙 You and Seijour do couples yoga on sundays.

💪"Dont worry (y/n) I got you. Just relax your muscles"-Seijour

You have a simple following 80k

Channel name: You're lifestyle

Kisumi: 💄

🌙You're a beauty YouTuber.

🌙Hes pretty much on your channel 24/7. Everyone loves the both of you.

🌙You do make up challenges, skin care tips, and themed make up looks.

💄"Niacinamide and hyaluronic acid are the best together on your skin"-Kisumi

🌙 You and kisumi have challenges where you do each other's makeup.

💄" Eh? I used the wrong color?! Haha sorry "-Kisumi

💄"I hope I'm not too rough with your face. Let me know."-Kisumi

🌙Kisumi did a voice over on one of your tutorials twice.

💄" Now shes applying blush on...oohhwow that's a cute shade on her..its really cute (y/n)"-Kisumi

💄" wow that makes (y/n) eyes pop!"-Kisumi

🌙Kisumi loves to do seasonal makeup tutorials with you.

🌙He even let you do some makeup on him.

💄" Woah I look like a kpop male idol! How did you did that??!"-Kisumi

You have a simple following of 90k

Channel name: Velvet lips

Asahi: 🔎

🌙You're a Horror theme YouTuber

🌙Discuss Mysteries and Paranormal activity all over the world, Unsolved crimes. Mysteries death and conspiracies theories

🔎"That's interesting.. has the crime been solved?"-Asahi.

🌙Asahi is not into the paranormal because he doesn't believe in it. However, because you like, he's curious about the stuff you talk about.

🔎"wow that monster is 8 foot tall!! And it was seen in Japan??!!"-Asahi

🔎" mmmhh.. that picture is kinda convincing"-Asahi

🌙There was a time where you, Asahi, Hiyori And kisumi went to explore an abandoned house on the countryside that is known for huntings

🔎"oh... (y/n) do you want me to hold your hand if your scared?"-Asahi

🔎"huh? That noise? It may have been a rat"-Asahi

You have a simple following of 70k

Channel name: Mystery XE

Ikuya:💻

🌙You're a Anmaition Youtuber, sometime you animate your story times and do little funny Anmaition, and music video Anmaition.

*The time I accidentally pranked my teacher story time*

*Middle school experience * story time

*Worst family vacation ever* story time

*Creey encounter at work ft Ikuya* story time

*How I met my boyfriend ft Ikuya* story time

🌙Ikuya something gives you ideas for a Anmaition.

💻"How about do a little mermaid Anmaition?"-Ikuya

💻"This is cute a Anmaition, you think you can teach me how to do it?-Ikuya

🌙 You created a Anmaition for Ikuyas birthday with one of his favorite songs.

💻" I love ever bit of this. You really know what I like"-Ikuya

You have a simple following 60k

Channel name: Ms.Honbuns

Natsuya: 🗺

🌙You're a travel YouTuber/Vlogger

🌙 natsuya is on your channel 24/7

🌙You and natsuya traveled to various locations while site seeing, eating food, meeting local people, learning the language, learning the history, and having fun.

🌙You do 360 VR videos of each country, or city you visit.

🌙Sometimes you both camp and go on hikes.

🗺" ah Its so calming out here in the wild"-Natsuya

🌙Natsuya has his own little segment were you taste different types of beers and wines all over the world

🗺".. woah (y/n) you have to try this. The favor is out of this wolrd!!"-Natsuya

🗺"Where do you want to go for the spring? I was thinking 🇬🇧The UK or 🇲🇽 Italy."-Natsuya

You have a simple following 90k to 1M

Channel name: Lake side view

Nao: 🍀

🌙You're a Garden YouTuber

🌙you give gardening tips

🌙on the weekends nao helps with your garden and maintaining it.

☘"Wow!! (Y/n) your vegetables looks great "-Nao

🌙You harvest and Nao cooks the Vegetables.

🍀"Wow the vegetables this harvest is delicious"-Nao

☘"Next harvest, can we plant watermelons?"-Nao

🌙Time lapse videos of Fruits and vegetables growing and decomposing.

You have a simple following of 50k

Channel name: Growful love

Hiyori: 🛍

🌙You're a Fashion YouTuber

🌙 Discuss the newest trends and unboxing new clothes, shoes and accessories .

🌙Haul videos with Hiyori (sometimes)

🛍" These sweater feels amazing"-Hiyori

🌙You and Hiyori sometimes try on matching clothes.

🛍" Wow! We're definitely a cute couple!-Hiyori

🛍"This is something I'll definitely wear every day "-Hiyori

🌙 Most of your clothes are your choice of style. And Hiyori's is more like dark academia.

🌙 Sewing clothes for you and Hiyori.

🛍"woah!! You made this for me?! Thank you so much"-Hiyori

🌙 And some occasions you guys will go thrift shopping.

You have a simple following of 60k

Channel name: Exclusive Z

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umbrahighpriestofgiratina · 5 years

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Heroes After All Chapter 9

AT LAST. I have been wanting to get to this chapter for a LONG time for REASONS and now it's finally here, so please, enjoy:

Chapter 9: Separation Anxiety

A few months had passed. Aaron was slowly starting to get more adjusted to life at the Time Flower Abbey.

There was just one problem.

"What do you mean you still don't have a Pokemon partner?" said Louis incredulously at the lunch table.

"I... I..." said Aaron.

"At this point, everyone but you has one..." said Atta.

"D-don't rub it in!"

"Hard not to when it's true," said Eve.

"You should make a sacrifice to Necrozma so they can send you one!" said Callie. "Light for the light god! Crystals for the crystal throne!"

"...No thanks," said Aaron.

"I guess you could, you know," said Eve, "try harder to find one?"

"Er, yes, I will do exactly that!" said Aaron, rushing off.

"...He didn't finish his lunch," said Louis.

"More for me then," said Atta, shoveling it all into her mouth.

--------

Aaron was just outside Time Flower Abbey, looking around. He knew any Pokemon he found inside probably was the partner of someone already, so out here was his best bet of finding one for him.

Then, he spotted one. A Wynaut, foraging for Berries - Aaron still didn't understand the difference between them and regular fruit even in class - and blissfully unaware of his presence. This small creature would do.

"Hey there?"

The Wynaut froze, then turned toward him.

"Do you want to be my friend?" said Aaron.

"Wynaut!"

"Really?! Oh this is great, I finally have a Pokemon par-"

"Wynaut." The Wynaut followed this up with a wobbling noise.

"...Wait, right, that's part of your name. Do you still want to be my partner?"

The Wynaut made another wobbling noise as it waved their headfeelers in Aaron's direction.

"Do you still want to be my partner?" said Aaron. Wait. He'd already said that. "Do you still want to be my partner?" Oh no, not again. And he was frozen in place too. Aaron realized he had been hit with the Wynaut's Encore.

The Wynaut snickered and headed off. Aaron was stuck in place parroting himself for a few minutes before it wore off and he collapsed with a moan.

-------

Aaron had since moved into the forest, where he was looking around wildly at any noise. Then, in the dappled sunlight of the treetops, he saw it: A Weepinbel, curled around a tree branch and swaying in the breeze.

"H-hey!" Aaron shouted up at it. "Do you want to be my partner?"

The Weepinbel glared at Aaron and pointed their leaf toward some rustling in a nearby tree.

"Uh..." said Aaron. "Is that food?"

The Weepinbel nodded.

"Uh, I guess... No, Metagross says all Pokemon are intelligent like people," said Aaron. "I can't help you."

The Weepinbell just rolled their eyes and kept staring.

Aaron looked at the Weepinbell. Then at the rustling. Maybe if he helped the Pokemon the Weepinbel was trying to eat then they'd help him?

He concentrated, sending an Aura blast at the other tree, knocking him back. There was a crack, then splinters everywhere, before a swarm of angry Beedrill emerged and headed straight for Aaron. His eyes widened.

"Oh no."

He exited, pursued by Beedril.

------

A few stings later, Aaron stumbled back toward Time Flower Abbey, rubbing himself. It was then he noticed a sleeping Munchlax.

"Maybe them..."

He approached the Munchlax and poked it. "Hey! You want to be my friend?"

The Munchlax kept snoring.

"Hello?"

The Munchlax rolled over. Aaron scowled and pushed the Munchlax, attempting to move them. The Munchlax raised a finger and waggled it, resulting in a wave of sludge that promptly washed Aaron away.

-------

Now sore, stung, and with sludge stains in his clothes, Aaron stumbled to a patch of grass a bit away from Time Flower Abbey. It was then he saw a Mareep. Aaron thought to himself for a bit. If asking directly didn't work maybe he could catch it...

He snuck closer to the Mareep. They kept grazing. He leapt to tackle them, and immediately got shocked, stumbling back. Aaron was now staring down a very angry Mareep.

"Uh, hey, hehe, I just wanted to be friends..."

He bolted, the Mareep chasing after back to the monastery.

----------

Several other children were hanging out, chatting and playing, in the courtyard, when a screaming Aaron burst in pursued by an angry Mareep. Aaron tripped and fell, and the Mareep zapped him one last time and stormed off in a huff.

Aaron slowly got up, sore, covered in stings, sludge, and electrical burns, and noticed the other kids were staring at him.

"Uh... Hi?"

The other kids started laughing, and pointing.

"Wait, no, please, stop," said Aaron, cowering and hiding his face. "I just wanted to- "

They kept laughing. Aaron ducked and cowered.

"Hey! Leave him alone! Shoo, shoo!"

Things got quiet. Aaron looked up and saw the other kids were gone and Hanna was standing over him. "You OK?" she asked.

"...No."

"Aw, come here," said Hannah, pulling Aaron into a hug. Aaron yelped and squirmed.

"Ow, that hurts!" Aaron said.

"Oops, sorry," said Hannah, putting him down.

"What's going on?" said a voice. "I heard a commotion..."

A strange blue-haired man in glasses approached. Aaron recognized him as the man who had been hanging around Time Flower Abbey for quite some time but had never gotten the name of.

"Oh, Terrence!" said Hannah, solving Aaron's problem in that department, "Poor Aaron here was being teased by the other kids for... What was it again?"

"I tried to befriend a bunch of Pokemon but they all attacked me."

Terrence leaned down to inspect Aaron, looking him up, down, left, and sideways, before standing back up and nodding.

"Yep, he got fucked up pretty bad."

Hannah gasped and covered her mouth. "Watch your language around the children!"

"I think what's important here is he gets medical attention," said Terrence.

Hannah nodded and picked Aaron up, causing Aaron to yelp in pain.

"...We need to get it to him carefully," said Terrence.

Hannah put Aaron down, and the two led him off to the infirmary.

----

Aaron's injuries had been patched up. His wounds bandaged. But his feelings still hurt.

He wandered around outside Time Flower Abbey, not wanting to be in contact with anything or anyone. He thought to himself.

He had come to Time Flower Abby as an escape. But it had changed nothing. He was still unwanted. Still singled out.

He let out a scream of frustration, sending a blast of Aura at the ground. It kicked up a lot of dirt and dust, and made a loud bang as bird and bug Pokemon scattered. Aaron panted from the exertion in the aftermath, hunched over.

Eventually, he stood up. And that's when he saw something approach.

--------

The Fighting Thieves were all gathered together in their, Koba standing on a platform a bit taller than all of them.

"Friends, partners," he said, "I have a lead... on the ultimate heist."

There were gasps and murmurs among the group, except Riolu, who kind of just raised an eyebrow, and Vallant, who scoffed.

"Ultimate heist? This oughta be good," said Shifty.

"Ooh! Ooh! What are we stealing?" said Grog.

"Is it a fun thing?" said Nicolas.

"Please don't let it be something stupid," said Vallant.

"Easy, easy," said Koba. "As for what it is... I have located a monastery to the north of here, up the mountain, known as Time Flower Abbey. There is a stash of strange crystals there that the Aura Guardians there use to transport their Pokemon servants. Those crystals are worth quite a lot of human money."

"So we break into the monastery, grab the crystals, then sell them to some other humans for a wagonload of cash?" said Vallant. "I like the sound of that!"

"We'll never go hungry again!" said Grog.

"What about security?" said Shifty

"It's... Tighter than usual. But I know a workaround. Follow me."

"Let's do this!" said Nicolas.

The group headed out of the hut. Riolu remained silent the whole time. Yes, this would be good for him and his friends, but... he had a bad feeling about this.

----------

Eventually, after traversing a forested mountain outside the village, the group came to Time Flower Abbey. It was huge, built into the mountain, forested and grassy plateaus extending from the parts that weren't, its spires stretching up into the sky, its structures laid out like a miniature city, decorated with stone sculptures of time flowers. The group looked on in awe.

"Damn." said Shifty. "How the hell are we gonna break in there?"

"I'll show you," said Koba.

He led the group around the side of the monastery across one of the forested plateaus until they found a series of bushes nestled around one of the walls. Koba parted the bushes to reveal a tunnel.

"A secret entrance," said Vallant. "Of course."

"Hey if it works it works!" said Nicolas. "I knew Dad would figure something out."

"Well..." said Riolu. "I guess we're going in."

"Of course, Captain Obvious!" said Shifty.

They entered.

-------------

It was dark in the tunnels, but not completely dark due to the fire on Koba's head and Nicolas' tail. The two of them lead the others through the winding cave. Riolu kept eyes and Aura feelers out for hostile Pokemon.

Finally, they emerged in an empty room, filled with boxes of food, including a bag of apples that had been recently ripped into, a sticky glue-like substance left behind.

"Look at all this food!" said Grog.

"If we stole this too we could eat like kings!" said Vallant.

"We need to keep our priorities straight," said Koba." The coast is clear... For now. We need to hurry."

The group grabbed some sacks from the room and hurried through dark stone back hallways, hiding at any peep of human and Pokemon activity. Eventually, they got to a large, vault-like door.

"This is it," said Koba with visible excitement. "This is the place!"

"Shiny." said Grog.

"Sounds great," said Shifty. "But how do we even get in?"

"Simple, we break it open," said Vallant.

"And make noise? That tells peoplemons we're here?" said Nicolas.

"Wait," said Riolu. "I have an idea."

He moved his Aura senses over the structure of the door until he found the gears and mechanisms inside. Carefully, he placed a paw on them and then Force Palmed what he saw as a weak point.

The door creaked, murmured. Koba pushed it. It opened.

"All right! Nice lockpicking Riolu," said Shifty.

The Fighting Thieves headed inside, and within were exactly what they came for - a veritable pile of the strange crystals, and other gems. Atop the pile, however, was something Riolu noticed was different from the others - a strange, pulsating crystal orb that Riolu could sort of feel was alive.

"Take as many as you can carry, but be careful - they can suck unwary Pokemon inside of them," said Koba.

The others started gathering up gems carefully, placing them gently in the sacks. Koba grabbed the orb, treating it extra-carefully. The sacks started bulging with loot.

Then they all heard a voice mentally sigh in their heads.

~I don't know how the hell you got in here, but you need to put those back please or there will be consequences.~

Everyone turned to see a Musharna floating in the doorway.

"Oh no, the living bong is here to stop us, I'm so scared," said Vallant.

The Musharna sighed again. ~Your funeral.~

He telekinetically flung one of the staff gems at Vallant. He yelped as he was sucked inside and the gem was pulled to the Musharna's side as it shook wildly.

"Oh shi-" said Shifty before the same to him. Grog screamed loudly as he was also ensnared. The Musharna threw another at Koba, but he threw up a Protect, shielding himself, Riolu, and Polly.

"Nicolas! Riolu! Go!"

Nicolas paused. Riolu promptly grabbed him and bolted out of there. The two ran and ran down seemingly endless stone hallways until-

"Hey, watch it!"

Riolu tripped over the Aura Guardian's shoe, sending him and Nicolas sprawling. In confusion and panic the two ran in separate directions until they lost track of each other completely.

-----------

Shifty, Vallant, Grog, and Koba were all restrained in a dungeon cell as Nightjar and her Musharna companion looked them over.

"Raiding a vault full of gems? Thankfully for you our penalty for petty thievery isn't death or tourture or anything, but you're still staying her a long while." Nightjar turned to the Musharna. "Thank you for apprehending them, Lazy Bones."

~Not a problem, miss Nightjar,~ said Lazy Bones.

"Anyway," said Nightjar, "I will be reporting this to Ryan. Don't get too comfy."

She and Lazy Bones headed off.

"What are we going to do?!" said Grog, rattling his Aura-reinforced chains.

"Simple!" said Vallant. "We escape and blow this joint!"

"Not just that..." said Koba. "Nicolas and Riolu are still out there..."

"Yeah! We can't leave without either of them!" said Shifty. "Not on my watch!"

------

Eventually, Riolu made it outside, through the courtyard, out the front gate until he was a fair distance away from Time Flower Abbey. He gasped and panted before turning back to the massive building, panicking.

He had only had a short time with the Fighting Thieves, and they had already been torn away from him. Flashbacks to his parents, his father, filled his mine. Everything happy in his short life felt ephemeral, meaningless... He...

No. He would not accept this. He would free them. But how?

Then he heard a noise. A flash of bright light he recognised as Auric out of the corner of his eye.

He turned. A human boy had kicked up a cloud of dust with that display. That human had done it? Riolu's Aura feelers flared - indeed, that human had a rare spark of Aura that he rarely saw away from here.

Then he had an idea. Humans were the masters and Pokemon were the servants. But humans were willing to work with Pokemon. Could this human... help him find his friends? If he made a pact? It was risky but...

Riolu approached the human. The human slowly looked up from his lurching position and his expression turned from one of anger to one of wonder and curiosity. Riolu gulped. He should probably keep this formal...

~...I ask of you. Will you be my master?~

***

#pokemon #fanfiction #sir aaron #riolu #heroes after all

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jessiewre · 4 years

Text

Day 52

Tues 25th Feb

#prawnsforBarry 🍤🍤🍤

We sat at breakfast excited to have our, sorry Phil’s, new mustard accompaniment. We even managed to convince Wendy the waitress to try it. She said she liked it, but it was hard to tell if she was just being polite or not!

As had become a daily occurrence, we began to discuss when we should leave Watamu and move on. When we would actually start travelling again. Whenever we had this conversation, we seemed to add on a day - and so far we’d done this at least 4 times. We had somehow ended up on holiday while on holiday.

With Phil’s run on the Sunday, we knew we had to move and agreed we should arrive in Moshi (Tanzania) by Friday at the latest. So when Philly Tours discovered there was a daily direct bus from Mombasa to Moshi, it was decided - we would go to Mombasa on the Weds to get the 7am bus the next day. Or the Thurs. Ok probably the Thursday.

Ok well with that plan in place, we went to see my little tailor mate to order more clothes didn’t we! They were so nice and cheap, it made sense to use this opportunity to replace the pair I lost while flailing about in the Nile. So Phil ordered an extra pair of shorts and I asked for two pairs, plus a pair of culottes style trousers. I personally wanted to get the same sizing Phil had for his birthday shorts, as they were soooo comfy, but Phil said they were a little too baggy and ill fitting. He had a point to be fair, so the man measured me up but I tried hard to make it clear that I didn’t want the clothes to be too tight and uncomfortable. Watch this space.

After that, we went to the pool and as we approached, I could see that Barry was lay on the far side. He had his shades on and hadn’t noticed us yet.

‘Barry’s over there Phil’ I whispered.

‘I know’ he said ‘But I can’t be arsed right now, I’ll chat with him later’.

But the attraction of Phil was too much for Barry and he could smell him for sure. Within 30 seconds, Barry was out of his lounger and on his way over. Oh we could see that he wasn’t happy from his walk. And he didn’t need to be asked why, so he saved us a job and launched right into it.

‘I was meant to go on that boat trip today weren’t I.’

We nodded along.

‘They pissed me off so I sacked it off’.

Oh shitt. There’d been some drama in Barrytown. Well we were in by this point, so we couldn’t help but dig for more. Not that we needed to ask, we would have definitely found out either way.

‘Oh dear, what happened??’

‘Well...’

Barry took a deep breath.

‘Some bloke met me at the front of the hotel, but there was no tuc tuc, so I said Where’s my tuc tuc? And he pointed to the beach and said Boat here. So we walked to the beach and there was no boat so I said Where’s the boat mate?? and THEN he pointed to the end of the bay. He was saying I had to walk to the other bay! So that pissed me off. That pissed me right off. I told him, I said, I don’t like walkin’. Ya know?So we eventually got to the other bay and there was a load of Italians sat about waiting for the boats and I’m looking at these boats thinkin’...I don’t fancy that. They were not even that big these boats and I thought Ya know what, I can’t be arsed with this. So I got up and walked back. Fuk it. Only lost $20, I don’t even care’

And that was Barry’s boat trip.

Being the great friend that he is, Phil got into the pool with angry Barry to cool him down and comfort him with kind words and a quick head rub.

Kiddddinnnnnnggg

They just chilled in the pool and actually had a lovely chat about food, Barry telling Phil about the food available at his local in Cyprus.

‘You’ve got your Pork chops, Lamb, Olive oil, Salt, pepper - its gotta be dun’ mate’

Yes Barry, quite.

Despite the inspiring meat chat, we had a cheap and simple VEGETARIAN lunch at our hotel consisting of rice, lentil Dahl, spinach and chapati and actually got ourselves organised enough to do an activity. Unheard of! I swear, the longer we had stayed in Watamu, the lazier we’d become, and an excursion out was a much needed rarity. We arrived to the Turtle Ocean Conservation and everywhere you looked were recycled items lovingly used to ingeniously build and decorate. The gardens were lined with glass bottles as flower bed edging and there were sculptures of animals & big displays made from plastic waste. It was one of those places that had a special feel about it, like it was made out of pure love and good vibes. Real wholesome like 🤓

Ruth, a passionate & knowledgeable environmentalist, showed us around the small centre and explained the many problems they (the turtles & sea life) were facing on a daily basis - pollution, lack of education, plastic waste, over-fishing, poaching - to name but a few. They had one resident turtle in at that moment. She’d been found in a fisherman’s net and was struggling with various health problems. They hoped to nurse her back to health and eventually release her back into the ocean. Luckily turtles never formed bonds or any attachement with their human carers, so once they were healthy, the release was easy - they swam straight off without looking back. It was even more important to get them better if they were a female turtle as they had the potential to reproduce. It could take months or even years before she was better - one turtle was in for 6 years before its release!

Female turtles can have over 2000 eggs in a lifetime, but due to all the obstacles they now face, it’s likely that only 1 or 2 of those eggs will go on to have their own eggs. People often think that turtles are doing really well as they see lots of pictures of them and they have so many eggs in their lives, but its a misconception. The population is rapidly decreasing.

We ended the tour passing past an entrance to a garden area and I asked Ruth if we could go in. She said yes, but she didn’t seem to think it was really worth a look. I don’t know why, as there were some amazing art sculptures in there. There was a huge jellyfish made from plastic bags and a massive turtle made of bottle tops, plus there was a sort of turtle graveyard with all the shells they’d collected from the poaching. The whole area was like a sort of secret garden, with winding paths and hidden corners and it was clear to me that this garden could be utilised and made more of a feature for the centre. It would be far more engaging by adding a challenge or treasure hunt type activity. I discussed it with Ruth and explained my idea, saying they could have a simple paper sheet with tasks & questions to answer. They could sell for like $1, and then kids could go round the garden finding the answers by using fact boards placed around the garden. SICK IDEA RIGHT!? Well she thought so too, and said she was definitely going to make it happen when the next volunteers arrived! WOOP WOOP 🙌. Shame we were leaving Watamu and couldn’t stay to help. I would have smashed that. I decided I’d drop her an email afterwards to check up on the idea and see if she needed any help with it. And get a cut of the profits obvs.

The whole centre runs purely from donations and running their tours, so if you would like to donate to help the turtles, every little helps. I will post a link up after this post.

Phil had already planned to use our trip out as an opportunity to do a run and so donned on all his gear and headed off while I waited for a tuc tuc. The driver and I then overtook Phil halfway back and even the driver said Phil was ‘very fast’. I smiled proudly and agreed with him. I waited for him to finish that sentence with. ‘...for a muzungu’ but he didn’t. Wow it was a proper compliment.

We went for another late afternoon dip in the sea accompanied by a beach bar beer, and Barry the stalker appeared in the bar next to ours - it was the same bar he went to every evening to be fair. A man of habit was our Barry.

No point sitting on different tables though Barry eh...so he followed his hearts desire and came over to sit with Phil. I was there obviously, but we all know by now Barry only has eyes for Phil.

‘Someone’s sat in my seat tonight’ he said, nodding towards ‘his’ bar as he arrived.

Nightmare. Barry had rocked up to his bar and someone had sat in his favourite seat. What an absolute joke.

Phil and Barry discussed many things, one being Barry’s marriage and subsequent divorce. Why didn’t it work out I wondered? No doubt there were various reasons, but maybe Barry going to the pub 3 or 4 nights a week didn’t help. Just a thought. But for Barry it was ‘necessary’ to have his pub time. Essential. I asked whether his wife (sorry, ex-wife) ever went out, or was she just at home with their child, while he was at the pub and he said ‘I gave her every opportunity to go out with her friends’. I choked on my drink laughing as it reminded me of something Phil says sarcastically on a regular basis - ‘Thank you for the opportunity Jess’.

But my favourite topic of the evening was Barry’s ‘banter’ chat.

‘Phil, do you have banter with your mates?’

He didn’t wait for a reply

‘Cos I do.’

I interjected at this point to mention that we both enjoyed dabbling in a spot of banter from time to time, but Barry was a mans man and I’m not sure he heard me. Boys will be boys right.

‘Me and my mates used to go to this one pub a couple of nights a week and bloody hell the banter was ‘ilarious. One time, my mate went to the loo and we barricaded the door. Completely blocked it, he couldn’t get out! Oh we had sucha laugh. Another time, this guy started a fight with my mate, over nuffing, and we all jumped on, then the barman - he was a big lad - he just picked the fella up and THREW him out the door! Honestly it was HILARIOUS. Oh ha and once, we got a painting that was on the wall, took it off, and we screwed it to the ceiling. Oh god, the landlord didn’t find it for weeks! Honestly Phil, so funny mate....’

Listening to Barry’s bountiful banter tales of mischief and man fun was thoroughly entertaining (gosh imagine the thrills of it. I can’t wait to get home and do the painting on the ceiling trick at my, sorry, Mum and Dads house) but I decided to leave them to it and walk up to my tailor bloke to collect the items before he closed.

My plan was to try the new items on and give feedback if necessary. But by the time I walked down the beach and then the pitch black beach road at high speed, I was sweating so profusely that I wasn’t thinking straight. I lost approximately 3 litres of sweat trying on the various shorts and trousers only to discover they were FAR too tight for me - but the boss guy wasn’t even there and I was SO hot that I just paid up and ran out of the shack. As I walked back along the beach, I already decided I would have to go back the next morning to get the trousers changed at the very least.

By the time I got back to the lads, Barry and Phil had settled in for the night and had even got themselves double stacked chairs to sit on for additional support (Barry was not a small chap). My plan to eat at a nice restaurant I’d spotted was rapidly fading away and in a desperate attempt to entice me to warm to the idea of a romantic meal for 3 on the beach, Phil announced he wanted prawns for dinner.

Now let me tell you - Phil has never, EVER, in his life ordered prawns. He has occasionally eaten prawns off my plate, and ONLY when I have thoroughly de-shelled and prepped them as though he was a baby (or Roy McCusker). So I could hardly say No could I, and to be honest, I was impressed by his boldness and also intrigued to see how the hell he was going to handle de-shelling prawns for the first time in his life. All with an audience (ok, just Barry). This was going to be a sight to see.

After we ordered the food though, Phil decided to announce he was going for a quick shower, so Barry and I finally got some time to ourselves. Great. It’s what we’d both been craving.

I stuck with what I know and chatted about different countries etc and ended up showing Barry some pictures of Mexico on my phone. Easy win. But suddenly a WhatsApp message popped up on the screen and it was a video of Phil singing as he got into the shower. I VERY quickly swiped it away and thought PHEW, I’ve just about got away with that one. I continued to show pictures of Mexican cenotes when another message appeared. This one was something like this

🤪🥰😍

Ok well this one was also cringe, so I quickly shifted the phone away to turn it onto airplane mode.

And thank god I did, as the next message Phil sent me popped up on the screen just as I moved it from Barry’s view:

#prawnsforBarry

Ok so at this point, I told Barry the phone was no longer working.

Phil returned (THANK GOD FOR THAT) wearing the newly altered mustard shirt, but Barry pointed that the pocket was still on the wonk. Dammit he was right as well. During the hour wait for these prawns, the topic I’d of how we met was bought up. I happily told Barry we met in a gay club and that we both had best friends who were gay. That’s right Barry. GAY. Oooh how was this going to go down I wondered...

We started off ok. Barry said he used to know a guy at work and he invited him to some of his dinner parties a few times. How nice of you Barry.

Lovely. But where’s the ‘but’...?

Ah ha, here it is

‘I don’t have a problem with it...’

Yes Barry, go on...

‘I don’t have a problem with it...but...’ (there it was) ‘...but when it comes up on TV and there’s two blokes kissing, I mean, ya know I don’t wana see that’. Barry pulled a face of disgust.

It was my turn to jump in

‘But I suppose two girls kissing is ok to see?’

Barry raised his eyebrows and avoided eye contact.

‘Well...you don’t see so much of that do you, its always blokes’

‘Apart from in porn right? Lots of men don’t mind gay kissing when its women doing it and its for their gratification. Kind of ironic really isn’t it!’ I said.

What I also wanted to say was:

I hate to break it to you Barry but you DO have a problem with it.

People are allowed to be uncomfortable with it, that is their right, but they need to understand that therefore they DO have a problem with it. And if that’s the case, then it would be better for everyone if those people kept their prejudice and judgement on the matter completely to themselves. It is homophobic to say ‘I don’t wana see that’ and talking like that is not helpful to anyone.

But what I actually explained to Barry was that of course he was not alone in his discomfort and many men and some women of his generation, and other generations too, would feel uncomfortable. This was likely due to the fact they had not been bought up to see gay culture and had been surrounded by homophobic language, media and culture in their life. If they were conscious and aware about why they felt the way they did, they might feel more comfortable with being uncomfortable.

I’m not sure how much of it he took in. Things went rapidly downhill after this when I mentioned the plastic straw issue to the waiter and Barry forgot he’d already told Phil about his Greta Thunberg joke meme (he definitely didn’t know it was a meme, but it was a meme). I managed to hear properly this time. Are you ready? Apologies in advance for this.

He described it as a picture of Greta Thunberg and at the top of it, it said ‘F**k the climate’ and at the bottom it said ‘I’ve discovered c**k’..

Not only was it a bizarre and offensive, it was not funny.

What IS funny is how a 70 year old man was so uncomfortable with two men kissing, but completely comfortable making a gross sexual joke about an autistic child.

Phil spoke up in response this time and said ‘Wow I mean, its pretty rude and its not really very funny. Anything she does for the climate is fantastic really’, while I said something like ‘Wow, isn’t she like 15 years old??’. To which Barry awkwardly said he thought she was 16. COOL WELL THAT MAKES IT OK THEN MATE.

So anyway - #prawnsforBarry - Phil somehow dealt with the prawns completely independent of my help which was actually unbelievable and I glowed with pride. The pace at which he was able to consume his dinner was far slower than he would have liked due to the amount of prep work required, but he got on with it like a trooper. His achievements of combating prawns alongside not being a sexist homophobe really shone that night and we went back to the hotel agreeing that we’d have dinner just us two the next day.

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

Text

The Road Virus Heads North

Stephen King (1999)

Richard Kinnell wasn't frightened when he first saw the picture at the yard sale in Rosewood.

He was fascinated by it, and he felt he'd had the good luck to find something which might be very special, but fright? No. It didn't occur to him until later ("not until it was too late," as he might have written in one of his own numbingly successful novels) that he had felt much the same way about certain illegal drugs as a young man.

He had gone down to Boston to participate in a PEN/New England conference tided "The Threat of Popularity." You could count on PEN to come up with such subjects, Kinnell had found; it was actually sort of comforting. He drove the two hundred and sixty miles from Derry rather than flying because he'd come to a plot impasse on his latest book and wanted some quiet time to try to work it out.

At the conference, he sat on a panel where people who should have known better asked him where he got his ideas and if he ever scared himself. He left the city by way of the Tobin Bridge, then got on Route 1. He never took the turnpike when he was trying to work out problems; the turnpike lulled him into a state that was like dreamless, waking sleep. It was restful, but not very creative. The stop-and-go traffic on the coast road, however, acted like grit inside an oyster-it created a fair amount of mental activity ... and sometimes even a pearl.

Not, he supposed, that his critics would use that word. In an issue of Esquire last year, Bradley Simons had begun his review of Nightmare City this way: "Richard Kinnell, who writes like Jeffery Dahmer cooks, has suffered a fresh bout of projectile vomiting. He has tided this most recent mass of ejecta Nightmare City."

Route 1 took him through Revere, Malden, Everett, and up the coast to Newburyport. Beyond Newburyport and just south of the Massachusetts-New Hampshire border was the tidy little town of Rosewood. A mile or so beyond the town center, he saw an array of cheap-looking goods spread out on the lawn of a two-story Cape. Propped against an avocado-colored electric stove was a sign reading YARD SALE. Cars were parked on both sides of the road, creating one of those bottlenecks which travelers unaffected by the yard sale mystique curse their way through. Kinnell liked yard sales, particularly the boxes of old books you sometimes found at them. He drove through the bottleneck, parked his Audi at the head of the line of cars pointed toward Maine and New Hampshire, then walked back.

A dozen or so people were circulating on the littered front lawn of the blue-and-gray Cape Cod. A large television stood to the left of the cement walk, its feet planted on four paper ashtrays that were doing absolutely nothing to protect the lawn. On top was a sign reading MAKE AN OFFER-YOU MIGHT BE SURPRISED. An electrical cord, augmented by an extension, mailed back from the TV and through the open front door. A fat woman sat in a lawn chair before it, shaded by an umbrella with CINZANO printed on the colorful scalloped flaps. There was a card table beside her with a cigar box, a pad of paper, and another handlettered sign on it. This sign read ALL SALES CASH, ALL SALES FINAL. The TV was on, turned to an afternoon soap opera where two beautiful young people looked on the verge of having deeply unsafe sex. The fat

woman glanced at Kinnell, then back at the TV. She looked at it for a moment, then looked back at him again. This time her mouth was slightly sprung.

Ah, Kinnell thought, looking around for the liquor box fined with paperbacks that was sure to be here someplace, a fan.

He didn't see any paperbacks, but he saw the picture, leaning against an ironing board and held in place by a couple of plastic laundry baskets, and his breath stopped in his throat. He wanted it at once.

He walked over with a casualness that felt exaggerated and dropped to one knee in front of it. The painting was a watercolor, and technically very good. Kinnell didn't care about that; technique didn't interest him (a fact the critics of his own work had duly noted). What he liked in works of art was content, and the more unsettling the better. This picture scored high in that department. He knelt between the two laundry baskets, which had been filled with a jumble of small appliances, and let his fingers slip over the glass facing of the picture. He glanced around briefly, looking for others like it, and saw none - only the usual yard sale art collection of Little Bo Peeps, praying hands, and gambling dogs.

He looked back at the framed watercolor, and in his mind he was already moving his suitcase into the backseat of the Audi so he could slip the picture comfortably into the trunk.

It showed a young man behind the wheel of a muscle car-maybe a Grand Am, maybe a GTX, something with a T-top, anyway - crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. The T-top was off, turning the black car into a half-assed convertible. The young man's left arm. was cocked on the door, his right wrist was draped casually over the wheel. Behind him, the sky was a bruise-colored mass of yellows and grays, streaked with veins of pink. The young man had lank blond hair that spilled over his low forehead. He was grinning, and his parted lips revealed teeth which were not teeth at all but fangs.

Or maybe they're filed to points, Kinnell thought. Maybe he's supposed to be a cannibal.

He liked that; liked the idea of a cannibal crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. In a Grand Am. He knew what most of the audience at the PEN panel discussion would have thought - Oh, yes, great picture for Rich Kinnell he probably wants it for inspiration, a feather to tickle his tired old gorge into one more fit of projectile vomiting-but most of those folks were ignoramuses, at least as far as his work went, and what was more, they treasured their ignorance, cossetted it the way some people inexplicably treasured and cossetted those stupid, mean-spirited little dogs that yapped at visitors and sometimes bit the paperboy's ankles. He hadn't been attracted to this painting because he wrote horror stories; he wrote horror stories because he was attracted to things like this painting. His fans sent him stuff - pictures, mostly - and he threw most of them away, not because they were bad art but because they were tiresome and predictable. One fan from Omaha had sent him a little ceramic sculpture of a screaming, horrified monkey's head poking out of a refrigerator door, however, and that one he had kept. It was unskillfully executed, but there was an unexpected juxtaposition there that lit UP his dials. This painting had some of the same quality, but it was even better. Much better.

As he was reaching for it, wanting to pick it up right now, this second, wanting to tuck it under his arm and proclaim his intentions, a voice spoke up behind him: "Aren't you Richard Kinnell?"

He jumped, then turned. The fat woman was standing directly behind him, blotting out most of the immediate landscape. She had put on fresh lipstick before approaching, and now her mouth had been transformed into a bleeding grin.

"Yes, I am," he said, smiling back.

Her eyes dropped to the picture. "I should have known you'd go right to that," she said, simpering. "It's so You."

"It is, isn't it?" he said, and smiled his best celebrity smile. "How much would you need for it?"

"Forty-five dollars," she said. "I'll be honest with you, I started it at seventy, but nobody likes it, so now it's marked down. If you come back tomorrow, you can probably have it for thirty." The simper had grown to frightening proportions. Kinnell could see little gray spit-buds in the dimples at the comers of her stretched mouth.

"I don't think I want to take that chance," he said. "I'll write you a check right now."

The simper continued to stretch; the woman now looked like some grotesque John Waters parody. Divine does Shirley Temple. "I'm really not supposed to take checks, but all right," she said, her tone that of a teenage girl finally consenting to have sex with her boyfriend. "Only while you have your pen out, could you write an autograph for my daughter? Her name is Michela?"

"What a beautiful name," Kinnell said automatically. He took the picture and followed the fat woman back to the card table. On the TV next to it, the lustful young people had been temporarily displaced by an elderly woman gobbling bran flakes.

" Michela reads all your books," the fat woman said. "Where in the world do you get all those crazy ideas?"

"I don't know," Kinnell said, smiling more widely than ever. "They just come to me. Isn't that amazing?. "

The yard sale minder's name was Judy Diment, and she lived in the house next door. When Kinnell asked her if she knew who the artist happened to be, she said she certainly did; Bobby Hastings had done it, and Bobby Hastings was the reason she was selling off the Hastings' things. "That's the only painting he didn't bum," she said. "Poor Iris! She's the one I really feel sorry for. I don't think George cared much, really. And I know he didn't understand why she wants to sell the house." She rolled her eyes in her large, sweaty face - the old can-you-imagine-that look. She took Kinnell's check when he tore it off, then gave him the pad where she had written down all the items she'd sold and the prices she'd obtained for them. "Just make it out to Michela," she said. "Pretty please with sugar on it?" The simper reappeared, like an old acquaintance you'd hoped was dead.

"Uh-huh," Kinnell said, and wrote his standard thanks-for-being-a-fan message. He didn't have to watch his hands or even think about it anymore, not after twenty-five years of writing autographs. "Tell me about the picture, and the Hastingses."

Judy Diment folded her pudgy hands in the manner of a woman about to recite a favorite story.

"Bobby was just twenty-three when he killed himself this spring. Can you believe that? He was the tortured genius type, you know, but still living at home." Her eyes rolled, again asking Kinnell if he could imagine it. "He must have had seventy, eighty paintings, plus all his sketchbooks. Down in the basement, they were." She pointed her chin at the Cape Cod, then looked at the picture of the fiendish young man driving across the Tobin Bridge at sunset. "Iris-that's Bobby's mother - said most of them were real bad, lots worse'n this. Stuff that'd curl your hair." She lowered her voice to a whisper, glancing at a woman who was looking at the Hastings' mismatched silverware and a pretty good collection of old McDonald's plastic glasses in a Honey, I Shrunk the Kids motif. "Most of them had sex stuff in them."

"Oh no," Kinnell said.

"He did the worst ones after he got on drugs," Judy Diment continued. "After he was dead-he hung himself down in the basement, where he used to paint-they found over a hundred of those little bottles they sell crack cocaine in. Aren't drugs awful, Mr. Kinnell?"

"They sure are."

"Anyway, I guess he finally just got to the end of his rope, no pun intended. He took all of his sketches and paintings out into the back yard-except for that one, I guess - and burned them. Then he hung himself down in the basement. He pinned a note to his shirt. It said, 'I can't stand what's happening to me.' Isn't that awful, Mr. Kinnell? Isn't that just the awfulest thing you ever heard?"

'Yes," Kinnell said, sincerely enough. "It just about is."

'Like I say, I think George would go right on living in the house if he had his druthers, " Judy Diment said. She took the sheet of paper with Michela's autograph on it, held it up next to Kinnell's check, and shook her head, as if the similarity of the signatures amazed her. "But men are different."

"Are they?"

"Oh, yes, much less sensitive. By the end of his life, Bobby Hastings was just skin and bone, dirty all the time-you could smell him - and he wore the same T-shirt, day in and day out. It had a picture of the Led Zeppelins on it. His eyes were red, he had a scraggle on his cheeks that you couldn't quite call a beard, and his pimples were coming back, like he was a teenager again. But she loved him, because a mother's love sees past all those things."

The woman who had been looking at the silverware and the glasses came over with a set of Star Wars placemats. Mrs. Diment took five I dollars for them, wrote the sale carefully down on her pad below "ONE DOZ. ASSORTED POTHOLDERS & HOTPADS," then turned back to Kinnell.

They went out to Arizona," she said, "to stay with Iris's folks. I know George is looking for work out there in Flagstaff-he's a draftsman-but I don't know if he's found any yet. If he has, I suppose we might not ever see them again here in Rosewood. She marked out all the stuff she wanted me to sell-Iris did - and told me I could keep twenty percent for my trouble. I'll send a check for the rest. There won't be much." She sighed.

"The picture is great," Kinnell said.

"Yeah, too bad he burned the rest, because most of this other stuff is your standard yard sale crap, pardon my French. What's that?"

Kinnell had turned the picture around. There was a length of Dymotape pasted to the back.

"A tide, I think."

"What does it say?"

He grabbed the picture by the sides and held it up so she could read it for herself This put the picture at eye level to him, and he studied it eagerly, once again taken by the simpleminded weirdness of the subject., kid behind the wheel of a muscle car, a kid with a nasty, knowing grin that revealed the filed points of an even nastier set of teeth.

It fits, he thought. If ever a title futted a painting, this one does.

" The Road Virus Heads North," she read. "I never noticed that when my boys were lugging stuff out. Is it the tide, do you think?"

"Must be." Kinnell couldn't take his eyes off the blond kid's grin. I know something, the grin said. I know something you never will.

"Well, I guess you'd have to believe the fella who did this was high on drugs," she said, sounding upset - authentically upset, Kinnell thought. "No wonder he could kill himself and break his mamma's heart."

"I've got to be heading north myself," Kinnell said, tucking the picture under his arm. "Thanks for-"

" Mr. Kinnell?"

"Yes?"

"Can I see your driver's license?" She apparently found nothing ironic or even amusing in this request. "I ought to write the number on the back of your check."

Kinnell put the picture down so he could dig for his wallet. "Sure. You bet."

The woman who'd bought the Star Wars placemats had paused on her way back to her car to watch some of the soap opera playing on the lawn TV. Now she glanced at the picture, which Kinnell had propped against his shins.

"Ag," she said. "Who'd want an ugly old thing like that? I'd think about it every time I turned the lights out."

"What's wrong with that?" Kinnell asked.

Kinnell's Aunt Trudy lived in Wells, which is about six miles north of the Maine - New Hampshire border. Kinnell pulled off at the exit which circled the bright green Wells water tower, the one with the comic sign on it (KEEP MAINE GREEN, BRING MONEY in letters four feet high), and five minutes later he was turning into the driveway of her neat little saltbox house. No TV sinking into the lawn on paper ashtrays here, only Aunt Trudy's amiable masses of flowers. Kinnell needed to pee and hadn't wanted to take care of that in a roadside rest stop when he could come here, but he also wanted an update on all the family gossip. Aunt Trudy retailed the best; she was to gossip what Zabar's is to deli. Also, of course, he wanted to show her his new acquisition.

She came out to meet him, gave him a hug, and covered his face with her patented little birdy-kisses, the ones that had made him shiver all over as a kid.

"Want to see something?" he asked her. "It'll blow your pantyhose off."

"What a charming thought," Aunt Trudy said, clasping her elbows in her palms and looking at him with amusement.

He opened the trunk and took out his new picture. It affected her, all right, but not in the way he had expected. The color fell out of her face in a sheet-he had never seen anything quite like it in his entire life. "It's horrible," she said in a tight, controlled voice. "I hate it. I suppose I can see what attracted you to it, Richie, but what you play at, it does for, real. Put it back in your trunk, like a good boy. And when you get to the Saco River, why don't you pull over into the breakdown lane and throw it in?"

He gaped at her. Aunt Trudy's lips were pressed tightly together to stop them trembling, and now her long, thin hands were not just clasping her elbows but clutching them, as if to keep her from flying away. At that moment she looked not sixty-one but ninety-one.

" Auntie?" Kinnell spoke tentatively, not sure what was going on here. "Auntie, what's wrong?"

"That." she said, unlocking her right hand and pointing at the picture. "I'm surprised you don't feel it more strongly yourself, an imaginative guy like you."

Well, he felt something, obviously he had, or he never would have unlimbered his checkbook in the first place. Aunt Trudy was feeling something else, though ... or something more. He turned the picture around so he could see it (he had been holding it out for her, so the side with the Dymotaped title faced him), and looked at it again. What he saw hit him in the chest and belly like a one-two punch.

The picture had changed, that was punch number one. Not much, but it had dearly changed. The young blond man's smile was wider, revealing more of those filed cannibal-teeth. His eyes were squinted down more, too, giving his face a look which was more knowing and nastier than ever.

The degree of a smile ... the vista of sharpened teeth widening slightly ... the tilt and squint of the eyes ... all pretty subjective stuff. A person could be mistaken about things like that, and of course he hadn't really studied the painting before buying it. Also, there had been the distraction of Mrs. Diment, who could probably talk the cock off a brass monkey.

But there was also punch number two, and that wasn't subjective. In the darkness of the Audi's trunk, the blond young man had turned his left arm, the one cocked on the door, so that Kinnell could now see a tattoo which had been hidden before. It was a vine-wrapped dagger with a bloody tip. Below it were words. Kinnell could make Out DEATH BEFORE, and he supposed you didn't have to be a big best-selling novelist to figure out the word that was still hidden. DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR was, after all, just the sort of a thing a hoodoo traveling man like this was apt to have on his arm. And an ace of spades or a pot plant on the other one, Kinnell thought.

"You hate it, don't you, Auntie?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and now he saw an even more amazing thing: she had turned away from him, pretending to look out at the street (which was dozing and deserted in the hot afternoon sunlight), so she wouldn't have to look at the picture. "In fact, Auntie loathes it. Now put it away and come on into the house. I'll bet you need to use the bathroom."

Aunt Trudy recovered her savoir faire almost as soon as the watercolor was back in the trunk. They talked about Kinnell's mother (Pasadena), his sister (Baton Rouge), and his ex-wife, Sally (Nashua). Sally was a space-case who ran an animal shelter out of a double-wide trailer and published two newsletters each month. Survivors was filled with astral info and supposedly true tales of the spirit world; Visitors contained the reports of people who'd had close encounters with space aliens. Kinnell no longer went to fan conventions which specialized in fantasy and horror. One Sally in a lifetime, he sometimes told people, was enough.

When Aunt Trudy walked him back out to the car, it was fourthirty and he'd turned down the obligatory dinner invitation. "I can get most of the way back to Derry in daylight, if I leave now."

"Okay," she said. "And I'm sorry I was so mean about your picture. Of course you like it, you've always liked your ... your oddities. It just hit me the wrong way. That awful face. " She shuddered. "As if we were looking at him . . . and he was looking right back."

Kinnell grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. "You've got quite an imagination yourself, sweetheart."

"Of course, it runs in the family. Are you sure you don't want to use the facility again before you go?"

He shook his head. "That's not why I stop, anyway, not really."

"Oh? Why do you?"

He grinned. "Because you know who's being naughty and who's being nice. And you're not afraid to share what you know."

"Go on, get going," she said, pushing at his shoulder but clearly pleased. "If I were you, I'd want to get home quick. I wouldn't want that nasty guy riding along behind me in the dark, even in the trunk. I mean, did you see his teeth? Ag!"

He got on the turnpike, trading scenery for speed, and made it as far as the Gray service area before deciding to have another look at the picture. Some of his aunt's unease had transmitted itself to him like a germ, but he didn't think that was really the problem. The. problem was his perception that the picture had changed.

The service area featured the usual gourmet chow - burgers by Roy Rogers, cones by TCBY - and had a small, littered picnic and dogwalking area at the rear. Kinnell parked next to a van with Missouri plates, drew in a deep breath, let it out. He'd driven to Boston in order to kill some plot gremlins in the new book, which was pretty ironic. He'd spent the ride down working out what he'd say on the panel if certain tough questions were tossed at him, but none had been-once they'd found out he didn't know where he got his ideas, and yes, he did sometimes scare himself, they'd only wanted to know how you got an agent.

And now, heading back, he couldn't think of anything but the damned picture.

Had it changed? If it had, if the blond kid's arm had moved enough so he, Kinnell, could read a tattoo which had been partly hidden before, then he could write a column for one of Sally's magazines. Hell, a fourpart series. If, on the other hand, it wasn't changing, then ... what? He was suffering a hallucination? Having a breakdown? That was crap. His life was pretty much in order, and he felt good. Had, anyway, until his fascination with the picture had begun to waver into something else, something darker.

"Ah, fuck, you just saw it wrong the first time," he said out loud as he got out of the car. Well, maybe. Maybe. It wouldn't be the first time his head had screwed with his perceptions. That was also a part of what he did. Sometimes his imagination got a little ... well ...

"Feisty," Kinnell said, and opened the trunk. He took the picture out of the trunk and looked at it, and it was during the space of the ten seconds when he looked at it without remembering to breathe that he became authentically afraid of the thing, afraid the way you were afraid of a sudden dry rattle in the bushes, afraid the way you were when you saw an insect that would probably sting if you provoked it.

The blond driver was grinning insanely at him now-yes, at him, Kinnell was sure of it-with those filed cannibal-teeth exposed all the way to the gumlines. His eyes simultaneously glared and laughed. And the Tobin Bridge was gone. So was the Boston skyline. So was the sunset. It was almost dark in the painting now, the car and its wild rider illuminated by a single streetlamp that ran a buttery glow across the road and the car's chrome. It looked to Kinnell as if the car (he was pretty sure it was a Grand Am) was on the edge of a small town on Route 1, and he was pretty sure he knew what town it was-he had driven through it himself only a few hours ago.

"Rosewood," he muttered. "That's Rosewood. I'm pretty sure."

The Road Virus was heading north, all right, coming up Route 1 just as he had. The blond's left arm was still cocked out the window, but it had rotated enough back toward its original position so that Kinnell could no longer see the tattoo. But he knew it was there, didn't he? Yes, you bet.

The blond kid looked like a Metallica fan who had escaped from a mental asylum for the criminally insane.

"Jesus," Kinnell whispered, and the word seemed to come from someplace else, not from him. The strength suddenly ran out of his body, ran out like water from a bucket with a hole in the bottom, and he sat down heavily on the curb separating the parking lot from the dog-walking zone. He suddenly understood that this was the truth he'd missed in all his fiction, this was how people really reacted when they came face-to-face with something which made no rational sense. You felt as if you were bleeding to death, only inside your head.

"No wonder the guy who painted it killed himself," he croaked, still staring at the picture, at the ferocious grin, at the eyes that were both shrewd and stupid.

There was a note pinned to his shirt, Mrs. Diment had said. "I can't stand what's happening to me. " Isn't that awful, Mr. Kinnell?

Yes, it was awful, all right.

Really awful.

He got up, gripping the picture by its top, then strode across the dog-walking area. He kept his eyes trained strictly in front of him, looking for canine land mines. He did not look down at the picture. His legs felt trembly and untrustworthy, but they seemed to support him all right. just ahead, close to the belt of trees at the rear of the service area, was a pretty young thing in white shorts and a red halter. She was walking a cocker spaniel. She began to smile at Kinnell, then saw something in his face that straightened her lips out in a hurry. She headed left, and fast. The cocker didn't want to go that fast so she dragged it, coughing, in her wake.

The scrubby pines behind the service area sloped down to a boggy area that stank of plant and animal decomposition. The carpet of pine needles was a road litter fallout zone: burger wrappers, paper soft drink cups, TCBY napkins, beer cans, empty wine-cooler bottles, cigarette butts. He saw a used condom lying like a dead snail next to a torn pair of panties with the word TUESDAY stitched on them in cursive girly-girl script.

Now that he was here, he chanced another look down at the picture. He steeled himself for further changes even for the possibility that the painting would be in motion, like a movie in a frame - but there was none. There didn't have to be, Kinnell realized; the blond kid's face was enough. That stone-crazy grin. Those pointed teeth. The face said, Hey, old man, guess what? I'm done fucking with civilization. I'm a representative of the real generation X, the next millennium is tight here behind the wheel of this fine, high-steppin' mo-sheen.

Aunt Trudy's initial reaction to the painting had been to advise Kinnell that he should throw it into the Saco River. Auntie had been right. The Saco was now almost twenty miles behind him, but . .

"This'll do," he said. "I think this'll do just fine."

He raised the picture over his head like a guy holding up some kind of sports trophy for the postgame photographers and then heaved it down the slope. It flipped over twice, the frame caching winks of hazy late-day sun, then struck a tree. The glass facing shattered. The picture fell to the ground and then slid down the dry, needle-carpeted slope, as if down a chute. It landed in the bog, one comer of the frame protruding from a thick stand of reeds. Otherwise, there was nothing visible but the strew of broken glass, and Kinnell thought that went very well with the rest of the litter.

He turned and went back to his car, already picking up his mental trowel. He would wall this incident off in its own special niche, he thought ... and it occurred to him that that was probably what most people did when they ran into stuff like this. Liars and wannabees (or maybe in this case they were wannasees) wrote up their fantasies for publications like Survivors and called them truth; those who blundered into authentic occult phenomena kept their mouths shut and used those trowels. Because when cracks like this appeared in your life, you had to do something about them; if you didn't, they were apt to widen and sooner or later everything would fall in.

Kinnell glanced up and saw the pretty young thing watching him apprehensively from what she probably hoped was a safe distance. When she saw him looking at her, she turned around and started toward the restaurant building, once more dragging the cocker spaniel behind her and trying to keep as much sway Out of her hips as possible.

You think I'm crazy, don't you pretty girl? Kinnell thought. He saw he had left his trunk lid up. It gaped like a mouth. He slammed it shut. You and half the fiction-reading population of America, I guess. But I'm not crazy. Absolutely not. I just made a little mistake, that's all. Stopped at a yard sale I should have passed up. Anyone could have done it. You could have done it. And that picture

" What picture?" Rich Kinnell asked the hot summer evening, and tried on a smile. "I don't see any picture."

He slid behind the wheel of his Audi and started the engine. He looked at the fuel gauge and saw it had dropped under a half. He was going to need gas before he got home, but he thought he'd fill the tank a little further up the line. Right now all he wanted to do was to put a belt of miles - as thick a one as possible - between him and the discarded painting.

Once outside the city limits of Derry, Kansas Street becomes Kansas Road. As it approaches the incorporated town limits (an area that is actually open countryside), it becomes Kansas Lane. Not long after,, Kansas Lane passes between two fieldstone posts. Tar gives way to' gravel. What is one of Derry's busiest downtown streets eight miles east of here has become a driveway leading up a shallow hill, and on moonlit summer nights it glimmers like something out of an Alfred Noyes poem. At the top of the hill stands an angular, handsome barn-board structure with reflectorized windows, a stable that is actually a garage, and a satellite dish tilted at the stars. A waggish reporter from the Derry News once called it the House that Gore Built ... not meaning the vice president of the United States. Richard Kinnell simply called it home, and he parked in front of it that night with a sense of weary satisfaction. He felt as if he had lived through a week's worth of time since getting up in the Boston Harbor hotel that morning at nine o'clock.

No more yard sales, he thought, looking up at the moon. No more yard sales ever.

I "Amen," he said, and started toward the house. He probably should stick the car in the garage, but the hell with it. What he wanted right now was a drink, a light meal - something microwaveable - and then sleep. Preferably the kind without dreams. He couldn't wait to put this day behind him.

He stuck his key in the lock, turned it, and punched 3817 to silence the warning bleep from the burglar alarm panel. He turned on the front hall light, stepped through the door, pushed it shut behind him, began to turn, saw what was on the wall where his collection of framed book covers had been just two days ago, and screamed. In his head he screamed. Nothing actually came out of his mouth but a harsh exhalation of air. He heard a thump and a tuneless little jingle as his keys fell out of his relaxing hand and dropped to the carpet between his feet.

The Road Virus Heads North was no longer in the puckerbrush behind the Gray turnpike service area.

It was mounted on his entry wall.

It had changed yet again. The car was now parked in the driveway of the yard sale yard. The goods were still spread out everywhereglassware and furniture and ceramic knickknacks (Scottie dogs smoking pipes, bare-assed toddlers, winking fish), but now they gleamed beneath the light of the same skullface moon that rode in the sky above Kinnell's house. The TV was still there, too, and it was still on, casting its own pallid radiance onto the grass, and what lay in front of it, next to an overturned lawn chair. Judy Diment was on her back, and she was no longer all there. After a moment, Kinnell saw the rest. It was on the ironing board, dead eyes glowing like fifty-cent pieces in the moonlight.

The Grand Am's taillights were a blur of red-pink watercolor paint. It was Kinnell's first look at the car's back deck. Written across it in Old English letters were three words: THE ROAD VIRUS.

Makes perfect sense, Kinnell thought numbly. Not him, his car. Except for a guy like this, there's probably not much difference.

"This isn't happening," he whispered, except it was. Maybe it wouldn't have happened to someone a little less open to such things, but it was happening. And as he stared at the painting he found himself remembering the little sign on Judy Diment's card table. ALL SALES CASH, it had said (although she had taken his check, only adding his driver's license ID number for safety's sake). And it had said something else, too.

ALL SALES FINAL.

Kinnell walked past the picture and into the living room. He felt like a stranger inside his own body, and he sensed part of his mind groping for the trowel he had used earlier. He seemed to have misplaced it.

He turned on the TV, then the Toshiba satellite tuner which sat on top of it. He turned to V-14, and all the time he could feel the picture out there in the hall, pushing at the back of his head. The picture that had somehow beaten him here.

"Must have known a shortcut," Kinnell said, and laughed.

He hadn't been able to see much of the blond in this version of the picture, but there had been a blur behind the wheel which Kinnell assumed had been him. The Road Virus had finished his business in Rosewood. It was time to move north. Next stop

He brought a heavy steel door down on that thought, cutting it off before he could see all of it. "After all, I could still be imagining all this," he told the empty living room. Instead of comforting him, the hoarse, shaky quality of his voice frightened him even more. "This could be ... But he couldn't finish. All that came to him was an old song, belted out in the pseudo-hip style of some early '50s Sinatra done: This could be the start of something BIG ...

The tune oozing from the TV's stereo speakers wasn't Sinatra but Paul Simon, arranged for strings. The white computer type on the blue screen said WELCOME TO NEW ENGLAND NEWSWIRE. There were ordering instructions below this, but Kinnell didn't have to read them; he was a Newswire junkie and knew the drill by heart. He dialed, punched in his Mastercard number, then 508.

"You have ordered Newswire for [slight pause] central and northem Massachusetts," the robot voice said. "Thank you very m--"

Kinnell dropped the phone back into the cradle and stood looking at the New England Newswire logo, snapping his fingers nervously. "Come on," he said. "Come on, come on."

The screen flickered then, and the blue background became green. Words began scrolling up, something about a house fire in Taunton. This was followed by the latest on a dog-racing scandal, then tonight's weather - clear and mild. Kinnell was starting to relax, starting to wonder if he'd really seen what he thought he'd seen on the entryway wall or if it had been a bit of travel-induced fugue, when the TV beeped shrilly and the words BREAKING NEWS appeared. He stood watching the caps scroll up.

NENphAUG19/8:40P A ROSEWOOD WOMAN HAS BEEN BRUTALLY MURDER-ED WHILE DOING A FAVOR FOR AN ABSENT FRIEND. 38-YEAR-OLD JUDITH DIMENT WAS SAVAGELY HACKED TO DEATH ON THE LAWN OF HER NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE, WHERE SHE HAD BEEN CONDUCTING A YARD SALE. NO SCREAMS WERE HEARD AND MRS. DIMENT WAS NOT FOUND UNTIL EIGHT O'CLOCK, WHEN A NEIGHBOR ACROSS THE STREET CAME OVER TO COMPLAIN ABOUT LOUD TELEVISION NOISE. THE NEIGHBOR, DAVID GRAVES, SAID THAT MRS. DIMENT HAD BEEN DECAPITATED. "HER HEAD WAS ON THE IRONING BOARD," HE SAID. "IT WAS THE MOST AWFUL THING I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE." GRAVES SAID HE HEARD NO SIGNS OF A STRUGGLE, ONLY THE TV AND, SHORTLY BEFORE FINDING THE BODY, A LOUD CAR, POSSIBLY EQUIPPED WITH A GLASSPACK MUFFLER, ACCELERATING AWAY FROM THE VICINITY ALONG ROUTE ONE. SPECULATION THAT THIS VEHICLE MAY HAVE BELONGED TO THE KILLER

Except that wasn't speculation; that was a simple fact.

Breathing hard, not quite panting, Kinnell hurried back into the entryway. The picture was still there, but it had changed once more. Now it showed two glaring white circles - headlights - with the dark shape of the car hulking behind them.

He's on the move again, Kinnell thought, and Aunt Trudy was on top of his mind now - sweet Aunt Trudy, who always knew who had been naughty and who had been nice. Aunt Trudy, who lived in Wells, no more than forty miles from Rosewood.

" God, please God, please send him by the coast road," Kinnell said, reaching for the picture. Was it his imagination or were the headlights farther apart now, as if the car were actually moving before his eyes ... but stealthily, the way the minute hand moved on a Pocket watch? "Send him by the coast road, please."

He tore the picture off the wall and ran back into the living room with it. The screen was in place before the fireplace, of course; it would be at least two months before a fire was wanted in here. Kinnell batted it aside and threw the painting in, breaking the glass fronting-which he had already broken once, at the Gray service area - against the firedogs. Then he pelted for the kitchen, wondering what he would do if this didn't work either.

It has to, he thought. It will because it has to, and that's A there is to it.

He opened the kitchen cabinets and pawed through them, spilling the oatmeal, spilling a canister of salt, spilling the vinegar. The bottle broken open on the counter and assaulted his nose and eyes with the high stink.

Not there. What he wanted wasn't there.

He raced into the pantry, looked behind the door - nothing but a plastic bucket and an 0 Cedar - and then on the shelf by the dryer. There it was, next to the briquets.

Lighter fluid.

He grabbed it and ran back, glancing at the telephone on the kitchen wall as he hurried by. He wanted to stop, wanted to call Aunt Trudy. Credibility wasn't an issue with her; if her favorite nephew called and told her to get out of the house, to get out light now, she would do it ... but what if the blond kid followed her? Chased her?

And he would. Kinnell knew he would.

He hurried across the living room and stopped in front of the fireplace.

"Jesus," he whispered. "Jesus, no."

The picture beneath the splintered glass no longer showed oncoming headlights. Now it showed the Grand Am on a sharply curving piece of road that could only be an exit ramp. Moonlight shone like liquid satin on the car's dark flank. In the background was a water tower, and the words on it were easily readable in the moonlight. KEEP MAINE GREEN, they said. BRING MONEY.

Kinnell didn't hit the picture with the first squeeze of lighter fluid; his hands were shaking badly and the aromatic liquid simply ran down the unbroken part of the glass, blurring the Road Virus's back deck. He took a deep breath, aimed, then squeezed again. This time the lighter fluid squirted in through the jagged hole made by one of the firedogs and ran down the picture, cutting through the paint, making it run, turning a Goodyear Wide Oval into a sooty teardrop.

Kinnell took one of the ornamental matches from the jar on the mantel, struck it on the hearth, and poked it in through the hole in the glass. The painting caught at once, fire billowing up and down across the Grand Am and the water tower. The remaining glass in the frame turned black, then broke outward in a shower of flaming pieces. Kinnell crunched them under his sneakers, putting them out before they could set the rug on fire.

He went to the phone and punched in Aunt Trudy's number, unaware that he was crying. On the third ring, his aunt's answering machine picked up. "Hello," Aunt Trudy said, "I know it encourages the burglars to say things like this, but I've gone up to Kennebunk to watch the new Harrison Ford movie. If you intend to break in, please don't take my china pigs. If you want to leave a message, do so at the beep."

Kinnell waited, then, keeping his voice as steady as possible, he said:

"It's Richie, Aunt Trudy. Call me when you get back, okay? No matter how late."

He hung up, looked at the TV, then dialed Newswire again, this time punching in the Maine area code. While the computers on the other end processed his order, he went back and used a poker to jab at the blackened, twisted thing in the fireplace. The stench was ghastly - it made the spilled vinegar smell like a flowerpatch in comparison-but Kinnell found he didn't mind. The picture was entirely gone, reduced to ash, and that made it worthwhile.

Mat if it comes back again?

"It won't," he said, putting the poker back and returning to the TV. "I'm sure it won't."

But every time the news scroll started to recycle, he got up to check. The picture was just ashes on the hearth ... and there was no word of elderly women being murdered in the Wells-Saco-Kennebunk area of the state. Kinnell kept watching, almost expecting to see A GRAND AM MOVING AT HIGH SPEED CRASHED INTO A KENNEBUNK MOVIE THEATER TONIGHT, KILLING AT LEAST TEN, but nothing of the sort showed up.

At a quarter of eleven the telephone rang. Kinnell snatched it up. "Hello?"

"It's Trudy, dear. Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine."

"You don't sound fine," she said. "Your voice sounds trembly and funny. What's wrong? What is it?" And then, chilling him but not really surprising him: "It's that picture you were so pleased with, isn't it? That goddamned picture!"

It calmed him somehow, that she should guess so much ... and, of course, there was the relief of knowing she was safe.

"Well, maybe," he said. "I had the heebie-jeebies all the way back here, so I burned it. In the fireplace."

She's going to find out about Judy Diment, you know, a voice inside warned. She doesn't have a twenty-thousand-dollar satellite hookup, but she does subscribe to the Union-Leader and this'll be on the front page. She'll put two and two together. She's far from stupid.

Yes, that was undoubtedly true, but further explanations could wait until the morning, when he might be a little less freaked ... when he might've found a way to think about the Road Virus without losing his mind ... and when he'd begun to be sure it was really over.

"Good!" she said emphatically. "You ought to scatter the ashes, too!" She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "You were worried about me, weren't you? Because you showed it to me.

"A little, yes."

"But you feel better now?"

He leaned back and closed his eyes. It was true, he did. "Uh-huh. How was the movie?"

"Good. Harrison Ford looks wonderful in a uniform. Now, if he'd just get rid of that little bump on his chin . . ."

"Good night, Aunt Trudy. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Will we?"

"Yes," he said. "I think so."

He hung up, went over to the fireplace again, and stirred the ashes with the poker. He could see a scrap of fender and a ragged little flap of road, but that was it. Fire was what it had needed all along, apparently. Wasn't that how you usually killed supernatural emissaries of evil? Of course it was. He'd used it a few times himself, most notably in The Departing, his haunted train station novel.

"Yes, indeed," he said. "Bum, baby, bum."

He thought about getting the drink he'd promised himself, then remembered the spilled bottle of vinegar (which by now would probably be soaking into the spilled oatmeal-what a thought). He decided he would simply go on upstairs instead. In a book-one by Richard Kinnell, for instance - sleep would be out of the question after the sort of thing which had just happened to him.

In real life, he thought he might sleep just fine.

He actually dozed off in the shower, leaning against the back wall with his hair full of shampoo and the water beating on his chest. He was at the yard sale again, and the TV standing on the paper ashtrays was broadcasting Judy Diment. Her head was back on, but Kinnell could see the medical examiner's primitive industrial stitchwork; it circled her throat like a grisly necklace. "Now this New England Newswire update," she said, and Kinnell, who had always been a vivid dreamer, could actually see the stitches on her neck stretch and relax as she spoke. "Bobby Hastings took all his paintings and burned them, including yours, Mr. Kinnell ... and it is yours, as I'm sure you know. All sales are final, you saw the sign. Why, you just ought to be glad I took your check."

Burned all his paintings, yes, of course he did, Kinnell thought in his watery dream. He couldn't stand what was happening to him, that's what the note said, and when you get to that point in the festivities, you don't pause to see if you want to except one special piece of work from the bonfire. It's just that you got something special into The Road Virus Heads North, didn't you, Bobby? And probably completely by accident. You were talented, I could see that right away, but talent has nothing to do with what's going on in that picture.

"Some things are just good at survival," Judy Diment said on the TV. "They keep coming back no matter how hard you try to get rid of them. They keep coming back like viruses."

Kinnell reached out and changed the channel, but apparently there was nothing on all the way around the dial except for The Judy Diment Show.

" You might say he opened a hole into the basement of the universe," she was saying now. "Bobby Hastings, I mean. And this is what drove out. Nice, isn't it?"

Kinnell's feet slid then, not enough to go out from under him completely, but enough to snap him to.

He opened his eyes, winced at the immediate sting of the soap (Prell had run down his face in thick white rivulets while he had been dozing), and cupped his hands under the shower-spray to splash it away. He did this once and was reaching out to do it again when he heard something. A ragged rumbling sound.

Don't be stupid, he told himself. All you hear is the shower. The rest is only imagination.

Except it wasn't.

Kinnell reached out and turned off the water.

The rumbling sound continued. Low and powerful. Coming from outside.

He got out of the shower and walked, dripping, across his bedroom on the second floor. There was still enough shampoo in his hair to make him look as if it had turned white while he was dozing-as if his dream of Judy Diment had turned it white.

My did I ever stop at that yard sale? he asked himself, but for this he had no answer. He supposed no one ever did.

The rumbling sound grew louder as he approached the window overlooking the driveway-the driveway that glimmered in the summer moonlight like something out of an Alfred Noyes poem.

As he brushed aside the curtain and looked out, he found himself thinking of his ex-wife, Sally, whom he had met at the World Fantasy Convention in 1978. Sally, who now published two magazines out of

her trailer home, one called Survivors, one called Visitors. Looking down at the driveway, these two tides came together in Kinnell's mind like a double image in a stereopticon.

He had a visitor who was definitely a survivor.

The Grand Am idled in front of the house, the white haze from its twin chromed tailpipes rising in the still night air. The Old English letters on the back deck were perfectly readable. The driver's side door stood open, and that wasn't all; the light spilling down the porch steps suggested that Kinnell's front door was also open.

Forgot to lock it, Kinnell thought, wiping soap off his forehead with a hand he could no longer feel. Forgot to reset the burglar alarm, too . not that it would have made much difference to this guy.

Well, he might have caused it to detour around Aunt Trudy, and that was something, but just now the thought brought him no comfort.

Survivors.

The soft rumble of the big engine, probably at least a 442 with a four-barrel carb, reground valves, fuel injection.

He turned slowly on legs that had lost all feeling, a naked man with a headful of soap, and saw the picture over his bed, just as he'd known he would. In it, the Grand Am stood in his driveway with the driver's door open and two plumes of exhaust rising from the chromed tailpipes. From this angle he could also see his own front door, standing open, and a long man-shaped shadow stretching down the hall.

Survivors.

Survivors and visitors.

Now he could hear feet ascending the stairs. It was a heavy tread, and he knew without having to see that the blond kid was wearing motorcycle boots. People with DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR tattooed on their arms always wore motorcycle boots, just as they always smoked unfiltered Camels. These things were like a national law.

And the knife. He would be carrying a long, sharp knife - more of a machete, actually, the sort of knife that could strike off a person's head in a single sweeping stroke.

And he would be grinning, showing those filed cannibal-teeth.

Kinnell knew these things. He was an imaginative guy, after all.

He didn't need anyone to draw him a picture.

"No," he whispered, suddenly conscious of his global nakedness, suddenly freezing all the way around his skin. "No, please, go away." But the footfalls kept coming, of course they did. You couldn't tell a guy like this to go away. It didn't work; it wasn't the way the story was supposed to end.

Kinnell could hear him nearing the top of the stairs. Outside the Grand Am went on rumbling in the moonlight.

The feet coming down the hall now, worn bootheels rapping on polished hardwood.

A terrible paralysis had gripped Kinnell. He threw it off with an effort and bolted toward the bedroom door, wanting to lock it before the thing could get in here, but he slipped in a puddle of soapy water and this time he did go down, flat on his back on the oak planks, and what he saw as the door clicked open and the motorcycle boots crossed the room toward where he lay, naked and with his hair full of Prell, was the picture hanging on the wall over his bed, the picture of the Road Virus idling in front of his house with the driver's side door open.

The driver's side bucket seat, he saw, was full of blood. I'm going outside, I think, Kinnell thought, and closed his eyes.

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rkmyung-blog · 3 years

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*submits my cv and sits nervously*

1. Do you meet all the requirements? I…’d like to think I do. I’ve read through everything and tried to contemplate on how qualified I am based on the list, and I think I lie somewhere around 8/10. Idk if I’m downplaying myself or the opposite, but I’m sure I haven’t had any major conflicts with the roleplay in general. Clashing opinions, yes, but I’ve been senpai-like enough to be cool and work around some limitations in the past.

2. Of the mod tasks listed, which are you most interested in taking on? Which ones would you rather not do?

Points verification. I’m a trash who’s a sucker for stuff like bookkeeping and tallying / keeping things in order, and I think I’m pretty systematic enough doing it. It’d be fine for me to take up on everything honestly, the tasks sound exciting to do, though I have a bit of hesitation with creating fun and original events. I do better at making new things out of something that already exists where I can base my work on, than planning something from scratch. It’s kinda sad I’m not as innovative as I’d like myself to be tbh cries but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try if needed, of course!!!

3. Do you bring anything else to the table that isn’t listed above?

UhhhH being a derp? Being greasy? I’m honestly too gay and trashy to function so like I could be the comic relief everyone needs in their life. If it helps, I used to run a roleplay before too so maybe a little bit of experience with tasks like these can get me somewhere with less supervision.

4. Is there anything else you’d like to say about why you want to be a mod and why you’d be good at the job?

I’d probably be bedridden for days from cringing so hard if I said Rookies is something like my child that I just want to pamper, but I think that’s essentially what I want to say anyway. The general plot of the roleplay is something I truly enjoy not only because I suck at fantasy/supernatural rps and therefore stick to slice-of-life ones, but also because of the whole idoldom thing. As a Kpop fan I think it’s pretty natural to be curious about how things happen beyond the glitz and glamour, so being a part of a team who’s supposed to create their own interpretation of the idol/entertainment life in the form of a roleplay is something I find great interest in. It’d be a dream to be a part of the behind-the-scenes staff who make things happen. My thoughts at this point seem to be scattered, but, the gist of it is, I care about the rp enough to lend a helping hand. Seeing how the rp needs some help with running I think it’s an opportune moment for me to try my hand at possibly having more purpose for the rp? Every human has an inherent need to have a purpose. *wipes a stray tear as I fold away my script* I’m sorry if I belabored the idea, I just have a lot of brain fart sometimes OTL

As for the second question, I feel really awkward having to sell myself, orz, but I think by saying that I meet all the requirements you’ve set back there at question number 1, you can guarantee that I’d be putting out a good service to the best of my abilities.

5. Extra credit: Imagine you’ve been put in charge of planning an RK event. It can be any kind of event from a monthly eval to an audition to a holiday celebration to a vacation/retreat (such as language camp or rookie/trainee camp)- whatever you think of! Write up everything that would be needed for the event, start to finish. This includes both public posts as well as behind-the-scenes information (for example, if there’s a contest element to the event, how will we choose a winner?)

((((((I tried weeps)))))

Winter is coming!

To welcome the season, Seoul Square Ice Skating Rink once again opens its doors for the annual Winter Festival. A local attraction during winter, the Seoul Plaza is transformed into skating facilities that are ideal for people who are looking for exciting activities during the coldest months of the year, instead of staying indoors and keeping themselves bundled up. If you are tired from skating or participating in the available workshops, there are a wide array of food stalls and restaurants that surround the plaza for your convenience.

There are two skating rinks for people to choose from – one is for the beginners, and another for advanced skaters. Convenience facilities like outdoor break room, outdoor standing area and rest area for ice skaters are also available. Services include rentals for lockers and gloves, while helmets and elbow pads can be rented for free. The entrance fee comes at a cheap price of 1,000 won per hour which includes the admission and skate rentals. During the first day of the opening, everyone can skate for free!

If you’re not a fan of skating, don’t fret! There are a number of other events that happen in the plaza during this time of the year. Cultural performances are held in the Activity Area right beside the skating rinks, and they also give a chance for the patrons themselves to show off their talents during intermission periods. You can also try your hand at the arts and crafts workshops that they offer! Here, you can show off your talents, or make your own snow sculptures and accessories with friends, family, and loved ones.

Here’s how you can participate:

[ +3 charisma points ] Write two four-post threads or two solos about your muse attending the Winter Festival.

[ +3 points in any category ] Write a four-post thread or a solo about your muse presenting a performance on stage. If you are a trainee, you can write a thread or a solo of your muse watching the show.

[ +3 points in charisma / creativity ] Write a four-post thread or a solo of your muse participating in a hands-on arts and crafts session.

This event runs from December 19-26. You do not have to submit anything for verification; you can keep a list of your collected points on your own tracker. The tag for this event is #rkwinterfestival.

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raulf-o · 4 years

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People Hate Art...

This one is going to be a bit long, so what I want you to remember as you read this is the following… I’m trying to give you a perspective as an artist on what I’ve encountered. How people think, act and what they wouldn’t really tell anyone in a public manner. I’m not bitter about what I am doing or anything of the sorts, I’ve had my share of small successes and stories that many people read or loved. I just want to write something… Different. About something I truly and deeply care about.

I’ve been writing short stories for over 10 years now and also published four books. But through my years I also tried different styles, things to get people to read my stuff. I also went hard to learn some marketing, SEO, in order to think of ways of appealing to readers. Whether it’s using the right hashtags, trying to reach to as many people as possible, or simply posting in as many groups as possible. Yet, as the years passed, I have found people that like what I do, people that simply do not care and people that abhor me and everything I write and the fact that I have the audacity to even write and publish anything or even call myself an indie author or a short story writer, when I should be a copywriter or a “creative content writer” for some corporation like the rest of my peers that actually make money from writing. I can’t condemn them, there is no reason to. To each their own fantasy, dream or way of life. Yet, the actual things that I have learned are quite interesting, because we’re about to get into some bad double standards and hypocrisy.

So, here comes the trouble. The older I got, the more I noticed how many talented people I personally know or got to know over the internet, have a certain trouble about their careers. I met other writers, poets, painters, singers, musicians, comic book artists, designers of all kinds, photographers and whatever type of artist you can imagine, I met them all at one point in time. What do all of these talented wonderful people have in common? Correct, none of them are pursuing actively their passion even though they are talented bright minds. 99.99% of them are working at some corporation doing something they do not love, yet need, because without a job, you are not getting paid. Which is fine, but not really. We all have to compromise, I worked in places I did not really care to work at for many years too, just so I can eat and sleep without too many worries. And not every single one of those I mentioned actually want to do it as anything more than a hobby. But, we are going to focus on those that do want to become artists…

Firstly, we have to understand what it means to be an artist in the time we live in. Why? Because I did not talk about marketing, SEO and all that for nothing there. Don’t worry, I won’t get into too many details, I’m just going to brush gently the tip of it all. Whether you are a photographer, DJ, singer, musician, painter, writer, dancer, sculptor, entertainer or whatever else… Unless you are already successful and signed to a publishing house, music label or some talent agency, being an artist means being your own business. You have to think of the marketability of what you are making. The photo you are taking, is it going to appeal to the public? The song you are writing, is it tugging at the heartstrings of people or is it at least catchy? The story you are writing, is it accessible to everyone? How are you going to sell it? What hashtags are you going to use? At what time are you going to post it? Did you make a thumbnail for it? Did you think of a promo? A YouTube video? Did you use the right words in the description or tags? How are people going to find you on Google? Is the cover appealing? And I could go on with countless examples, but what I am trying to show you is that being an artist means business, literally.

Which is why 99.99% of those talented people that I spoke about work jobs that aren’t fulfilling or they are afraid to start their journey on this path of being a business owner and artist. Not only that, but you have to understand that you, as an artist ARE NOT ESSENTIAL. Rather yet, you are here to be either taken advantage of or taken for granted. Sounds like the same thing, the difference is that the record label, publishing house might rip you off in the first one and the second is people simply enjoying whatever you do and not showing their support in any way. And you might be reading this and thinking “That’s horseshit. That’s not true, that’s not how it works. Art isn’t a business. And even so, artists shouldn’t think about the public or what the public wants, but do what they want. That’s how we got all the genius works of Picasso, Shakespeare, Beethoven and many more.” Idealistically speaking, yes, sure. I thought the same way. In reality, that is not how it works. And I can prove it to you. Because you, like most people, actually hate art. I know, sorry for the long introduction.

I want to preface this, by saying that I am not talking about people that cannot afford to go to a concert, buy a painting, a book, a photo, I am talking about the rest. Think about it, statistically speaking most people do not read for pleasure, do not go to art galleries, don’t go to the theater, don’t buy music, books, photos, sculptures and barely even give a like or a share when it comes to small creators. Why? Because… The world of art is paradoxical, at least that’s how they like to call it. I call this a double standard or plain hypocrisy. Harsh words, I know, but, please continue to read. Whenever you are new to something or look for advice to start as an artist you are going to hear a few things:

1. Make whatever makes you happy: It’s straight up bs. Why? Whatever makes you happy doesn’t make others happy, nor is it interesting for others. That’s why you see indie bands do covers of popular artists, maybe they’ll get more views and someone will discover them. Or writers are writing whatever genre is popular now (dark fantasy btw, we’re past non-fiction).

2. Just start doing it: Of course it’s bs. The moment you start doing it and want to share it with a community to start to get feedback, people (both readers and writers, for example) are going to pummel you without any mercy by saying how shitty everything you do is, even though there is no way to get good at something before being bad at it. And that wouldn’t be bad, if it were constructive criticism, but, most of it isn’t. And don’t forget, if you didn’t want any criticism, you shouldn’t have made/posted that. Not just that, but we’re going into number 3, which is a spin-off of number 1.

3. Do something that makes you stand out, something that makes you special: In the same vein of the first one, if you do this, well tough luck. Because the people from number four will call you out by saying stuff like “Wtf is this bs?” and start pushing their own view of the art and how it should be onto yours, trying to mold you into their world-view. Examples from my personal life are: “Why have you written it like that? No one writes like that, you should have written in normally in a first or third person style, without all the script bs.” or “You shouldn’t use many swear words, it’s simply bad and shows how immature you are.” Btw, can we stop this and just take in consideration what the artist wanted to do there before going on the offense? And while we’re at it. Can we stop reviewing stuff after the first few seconds, minutes, pages or episodes? Thank you.

4. Well, of course no one reads/listens/sees what you are making. You have to find your niche: Bs again, and goes directly against the first advice. Why? Because you are more than just a niche or a 2D caricature, you’re a human being with many interests and your talent isn’t just in one genre, which is why you have the confidence to start your own business as an artist, you want to do many things and not get bored or do the same thing over and over again like some office worker. You’re a free spirit, damn it! A true artist. Well, tough luck, because you can’t do what you want. You have to find a niche and exploit the hell out of them, until you become somewhat successful that it reaches a bit out into the mainstream. Why? Easier to market at one niche then it is to market to everyone. See? Told you it’s all marketing in some way…

5. You don’t need an audience to do anything: You guessed it, bs. Any talent agency, LinkedIn profile that is an industry insider, worker or recruiter from a company, publishing house is looking at your social media before approaching you. Whether it’s likes, comments you made, connections you have in the industry, work you’ve done before and the number of people you have reached through streams, sales and views. Because you’re either a sure fire investment or just a risk. And of course, if you’re a risk, well then, good luck. Because unless you have a pitch that will sell them on your idea or talent, you are on your own. Unless you have an absurd amount of money. And doesn’t that simply sound amazing? Having sales pitches for people as an artist? Or buying your way into a career?

And these are just some of the examples from the inside of the art that I am performing, which I noticed in other arts as well. But, you might be asking yourself “What does this have to do with anything when it comes to people hating art?” Well, people, in this case the consumers, since this is a business, are just as easily paradoxical. Especially in this confusing time where we struggle to find a balance between individuality and mob mentality. Where everyone wants to be special, yet no one is special, but that’s an insult, because everyone is special, yet when everyone is special no one is. Because it’s a risk, of some sort. For many reasons, small artists are seen as a risk to one’s personality and character. Since no one likes to hear a “Wtf is that?” or “Do you really like this stuff? What a weirdo.” Of course, exceptions apply here too. Then there is the reality of it, if we look at the statistics most people, as I said earlier, could afford to spend more on any type of art or artist, they don’t, not even when it comes to leaving a like. Why is it hard to even leave a like? Well, it might remind one of their inadequacy, failed dreams, or their fear to follow their own passion. And here you might ask “How so?” Well, because anyone can do it. And if anyone can do it, they (the consumers) could have done exactly what you did. Yet, they didn’t, thus the inadequacy or reflection of failure. Or they might just not care about you and your art and what you do. Which is fine.

There was one other idea someone mentioned, saying “It’s not the art, it’s the artist one might hate”. Really? After countless careers and comebacks from scumbags, whether it’s literal rapists, anti-Semites, racists, xenophobes, homophobes, killers, war criminals, that all had their careers in writing, painting, acting, directing, music that are still widely celebrated today. Can you really say that it might be the artist? The only people really hating them are those affected by those specific people, even tough we all should hate them. But we don’t, we still buy their stuff. Don’t believe me? Do a search on a few of your favorite or most popular artists. I bet you’ll find a few that are absolute garbage. Yet, as garbage as they might be, they are still popular or successful. And even those that “hate” certain artists, it’s because it goes against their own tastes. For example Nickleback, Coldplay, Shakespeare, [insert your hated artist here]. And they don’t just go against their own tastes, but what they think the art form or the artist should be. Which is just another way of hating art. Also no artist is simply hated and that’s why he is unsuccessful. The unsuccessful artists, is one that simply doesn’t know how to sell himself.

Now, do people really hate art? No. Most of them are indiferent or ignorant. Some are just trying to be polite, yet hurt your feelings without knowing that you know that they didn’t like any of your posts, didn’t buy your album when they said they would or didn’t even read the page you sent them to read it. But in turn they all tell you that they support you and cheer you on. Not knowing that you can’t exchange support and cheers for goods and services. Can’t condone them, just pointing out why marketing and knowing how to sell yourself is so important. Because no matter whether you are close friends, acquaintances or were coworkers at some point, people, even those you know, aren’t going to do more then tell you that they are supporting you. Which means your only hope is marketing, good luck and endless days and nights of working to get yourself seen by others. Seen, not selling. Because before I let you go, we’re going to talk about the weird paradox that is trying to sell something as an artist.

To put it in simple terms, DON’T! In any way, shape or form DO NOT try to SELL anything to anyone. Art is supposed to be pure, for the pleasure of it, you know what you got yourself into and no one is going to buy anything from you because you shouldn’t sell your art like that, especially when you are new into an industry. You should do things for exposure. And you shouldn’t act like a multi billion dollar business like Disney, you are just an amateur that wrote one song or one book or took one photo, you’re not a real artist. You’re a band? You better put that song from free on Spotify or YouTube, do not dare to ask for 99 cents. You’re a writer? You better sell that 500 book page you spent endless hours writing it, editing it, paying a proof-reader, an editor and an artist to design your cover for only 99 cents or give it for free, because no one will buy it. Photographer or painter? You better work for exposure and post your stuff free on Instagram to look at. Yet here we are, as people and as artists telling ourselves this bullshit that simply isn’t true. Sure, there are outliers, exceptions to these rules. But for any one exception there are ten thousand people that didn’t have the luck the successful ones that, another ten thousand that weren’t discovered by someone popular that boosted them into popularity, and another ten thousand that died poor and became famous posthumously and another ten thousand that didn’t have the money to buy themselves into a career. Sure, there were another ten thousand that weren’t good enough, but those are just ten thousand out of fifty thousand talented, unlucky, poor, undiscovered people.

Do people hate art? Probably, yes. Why? Ignorance, most likely. People do not understand how artists work, first and foremost. They think that like someone that works an normal 9 to 5, an artists wakes up, paints all day and goes to sleep. Yet, art isn’t that simple. You need to practice, you need to study, you need to think on “Is it good, interesting or new? How will I do this? Does this make sense? Can I afford the time and money to do it? Do I like the aesthetics? Will people like it enough on its on to buy it? How do I market it if they don’t?” and that’s just the tip of the iceberg, as you probably know by now from everything I wrote until now. To make matters worse, it’s been 4 years since I published my first book, and I still have to explain to people that what I do isn’t quite normal and that it doesn’t work the same way as any other job. Then as you read, people do not think of art as a business, and those that think of art as a business, hate it.

Also, there’s the matter of art itself, which some believe art to be something of such emotional power that it shakes you to your core or even deconstructs you from within. That, is something that is hard to grasp for the general audience. But not only that, it is also something terrifying to experience. And let’s not forget, if you can’t understand art, well, that means that you are stupid and that makes you feel bad. No one wants to feel bad, right? In the same category, some art can remind you what a failure you are and what you could have done or become, because look at this person doing it and getting fame and money for it,as I wrote before. There are so many reasons for art not to be understood, misunderstood, hated, feared and much more, that it’s too much for me to incorporate in this post. Yet, I hope you understand it a bit better. And yes, hate is a strong word, yet people dislike or can’t be bothered by art isn’t as catchy of a title. Hope you learned something about how art “works” and how artists have to be more than simply artists to survive, because thriving involves too much luck. So, hopefully now you will support your local artists with more than just a like or a cheer. Also, I did not mention any crazy nut that has an extreme ideology that wants to censor art and have it not be obscene or whatever other things that fall in a any kind of religious, fascist, communist, any dictatorship mentality. Why? Because whether it’s the Christian, Islam, Jewish, Nazi, Communist ideology, they all censor art. So, I’m going to leave it at that when it comes to that, because those are hopefully well known by people and things.

I know, I’ve rambled for quite a bit. But I am a believer in giving a solution, instead of just complaining. The last time I complained about writers and authors, especially the indie breed, my solution was to price any ebook at a minimum price of 5$, instead of selling themselves short and dragging the industry down by giving away books to people that just store them in their kindle library, yet never read them. So, what’s the solution here? It’s simple.

Cut the toxicity out of any art form: How do you to do that? Anyone that is a gatekeeper of any sort, a snob or does not accept any and all forms of the art, must be humbled and made to remember that the more they do this, the less people will be willing to interact with the medium or even be willing to understand it. Also, for the gatekeepers, in this day and age, any information is widely available to anyone that searches even a little bit online. So, even if you wanted, you can’t stop it. More and more indie authors are becoming best-sellers and finding success. Same with bands, painters, photographers, dancers, and so on and so forth, because there are free platforms anyone can use. You might read this and think “Well then, aren’t you contradicting yourself here a bit?” No. Again, there are and always will be outliers. But, that doesn’t diminish or exclude anything I wrote above.

Stomp out the scammers and those that give out the art form a bad name: What do I mean by this? Writers that buy or exchange reviews to get better ratings on site and get quick sales to make a quick buck, should be made fun of and ridiculed, in such a way that those thinking of doing such things, will reconsider once they do a bit of research. This is just an example. Of course you have singers and bands buying bots to play their song on streaming services to get plays and get in some top. Which can be dealt the same way. And I could give you an example from each and every art form where things like this happen.

Be more welcoming: Now, I know the first two sound not so very welcoming, but the truth of the matter is that the market has literally never been as free or open as it is now. Want to publish a book? Done, in 5 minutes. Want to publish a podcast/song/spoken word poetry? Done in 2 minutes. Want to post your painting for sale? Boom, done in 2 minutes. You can do whatever you want and there is no one to stop you but your own knowledge of marketing and how to sell yourself and how to operate like a business. Not just that, but the cultural festivals that become more and more available everywhere are mixing arts. Giving people more chances to be exposed to something new and different. Also, by being more welcoming, you invite new voices to bring new innovation in the art.

Complain: I know I said I don’t like to complain a lot without giving a solution but, the more you bring forth the problems in a certain industry, the more people complain, the more likely the chance of a change. Examples? Every writer’s strike in Hollywood was a success in some way. Not just that, but you also educate people on the problems within. I know it sounds bad to complain and people don’t want to hear it. But people well, look at what is happening when people “don’t want to hear it”. You can’t see it, but I am gesturing broadly at everything regarding 2020.

Well, this has been weighing on my chest for some time. And if you honestly, read it until here, without jumping to conclusions in the comment section, I applaud you for your patience. I rarely write something this long that isn’t part of a book. And, if you have a genuine response that is constructive and makes a solid argument, I am always willing to discuss it. And if you enjoyed this, please do check out the rest of my short stories or maybe buy a book or four. And if you would like to donate to show your support, you can do so at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

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