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iturbide · 4 years

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more smoke and mirrors please i am WEAK for pokemon aus just general world building or even interactions i would like to see more thank you

Look Smoke and Mirrors is going to be a romp. It’s definitely going to take a custom setting (one I fully intend to base on the Awakening map because I can), but I’ve been working out a lot of little details here and there so why not start with some setting and worldbuilding:

The world itself is a fusion of the mainline Pokemon world tech and Awakening’s overall map routes and biomes. This means that we have modern tech like video phones, Pokemon Centers, stylish pokeballs, and all manner of curative items; while the setting takes us through familiar towns and cities updated to match while retaining a sense of their original flair. For instance:

Southtown is a quiet hamlet in the south of the Archanea region. It’s basically the classic ‘first town checkpoint,’ like Cherrygrove from Gen2: it has a Pokemon Center and Pokemart, but not much else besides the common businesses and residences.

Ylisstol is a bustling city near the heart of the region and sports all manner of places to visit and specialties to sample. Similar to Castelia from Gen5 or Lumiose from Gen6, it’s big and sprawling and has all kinds of things to check out, including a Pokemon gym.

Arena Ferox is the heart of the icy northern reaches, and is known to be an excellent place to find a challenge. The main attraction for most people is the rivalry between the eastern and western dojos, who duke it out tournament style once a year for the right to be called the Gym (akin to Saffron in Gen1 with its gym and dojo).

Plegia is the jewel of the desert, an ancient city that’s endured through time and adopted modern touches on top of their long-standing cultural traditions. It also boasts an outdoor gym in an ancient courtyard, which gives trainers a little taste of history while they fight for their badges.

The Longfort is an ancient but beautifully maintained wall separating the northern reaches of the region from the southern ones. While there are stories of it repelling invaders in the past, it’s mostly a glorified gatehouse now, though the wilds on either side are full of pokemon to study or capture.

Similarly, the Border Pass in the mountains between the eastern and western portions of the region also acts as a gatehouse. It has its own curious history, mostly involving how historically treacherous the Pass could be, but in the present day the way is much more hospitable so long as people keep to the main route (though there are definitely secret areas to be accessed via special moves). Breakneck Pass in the eastern region is rather similar, though it leads to a more out-of-the-way destination rather than being a gateway to another part of the region.

Beyond the Border Pass is a large desert region, with a thriving oasis town near its heart. Many pokemon adapted for desert conditions (Sandile, Maractus, etc) can be found on the way there, of course.

The Dragon’s Table is a historic treasure, a tower dating back to ancient times. It’s beautifully preserved, though, and plays host to a history museum and library in the present day, where visitors are free to explore for a nominal fee.

Mt Prism and Origin Peak are somewhat out-of-the-way for most people and offer a tremendous challenge for any trainer or researcher daring enough to brave them. Powerful pokemon roam both the outer reaches and the inner caves -- and some people even claim to have seen legends roaming well beyond where most travelers normally venture.

The Midmire is a particularly stunning natural geologic feature, giant spires of obsidian rising up out of the earth. No one’s quite sure how they came to exist or endure, but they are a very popular landmark...though they have an odd reputation, too: many swear they feel they’re being watched while they make their way through, even when they’re entirely alone...

There are no royal lineages in the world at present, though there’s evidence of their past prevalence. Technically, Chrom does still bear a Brand, but its significance has been replaced in the present society: where it was once associated with a royal lineage, now it’s associated with a prominent business where his father is CEO. Chrom himself, though, has no interest in carrying on the family business, and instead spends his time with the local Pokemon Ranger group that he and all his friends are part of.

Recently, though, Chrom decided to try his hand at Pokemon battling on a broader scale and decided to give the gym circuit a try -- something his father endorsed because it would offer good publicity and press if Chrom did well. So off Chrom went, taking his sister Lissa (a medic in training, following in her big sister Emmeryn’s footsteps) and Frederick (the bodyguard appointed by his father -- no, he did not have any say in whether Frederick came or not). Very soon after starting out, they happen across a pair of white-haired strangers asleep just off the main route outside of Southtown. The young man and woman, who appear to be fraternal twins, introduce themselves as Robin and Reflet (though Robin does all of the talking -- as she explains, her brother’s just shy), and when Chrom invites them to come along, they agree since they’re just out exploring for the first time.

From the outset, Chrom’s Lucario seems intensely interested in Reflet (to the point of impoliteness -- Chrom has to scold him at least once because he just gets very up in Reflet’s face trying to figure him out). Prince can sense that Reflet has a very strange aura unlike any human he’s ever seen, but he can’t put his paw on exactly what the oddity is...until they’re going through the forest separating Southtown from Ylisstol and get attacked by an aggressive wild pokemon. Reflet lunges to protect Robin, and when the dust clears it’s not twins standing there, but a young woman and a Zoroark who swiftly chases off the opponent; unfortunately, the unexpected attack did some significant damage (mostly in the form of poison), and Robin promises to explain everything once she’s taken care of the pokemon -- something Lissa delightedly helps out with.

As it turns out, Reflet is and always has been a pokemon: he was born a Zorua and hatched around the same time Robin was born. They’ve been inseparable all their lives, they grew up together, and since Zorua is known for its illusions, Reflet swiftly adopted a human guise in something like Robin’s image so they could go everywhere together. The act got even easier once he evolved into a Zoroark, since he became bipedal (though learning to use utensils took some work), and since he’s not big on fighting and there are places that won’t allow known pokemon in outside their pokeballs, they decided to travel as “brother and sister” rather than “trainer and partner.”

(Prince is feeling very smug about catching on about the aura, of course, even if he didn’t know what a Zoroark’s aura looked like before and therefore couldn’t place it).

#answered #anonymous #fire emblem: awakening #pokemon #crossover #smoke and mirrors #worldbuilding #smoke and mirrors is going to be a lot of fun #the worldbuilding especially is a joy

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oasisimmigrationconsultancy-blog · 4 years

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Hong Kong Immigration: Immigrate to Leading Asian Country

Youngsters these days are becoming high aimed and progressive when concerned about their careers and are ready to move anywhere in search of better work opportunities. In our globalized economy, working abroad has become standard for the people of all financial statuses unlike it used to be an oddity for the few blessed ones. Moving to another nation offers a lot of chances for boosting your vocation, helping you to gain new, fluctuated aptitudes and experience, and to build up a universal network that may well deliver profits later on. Oasis immigration consultants in India offer you the easy immigration facilities for Hong Kong which is the safest place to migrate to as it is crime-free.

Hong Kong is one of the globe’s biggest financial centers. This wonderful area additionally has one of the most elevated per capita earnings in the entire world. Hong Kong’s economy is depicted by unhindered commerce, low tax collection, and the least government obstruction. Numerous migrants are pulled in to this city because of its conservative size, exquisite scenery, extraordinary way of life and the most significant is Hong Kong has an outstandingly welcoming universal network. Due to these and certain other similarly significant components Hong Kong migration bodes well, and is generally utilized by the ambitious transients from over the world.

Hong Kong government announced a scheme in May 2006 a quota-based entrance scheme. It looks to draw in exceptionally gifted or skilled people to settle in Hong Kong to upgrade Hong Kong’s monetary competitiveness. Effective candidates are not required to possess an employment offer from a local Hong Kong employer for visa application. All candidates are required to satisfy certain prerequisites before they can apply for immigration to Hong Kong with the QMAS scheme. The candidates are accessed based on one of the two points-based eligibility tests, namely General Points Test and Achievement-based Points Test. People who succeed under this plan can sponsor their life partner and unmarried kids less than 18 years of age to Hong Kong after meeting certain prerequisites.

Hong Kong immigration consultants help you with all the documentation process and will guide you at each and every step while the visa process goes on. They offer you around the clock customer service in case of any queries or any customer support required in accordance with the visa processing. They believe in giving excellent customer services in those areas that are not supported by the government or any administrative bodies. They offer high-quality customer satisfaction and exceed the customer’s expectations in the field of immigration-related administrations, including taking care of the privileges of the recent migrants.

Further, their migration specialists watch out for important updates including the basic occupation list of the relevant country and other changes made in the immigration and visa requirements of your selected country. They help you in the most ideal manner and keep you in an informed state with the evolving times. Hong Kong is a dream nation that offers incredible openings for work for skilled experts. Without a doubt, this is one nation that one can make his/her permanent residence and a perfect spot to raise your family in.

#hongkong immigration consultants #hong kong immigration consultants #immigration consultants in india #top immigration companies in india #immigration companies in delhi

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entitybear · 6 months

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Some Bart art for Oc-tober, he's my fave so two fun lil drawings for the first prompt

#oc: bart parker #santos drawawz #santos owed cees #oasis based oddities #oc-tober #bweirdoctober

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northseth · 6 years

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short trip home (part 2—west of the divide & back)

Two famous movies produced before Technicolor became standard, when it remained costly and labor-intensive—The Wizard of Oz (1939) and The Picture of Dorian Gray (1945)—still made strategic limited use of it: in Oz (at length) as the vivid dyes rendering Dorothy’s polychrome dreamland; in Gray as the jolt bringing us face-to-face with Dorian’s corruption and cruelty.

Audiovisual entertainments are now so immersive and realistic that it’s hard to gauge what impact the selective use of color once may have had on movie audiences familiar only with black-and-white. Yet both films’ technique came to mind as I drove from east to west over Rogers Pass—from dry, late icebound winter into full-blown mountain spring. I weighed switching to color for the second half of this post.

That would have strained an already slight parallel. But the greens of the meadows and forest floors along the Blackfoot Valley did rival the John-Deere-tractor hue of the Wicked Witch of the West’s face. And the unidentifiable roadkill emerging here and there from the ditches’ receding snows could have resembled (since it was already on my mind) Dorian’s vile portrait-corpse.

The Blackfoot Valley has less idiosyncratic ties to cinema with Robert Redford’s A River Runs Through It (1992), the movie based on the title novella of an autobiographical collection by Norman Maclean, a retired Shakespeare professor from the University of Chicago, who had grown up in Missoula. The film doesn’t come close to conveying the story’s wonder and laconic pathos, I’ve always thought. The collection, never promoted, and published by an academic press since no commercial publisher would touch it, was in my teens a dog-eared parable passed around among fly-fishing family and friends, who took it to heart before it grew widely famous (although my paternal grandfather, an ardent fly-fisherman and churchgoer, like the author’s father, found it scandalous).

The Big Blackfoot River comprises the healing waters that course through the story, though other streams make appearances too. The Blackfoot is “multitudinous,” “gossamer,” “electrically charged,” and above all “beautiful”: a bestower of glory and haloes; a shadow-maze, an oracle, a cipher. It’s the timeless current that recalls for Maclean his brother, Paul, and helps him come to terms, imperfectly, with Paul’s bewildering character and at last his murder.

The North Fork of the Blackfoot River (web photo)

In July and August, the Blackfoot pours like molten crystal through long, at times suddenly sharp, curves, tinged emerald in its channels and holes. But in mid-May this year it raged down in such muddy volume that its rapids’ usual din fell to a whisper—an unnerving sign of power and mass—and it flooded flatter parts of the valley floor in shining swaths. I wondered how the fabled trout within it were surviving such forces.

At various points, Highway 200 and the river diverge, to cross again miles further down. At each successive crossing that day its torrent seemed doubled. Near the sawmill and railroad town of Bonner, where the Blackfoot joins with the Clark Fork River, it ran as wild and full as I could have imagined possible for the river I had known since childhood.

A few miles yet further down, in Missoula, the Clark Fork surged too. As its banks bloomed obliviously with lilac and chokecherry, the river smashed through town at 100-year flood levels, completely drowning Brennan’s Wave, the white-water hydraulic there beloved of kaykers and river surfers. Norman Maclean’s Blackfoot had here become T.S. Eliot’s strong brown god —“sullen, untamed, and intractable.”

The Clark Fork River in Missoula May 2018

Brennan’s Wave in May a few years ago

Most of the city itself hadn’t flooded, though, and bustled with the business of graduation, taking note of the Clark Fork’s maelstrom from its bridges but preoccupied with its own rhythms and rituals.

Indeed nearly all weekend the weather and setting were paradisal. The crabapples’ white profusion disappeared here and there into the snows of the Missoula Valley’s five surrounding mountain ranges. Lawns and trees pulsed green in long spring light. There were parties for the graduates and their families, smiles and toasts and a palpable sense of relief. The student house where my nephew lived stood just a block west of the campus, a neighborhood that includes beautiful yards and small mansions of various architectural inspiration.

Charles C. Brothers Residence under restoration

Missoula embraces its identity as a political and civic oasis in a deep red state, still retaining some air of the working-class progressivism forged through its early ties to the railroads, timber industry, and Forest Service. The university, of course, has long reinforced this culture on its own terms, as do Patagonia-wearing millionaires who’ve moved there for close access to wilderness. The city itself has bucked the regressive zoning and land-use trends elsewhere in Montana to restrict sprawl and keep the bare foothills cradling it mostly development-free. Those foothills constantly draw the gaze upward and shift with clouds and light; from the busy center of town their emptiness somehow calms the heart.

Alley art downtown

Alchemy along the walls at Butterfly Herbs

In Missoula, on the south bank of the Clark Fork

Missoula cherishes its oddities, too, human and otherwise—probably none moreso than the dramatis personae haunting the Smead-Simons building, Montana’s first skyscraper, known as the Wilma. Standing tall on the downtown-side bank of the Clark Fork, the building’s early history (available in various accounts) revolves mainly around its opulent movie theater and the Crystal Plunge, an indoor Olympic-size pool (another Montana first). Through the years chapters featuring a perfumed fountain, Mahalia Jackson, ornithomania, and David Lynch were added. Its apotheosis was the Chapel of the Dove, a shrine assembled in its basement to venerate Korro Hatto, the beloved pet pigeon of longtime Wilma owner Eddie Sharp.

Though openly gay (when being so in the American West carried serious risk) and half her age, Sharp had married Edna Simons (née Wilma), the widow of the the Wilma’s founding owner and a former Vaudeville singer. Sharp revered and dearly loved her. According to Missoulians I know, but no written account I could find, Sharp came recognize Korro Hatto as Edna Simons-Sharp’s reincarnation at some point after her death in 1954; the chapel was an exact replica of chapel where they had married four years earlier in New York City. Korro Hatto, Sharp’s constant shoulder-perching companion, lived to the age of twenty, and they are interred together, along with Sharp’s subsequent partner of forty years, Robert Sias, in Missoula City Cemetery.

Missoula is now home to several start-up breweries and distilleries, but still hosts a number of its original taverns, most notable (to me, anyway), the Oxford—”the Ox”—whose blackjack tables never close and which used to serve brains and eggs as part of its 24-hour breakfast menu. The poet Richard Hugo, perhaps besides Maclean the most famous literary figure who lived and taught in Missoula, drank and socialized here and in the town’s numerous other “cavelike, majestically slow-moving Western barrooms.”

Stars are not in reach. We touch each other by forgetting stars in taverns, and we know the next man when we overhear his grief. Call the heavens cancerous for laughs, and pterodactyls clown deep in that fragmented blue. In that red heart a world is beating counter to the world.

Soon enough, It was time to drive back, to cross the Divide again in my rental car (which my youngest nephews, twins, relentlessly deemed “gutless”)—this time from west to east. The flight home to Minnesota would depart the next morning at a harsh pre-dawn hour.

After goodbyes, we headed out in a caravan. I did so with a heavy heart—the weekend had been too short, the family time joyous but jumbled, the fragrant sliver of springtime achingly perfect. The road from Missoula to Great Falls is still beautiful, though the views eventually resolve, once over Rogers Pass, into the forlornness of eastern Montana. The late afternoon sun, falling behind us, kept out of our eyes and lit the shifting landscapes ahead. The Blackfork River dwindled as we climbed, at first only slightly, but by Lincoln decidedly. The snows on pass had mostly melted away. We sped through Lewis and Clark and Cascade counties, past ranches and windbreaks and homemade antigovernment signs nailed to fenceposts, anxious for our destination. At Vaughn, though, rather than taking the interstate where it crosses highway 200, we cut off on the road leading to First People’s Buffalo Jump State Park, or the Ulm pishkun as it’s locally known. The twilit hills and coulees glowed pink and gold. We stopped and got out of the car at the turnoff to McIver Road just to take in the sunset for a few minutes, then got back in and drove the rest of the way to my brother’s house before dark.

#montana #norman maclean #eastern montana #missoula #lewis and clark #brennans wave #A River Runs Through It #first peoples buffalo jump #richard hugo #charles c brothers residence #the wizard of oz #dorian gray

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oasis-based-oddities · 2 years

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Welcome to my little comic blog this story takes place in a place called Tedious Lapin, Oasis for the most part... there’s always more to be explored!

Potential warnings ⚠

OBO will contain mature content generally (18+)

Horror elements + injury (blood and potential gore.. Not common but present)

Other elements suited to adults.. to be determined

Main blog: @entitybear

The Deadheads blog: @thedeadheads

Feel free to ask questions here or my main listed above. I’ll provide better or adjusted content warnings when OBO is more in progress.

Tags below for further navigation 👍

#directory #and so the vines turned 🍂#comics #sillies #miscellaneous tag #inspo #santos owed cees #oasis based oddities #santos drawawz #interior #outdoors #more to be added later

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gaybeardedmen · 6 years

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Read “ Sell Your Soul “ on Archive of Our Own. Support me here.

Fandom: Overwatch (Video Game) Relationship: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison Characters: Reaper | Gabriel ReyesSoldier: 76 | Jack Morrison Additional Tags: Tentacles, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Blood and Injury, Excessive Cum, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning Language: English

Jack Morrison was known to the world as a man of meticulous research. Meticulous meaning a great attention to detail, for example, in his younger years at the very peak of Overwatch, Jack Morrison had been so meticulous about a freshly shaven face he would wake an hour earlier than needed to inspect and shave himself.

Time had not diminished such an principal piece of himself as it often did when one aged.

Never would he willingly enter a situation without planning accordingly; whether it was the mundane activity of creating a list of groceries, with a written note to coupons and restocked shops, or the more exhilarating and controversy research towards the rituals of demon summoning. He had memorized the standard set of several demons and their sigils of summoning, spent hours with a pinched brow, eyes straining from the hours spent staring at the taboo documents, waiting for God, if he truly existed, to strike him down for his treachery.

Jacks toes curl against the hardwood floor, skin prickling at the cold. He was shirtless, chest cold along the circle lines of red, wet paint smeared along his body; delicate, scarred fingers mimicked the pattern of the demons sigil onto his chest, his breath caught in his throat during the act. He wondered vaguely how it would feel for the demon to be summoned to stand before a shirtless, shivering, aging man.

Jack supposed he wouldn’t feel anything. Whatever demon he summoned may feel disgust or annoyance at the mortal with a want that was considerably more cliche than a kiss in summers fine rain.

The anticipation would kill him. Jack had never felt more frightened as thick, clumsy fingers struck a match to light the ritual candles he’d made himself; they were of a deep crimson wax, smelt of cinnamon, and had a thick black wick. The candle itself was not important to the ritual, a fact that Jack did not come across during his meticulous demonic research. In his research, Jack believed the candle had to represent the malevolent spirit he wished to summon: pink for lust, blue for sorrow, yellow for human nature, and red for the everlasting.

The anticipation, as the seconds of an old clock ticked down louder than the blood rushing through his ears, was a killer. Jack felt more fright when it came to lighting the ritual candles, a deep crimson wax with a black wick, than when he’d once stared down the barrel of a shotgun. Fingers strike the match, and for once, Jack Morrison acted without thought to consequence.

“Know I call to you … “ Swallowing thickly, the man knelt, fingers smoothed alongside the burning candle, wax coated his fingers unnaturally quick, and the markings on his chest began to bleed. In the moment he did not know the true extent of summoning, only knowing the vaguest want could derail him. “Think of me, think of me. So mote it be.” How silly he felt. So mote it be, as if he were a fictitious character in a low-budget indie film, whose writers had long since given up the research in demonic summoning, choosing instead to copy verbatim the spells written by a modern days witch, attempting to summon a demon.

The ringing in his ears a distracting white noise, silence was a buzzing white noise as striking blue eyes track the flame of a ritual candle; the red wax pooling from the burning wick, his legs swayed side to side as the flame of the candle, and he fell to his knees in dubious defeat. Dedicated research, his years spent searching for the key of immortality, waisted and lost in his failure. He would not summon a demon, a creature of pure religious superstition, and Jack Morrison had never felt foolishness this way; unable to breath, eyes clenched shut until furrowed brows and the corners of his eyes burned with salty tears. He was pathetic, time would take him, and the world would know him as a failure throughout life: the soldier program, Strike Commander of Overwatch, Soldier 76, and an witless man seeking immortality.

Through his tears, his body shook with his regrets, and only a cool touch to his cheek, where claws curled against the side of Jacks cheek to raise his gaze, forced eyes open wide and frightful. Breath catching in his throat, his bottom lip quivered, and Jack did not recoil from the oddity he saw in fear the claws like pins in his face would rip and disfigure him.

“What are you,” he spoke barely above a whisper, looking to the mass before him. He could not get a good look at the creature, it’s body seemed to change shape the second he managed to focus on the last form it took; at one moment the creature was a normal man, standing tall and prideful above him, and the next he was a beast with a thousand teeth and millions of eyes blinking, their irises spinning clockwise. He had summoned an enigma in a greedful haze, and the fear that settled in his gut was a solid ball of ice refusing to melt, prolonged by the entity.

“You summoned me.” The creature’s voice was a rasp of words, as if its vocal cords were buried beneath gravel. “... For what reason have you brought The Reaper back.” The mass formed a face, detached from a body, shifting like smoke, and Jack was only able to focus on his face; well-structured jawline with facial hair that looked softer than anything he’d ever touched before, and unlike the mass of eyes ever shifting and bright red behind him, the two on the human face were beautiful.

Jack Morrison had never felt love like this. His heart had never sung loudly. Soul-mates were a cliche, but the man felt he had been made to serve this entity; to love and hold him, and kiss what figure held its form long enough.

“Immortality.” Jack cleared his throat. Years of research, planning, dedication to an archaic craft would not be forgotten in lieu of coquettish grins to a lovecraftian beauty.

“Foolish.” The Reaper snarled, claws travel across Jacks face featherlight, hooking the corner of his mouth and parting his lips with his index and middle finger. The entity seemed to be in thought, a low and rumbling growl leaving the mass of life signifying his thought. “You will do. Stay on your knees, mortal.”

“Why?” he asked, but The Reaper offered no answer. Jack sat on his knees in awe as the mass formed into a man, and his eyes were not tricked or deceived by a captivating, ever shifting figure any longer. The face he had admired became hidden away, tucked behind a mask of sharpened bone and dark shadows, a low and soft whine left Jack, his mouth held open no longer by claws, but two tentacles that squirmed against the back of his throat.

He gagged and The Reaper chuckled, Jacks stomach clenched and his toes curled. He doesn’t remember getting naked, but then again, he hadn’t remembered The Reaper entering the room. It had happened, and he wasn’t opposed to it just … happening.

A hand slipped down his chest and fingers curled around the base of his cock, playing a very dangerous game with the demon that had demanded him stilled and ragdolled; with Jacks jaw stretched wide by very thin smoke tendrils blacker than tar. Jack prayed that his immortality would taste just as sweet as the cock fucking his mouth and be as pleasurable too. Breathing heavily through his nose, he managed two quick pumps on his aching cock before the demon rammed suddenly into his mouth, burying his nose against a thick patch of curled public hair. Jack gagged on his thick dick, choking. The Reaper paid him no mind, it seemed he didn’t care if the immortal suffocated on his cock, if anything the idea of blue lips and watching life leave the white man’s eyes turned him on, his body shuddering.

“Be ... still.” Snarled the demon whose fingers curled into Jacks white hair, claws scraping harshly against his scalp. Thrusting his hips roughly, the black tentacles widened the immortals mouth to the point the corners of which threatened to unwravel like the seams of a fine silk dress; saliva dribbled thickly onto the demons pubes, and tears sprung from the corners of blue eyes half-lidded. The tips of smog tentacles curled around the demons shaft, jacking The Reaper off within the soft and warm confines of Jacks mouth, and Jack had never felt as used and full before; this was better than sucking cock, to be treated like a glorified fleshlight was a fantasy he had not thought of even in his younger years, and to feel the twist of tentacles in his mouth stroking off a cock, their tips sliding across the slit of its head, drove Jack wild.

He wondered how much semen The Reaper would fill him with. If he would pump him until his stomach bulge, tongue shriveled from the amount of cum he’d happily swallow.

Aroused by the pain, Jack groaned, the heavy weight of cock on his tongue and the weightless sensation of tentacles was becoming an oasis of pleasure to a man who found himself in a dry spell of sex, where three quick pumps of his cock once had him flaccid with thick ropes of semen between his fingers would now have him achingly hard, disobedient and wanton.

Thrusting into his hand, his hips rocked slowly to make the pleasure of friction from calloused palms last, soft blues flickered up to stare at his counters thousand-eyed crimson glare. The Reaper’s claws curled even tighter into the mortals aged hair and pulled back his head harshly, freeing his cock from the confines of his velvet mouth with a soft pop, and a thick trail of saliva connecting the head of his cock to Jacks bottom lip.

With a snarl too low and inhuman to be attractive, although Jack found his balls tingling and hips thrusting weakly from the noise that sent frightful shivers along his spine, Reaper pulled Jack up from his knees to a full stand. Claws came to rest on either side of his boney hip, seemingly thousands of red, distorted eyes studied Jacks demeanor; the immortals cheeks were flushed a bright scarlet red, his breathing heavy, chest falling and rising rapidly from arousal, and his cock stood aching and hard with white beads of precum leaking from the tip. Jack curled his fingers tightly around the base of his cock, moaning softly, his bottom lip quivered. “-- Reaper.”

Tentacles whipped the air, the demon clearly agitated that the man found any pleasure in being treated like the fuck toy he intended him to be. Immortality would come at the price of a demon, he had warned the mortals that sought his powers before, often it was their souls to be the price, claimed by The Reaper to be used; The Reaper had been alone for eons, and he would claim Jacks body over soul, he would rather fuck him whenever and however he wanted, with cock and tentacles alike, than claim his spirit.

“The couch … bend over that armrest. Now.” The Reaper demanded of him, releasing the painful grip he held on Jacks hair. Cool trickles of moisture dripped along his neck and it took Jack a moment to realize The Reaper’s claws had pricked his scalp, causing him to bleed, leaving stands of white hair to fall to the floor and his shoulders.

In a trance Jack moved to the back of the room, bare feet dragged unhurried against the ground as he made his way to the couch. Before his attempt at summoning a demon, Jack had pushed the piece of furniture against the wall, having wanted more room for the summoning. Now bent over with his forearms resting against the armrest, Jack blinked lazily, the slightest smirk pulled on his lips as he shook his ass to tantalize the other. “I’m--” Breathlessly he moaned, teeth catching his bottom lip and biting hard, thrusting forward to rut against the couch. Legs quivered at the friction, his hole clenched in anticipation. “-- I’m ready. Take me.”

With another snarl and lashing tentacles, the air crackling with annoyance, The Reaper stepped forward, his hand curled around the base of his cock and he slapped his dick between Jacks spread cheeks. “Shut up, Morrison.” The two tentacles that spread his cheeks writhed in fervor of the warm flesh of Jacks flushed skin, cupping either of his perfect cheeks to spread him even more, showing how deliciously his hole quivered under a lustful gaze.

The Reaper licked his lips, his tongue was long and smog like, and his eyes focused on the mans tight, quivering, wanting hole. Jack mewled pathetically, arching his back as the two tentacles massaging him spread his ass further apart mimicking the feel of hands while a third coming to prod curiously at his tight hole; the third tentacle was wet and cold, clearly meant to prepare him for a cock that changed thickness and length at The Reaper’s will, seemingly a very rare kindness from the other that saw him as nothing more than a fuck toy and who became annoyed at Jack touching himself.

Jack didn’t believe The Reaper saw him as a toy, he had to find him interesting. There had to be something that made him decide he was worth what trouble came with immortality.

Without much warning above a few testing, lazy prods, the tentacle slipped completely inside of him. Jack bit his lip harder, his mouth going agape as a moan ripped from his throat; the slick squelching sound of the tentacle slipping in and out of his ass filled the room, the sensation would remain cold, wet, and slick, even as Jack began rocking back in an attempt create friction. He was torn between humping the couch and begging for a second or even third tentacle to fuck him senseless.

“Reaper! Reaper, please,” Jack croaked, voice raw from moaning and throat sore from being mouth fucked. “Please.”

Quickly the tentacle was removed and slick leaked freely and plentiful down his thighs. Whatever The Reaper used as lubricant he used so excessively, and Jack mewled at the loss of stretch.

Then a hand slapped his left cheek harsh, causing him to yelp, claws pricking the soft flesh of his rump, and then The Reaper slammed his cock into his prepared hole with a grunt. Jack groaned, hissed, moaned and arched his back, “Ye -- yes.” Breath coming quickly, he hardly noticed the tentacles that wrapped around his biceps and thighs or the tentacles that slithered along his shaft, curling and cupping his balls, to furious jerk him off.

The Reaper groaned, claws digging carelessly into the mortals back, drawing blood as he fucked Jack senseless. Deep, fast, and rough, the pace was just as relentless as it was inhuman. Too fast for Jack to find a perfect rhythm to grind back, tears streamed freely down Jacks flushed cheeks, in more pain than pleasure, but still he cried out desperately for more. As he fucked him, thousands of red eyes examined his body, littered in scars and age, The Reaper had little care for confidence in appearance; as sweat gave Jack a sheen, he noticed a fine sprinkling of freckles along his shoulders, and through the mass of wiggling tentacles massaging his spread cheeks, he noticed a thin pink scar that ended just across his right buttcheek.

Curious, The Reaper cocked his head to the side, eyes squinting. Jack Morrison’s bodily imperfections were cute.

“More! More!” Jack cried out, sobbing pitifully as The Reaper claimed his hole, thick ropes of cum shooting from his cock, coating the couch and more. “Please … more, fill me and fuck me. I’m yours, Reaper...” Jack fell flat against the armrest, his toes curling against the cold floor beneath them, becoming a little less than a fuck doll as his cum coated his abdomen and dripped down his balls. The tentacles refused to stop jerking him off, going faster now, squeezing his balls tightly, trying to milk him for all he was worth.

The Reaper complied to the request of more, gripping tightly to Jacks shoulders as he fucked him ruthlessly, claws raking down his back, following old scars and threatening to reopen them. Blood bloomed where his hands had been, thin lines of red, and the sound of balls slapping against bare ass and Jacks pitiful, weak whimpering broke the demon. “Mine.” He snarled, “All mine!” The Reapers hips flushed to his ass, he came with an loud and inhuman growl, bending to bite viciously into the shoulder of the man. Teeth ripped at tender flesh, ever eager to mark the mortal-now-immortal and steal the delicious taste of human blood that bloomed on the tip of his tongue. Sweeter than cotton candy.

The Reaper bit even harder.

He filled Jack until his stomach began to expand from his spunk, cum dripped from his asshole, coating The Reapers pubic hair just as it slid along Jacks thighs. “You are mine! A toy to be fucked and you are nothing without me.” He snarled between the chunk of shoulder he refused to release from sharpened teeth, giving several rough thrusts into Jack as he rode out his own orgasm, the slick squelch of semen having filled the man, now leaking freely from his abused hole had the demon debate on a second round.

He wasn’t known for comply completely with sexual wants, taking what he had wanted when it was given, and The Reaper vanished with another slap to the ass of the immortal motionless, bleeding from head to back, and whimpering pathetically against the couch.

The old man, exhausted and soaked with sweat and blood, panted heavily against the couch. Spreading himself, Jack Morrison closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of semen slowly dripping from his abused hole, and the cool prick of blood along his backside. With each uncomfortable stream, he whimpered, forcing a body exhausted and used to push itself over the armrest and collapse stomach first onto the couch.

The semen in his stomach shifted, even when he had subjected himself to mindless nights of sex, where his goal was not in the pleasure of two people, but rather to be completely and utterly filled and forgotten, no feeling of being full had been so persistent as this.

Jack could feel his cock twitching at the sensation, though he found he had little energy to slip a hand between himself and the couch. For now he would sleep, cheek pressed against the surface of a seat cushion too uncomfortable to be used while naked, enamored with the demon that had claimed that he would be nothing, but had treated him with a sexual kindness Jack Morrison had not granted himself in years.

#Overwatch #overwatch fanfic #r76 #reaper76 #Jack Morrison #gabriel reyes #feel free 2 reblog

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dailyoriginalcharacter · 9 months

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To start, Jo is obnoxious to a fault, that doesn't deter her from making life long friends in an instant surprisingly. She can be both witty and witless within the same moment, she'll always make up for any lingering faults with great effort. She does whatever feels most natural, it might not be ideal but it's what she'll do, even if it brings tons of trouble.

(read pinned/other warnings if there are any for any blogs and/or links :+)! )

artblog tag

toyhouse

oc-blog

And the first part of comic I'm currently working on with her, here!

(comic wip crop!)

(a slightly older drawing of her and bart! It's one of my favorites!)

Jo is a simple tomboy looking out to find a place where she can bring out her creativity in a big way. She's only 24, so any comment she makes about having old joints is just for show (she has a bit of chronic pain). As a new resident of Tedious Lapin, Oasis she tries to get in as much trouble as she can find, of course with the help of her friend Bart. She tries to keep things slightly professional at her job Funky Burger, but she prefers immensely tending to the bar crowd at The Honeytrap. She's hardheaded, stubborn and brash... But it doesn't stop her from being tender and mindful of others when need be.

pinboard!

playlist!

ramble: So Jo is actually one of the few main characters I'll be writing for in the main Oasis Based Oddities comic! The comic I'm working on currently between other current projects is a test to work with her and others more in comics rather than writing! By the end of the month and later after I hope to finally share more about her and her friend's story. She's been very fun to work with so far!

#OC #entitybear #Jo Neilos

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hadarlaskey · 3 years

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Barb and Star Go to Vista Del Mar

In 2011, Kristen Wiig and Annie Mumolo conquered the box office and landed a joint Oscar nomination for writing Bridesmaids, a post-Apatow buddy picture founded on loose improvisation and female camaraderie. It’s easy to imagine the amply deserved career wherein they spent the 2010s repeating their greatest success, either to fabulous or diminishing returns, but that’s not how the following decade played out.

Due to a combination of the talent taking time to pursue independent interests, studios shying away from mid-budget comedy, long-form absurdism being mostly out of fashion at the multiplex, and surely some sexism in there somewhere, their follow-up Barb and Star Go to Vista Del Mar has had a long, difficult road to its unceremonious release.

Lionsgate has damned this wonderfully eccentric passion project with a streaming-only debut all but hidden by the lack of a meaningful ad campaign, though one can see why the studio may have anticipated a knee-jerk revulsion from viewers expecting another down-the-middle crowd-pleaser.

Where Bridesmaids was broadly accessible and grounded in a plausible humanity, Wiig and Mumolo’s latest is pitched at an eccentric, specific register and liberated by its own commitment to silliness. Like its spiritual predecessors Hot Rod or Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping – or, to go back a ways further, the exquisitely doofy Chris Elliott vehicle Cabin Boy – a fate of obscurity and eventual cult embrace awaits this screw-loose oddity. That it got made at all is the real victory here.

Wiig and Mumolo play lifelong besties Star (short for Starbara) and Barb (just Barb), homebody residents of Soft Rock, Nebraska with social lives that amount to little more than the weekly meetings of their six-person “Talking Club”. Tired of eating the same old putrid hot dog soup and eager for a new adventure, they pack their bags – cookie jar, check, freeze-dried cheese pizza, check, evening culottes, check – and head to the colour-saturated Floridian oasis of Vista Del Mar.

Their zany hijinks put some zing back into fortysomething femininity, but the arrival of the hunky Edgar (Jamie Dornan, in an ingenious casting coup playing on the 50 Shades star’s image of sexual awakening for repressed women in middle age) tests the bonds of their friendship. Except he’s only there to carry out the orders of an albino supervillainess (also Wiig, looking like the lovechild of Edna Mode and Powder) bent on destroying the town’s Seafood Jam festival, where she was humiliated and shot out of a cannon all those years ago.

While the unhinged plot has sufficient emotional substance to feel like more than a collection of sketches, it’s mainly a pretence for flurries of sight gags and the non-stop schtick from a duo uniquely keyed in to a shared frequency. Mumolo and Wiig have been honing their chemistry since their days rising through the ranks of improv troupe The Groundlings, and their fine-tuned timing makes all the difference between the humour of annoyance and just being annoying.

Delivering punch lines in perfect melodic unison, they both fit snugly into an off-kilter cinematic dimension of impromptu musical numbers, inadvisably pierced labia, and one animatronic crab named “Morgan Freemond” that speaks with the voice of Morgan Freeman.

Destined for endless quoting and rewatches from an inevitable fanbase, the film proudly occupies a self-fashioned niche, even if the charm being exuded may seem irresistible to those already amenable. If there’s any goodness left in this world, however, these diagnoses of focused appeal will be off-base. Like Barb and Star themselves, befriending everyone who crosses their path, it’s so winningly ebullient and weird that it can pull in anybody with its cheery Midwestern looniness and make them into an instant convert.

youtube

ANTICIPATION. We’ve waited an entire decade for a new Wiig-Mumolo collaboration. 4

ENJOYMENT. A triumph of comedic idiosyncrasy at a dire time for the genre. 5

IN RETROSPECT. “I love you with all my fart.” 5

Directed by Josh Greenbaum

Starring Kristen Wiig, Jamie Dornan, Annie Mumolo

The post Barb and Star Go to Vista Del Mar appeared first on Little White Lies.

source https://lwlies.com/reviews/barb-and-star-go-to-vista-del-mar/

#movie

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roadpublication · 6 years

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The Sultan of Salton

1:1

The small beach side town of Bombay Beach is anything but picturesque, located on the Northeast shore of ‘The Salton Sea’. The average temperature is ninety-six degrees. The landscape, as it appears, has a post-apocalyptic feel about it, stark white sand, abandoned homes in every state of dilapidation covered with salt. Vehicles and motor boats left behind and scattered about, covered in salt and rust stripped of anything that may have held value.

The small town is one of several that popped up around The Salton Sea in the 1950’s into the 1960’s. Resembling a gorgeous glittering sapphire on a bed of white satin, The Salton Sea was dedicated as “The West’s Greatest Playground” and developers planned to have it rival nearby Palm Springs. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr. performed at the North Shore Yacht Club. Boat races were held in the summer months and developers invested money into The Salton Sea and the towns and cities that popped up on its shores. The town of Bombay Beach, Salton City and North Shore were designed, and big plans were laid out for their prosperous futures on the ‘Sea Surrounded by Desert’.

However, unlike most fairy tales an unfortunate circumstance happened in the sea by the late 1960’s. The salinity in The Salton Sea began to increase; so much so it out number the Pacific Ocean salinity by 25% by the 1990’s. The increase in salinity caused the sea to turn from a gorgeous clear sapphire blue into a murky, cloudy alga blooms all throughout the sea. Along with the algae came a stench that when mixed with the desert heat became unbearable to stand next to. Development stopped. People moved away.

Contrary to the written accounts of The Salton Sea and its bleak history, vibrant communities have developed and flourished. Bombay Beach became one of the most developed around The Salton Sea. Laid out in the traditional grid, Bombay Beach had nine avenues which ran north to south and named “Avenue A”- “Aisle of Palms” (Avenue I). The avenues were intersected by five streets which ran east to west and named 1st Street- 5th Street.

Salma arrived at ‘The Salty Shack’, the corner of Avenue C and 5th Street, a little after eleven in the morning on a Thursday in July. A thermostat that hung on the front porch of the shack read 107. She didn’t need a thermostat to tell her the temperature; from the smell of the sea Salma easily declared the temperature closer to 115. Unlocking the door to The Salty Shack, Salma had to give a nudge with her shoulder twice as the door would stick. Salt build up overnight was common with the building being so close to The Salton Sea. The door popped open with a haunted house style creak. Salma started to walk inside when she heard a shuffle and an incoherent muttering in the distance. Turning she saw Crazy Carl walking toward The Salty Shack along 5th Street.

“Morning Carl!” Salma said waving.

Carl didn’t acknowledge Salma and chatted to himself walking toward Avenue A. Salma picked up on the usual words Carl muttered “silver” “crash” “splash” “wet” “eat” and always “absorption” ending his chant before starting over. Salma forced a smile and felt the usual pity/helplessness for Crazy Carl who seemed lost and in search of something as usual.

In The Salty Shack Salma’s eyes looked at the index cards thumbtacked to the wall behind the register. “silver”, “crash”, “splash”, “wet”, “eat” and “absorption’ were written in her hand writing. She had written down the words Carl said since she moved to Bombay Beach and there was never an unfamiliar word or different order to the words Crazy Carl spoke.

Salma looked out The Salty Shacks front door as Crazy Carl passed on the same walking/shuffle loop; walking down Avenue E turning right on 5th Street walking to Avenue A turning right to 1st Street and ending back at his home on the corner of 1st Street and Avenue G. A big square that started and finished at the house Carl lived with his aging mother since the early 1960’s.

Salma turned on the lights and got the day underway. On an average day at The Salty Shack only the locals would come in. Come in for a soda, a six pack or an ice cream. The air conditioning in the shack also provided the locals with an oasis away from their homes. Salma loved this part of the job, talking and catching up with everyone who lived in town. Getting the gossip, seeing if any tourists attempted to swim in the sea or the worst, if any tourists decorated the many ruins of Bombay Beach with spray painted graffiti. The spray painting and people further destroying Bombay got under Salma’s skin. When she moved to Bombay Beach she enjoyed the fact that the town looked apocalyptic and decayed. When out of towners came and desecrated ruins, she became vigilant.

Once, after first moving to Bombay, Salma was walking home down 5th Street toward Aisle of Palms and saw a tan Dodge Shadow parked precarious on the side of street. Walking toward the Shadow, Salma saw two young men in what was left of a streamline style trailer spray painting their names with what looked like a cat. It was dusk, the sky burnt orange, the Salton Sea a gorgeous blue and that same familiar fish stench permeated the air.

Salma yelled, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?” before sprinting towards the streamline.

The boys looked at each other, dropped their spray paint cans and ran further into the trailer looking for escape. Salma ran into the open section of the trailer screaming like a banshee about disrespecting property, calling the police and calling their parents. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and heard giggles from a closed door in the front most portion of the streamline. Walking quietly toward the giggling, Salma opened the door in a dramatic display and began reciting Shania Twain’s “Man, I Feel Like A Woman” in her native Turkish tongue while waving her arms in the air above her head. The situation played out with Salma looking and acting like a crazed person reciting a curse. The young men had no idea what to think, panicked and ran past Salma out of the trailer, to the Dodge Shadow and sped out of Bombay Beach. Salma continued her walk home laughing to herself of her heroics of the evening. “This is my town. Ain’t no one going to mess with it. Wanna make some noise, really raise my voice. Yeah, I wanna scream and shout. Man I Feel Like A Woman!” she sang to herself.

It was just after one when the first customer of the day came into the shack. The tiny bell nailed at the top of the door jingled. Salma was sitting behind the register and looked up from her sketchbook. A man in his late thirties, balding, wearing black slacks, a black button-down shirt with exotic flowers and shiny dress shoes with tassels stood in the doorway looking up, down and around The Salty Shack.

Salma cleared her throat and forced a smile and asked, “May I help you?”

The man turned and stared at Salma and asked “an ice cream sandwich. It’s quite hot out there.”

“Yes, a normal July day in Bombay Beach. Not a cloud in the sky and so hot the smell of the sea makes your stomach turn! Ice cream sandwiches are the third freezer down.”

The balding man looked at Salma over the rim of his glasses puzzled by her comment and said “Th-Thank you” and walked toward the third freezer.

Salma faked smiled again and turned back to her sketchbook. She was shading a sketch of a fairy tale tower surrounded by a lake when the balding customer reappeared at the counter with 6 ice cream sandwiches in his hands. He dropped the sandwiches on the counter in front of the sketchbook.

My name is Bob. I just moved here from Schenectady.” The balding man introduced himself.

Salma picked up and closed her sketchbook with an annoyance. “Welcome to Bombay Beach. You’re a long way from Schenectady. Where abouts’ are you putting down roots?”

“Avenue H in between 3rd Street and 4th. Same block as The Sea of Life Church” said Bob.

“So what brings a man in all black twenty seven hundred miles from New York?” asked Salma

“I’m seeing Dean Martin at the North Shore Yacht Club Saturday night”.

Taking aback by the comment, Salma asked “Dean Martin? At the North Shore Yacht Club?”

Bob stared at Salma, tilted his head to the right, neck bones cracking his face displayed a manually processing question look. His head popped upright and commented “apologies, I’m going to listen to Dean Martin while I unpack; now through Saturday night”.

Salma stared at Bob and shifted her eyes left to right trying to understand what was going on in The Salty Shack at 1pm in the afternoon.

“$4.25 for the uh, um…”

“Ice cream sandwiches. They are so delectable I can eat two at a time.” Bob responded

He handed Salma a five-dollar bill and she gave seventy-five cents change. She asked if he needed a bag, forgetting the ten-cent state fee.

“No need! Ill finish these before I get home!” Bob responded and walked out of The Salty Shack.

Salma took a minute to replay everything that happened over the last 10 minutes to reassure herself she was not crazy. A balding man in all black came into the store and bought six ice cream sandwiches, said he was seeing Dean Martin Saturday night and he would finish all ice cream sandwiches before he got home.

“Another day in Bombay Beach! Another day in this oddity paradise” she said to herself.

The Sultan of Salton

1:2

Refocusing, Salma went back to her sketchbook and opened to the sketch of the tower surrounded by a lake. Her focus was the shadowing around the base of the tower where it met the water. Her mind drifted; who is in this tower? Why would someone lock a person away from any human contact? Why make them a prisoner or why are they being protected?

Thoughts drifted through her mind as she shaded up the tower. Salma was so focused in the tower surrounded by water she didn’t hear the little bell nailed to the door jingle. It wasn’t until a high-pitched giggle brought her back to reality with a snap as her pencil broke against the sketchbook paper. Shaking her head, Salma reacquainted herself with her surroundings. A young couple had entered The Salty Shack, tourists EOTWS by the looks of them, looking at the dried petrified tilapia bodies mounted to wooden plaques. The wooden plaques had brass placards that read: Best Catch At The Salton Sea, Fishing Is Cheaper Than Therapy, Fishing: It’s All About How You Wiggle Your Worm and Fish Come In Three Sizes Small, Medium And The One That Got Away. The man of the duo just chuckled away at the witty sayings under the mounted fish. His girlfriend looked on at the coolers of drinks and freezer of different ice cream selections.

“Can I..” clearing her throat “Can I help you folks? Questions about the tilapia? Friends will be jealous if you take one back to where you’re visiting from!” Salma said trying to sound like P.T. Barnum with a sale pitch.

The boyfriend responded “nah we’re here to see the sad dilapidation and the former glory that

Salma, without missing a beat, slid a quick grim grin across her face and began a history of Bombay Beach and The Salton Sea. The communities that had developed and flourished in the sea’s aftermath. How The Salton Sea is a prime example of global, ecological impact and the effects of human interference and how the younger generation such as the young couple in The Salty Shack have no respect for Mother Earth, the environment around them, the community in voice this community needs to yell we are living and we will thrive, and you know what you both need to leave. Now.

Salma stared at the young couple her left eyebrow raised to the ceiling and fire in her eyes. Her heart raced, and adrenaline pumped as the young couple exited. The door to The Salty Shack closed silently and her heart began to slow to a normal pace. “Morons!” she said aloud.

Salma closed The Salty Shack at seven in the evening. Pulling the door closed with a thud and locking the dead bolt. Salma inhaled a deep breath, mentally blocking out the dead fish smell, and crossed 5th Street walking up and over the sand barrier to the stark white sandy shore of The Salton Sea. Salted petrified bones and bodies of tilapia crunched under her Doc Martens as she approached the water. Salma stopped at a rusted-out oil drum. The drum had been cut open and fashioned into a make shift chair. Complete with outdoor cushion.

Salma sat in her make shift chair and stared out across the sea. The sea was calm and resembled a mirror reflecting the evening clouds, sky and Mount Lagoon on the opposite side of The Salton Sea. Oranges, reds, pinks and purples were painted overhead, and Salma enjoyed that it was all for her. There appeared to be no soul around for the entire stretch of the beach.

As Salma stared across the sea admiring Mount Laguna, the first star appeared to the right of its peak. Faint but there. Maybe it was Venus she thought to herself as she became more relaxed in her make shift beach chair. In a state of Zen, Salma closed her eyes.

Salma dreamed she was young about seven sitting on a sofa watching television. The living room was dark except for the television light. Another faint light came from the right toward the kitchen and a smell of hot chocolate. Salma looked left out the living room window and saw darkness then snow falling around a street light. She focused back on the television and noticed The Snowman playing on the screen. Her mother now joined her on the sofa, both sharing a patchwork quilt. Hot chocolate now in her hands as well as her mothers. “It’s going to be a snow day for you Sally Doll. No school!” Her mother said with excitement. Salma smiled and watched the television screen smiling. The happy dream turned into a nightmare quickly when a hot breath crept across young Salma’s face. Turning her head right her mother’s face had turned demonic. Round ping pong ball size eyes protruded from their sockets locking sight with Salma’s eyes. An extra wide grin of serrated teeth that dripped saliva stretched across her mother’s former face. She felt a scream building from deep within and Salma closed her eyes.

Shaken…

Salma opened her eyes slowly. In a blurred vision a wide, thin mouth with serrated teeth appeared inches from the right side of her face. The mouth opened, as if inhaling, and leaned closer to her cheek. Salma awoke in a spasm of fear, lurched out of her chair flailing both arms at nothing. Settling back into her beach chair, Salma rubbed her eyes now fully awake.

“That was odd. Normally Mom dreams leave me feeling at peace” whispering to herself.

Salma had napped for about an hour she gathered. The sun had set and left the sky deep purple with a few scattered clouds. More stars had joined Venus in the early night sky. Salma stood, stretched, raised her arms over her head and twisted her body to the right stretching. Next to her barrel chair a pile sticks she hadn’t noticed before. Lowering her arms, she looked at the pile quizzically. The image of that serrated tooth grin crept back into her mind. She shook her head and the thought of that heinous grin left her mind. At least for the moment. Salma gathered herself and began her walk home.

The Sultan of Salton

1:3

The Salton Sea 1966, a summer evening in July, a cool breeze came off the sea giving the party goers at the North Shore Yacht Club a cooling reprieve. After a very relaxing day on the Salton Sea’s shores, vacationers danced, drank, and danced some more. Dean Martin had been billed and the yacht club had sold out of tickets. Even the VIP tickets for the exclusive Compass Room had sold out. It seemed everyone around The Salton Sea was at the North Shore Yacht Club.

In Bombay Beach 10-year-old Carl Bond watched Flipper on a small thirteen inch black and white television. His mother, Elaine, won 2 VIP tickets to the North Shore Yacht Club to see Dean Martin that evening. It didn’t take much to persuade her girlfriend, Helen, to go. Helen had seen Dean Martin in concert 9 times, had all his records and even a lock of his hair she obtained from when she was in his “unauthorized” fan club. Asking Helen to go had the added advantage of Helen’s daughter Tabatha baby sit Carl.

Elaine kissed Carl on the forehead and wished him good night then left with Helen for the North Shore Yacht Club. Tabatha was quick to rush Carl off to bed as soon as the ladies were out the door. “Not until Flipper is over” he demanded. Tabatha rolled her eyes and looked at the clock on the wall. 7:45, she can wait 15 minutes.

Flipper ended, and the credits began to roll. “Ok, bedtime!” said Tabatha. “You don’t have to fall asleep, but I want you in your room not making a sound”. Carl obliged and sulked off to his room. He changed into his Flipper pj’s and crawled into bed. Tossing and turning he couldn’t keep his mind from racing. Tonight’s episode was too exciting. Flipper’s adventure contained; sharks chasing the adventurous dolphin, swimmers in danger, and caused Carl’s adrenaline to flow! Laying in his bed he got an idea, ‘are there dolphins in the Salton Sea?’

Carl quietly stepped onto the floor. Tip toed to his bedroom door which was left slightly opened. He heard Tabatha chatting on the phone, giggling and talking about a boy she met on the beach. Carl put socks and his Converse on and lastly his LA Dodgers baseball cap. Sneaking out of his bedroom, down the hall to the kitchen Carl grabbed a flashlight from the pantry and quietly stepped out the backdoor into the backyard.

Elaine and Carl’s house was located on Avenue G and 1st Street in Bombay Beach. Four blocks away from the beach and the gorgeous crystal-clear Salton Sea. Carl crept silently along the side of the house; hearing Tabatha’s voice through the open windows. Walking down Avenue G he began to sprint to the sea after crossing 2nd Street. Carl reached the beach and collapsed to catch his breath. After a few minutes he was back on his feet and walking toward the waters edge. A full moon hung in the evening sky and gave the beach a faint ghostly glow.

Carl walked along the sand then stopped and looked out onto the sea for any slight movements that could be a dolphin. There was no movement and The Salton Sea was calm and still as if a piece of glass reflecting the moon and the stars overhead. Carl continued walking along the beach and came across a paddle boat vendor stand. Closed for the night, that paddle boats were lined up waiting for customers the following morning. Carl got an idea and looked for a small paddle boat in the lineup. He found a small paddle boat, white with a red stripe two-seats that gleamed in the moon light.

Dragging the paddle boat to the water’s edge, Carl hopped in and began paddling out onto the calm Salton Sea.

Paddling a paddle boat by oneself and looking out over the sea for dolphins, proved a little difficult for Carl. On the opposite shore, the lights of Salton City reflected on the sea’s surface. The silhouetted shape of Mount Laguna towered behind Salton City in a void of blackness. Carl turned his head back toward Bombay Beach and realized he had paddled farther than he had wanted. Using the rudder handle, he began paddling back toward the beach. Being only one paddler, it took careful maneuvering to steer and paddle the boat safely.

As Carl began to paddle closer to shore, a crack of thunder roared from the direction of Mount Laguna. Turning to see what the noise was, Carl saw a fireball moving fast and aimed right for him. Panicked, he began to peddle faster almost at a running stance. The little paddle boat chugged toward the beach inch by inch. Tears began to run down Carl’s cheeks.

A second thunderous roar echoed over The Salton Sea followed by a shock wave that raced across the surface of the sea creating turbulent waves. The waves capsized the small paddle boat sending Carl head first into the sea. Surfacing, gasping for air and watched the fireball crash into the Salton Sea. The fireball quickly extinguished Carl gasped for air. Waves crashed and smacked against him, he screamed for help. During his screams, the fireball crashed into the sea with a massive splash! A deafening hiss came next and a silver craft was exposed through the steam cloud. Carl blinked twice then a blinding light exploded from the silver craft and grabbed at Carl like two hands. Carl’s vision went black and he passed out.

#writing #writing drafts #the sultan of salton #the salton sea #bombay beach #hero #get published

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