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this-is-a-dystopian-parable · 1 year

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"i can call him up and tell him what i want!

Jesus.mp3

(first im gonna tell him, again, how i love glorious sound; the tambourine forever convulsing, the concertina and horns in stereo imperfect mirroring, the full stop || to announce the entrance of guitars. the church bells, and beautiful beautiful the one man who comes in wrong towards the end but everyone smiles through. thump thump hit your foot on the floor and all this worry goes away. and ry cooder isnt even really supposed to be cool, is he?)

am i sick? do i want to get well? is such a goal possible? i am goalless, theres just thump thump this beat, and merely attending to each new downbeat, thats what im going to do. after every hit of the drum there another one coming up. on it. right now im riding fast through midnight a slipper of ice, and the walls of night are a million cymbals suspended and waiting for my playful picket fence stick. im hitting more than ever...abandon the metaphor for a moment and revel in the quotidian count, ive got 7 plays lined up for the first 6 months of next year, and i am thrilled psychedelic sick about each and everyone. listen: a cabaret, a song played on a solo saxophone, a train to catch, a gun goes rooty toot toot, russian rock n roll beamed into outer space, prayer both silent and full, and finally a birth of light. i must be fucking crazy. i must be! am i sick? do i want to get well? these seven bursts of metal with wonderful souls talent so beautiful, none of them will be the single goal, each night will be another cymbal sizzle crash through starlit wind flying past me as im riding so recklessly down the hill, weaving past cars technicolor lit, and its going to blur in the speed to just one stream of light pouring out exhausted. i love the challenge, the sleepless push to hit every next note, keep playing, keep going, i want it.

i can call him up and tell him what i want!

do i want more than this? im making a living at it now. im paying the rent on these outbursts now; and the people are good, everyones mind is reeling in another way and i love the laughs each one gives me. how can i ever come close to knowing them all? is there room for me? do i want more than them? maybe, maybe. real success, that elusive flame of fame, ha ha my musical opening on broadway in 2007, my god, why not, why not. i can call him after all, and ask him for this, right? what i want. what i want.

when the whiskey veil wears away for just a second i look down at my hands and they are white knuckled for im freezing cold causing im going so fucking fast and i forgot my gloves or i lost them in a bar on mission street or in the bart station, but i cant go back because i jumped the gate, i jumped the gate again almost every day a bart train renegade heart racing fast everyday but i cant remember right now. i must be crazy. there are so many things to wrap your hands in anyway...and look at her with her mittens fingerless, and her with her hat fizz fuzz blue, and her with her legs i can see fishnet stockings, garter and all, under a wider fishnet hose, that lovely leg all wrapped twice. every woman around me wrapped up different and my fingers trembling no matter where or when for a little more warmth, a fabric new always, why? why? i must be crazy wanting that when ive already got those eyes to get so lost in that temperature vanishes like direction in the dark, floating through centigrade in a shivering sweat flawlessly true. i must be crazy, but i can ask him, what i want, what i want.

i dont want anything, i dont. god, please i dont. please let that be the truth. cause ill get so sad if i want it and dont have it and ive got so much right now that im almost blind. i can be what i want to be/i can choose whatever heaven grants. but i just want to be whatever heaven grants, any cymbal so bright and lovely to be seen when im riding fast like this, god its like a new moon gold in the sky! crash a cymbal that i want to hear ring clear, crash peel, i want to hear them PEEL!

and i fear the shallowness, maybe theres too much and im not there deep where i could be. theres someone ive known as long as possible in real pain and i cant understand it really, cause i felt real pain once and said never again? no, surely not? that was so little...

but solo now so: lo the cymbals,

only the cymbals and my bike out of control too fast, but god theyre so glorious shiny! ive been working on riding no handed so i can grab a stick in both hands and catch my ears in the nodes and hear a mountain range valley strange of waves in the cold night air.

one asked me, why do i perform? i cant answer you, i cant. i have no idea. its what im here to give? its just there and its beautiful and thats all i can do. maybe im doing too much? i can barely feel.

tomorrow ill make the drummer a vegetable lasagna in exchange for a haircut, god my hair is so long, its the only helmet ill wear. i know how to make a good vegetable lasagna; i just have to pick the right vegetables, and only a few, so that its about *mushrooms*, or its about *broccoli*, its about the *one* taste, dont lose it, dont lose it//

(but on cannery row hazel pours all the half drunk drinks into a single jug, and comes home with a wild punch maybe champagne spiked one night and fernet the next. one taste.

i have no idea what all of this tastes like,

i have no idea what god looks like,

i have no idea how there can be so many sounds in the universe that when i open my mouth next time ill sing one brand new song, once and only once always one note to the next never ending, never goal, just sound all the way SHHHOOM! to the end of the universe getting absorbed by all around it cymbalstars bursting and dying brand new)"

Dave Malloy, 09 December 2005

#obsessed with this one #but solo now so:lo the cymbals #dave malloy #pointless dave malloy #try reading this out loud seriously #it's lovely

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diinferi · 1 month

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ORIGIN

[PIRATE] You grew up wishing for a life of Freedom and thought of no better way to achieve that than by raising the black flag and striking it out as a Pirate! Though you will be hunted down by those who fly the Marine's flag, it's a small price to pay for the freedom that you now possess. Hopefully you have the strength to keep what you love beside you.

RACE

[HUMAN] All across the seas, humanity can be found in every nook and cranny. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, from the normal to the outright bizarre, with heights ranging from four feet to thirty, and even multiple elbows on their arms. Honestly, it would be easier to name all the body types that don't exist.

LOCATION

[SHELL TOWN] A small island with a sizable marine base. While the only thing of note is the crazy Marine Captain ruling it like a dictator, if you’re willing to wait a short while, two strangers will eventually deal with that problem entirely and after that, they’ll simply head out. Maybe you can join them.

PERKS

[EPITHET] In a world of kings and legends, one must have a title of their own in order to stand out from the rest of the common rabble. You have a simple epithet that embodies who or what you are, is easy for people to remember, and causes those who hear it to feel awe, respect, or fear, depending on your reputation.

[A PIRATE’S LIFE FOR ME] And what a life it is! To travel these great blue waters, going from island to island, never knowing what adventure lies just beyond the horizon. You seem to benefit greatly from this, as no matter where you go, you will run into opportunities for great adventures, their rewards just as great as the effort you put into accomplishing them. You can of course toggle this on and off, but why would you ever do that?

[CHAOTIC FREEDOM] You are a pirate, one who has embraced their freedom and has endeavored to be the biggest headache around. This desire for freedom of yours has manifested itself in a chaotic manner, making it nearly impossible for you to be predicted. Even the greatest users of Future Sight would only get vague glimpses of you before their vision ended. And that part about being a headache? Well, it seems like the plans of those around you always tend to go awry whenever you're involved, often in the worst ways possible if they're your enemies.

[DIVERSE HUMANITY] Despite what you may think, there are an untold number of various offshoots of humanity, which you can be a part of. You've got the Long-Arm Tribe, the Long-Leg Tribe, the Snakeneck Tribe, you've got people with horns, third eyes, multiple legs, technicolor hair, even those who are just a few feet shy of being giants themselves. Of course, you could just be a regular person if that sort of wackiness isn't your thing.

[FIGHTING STYLE] An immensely useful skill on these dangerous waters, you are now skilled at any fighting style of your choice. Whether you wish to fight with only your feet, with three swords, a bizarre martial art, or just be a street brawler, you can definitely kick some ass. You will start off as an adept, but with an additional purchase you would be considered a master. This can also be purchased multiple times for different fighting styles.

[VETERAN SAILOR] In this world, where the sea is an ever-present entity, it helps when one knows how to traverse it. You are now a master of sailing any type of water-based vehicle. Whether it be a dinghy, a junk, a galleon, or even a submarine, they are all vessels designed to traverse through water, and under your guidance they will cut through the waves to witness a thousand sunrises.

[ADAPTIVE MINDSET] Those who cannot adapt to changing times are doomed to fall behind and get left in the dust. This is not a problem for you, for regardless of whatever scenario or complication you come across, you can quickly adapt to it and come up with some sort of answer to surpass whatever stands in your way, or at the very least, survive.

[CAT BURGLAR] Pirates are the most famous brand of criminals around, but not the only kind, as you can no doubt prove. You are now skilled in all kinds of dirty tricks, even being able to spot such things whenever others are using it against you. Throwing sand in the eyes or pickpocketing a few wallets is the least of the mischief you can get up to.

[HAKI TRAINING] While much of this world is more scientific than it seems, that does not mean the spiritual is useless. Capable of turning your will into a weapon and shield, you have mastered the basic uses of Armament Haki and Observation Haki. With Armament, you can reinforce yourself or objects and can bypass the defenses of those thought untouchable. With Observation, you can sense the presence, strength, and emotions of others. With time and training, you would be able to project your Haki without a medium to attack others from the inside or see into the future to such an extent that were you a Logia, even the might of Armament could not touch you.

[WILL OF D] Ah, so you count yourself a member of that infamous clan? Those natural enemies of the gods, the D's, are all said to possess the luck of the devil. Indeed, it seems like you've inherited that luck, for so long as you work towards a goal, no matter how difficult or seemingly impossible it is, fate will always conspire for you to succeed. Another aspect of the D clan is their inability to be controlled by any force they don't allow. Much like them, it's difficult for you to be mind controlled, and most manipulations are outright ignored.

[SILVER TONGUE] Humanity's greatest advantage has never truly been their physical qualities, whether it be strength, speed, endurance or vitality. Instead, their true talent lies communication, in their ability to speak and convince others to join their cause. And like the greatest of men, you find yourself possessing a powerful charisma, one that could charm and convince others, attracting them to flock to your banner with ease. Should you back up your talk with action, then you could quickly gather a truly massive and loyal following in no time.

[SURGICAL STRATEGIES] Not everyone can simply rely on pure luck, but you’re one of those who can create your own luck. Your masterful plans are intensely precise and intricate, able to reach years, or even decades, into the future with little chance of failure. Only the most random or chaotic of variables could throw off your schemes, and even then, you can still find a way to use the chaos to your advantage to achieve your goals.

[SIX POWERS] A superhuman martial arts style primarily utilized by the Marines, a master of this bizarre style is said to have the strength of a hundred men. Hardening the body to become iron-like, relaxing the body to act like paper in the wind, poking with the force of a firearm, kicking the ground hard enough to dash at speeds that can’t be tracked, kicking with enough force and precision to turn the air into a blade, and kicking off the air so hard that it gives the illusion of flight. These are the powers offered to and with time and training, you will be able to combine them together and perhaps, once mastery is achieved, a Seventh Power shall make itself known.

ITEMS

[BASIC GEAR] Well, you can't exactly start your adventure with nothing! You are now in possession of a set of custom designed clothes, along with two finely crafted weapons, a pistol and a sword.

[FLAG] Among the seas, everyone bands together under notable flags. From the Yonko to the World Government to some small-time pirate crew, you can't get away from these symbols. Now, you are in possession of your very own. It is designed to your own specifications, and it could be that of a faction you are a part of, strongly agree with, or your own personalized Jolly Roger.

[DEVIL FRUIT ENCYCLOPEDIA] It cannot be understated that there are so many Devil Fruits that can be found in these seas. It’s miracle that anyone can actually tell them apart from each other. But with this handy-dandy book, that won’t be much of a problem for you. Not only is this encyclopedia filled with entries and pictures regarding every type of Devil Fruit, it’s also chock-full of handwritten notes showing you unique and clever tricks on how to utilize and combat them. Nifty, huh?

[ARMORED CLOTHING] Not everyone is content with just wearing their ordinary clothes into battle, preferring something with a bit more durability to it. With this, not only are the clothes of your own custom design, but it’s also capable of resisting low-caliber gunshots as well as slashing. As a bonus, you’ll find that this set of clothes will even repair itself over the course of a day.

[LOG POSE] With how strange this world is, there is no question then as to why a tool like this is so invaluable. A different and special kind of compass, a Log Pose is used in place of regular compasses to traverse the first half of the Grand Line due to compasses not working properly in such a... unique locale. It does this by locking onto an island’s unique electromagnetic signature. After this Jump, this Log Pose will point you into the direction of interesting places or where special events may be occurring, guiding you into the direction of adventure.

[NEWSPAPER] No matter who you are, the world does not revolve around you. A million events are going on at the same time, and it can be hard to keep up with all of it. Luckily, you've subscribed to a newspaper that lets you know all of the most important events from across the world, all delivered in the morning. The writers do seem a bit biased, though...

[MEDICAL KIT] It's a general rule of thumb that you're eventually going to get injured on these waters, so it wouldn't hurt to be prepared. This high-quality medical kit has all sorts of bandages, medicinal drugs and herbs. It’s usually enough to stabilize most wounds that aren’t outright serious.

[SAVINGS] Money makes the world go round? Not entirely true, but money is nevertheless still quite the important and useful commodity. Thankfully, you’ve got around 500,000 Beli to do with as you see fit! Of course, you can purchase this multiple times for more money.

[UNUSUAL WEAPON] So you weren't content with just a pistol, sword, or your own fists? Well, if you want to be that way, then this is your option. Made from high-quality materials, this can be anything from a fancy dagger to a portable cannon, even a brick on a string if that's your choice. So long as it's physically possible, you can probably get it.

[TRANSPONDER SNAILS] There are no phones in this world, only Transponder Snails. You gain one for yourself and each Companion you have, with all of the snails looking like snail versions of you and your Companions. Simply tap the snail on the head, state the name of someone with another Transponder Snail, and enjoy talking to them from the other side of the world. Beyond that, they’re little more than simple snails with strange features. Strange but nothing out of the ordinary here. As a bonus, you also receive a small but thick book revolving around the Transponder Snails. With this book, you can learn how to breed new snails and modify the ones you already to grant them new features such as projecting images and videos.

[SEASTONE UPGRADE] Perhaps the basic weapons of this world are not enough for you and if so, there’s this. With this, you may upgrade any weapon in your possession with Seastone, increasing its durability and rendering it capable of nullifying the abilities of Devil Fruit users, regardless of whatever fruit they consumed. For ranged weapons, you’ll receive a replenishing stock of ammunition imbued with Seastone. Beyond this Jump, this upgrade to your weapon will even allow it to strike any opponents and objects that would normally be intangible or immune to ordinary weapons.

SCENARIOS None

DRAWBACKS

[ROMANCE DAWN] Well, it seems as though you've caught a certain someone's eye. That's right, Monkey D Luffy has decided that you're an interesting enough person that he wants you as a member of his crew!

[BEFORE THE BEGINNING] Of course, not everyone wants to start off with the beginning of the story, being much more interested in the prologue. You can start anytime in this world’s history you want, from when Shanks gave Luffy his straw hat, to the height of Gold D Roger's reign as the King of the Pirates, to the time of the original Joy Boy and even the Void Century nearly nine hundred years ago, all the way back when the Shandorians first colonized Jaya.

[FILLING OUT THE STORY] In a world of adventures, what’s the harm of experiencing a few more? At your discretion, you may incorporate any and all filler or movies into your adventure here. Help infiltrate the stories G-8 or have fun at an island-sized Casino Ship!

[EXTENDED STAY] There is so much to see within these grand waters, so much so that you could not possibly experience everything that it has to offer in just ten short years. Thankfully, you can now extend your time here by an additional ten years with each time this option is taken, though you will only benefit from the first five.

[HUNGRY] You are someone who is defined by their gluttony. After long periods of exertion or a fight, you almost immediately start craving enough food to make up a horse. That’s not hyperbole, as that would just be a light snack compared to your actual meals.

[PAIN SPONGE] Much like the eaters of the Dark Dark Fruit, you now soak in more damage and pain than before, nearly twice as much as before. It is certainly going to be a problem if you’re ever in an extended fight, and Goda help you when you end up stubbing your toe on something. This can be taken multiple times, increasing the damage and pain to three, four, even five times what you normally would have, though you will only benefit from this four times.

[TROUBLED PAST] Not everyone has the best of childhoods, their past filled with pain and torment. It seems that you suffer from such trauma, the scars still fresh and leaving you shackled to the past. It may take a while to heal, for the scars to fade, but it will never leave you, most certainly influencing some of your choices.

[CHAOS MAGNET] Why oh why do these things keep happening to you? Getting roped into political plots, being stranded on a crazy island, massive monsters that have rarely been seen, there is no end to your string of horrid situations. It just seems like all the craziest stuff and the worst kind of trouble are attracted to you, and nothing you do will let you escape this never-ending insanity.

[WANTED] Well now, it seems as though you've made more than a few enemies, or just made too big a name. You can now say that you've got a sizable bounty on your head. Whether it’s the World Government or an independent faction, you are now worth at least 100,000,000 Beli. Alive, or dead. You can take this drawback multiple times, though you will only benefit from the first five.

ENDING

[A NEW ADVENTURE] While this has been fun, there are other worlds out there just waiting to be discovered! You receive a miniature of the Thousand Sunny in a bottle.

#one piece #jumpchain #cyoa #one piece oc #file: information #file: jumpchain #file: build #file: text #file: arriesgada

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sapphirecrook · 5 months

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[STORY] Call Me Fang - Chapter 2-2 Mounting Tension

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Download (it looks nicer)

ORIGINAL:

The document this is in, is like 30k words. A lot of that is spillover, surpluss, but there's an easy 20k of like, done in the last week. This is exactly how it went with that first idea, only with a lot more… I dunno. Stability? I'm having fun. Who CARES.

-----

The hallways.

They are full of colors.

Until now, I’ve only been exposed to a few people at a time. Or seeing blurs and flashes as the car speeds by. Or a mass of them crossing the street.

This world has fewer traffic lights than makes sense to me. Judging by Naser’s mannerisms while driving, I wager pedestrians won the war on cars and Naser will be shot out of a cannon if his bumper so much as grazes the tip of a shoe.

The colors though.

Dinos in all shapes n’ sizes. All the colors of the rainbow. The student body mass occupying the school is best described as ‘phantasmagoric,’ a flowing mass of colors that I must painfully navigate.

I see guys in skirts, ladies in pants, modest attire to punk to ‘that has no name,’ to one guy I am pretty sure is trying to boil himself alive in the sun. Too many layers, too much black. I salute him.

And quite a few seem willing to just talk to me. Compliments on my looks are so unusual I’m glad I seem to know only a few. Distantly. Fang has friends, and I can’t manage this. I try my best, and it seems to go well enough. It’s just that it kind of tears down my ego to be plagiarizing a person and get rewarded for it.

I try to shrug off most conversations. This is all quite a lot without having to remember a slew of new names.

The colors.

Wings, claws, horns, crests. Tall and small. They’re cute. And some look edible, like gumdrops. No shanking in the hallways, no nerds shoved in lockers. Perhaps those take time to get started, but for now, it’s all calm and I feel a weird ease and tension.

Swimming through this sea made the act of finding my first class more difficult. Far more difficult. As did at least one person demanding to know what the make up was. Microglitter is a term I saw on the foundation. That’s what they got to hear.

I say that, not knowing their gender, though I’ve seen quite a few ‘actually they’ outside of Fang. People are more willing to be themselves?

All the differences. They stand out.

Like the technicolor nightmare that is the student body.

And the fact is quite a few people seem to joke about a certain “Dr. Giegler” in a tone of voice that implies they’re something to watch out for. Doctors do be like that. I know quite a few doctors with schemes that warrant distance.

There’s also the detail that so many buildings around here incorporate greenery into their design. Private properties are more hit and miss, but the school, shops, etc. Public spaces just breathed fresh oxygen like crazy. Half the lockers were shrouded in plants. Which I have verified are real plants, not plastic crap, meaning someone here has to walk around to supply them with water. And soil. Whose job is that?

Probably whatever goes for a flower club around here. Solar punk has always been a style I hoped to see implemented at large. Organic forms in concrete, integrated greenery, solar panel patios. I wish I could high five the man who made this place.

There’s only so many minutes to appreciate fine interior design.

Time to learn what homeroom is.

Ms. Roberts has a bit of a reputation of being the worst teacher in school. In terms of being stern, often unamused, and rarely allowing people to use their phones for more than a minute at a time. Her old fashioned style of dress compounds the aura of ‘no fun zone’ her manners radiate. As does her age. By far the oldest teacher in Volcano High, with ample rumors she’s intentionally delaying retirement so she can ruin more lives.

But can you trust the rumor mill?

Her room further reflects it. A tidy, well kept classroom, with plenty of posters and whatnot talking about the importance of setting your future, college applications, essay due and tips on various educational subjects. Her desk is pristine. Always.

“And there you all are. In your last year of school, before you tumble from the nest and have to fend for yourself. I sure hope you have the wherewithal to make the most of it, because regrets are difficult stains to undo. Learn now, when it is easy and accessible, lest you have to learn harsh lessons in trying times.” Her voice was measured, deliberate, articulate. It almost sounded rehearsed, slathered in a deep professionalism.

“With some effort, and this is effort you are expected to perform as part of the year, you’ll find yourself a college to attend, a career to enter, or at least a direction or path in life to take by graduation. Now, I’ll repeat what I just said, because there are undoubtedly those among you who disagree. This effort. Is part of. The curriculum. While there is no final or grade associated with it, participating in extracurriculars, finding your skills and drives, engaging with the job fair, and leaving this place with a purpose? It’s a far greater boon than anything Lars can teach you about higher order algebra.”

Her stance in front of class was stiff, powerful. Towering over the others, her eyes often gazing over the golden reading glasses she wore. The thin chain that held it glittered in the morning light that came in through the windows. Her yellow eyes scanned the room, obviously marked by the darker lavender that made up spots around them. Silver hair in a simple bob, adding a mechanical feel, if you squint enough.

Those eyes were on the hunt. For anyone foolish enough to use their phones, or fall asleep, or otherwise disrespect the importance of her message. Many become lazy in the decades; Ms. Roberts used each year to sharpen every edge.

“REED! Put that phone away.”

“Uhm, it started buzzing, first of the month, the emergency…”

“I am not a fool, Reed. The emergency broadcast system does test the first of the month. At noon. And it’s not September yet. So unless you want to read it aloud to the class. Pay attention.”

“Eh, whatever. I already know what I’m gonna do. Delivery work. I’ve been doing it for a while, and my bro’s in on it too.”

“That’s a good answer. Important, stable, necessary industry.” Her tone betrays not a hint of judgment in either direction. And thus, Reed slinks back into his seat, more alert during his illicit phone operations.

“Hey. Fang, right?” The green dino next to me…

Is he wearing a green hoodie? The same as his scales… What the hell dude? Never wear flesh colors like that.

“What’s up?” Do I know him? Not in the DMs of recent at least.

“Yea. Like, got a spare like… paper and pen?” He sounds like he couldn’t even understand the fashion faux pas.

I look at my bag and fish around in it. I don’t recall packing any, but there might be some Fang left in there. Surprisingly, I fish out…

Oh, my god.

That is slightly embarrassing.

An entire 5-pack of exercise books. Okay, that’s not embarrassing. That they’re all with a non-binary flag cover, is. It’s cute, I do like that flag, cool colors, but fuck if pulling out five of them, wrapped in plastic, out my bag like I’m doing a lottery draw isn’t…

I pull out one, and fish out a spare pen. A pansexual pen. I guess a nonbinary is necessarily pansexual, if at all, given the big three are all male/female binary related, huh? Pens are just like that.

Naser must’ve stuffed it in here, I think I saw him carrying this to the car? And a bunch of other ones too.

Whereas I just had a big moment, the recipient seems completely unphased, like the flags are meaningless colors. Good for him. Live life free of judgment, airhead.

“Wow, coooool.” His eyes are red. His irises are green.

Man’s a walking plant, and I used to know a real one, so I’d know.

The snicker tips off the guard. “Mx. Fang. Mind telling the class what’s so exciting?”

Fuck, caught… helping someone? A true crime in this town.

“Just helping a fellow citizen, teach!” I give her a big smile and a wink, like I’ve plenty of other big guys back home do.

“Hrm.” Her eyes stare daggers. I am immune to most conventional weaponry, so she’s free to exercise her efforts. Emotional damage hurts like hell though. “Harold, this is your final warning. Stop trying to make a call in class. What in the name of goodness makes you think that would ever work?”

I lean into my chair, giving the green guy a thumb’s up. He’s cute, in the same way a house plant is cute. He should wear brown shoes. Halloween costume: done.

I turn to the window, with my duty fulfilled. I took a window seat for a reason. Been a while since old Sol graced me with his ample rays so freely. The world out there is so vivid. Bountiful greenery, bright blue sea, sparkling sands, clear sky, impeccable warmth. Warmer than I’d really like, though just being reminded of a world of light and life, it refills a part of me that I never knew was empty to begin with.

It is then I am reminded of the pink raptor behind me, through the application of a paper airplane.

The message?

“Dude, wassup?”

Eloquent.

I am unsure what his deal is, but he is insistent on distracting me. He looks familiar. And only once I look over my shoulder and actually look at him do I realize that he resembles Reed. Because he is Reed. He was in several photos, you dummy.

Had to check my phone for that, which looks silly, I imagine.

Once he caught on I’m listening, he leans in.

“I just wanted to know how you’ve been.” His attitude is immediately obvious. His slight shrug, that polite, easy smile. That faint aura of smoke. The very loose top. Man’s a bro. I feel like I could tell him I’m not Fang, right here and now, and he’d just fist bump me and say ‘that’s radical, dude’ or something.

“How have YOU been?” There, that gets him off my back.

“You know. Mysterious places, perfectly legal, enjoying a responsible amount of weed.” Not tobacco, but weed? Fair enough.

“Do I look like a cop?” “Maybe. So, when were you gonna tell me about LJ?”

Tattletale Trish. “Tattletale Trish.” “More like ‘we’re in a band and I feel like you’d tell me the second you knew’? Not accusing you here, just figured you’d be running the halls to tell me. You finally cracked old LJ’s cold icy heart.” His playful attitude appends it with a wink. “Oh, yea.”

“So, when’s the next band meeting?” His smirk makes me feel like he already knows. Formalities, from a guy like him? “Today. I’ve been doing a big think.” “Always nice to use your noggin.” He taps his temple. The constant smile and those half-shut eyes, I’d believe anyone if they told me he’s trying to hit on me. Except, of course, for the complete lack of anything actionable. Just chill. He’s chill. “We have time anyway. Best use it surgically.” “Yea. Fine by me. I had a weird night.” “Why, bad sleep?” “More like, not used to sleeping on a soft bed. My van’s cot has a style and it needs unlearning. That, and mom and mom make healthy, nutritious meals made of real food, instead of easily digestible fast food. Shame.”

I’ll be honest. I might be the pressing mystery, but Reed’s summer sounds like a story worth telling when I get home.

“My man, what the hell have you DONE all summer?” “Good times.”

“Are we talking ‘five baby Reeds’, or ‘wanted in five countries?’ Because there’s a subtle difference.”

Despite the pressure, he keeps smiling. “Just good times with good friends, Fang.” The way he’s leaning in, and lightly tapping the table, his head on his hand. I just can’t tell if he’s hitting on me or if he’s putting on the pressure for a reaction.

I guess prying too much would be hypocritical of me. And, if anything, embolden him to push back. So there’s two wins to be gotten by keeping skeletons in closets.

“Eh, sorry. Just excited.” “No worries. Trish’ll have to write both of our ‘what we did in summer’ papers then.”

I roll my eyes. I turn back right on time, as Ms. Roberts has just gone into her next segment. A time she used to scan the room for inattentiveness, by the looks of it. And so begins her next segment “it’s never too early” and all.

Why do I have this weird gut feeling I’m going to hear this spiel again? From Naser? He just has that vibe, I guess. Class President. At school an hour early. Adds up.

Next up is History & Civics. Now there’s a subject I need to double down on. I imagine math is mostly the same, given this universe operates by similar language and whatnot. Or the translation in my dino brain does that for me. Fang’s body is doing a lot of heavy lifting. In fact, it is literally doing all the lifting so far.

But history? That’s gotta be eons apart.

Sigh.

Well, someone’s gotta call out my bad puns.

The teacher is a strange woman. Now, admittedly, I’ve had a history teacher that was athletic. This takes the cake. Judging by the whispers, she doesn’t even host any sports related activities or PE? A mysterious woman indeed. Just a very buff history teacher.

I’ve also never seen a teacher wear a varsity jacket?

Her opening spiel starts off about the importance of learning from history, and that history is ‘the here and now digested as the past’ or something. Which is accurate, and I agree.

That’s what I would say with more sincerity if she didn’t immediately veer from school topics into what the finals and midterms and everything were going to be like. How to properly prepare for a test, and how to digest and critically implement her teachings into one’s life.

She sounds like she’d rather never, ever see this class again over actually teaching anyone anything. Her words say that. Her energy feels like a coach about to hype up the team. The contrast dazes me.

During my way in, I managed to snatch a seat a bit away from Reed. The trick was to wait. It seems Reed refuses to reserve seats, so I was ‘forced’ to not be near him. The texts were still coming. We were both in the back. Excuses were there to do so.

Pretty sure the teacher was too caught up to notice anyway.

I guess it’s not a bad idea. Reed seems chill. And a friend or bandmate, so gaining rapport and building something of a relationship is going to happen eventually unless I want to burn Fang to the ground. I’ve yet to see any matches.

Cool, he’s sending trivia. Love me some trivia.

# Reed (Friend/Bandmate? He/Him)

> R: “did u know that volcano high got its name from the founder not knowing calderas are *inactive* volcanos?”

> R: “some say it was intentional, a joke, but the jury’s out on that”

> R: “u have now learned more than this entire hour will”

> F: “Exciting facts”

> F: “I’m voting for you for Teacher of the Year.” > R: “we all know that prize goes to either John or Quintin.”

> R: “you can’t beat cooking class in terms of bribery through treats”

> R: “and you can’t beat the man who fired a functional railgun and proceed to make out on top of it”

> R: “pretty sure he’s the only teacher not allowed to be near another teacher exclusively to avoid PDA complaints”

> F: “Public Displays of Affection, or does Quintin throw around palm pads?”

> R: “knowing quintin its probably both”

> R: “which is weird given Roberts does computer science” > R: “did you know Roberts apparently wrote like, part of the stuff that goes into .snd codec and .pht compression?”

> R: “Not the recent ones, but, like, whichever ones they had when she was 30”

> F: “Prehistory.” > F: “Of course she’s a mathemagician.” > R: “it’s how she can smell our phones”

Wait what the fuck

There’s a guy who makes RAILGUNS in this school? This world may have more in common than I initially thought. Perhaps he knows someone who is into Dimensionology or Portals.

Trivia always helps spice up conversations. The teacher hardly noticed. She’s on a tirade about proper note taking and the importance of learning intermittently. Like, piecemeal. A little bit at a time, to soak it in. And how tests are structured and you can cheese it.

I wonder if other teachers will be this distracted by senior year?

# Reed (Friend/Bandmate? He/Him)

> R: “by the by, trish n rosa wanna do a thing thursday”

> R: “at the mall”

> R: “u in?”

> F: “I’ll probably be preoccupied with band stuff.”

> F: “Maybe next week, after the auditions blow over.”

> R: “0 rush” > R: “remember to hydrate and smoke two blunts a day”

> F: “Screw off.”

> R: “okok” > R: “only two blunts, no water”

Okay, okay, fine, he got a snicker from me. It’s the speed that gets me.

Also, I feel strangely affable? Like I’m holding my own in these conversations. I guess being myself works well enough. At least, in these more freeform contexts. I doubt being me will work when I have to play music, since I wouldn’t.

Thinking about it, an audition? Gives me the chills. I’ve never played, and now… ugh. It’ll come when it comes.

I decided to put my phone aside and look at the teacher. She’s getting really animated now. Is this her redemption tour? Compared to Ms. Roberts, it's quite amusing. Class flies by when you get a show for free. I’ve even returned to my old habit of leaning the chair back.

And my sense of balance has only grown since I last did that.

One day I’ll grind one of these babies down the rails at the front door.

Maybe one day I’ll stack it three high and show the world the true karmic balance of my inner life.

Or just maybe, with a little luck, I’ll cross a tightrope on one.

Hoho.

Bell rings. That was a solid period of nothing but a teacher looking desperate in a varsity jacket. Art, unintentionally so, is still art.

Or maybe not. There’s that one guy who wouldn’t shut up about art being an intentional expression of self, not expression in its own right. But that would include a recording of this. Thus this isn’t art until someone bothers to add that tiny spin of intention?

Yuck.

I deftly hoist myself up, swing my bag over my shoulder and go. Then I stumbled, as the backpack swung right into my wing. Ow. Fang, would it kill you to have only four limbs in places that are workable?

Once outside the class, I excuse myself from Reed, so he can move on while I think about what’s next. Lunch, right?

Oh, wait.

# Trish (Friend/Bandmate? She/Her)

> T: “okay, took some fist fighting”

> T: “And running”

> T: “Choir team can suck it” > T: “We’re in the music room”

> T: “So come on, we gotta hear the big news!”

> F: “First band meeting, ho.”

Fate has given me a goal. Time to puff out that chest and do the big move of the day. If I play my cards right, it’s just this, the announcements, and then sneak off during free period to begin working on the stuff. A mental distraction will help normalize and keep busy.

Just gotta keep moving.

#GVH #goodbye volcano high #callmefang

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trashheappro · 6 months

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The Anomaly - Ch. 2

A little more build up before the main arc of the story!

Ch: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

The police drove past Peter, sirens blaring, lights flashing. It gave him a bit of a headache, still not used to the enhanced senses his new powers gave him. He heard a shot ring out earlier, maybe it had something to do with that.

People clamored on the sidewalk, the police talking to a few witnesses. Peter watched with a hint of curiosity, but had no intention of sticking around. At least until he heard a familiar voice cutting through it all.

Peter rushed forward, pushing some people aside. “Uncle Ben?”

The older man sat on a park bench, perked up after spotting his nephew. “Peter!”

“Uncle Ben!” He gathered his uncle in his arms in a hug. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Ben chuckled, reciprocating the affection. “I’m alright. This hero saved me.”

Peter’s eye drifted over to the strangely dressed individual standing next to his uncle. They were head to toe in black. Black hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal a tight black turtleneck and some very form fitting leggings. They certainly looked like a comic book hero with the utility belt slung around the waist. There was a bag strapped across their chest. Even the boots had a little pouch on the side. Very cool.

But was this a hero? There were big… needles? nails? strapped to the armband wrapped around their bicep. And that mask didn’t look very friendly either, black with two little horns coming off the forehead. There was a white swipe of runny paint across the mouth to replicate a wide grin. Well, Batman was probably scary looking at first too.

“Just doing my part,” the stranger said with a mechanical voice, giving Peter a nod in greeting.

“You have quick reflexes,” Uncle Ben said, patting them on the shoulder. “Saved me from getting shot.”

“Shot?!” Panic rose in Peter even with having his uncle safe and sound right in front of him.

“I couldn’t stop them from taking the car,” the stranger said.

Uncle Ben waved it off, and took their hands in his own. “You’ve done plenty.”

Peter approached the stranger and upon closer inspection, realized there was a sort of splattering of all different colors on the black outfit, like someone flicked rainbow paint on their mask and arms. The black gloves held in Uncle Ben’s hands also had the same sort of colorful flecks of paint, or maybe a wild spray paint blast, on the fingertips. The silver glint of the thick metal cuffs stood out against their thin wrists. So this was what a vigilante looked like up close.

“Thank you for saving my uncle,” Peter said.

The stranger met his gaze, strange how he could feel their eyes on him even without some semblance of eyes or eye holes on the mask. “I try.”

There was an earthquake, a small one, but still strange for New York. The stranger looked up to the sky and took off without so much as a goodbye. Weird. Maybe it was a hero thing.

A hero… Could Peter do what that stranger did? Could he be a hero too? No, he had too much on his plate as it was and he didn’t have time to be a hero between work and school, especially now that he was reminded of how limited his time with his family was.

There was another much stronger earthquake. The skyscrapers right next to him started to… have a seizure? It flashed through multiple colors. But they weren’t in Time Square.

Peter hurried Uncle Ben to stand. Something was off. They had to get home.

Then the building in front of him started to sink. His eyes widened as a blackhole was seemingly growing at the foundation. The sky blotted in technicolors. Something was very wrong. Peter and Uncle Ben ran.

Peter spotted a familiar lanky figure sitting on a lightpost up ahead. “What’s going on?” he asked desperately.

The stranger looked down at Peter. “The end of the world.”

There was a flash of color in the sky and a strange vehicle dropped from a hexagon. It was some sort of tick or… spider? It opened up and figures dropped down around the building, holding strange devices.

Peter’s head hurt. He was confused. Too many strange things happening all at once.

“Go home,” the stranger said like they hadn't just told him it was the end of the world. “Maybe you’ll have enough time to say goodbye to Aunt May.”

How did they know about his aunt? “D- did you do this?”

“No.” They rose to their feet, easily balancing on the thin pole. Peter wondered if they were even human, with the mechanical voice filtering past the mask, the zero concern for Manhattan sinking. “You did.” A small black hole opened up underneath them and fell headfirst into it.

Peter was reeling. Not only did he just watch someone throw themself into a blackhole, this was his fault? There was no way. He was just little Peter Parker. What could he have possibly done? His head spun, his mind spiraling. First they saved his uncle, then told him that the world was ending, and it was his fault? What was going on?

The sound of fighting erupted behind him. Peter whipped around to see the stranger impale one of the colorful costumed people on claws. That… was not very heroic. The person who saved his uncle had blood running down their arm. There was shouting, both from the group and from Uncle Ben beside him.

“Peter!”

He stood frozen watching the group throw punches and kicks but none of the hits landed on the stranger. One of them shot out a string or… a web? The same sort that Peter recently discovered shoots out from his wrist. This group of colorfully costumed people were like him. And they were getting their asses handed to them. The stranger who saved his uncle was murdering a group of people like him.

The sky was blanketed by every color but blue, the buildings broke down in technicolors. The group like him was dead at the stranger’s feet. Now there was another tall figure standing next to them, the costume completely opposite from them; white with black spots. The world was ending.

For a brief moment, Peter considered doing… something. He didn’t understand it. What could he do? Lowly Peter Parker. But he had powers too and–

The stranger tilted their head in Peter’s direction. Yellows, oranges, reds, pinks, purples, and blues popped around the edges of their black suit. In near hysteria, Peter thought to himself, that in this very moment the costume design was fully realized, at the end of the world. They were a world ender.

There was nothing he could do. Peter Parker was no hero. He ran, dragging Uncle Ben behind him.

The world trembled.

#Spiderverse #platonic!spottedflowerfang #Miles Morales & Miguel O'Hara & The Spot #Peter Parker #Miles Morales #The Anomaly #trashtexts

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mosspatchwriter · 1 year

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Human ~ Original

You are human. You have always been human. Your parents, their parents, your siblings. All human. The idea of being something more is laughable. At night, when your teeth ached, it was just normal parts of growing up. A weird one that no one talked about, but a normal thing none-the-less. Your hair grew faster than most kids in your class. Not uncommon. You healed faster and never got sick for more than a few hours. Less common, but there were still cases of this around the world. You slept during the day. There was no one to stop you since you left school. Humans can be nocturnal. You ate vivaciously during the days leading up to the full moon. Plenty of humans did. You collected odd looking flowers and special rocks. A normal human hobby. It was all decidedly human things.

Until you woke up with the dull thrumming no one else could hear, you accepted all of it. They even said this was normal for a human, too. But, the way they said it, you began to wonder. ‘A human thing’. As if there was a possibility that these things could be anything but human.

As if there was something beyond human.

Something was wrong. You weren’t sure what it was, but something was definitely *wrong* about the whole thing.

So, you started looking. You started trying to find non-human answers to these decidedly ‘human’ things. The more you looked, the more constant the bone-deep hum became. Books, articles, even deep web conspiracies. It fed the constant noise.

Then you came across the word ‘Fae-born’. It tugged on your mind. The hum increased. And you knew that it was right.

Kushtaka.

Werewolf.

Vampire.

“Change-ling.”

The hum silenced for the first time in years. A Fae that took on the form of a human child and grew up as one. A creature sent to be human but was Fae. Something decidedly not ‘human’.

You felt the thin haze lift, something you never knew was there. The world went from TV-static quality to technicolor instantly and almost blinded you. You held onto the word and closed the browser tab. Years of searching and you finally felt home with a single word.

You left the same night. There was no note. There was no time. The hum returned with a vengeance and you had to leave. The woods would be your home. You would find your people.

The trek was hard. Streams and hidden roots demanded you turned back. The cold of fall settled into your bones and begged you to stop. But the hum -the infernal hum- drove you forward through all of these things.

It was leading you, you decided. Though, it did not tell you where or why. You slept little during those days of wandering in the forest. You ate even less. Yet, you felt better than you had ever felt before. The sounds of the animals became a pleasant background on your days and an urging during the night.

And the hum grew louder.

You didn’t notice at first when the rest of the sounds gave way to silence. The hum was everything now. You ran and ran, driven mad by the noise.

When you came across the clearing, you felt suddenly stricken deaf. There were no birds. There was no animals scurrying from tree to tree. There was no wind to tickle leaves. The hum was gone. It was here that you dropped to the ground and wept. You wept until sleep took you when your body was too tired to fight it.

The sounds of laughter and joy pulled you from the blackness. The sky above you was dark, beyond what you had seen before. But, in the trees and in the air were flickering lights, not unlike fireflies. You lifted lead-filled limbs and heaved yourself into a seated position. You found that you could see everything as well as if it had been daylight.

There were figures dancing, singing, drinking. They were lost in their celebrations that they didn’t notice you at first.

Golden hair caught your attention. The woman was tall, dressed in a sheer white dress. The cloak swayed with her. The gold, red, and ivory of it looked like fire as it moved. Through a crown of leaves and flowers, two large ram horns protruded. You stared, captivated. She was the most beautiful thing you had seen.

She took notice of you and grinned. Her teeth were sharp and pristine. Her hips swayed, the cloth made of fabric and fire following in her wake as she walked towards you.

Gently, she kissed your lips. The taste was strange yet familiar. Ever-changing grey blue green eyes started into yours.

“You’re home, child.”

#goblin's gold {original}#original story #writeblr #writblr #writer #writing #original writing #creative writing #writers of tumblr #second person pov #second person narration #changeling #fae #fairy #800 words

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niralmylasaravanan · 1 year

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I am so fucking tired

August 20 2022

I am back in a depressive episode. I thought I was going to be okay but I do not think I am. I cut myself every day. I barely eat. I have not left the house to do anything except go to work and say goodbye to my friends. (It is disastrous that I am kissing all my family goodbye when I am so already unstable.) I am tired of trying to be good at things. Sick of trying to be a good writer, a good sculptor, a good painter, a good friend, a good person.

It has not escaped me that this is supposed to be the happiest time of my life. I am supposed to be ecstatically jumping off the walls in bright eyed excitement. I am unable to find the energy to do anything of significance. I have not packed a single thing. I have barely any decor for my new dorm room. My relationship with him is in shambles. I am afraid that I am too much for him, the sex and the talking and the questions is pushing him away.

I want to be wanted so desperately that it stains me orange. Not quite red with anger, not quite yellow with patience. I want to be wanted the way I crave things: voraciously, undiluted, like I’m starving for my next fix. I want to be wanted in the sense that I am unstoppable in my glory. I want to bring nations to their knees. I want to be the most powerful person in the world. I want to be wanted by someone who is roughed up and seen some shit, want them to drive their body and mind and soul into mine like bullet train, want us to pick up the glittering jagged edges and build a golden mace.

In my world the sky is always blindingly blue and the moon glows bright during the day and the ocean is red like the blood I have lost. Everything is technicolor. In my world it is always snowing or raining or hailing and the sun is obscured by flocks of birds and the novels are published under my name. Everything is just right. In my world the people do not see me for I am invisible and worshipped like priestess at the altar. I am the god and the servant. In my world I have wings made of gold dipped ivory and horns that twist toward the heavens and skin like a dolphin’s.

I bought a tiny notebook last night at the meeting In hopes that I would carry it around with me and scribble in it every time I felt bad, or out of place, or overwhelmed, but then I remembered that I have my cell phone for that and it is much more cohesive anyway, so the notebook is sitting on my bedside table for the time being. I am sad and angry and betrayed and I can recognize his car on sight and I can not think in a straight line at all, and by god do I want to fucking dissolve into something less coherent than a human. I am quite tired in this current state. And I am lonely. And I am bored. And I am tired I am tired I am tired. And I do not know what else I can do without collapsing or screaming or crying and dying. Really at the end of the line that’s what I’m doing. I am dying slowly and methodically and painfully, I am waiting for some new mental cancer to eat me up slowly and turn my brain and lungs and heart to mush and push it all through its digestive system. Yes, less coherent than a human being. That is where I am.

I am nothing new to this.

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justavulcan · 3 years

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Make Your Tieflings Fiendish

You’re a tiefling. According to the Player’s Handbook in 5th edition, you are a descendent of someone who struck a pact with Asmodeus (or as of Mordenkainen’s Tome of Foes, one of the other archdevils), but in older editions of the game ‘tiefling’ just meant you were fiend-descended. Any fiend. As cambions are canonically half-fiend individuals, it follows that tieflings, as humanoids and no longer fiends, would be quarter-fiends or less, meaning a grandparent was a fiend. So I started thinking about what a tiefling would look like as a descendant of any fiend from the Monster Manual, and here we are. Maybe you wanted something a little stranger, a little less humanoid, or maybe you just wanted to think about how you might not want to be a human with an exciting palette swap and some horns. Granted, there are some of those in here, but they’re minority. What if your grandparent was a…

Cambion? You’re a bit watered down. Brick-red skin and the barest stumps of horns, maybe a tail, just wrapped down your leg as it isn’t long enough to wear through your trousers. Comely thing, though, like as not, if you’re incubus or succubus-bred. Might even have the stumps of wings on you, if you get unlucky, leaving you bent-backed. If you’re one of Graz’zt’s lot, you’re not some misshapen freak, though- got the look of your father about you, black-skinned with smooth dark hair and six fingers to a hand.

Balor Demon? You’re likely a big one. Brawny or thick through the stomach and trunk, with a red tint to your skin, either strong or faint. If you’ve horns, they’re straight out the sides of your temples, and if your grandparent’s blood runs strong, your eyes and throat might glow like a fire burns within. Your hair’s light, white or blonde or gray, and it’s quite the mane- it tangles and snarls, never cooperating and breaking combs.

Barlgura Demon? You’re built broad across the shoulders, with fiery red hair and dark skin, maybe as dark as a bruise, maybe as dark as a human might get. Your face still shows your grandparent’s mark, with a prominent brow and broad jaw, maybe even a bit of an underbite. Your legs are likely a bit on the short side, but your torso makes up the difference. There’s a grace to you, smooth and swinging steps.

Chasme Demon? You’re probably not lovely to look at. Bruise-colored blue skin, a nose like a beak, and maybe as much as a pair of dark compound eyes tell the tale of your blood. You’ve a high hairline, receding being the polite way to put it. However, between segmented limbs and freakishly flexible joints, you’re like as not as fast as you are strong. If you have wing stumps, they’re barely noticeable- if you have wings, they’re easy enough to tuck under a shirt, and too weak to carry you anyway. More than anything, your voice drones and buzzes- might be hypnotic and fascinating, or it might be boring and monotone.

Dretch Demon? You’re a stump of a thing, with skin like sludge on a bad day or olives on a good one. Balding from teenagerhood with a face like a brick wall slapped you, short and stout is the way of your life. However, that stature hides muscle, and despite your stoutness, you have the power and speed of a larger tiefling.

Glabrezu Demon? You’re big, built with a narrow waist and broad shoulders. If you’ve horns, they sweep up and back from your brow, and if you have fangs, they’re longer on your bottom jaw. Your arms are huge and you might have fused fingers or huge black nails, but either way you’ve your grandparent’s main arms. If you have a second set of arms, and you may, they’re short and useless, and you’d better wrap them around yourself or get them lopped off. Your skin is rust or brick-colored on your back.

Goristro Demon? You’re huge, with hunched shoulders and a stout back. Your head bows, either from the shape of your spine of the bunch of your shoulder. If you’re not furred in brick-colored hair, your own mane grows long and thick down the back of your neck. Your feet are certainly cloven hooves, and your teeth sharp and long. You very definitely have horns, and they sweep out and forward like a bull’s or minotaur’s. Getting lost feels like something that happens to other people, not to you.

Hezrou Demon? You have a face like a toad, wide-eyed and wide-mouthed, with broad, flat teeth. Your abdomen’s stout and wide, and your thighs are thick and muscled. Your skin’s rusty red and warty, pebbled at best, and you might stand almost as wide as you do tall. Toads are survivors though, and you likely are too. Scars aplenty are lost in your pebbled hide, and those that can be seen are the most impressive of the lot.

Manes Demon? You look like a rotting corpse. Bald, lumpy and misshapen, your grandparent did you few favors by managing to reproduce.

Marilith Demon? Your body is likely long and sinuous, and you have patches of scales here and there. If your grandparent’s blood flows strong, your legs are scaled from hip to toe. If it flows stronger still, you might’ve been born with vestigial arms of your own, second and third pairs sprouting from the sides of your ribs. Your coordination is stunning, and you are likely as not ambidextrous.

Nalfeshnee Demon? You have a face like a brick, long and square with a lantern jaw and a low brow. You’re probably furred about the forearms and shins, and might even have cloven hooves for feet. If you’ve a tail, it’s like a rat’s, long and thin and best worn wrapped around your leg under your trousers. You’re built broad, not necessarily muscular but big, potentially with fat. Nauseating light plays over your features whenever you try to put the scare on someone.

Quasit Demon? You’re not tall, and may even be Small sized. You have a face only slightly less ratlike than your ancestor’s, with big black eyes and pointed ears. Your horns are tall and curve gently out and back in, like a set of parenthesis. Your skin’s likely either dark green or pale fishbelly white or both, darker on your back and lighter on the stomach. If you have a tail, it’s long and sinuous, and probably too lively to keep in your trousers- it demands to wave free of its own accord.

Shadow Demon? Your skin is midnight black or the subtle dark purple of deep shadow, and you may seem indistinct about the edges in the dark. You’re slender and tall, stretched like a shadow in a light, and your fingers likely taper to sharp, bony nails. Your horns, if you have them, are high and curve gently back from your forehead for a bit, before taking a sharp curve backward.

Vrock Demon? Your head is bald and bony, not horned so much as barbed about the crown. Your nose is long and hooked, and your limbs gangly and lean. Your skin is likely some shade of bluish-violet or some variation thereof, and you may have dirty grey or white feathers forming a cowl about your shoulders and neck. You likely smell musty, and your voice barks and screeches rather than flowing smoothly.

Yochlol Demon? Your appearance might be many different ways. If you’re fortunate, you have the look of the drow about you, with a slight frame, dark skin, and light hair; only a faint, waxy yellow tint to your eyes might bely your heritage. However, if you’re less fortunate, you take after your grandparent in their natural form. In this case, you’re a crude, misshapen creature, with limbs of different lengths and waxy yellow skin. Your eyes are red, but one or the other may dim with age. In either case, spiders flock to you for reasons beyond your explanation.

Barbed Devil? You’re a slender creature, with long limbs and a long, sinuous tail. Like your forebear, you likely have dark olive-green skin, large ears, and larger than usual hands. If you have your grandfather’s barbs, they are short, more like additional fingernails jutting from here and there on your skin, and they may prove to be more a nuisance than protection or distinction.

Bearded Devil? Your main feature, naturally, is your beard. It’s thick and tangled, barbed and twisted. It has a tendency to writhe of its own accord, and binding it down may be the only way to stop it from doing so. Your skin is a dark purple, and you have the sort of grizzled constitution that a soldier should- the lean and hardened look of one who survives hardship as a matter of course.

Bone Devil? You’re stark and emaciated, both in appearance and perhaps in temperament. Your skin is likely pale and sits tight against your bones; if you are strong, you’re wiry and lean, not bulky. Your tail, if you have one, is long and skeletal, and is capped by a barb like a scorpion’s. Long, fearsome teeth and drawn, even sharp and pointed cheekbones lend your face a striking aspect.

Chain Devil? Your skin, where it can be seen and is unmarked, is a burnt orange or red color. However, little of it is unmarked, as you were born with the marks of your ancestor’s chains- scars and burns as though your flesh has been chafed and lashed by chains, even if you have never felt their touch. You might feel inclined to cover your face at all times, another vestige of your ancestor’s influence.

Erinyes Devil? You could be mistaken for aasimar. The only indications to the otherwise are the cruelty in your face- rather than warmth and compassion, the lines of your jaw, your cheeks, and your brow bespeak a contempt even if you do not feel it. Your skin is one of many hues, but it’s unblemished and smooth, and your features symmetrical and your hair fine and rich. Your eyes betray you- blood red irises indicate your true grandparent.

Horned Devil? You’re most impressive for your horns. Broad and curving out and to the sides, they bely your ancestor’s nature. Your skin is mustard-yellow to dark tan, and you’re well-muscled and proportioned, with little fat. Your tail is long and slender, with a hooked barb at the tip- it’s too dull to be used in combat, but it proclaims your heritage. You have shoulders muscled for wings and may even have vestigial ones in true- if so, they’re likely cumbersome to wear beneath armor.

Ice Devil? You have either a cold bluish tint to your skin or the exoskeleton of a great insect- you’re always a little unnaturally cool to the touch either way. Your eyes are orange, either all the way through or only in the iris, and if it’s all the way through there’s a chance they’re compound like an insect’s eyes. Your legs may have an extra joint, a second knee bending the other direction; if so, your movements often have a sudden, jerking quality similar to that of a hunting insect on the prowl.

Imp Devil? You’re not tall, and may even be Small sized. Your skin is a bright red, and you are slender and perhaps slightly hunched under the weight of a wing’s worth of muscle in the shoulder. Your tail is segmented and ends in a sting like a scorpion, but it’s likely a small thing, and either vestigial or to be wrapped around your leg. Your eyes are yellow, and your horns short and pointed straight out from your forehead.

Lemure Devil? Your aspect is similar to that of a person-shaped candle, melted. You are likely hairless, and your skin has a rippled, waxy texture as though you have been a severe burn victim. You lack noteworthy definition across your neck and joints, resulting in a truly unfortunately blobby-looking person. Your grandparent reproducing was a mistake.

Pit Fiend? You are built for power, towering taller than average for your mortal parent’s race. Your horns are swept backward from the sides of your head, making you look pretty streamlined. Your skin’s pebbly and a rich red, and you’ve the same slightly hump-backed look of a lot of tieflings whose grandparent has wings. It doesn’t bother anyone none. If your grandparent’s blood really shows, you don’t have hair at all, the back of your head instead tapering into a particularly heavily ridged spine.

Spined Devil? You’ve got long, sleek spines or quills instead of or in addition to your hair. You’re slightly built, perhaps even thin or gangly, and your skin is somewhere between a very light lavender and a deep purple. Your eyes are fiery red or orange, and your mouth is wide and has two sets of extra slender canines.

Gnoll Fang of Yeenoghu? You’re tricky to tell apart from a gnoll, because the only thing gnolls mate with instead of eating is other gnolls. The giveaway is your eyes- intelligent, not filled with madness. It’s a minor miracle you were born and a bigger one you survived long enough to be viable.

Night Hag? Your bruise-colored skin and long, wavy black hair are the most obvious signs of your different parentage. It takes getting quite close to you to spot the other differences: the remnants (or presence) of warts or blemishes on otherwise clear skin, a severely hooked nose, a mouthful of sharp and crooked teeth, and varying eye colors from red to yellow and all in between. Your nails might be really made of iron, or that might just be their natural color.

Hell Hound? You’ve got a dog head. Doberman-like is common, but so is only approximately like a normal dog; in either case, your eyes, throat, and the insides of your mouth and nostrils glow with faint orange light. Your hair is likely naturally short, dark, and wiry, and your toenails grow long and tough enough from pawed feet to use for traction. Your body is built long and lean like a distance runner, and if you have a tail it’s short and powerful, good for keeping your balance.

Nightmare? Your face is decidedly equine; even if you don’t have a literal horse head, you do have a long face with wide eyes. Your feet are hoofed like a horse’s, and your legs are especially hairy. As your skin is dark blue to black and your hair is bright like a flame, it stands out like a sore thumb. You’re built to cover a lot of ground very quickly, with a stout core and powerful legs.

Rakshasa? Your hands are likely abnormal in some way; whether they’re fully backward-facing like your grandparent’s, have thumbs on the wrong sides, or are simply double-jointed can vary. That aside, you might be mistaken for tabaxi, if your grandparent was the most typical sort of rakshasa. Your voice is smooth and pleasing to the ear, and you’re covered in patches of skin like your ancestor’s- fur if mammalian, scales if reptilian, and so on. Your feet likely match those of your animal semblance.

Succubus/Incubus? You appear almost entirely human, but your fiendish blood shows subtly in your attractiveness, which is certainly unnatural and borders on disturbing. Allure aside, the truth of your heritage is probably easiest to spot in the eyes- your eyes are subtly unusual in some way, be it a different coloration, unusual pupil shape, colored sclera, or some other aberration.

Arcanaloth Yugoloth? You’re furry, and have a keen look in your eyes that might make people think you’re up to something. Scheming face, for sure. You’re likely not full-on jackal-headed, but close-set eyes, a sharp nose, and a small mouth with a crooked grin suggest something’s up, and the patches of bristly golden fur tell their own story. You smell faintly of parchment.

Mezzoloth Yugoloth? You’re short and hunched, with purplish skin that reveals itself to be slightly resistant to the touch if it isn’t outright chitinous. Certainly you have your ancestor’s mouth, a chaos of mandibles and breath that smells strongly of chlorine. The hunched back isn’t for wings- there is a second set of shoulders there, even if you had to have the useless arms lopped off so you could wear normal shirts. Your feet might only have two toes, and your hands might be just two fingers opposing a thumb.

Nycaloth Yugoloth? You’re built broad, thick through the middle, shoulders, and thighs. Big boned would be polite but accurate- you mightn’t have worked a day in your life, but there’s a lazy bulk to the trunk of you. Your face isn’t too bad, with short straight horns up from your brow and wide, bat-like ears. Your skin is, though, a color between green and yellow that somehow is reminiscent of illness. If you have the stumps of wings, they’re too prominent to wear under a shirt- if you don’t, instead you might have bony black spurs all over your shoulders just like your ancestor.

Ultroloth Yugoloth? You’re easily mistaken for a doppelganger or changeling, with an ill-defined nose, a small mouth with thin lips, and large, yellow eyes. Whether you share your ancestor’s grey skin tone or not, you look noticeably inhuman. If you have hair, it’s light and fine; if not, your skin is smooth and unmarked, and always glistens faintly. If you try to convince someone of something, your eyes shine with a soothing light that’s oddly hypnotic- a remnant of a much more powerful ability your ancestor had.

See the second post here and the third post here.

#tiefling #tieflings #fiends #demons #devils #yugoloths #others #D&D #Dungeons and Dragons #Character Designs #character ideas #fiendlings #planescape #make your tieflings look like freaks #not just technicolor horned people #you cowards #give me your non-human tieflings #play games as the bugman and explain about your ice devil grandpa #worldbuilding

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tcm · 3 years

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Doris Day Was Far More Than Virginal By Susan King

Oscar Levant once quipped: “I knew Doris Day before she was a virgin.”

The actor-composer-pianist-writer starred with Day in her first film, ROMANCE ON THE HIGH SEAS (‘48), in which she played a bubbly singer. And it is true that she played 30-something-year-old virgins beginning with PILLOW TALK (‘59), the first film she made with Rock Hudson. But Levant’s comment diminishes the former band singer’s accomplishments as an actress and ignores the fact that her characters were quite modern and progressive. In fact, you could call her an early feminist.

During her “Golden Age,” which I define as between LOVE ME OR LEAVE ME (‘55) and SEND ME NO FLOWERS (‘64), she played successful career women at a time when there weren’t that many being portrayed on screen. In the George Abbott-Stanley Donen cotton candy-colored musical THE PAJAMA GAME (‘57), she’s a worker in a pajama factory, a member of the union leadership who doesn’t take any guff from her bosses. In the delightful romantic comedy TEACHER’S PET (‘58), she’s a successful journalist and college professor; in PILLOW TALK, a flourishing interior decorator; and two years later in LOVER COME BACK (‘61), she goes toe to toe with Hudson as a rival Madison Avenue ad executive. And, in the often-neglected comedy IT HAPPENED TO JANE (‘59), she’s a widowed mother of two who takes on the meaner-than-mean head of a railroad (Ernie Kovacs) when the company causes the death of 300 lobsters she was shipping.

Day’s characters were also incredibly feisty. In PILLOW TALK, the only film for which she received a Best Actress Oscar nomination, she learns that the man she’s fallen for, the shy handsome Texas Rex Stetson, is actually the womanizing composer she shares her party phone line with, so she redesigns his apartment into a gaudy mess reflecting his lothario ways. Speaking of lothario, Day’s leading men often played long-term bachelors-serial daters, like Clark Gable in TEACHER’S PET and Cary Grant in THAT TOUCH OF MINK (‘62). Her characters fall in love with them but won’t become their latest conquests. It’s actually the men who succumb to her charms and give up their womanizing ways when they fall in love with her.

Still, the virgin quote harmed her legacy. “People don’t take her seriously,” said former L.A. Times film critic Kenneth Turan in 2012. “It was a lifetime battle for Marilyn Monroe to be taken seriously; that was a battle she won. Audrey Hepburn was taken seriously. People are reluctant to take Doris Day seriously. It’s too bad.” Cari Beauchamp, a film historian and writer who specializes in the history of women in film, told me in 2012 that when she talks to people about Day “they tend to say she played the girl next door. And you look at her movies, particularly at the time of those films and she wasn’t the girl next door. She always had a backbone.”

Day was a popular singer with Les Brown and His Band of Renown, scoring her first No. 1 in 1945 with “Sentimental Journey.” Hollywood soon came knocking on her door, and she answered in the Warner Bros.’ Technicolor musical ROMANCE ON THE HIGH SEAS, directed by Michael Curtiz, in which she introduced the Best Song Oscar nominee “It’s Magic.” Not only was she adorable and a breath of fresh air, Day seemed totally at ease in her big screen bow.

“I wanted to be in films,” she told me in 2012. “I wasn’t nervous. I just felt ‘I’m here. I am supposed to be doing this.’ I was so lucky to have such terrific actors and directors. Everything was different and everything to me was great.”

Her films at Warner Brothers were a mixed bag. She got to demonstrate her dramatic chops reuniting with Curtiz for YOUNG MAN WITH A HORN (‘50), starring Lauren Bacall and Kirk Douglas. And I also loved the Booth Tarkington-inspired musical comedies ON MOONLIGHT BAY (‘51) and BY THE LIGHT OF THE SILVERY MOON (‘53). Turan loves her musical-comedy CALAMITY JANE (‘53), in which she has a field day as the famed Wild West heroine, because “her energy is kind of irrepressible.” Day also introduced the Oscar-winning song, “Secret Love” in the freewheeling classic.

But she really came into her own when she went to MGM to do the musical drama LOVE ME OR LEAVE ME, in which she gave a tour de force performance as torch singer Ruth Etting, who has a particularly volatile marriage to a gangster (James Cagney). But she was totally ignored by the Academy and the Golden Globes. The film was nominated for six Oscars, winning for Best Motion Picture Story, with only Cagney, brilliant as Marty “the Gimp” Snyder, getting nominated for his performance.

Turan described LOVE ME OR LEAVE ME as a “provocative film. It almost defines a kind of thing that you would say: Doris Day would never do something like that. But when we say that we are thinking of the cliché Doris Day, not thinking of the actual actress who made interesting choices and interesting films.” Day also counted the hit, directed by Charles Vidor, as a career highlight. “I really loved working with Jim,” she said of Cagney, who had previously appeared with her in the disappointing THE WEST POINT STORY (‘50). “The wonderful thing is that when you have someone like him to play opposite, it’s very exciting. You just feel so much from a man like that.”

She didn’t do research into Etting’s life but went by the script and “just how I felt and what I listened to. You react. It was so well-written. It just comes out of you. I don’t know how to explain it.” But it probably wasn’t hard. Like Etting, who endured abuse at the hands of her husband, the four-time married Day was mercilessly beaten by her one husband, musician Al Jordan, the father of her only child, Terry Melcher.

Mastering drama and musicals, Day was also a fabulous comedian. Just look at her expression when Gable, as a seasoned newspaper editor, kisses her for the first time in TEACHER’S PET. She crosses her eyes and is literally weak in the knees. Or when she realizes in THAT TOUCH OF MINK that Grant wants her to share his bed when they go to a resort. It’s brilliant. And of course, she and Hudson had a chemistry few actors get to share on screen. Ironically, Day admitted she didn’t know who Hudson was when they were cast together in PILLOW TALK, even though he had been a major star for most of that decade and earned an Oscar nomination for GIANT (‘56). “Isn’t that amazing?,” she said laughing. “I thought he was just starting out. I didn’t know about the films he had made. I just loved working with him. We laughed and laughed.”

The quality of her films declined after SEND ME NO FLOWERS. Her third husband and manager, Marty Melcher, put her in poorly received comedies such as DO NOT DISTURB (‘65) and CAPRICE (‘67). He squandered her money and signed her up to do the CBS sitcom The Doris Day Show without her knowledge before his death in 1968. The series ran from 1968 to 1973.

After the series, Day went to Carmel, co-owned a pet friendly hotel there and concentrated on animal welfare. In 1985-86, she did the pet-forward TV talk show Doris Day and Friends, best remembered for guest Rock Hudson, who was suffering from AIDS. She admitted Hollywood never lured her out of retirement. “No one really said that – ‘Oh, come back.’ I was just here.’”

#Doris Day #feminism #female sexuality #musicals #comedy #James Cagney #Rock Hudson #TCM #Turner Classic Movies #Susan King

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paintedwarpony · 3 years

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C2E134 HIGHLIGHTS OF THE NIGHT

Nordverse*

Travis/Cast gigglefits over Travis "eating" Blackwillow and then turning into a Nordverse hacker*

"WHY CAN'T I BE THE ONE!?"

Travis being so resigned to being a part of the Nordverse

Matt Long Suffering Sigh*

Giant Burp

Ashley's insane shirt and chaos channeling for CritRole Charities announcement*

Essek using gravity magic to clear the tunnel

Dagen and some rangers alive

Cad Nat 1 Athletics Check

"Beauroto"

The M9 still not realizing Essek got a long rest

Matt just vibing as he describes his world

Cast getting distracted by talking about Rick Moranis and Honey I Shrunk The Kids

Divine Sense triggers

"Are we poking this badger?"

Necromancy: that's my favorite

MIGHTY NEIN CHECK IN

Yasha channeling Chaos Entity Ashley: We should just check... *

Frumpkin in the goggles

Sprinkle*

Beau and Veth holding hands

Lucky Jade Dice

Talking to Dead Tyffal as Cree

"That elf got Big Lebowskied."

Mention of Campaign 1: Bidet*

Cad melts a head

"I thought I should take an improve class after this..."

Yasha and Veth's Message connection when Caleb's message fails

Fjord casts Cure Wounds on Jester*

People bothering Caleb while he's casting

Classic Matt Mercer Fake Out

AEORIAN REVERSERS

Matt: Roll . . . -long suffering sigh x2-*

Caleb identifying the robe, it being non-magical and Yasha telling him he's wrong

"Two giant sex monsters!"

The whole sex monster conversation

Mention of Molly*

More Cast Gigglefits at Veth's assessment of the sex monster scene*

Talking to a Dead Head Part Deux

Travis mutters to having a headache

Brashaar in the Time Bubble

CHARLIE THE ROBOT

Matt having fun being a robot

Essek: . . . I don't trust it.

"Stay close."*

Stealthing for Two

Charlie vs. Sprinkle

Charlie blanking out talking about the Cognouza Ward

Asking Charlie (his) preferred pronouns

ENHANCE

Fjord: Superior society. No night vision. Lame... no offense Charlie...

Stealth Shimmy

Widofjord Crumbs Caleb and Fjord in the rear: Fans will love that*

"... Barbaque sauce."

Beauyasha PDA static kisses*

Caleb hair all poofed out with the static electricity

Using the Wizard World Tour Toys: Allura's Staff*

Mad dash with the Orb of Invulnerability (new spell)*

Cast screaming*

Cast howling to the battle horn*

Aeorian Hunters: Absorber and REVERSER

Cast cheer at making it in the Orb: Snuggle pile in the Dome*

"Thanks geuniea pig!"

Travis getting excited about Yasha Raging

AEORIAN REVERSER ON THE MOVE

Liam: That technicolor watermelon monster is not fucking around!

Entire Cast screaming when Essek gets hurt*

Liam (about Essek): AWE BUBBIE

"Duo Nancy."

ESSEK'S GRAVITY SINKHOLE*

"Spaghettified."

Essek Spellcasting Aethstics*

Fjord's animal curse returns

Cast getting excited about dndbeyond for real

"Center boy."

Ronin mentioned by Ashley*

Fjord rolling on the Wild Magic table x2

"Warladin"

Shadowgast Crumbs- Essek: Caleb are you alright? Caleb: No. Essek: Me either... *

Fjorester Combat Couples PDA*

Jester Nat 20 Axe HDYWDT

Fjord's hair and beard fall out

Travis/Fjord screaming*

"I think I look smooth."

Olympic!Fjord

Artagan!

Cree's Blades

The Scry

Dome snuggle pile part 2 and Essek being in the Dome for the first time *

Liam's Secrets

Eye Nightmare

Cliffhanger Ending*

It really was a good episode. For all the tension and stress thats been building up you still see that they're having fun and enjoying themselves and thats what its all about.

I love these lunatics.

#critical role #d&d shenanigans #the mighty nein #cr spoilers #campaign 2 #d&d #critical role spoilers #cr liveblogging #c2e134 #highlights of the night #highlights #manifest list

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activate-shadow-of-the-window · 7 months

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Hermittober Day 2: Time

In general, Scar doesn’t keep track of the time.

Oh sure, he knew if it was noon or morning or night (when he was outside), or if it was mealtime (whenever he was hungry), but proper time management was not in his repertoire of skills. That was a very exclusive club that included landscaping, color-picking, imagining things, and talking to people.

Especially talking to people.

Especially especially talking to people other people find hard to talk to.

“So… you come around here much?”

The stranger blinked in surprise, drawing the duke’s attention to their red eyes. “Uh, not really. I’m from… the Maw, actually. I haven’t really traveled that much, but as you can see, I’ve recently moved here.”

Scar’s eyes widened in surprise, though if it was real or feigned, not even he could tell you. “The Maw? Really? Pardon me if I’m being rude, but is that why you’re so pale?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. It’s all underground, as you must know, and there wasn’t exactly much reason to go on the surface. I do hope to get some color now that I’m living in Technicolor, though.”

“Well, if I’m any proof, you’re sure to tan after a little while! Say, what do you do for a living..?”

Nobody really trusted Scar to do his whole ‘pretend to be a normal person and not the half-elf-half-vex Duke of the whole freaking city’ bit alone, so he usually ended up with a tail, whether he knew it or not. This time, Mumbo was desperately trying to appear as a normal guy who just happened to be sitting next to a particularly wild plant, and not a plant fae. Which is much harder than it seems.

The engineer sighed as the duke kept on chatting up the stranger in dark traveler’s armor. “The only good thing about this is that I won’t be betting on if he’s hitting on the newcomer or not.”

The other tail, a horse hoof-folk sitting across from him, smirked. “You sure about that, mate? I’ve got a potato that says he’s flirting.”

“W-Well, I guess if it’s not money… a carrot says that he’s flirting but not actually aware that he’s flirting.”

“Bet.”

Across the restaurant, the stranger didn’t know exactly what was going on either.

“Uh, no, I don’t have any pets, sadly. But there was this one goat I’d feed sometimes. I called him Double, since both of his horns were intact, unlike most of the Maw’s goats.”

“I see! Well, if you are in want of a furry friend, I cannot recommend getting a cat enough. Especially the Jellie breed; they’re Technicolor City’s official state animal, after all!”

“…thanks?”

Suddenly, Scar jumped up. “Oh goodness, look at the time! I’d love to keep chatting, but I’ve got to get up bright and early tomorrow. Barkeep! Say, what’s your mailing address? I want to keep in touch!”

#horizon to horizon au #hermitcraft au #fanfic #fanfiction #microfiction #hermittober #hermitcraft

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this-is-a-dystopian-parable · 2 years

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"i can call him up and tell him what i want!

Jesus.mp3

i can call him up and tell him what i want!

but solo now so: lo the cymbals,

(but on cannery row hazel pours all the half drunk drinks into a single jug, and comes home with a wild punch maybe champagne spiked one night and fernet the next. one taste.

i have no idea what all of this tastes like,

i have no idea what god looks like,

-Dave Malloy, December 09 2005

#dave malloy Pointless #not sorry for how long this is

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thanksjro · 4 years

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More Than Meets the Eye #21- Situations in Which it is Appropriate to Stab Your Roommate

You know what’s generally considered bad for your health?

Getting fingers stuck into your brain meat.

Tailgate reveals himself to be immune to Tyrest’s “fall down on the floor” signal, because his hearing’s gone to complete shit due to Cybercrosis. Tailgate then turns off the “fall down on the floor” signal, allowing everyone back up. Tyrest dislikes this turn of events every much- so much so, in fact, he’s turned into a Nazgûl out of sheer rage.

Rodimus, feeling a bit bolstered by the fact that he’s gotten his hands on one of the massive guns the Legislators dropped, tries to talk a big game at Tyrest, before being reminded that a lot of their party is still at risk of dying, by way of their souls cheese-wizzing out of their heads.

Tyrest, now using Tailgate as a hostage, tells everyone to back off so he can go hang out with the Guiding Hand, otherwise he’s gonna poke holes in Cyclonus’ morality pet. Tailgate screams for Rodimus to fire, finally revealing that he’s been dying this whole time. Rodimus has a weird moment where the plot overrides his knowledge of his situation as a character, as he claims shooting them both is unnecessary, as it looks like someone’s already working on it.

Not sure how he saw the gun and not the man it was being held by. And Minimus has some fucking explaining to do.

Outside, Star Saber is yelling about everyone being unworthy of God’s grace, save for himself, because Real Bastard Hours are 24-fucking-7 with him around. Cyclonus decides that he’s going to deal with the stress of not being able to find his dying roommate through violence, and agrees to a religiously-inclined sword fight.

Star Saber has a good start, sucker-punching Cyclonus in the chin, holier-than-thou as he goes. Cyclonus turns the tables however, when he uses his remaining helmet horn to gouge one of Star Saber’s eyes out, revealing his fashion statement to be a deadly weapon in its own right.

Then we get a taste of Cyclonus’ personal brand of faith.

That’s a mighty high opinion of Tailgate you got there, pal. Quite the jump from “I think you’re pathetic.”

Unfortunately, having this little character moment gives Star Saber enough time to warp the hell away from Cyclonus’ Nazgûlian wrath.

Back with Zombie Bullshit Part 3, we get some friggin’ answers.

Minimus looks super tiny here, but remember that he’s still at least ten feet tall. This is not a man you can invite inside your house for a tea party.

After Minimus’ head got crushed, he had to Alien chest-burst his tiniest self out, which allowed him to grab that gun that’s as big as he is and shoot Tyrest in half. Rodimus has to be reminded again that people are still dying, including Brainstorm, which is weird, because he made it seem like he was forged a few issues back. Perceptor runs off to try and parse the Killswitch, and Pharma offers to help, striking a weirdly sultry pose as he does. Everyone ignores him, because that’s just what happens when you become evil and cut your old coworker in half hotdog-style- you get ignored.

Off in the corner, Swerve is talking to Tailgate about the fact that he didn’t tell anyone he was dying, then makes a joke about his impending demise, because Swerve has a lot of trouble handling serious situations. No one has helped him pop his nose back into place, either. This entire team is just falling apart.

Skids stares blankly at Ratchet and First Aid as they check to make sure all the cold-constructed ‘bots are still dying- they are- then remembers that he’s supposed to be watching Pharma.

Prowl only hires the best, clearly.

Skids runs for the portal, with First Aid right on his tail because there’s a gotdang score to settle, and also Rung for some reason. They find Pharma chilling in the tunnel, completely unable to get through to the other side, not because he’s guilty, but because there’s a forcefield in place.

Of course, because Tyrest was an engineer, and you can always find a running theme with everyone’s work, Rung theorizes that the forcefield is working with Aequitas rules, and actually can sense guilt- not of the legal sense, but of the personal variety.

Which sort of implies some unfortunate things about the Aequitas trials as a whole.

Skids starts sinking through, whereas Rung is hitting a wall. Rung, the hell you got to feel guilty about? What sort of horrors have you inflicted upon the world, you skinny creamsicle of a man?

Skids, people are dying. Can your personal nirvana not wait until after this galactic-scale crisis is resolved?

While Skids fucks off into the portal, First Aid’s taking care of Pharma, as Rung watches and has a Nam flashback to issue #6 in the distance.

Sometimes I wonder if First Aid is somehow aware of how Eugenesis went for him, and that’s why he’s so aggressive all the time in MTMTE.

With his revenge exacted, First Aid finally has that breakdown that’s been a long time coming.

You know what we haven’t had in a while? Gratuitous religious imagery.

“They call it the Eugenesis Code. Has something to do with intellectual property, I dunno.”

So this move they’re about to pull might kill Rodimus, and is for-sure going to annihilate the half of the Matrix they have. Bummer. Perceptor goes to finish setting up, leaving Rodimus and Minimus alone to discuss that thing Getaway brought up about Ultra Magnus luring the Lost Light to Luna 1.

Over on the floor, Tyrest isn’t dead, because of course he isn’t, and enacts the homophone game with Swerve and Tailgate as he relays an order to the Legislators.

Outside, all the Legislators stop whaling on Whirl with their swords and start parroting prime numbers at the sky.

Back with Rodimus and Minimus, it’s revealed that Magnus/Minimus/Miniminimus DID lure the Lost Light to the moon, but it was to have Tyrest yell at Rodimus for being a crappy captain. He didn’t know that Tyrest had gone completely bonkers.

The worst part is that Minimus doesn’t know the half of all the bullshit Rodimus has pulled since the end of the war.

No wonder Rodimus was so upset before the funeral- Overlord was partially his fault.

Prowl, prior to the Lost Light’s launch, had wormed his way into Rodimus’ brain, convincing him that an Autobot Phase Sixer was absolutely necessary for the safety of everyone. He, along with Drift, Brainstorm, the Duobots, and eventually Chromedome, assisted in what culminated in one hell of a bad day.

Rodimus would really prefer if this whole space-crucifixion didn’t kill him, because he’s feeling like he’s got a lot to make up for. Which, yeah. I’m guessing all of Tripodeca’s friends are going to be mighty sore about this whole thing once it comes to light.

And that’s a series wrap on Rodimus!

We get a brief intermission, as we find out where exactly Skids got to. It’s… somewhere. Not even he’s sure. He tries to ask for directions, but it would seem there’s a language barrier.

It really speaks volumes to Skids’ sense of self-confidence, that he’d see a giant ball of technicolor light and decide he’s gonna go try to talk to it.

Back at the current crisis at hand, Rodimus screams some more, the Matrix shatters alongside any hopes of finding the Knights of Cybertron, and Ratchet has himself a little smile, because that did the trick.

The reason we aren’t seeing Crankcase in this set of panels is because his head wound was also spewing oil, and he looks super nasty right now. Well, nastier than any of the Scavengers usually are on a day to day basis. They regularly drink corpse juice, they can’t NOT be nasty.

Unfortunately, we aren’t out of the woods yet, as that whole Legislator thing still needs to be taken care of. They pour into the room, throwing Swerve along with the steel door, as he shrieks in terror.

Back outside, Cyclonus and Whirl are having a little breather up on the edge of the smelting pool, since all the Legislators they were fighting went inside. Whirl, who is looking just awful, brings up that little deal he cooked up in issue #19, where Cyclonus would stop trying to murder him if they got through this fight. It’s important to remember that verbal contracts aren’t binding, and that Cyclonus didn’t agree to anything.

And that’s a series wrap on Whirl!

Actually, no, Cyclonus was just daydreaming. He agrees to put the past behind them, then shoots off to go find Tailgate.

Back in Legislator City, things are getting dicey, as Rung screams for Skids to come back, because if nothing else, he knows he can depend on Skids when the chips are down.

Skids, playing to Rung’s expectations, vaults over Pharma’s headless body out of the portal, and starts kicking ass. In the background, some creepy tentacle nonsense pulls Pharma through the portal. This, surely, will never come up again, nor will it be a major plot point down the road.

Because Tyrest decided he was going to play fast and loose with the law, Minimus has no idea what “one one” is meant to refer to. Tailgate decides that cram school did serve a purpose after all, and books it towards that massive computer off in the corner. After a bit of combing through the index, he finds what he’s looking for and makes a few choice edits to the Autobot Code. The Legislators freeze in place, and Tailgate reveals that he’s just completely voided a section of the law.

Just off panel, Minimus barely contains the urge to pop Tailgate’s cubic little head off of his neck. Not that he’d have much time to do it anyway.

Smash cut to the next day, where Tailgate’s laid out in a dark room, Cyclonus sitting by his side. Chromedome is also there for some reason. Rung is nowhere to be seen, despite him likely being a better fit for this situation than the guy whose husband died less than a week ago. Chromedome leaves, because this is a very intimate moment between these two guys who are roommates.

Tailgate, who has developed an honest-to-god “guy-who-is-going-to-die-by-the-end-of-the-movie” cough, tells Cyclonus that he made him something, and it’s waiting in their room for him. I’m going to guess it’s a macaroni art picture of the two of them fighting a dragon.

Tailgate has literal minutes to live, and Cyclonus just sits there, Nazgûling with grief, until Tailgate decides that NOW is the time to reveal his hand.

…Well, there’s the answer to the Babygate question.

Tailgate’s come to the conclusion that all his wanting to be important and a hero was a bit misguided, because as it turns out, it kind of sucks when it’s your final act in the world of the living. He really would have preferred to do just about anything else with his last days, even if it had been just chilling in his room with Cyclonus.

Tailgate asked Cyclonus off-panel to do him a solid and kill him before the Cybercrosis did, a plea which Cyclonus couldn’t agree to. Then he gets a call, and the tension of the scene is somewhat ruined by some goofy-ass cinematic parallels.

Where the hell is Tailgate, that Cyclonus has to book it down the hall to make it to the medibay? That isn’t clear, but what is is that Tailgate has the rottenest luck in the world; they figured out a cure for Cybercrosis, but his case is too advanced for treatment to be effective.

Cyclonus thinks that this is a major bummer, but thanks Ratchet for trying anyway. Whirl tries to talk to him, and he better watch out, before that little deal he made gets thrown out the friggin’ window.

Tailgate hits the final two minutes, as Cyclonus returns, sword in hand.

And that’s a series wrap on Tailgate!

…That was almost a sincere one, you know. Tailgate was supposed to die here, in an earlier draft of the story. He didn’t, because Roberts realized it would completely nerf Cyclonus’ character development. I can’t even begin to imagine who Cyclonus would have been if both the Rewind/Chromedome thing hadn’t gone over well, AND Tailgate got offed.

Later on, Ultra Magnus is back in action, Minimus Ambus having redonned the armor to reassume his position as S.I.C. of the Lost Light. He discusses the changes that have come about as a result of their time on Luna 1 with Rodimus, who’s pretty bummed about the whole situation. A quick rundown of all the nonsense that happened:

The mystical portal to the Guiding Hand no longer works

Hot Spot faded out and won’t come back on

Ambulon is dead

First Aid is very sad about Ambulon being dead

The ship is falling apart

The only person who seems to have had any sort of a positive experience is Brainstorm.

…James, did you put that baby inside that robot?

Anyway, so yeah. Luna 1 sucks butt. One star, would rate zero if I could, I don’t care if it has sweet rocket thrusters strapped to the back of it and is super mysterious, and might potentially be an idea pulled from the delightfully earnest Children of a Lesser Matrix.

Later on, Magnus makes his rounds, stopping by Cyclonus and Tailgate’s room to check the vibe. Turns out that stabbing sick people is considered medicine on Cybertron, at least when you’re using a Great Sword to do it.

Whirl had the awesome idea to slap Cyclonus’ weird spark energy into Tailgate’s frail body, so it could kickstart his heart and give him enough time to actually get treated for Cybercrosis.

Ultra Magnus is impressed, and perhaps a bit concerned with how easily Cyclonus was willing to risk dying so that Tailgate could potentially live. So much so, in fact, that Cyclonus gets an achivement- he’s finally collected enough good karma to be allowed to have friends!

Looking mighty fresh-faced there, Cyclonus. And is that a new horn? Someone’s got a plastic surgeon on speed-dial.

No, this is actually the gift that Tailgate made him, the one he was working on in Hoist’s workshop back in issue #15, just before the Overlord attack. The one we never got to actually see, probably because it would be very easy to tell what it was and who it was for if we had. The set up for our slowburn romance has to be just so, no shortcuts allowed.

#transformers #jro #jro punches me in the face #mtmte #remain in light #issue 21 #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #comic script writing

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busterkeatonfanfic · 3 years

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Chapter 31 Pt II

The song was winding down as she reentered the living room. She looked for Buster and saw him among a group of men, smoking a cigarette and talking. Judging by their heavy builds and ordinary looks, they were directors. Ramon Navarro bumped her and Orange Blossom went over her fingers. “Oh!” she said.

“Goodness, I am so sorry. Just a moment, miss, just a moment.”

When he’d returned with a couple cloth napkins and she’d wiped the drink from her hand, his profuse apologies gave her an idea. She threw back the remainder of the drink and said with a smile, “Give me a dance and call it even?”

The tall, dark man with the Spanish accent smiled gleamingly upon her. “Miss, I will gladly dance with you.”

She couldn’t tell if the drinks made her a better or worse dancer. In any case, she wasn’t as stiff. As the orchestra took up a cheerful rendition of “My Pet,” she shuffled her feet with energy and abandon. It was a quick dance and Mr. Navarro was smiling and gracious.

The orchestra took a break following their dance. The crush of guests seemed to double in size as the many orchestra members made their way to the foyer. Nelly located Bradford speaking to a tall, broad man with a large stomach. A thin, small pale man with dark hair and eyes stood with them. He seemed to be about Buster’s age and was about two shades, she reflected, from being terribly good-looking. Not that he was bad on the eyes as he was. Feeling quite free and happy, she introduced herself.

“Nelly Foster. I’m Bradford’s girlfriend.”

The men who shook her hands were Eddie Sedgwick and Irving Thalberg. Mr. Sedgwick, who took her hand second, smiled. “I know you. You’re the girl from Buster’s place.”

Even through the sheen of liquor, Nelly’s stomach felt like it dropped straight out of her body. She had never seen Mr. Sedgwick in her life; Buster always made sure Segdwick’s half of the bungalow was unoccupied before smuggling her over. All she could think of to say was, “Oh yes. I’ve visited once or twice.”

Mr. Sedgwick winked at her. “Say no more,” he said jovially, swishing a glass of what looked like Scotch and taking a sip.

Bradford’s arm curled around her shoulder, but it was too little too late. How many other people at the party knew about her and Buster? “Mr. Thalberg’s just telling us about this new thing called Technicolor they’ll be using in a talkie next year,” said Bradford. “It’s a musical too. Says they’ll need a lot of extras and we ought to try out.”

Nelly tried to listen as Bradford, also on another drink, carried on with enthusiasm with occasional remarks from Mr. Sedgwick and Mr. Thalberg, but all she could concentrate on was how exposed she felt. A thing like an affair never stayed quiet for long once a third person was in on it, a fourth if you didn’t count Buster’s butler. She nodded and smiled in the appropriate places. She couldn’t do anything else, knowing how it would look if she fled to Buster, which was her impulse. She wanted his reassurance that it was a case of mistaken identity with her and Mr. Sedgwick. It was a silly explanation to wish for, since that would mean the presence of another woman at Buster’s bungalow.

She did not have to wait long for Buster. “Whatever they’re saying about me’s a god damn dirty lie,” he said, strolling over to them. He took a puff from his cigarette.

Mr. Thalberg laughed and Mr. Sedgwick slapped Buster on the back. Buster pretended that the force was so great it bowled him over and not missing a beat he slipped and fell flat on his back. The whiskey in the glass in his hand rocked a little, but not a drop had spilled. He looked up at Nelly and pressed his glass into her hand to hold while he rose to his feet. She didn’t appreciate it. It was another gesture of familiarity that gave them away. She wondered if Irving Thalberg knew about them too. Mr. Thalberg and Mr. Sedgwick were too busy laughing to notice her discomfort, though. She had an awful gnawing in her gut that she didn’t think any amount of drink could assuage.

“Ready for that second dance,” Buster said to her in an undertone, once he was back on his feet.

“Mr. Sedgwick knows,” she hissed back, feeling pale.

Buster cleared his throat and took a sip of whiskey. He pretended to listen to Sedgwick’s retelling of an incident that had happened during the filming of Snap Shots, one in which Buster had convinced a number of the extras and crewmembers that he’d been run over by a car, the stunt being carefully orchestrated beforehand with the car driver. After several moments, he shrugged. “So he knows,” he said. His breath smelled like whiskey.

“If he knows then who else does?” she whispered, feeling galled. Even speaking to him in such a knowing way was a sign of a deeper acquaintance. She felt surrounded by booby traps.

“Just relax, alright? He won’t say nothing.”

Nelly wasn’t convinced. For the first time since they’d been going together, she found herself truly mad at Buster. It would seem that nothing would make him realize that they were treading on thin ice. She turned her head away from him and watched the other guests. No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to her. Gradually, she was able to settle back into a drunken indifference, although any pretense of enjoying herself had vanished. The orchestra was setting back up again. The blue-eyed singer passed by some of the guests a few feet from her and Gloria Swanson stopped him to talk. He was carrying a cocktail and laughed as she made a joke Nelly couldn’t hear. Like Irving Thalberg, he wasn’t bad-looking either despite his ears and being a bit on the stout side. His smile was nice, his eyes were nice, and most of all his voice was nice. When Miss Swanson let him go, Nelly was seized with a whim to introduce herself and ran to catch up with him.

“Sir,” she said, touching him on the shoulder.

He turned. “Why, hello.” He smiled.

“Sir, you’ve got the most wonderful voice. I’m a tremendous fan of your music. I’ve got so many of your records.”

“Oh,” he said, the white smile never faltering. “Well, thanks for that. You’re pretty kind.”

“I’ll let you get back to singing I suppose,” she said, not knowing what else to say. It would have been hard for her to further describe how his music made her feel. It was humming to herself in the prop shop during the summer of Steamboat Bill, playing bridge in Louise Brooks’ apartment, lying alongside Buster after they’d made love, and dancing a tight foxtrot on the rug in the confines of Buster’s bungalow all bound up in one.

“Oh, I can chat,” he said. “They’re giving our pipes a little rest for the next couple numbers. Gonna do a couple instrumentals.”

Almost on cue, the orchestra’s uneven murmuring cohered. The full ensemble burst into boisterous song. She recognized it as the Black Bottom Stomp after a few bars. Hardly thinking, she grabbed the singer’s hand. “C’mon, you ought to enjoy yourself too.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, his feet planted. “Slow down a little, kid.”

“I need to dance or else I’ll scream.” As soon as the words left her lips, she realized what was driving her wasn’t a desire to make Buster jealous or even sow suspicion in the minds of those who might have been looking askance at Buster and her; it was to conquer the nervous energy that had been building in her all day.

“Boy, if you insist,” the singer said. He handed the closest guest—Buster Collier—his glass and whirled her into the riotous press of bodies. They tromped up and down the length of the room several times. She let the horns and clarinet carry her away. The more her heart pounded, the better she felt. She didn’t look at any of the other guests, simply watched her dance partner who was grinning despite his professed reluctance. Like most of the men she’d encountered in Hollywood, he was a good dancer. Although sweat shone on his forehead, Nelly wasn’t aware of the answering moistness of her skin. She didn’t feel tired in the least, just full of strange energy.

When the song ended and their feet stopped moving, there was a round of clapping. Nelly looked around her. They were being applauded by Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, John Barrymore, and at least one of the Talmadge girls; Nelly thought it was Norma rather than Natalie, but didn’t look long enough to confirm.

“Thank you,” she said to her audience, with a vague embarrassment mostly tempered by the liquor.

The singer grasped her hand and bowed, and Nelly followed.

“Well I simply must have the next dance with this lovely creature,” said Charlie Chaplin, winding his arm around her waist.

“Thank you for the dance!” she called after the singer, who was headed back toward the stage.

“Enchantée!” he shouted back, with a wave, smile, and befuddled shake of his head.

Rather than burn off like gasoline, the liquor head somehow soaked in more and Nelly leaned her head against Charlie’s shoulder even though a voice in the back of her head warned that he was a Dangerous Man. His shoulder was thin and slight, and he felt almost wispy compared to Buster. She began to feel like she was fading out until Paul Whiteman set the band in motion and a loud, energetic version of “Darktown Strutters’ Ball” rang out. She found energy to bounce up and down the room once more, clinging to Charlie, although her reserves had finally begun to dwindle. It was a relief to focus on each dance and each dance partner and not worry about Buster, but Buster would not stay away. At some point Charlie was no longer with her, another drink (her seventh? eighth?) was half-gone in her hand, and she was squinting with drunken brazenness at the crowd wondering why she shouldn’t ask John Barrymore to dance.

“Time to cool your heels,” said a voice. Fingers pulled the glass away from her hand. One of the fingers was shorter than the rest, missing a knuckle.

“I presume I can take care of myself,” she said, looking over her shoulder and aiming a beliquored glare at Buster.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, but it’ll be quite a tale if they find me holding your hair in the bathroom while you’re upchucking.”

Nelly thought back to the first time he’d seen her in over her head and done just that. “Hmmph.”

Buster tossed the rest of her drink back into his mouth and an obedient butler standing at the wait nearby dispensed with the glass.

At that moment, Whiteman’s voiced boomed out. “I’d like to welcome The Rhythm Boys back to the stage. Over here’s Harry Barris”—he gestured at the dark-haired singer with the center part who’d been doing most of the scat singing—“This is Al Rinker”—pointing to the brown-haired singer with thick lips who had been on piano—“And to top it off, Mr. Bing Crosby.” At this, he inclined his head toward the blue-eyed singer.

“What an odd name,” said Nelly.

“Any odder’n Buster?” said Buster.

“Nobody’s odder than Buster,” she quipped, and he pinched her.

“Ow,” she said. Her worry about being seen being too familiar with him resurfaced. She was going to chastise him, but the saxophones, trumpets, and horns had started a familiar tune, shortly joined by the strings. “Oh, it’s this one,” she uttered. She could feel her eyes shining in amazement.

“It’s this one,” said Buster with a pleased smile.

She remembered that the band was a birthday present, the most generous, thoughtful present she’d ever been given, and wasn’t sure she wouldn’t cry if she spoke further.

Buster put a hand about her waist and folded her back into the dancers with him. The foxtrot he took up had a gentle rhythm to suit the song. The saxophones played a teasing melody that all the brass instruments and violins followed with a loud, plucky answer. It was one of the songs from the first record Buster had given her and they’d danced to it regularly. Buster always teased her with the lyrics, staring into her eyes as he sang, “She’s got eyes of blue, I never cared for eyes of blue.” Every time she looked in the mirror now and noticed the color of her eyes, she was reminded that she had become a weakness for Buster, a thought that made her spirits swell.

In brief pauses, The Rhythm Boys scatted. But-duh-dut-dut-dut duh-dut duh-dut-dut. Buster looked casual and collected. She was relieved there was no strong emotion from him, still worried one of his guests might put two and two together.

Shhhhhe’s got eyes of blue, went The Rhythm Boys in a singsong, their S sibilant. I never cared for eyes of blue But she’s got eyes of blue And that’s my weakness now!

Shhhhhe’s got dimpled cheeks I never cared for dimpled cheeks But she’s got dimpled cheeks And that’s my weakness now!

Oh me, oh my …

If they had been an ordinary couple going together, she would have leaned forward to kiss him, to thank him for giving her this.

Shhhhhe likes to bill and coo I never liked to bill and coo But she likes to bill and coo And that’s my weakness now

Buster’s hold on her waist was firm. As the Rhythm Boys sang “Shhhhhe likes” and “I never liked” and the instruments filled in the blanks with suggestive retorts, he leaned in and said, “…to pet and play.” Nelly blushed and went warm. He stroked her hip with his thumb and she put her mouth to his ear and told him to stop, but on purpose grazed her lips against it. On the next refrain of “Shhhhhe likes,” he finished “…to fuck and flirt.”

“Buster,” she said, but the warmth increased.

“You wanna go outside for a breath of fresh air?” he said.

“No,” she said, even though she wanted him with a sudden desperation.

“Sure?” he said. “We can bill and coo.”

She shook her head. “You go dance a little more. Perhaps you can see me out when Bradford and I leave.” Although she’d been at the party for less than three hours, it felt much longer. With so many cocktails, her body had begun to feel leaden.

When the song had finished and Buster had let her go, she left the crowd and used the washroom again, returning to the living room in time to see a slow dance in progress. Some couples waltzed gracefully like Norma Talmadge and Gil Roland, others like John Barrymore and Bebe Daniels, who had had too much to drink, were shambling.

I’ll be loving you, always With a love that’s true, always

Nelly scanned for Bradford and Buster. Bradford was in the far corner of the room talking again to a cluster of men, one of whom might have been the director Harry Beaumont; she couldn’t quite tell. Her eyes felt heavy. Buster wasn’t dancing, but was talking with Harold Lloyd, holding another glass of whiskey and looking composed.

Days may not be fair always That’s when I’ll be there, always Not for just an hour Not for just a day Not for just a year But always

The lyrics pinched her in the chest somewhere. She was struck by the ephemerality of the whole scene. It seemed only yesterday she’d been seventeen, dead bored with high school and dreaming of what lay beyond. As the years passed, most of her friends married and found their always, and she minded the grandchildren of her mother’s friends and haunted stages by night. Here she was a blink of an eye later, her life already a third lived. Always was an illusion, one that Hollywood said it believed in and didn’t, actors dying, divorcing, and becoming forgotten by the week. Yet the pinch was for what a pretty thought it was: not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year, but always. Every woman, she supposed, wanted something like that. She couldn’t bring herself to think that anything of the sort would ever be possible as long as the man she was seeing was married.

The song ended with a wistful singing of the strings, the brass providing a soft accompaniment.

“This here’s another slow number,” said the blue-eyed singer, Bing. “By a fella by the name of Jimmy McHugh. What a name, huh?” He paused. “His mama oughta have called himself something a little more traditional, something sensible, y’know? Like Bing.”

The audience roared at the joke.

He waited for the laughter to die down before finishing. “Anyway, this one’s called ‘I Can’t Give You Anything but Love’ and it’s a pretty one if I do say so myself. Grab your guy or your girl and hold ‘em close, folks.”

A clarinet warbled a sweet, jazzy introduction with the piano accompanying and Bing leaned into the microphone.

I can’t give you anything but love, baby That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby Dream awhile, scheme awhile, we’re sure to find Happiness And, I guess, all those things you’ve always pined for

Nelly’s eyes flickered to the dancers and her stomach seized. Natalie and Buster were swaying close together, Buster’s hands gripping her small waist, her arms wrapped around his neck. They were a handsome couple, Natalie’s tiny frame setting off Buster’s modest brawn, both their hair dark and wavy. What gave Nelly the greatest pang, though, was the way that Buster looked at his wife. His face was all tenderness, something she was shocked to see given what she thought she knew about their marriage. She looked away, heartsick, and sought out Bradford. He put his arm around her when she approached, pausing just for a second or two to say hello before returning to his conversation with the director and the other men. She closed her eyes and nuzzled her face into the side of his chest. Tears stung behind her lids. Buster still loved Natalie. How she’d never realized this, she didn’t know.

‘Til that lucky day You know damned well, baby I can’t give you anything but love

“You okay, baby?” Bradford said, noticing that something was wrong.

She opened her filmy eyes and shook her head.

“What’s wrong?” Even in her unhappiness, she had to hand it to him. He sounded exactly as a concerned boyfriend would.

“Too much to drink, I think,” she said, quickly wiping away the tears from the corner of her eyes.

Bradford rubbed her arm. “Let’s get you home.” He dipped into the side pocket of his trousers. “Here’s my card.” He passed one to each of the three men. She watched them exchange pleasantries, and could see that Bradford was glowing with excitement and charisma. A wave of regret hit her for taking him from the party.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, I won’t hear of it,” he said, perfectly good-natured. “Wouldn’t want to wear out my welcome anyhow.”

There was no one for her to say goodbye to. Everyone but Buster was close to a stranger. Bradford’s arm through hers, they walked away from the room of partygoers and the beautiful noise of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra. She tried to cheer herself up with the good parts, dancing with Bradford and Buster and Bing, hearing all her favorite songs, hobnobbing with stars. The orchestra was her birthday gift too, a dear secret only she and Buster shared. Even with these reminders, she still felt miserable. A part of that, maybe not an inconsiderable part, was the result of too much to drink. Her stomach ached dully. Her vision was dizzy. Her eyelids sagged. She thought with longing of changing into a clean nightgown, drinking several glasses of water, eating some crackers, and collapsing into bed. Bradford held the great mahogany door for her and she stepped out into the brisk May night. The air smelled like peonies and was cold against her bare face and arms. It made her feel a little better.

She and Bradford were a few paces away from the door and walking in the direction of his car when a voice from behind them cried, “Nelly, wait!” She turned to see Buster rushing toward them. “Where’re you going?” he said when he’d caught up to them.

A lump climbed into her throat. “I’m feeling ill,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie.

Buster looked confused. “Feeling ill?” He looked to Bradford. “Mind if I borrow her a minute?”

“Go right ahead Mr. Keaton.”

Buster took her by the arm and led her to a shadowy patch of topiary to the east of the front door out of hearing of Bradford. “What’s really the matter?” he said.

Nelly shook her head. “I drank too much.”

“Ah, gee. Wish you hadn’t. I was going to propose we slip off in a few minutes here.” He stroked her cheek.

She realized he was referring to amorous activities and she couldn’t help but be amazed by him. He’d just been enjoying a romantic dance with his wife and yet was scheming to seduce her at the same time. “We couldn’t even if I felt well,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

“Sure it is. I’ve done it plenty.”

With her brain sluggish with liquor, it took his words a few moments to make sense. He was saying he’d sneaked women into the Villa under his wife’s nose before. She felt horrible all over again. “No. Not tonight.”

“What about tomorrow? You gonna come to the premiere?”

Nelly had been so fixated on the party, she’d forgotten about the premiere of Steamboat Bill altogether and Buster’s offhand suggestion a few days back that she attend. She shook her head. “It isn’t safe. If Mr. Sedgwick knows about us, we can’t draw any more attention than we already have. We should be safer from now on.” She stopped short of telling him that coming to the party was a mistake too; she didn’t want him to think that she wasn’t grateful for her birthday surprise.

Buster searched her eyes and she knew he was trying to puzzle out her gloomy mood. “Okay, if you say so. Is this character gonna get you home safe?” he said at last, looking over at Bradford.

“Of course. He’s been the perfect beau.”

He narrowed his eyes. “See to it he don’t get too perfect.”

“Buster,” she chastened. She had to hand it to them, it was some damn Shakespearean plot they’d woven, Bradford in disguise as her paramour and she and Buster playing the parts of two star-crossed lovers.

Buster kissed her hand. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

She gave him a half-hearted smile. “You can always call.”

“Remind me to tune my ukulele before I sing you the birthday song,” he joked. He held her hand in his, running his thumb over her palm.

A wave of gratitude sunk her. Hiring the Paul Whiteman Orchestra had to say something about how he felt for her, no matter the doting way he looked at Natalie or his experience sneaking around with other women at the Villa. She leaned into his arms and put her hands around his neck. “Thank you for tonight and the band. I had the time of my life.”

He put a hand in the center of her back and touched her cheek with his free hand. “I’m a sentimental sap, that’s all,” he said, then in a quieter voice,“Can I kiss you?”

“Okay, but make it quick.” She glanced toward the front door. No one had come out since Buster, but she remained on her guard even though the drinks urged her to throw caution to the wind.

Buster leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her breathless. She tasted cigarettes and whiskey on his tongue. She tried to make her answering kiss say what she couldn’t put into words, what she’d thought of during the first dance they’d shared earlier, the stars, his lips, and a Paul Whiteman phonograph record crackling softly in the background. “No funny business with that beau of yours, you hear me?” he said when he pulled back. His voice was thick in the way it got whenever he was in a carnal mood. Nelly embraced him again. The lump in her throat held sadness as well as gratitude. She never wanted to let him go.

Minutes later, Bradford’s car was bouncing over the roads out of Beverly Hills. The night was black and starless. Bradford gushed about Irving Thalberg, Edward Sedgwick, and all the other directors and production men he’d flattered and wooed. He didn’t say a word about Buster and her. Her foggy mind drifted over Twelfth Night. Although she was having no trouble learning her lines for the play, she knew now why her heart had not been in it since she’d gotten the role of Maria. It had nothing to do with her ambition of being in talking pictures or that she was too overburdened at United Artists to play such a substantial role in a play. In her head, she ran over three of Viola’s lines again and again.

She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought.

Viola had met Duke Orsino, but his love was still fixed on Olivia. Notes: Soundtrack to this chapter: “The Five Step,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AyW73Zdqqzc

“Mary,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fse_J4WcAVY

“You Took Advantage of Me,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_o01n3vVEss “My Baby Don’t Mean Maybe Now,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGBzOuLmaAc “My Pet,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9nJZlg66io There’s no version I can find of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra doing the Black Bottom Stomp, but I imagined them playing a lively version like Jelly Roll Morton’s original: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcgIrAyNGGM Similarly, for the “Darktown Strutters’ Ball,” I imagined them doing this version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k22IKM3PFoQ “That’s My Weakness Now,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAfVQpzQB3g And for “Always,” the George Olsen version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGRWlgXqcwU “The Darktown Strutters’ Ball,” “Mississippi Mud,” and “I’m Coming Virginia,” though they were extensively covered by black artists, are racist songs. However, I felt that omitting them would be a bit of whitewashing since songs like this were heavily popular and would undoubtedly have been in regular rotation for a popular orchestra. (Buster actually danced to “Darktown Strutters’ Ball” in coordinating his dance sequence in The Playhouse.)

#Buster Keaton #Fan fiction #RPF #Actor RPF #Silent film #Golden Age Hollywood #Bing Crosby

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