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universitypenguin · 5 months

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Summary: Princess conducts interviews with witnesses in Fredericksburg to learn more about the disappearance of Li Wei and Zoe Chapman. Meanwhile, Lloyd confronts Tate Corbin about what he saw the night Julia went missing, but the answers only lead to more questions.

Word Count: 5,064

Masterlist

Author’s Note: I’d like to dedicate this chapter to @nomadstucky. Without her, I never would’ve been able to dig my way out of this latest writing slump. Her feedback was critical to getting this chapter moving in the right direction when I was going off the rails creatively. Thank you so much!

Warnings: Allusions to domestic violence, discussion of murder and other criminal behavior. Minor use of foul language. Only appropriate for 18+ readers. No minors.

Chapter XXIII

The cabins were in good repair. Seeing them in person disrupted the mental image you’d formed of the Chapman Bible Camp. It wasn’t the neglected place of crumbling disrepair you’d imagined it to be. Words like charming and neat came to mind, rather than decrepit and gloomy. The cottages were arranged around an ellipse shaped quad in uniform fashion, like spokes on a wheel. Their vibrant colors were reminiscent of the famous bathing boxes at Brighton Beach. Each one was painted a different shade of the rainbow and trimmed in a contrasting hue. The yellow cabin had purple trim, the green cabin fuchsia pink, and so on.

Instead of the Adirondack style commonly found in rural Virginia, the cabins boasted steep, angled roofs and front-facing gables adorned with whimsical gingerbread bargeboards. The whole aesthetic was so unabashedly Queen Anne that the cabins could’ve blended in with the homes on San Francisco’s famous Postcard Row. They seemed both too sophisticated and too cute for these primitive woods.

After her husband passed away, Mrs. Chapman had sold the bible camp. It was now in the hands of a musician who’d turned the tabernacle into a concert hall and rented out the cabins on Airbnb. Zach was fetching the keys from the owner while you waited on the porch of the converted tabernacle.

Standing here, you wondered if this visit was a fool’s errand. This morning Lloyd had called to tell you he’d be leaving the search party this afternoon to cover Roth’s interview with Tate Corbin. After hanging up, you’d itched for something productive to do. The abduction had injected a fresh sense of urgency into the investigation, but you’d agreed to keep your distance from Harmony because Lloyd was worried that Shun Nguyen would return to familiar surroundings. It was a reasonable assumption, one you didn’t have a counter argument for.

Still, you’d itched with a need to do something, so you’d turned to the mystery surrounding Li Wei and Zoe Chapman. Now that you were actually here you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d drifted off course. The place to look for fresh leads was forty miles north of here, yet this was where you’d come.

What breakthroughs did you expect to generate digging into a case that was almost twenty-five years old? You were about as far from a lead as Pluto was from the sun.

Gravel crunched as Zach came up the walk behind you.

“I got the keys,” he said.

“The place looks better than I expected. More charm, less gloom.”

“Like a fucking rainbow in the woods,” Zach said, inserting the key in the lock.

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s creepy, though.”

“Creepy?” you asked.

“The place feels off. Too pretty for its history, like Gettysburg without a war memorial.”

- - - - -

Zach went to explore the camp and forest while you waited in the concert hall for your witnesses. Twenty minutes later, the first of two former employees arrived.

Mrs. Koep was a petite fair-skinned woman with thin lips and a broad face. She wore a white button down with a silk scarf draped around her neck and carried a pink Michael Kors purse. Her handshake was firm when she introduced herself as the camp’s former groundskeeper. Right behind her, the other ex-employee Mrs. Brittenridge entered the hall. Mrs. Brittenridge was the opposite of Mrs. Koep. The former administrative assistant and camp nurse was tall and thin. In contrast to Mrs. Koep’s carefully coiffed appearance, Mrs. Brittenridge wore a plaid button down with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, straight leg jeans, and scuffed suede boots. Her dark brown hair, worn in a shaggy bob, gleamed with red highlights that complimented her olive complexion.

If they hadn’t introduced themselves, you’d have figured Mrs. Brittenridge for the groundskeeper and Mrs. Koep for the nurse. You sat down together in the pews. The two women took the second row while you sat in the first, angling yourself to face them.

“Thank you for coming,” you said.

“Of course,” Mrs. Brittenridge replied.

“Why did you want to meet us here?” Mrs. Koep asked.

“My colleague, Zach, is exploring the grounds, and I thought the familiar setting might help jog your memories.”

Mrs. Koep’s chin lifted. “My memory is just fine.”

Mrs. Brittenridge shot the blonde woman a tired side-eye, but didn’t comment.

“Rolling Stone magazine said your law firm is investigating the murders in Harmony,” Mrs. Koep said. “Is that true?”

“I’m afraid I can’t comment about ongoing cases.”

She scowled.

“We’re glad someone’s looking into Li Wei and Zoe’s disappearance again, and we’re happy to help anyway we can,” Mrs. Brittenridge said.

“I was hoping you could fill in some blanks surrounding Li Wei’s disappearance. What was she doing just before she disappeared?”

Mrs. Koep answered first. “She was supposed to take the campers on a nature hike before lunch, but never showed up. I learned she was missing when Mr. Chapman came to the potting shed and asked if I’d seen her.”

“The last time I saw her was that morning,” Mrs. Brittenridge said. “She came into the office to fill up her water bottle.”

“What time was that?” you asked.

“Eight-thirty,” Mrs. Brittenridge said.

You turned to the other woman. “And you, Mrs. Koep?”

“I caught a glimpse of her around nine. She was heading into the woods.”

“And Zoe?”

They debated whether Zoe had been with Li Wei that morning or not, but neither one could say for sure. With some more questioning the women decided their last official sighting of the little girl had been on Friday afternoon.

“What about Li Wei’s personal life?” you asked.

Mrs. Koep scoffed. “Non-existent. Her social life fell off a cliff after Zoe was born - some people even compared her to Boo Radley.”

By the icy glare she shot at Mrs. Brittenridge, you could guess who ‘some people’ had been.

“Betty, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You were right, though! She was a recluse! She was bored and lonely. All of her friends had gone off to college and left her behind.”

“She had Zoe, and her parents. You were there for her, too,” Mrs. Brittenridge said.

“It wasn’t enough,” Mrs. Koep said, wringing her hands. “Her mother should’ve pushed her to date, to get out and socialize. She practically was Boo Radley in the end.”

Mrs. Brittenridge sighed. An uncomfortable silence settled, and you waited to see if they’d continue. When they didn’t you pivoted to the main line of questioning you hoped this visit would shed light on.

“Who was Zoe’s father?”

Mrs. Brittenridge stiffened. Beside her, Mrs. Koep’s expression transformed from distraught to frosty. Neither of them answered. You retreated to a less aggressive position, realizing the delicacy of the subject called for coaxing, not pushing.

“Mrs. Koep, you worked here the longest. Since 1982, if the records are correct. Were you close with Li Wei?”

“Yes. She used to follow me around everywhere, always wanting to play in the dirt when I was planting flowers. I had kids who were a few years older than her, so I didn’t mind.”

“Did she ever confide in you about Zoe’s father?”

“Li Wei was a quiet girl,” Mrs. Koep said.

“She was quieter after she had Zoe,” Mrs. Brittenridge interjected.

You weren’t getting any useful information from the direct approach. Despite their obvious dislike of one another, the women were working in concert to dodge your questions.

A strategic retreat was in order.

“Do you have any theories about what happened to Li Wei and Zoe?”

Mrs. Brittenridge lowered her gaze, but Mrs. Koep offered a theory immediately. “I always assumed it was an accident of some kind. There’s a lot of abandoned mining shafts in the area.”

Mrs. Brittenridge’s lips compressed into a flat line.

You smiled at the former groundskeeper. “Mrs. Koep, would you mind taking my colleague, Zack, around? It would be nice to get the perspective of someone who knows the area.”

“Of course.”

“Mrs. Brittenridge, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d love to see where the administrative building was.”

“There’s not much to see. The new owners tore it down.”

“Any familiar spots would be great,” you said.

You led them out of the tabernacle and Mrs. Koep headed east to where Zach was inspecting the tree line, while Mrs. Brittenridge turned west. She walked to a picnic table hidden behind a grove of trees and sat down on one side. You took the place opposite her.

“This is where I used to take my breaks.”

“It’s a pleasant spot.”

“It’s private. You wanted to get me alone, so go ahead. Ask,” Mrs. Brittenridge invited.

“Do you know who Zoe’s father was?”

“No. Li Wei and I were friendly, but we didn’t have a relationship where she’d be comfortable sharing such personal information.”

“Would Mrs. Koep know?”

“Maybe. Betty was like an aunt to her. I always assumed she’d confided in her, but I’m not sure.”

“How long did you and Betty work together?”

“Seven years.”

“Were you full or part time at the camp?”

“Full time, May through August. I was a school nurse at Monroe High.”

“Li Wei graduated from Monroe, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“What was she like as a student?”

Mrs. Brittenridge considered the question before answering. “She was very smart, especially in English and exceptional in art. She wasn’t the most outgoing person, but always had friends.”

“You’d say she was well liked?”

“Absolutely,” Mrs. Brittenridge said. “She wasn't exactly shy, just reserved. The kind who thought before speaking.”

“Was she much of a partier?”

“Not in high school.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And after?”

“Sometimes when you’ve led a sheltered life, a little freedom goes to your head.”

“Got it. One more question. Why don’t you and Betty get along?”

“I had a cell phone in 1992.”

“Mmmhhh.”

“You’re too young to understand, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

“Back in the early nineties, only drug dealers had cell phones, or at least that’s what people thought. I had one, which immediately roused her suspicions. To add insult to injury, I set up a website for the camp in 1996, then persuaded the Chapmans to put in a computer station so the kids could email their parents instead of writing letters. You’d have thought I suggested we convert to Satanism.”

You ran through your follow up questions and then walked Mrs. Brittenridge to her car, thanking her again for coming.

Then you headed down the curving path, around the oval lawn, past the cabins, to the garden shed. Zach was waiting outside.

“How’d the tour go?” you asked.

“I don’t think she likes me,” he said.

“Welcome to the club.”

Zach smirked. “Oh? Your charm met its kryptonite?”

You sneered at him, ignored his silent laughter, and stepped over the threshold into the plywood floored shed. The only source of light was a rectangular skylight on the roof.

Mrs. Koep was standing on the far side of the shed with her back to you. Her hands rested on a high table constructed from two-by-fours and MDF board. She stared at the garden tools that hung from the pegboard behind the table. Despite her chic clothing, she looked far more at home in this spartan surrounding with its crude furnishings than she had in the concert hall.

“I missed this place,” Mrs. Koep said, breaking the silence. “It’s weird to miss somewhere that smells like manure and gasoline, but I did.”

Mrs. Koep turned around and leaned against the table, crossing her arms over her chest. It was time for the confrontation.

“You knew Li Wei better than anyone,” you said.

“I like to think so.”

“Do you really believe she and Zoe fell into an abandoned mining shaft?”

“No, I don’t. But that’s what I want to believe, so I do.”

“Is it easier that way?” you asked.

“Being in denial for twenty years isn’t easy, it’s a survival mechanism.”

“What exactly were you in denial about, Mrs. Koep?”

It was stuffy and warm in the shed, but she rubbed her arms as if trying to generate heat.

“At first, you let yourself believe something irrational. Then… when reality breaks through the facade… you make yourself believe it because you can’t accept the truth.”

“You know something about Li Wei’s disappearance that you’re not telling me.”

“You’re very blunt for someone so young.”

“Thank you.”

“I wish I’d been that way when I was twenty-five. It would’ve spared me a divorce.”

This time you didn’t respond, just nodded.

“Li Wei didn’t give me the name of Zoe’s father. She said he was from up North - I think she meant D.C. - and that he’d been in a fraternity. They weren’t in a relationship or anything like that. Zoe was the product of a one night stand.”

“Did he know about Zoe?”

“I’m not sure but I think she would’ve told him. Whatever the case was, he wasn't in the picture. Li Wei was dating someone else.”

Excitement surged in your blood. That hadn’t been in the file. “Really? When did she start seeing him?”

Mrs. Koep squeezed her arms, gripping them until her knuckles turned white.

“Some time in March.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police?”

“Because I was afraid her parents wouldn’t approve. I didn’t want to start any trouble for her.”

You nodded. “And you’re sure the relationship began in March?”

“Pretty sure. I always came up early to start on the flower beds. He drove a motorcycle - not a Harley, it was a sporty thing, like the one Tom Cruise rode in Top Gun. I saw it parked in front of her cottage a few times.”

“Did you ever see her boyfriend?”

“A couple times, from a distance,” Mrs. Koep said.

“Can you describe him?”

“Caucasian, early twenties, with dark blond hair. I guess he was about six feet tall, give or take. He looked a bit like David Beckham.”

“You spoke to her about him?”

Mrs. Koep nodded. “I warned her that if I’d seen her sneaking around with him it was only a matter of time before one of her parents caught on.”

“What did she say?”

“She told me it hadn’t been serious and that they’d broken up.”

You swiped open your phone and pulled up an image of Julia Xiarong.

“Have you seen this woman before?”

She studied the photo carefully. “I don’t think so. Who is she?”

“She was related to Li Wei. A friend of hers said she’d been looking into her family history in 2002 and uncovered records of an adopted cousin.”

“How did she know they were cousins?”

“There was a family mystery about her uncle. He fought in the Chinese Civil War and fled to Taiwan in the 1940s. No one ever heard from him again. She found his death certificate and learned that he’d had a daughter who died in childbirth, which led her to Li Wei’s adoption records.”

“Was there proof Li Wei was related to her?” Mrs. Koep asked.

“If you mean a DNA test, I don’t believe so. Her friend said she came to Fredericksburg in March 2002 and tried to get in touch with Mrs. Chapman. I don’t know if they connected or not.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered if they did,” Mrs. Koep said. “Mrs. Chapman had Alzheimers. She’d lost everything but her long-term memories by the end of 2001. Her sister came up from Arizona to take care of her. She stayed on for a year until it was time to move Mrs. Chapman into a memory care unit, then sold the camp.”

“Is it possible she met with Mrs. Chapman’s sister?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you have a number for the sister?” you asked.

“In my address book. I’ll send it to you.”

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Koep squinted at Julia’s picture. “She’s dead isn’t she?”

You cringed internally, realizing your mistake. Detective Roth was going to have your head.

“I do recognize her. She was in the Rolling Stone article.” Mrs. Koep’s eyes narrowed. “You found Li Wei and Zoe’s bodies, didn’t you?”

“I can’t share any information about the investigation.”

You braced yourself for her to unsheathe her claws, but instead of lashing out, she opened her tiny pink purse and handed you a card. It was an old-fashioned calling card with her name, phone numbers and email address.

“When you can release their bodies, please call me. They deserve a proper funeral.”

“That’s very thoughtful. Especially after all this time.”

“It’s the only thing left. I can’t do anything else for them now.”

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I’m sure talking about this wasn’t easy.”

“I wish I could’ve been more helpful,” she said.

“On the contrary. You were very helpful.”

Mrs. Koep looked confused. When you didn’t elaborate, she sighed. “Alright then. Is that everything?”

“Yes. Zach can walk you to your car.”

You watched from the doorway of the shed as the pair walked down the ellipse shaped path towards the tabernacle and the parking lot beyond it. When they were far enough away, you took out your phone and dialed Annabeth Greene.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“Hey, how’s it going? Have you made any progress on your case? The one with the cousins?”

“That’s why I’m calling. Do you remember running Li Wei and Julia’s DNA samples?”

“Of course I do. It’s the most interesting thing I’ve cracked in months.”

“What about Zoe’s?”

“The little girl?” Annabeth asked.

“Yeah.”

“I thought I already sent you an analysis of her DNA.”

“You did, but I was wondering if there would be any way to identify her father?”

Annabeth sucked in a long breath. “Ugh. Look, I can try, but I’m not optimistic. A lot of genetic libraries have closed the loop holes that allowed us to use ancestry DNA to identify suspects for law enforcement.”

“I’m not law enforcement.”

“You’re as bad as Lloyd.”

“Can you do it?”

“If I loosen my definition of ethics,” Annabeth said.

“You’re the best. I owe you.”

“Uh-uh. Lloyd owes me. It’s going to be something good, too. Expensive. You tell him that.”

“Will do.”

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

In a semi-private alcove within the vast common room of Fairfax Fields Assisted Living facility, Lloyd faced down his prime suspect. Tate Corbin didn’t look eighty-three. His face was wrinkled but his posture was impeccable. Also, he seemed to be made of Teflon, because nothing stuck to him. It wasn’t charm that formed the protective coating that resisted Lloyd’s best interrogation tactics. Just the opposite - the Teflon shield surrounding Corbin was constructed of impertinence.

None of his usual tricks were working, and that pissed Lloyd off. He was good at two things in the interrogation room: getting a rise out of someone and building a sense of despair that made them unravel. Corbin was immune to both tactics.

First, there was no getting a rise out of Corbin. The man existed in a perpetual state of annoyance; the only dependent variable was the subject of his ire. Second, Lloyd didn’t have any actual evidence and therefore wasn’t equipped to build a sense of despair.

He wished he’d brought you along. If he had, he probably wouldn’t be sitting here listening to Corbin monologue about his various hatreds. Mr. Corbin hated scarlet macaws, because his neighbor had one and it wouldn’t shut up. He hated New Jersey and their subpar roads that were always under construction.

Trying to forge a connection, Lloyd empathized with that sentiment and inadvertently triggered a cascade of grievances.

The architecture of FedEx Field was hideous and the Washington Commanders had been on the downhill slide ever since they’d let Kirk Cousins sign with the Vikings. Tate claimed to despise Roger Goodell, Jerry Jones, and the entire NFL organization. And he loathed the football commentators on TV, too. They didn’t know shit about football. He preferred to watch the games on mute these days. Lloyd really, really didn’t want to agree with Tate Corbin… but he was right about a lot of things, especially the Commanders letting Kirk Cousins go. However, he wisely kept his agreement to himself and sat back, waiting for Corbin to run out of steam.

There was a rant against the commissioner of baseball, which didn’t have enough context for Lloyd to figure out whether Corbin hated the office or the individual who currently occupied it. Without a segue, the topic shifted to how social media addictions were the younger generation’s smoking. As much as he hated social media, Tate also had plenty to say about the mass media, and he didn’t hesitate to bend Lloyd’s ear about it.

Tate had been talking for almost ten minutes straight before Lloyd found an opening to put the conversation back on track.

“I hate dogwood trees,” Corbin said.

“You had a disagreement with Shun Nguyen about a dogwood tree, didn’t you?”

“Eh?”

“Dogwood trees,” Lloyd repeated, louder.

Corbin turned up the volume on his hearing aides. “Yeah, I did. That damn tree was growing over the fence and he wouldn’t trim it! Claimed he didn’t have the time!”

“We need to talk about his girlfriend’s death.”

Tate turned his head. His eyes shifted to the window. Uncharacteristically, he didn’t offer a comment.

“I’m here to talk about Julia’s death and the missing women,” Lloyd said.

“Always back to that, huh?”

“The investigation has been re-opened.”

“It’s old news. What’s there to talk about?” Corbin asked.

“You were convinced that Shun Nguyen killed Julia, is that right?”

“Damn right. They were always scrapping. I told her straight out that he’d kill her someday, but she didn’t listen.”

“Were you familiar with any of Dr. Nguyen’s other victims?”

Tate’s initial chattiness had waned. He shrugged. “The whole town heard about them. Heck, most of the country did.”

“Tell me about it.”

Mr. Corbin ran his tongue around his teeth. An expression of disgust, like he’d just bitten into something rotten, flashed across his features. The silence lengthened between them and Lloyd decided to prod.

“Did you know Stacey Moore?”

“Her grandfather and I golfed at the same course. We never played together or anything, but we’d see each other at the bar sometimes. I suppose you already know Maya Sutton interned for my accountant.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’ve done your homework. Everything I’ve told you was in the files, so you tell me - what’s the point of this? What are you getting at?”

Lloyd uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“In 2002 you claimed you saw a man walking across Nguyen's lawn on the night Julia went missing. I think you were lying.”

Tate straightened, his scowl darkening. “Lying about what?”

“You didn’t see a man. You made it up.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To throw the police off your scent.”

Realization dawned, and then Tate chuckled. “You think I’m the killer?”

“You hated Shun and Julia.”

“And the others?”

“You’re not much of a people person, Mr. Corbin. That can be very frustrating. You couldn’t join them, you couldn’t beat them, so what does that leave? You kill them.”

“That’s pretty twisted logic,” Tate said.

“Six women are still missing and we have the bodies of three others, so yeah. The whole thing is pretty twisted.”

“I’m not much of a people person, Mr. Hansen, but I’m not a killer.”

“Can you prove that?”

Tate snorted. “Actually, I can. You see, you’re not the first person to accuse me.”

Lloyd raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Peter Shaw, a reporter out of D.C. - obnoxious bastard.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“He tried to accuse me of being the killer in a story for some hipster magazine ten years ago. The editor called before they ran the story, trying to verify the facts.”

“What facts?”

“About my whereabouts during the times those other women went missing. Stacey Moore was the first, in June of ‘99. A few months later Maya Sutton disappeared. The next summer it happened again. Two more victims.”

“Do you remember their names?” Lloyd asked.

“Peyton Quirk and Kayla Ballesta.”

“They disappeared in the summer, too?”

Lloyd knew the answers to the questions he was asking, but he wanted to see if Tate did.

“Peyton disappeared in July and Kayla went missing during the first week of September.”

Lloyd pretended to make a note on his pad.

Tate continued down the list. “He took Lucy Lund in May 2001. Stephanie Young went missing in September.”

“You’re very familiar with the case, Mr. Corbin.”

“Of course I am. I was at Nguyen’s trial every single day, both times. Which is why I was able to track down the tickets and photos from my summer vacations in 1999 and 2001. There are three ex-merchant marines, guys I served with in the sixties, who can vouch for me. We’ve done a biennial fishing trip in Maine for the last thirty years.”

“Their names?” Lloyd asked.

He took them down, along with the phone numbers the old man rattled off from memory.

“You’re grasping at straws if you think I’m your guy,” Corbin said.

Lloyd had a sinking feeling he’d just grasped at said straws and they’d slid through his fingers. He clicked his pen and sat back, studying Tate carefully.

His body language was open and relaxed. He didn’t seem rattled by Lloyd’s prodding, which made him think the man was being honest. Of course he would check with the merchant marines to be certain but Lloyd suspected his alibi would check out. It was a shame Peter Shaw didn’t share information from his unpublished articles, because it would’ve saved Lloyd a trip.

“I didn’t lie, you know. I saw someone walking across Nguyen’s yard that night,” Tate said.

Lloyd noticed the way Tate’s left hand shifted to cover his right wrist when he said ‘someone.’

It was a subtle gesture of self-protection, the kind of thing you or Zach would be able to discern the meaning of. He couldn’t read the emotions on Tate’s face. Discomfort? Fear? Or was he gloating over some withheld piece of information? Being caught out of his depth was irritating. Lloyd switched tactics, dropping the confrontational strategy.

Corbin had a propensity to interject whenever he felt something was being misconstrued, so Lloyd phrased his next words as a statement instead of a question.

“You saw someone that night and recognized them.”

“No, I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t recognize them for sure. Not at the time.”

“But later, you figured out who it was,” Lloyd said.

“It was just a guess.”

“A name?”

Mr. Corbin adjusted the leg of his trousers, smoothing out a crease. “Guess isn’t really the appropriate word. Maybe you’d call it a… hypothesis?”

Lloyd wanted to grab Tate by the collar of his polo shirt and shake the answer out of him. Instead, he smiled, trying to school his features into a neutral expression.

“About a month afterwards, I had an epiphany, of sorts and the puzzle pieces just snapped together. There was a neighbor boy. He was college age but still lived with his parents. A big, strapping kid, just like the figure I saw.”

“Why do you think it was him?” Lloyd asked.

“I woke up that night because their dog was barking. I got up to see what was going on, but by the time I reached the window the dog had shut up.”

“Which house did these neighbors live in?”

“The one adjacent to Nguyen’s property.”

“Left or right?”

“Right,” Tate said.

Lloyd jotted down a note. “Anything else?”

“Like I said, I wasn’t sure if it was the kid or not. But he fit the general description of the person I’d seen, and that dog didn’t bark much. I figure that’s why the dog started barking - he’d smelled his owner.”

“Was he coming or going from the house?”

“Assuming it was him, he would’ve been returning to his house.”

“By cutting through Nguyen’s yard?”

“His parents had a security camera pointed at the front door,” Tate said. “I asked his father about their setup after things went down. I was thinking of getting myself a security system and he told me they only had the one camera for the front door.”

“And?” Lloyd prompted.

“Given the camera at the front door, he would’ve had to sneak in through the back. Nguyen’s yard wasn’t fenced. The easiest path would have been to cut through Nguyen’s front yard, go around the back of their house, and jump the fence into the next yard.”

“You never mentioned this to the police,” Lloyd said.

“Dealing with ‘em left a bad taste in my mouth. They’re idiots, the whole lot. Look at who they’ve got locked up now! One of their own evidence clerks! While I happen to think they’ve got the wrong man, I'm sure glad that fellow is off the streets.”

“Yeah?”

Corbin’s face scrunched. “With Leo McKenzie in the slammer Harmony’s DUI rate is about to go into free fall, if you catch my drift.”

“You didn’t think it mattered if you said anything or not.”

Tate grunted in acknowledgement.

“You seem to have this whole case figured out,” Lloyd said.

That earned him a smile. The old man leaned in, lowering his voice. “Want to know what else I think?”

Lloyd mimicked the posture, inclining his head.

“I’ve got a theory about why they never found any remains.”

“Really?”

“Copper Ridge Quarry.”

“I’m not familiar,” Lloyd said.

“It’s an abandoned mine, closed down in the 60s. Toxic waste. Acidic runoff. That’s where the bodies went.”

This interview was burning up more leads than it was generating. Perhaps he didn’t need to check out Corbin’s alibi after all, Lloyd realized. Tate definitely wasn’t their guy. The coroner’s findings on Julia and Li Wei pointed towards the other end of the pH spectrum, away from acid.

Even so, he played along, raising an eyebrow. “Acid.”

“It’s so strong it’s off the pH scale, into the negative numbers.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s more than interesting. Acid dissolves everything. No bodies, no evidence. Take my word for it - look into Copper Ridge Quarry and you’ll find your killer.”

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

Next - Chapter XXIV

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#the princess and the lawyer #series: the princess and the lawyer #the princess & the lawyer #series: the princess & the lawyer #lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x female reader #lloyd hansen x fem!reader #lloyd hansen fanfic #lloyd hansen fic #lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen au #chris evans character au #chris evans character fanfiction #chris evans character x reader #the grey man fanfiction #the grey man fanfic #the grey man fic

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brightlight-dazzlingeyes · 6 months

Text

where the sidewalk ends | pablo gavi

🎃 synopsis: Sofie meets an ex-hookup during a Halloween party. The full moon is high in the sky, the Summer they shared is now only a memory, and there are weirder things to worry about. warnings: alcohol consumption, smut, spooky themes, social media, fluff (Wc: 3k)

(this is a sequel to ibiza night fever, but can be read as standalone)

|the playlist|

“But all the magic I have known I've had to make myself.” ― Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends

It’s finally October, every melancholic girl's favorite time of the year. After a breakup and a much-needed Hot Girl Summer, what Sofie needed was a Sad Girl Autumn, and she’s been taking advantage of the season.

She started doing yoga and has been reading a lot more; you can confirm that by checking her Insta feed – she’s been filling it with intellectual aesthetic pics.

Strolls through the park, loud sighs, pumpkin spice drinks—anything that makes her look like the protagonist of a pretentious European indie film.

Tonight, though, is a special night. Tonight Sofie is a sexy Barbie Cowgirl, and she’s accompanied by Black Swan, Sleeping Beauty, and Carrie. Or, Chiara, Luisa and Becca, as they are known the rest of the year.

It’s Luisa’s annual Halloween party. It’s been a hit since the first edition and the first time Sofie will be attending it as a single lady.

If the last few months have taught her anything, it is how to be casual, or at least how to appear casual. Sofie was focused on having fun, holding her phone in one hand and a gin tonic drink in another. She scrolled through social media while taking another sip. She wasn't trying to arrive already drunk at the party, only to loosen up a bit.

She and her friends have already posted their outfits; half of them were already at the party. Sofie took a deep breath, put away her phone and walked out of the door.

chiaraaraujo

liked by rebeccaamorim and 307 others

i am so stressed out #natalieportman

oliviaaraujo amen sister ⤷chiaraaraujo 🦢 ⤷sofiemartins 🦢🦢🦢

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rebeccaamorim

liked by pedri and 752 others

its halloweeen happy birthday stephen king

sofiemartins uhh so i just googled stephen king birthday and... uh... ⤷rebeccaamorim nah i got it right, shut up ⤷pedri 😂😂

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sofiemartins

liked by pablogavi and 326 others

🦄💗

luisafernandes girl marry me chiaraaraujo gatinha 🖤

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luisafernandes

liked by chiaraaraujo and 956 others

i'm your favorite disney princess 🩷

francisca.cgomes tão lindaa rebeccaamorim u the love of my life. fr.

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When Sofie walks into the party, she gasps with excitement. The decor was straight out of a Halloween movie. A fog machine was filling the room with mist, cobwebs were hanging all over the place. Jack-o'-lanterns grinned from every nook and cranny, their flickering faces casting playful shadows, giving the whole scene a spooky, dimly lit charm.

It was clear Luisa had gone all in to make this party amazing.

And the guests really brought their A-game in the costume department. Among the crowd, there was a wickedly realistic zombie, a time-traveling Doctor Who, a whimsical unicorn with a shimmering horn and even a comically oversized banana. The variety was as entertaining as it was impressive.

Music was thumping from the speakers, mixing old-school Halloween hits with some current jams, setting the mood for the night.

Sofie's eyes locked onto a familiar face in the sea of costumes – it was Pedri, dressed like a pirate and laughing at something Rebecca said. He looked a bit different since she last saw him, sporting a cool beard that suited him perfectly.

Sofie wasn’t surprised to see the two chatting; Becca and Pedri have been in a complicated long-distance situationship since they met in Ibiza, in the summer. But seeing the football player at the party gave Sofie goosebumps, as she tried to forget her own antics in the Spanish island.

She goes on to greet the couple.

“Cool beard, you really committed to the theme, didn't you?” Sofie jokes about his costume and Pedri laughs. “What are you doing in town, anyway?”

They were in Lisbon, far away from Barcelona, where he should be. Sofie half asks because she worries about her friend ending up heartbroken, but she’s mostly scared that his answer might get herself in trouble.

“We had a game here last night. Figured we could stay for the party.” Pedri winks.

We. There it was, what Sofie was scared of.

“We?” She asks, anyway, even though she knows the answer.

Pedri then tilts his head to the other side of the room, pointing at something. Or someone. When Sofie looks, she’s met with a figure standing by the door, somebody wearing a Ghostface costume. She rolls her eyes and looks back at Becca.

“I’m getting a drink, have fun you two!” Sofie says.

“Don’t get lost!” Becca yells and Sofie gives her a thumbs-up and a nod, but the moment she turns away, the music swallows her up. Luisa's mansion was like a maze. Sofie knew she was in for a tough time trying to do what Becca had asked.

The music was blaring, making it feel like she'd stepped into a nightclub. There were chill-out rooms with people sprawled on fancy couches, a glittering dance floor with a DJ dropping beats, and dimly-lit hallways that seemed to lead to who-knows-where.

Sofie's search for a drink brought her to a bustling room, where she was comforted by another known face, Chiara. She was dressed as Black Swan and deep into a lively, tipsy, philosophical convo with a small group of friends.

Sofie couldn't resist joining the shenanigans. "Hey, Chiara," she chimed in, with a wide grin, “what are you guys talking about?”

Chiara turned her swan-like gaze toward Sofie, her theatrical makeup adding extra drama to her expression. "Oh, you know, the meaning of life, the universe, and why we all wear costumes on Halloween," she replied, her words accompanied by giggles from her friends.

Sofie grabbed a chair and got cozy, all set to dive into the amusing and philosophical banter.

But the conversation didn’t last long; A muffled scream suddenly pierced through the party chatter, instantly grabbing their attention. Sofie and Chiara exchanged a concerned look.

"Did you hear that?" Sofie asked, her eyes darting around the room.

Chiara nodded, her curiosity piqued. "Yeah, that sounded pretty real. We should check it out."

They both rose from their seats, leaving their group of friends momentarily and headed in the direction of the mysterious scream.

Sofie and Chiara followed the sound down a dimly lit corridor. The place was spooky, and their nerves were on edge, so they just froze, waiting to see what would happen next.

They exchanged nervous glances, ears perked up, hoping to catch any hint of what had caused that scream. The whole scene felt like something out of a suspense movie, and they were bracing themselves for a sinister revelation.

“Hey,”

The girls screamed at the voice behind them, as they jumped in shock. With a hand on her chest, Sofie took a deep breath, looking back to the figure standing now in front of her. Ghostface.

He took off his mask in a hurry. It was Gavi, and he tried to show them there was no need to be scared.

“It’s just me…” Gavi says.

Sofie and Chiara breathed a collective sigh of relief. Sofie was particularly happy to see that it was Pablo, and for a moment, she considered giving him a hug. But that thought made her freeze in her tracks, and her mind drifted back to their time in Ibiza, and the nights they shared. They hadn't talked since then.

“Is everything okay?” Gavi asks, torn between wanting to laugh at their reaction and genuine concern.

“We just heard something weird,” Chiara begins to explain.

Then, out of nowhere, loud banging noises erupted from the same place they'd heard the scream. The sudden, unexpected noise sent a fresh wave of tension through the group.

Sofie, swallowing hard, spoke up. "So, we came here to check it out..."

Pablo, shaking his head with a sly grin, says, "I don't know, I'm not super into the idea of investigating 'bang' sounds." He shot Sofie a knowing look.

“Do you think that that's somebody having sex?” Sofie asks, almost relieved at the possibility, since she had not considered it.

Chiara doesn't buy the theory, it doesn't sound to her like somebody is having a good time. “But if it's something serious, we should at least make sure everyone's safe." She says.

Pablo relented with a sigh. "Alright, fine. Let's check it out. But stick close, and let's not turn this into a horror movie cliche, okay?" He jokes.

With cautious steps, they followed the sounds down the corridor until they reached a closed bedroom door. The weird rhythmic banging noises were definitely coming from inside, and a mix of curiosity and fear gripped them.

Gathering their courage, they exchanged one last glance before Gavi, the designated leader of the group, slowly turned the doorknob. The door creaked open, revealing the dark room on the other side.

When they pushed the door open, they were in for a surprise – a room filled with Roomba vacuum cleaners gone rogue. The little bots were spinning around, bumping into furniture, and beeping like they were part of some bizarre dance routine. It was like a small-scale robot rebellion.

Gavi burst into a loud laugh, "Seems like the robots have picked Halloween for their big uprising, huh?"

“That’s why I don't trust robots…” Sofie says, tip-toeing closer to Pablo, trying to avoid the bots.

“What about the scream?” Chiara couldn't help but bring up the initial reason for their investigation.

The group tenses up once again, remembering what brought them here in the first place.

"It was me," came a voice from the corner of the room. Luisa was sitting down, carefully wrapping a band-aid around her toes. "One of these things nearly took my toe out, and I don't even know how to turn them off."

With everything finally making sense, the group gathered their efforts to grab the rogue Roombas. After some trial and error, they successfully managed to turn off the little vacuum cleaners and carefully piled them up in a closet.

luisafernandes

liked by pedri and 873 others

thanks everybody who showed up. it was the best halloween party ever. my vacuum cleaners literally almost unalived me. i love all of my friends so so much. happy halloween!

rebeccaamorim what was that in the middle? ⤷sofiemartins don't even worry about it pablogavi 👻 chiaraaraujo maybe like. get a broom or something

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Pablo and Sofie stayed behind after hushing the girls back to the party. In the dimly lit bedroom, it was just the two of them. Pablo sat at the edge of the bed, and Sofie stood by the window. They both felt the urge to talk but weren't sure where to start or what to say. The unspoken tension loomed in the room.

Should they bring up Ibiza? Or should they pretend like nothing happened? They exchanged glances every now and then but mostly remained silent as they gathered their thoughts.

"It's pretty crowded out there..." Sofie says, her thoughts interrupted by the party noise.

Gavi cleared his throat, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I know... This is better. I prefer being alone."

Sofie couldn't help but giggle,"Well, you're not entirely alone. I'm right here, you know."

Pablo met her gaze and said, "When I'm with you, it doesn't feel like there's anybody else in the room." Gavi's face flushed like a tomato, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when he realized what he had just let slip. "Do you... um, understand what I'm saying?" he mumbled, his words stumbling out as he anxiously awaited Sofie's response.

��I feel the same way.” Sofie says, her words escaping before she could even fully process what she was saying.

A palpable tension hung in the air as they locked eyes. It felt like an unspoken challenge to see who would look away first. It was like a silent game of vulnerability chicken, and neither of them was ready to blink.

In an instant, Gavi was right in front of her, his hand gently resting on her hips. His eyes pleaded for permission. Sofie, taken aback by his bold move, simply nodded, her eyes fixed on his lips.

He kissed her hungrily and passionately. Their minds immediately turned into a total mess, as they both desperately tried to savor the moment while also trying to let each other know just how much they'd missed this.

Sofie instinctively placed one hand on his chest, while running her fingers through his soft hair with the other. Pablo deepened the kiss, taking his time exploring her mouth and playfully licking her bottom lip.

He carefully guided her to the bed, lowering himself onto her. Their lips finally parted, leaving them breathless and flushed.

They stared into each other’s eyes intently. They couldn’t wait anymore. The desire between them was so strong, neither of them could speak. They both just wanted each other, no more holding back.

Sofie grabbed him tightly by the neck, pulling him closer. After gasping for air, Gavi brought his lips to her again, his hands moving down her sides and gripping her waist firmly.

She took off her shirt and Pablo gently pulled off her lacy pink bra.

“I missed them so much.” Gavi jokes, looking at her breasts. Sofie gives a playful slap on his arm.

“I missed you too.” She whispers in his ears. She can feel the goosebumps all over his body as she says that.

“Are we really doing this?” He asks, tenderly kissing her neck. He can’t seem to keep his mouth away from her body for too long. He knows they don’t have much time together, he’s going back to Barcelona in the morning.

“I want you so, so much.” Sofie answers in between whimpers, she’s already too lost in pleasure to consider the consequences of what she’s doing.

“But we have to be quiet.” Pablo looks at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “If somebody hears us moaning, they might get worried for our safety.” He whispers. Sofie has to bite her lip to hold back a giggle.

“I can be quiet.” She promises.

Pablo enters her slowly, taking his time to enjoy every second of their reunion. They get lost in each other and it feels like their first time all over again.

She wraps her legs around him and digs her nails into his back, demanding more of him. His body starts rocking, slowly thrusting harder and faster until he loses control completely.

Their bodies move together easely. Sofie has to put a hand on her mouth to stop herself from crying his name out loud.

The sigh of her desperation is enough to drive him off the edge. He reaches down and starts massaging her clit, just like he knows she likes it. Pablo speeds up his pace, when he senses they’re both close to orgasm.

He collapses in her arms and Sofie holds him close as they reach their peak together.

They have their eyes closed and for a while the only thing on their mind is each other's heartbeat.

But then, Sofie feels her anxiety creeping in, and it is enough to break the magic surrounding them. "We should probably head back to the party," she whispers. To their ears, her words seemed louder than the music outside.

"Right," Pablo mumbles, eyes still closed, lingering in the moment for a little longer.

They quietly slipped out of the bedroom, making their way back to the party without exchanging another word.

Even without speaking, as they get out of the bedroom, they share a sly, knowing look, hinting at the possibility of meeting again, without the need for words.

Sofie, without Gavi noticing, sneakily slipped a piece of paper with her phone number into his pocket.

#pablo gavi #gavi #football fanfic #pablo gavi fanfic #football fic #ibiza night fever #oc fanfiction #halloween fic #gavi fanfic #social media au #pablo gavi imagine #gavi smut

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snickerdoodlles · 10 days

Note

Very Important Question about Vegas's Youtube era: how colorful is his cookware? Did Macau and Chay get him pink and green pineapple patterned mini-muffin trays?

Vegas's kitchen is so colorful. his kitchen looks like a cute kitchen pinterest board threw up all over it. nobody can tell if his aesthetic is retro or industrial or countryside or what, because it's this eclectic mishmash of individually cute instagram worthy things thrown together in a way that almost works but doesn't, because a proper pinterest board is always a hot fucking mess when taken in its entirety.

it first begins with items of whimsy. Macau shows Vegas a picture of a dinosaur ladle, Vegas says "what the fuck is that? father would never allow for those" and that alone manifests 12 of them in his shopping cart. feels very weird about it when they arrive and banishes the box of them to the forgotten corner of a cupboard. then Macau buys Pete his first pineapple jar. and like. it's a pineapple. that's all it is. Pete sticks it in Vegas's kitchen and Vegas is stuck staring at a ceramic pineapple that just looks like a pineapple, unable to figure out why it feels weird. Macau gets Pete a second pineapple jar, except this time it's also an owl face, and Vegas can't figure out why he wishes he was looking at that one instead of the regular pineapple one. he wants to hurl both of them at a wall so hard they leave a dent as they shatter. he wants to put them in a window where they'll be framed as the sun rises on them. he buys a spatula with a bee pattern on a whim all by himself and is so on edge about it for the next two weeks he whips welts onto (a very happy) Pete's back.

over the course of time, all of Vegas's kitchen supplies become items you'd expect to find on pinterest. bird salt and pepper shakers. cutely bland patterned jars labeled COFFEE and TEA. an industrial chic spice rack that sits under his cottagecore herb wall. highly specialized mini pans that make foods in special shapes. so many pastel pots and pans. at first Vegas is always saying stuff like "someone got that for me" or "my father would hate it." but it's not about that. later he's defiantly indifferent and daring about owning them at all. but it's not really about any of that either. it's really just...Vegas letting himself have cute things. things that would be called ~girly~ or ~ruin~ his image. there's actually several items he's just neutral about (like the soft pastel colors--not really his thing tbh! but a good pot is a good pot) or even sometimes dislikes (mini muffin trays = yay!, mini pans that only cook one(1) thing = frustration)-- but like. Vegas is allowed to have them. he's even fine to like them if he wants to. it doesn't matter that he has them. the image they paint of him doesn't matter. and that feeling of just owning cutesy, whimsical, or downright weird kitchen shit as he pleases without it being anything else is its own high for Vegas and his traumas ❤

#someone remind me to post the thing about pete's shitty design tastes for 'interior design' fic it's v similar 😂#so much of my goals for vegas in particular is vegas getting to just do whatever the hell he wants to do #because vegas was always playing to some agenda or another when all he actually wants to be is a guy who cooks for his loved ones and #rides bikes with his friends and obsess over his boyfriend over long weekends of freaky sex #my happy ending for vegas is one where his biggest concern is what he's gonna buy for dinner next week #his only responsibility is his own happiness and no other job at all #kinnporsche #fic: gone fishing #fic: interior design #fic headcanons

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dorkagedoodles · 1 year

Photo

Elric of Melnibone, because that’s what I’ve been reading lately. Really enjoying its whimsical world and looove the aesthetic, so wanted to do my own take on him. :>

#elric of melnibone #michael moorcock #stormbringer #elves #elf #fantasy #eternal champion #ink #traditional art #fantasy art

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ebonysplendor · 4 months

Text

Mushroom Oasis (Demo) Review 🍄

TL;DR: Mychael deadass wants to be MYchael, and it gets to a point where you're so wrapped up in the wholesome, you actively ignore the red flags. Also, there's butterflies and chickens. No, we don't forage those for food.

Game Link: https://deerspherestudios.itch.io/mushroom-oasis

Notable Features: Gender Neutral MC, Reader insert, Yandere LI Spiciness: O/5 -- very wholesome, no explicit content LI Red Flags: 2/5 -- Manipulative, gaslighter

Want to know more? Well let's get into it!

Where do I start with this?

I am so overwhelmed with how good this game is. Let's get into the general aesthetics of the game. When I tell you that it's so satisfyingly pretty, I don't think you really get it. The art style is so captivating like...I can't explain it, but you'll know what I'm talking about when you see it. It's something straight out of a children's storybook. It's so whimsical and so cozy and so...like look at this.

LOOK AT THIS.

These are the woods that we get lost in. I understand that we were supposed to be nervous for our life in this frame, but look at the scenery! And if you think that looks pretty, just look at this man Mychael's HOUSE.

He really said that this could be us all day, everyday. He done made his house into a home. And don't get me started on his garden area.

Ugh, I could literally go on and on about how much I loved the art style in this game. I am literally obsessed. Enough about that though, let's get into the real deal: the game.

I'm really excited about the development of this game, so bear with me. I'm going to give as much detail without giving away the story because I NEED you to play this for yourself, and I don't want to take its charm away by telling you exactly what happened. Trust me, it's so worth it! Remember though: it's just a demo.

So, boom, this whole thing kicks off because we lost our cat.

Obviously, we have to go looking for our family, so we take off one day and pretty much raw-dog it in these woods, but we had a little bit of sense -- we brought a compass. It proves to be useless though because, tell me why, as soon as we get lost, it gets lost, too. Like lmao what?

It's no big deal though because this kind stranger comes along and takes care of us. This stranger's name is Mychael. Say "hey" to the bae, everybody.

Hey, boo~!

All right, so we're chilling in his house, and he makes us some bomb food with some tea but...things get a little awkward at dinner. We basically find out that the spelling of Mychael's name isn't the only thing about him that's different -- it's actually him that's different, too. This is bae though, so, we just accept him for who he is because the man is so sweet ... then again, I'm not entirely sure if these are our own thoughts right now, but he does feel safe, and he isn't exactly treating us bad. Like, the man gave us his bed to sleep in while he just made camp on the floor. Talk about a gentleman.

So, the next day comes along, and he's pretty excited because, not only are we here to enjoy the next day with him, he has a surprise for us. Okay bet! We get ready in a, surprisingly, nice bathroom with some more than decent plumbing, enjoy some bomb food once again (courtesy of Mychael, thanks bae), and head on out. We see his garden and, oh my gosh, he has chickens!! Look at this cutie with his chicken.

LOOK AT HIM

But as cute as he is ... we still haven't found our cat. Unfortunately, we kind've had to remind him we had to go home because at the end of the day, he hasn't put a ring on it, we have a whole job, and yeah, gots to go. Of course, he's sad about this, and he's like "Well, let me just show you this one other thing, and I promise, I'll take you straight home!" Mychael is literally as wholesome as they come at this point -- how could one refuse? Then again, are we even able to refuse him...?

So, yeah, we go with him, and it is so worth it because where he took us was so magical! There are no words to describe the beauty of where he took us. I'm so tempted to show you guys, but I don't want to ruin more than I already have. I won't leave you hanging though! Just picture this clearing with all these butterflies and flowers and just the absolutely perfect amount of sunlight to set the whole "this place is amazing!" mood and just the right amount of shade to enjoy it all in. If you're picturing it correctly, that scenery should be on point, and you should feel an instant sense of calm and awe mixed into one.

Aside from that though, as nice as this was, we still had to get home. So, we remind him -- for, like, the third time -- "Hey, I really need to head out", because granted, the man knows this forest, but we still didn't want to run the risk of it getting dark and us walking around in it for however long it takes us to get back. Here's where it starts to get weird...

If it wasn't obvious, Mychael is laying down the rizz somewhat thick. He may not understand the concept of cosplay or family or even how it's "mama mia" and not "maummer mee-ya", but he knows how to woo a person! or at least manipulate them Like, he is putting in work to be MYchael, you feel me? So much so, he just brushes off that whole speech about us needing to go home, and instead, just tells us to relax. I don't know what it is about that man, but ooh, his voice. You just can't say "no" sometimes! So, we do. We relax, and frankly, feel kind've sleepy because we are so relaxed. Mychael seizes opportunity and starts showing off his musical skillz. Man's literally serenading -- well, more specifically lulling -- us, playing the most calmest of tunes on his little instrument. Everything just feels so nice, relaxing, and safe... oh shit!

We snap awake. We done fell asleep on this man, which is cute and all, but we have to get home neow! Mychael stops playing games finally, and for real, for real starts to take us home. Before we get too far though, we stop at a creek so we can freshen up. We catch a glimpse of Mychael in our reflection, and he catches a glimpse of us which makes him look at himself, and...the reaction was so heartbreaking yet so relateable.

You know how sometimes when you look in the mirror, all you see is your flaws, and it gives you (hopefully, only) a brief sense of ick? Well, his was past that. It was completely self-loathing in that look, and nu-uh, we do not support Mychael slander in this household! So, now it's our time to turn on the charm, and...we may have laid it too thick and too well because now he's blushing, we're blushing, and then he whispers something to himself, and now Mr. Righteous comes out.

Now, he's determined to try to find our cat (...lmao), but he's like "That means you've gotta stay for another day, though!" with this really intense look on his face. Once again -- and for like the fifth time now! The man is sweet, but he has a poor concept of "no means no" -- we're like "That's sweet, but I gots to go". Boom. We start feeling sick, real sick. Like, we had this weird feeling before while we had been hanging out with him, but now it's intense, and it literally takes us down. Mychael had to catch us or else we were gonna hit the ground. So, now, we don't have a choice. We had to go back with Mychael. We's in the thick of it now bois ... AND THEN THE DEMO ENDED!! AUGH!!

DEVESTATED. I. was. DEVESTATED. Lol it was getting so good! Like, you know how you know the demo is coming to the end, but you're hoping there's just a touch more afterwards? That's how I was feeling. It was getting so good, and I wanted to see more! Hell, it IS good, and I WANT to see more!

So far, so great! I'm really excited to see what Day 3 brings us! I understand that Mychael is toxic or whatever, but he's just lonely and a little weird looking. I can fix him!

Honestly speaking though, with how sweet he is, you genuinely don't even feel like he's "ugly" or "scary" looking anymore. His gentle personality and literal down-to-earth nature completely overtakes his looks. He honestly isn't even bad looking! He really is cute in that other-worldly, fantasy being kind of way. But if I saw him in real life, there's a good chance I probably would've freaked out and get the bad ending lol

But, no, seriously, this game is fantastic! This is such a fun experience so far, and the story is really captivating! Just a little tip from me, be sure that when you play through, you pay attention to those text color changes! It helps bring some understanding/context to the story as to what's going on/happening around you.

Fair warning, the "yandere" element isn't showing too much yet, but you can tell that it's just a pacing thing, of which I think is being executed just right! I guess you could consider this to be a slow burn type of story, but because it's so fitting, it doesn't feel like slow pacing at all. If you were planning to jump right into the psycho, crazy Mychael as soon as you were at home with him and made it aware you wanted to leave, it's going to seem slow, but if you don't mind the build up to the plot, even prefer it, this will be great to you. For me, the build up is doing the story justice as there's not really a dull moment. The pace that the dev is going is purposeful, and it's not just slow for the sake of being slow.

That being said, I think I'll end my raving here! Really anticipating what the developer is coming out with next, and I can't wait to see just how far Mychael is willing to go for the sake of companionship. If you're contemplating trying this game out, stop contemplating and just play it! It is so worth it, and you will find yourself just as excited as I am for the full release! Be sure to leave your comments on the dev's page if you feel like they're doing a good job, and you want to give them that extra reassurance. Of course, donations are always helpful to them as well! Like mentioned at the top, here is the link to the game if you'd like to try it out yourself! I highly recommend that you do. It really is a great game.

That's all from me! Drink water, don't be dumb, and hope to see you around! Until next time~!

Mushroom Oasis Game Link and Page

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ninareviewsfilms · 1 year

Text

Queering the heteronormative… but make it pink

“I'm a homosexual! I'm a homosexual! I'm a homosexual! Oh my god... they were right. I'm a homo.”

Released in 1999, But I’m a Cheerleader is truly an iconic, camp-filled queer film ahead of its time. I remember stumbling across this film when I was 13. Perfect timing for someone questioning their sexuality, and life in general. I was immediately hooked so watching But I’m a Cheerleader has become a ritual of sorts; it has become my favorite queer film. Uneducated and unfamiliar with queer media, the younger me was immediately drawn to the B-movie chick-flick aesthetic (I was, and still am, a devourer of chick-flicks). Little did I know I was about to watch a genius concoction of satire that subverts the heteronormative by whimsically playing with outrageous queer stereotypes.

Played exquisitely by Natasha Lyonne, the protagonist Megan is sent to a conversion camp by her devout Christian parents, believing her to be a lesbian (oh no). In denial, Megan exasperates: “I’m not perverted. I get good grades. I go to church. I’m a cheerleader!”.

Arriving at the camp, we see two outrageously exaggerated gender roles of men and women. The men are dressed in baby blue uniforms, while the women are adorned with pastel pink skirts. On top of the artificially binary gender roles, we also have all the typical stereotypes of queer people: the flamboyant gays, closeted homophobes, goth and butch lesbians, and our very own lipstick lesbian protagonist. The introduction of the camp already reveals the absurdity of heteronormative stereotypes and their enforcement. The film continuously jabs at such norms while Megan begins her journey of self-discovery – coming to terms with her sexuality – in an overtly ridiculous yet candid way.

And on top of tackling such heavy topics humorously, the film also manages to have a very adorable and genuine romance between Megan and Graham (oh Clea DuVall, my bisexual awakening).

Graham, a rebel, and unwavering lesbian is everything pink-loving, ‘girly’ cheerleader Megan is not. They bicker constantly about ideals, and what it means to be gay or straight. With such contrasting personalities, the romantic sparks that fly is undeniable and beautiful to witness. I remember crying; it was the first unapologetically queer film I watched after all. This intricate play into different queer stereotypes stylistically subverts the heteronormative, showing how all types of queer people are valid and inevitable, regardless of their appearance and interests.

Perhaps my favorite aspect of the film, is how Megan's ‘lesbianism’ was to be forced out by the conversion camp, but instead, she learned to accept her sexuality, fall in love, and ended up queerer than ever. The film’s message may be told in a satirical and quirky way, but it is simple: being gay is okay. After years of relentlessly (and yummily) consuming queer media, this is still one of (if not) the only sapphic films with a happy ending. Despite the traumatic backstories of everyone, they all learn to accept themselves, and the world around them. But I’m a Cheerleader was pivotal in the discovery of my own sexuality, and it did it in such an endearing and understandable way that together with Megan, I also learned to accept my sexuality.

#but im a cheerleader #clea duvall #natasha lyonne #film review #queer

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oogaboogasphincter · 5 months

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Deceits of the Devil (priest!marcus pike x f!reader) | chapter two: the magician

chapter summary: after the harvest dinner, you're kept up all night by a frightening plague and are bedridden for the next couple days. when sunday arrives, never did you think you would look forward to mass as much as you do now that father pike is involved. yet another illness bewilders you during the service and a knight in an alb comes to your rescue - and gives you some very interesting information. does this help you feel less alone or will it make you even more of an apostate?

word count/series~chapter-specific warnings: 6.1k+ words // MATURE (18+ ONLY) MDNI! reader uses she/her pronouns and is incredibly non-religious, slow burn taboo relationship, lots of religious/spiritual talk, horror elements and general spookiness ~ descriptions of vomiting/vomit, some light body horror, fainting, discussions of health, slow burn is slow burning, WE LEARN HIS FIRST NAME IN THE NEXT CHAPTER TRUST I WILL SPARE YOU PRECIOUS READER FROM READING FATHER PIKE AS EVERY OTHER WORD GOING FORTH

a/n: i'm not really sure if i like this chapter, i think i do?? again i'm not really sure where i'm going with this story, but i'm just trying to go with the flow and have some fun with minimalist editing. i have some ideas for later chapters but i'm not too sure how i'm going to get there yet. marcus seems a little ooc to me in this chapter, but he also only had like 30 minutes of canon screen time so i feel like i'm entitled to some creative liberties 😭 again, let me know what you liked and what you'd like to see more of in future chapters! :) *moodboard is for aesthetics only, reader has no physical description

The embroidered rosettes lining the hand towel’s edges start to warp into one dusty pink blur as you swallow back bile again. You’ve been hunched over the toilet all night, switching between dry heaving and being sick so often that you can’t tell the difference anymore. Knelt on the cold tile, with the moonlight that comes through the window making a mockery of your candlelight, you feel incredibly alone in Lucy’s house. She’s just upstairs in her room, but you don’t want to disturb her from sleep at this hour of the night. You’ll continue to wick your own cold sweat away and clean any residue of gut spillage until you’ve emptied yourself - a point you thought you had reached hours ago.

When you got back to Lucy’s you felt fine, jovial even. The innocent flirtations and budding friendship you shared with Father Pike at the harvest dinner injected a spring into your step, one so strong that Lucy commented on it with a smile. She gave you a quick tour of her inherited cottage, since you only had time to change clothes after arriving from the airport before you were sprinting off to the cathedral.

The house is all vintage charm, with quaint rooms and antiquities. Lucy’s room is upstairs, neighboring the room that belonged to her mother before she passed away. Lucy has left it untouched in its entirety because her wounds are still too tender to prod, which you respect with wholeheartedness. You didn’t ask questions when she walked past the room as soon as she introduced it. Downstairs contains the living room, which is populated with wicker and wool save for the pink velvet couch. The kitchen is embellished with mint gingham, complementing the vintage and well-kept appliances. Lucy has an en suite, so the downstairs bathroom is all yours, with its clawfoot tub beneath a massive shuttered window that overlooks the backyard’s garden. Your bedroom has the same whimsical view, albeit from a much smaller window. It seemed dark when you first walked in, but the towering beautyberry bushes just outside explained that. The room is largely taken up by the queen bed, outfitted with pine-colored linen, so you suppose that accounts for the extra shadows too. Despite the eerie silence that shrouds the house, you can see yourself living here peacefully for your visit.

The two of you said your goodnights to each other and retreated to your assigned rooms. You hung up your clothes, stocked the bathroom with your toiletries and cuddled up in the sheets for their first time cradling someone ever. The stress and excitement from your evening had drained you of energy, but somehow you couldn’t find sleep. Actually, you know exactly why you couldn’t sleep: visions of Father Pike danced in your head like goddamn sugarplums. While your visit is contingent on when you’ve deemed your stay sufficient - and when you’ve been accepted for an apartment in a city thousands of miles away from this village stuck in an orthodox time warp - Father Pike is a major draw to settle your wings.

Regardless of the opportunity that cities hold, it’s difficult for you to find people you mesh well with. You don’t make it any easier on yourself, opting to sequester yourself to university, work, your solitary bedroom, rather than put yourself out there. But that’s because when you do, you find arrogance, cruelty, entitlement. It’s easier on your heart to be alone and you enjoy your own company.

Enter: Father Pike. He was kind, kinder than anyone else at the cathedral. You might be biased, with his dreamy eyes deviously manipulatling your impression of him into a favorable one. Maybe he didn’t show you any more chivalry than any other person would have, you just spent more time with him so it unfolded naturally. But no - he felt different. You tossed from one side to the other, wracking your brain for answers and scrambling your thoughts once they had composed into investigated little piles to see if an answer was lying in plain sight instead of hidden amongst overthinking. Nevertheless, your mystery remained unsolved of any concrete reasoning.

You decided it was his honesty: the way he treated you with understanding delicacy when you revealed your unreligious core; how he laughed at your atrocious jokes that erred on the side of being sacrilegious - a genuine laugh at that; his smirk that took pleasure in the mischief shared between you two when he helped maintain your guise, one that gleamed with… dare you say it… devilishness.

Without your permission, your brain, slightly delirious with exhaustion, began orchestrating a symphony named after him. As you drifted off to sleep, the cozy scent of cinnamon filled your nose, the warmth of his gentle yet confident touch tingled all over your skin. He was like a plate of steaming waffles on a blustery morning, an everlasting hug, a book destined to be your favorite that’s hidden amongst the most unassuming shelves, just waiting to be picked up and cherished by you. You’re doomed.

A sharp pain in your stomach awakened you and the nonstop churning that followed it had you fleeing to the bathroom. The light was unresponsive when you flipped the switch, and after a few more unsuccessful tries, you barely had time to light a candle before your body unleashed itself. Thankfully you had gotten some light because you were in no shape to aim for the toilet in darkness. You attribute your upset stomach to a multitude of reasons: the nerves from seeing your best friend in-person for the first time in a year; the sudden illness you experienced; the butterflies that Father Pike gave you. You had even begun thinking that maybe there was a part of the meal that triggered you, but there’s no way you’re still harboring anything you consumed in the last twenty four hours.

Like any time you’re sick, you start trying to think of things that calm you down. Maybe if it is in fact your nerves that are acting up, some peace will help put a stop to your blight. You close your eyes and rest your head against the toilet seat, breathing in and out, images coming clearer to your mind with each breath. A field of flowers dancing underneath happy sunlight, the gentle lapping of ocean waves on a clear day, the scent of a puppy’s fur, Father Pike’s hands…

Your efforts have the complete opposite effect of your intention. The veins that web across the top of Father Pike’s hands, instead of the heady attraction they conjured earlier, make you squirm like eels caught in a trap. With every little detail about him that you try to remember comes a drowning of illness. Is he… is he making you sick?

You close your eyes as your body hurls forward into the toilet again. Sweat trickles down your temples and invades your eyes, stinging them with salt and forces you to wrench them open. When you look in the toilet, you jump back with a startle. It can’t be. You scrub your eyes with the backs of your fingers before slowly grasping the bowl with your two shaky hands and peer inside: your vomit is bright green. The pile of sludge glows inside, too weak to illuminate the bathroom, but enough to constrict your pupils out of both exposure and fear.

What the fuck?! Like roadkill, you turn away out of revulsion but can’t stop staring back at the offense through your periphery. Could you even flush this thing? It looks like radioactive waste straight out of a bad post-apocalyptic movie. With every second that passes of it just sitting there, you become frightened to a degree where you can’t stop trembling. That thing just came from your body. In the dark, now accompanied by neon ambience, your hand searches blindly while your eyes are glued to the monstrosity, like it will get up and walk away. You grab the hand towel to wipe your mouth clean, but you curl into it, muffling your sobs. You wish someone was there to tell you that you’re fine, there’s nothing wrong with you, just to hold you. Only one person clouds your mind…

More lime green empties into the toilet. You huff in frustration, completely fed up. At this point, you’ll disregard the unnatural hue of your vomit as a fluke if you could just stop and be granted the ability to sleep. As silly as it sounds, you determine there is a brown-eyed common denominator in all your illnesses. So, with the dismal energy that remains, you thwart all thoughts of him away. You shut your mind’s doors, shutter the windows, pull the blanket up and over your head and hunker down in your mental fortress. You can feel the arrows of lust being shot at the walls, incessant and ambitious in breaking you down. You don’t let them nudge one brick. They soon retreat and your castle falls silent, like there had never been a threat in the first place.

To your surprise, it works. Like magic, you’re finally granted some mercy by your body. The cramping dissipates like cotton candy in a puddle, and suddenly, you feel all better. Your muscles are a little sore from seizing and releasing, but other than that, you’re… fine. The cold sweat evaporates and the acidic taste in your mouth is neutralized. You grimace at your puke, which has reverted to its horrible organic color. You seriously don’t know which is more putrid: this horribleness or the glow stick version.

You now feel comfortable - and eager - to flush so you do. You stuff the soiled towel into the laundry bin, making a mental promise to Lucy that you’ll do your best to scrub any evidence of this night out of it. Within minutes, you’re flopping down onto your bed, huddling under the covers and finding a sleep too peaceful to follow the horrors you just suffered.

—-

Saturday you’re bedridden - against your will. You tell Lucy about your blunder, excluding the radioactivity bit, and she cancels the activities she had lined up for you two to have some fun, forcing you to stay confined to your bed. She serves you tea and keeps you on a diet of bread, apples and chicken soup, rolling her eyes at you when you beg and whine for a piece of her dessert. But, your best friend always knows best.

When you settle down for the night, a fear creeps up in you that the events of last night will repeat themselves, or even worse, go to more horrid lengths. But, thankfully, you feel like normal before bed and you stay asleep, thanking the stars and moon in your dreams. You had kept your mind clear of Father Pike, you noted.

—-

Sunday morning is here and you get out of bed jittering with excitement. Today you’re going to mass and that means you get to see Father Pike again. You laugh at your own foolishness when you realize this will be only the second time you’re seeing him, tugging your jeans up over your hips and jumping to get the job done faster. But, in a town desolate of amusement, you allow yourself to lean into the infatuation. There’s nothing wrong with a little blossoming crush, you tell yourself, untouchable or not.

Lucy chuckles when you walk into the kitchen, her cereal spoon hovering in mid-air, “Wooow,” she elongates the syllable as you twirl on your heel, showing off your incredibly mundane outfit, “I haven’t seen you up and awake this early in… how many years ago were we in kindergarten?”

“Oh, ha ha,” you grumble playfully, pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and taking the seat across from her. You keep your eyes trained on your breakfast, feeling your best friend’s gaze boring into your lips that twitch with a smile you can’t fight no matter how hard you try. The silence of the cottage, save for the awkward clanking of your spoons, rips a giggle from you that you smother with your hand.

“Don’t act like I don’t know why you’re so chipper,” she accuses conspiratorially. You look up at her, your anxious shoulders deflating with an impatient sigh.

“Just tell me what time we’re leaving.”

—-

The cathedral looks much less cozy in the brightening sunlight than it did illuminated by warm-toned street lights and candle sticks the night prior, but it’s no less majestic. There are crows perched on the roof, cawing a morning chorus. The structure’s hulking size seems less threatening by their presence in addition to the pale backdrop of the morning. The inky blackness of the night sky has opened to reveal a powder blue, bouncing off camel coats and cherry scarves that had been twisted into muddy smudges and blood ties at the harvest dinner. Even the cathedral’s inner hull seems more like an endless cavern than a sinister vacuum, with your curiosity being stimulated by all that you could not see before; what lies inside all of the corridors, the hidden passageways, the arched doors? Maybe that’s something you could ask Father Pike.

All of the newfound loveliness aside, it doesn’t erase the feeling that you’re in a place where you don’t belong. You didn’t quite think through all the ramifications of seeking out your holy crush, but who doesn’t forfeit their rationale in the face of infatuation? You’re always open to learning, especially about cultures that you’re not a part of, but you didn’t think mass would be this boring.

Lucy briefed you about when to stand, sit, stand again, when to sing and when to be quiet. So no one would suspect a thing, you follow along like a lamb with the same robotic obedience that everyone else does. You’re surprised to find personal dismay at the lack of life behind the hymns that the other goers recite, nor is there any in Father Thorn’s sermon. It saddens you that these people dedicate their lives to this higher cause, boast about how it divinely guides them to choose the right paths in life, only for them to sing with as much enthusiasm as you do. Father Thorn stands painfully erect, addressing the room like a schoolteacher whose monotone and thoughtless eyes make you think that maybe there was some reluctance in his profession of choice. From the piercing glare he gave you yesterday, you know better than to imagine questioning his integrity lest you want your severed head deposited into his goblet.

Father Gala flanks the droning priest in a gilded throne that must serve no other purpose than to support the elderly Father’s aching bones. He listens on with a permanent soft smile, flickering his eyes amongst the audience with visible cheerfulness. His eyes lit up when he noticed you in the crowd and gave you a friendly nod, which you returned with amicability. Lucy nudged you on the shoulder when he glanced away with a whisper, “Look, you’ve made a friend.”

And on Father Thorn’s other side stands who you’ve been aching to see for a whole of thirty six hours. He had taken very seriously to carry out the beginning demands of mass, saying his prayers and following the proposed movements with an almost militaristic adherence. But since the reading of scriptures began, his shoulders relaxed and his fingers interlocked in front of himself with peace. His brown eyes gaze absentmindedly to the narthex behind you and you so desperately want to get up close and see how the sunlight that streams in through all angles of the building hit his irises. Do they shimmer with threads of gold, or do umber chasms allude an unreachable depth?

Your crush seems eons away from where you sit a few rows back from the sanctuary. The sermon fizzles out to a barely noticeable hum as a tornado of names rushes through your head while you assess your preferred priest and try to imagine which would fit him best. While you’re intent on respecting his title and maintaining proper etiquette for someone you literally just met a few days ago (and internally cringing at the speed of which this infatuation has snowballed) you have to at least dream of what you could call him.

Is he a David? No, he’s too young for such an old name. But it is biblical and maybe he’s a junior, or the third or fourth. Dave as a nickname is where you draw the line. That just feels all wrong.

Possibly something strong and sturdy, like Joel? Eh, Joel sounds too ornery and old again.

Go simpler, you think, Jack. No offense to all the great Jacks of the world, but it would be a shame if this exceptional man was dubbed so plainly.

And none of these options sound good with his last name, which you know as fact: David Pike, Joel Pike, Jack Pike. No, no, definitely not.

Cutting into your brainstorm, you agree that Father Pike can wear anything and look great. He has his usual black priest garb on, but layered atop is a white robe whose seams are trimmed with a red and gold pattern of tiles. If you’re being completely honest… it’s a little heinous. The fabric looks starched beyond belief and the decoration screams of yester-millenia. But, somehow, his virility isn’t snatched by the drabness. His shoulders maintain that delectable broadness you noticed at the dinner, along with a poise that is mannered yet youthful. The golden threads shimmer adorably in the sunlight with the fidgets of his wrist as he fiddles with the side of his thumbnail.

As if on cue, his eyes land on you just when your cheeks break out in a heat. Your heart jumps to your throat momentarily but is lulled back down to your chest by his soft, tender smile and the identifying gleam in his gaze. It’s as if you’re his puppet and he’s pulling the strings to shape your lips into a smile to match his own, completely unable to control your body. You think you can’t find him cuter but then he’s upturning his hand so his palm faces you and he waves. Again with your bodily autonomy extinct, you wave back with the shy nature of a blushing virgin.

Lucy notices your hand first and her eyes are quick to follow your tunnel vision. She takes your wrist and lowers it to your lap, glancing at you with that funny mixture of scorn and encouragement that only a best friend can give. “Not now,” she whispers quickly before returning her attention to Thorn’s speech with the shadow of a smirk. Father Pike still looks at you.

Your mind drifts deliriously to a part of mass that Lucy called communion, when the parishioner metaphorically drinks the blood and eats the body of Christ, or drinks wine from the goblet and eats a wafer from the hand of a priest. The seduction engulfs your mind like a virus thinking about sipping from a goblet that Father Pike holds in his strong hands, meeting his gaze while your throat bobs with drink. While taking the wafer into your mouth as he places it on your tongue, maybe he’s slow to withdraw and your lips would catch on his finger…

Lucy taps your bicep to indicate to you it’s time to stand again. Father Thorn’s voice is suddenly much louder, booming in your ears and reverberating in your chest, down to the ground beneath your feet.

“God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father; through him all things were made.”

A fickle tingling lunges through your veins, sending your nervous system into a familiar panic. When have you felt this peculiar feeling before? You feel ill, like you want to curl up on the floor and empty yourself, or passing out would be an easier option. Oh no.

“For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven,”

Everyone bends at the waist, bowing towards the sanctuary, but you remain standing upright, frozen. Your eyes bulge with wild terror. The blood drains from your face. Father Pike meets your gaze and he furrows his brow in confusion at first, before you watch him be consumed with brazen worry.

“And by the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary, and became man.”

Father Pike disappears from your sight as your eyes roll into the back of your head.

—-

You come to groggily with a lukewarm cloth being pressed to your temple. A low, firm voice is muffled and distant in your ear despite its closeness, but you absorb its warmth intravenously, “Hey, hey, hey…”

You can hear his strain to remain calm and steady. He drifts away for a moment, you feel your feet being propped up on a pillow, and his breath is back at your ear, ghosting over your dewy cheek.

Under the safeguard of questionable consciousness and the panicked edge in his soul, he lets an endearment slip, “Wake up, pretty girl, come on…” he whispers in an increasingly pleading tone. His timbre does the opposite of his intention and keeps you wanting to stay asleep, to writhe and drown in his comfort within the darkness of your mind. In your dreams, you can be his pretty girl.

You roll onto your side and grumble, fighting to stay in your head. The unforgiving surface you’re laid out on shoves against your bones but you remain stubborn. The man at your back chuckles under his breath. He pries your arm from your side and overturns it in his hands, cradling it delicately, and you wish to feel those arms and hands encapsulate you, engulf you like a snake and constrict. But then he’s pinching the tender patch of your inner bicep, jolting you awake. You tear your arm back and by the offense on your face, he knows you’re back in reality.

Someone had moved you from the spot you had collapsed to this room, empty of anyone besides Father Pike. It’s quiet and dull, exposed stone comprising both the walls and floor. You’re sprawled out on a large and long wooden table, atop a sweetly placed blanket that unfortunately doesn’t do much to cushion. Wardrobes and other tables dot the rest of the room, illuminated by the small and sparse stained glass windows that line the perimeter.

Father Pike assesses your mindful curiosity and deems you sound and coherent. He decides to awaken you further with a little well-intentioned abrasiveness.

“Are you going to do this every time I see you?”

“I hope not,” you sit up and Father Pike is quick to put a hand on your back, steadying you. Only now with your eyes open do you realize just how incredibly close he is to you; his lips parted with apprehension are mere inches from yours. You meet his eyes and you were right - they glow in the sunlight, the caramel streaks highlighted and accompanied by obscured taupe that shelters his innermost secrets. You flinch away imperceptibly, afraid of your own arousal.

“Are you-” he has to clear his throat, turning away to spare you before he tries again. His voice was tight with nerves.

“Do you feel okay?” Much smoother but there’s still a hint of constraint. He’s softened from their teasing.

You think for a moment, mentally check in with your body then answer honestly, “Yes, I’m okay.” And you are. Besides a subtle ache on your outer thigh, which you assume broke your fall, you feel completely normal.

Father Pike stands from where he knelt and puts the back of his hand to your forehead, checking your temperature. You try your very best not to drench your panties. “Do you feel any pressure in your head? Any nausea? Do you feel dizzy while sitting right now?” It’s a barrage of questions, but in his comforting tone it doesn’t feel anywhere near overwhelming or like an interrogation.

“No pressure, no nausea. I feel a tiny bit dizzy, but nothing like before. And after all, I did hit my- did I hit my head?”

“No, your thigh hit the ground first. It looked like you twisted your knee on your way down. Thankfully, because if you hadn’t, you would’ve hit your head first.”

Now that he mentions it, your knee does feel a bit funny. Hopefully it’ll just bruise over and won’t cause any lingering issues.

Your thoughts are obliterated when Father Pike takes your face in his palms, tilting your chin up so he can look into your eyes. He’s checking your pupil size, but it sends an unwarranted, delectable chill up your spine nonetheless. There goes your attempts to avoid a mess between your thighs. You gulp foolishly and he looks at your throat bob. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip before sealing his mouth closed. A habit you can picture him doing any time he’s deep in thought, this time it’s dipped in eroticism.

“Does being unknowledgeable about the church really stress you out this much?” He’s caring, concerned. Condescension, intolerance and disdain are in a different galaxy entirely than his intentions. His eyes bore into yours considerably, assessing you like you did him earlier. Trying to figure you out.

You gather your thoughts, taking into account the near-fainting spell you had on Friday and trying with all your might to remember only the vital details of what happened during the night after you got home. Coming up with no definite answer, you shrug, “No, this felt completely unrelated. It was just my body acting out of order.” You had felt uncomfortable during the sermon, but not fearful. It didn’t wrack your nerves to sit there and listen to illusionary words like it had when Father Gala shook your hand for the first time. But even then, your illness had come after the stress. Your sea of anxiety had been drained and what came to be revealed at the bottom was a previously undiscovered chest of volatile poisons. They felt correlated, perhaps, but not connected.

Father Pike’s worry remains in his face like he doesn’t believe you. Not because he thinks you’re lying, but almost like… there’s something you don’t understand that’s happening. Suddenly it feels a little awkward between you two, with the cause blurry. You decide it’s best to elaborate so you both can have a few more pieces to aid in finding a solution.

The door is a good distance away from Father Pike’s back and looks as though it’s made of the sturdiest oak to ever grow, but you still don’t trust it. If someone were to lean their ear against the other side, in addition to the enshrouding silence, they could clearly hear what is being said. Mass must have ended a while ago, but the cathedral is open to roaming parishioners, tourists and other inquiring minds. You lean towards Father Pike and he comes to stand at the edge of the table. Lowering your voice, not nearly to a whisper but close enough, you confide in him again,

“But, I won’t lie. I feel as if one wrong move will get me permanently exiled.”

His expression doesn’t change. The neutrality of it is a little disconcerting, actually, with the way he just remains standing there with his fingertips perched on the edge of the wood, until he retracts himself to where he had been a few feet away. He doesn’t deny nor confirm your feelings, his eyes downcast.

He clears his throat again. “Are you anemic? Diabetic? Do you have any reason why you’d have fainting spells?” His tone is steeped in worry, rushed. Like he just wants a clear-cut answer so that neither of you have to keep guessing or digging deeper.

And he’s almost a little… aggravated? His words are acute and directed at you, like you’re suddenly the reason to blame. It is your body that’s being troublesome, but you’d like to know what’s been going on with it recently just as much as he does. Even if you did, it’s not your responsibility to tell him, nor your fault for its antics. With his sight still turned away, busy adjusting your feet on the pillow, you furrow your brows in disbelief and make your scoff come off as animated, playful, “I didn’t know you doubled as a doctor, Father Pike.”

Luckily, that seems to put him at ease. The bothered creases in his forehead smooth away and he looks back up at you with a humble smile, as if to say he’s sorry for getting so suddenly worked up. He rests his hand on your shin, so naturally, but he takes it away the same moment and puts his arms at his sides. You know he wanted to leave it there, the flicker of guilt across his face evident. You rein yourself back, tightening the restraints that have come loose on your attraction; you don’t want to break him.

His voice reverts to its baseline calmness, “I don’t. My brother is a doctor and I would help him review for tests, so that gave me a lot of free training and insight. Just being around him, the physician’s mindset started to rub off on me. They see things in such a peculiar, analytical way, so different from my own. Logic prevails over everything… it’s helped me to decipher who really needs the help and who doesn’t.”

Oh. Such a strange thing to hear Father Pike admit that… it gets your gears going.

You approach it as gently as you can, while still feeding your curiosity, “Hey… aren’t you guys supposed to believe that Christ can cure anything?”

You don’t think you mean to bat your eyelashes at him provocatively but you do. He smirks, shakes his head with a chuckle that more or less comes out as an amused exhale from his nose. He cuts your boldness back down to a humble level, “I thought you didn’t know much about the church?”

Oh? His accusatory smugness mirrors yours. Two can play at this game, apparently.

“I don’t, but I know enough that you guys put all your faith into your, well, faith.”

The waning dizziness you felt earlier has officially rid itself, so you feel it’s safe to sit up on the table. Father Pike takes a seat as well in a chair that he’s pulled from aside one of the wardrobes, positioning it close to you so that he’s not too far should you feel woozy again.

“Well, yes…” He’s thinking, does that godforsaken thing with his tongue on his lip again. Then comes the confession.

“Some of the parishioners… they’re painfully alone. The only people they talk to are family who either forget their existence half the time or enable them. Being alone all the time, you need to entertain yourself with something. They’ve been reading the same scriptures for their entire lives, it plays behind their eyelids whenever they close; it’s in their dreams.” He takes a heavy breath, steadying himself for the brutal honesty he’s about to lay out to you. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this naked before in his life.

“It’s not like the Bible gets an update,” you kid quietly. That gets him. The skin around his eyes crinkles as Father Pike laughs heartily, nodding his head, “Exactly.” He echoes you with amusement, “It’s not like the Bible gets an update,” his smile grows fonder. You mourn the joy that leaves his face when it’s replaced with a solemn frown.

“As much as they don’t want to admit it, the people of this town are like any other. They yearn for change. They need something new, fresh, to stimulate their minds, or at the very least, a distraction from their loneliness. So, on a very normal day, their knee starts to hurt. And then as the days go on and they do their usual tasks, the knee begins to hurt more. It worsens until they fool themselves into walking with a limp, saying that they can’t live their excruciatingly mundane lives anymore. Because they desperately want a change, no matter if it’s a hindrance.

“Sometimes, pity is king.

“They refuse to go to the doctor without the church’s approval. They come and see to me, or one of the other Fathers, and we talk through their ailments. I say a blessing or two, and on their way home, suddenly that appointment they were pleading for has lost all urgency. They’ve been miraculously cured by us, or God. But we’re not doing any radical, magical healing here. Don’t get me wrong, there are very real illnesses that affect our parish.”

He pauses to look around the room, as if someone has slipped through the cracks in the rock and hears his rational disagreement as something obscenely blasphemous. His voice is low and wary, but you’re proud to detect a streak of confidence when he talks about his personal beliefs.

“The others here, they shun modern medicine. They believe what you said, that all things can be cured through Christ. But… that’s not entirely right to me. There are people who need more… pragmatic cures. Then there are others who all they need is a little motivation from the spirit.”

You never thought you’d be empathizing with a priest over feelings of exclusion, no less somewhere in the heart of a cathedral, surrounded by religious paraphernalia. It doesn’t feel like Father Pike is baiting you to say that the church is a farce just so he can blackmail you later. His quick, breathless words speak for themselves; he’s been dying to show someone his heart. But are you really the first outsider to cross his path? There has had to have been someone who wandered into Carmeltree unknowingly or a resident that didn’t readily accept the teachings that they began being indoctrinated with since birth. Father Pike’s motive doesn’t seem malicious, but it’s unclear.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs, clasping his hands together with a smile amused by the simplicity of his answer, “I have one of your secrets, and now you have one of mine.”

Dry chuckles fill the room. “That’s a pretty big secret,” you joke.

“What about it?”

“Well,” worry crosses your face, imagining what the Bible wavers would do if they heard what Father Pike is spilling across you now, “if anyone else heard it, about their priest, well, you’d be…”

“Exiled?”

“Yes. Mamed, called a fraud or a non-believer.”

“Well that’s incorrect. I’m a believer.”

“Not by their standards, you aren’t.”

“See why I’ve confided in you?”

A steady wave of recognition settles in the air. Two people with their morals in line but would be labeled heathens by the rest of the conservative population have established a safehouse in one another to retreat to if need be. Lucy was right - you have made a friend, she just had the wrong Father.

The elderly one’s cane taps ring out in the gaping corridor outside your room, alerting you and your friend that your divulgence must end. The stiffness returns to his back, squaring his shoulders underneath that heavy-looking alb as he stands and scribbles something on a piece of paper.

Don’t think about the sweat on his skin. Dappling his muscles, collecting in pools until they runneth over and stream down in little rivulets…

He helps you to your feet with a hand in yours, but it’s shoving the paper into your palm before you have the chance to drool over its warmth. “Here’s the town doctor’s details. If you feel unwell or the fainting persists, please go see him. I don’t-”

There’s a knock at the door. “Father Pike?”

He makes a comically fearful face at you, clenching his bared teeth and widening his eyes, snapping to put a finger to his lips when he elicits your desired giggles.

“One moment please!”

He ushers you to a door at the back corner of the room, leading to one of the many magnificent courtyards incorporated into the cathedral.

You turn back on the step to take one last look at him, “Thank you for all your help.”

He takes your hand in his own two, like his Father before him.

“You’re in my prayers.”

You go to leave, but he murmurs urgently, leaning out of the doorframe, “Come back tomorrow. I can help strengthen your act.”

He winks at you.

A friend, you remind yourself. He’s just a friend. The giddiness that bubbles up from your heart to your throat begs to differ.

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vilvermin-sqwirl · 4 months

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haauughhhgeh

i havent been able to do much art tbh.. ive been focusing moreso on decor and making our new room (oh we moved a bit ago btw i never said that here lol) look less like a hotel room. we have our own bathroom now and are going hard with a rubber ducky aesthetic and its so whimsical you dont even fucking know dude. anyways yeah thats where this thing comes in, we found a cute little bathtub-style toothbrush holder thing at homegoods and i decided to paint bubbles and ducks on it because idk what the FUCK do you want from me. i do what i want!!!!!!

anyways i think it turned out cute or swagever. one day i'll post pics of our room but theres still boxes everywhere bc we dont know where to put anything :sob: who was gonna tell me when you get an apartment you gotta BUY FURNITURE for it?? what the H dude.

anyways i will draw more at some point i have been through brain hell despite being in a way better environment. i got a button maker for christmas though so thats cool <3

#art #physical art #traditional art #painting #ceramic painting #?#customization #how do i tag this #duck #cute ducks #plushie #yes the ducks are lesbian #cleancore #LOL #cute #soft #decor

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youremyheaven · 9 months

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Art & Vedic Astrology

i thought ill make a post about the recurring motifs, patterns, techniques that different nakshatra natives seem to resort to in their art work!! so here it goes<3

Punarvasu

Punarvasu natives often use matrixes, mazes, repetition, interloping patterns, and tessellation in their work.

Pedro Friedeberg

He has Punarvasu rising and he is known for surreal, abstract and whimsical style

he repeatedly used the same patterns over and over again in his work

Claire Nakti's new YT short did mention that these natives were very prominent in the Surrealist art movement and I often see how they have this surreal, whimsical element in their artwork. Often using bright colours and repeating the same pattern/motif over and over again.

the Punarvasu aesthetic is veered towards maximalism. however these natives do not like clutter or maximalism that is random? if you look at any of these artworks, you can see how the same pattern is repeated many many times (a common theme in the work of these natives) its not 8 different patterns or motifs, so there is a sense of minimalism or balance within their otherwise eclectic seeming art creations.

MC Escher

If I use the term "tessellation", the artist that would come to mind for most people is MC Escher (Ketu in Punarvasu). he had a thing for repetitive imagery and using the same pattern over and over again.

he made the technique of tessellation as well known as it is now. in fact it was Escher's signature style

alt-j has a song called "tesselate" and its written by joe newman (the lead vocal) who also has ketu in punarvasu!!

Harmony Korine

He has Ketu in Punarvasu and you can see how he uses endless circles in his work, going back to Punarvasu's association with the endless nature of the universe

he returns to the same motif again and again

or draws the same pattern repeatedly

Paul Klee

he has ketu in punarvasu and his venus & rising in swati, another nak associated with infinite space and abundance

there is a tendency to use the same pattern repeatedly

once again the punarvasu urge to use bright colors and repeat the patterns, themes, motifs

and there's a lot of interlooping

here's a cat (punarvasu's yoni animal)

Sol Lewitt

He is Punarvasu moon

There is tessellation and use of bright colors

repeatedly using the same shapes, patterns and the work being maximalist outwardly but minimal in essence

lots of interloping because punarvasu is the endless infinity of the cosmos!!

Ashlesha

slightly similar to Punarvasu natives, these natives also seem to love repetition and pattern making

Yayoi Kusama

Yayoi Kusama is Ashlesha moon and this art installation definitely seems to invoke serpentine vibes but sticks to the whimsical, colorful, exuberant nature that is Kusama's trademark

her birth time is unknown but I strongly believe that she has Punarvasu rising tbh

i mean??? her work is very punarvasu coded imo but here's more of her ashlesha esque work

not to promote stereotypes but these be looking like snakes to me 🤪

Princess Fahrelnissa Zeid

She is Ashlesha moon

Ashlesha natives love color and using bold patterns and designs in their work but their work is maximalist through and through

with Punarvasu, their artworks were almost minimalist compared to the hypermaximalist works that Ashlesha natives seem to create

do you see how crowded and busy these works are?

Keith Haring

He is Ashlesha rising and we can see how he consistently used similar motifs throughout his work but his work is very loud and very maximalist

like this

his work is very eclectic and very busy

Andy Warhol

Andy Warhol is Ashlesha sun & rising and his most famous artwork is one that uses repetitive imagery and features Marilyn Monroe (Ashlesha rising)

(yes this is a painting) Ashlesha natives love to use the same pattern to crowd an entire painting

Willem de Kooning

He is an Ashlesha moon and his works also have the same eclectic, colorful and "loud" aesthetic that we saw in the works of other Ashlesha natives

do you see how there is a similar running motif in all his works but compared to the works of a Punarvasu native, an Ashlesha native work seems far more frenetic and fast(?) there is a different degree of intensity

#astrology notes #astrology observations #sidereal astrology #vedic astro notes #astrology #nakshatras #astroblr #astro notes #astro observations #vedic astrology #astro community #punarvasu #ashlesha #art #abstract art

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gpuzzle · 10 months

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Big ol' review of Asteroid City, with a blatant disregard for spoilers and extremely long:

The way people talk about Asteroid City - if at all - has spanned somewhere between the myopic, the hypermetropic and the astigmatic. Yes, it's ostensibly Wes Anderson telling a thousand of his intertwined stories, at least at the small level. You do have the classic Andersonian parade of characters, of tiny fragments, of recurring characters. It weaves in plot in plot in plot. I’ll start with the subplot and move up into the true metaplot.

You get a dizzy little romance between June (Maya Hawke), an appropriately religious elementary school teacher with a class of incorrigible ten-year-olds that she attempts to corral throughout the movie, and Montana (Rupert Friend), the only member of a gang of singing cowboys with any speaking lines. It is the purest of artifice; the singing cowboy is an American invention, and Hawke’s character struggles to handle how her reality has been shattered and the kids have seemingly become obsessed with an alien that has come to Asteroid City and picked up a meteorite, culminating in a scene where one of her pupils deliver an appropriately silly Western Swing number “Dear Alien (Who Art In Heaven)”. It is by far the most whimsical, dumbest, and most ostensibly “regular movie” metastory within the entire thing. But in its extreme artifice and very obvious “fakeness” in every aspect, this subplot being the least Andersonian save for the dialogue and framing rather than plot and theming really highlights the levels. Here’s Anderson delivering a straightfaced story with only his aesthetic leanings, drawing back into the past, but making it so blithely artificial it’s impossible to even consider it serious for an instant.

You get Woodrow Steenback (Jake Ryan) and Dinah Campbell (Grace Edwards) as part of this quintet of brainiacs that all come up with fully sci-fi devices; spanning projecting images on the Moon from the Earth (that gets mentioned as a potential application for space advertising); a jetpack; an honest to goodness disintegrator; a new element; and radioactivity-assisted plant growing. In a handful of scenes, these five brainiacs introduce themselves - first by naming an increasingly large number of famous people, then eventually with the introduction of an alien, as a dedicated group of five that are intent on figuring out just what it is, where it came from, and how to get that information out; intertwined with Tilda Swinton as Dr. Hickenlooper, a scientist who burned the stars in her eyes, literally - and how they come into conflict with the US government regarding that, notably in the figure of Jeffrey Wright as a General Grif Gibson and Tony Revolori as his aide-de-camp. It eventually culminates in a passionate kiss between our two teenaged romantic leads, with Ryan's character projecting a heart with "W.S. + D.C." on the moon, visible from everywhere.

This is a Wes Anderson movie, but he's given us only the outline. The scenes that feature these characters are not few and far between, but we don't get a true look into that romance. But that's not the point. The pace of the romance happens at nigh breakneck pace, since we don't get to spend nearly as much time with the characters as you'd expect where this the entire plot of the movie. That's an underlying Andersonian story that weaves and pops. It’s fascinating; I’ve never seen the crux of a Wes Anderson movie down to its barest essentials like here. But that's not actually the story being told.

The other 3 space cadets have mirror relationships with their parents: Aristou Meehan plays an daredevil who takes on dares compulsively, usually of a self-destructive nature (including climbing a cactus and jumping from the roof of a building), and yet is given a moment of extreme sincerity and the need to be noted against a father that is at once both incredibly protective and absolutely at his wits' end with this kid (played by Liev Schreiber); this guy could be any of quite a few characters on his run from Bottle Rocket onto Darjeeling Limited. Sophia Lillis plays a girl scout clad in girl scout attire all through the movie, mirroring her mother (Hope Davis); they both individually have a great appreciation for Midge Campbell (Scarlett Johansson), an in-play movie star and Dinah's mother, first directly by Lillis' character outright stating that she's a fan of Johansson's character, and by Davis' character later in the play in a small scene while they wait for the communal showers to open up where she actively voices her appreciation for Johansson's character in a way that actively mirrors some of Johansson's earlier lines; while Ethan Josh Lee plays the brainiac that breaks the alien story and is the one that most actively fights the US government, in a way mirroring his dad (Stephen Park) confronting the motel manager (a wonderfully cast Steve Carrell) but also taking on bigger and bigger challenges. This too is very Wes Anderson, in the same way that you'd get in The Royal Tannembaums; the way parents and offspring mirror one another.

The other two parents are instead the main characters of the play – Augie Steenbeck (Jason Schwartzman) and Midge Campbell (Scarlett Johansson). Campbell is a star who often plays women drawn to cruel and violent men, but holds artifice – she spends most of the movie with a greasepaint black eye, to constantly remind the audience on all levels of the sheer degree of artifice in movie making. She blends real and imaginary by having long conversations with Steenbeck out of a bathroom window, opposite his bathroom and makeshift photography studio. Raising again the matter of “this is all artifice”, the only way you can see the two of them presents us with the desert mountain skyline – and a billboard as part of said skyline, bringing ever forward the degree of cinema is an invention. She acts out scenes with Augie Steenbeck that blend real and imagined, and Midge Campbell’s metaactor (Mercedes Ford, also Johansson) is similar; the brief train scene where she’s convinced to return to the play at the last hour blends character and reality. She says she’ll be found dead in a bathtub, having drunk herself to a pill overdose – and we briefly do get to witness that. During a line read with Steenbeck, she coaxes him to use his grief to get the line across – the grief from losing his wife. The meta implications are obvious. She is a resounding foghorn that tells us that we are dealing with a fundamental level of artifice. Johansson gets to wax and wane in three different roles of doomed, self-destructive women – Midge Campbell’s next character, Midge Campbell herself, and Mercedes Ford – and that blend makes it difficult to assert how much she’s telling the truth, and how much is she acting at all times. She’s excellent; by far the best role that Johansson’s ever taken and she executes it perfectly.

Schwartzman's in-play character begins with a fundamental drama - a widower who has yet to tell this kids their mom died. About two scenes into that play, that entire suspense is just delivered into a brief scene. This plot returns every so often most symbolized by the character of Stanley Zak (Tom Hanks), Augie's cantankerous father-in-law, and Augie's three daughters, Pandora, Cassiopeia and Andromeda (played by Gracie, Willan and Ella Farris, respectively), who take on this nigh Weyrd Sisters quality of trying to be three witches to bring their mom back. He finds himself involved in an affair with Midge Campbell as the two dialogue through bathroom windows, and culminating in a scene where Midge Campbell reveals that she’s told her daughter the affair, and Augie Steenbeck burns his hand on a griddle for no apparent reason. This too is an Andersonian plot, with all its inherent quirkiness and family drama and ultimate yearning and learning to deal with an emotion.

But he's also a war photographer who got wounded multiple times, including shrapnel to the back of the head. He takes a lot of pictures, from nuclear explosions to Midge Campbell eating some waffles to eventually the alien plot. The entire framing of pictures, of capturing images, really comes to a head with one picture that he takes and keeps and that becomes the key part – that of his first (and now dead) wife, played by Margot Robbie. This is the link that gets us to the blending of metacommentary from his side. If Scarlett Johansson’s meta commentary arrives by dint of her own character blending the line between performance and reality, Jason Schwartzman’s metacommentary arrives in a crucial scene that ends the third act of the play; the actor breaks from the scene, and exists via the stage, Truman-show style, stunned, trying to understand the motivations for his character, such as burning his own hand on a griddle on purpose. And thus the two worlds that we had existed in start to intertwine as they unravel rapidly. The first world is the in-universe play which is the gorgeously produced. The second one is the TV production presented by Bryan Cranston about how that play was made.

Asteroid City is established as a series of lies and artifice on top of more lies and artifice. It establishes this from the word go; we are immediately presented to a TV broadcasted, presented by Bryan Cranston, who has a brief cameo nearing the end of Act 2 and start of Act 3, finding himself in the wrong spot. We have Edward Norton as Conrad Earp, a playwright that channels the parody image of the asshole playwright. It introduces the setting of the play, the characters, their actors. And then, once we cut to the play, it's very obvious that we're following the directions of the playwright - are shown the entire city following the exact directions of the stage laid out. Then we start following the acts of the play, and it is similarly made explicit – scenes and acts are labeled and presented to us as they appear. When we return to this broadcast in black and white, we are presented to vignettes in the lives of these characters. First, Earp and Jones Hall (Schwartzman, playing Augie Steenbeck’s actor) have what can be considered a minor romantic meeting in an early meta scene, wherein Hall delivers ice cream, punches a window and becomes Steenbeck to convince Earp to let him be in the play, which forms the core of Hall’s arc. We are next presented to the scene where the understudy (Jake Ryan) convinces Mercedes Campbell to return to the play at the last minute. These intertwine with Schubert Green (Adrien Brody), a womanizing director who similarly helps blur the line between acting and reality. It leads to a scene in an acting school that introduces us to most of the adult metactors, as well as there being a discussion about dreams, and the importance of dreams to writing, and getting into a dream state.

And then the two worlds rapidly collide when Schwartzman exits through a stage door, playing Hall unable to comprehend Steenbeck’s motivations, with Green (Brody) telling him that he doesn’t need to understand, he’s doing great. This rapidly collides into the last scene. Dreams aren’t a part of this movie until the end, where the meta breaks. As Hall goes to take a cigarette break, he spots, opposite his theater – the actress who was supposed to play Steenbeck’s dead wife (Margot Robbie), clad in Elizabethan attire. The two have a brief heart to heart, she reveals she found another role after a scene was cut, and they go over her scene – one where she appears to him in a dream and they have a conversation about the alien. For all intents and purposes, this is the cut scene from the play, delivered to us in the setup of the TV show, in a way that’s not clear it even happens in the TV show. We never return to the play.

We instead cut to the description that Conrad Earp died at 50 in an automobile accident, with the empty chair as the obvious sign, and then we return to the acting school scene and the talk of dreams, and to get into a dream fugue state. The scene resumes from the last time it was presented, in a comic “everybody falls asleep instantly, from falling on the floor to somnambulism to regular naps” – and Jones interrupts with “You can’t wake up if you don’t fall asleep” that culminates in everyone saying it in mantra like fashion, with the alien showing up in the actual scene and walking towards the camera. It is genuinely unsettling. And that theme is the underlying message; the way that stories intersect with the real. Jason Schwartzman plays an actor playing a character burning his hand on a griddle to see if he’s awake, but this is also acting. He shows little of the actual reaction to it, and even comments that “this really happened”. That movies, plays, stories – they’re artifice, they’re not real. They’re dreams. But if you live in a dream all the time, you cannot be awake; you cannot experience the real.

The epilogue wraps up the play. Augie has overslept and everyone else has already left but his family. They bury the ashes in that plot, Woodrow admits he no longer believes in God – and it’s highlighted when Augie’s order at the diner features now one less flapjack and one more black coffee. The threads of the Steenbeck family wrap up, and they drive away.

While I’d wager that Asteroid City is a delightful watch and its minute-to-minute watching is effervescent the way the best Wes Anderson scenes are, clad in its tones of pink and orange blending into a singular tone and blue, teal and turquoise, as well as cuts of bright white; Asteroid City is a complex, difficult movie in the way that its message involves the metastory, and that we are shown a level of metastory, of talking about stories, about the way that stories are about the artifice, the way stories are a falsehood, the way that we must thus engage with them is with the full awareness that they are falsehoods. It is excellent, postmodern cinema by way of Thomas Pynchon. Fully recommend if you’re willing to see it for what it is, but you’ll despise it if you don’t, because otherwise it can read as a series of barely connected threads that are never developed.

But that was never the point.

#asteroid city #spoilers

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