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deathduty · 4 years

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Nightmare at Cryptid Corner || Deirdre & Marley

One of them has a fun time and the other is reportedly still crying in a corner.

Deirdre kicked at the ground, the abandoned amusement park was...okay. Not like a cemetery. Cemeteries were nice. They had all she needed: graves, bones, dead bodies. The theme park was lacking, though Marley had been right about one thing: it was better at night. Most things were. She waited idly for her companion to show; she’d come early and used her free time to question if she really had been flirting when she suggested they meet here. Unfortunately the verdict took her only a minute to reach and the unsurprising answer was no, she hadn’t been flirting. Flirting only counted if she was interested, which she very much wasn’t. But, bored out of her wits, she was delighted when Marley finally entered her sight. “There you are, Stryder.” She jumped off the ledge she’d been perched up on, smiling at her like a cat. “Haven’t you learned that you shouldn’t keep a lady waiting? Mhm, maybe I can write you up for that,” the words rasped off her tongue. Not flirting.

Marley hadn’t decided if Deirdre was joking or not about liking murder, but whatever the truth was, she was interested either way. Of course, if it turned out she was a murderer, that meant Marley would eventually have to arrest her, but hey, a girl could have a little fun at first, right? Marley most definitely unashamedly flirted with almost everyone. This had been no different. But she had no real expectations for how this would end, except maybe wanting to get a tasty treat out of it. The all dark all the time was finally gone, which meant back to feeding only at night. A disappointment, but this was the way things usually were, so it wouldn’t be too hard to get used to again. As Marley headed up to the entrance, she spotted Deirdre quickly in the dark, her vision perfect. Adjusted her sunglasses, giving a bright smile. “Actually, I’ve learned the opposite. Leaving them waiting builds anticipation, and I just love watching people squirm,” she said, stopping in front of her and giving her a good glance up. Tall, pale, conventionally attractive. A nice face. She tilted her head, nodded towards the entrance. “Shall we? Unless you wanna wait some more,” she shrugged, “I’ve got all night.”

Was she wearing sunglasses? At night? Deirdre frowned, Marley was attractive otherwise, not that it mattered. But if she was going to be made to look at anyone during a night promised to her to be horrific, she might as well look at someone that was hot. “You’ll have to try harder than that,” she smirked, striding closer to her as she issued her challenge. “I’m a hard woman to make squirm.” The last of her words rasped out as she turned and took off to the entrance. “And deprive the world of Marley Stryder?” She called back, “I wouldn’t dare. Besides, you promised me horror. I expect you must deliver me something horrific or there will be punishment.” She turned again, leaning against the cool stone of the worn gateway arch. Deirdre crossed her arms as her smirk grew, “and who’s to say you’ll enjoy the kind of punishment I have in mind?” She winked, striding through the gate. This would be good. Little ever sacred her, so watching Marley get sick would be a welcome treat.

Marley balked, laughing loudly. She loved a good challenge, and she so hoped Deirdre would be up to it. Curls bouncing on her shoulders, she shook her head, following after Deirdre. “Oh, I’d love to see what you could cook up, Miss Murder,” she said, grabbing the little iron gate and holding it open for her. “Trust me, I’m real good at making people squirm. It’s the reason I became a cop.” Followed her in, letting the gate close loudly behind them. The bored looking attendant gave her a look and she just flashed him her badge before moving on, catching up in stride with Deirdre. “Oh, don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of horror. But first--” she nudged Deirdre, turning to face her as she walked backwards, “commemorative photo with Mothman? Before I show you a truly horrific time?” A wide grin, spreading past her lips to her eyes. She was enjoying this too much. She was too eager to see what secrets this woman had. What made her quake with fear.

Now, Miss Murder was a nickname she could get into. And the perks of being with a cop she could get used to. Of course, this wasn’t a date. But Deirdre had no problems stringing Marley along if it came with perks. What were humans good for otherwise? Wasn’t that what her mother had drilled into her over and over again? Her admittance to being a murderer wasn’t just a fun joke, after all. “What the fuck is ‘Mothman’?” She should have confessed earlier that cryptids were a general hole in her knowledge, and the mothmen she knew were moth-fae. She glanced over to the man attired in the clearly cheap and poorly stitched costume that could only generously be described as a moth or a man. “Mr. Mothman!” She waved at the man, reaching out with a cold hand to drag Marley up to him with her. “Tell me your terrible costume has that anti-reflective quality that’s just to die for in moths. After all, there’s nothing sexier than glowing eyes in the dark. Right, Stryder?” She grinned at the detective, gesturing for her to get her phone out. “To commemorate the day the hot lady realized the hotter lady has no fears.”

Marley couldn’t help but roll her eyes as Deirdre dragged them over to the poorly outfitted Mothman and begged for a picture. “You don’t know Mothman? Why, he’s the most famous cryptid in New England!” She grabbed her phone and turned the camera on, before sidling up next to the now somehow nervous looking Mothman and snapping a picture of the three of them. Distinctly noting the chill in Deirdre’s hand when she’d grabbed hers, she examined the photo. Nothing too out of place, yet, but she got a feeling Deirdre was more than meets the eye. Grinning back, she showed her the picture. “Don’t speak too soon, Miss Murder,” she said mischievously, pulling the phone back and nodding towards a darkened section in the back, “everyone has something to fear. Now c’mon-- I know all the good spots. I can show you exactly where someone died and where people go missing. We can even walk through it, if you want. It’s like our own little Bermuda Triangle, right here in this shitty amusement park.”

The photo was...well, unflattering. Deirdre frowned. She should have known taking a picture under the cover of night never worked as well as she wanted it too. “Have fun, Mothman.” She bid the mascot farewell and slid back to Marley’s side. So far, no horror. Of course, their outing wasn’t over yet. “I already know all the spots where someone died,” she perked up, smiling innocently. And she did, she could feel herself tugged to them. But she’d led Marley lead her along, it wasn’t horror, but she always enjoyed a good death tour. “But please, tell me all the secret knowledge you’ve got as a detective. Where have people died? Where did they go missing? Show me.” There was a command in her voice, laced with perverse excitement. “It’s not horror, I’ll remind you. And you did promise that.”

Deirdre’s emphasis on the word promise wasn’t subtle. It was Fae who liked to make promises, right? Marley hadn’t met too many Fae in her life, they were an exclusive community. They only liked themselves and only looked after their own kind. Something Marley should have had with other Mara, but could never have now. With anyone. Anywhere. She shook the thought off. It didn’t matter what Deirdre was, all that mattered was that she had a beating heart, and wasn’t a Mara, and that meant Marley could feed from her. “What? You don’t consider places of death horrifying?” she rolled her eyes. “I suppose I should’ve guessed as much, seeing as you're a psychopath who loves math.” She smiled from behind her glasses. “Sorry, those are secrets I can’t share. But do please tell me how you know all the best spots?” She led them back behind one of the stands, towards the places marked as “Employees Only” and stopped some ways in. It was dark back here, only a little bit of light trickling in from the paths. “What do you think happened here, then? Miss Murder. Any ideas?”

Suddenly they were somewhere darker and Deirdre considered what Marley might be trying to do. Something was...strange. Deirdre struggled to see with the lack of light, but Marley, even in her sunglasses, didn't seem bothered. Very odd. Could Marley have been the murderer? She had to admit, being stabbed at a derelict amusement park would be interesting. "I find them exciting," she rasped. She could feel a tug at her core, the pullings of a vision asking her to indulge. She didn't. "Why don't you tell me what you're doing with those glasses, Stryder?" She leaned in, grinning lopsided. She could turn her eyes black and check, but what fun was that? There were other things she wanted to share with Marley. Namely, murder techniques. Did she also use zombies to hide her evidence? "What happens if I…" she trailed off, reaching a hand up and hovering it beside the frame of her glasses. "I could tell you exactly what happened here. But I like a little honesty in return."

Marley frowned. Deirdre was reaching for her sunglasses, and the part of Marley that had grown to find them as a comfort tugged at her chest. The first pair she’d ever gotten had been from the one and only person she’d ever trusted. Here, Cynthia had said, setting the pair of glasses on a thirteen-year-old Marley’s face, now people won’t see your eyes glowing red. But she stayed steady as Deirdre reached up, snagging her wrist only when she got close enough to pull them from Marley’s face. She looked at her from behind her shaded frames and gave a matching, lopsided grin. “Tell me first,” she said quietly, leaning in close, “then I’ll show you.”

Something was off then. Deirdre grinned at the prospect. Her wrist was seized: warm against her cold skin. She snapped it out of her grip, no less amused. “I show you mine then you show me yours?” Maybe the sunglasses were a smart idea, if Deirdre let herself dip into a vision, her eyes would be exposed. And could she trust Marley? Probably not. But there was no way this detective could hurt her. No one could. So she did it, staring into Marley’s face she let her eyes turn inky black. She smiled wide, keeping her gaze on to the detective even if she wasn’t technically paying attention to her. She could see someone getting stabbed; one, twice, five times and each earning a scream and the sloshing of flesh and blood. “Boring,” she blinked, back to reality, “a stabbing. I suppose that explains the stain.” And as tempted as she was to see more, Marley’s glasses were more important. “Show me yours?” She asked with a devilish grin.

Marley wasn’t sure why, but her heart pounded. She watched Deirdre step back, outlined perfectly in the pale light. Marley could see everything and she knew Deirdre was struggling to see her, even two feet away. But Marley’s vision, perfect in darkness as it was in daylight, could see as Deirdre’s eyes filled with black. Oh. She knew about that. Cold skin, black eyes, drawn to death. Banshee. Deirdre was a banshee. Which meant...well, it didn’t matter. Marley was going to make good on her promise, no matter Fae or not. “Correct,” was all she said when Deirdre finished. Her eyes watched her closely from behind her spectacles. It was becoming increasingly clearer that Deirdre wasn’t just joking about killing. “I was the lead investigator on that case, you know,” she went on, ignoring Deirdre’s request for a moment. She began to walk slowly in a circle, past Deirdre, to the stain. Her fingers hovered over it. “We found the guy. It was an easy case.” She stopped, turned to look back at Deirdre. “But this spot, it’s not just the stabbing. Can you feel it, too?” She took a step closer to Deirdre. “The fear that lingers here? Do you know how many people have disappeared from this spot?” Reached up, grabbing the edge of her glasses. “I think about it a lot.” Pulled her glasses off, but kept her eyes down, thick, dark hair covering her eyes. “Most people are too afraid to come back here now,” slowly, she looked up, red eyes shining as she looked directly into Deirdre’s now normal eyes. “So tell me, Deirdre, what scares you?”

Deirdre watched the slow, calculated reveal. Red eyes gleamed under the night, Marley's body barely outlined by the thin light. She straightened up. Now Marley's words made a lot more sense. Deirdre smiled in recognition and then, defeat. "Good game, Stryder." She'd been out played, which was her fault. Her arrogance in assuming no one could truly deliver on terrifying her was met with the statistical anomaly that could. A mara. She'd been fed on by one before, her damn neighbor, and understandably, she didn't like it. But to her own credit, there really wasn't much that scared her. She was raised to live without it, after all. As she met Marley's eyes, the nightmare sunk in. The shadows curled and formed the bodies of Fae—horrified, brutalized. She watched Warden's rip their wings out, stared unflinchingly at how their backs puckered and bled. She had been raised to look at this without fear, but she'd never gotten the hang of it.

Eventually, her body became to quiver under the agonized screams of her community around her. Over their mutilated bodies stood her mother, disapproving glare in her eyes. "You've failed," her voice merged with the rest of her family's. They voiced their disappointment in Gaelic and all at once they turned from her and Deirdre's stomach twisted. She could see herself as a child, weak, pathetic, sobbing on the ground. It would occur to her later that she truly had fallen to the floor, hot tears framing her face. A moment later moment later Morgan's body appeared piled on Regan's, then crushed under the force of Lydia's and Jeff's and—"S-stop," she whispered. Her fear was the gutting sort, the kind that tore her apart from the inside, silent. She was raised in death, and yet, some part of her feared that loss still, no matter what her mother had raised her to think. And that failure was her greatest shame, her strongest fear. She dug her blunt nails into the flesh of her palm, "y-you c-can stop." She was, for worse, sufficiently horrified, and she didn't know how much will she had left in her to beg for its end—how much longer she could cling to her sense. As the acrid scent of fresh blood coiled in the air, and the screams renewed themselves, Deirdre knew the answer was not much longer.

She could’ve stopped when Deirdre begged the first time. She should’ve stopped the first time. But her fear was so good. Marley had found, over the years, that people who felt little fear or did not feel fear often, always tasted more satisfying. Maybe it was just a personal thing, knowing she had the ability to make even the most stalwart of souls bend with just a look. Deirdre dropped to her knees so fast, too. Tears already in her eyes. What was it that she was seeing? Marley itched to know. And so she didn’t let up, not until she was standing beside Deirdre, watching her fears play out. She feared failure. Fae dropping like flies, Wardens robbing them of their wings, their dignity. Her mother. Of course she feared her matriarch. That was typical, especially for someone from a line of Banshee. And she feared loss-- but not just any loss, the loss of those closest to her. A small pang of envy shot through Marley and she blinked, putting her glasses back on and ending the illusion finally. Marley leaned back against the wall, staring at Deirdre from behind her glasses again. She’d recognized some of the faces in Deirdre’s fears, but they weren’t clear. She’d save those questions for later. “I told you,” she said quietly, not taking her eyes off Deirdre, or the small trickles of blood on her palms, “I make good on my promises. Especially to fae.”

The visions swelled, and their height a sudden reprieve: Morgan stood beside her, loving, doting. Deirdre reached for her, aching for her comfort and just as she thought she might have it the human was pulled back, devoured into thick darkness and a swarm of glowing eyes and gleaming fangs. “Human, filthy human,” the voices around her chanted in gaelic. “Kill the traitor! Not one of us! Abandoned her ilk!” Their voices overlapped growing louder and louder even against Deirdre’s choked sobs. “Bring her back,” she whimpered, “please bring her bac--” her voice caught, one last screaming of ‘too human’ in English was the last she heard of her nightmare and the dark of night flooded back. Deirdre’s eyes dropped to her hands, the half-moon wounds spilled blood. She reached up to wipe her face with the back of her hand, swiping at tears slowly, as if she was unsure what they were. “It doesn’t get easier,” she laughed, stubbornly refusing to look at Marley as though that might change something, “loss. Fear. It never does. I was told it would, someday.” But she was still a child, wasn’t she? And she hated that too. She remained on her knees, finding an odd comfort in the ground. “You did promise,” she laughed bitterly, “fine. Thank you for letting me out of there.” It felt odd to thank the woman, but she didn’t want to think about saying anything else to her. She wanted to go home. She wanted out. Would Marley let her leave? She looked up at the mara finally, “I think I would have liked it better if you just stabbed me.”

Marley was left to wonder what Deirdre meant in her quiet pleas to bring her back. It was one of the bodies she’d seen in her vision of loss. But which one? A lover? A family member? Marley would find out, that’s what she was best at, after all. Finding things out. She could easily pry into a memory during a nightmare, but going after Deirdre so soon after showing her cards would be a dead giveaway. So Marley would wait. She was patient, after all. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, Deirdre,” she said calmly, pushing away from the wall and heading back towards the main walkway of the park. She stopped just short, still in the shadows, where her eyes were brightest, her shadow thick and large, gorged on her meal. “It’s that everyone is afraid of something. And if they say they’re not, well, then...they’re lying.” She held out her hand in a gesture. “I’m not cruel, Deirdre. I fulfilled my promise, there was no point in pushing it further. But I can still stab you, if you want,” she said, letting the teasing tone return to her voice.

Deirdre eyes flickered to Marley’s shadow, longer than natural. She had nothing left to say and so she shifted on the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. “Hilarious,” she croaked. She was done with her displays of eccentricity and charm. She’d been fed from once before, but even that paled in comparison to this pain. She hadn’t so much to lose then, and now there was so much that would slip between her fingers. “You won, Marley.” She glanced up at her again, worn. “Take that and leave before I decide to scream.”

It was Marley’s turn to frown. Deirdre looked small, sitting against the wall in the back alley. Of course, she was hidden by shadow, but Marley could see her completely. Dropping her hand, she reached back into her pocket and pulled out her glasses, putting them back on. “This wasn’t a competition, you know,” she said, her voice a little sharp, “I was just curious about whether all your talk about murder and violence was real. And I made a promise. I hope you don’t hold that against me,” she was still staring straight at Deirdre, not that the banshee could see. “Because I think you and I could get along real well. It would probably be good for you to have someone like me around, don’t you think?” She wondered if she could call Deirdre’s bluff. Took a few steps closer to her, bending down. “Besides,” she said quietly, making sure her voice was soft, “I think you’ll find we have a lot more in common than not.”

Deirdre swallowed a hiss. It was a competition, everything was. Marley’s red eyes were hidden again under her stupid sunglasses and Deirdre felt confident enough to meet her gaze. There was a point she wanted to prove here, and she hoped her eyes would show it. “I’m a banshee, I see murder and violence everyday.” And that was true, just how much she caused though, she wouldn’t say. “I don’t, Marley. I told you, you won. You’re a creature that needs to feed, and so you fed.” But she did have a problem with it. Who wouldn’t? Wracked with that kind of a nightmare. Evelyn’s agreement to never feed from Deirdre seemed like so much more of a kindness now. “Oh,” she laughed, turning her gaze back down to the thin shred of light that streamed into the alley. “Fuck you. I never had any intentions of getting along with you.” And what was this? The soft voice and the attempt to cajole her? Bullshit, it had to be. Deirdre felt like she might know Marley’s type. After all, the detective wasn’t wrong, they might have had a lot in common. Starting with--Deirdre imagined--this style of manipulation. She did it too. And she’d seen it enough to know not to trust it. Even if it was genuine, she didn’t think she’d be missing out on much. She worked fine before, she’d work fine now. “Kindly,” she looked back up, nearly spitting in her face, “fuck off.”

Marley let out a long sigh. Did Deirdre not understand how easy it would be for her to pull her sunglasses off and trap her in that infinite Hell again? And what, really, was stopping her? Only herself. Deirdre could scream, that was true. But could she scream at an empty shadow? Or an intangible body? They were on Marley’s turf right now, and Deirdre’s shrunken form knew that. “Fine,” she finally said, after a long moment, all pretense dropped from her voice now. She stood up, making sure to tower over Deirdre, despite them being similar heights. Allowed her glasses to slip just a little down her nose so that the red of her eyes could peak through enough for Deirdre to understand what this moment was. “Go lick your wounds. Because I’m only going to say this once, Deirdre,” she nearly growled, “don’t make an enemy of me.” And for good measure, she disappeared into the shadows instead of letting Deirdre watch her walk away.

#wickedswriting #c: marley #chatzy #Nightmare at Cryptid Corner

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kunsart · 5 years

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Comedy as Unintentional Conceptual Art

Anyone who watches YouTube prank videos and is familiar with conceptual art and its pseudo-philosophical underpinnings should experience some cognitive dissonance when YouTube comedians do performance and installation art without giving it a second thought.

This short clip from the Impractical Jokers includes a viable contemporary art installation:

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Everything in Joe Gato’s house from floor to ceiling has been individually covered in wrapping paper, including each fruit in the fruit bowl, and every item in the cupboards. All his pictures, before being wrapped, have been replaced with unflattering photos of him.

When the picture above came on the screen I was instantly reminded of so many fine art installations.

Kinda’ reminds me of this room covered in flowers by contemporary conceptual art sensation, Yayoi Kusama:

Or a lot of the work of Sandy Skoglund, going back to the 80’s:

If you’re thinking, “Well, shit, comedy is just copying contemporary art” you MAY be right, but at very least so is conceptual art copying conceptual art ad nauseam. Yayoi Kusama’s flower room was created in 2017, but Sandy Skoglund was doing this sort of thing 37 years earlier, in 1980.

Radioactive Cats, Cibachrome print by Sandy Skoglund, 1980.

And who really could feel very clever covering anything in flowers after Jeff Koons’s Puppy, of 1992.

For the record, I think Sandy Skoglund is legit, and her photographs of indoor environments she creates are at very least aesthetically compelling. Koons is a fraud. Kusama is fashion masquerading as fine art.

Sure, the work of Kusama or other contemporary installations artists is more considered and better executed that the comparatively perfunctory prank by the Impractical Jokers. However, they could have used the same medium, added any social critique (provided it corresponded with a progressive agenda), and crimped the edges of the packaging a little better, and voila: important and priceless contemporary art.

I’m not even sure that comedy follows artistic innovation, or if, in the case of conceptual art — which, if we are going to be honest, even at its best is sometimes very difficult to distinguish from parody — art follows comedy. The difference being that conceptual art takes itself deadly seriously. Consider that Candid Camera started in 1948, and performance art didn’t come around until at the earliest 1956, when Japanese artist Atsuko Tanaka designed and wore a kimono made of flashing bulbs:

And now look at this classic Candid Camera skip in which cars are split in two:

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The halved cars alone would constitute contemporary art sculpture, let alone operating in a performance that contravenes expectation and elicits a reaction in public. I fear that if we were to compare the creative merit, and execution of projects from Candid Camera alone to the revolutionary works of conceptual conceptual artists of the same period, our radical artists might not only be a lot less entertaining (and a lot more cringe-worthy), but less innovative or interesting. That is partly due to the nature of comedy being to go against expectation.

For now, if you watch YouTube pranks and are familiar with conceptual art, just take note of how enormous the crossover is between techniques employed by the two, though for different reasons and different effect. What does it mean for conceptual art, theoretically, if comedians use its techniques easily without considering themselves artists or their creations contemporary art?

Inversely, some of the most seminal conceptual art pieces were either intentionally pranks, could pass for pranks, or are unintentional self parodies. I’ll need a thumbnail gallery for this one. Just off the top of my head:

Koons Vacuum Cleaner

Casey Jenkins, vaginal knitting performance.

the Foundaint

Valie Export performance

Work No. 294 A Sheet of A5 paper crumpled into a ball , 2003, by Martin Creed

Félix González-Torres called “Untitled”.

Sherry Levine’s photos of photos.

Duchamp’s mustachioed Mona Lisa.

Untitled 1990, by Hain Steinbach.

Egg plop by Milo Moire

Andrew Warhola

I, uh, blurred the image. Boadwee.

Millie Brown

Tell me why this ridiculous prank is not performance art, er, if the pranksters decided to call it that (so you can’t just say because they didn’t call it performance):

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An unavoidable conclusion is surfacing. It’s not that the public can’t handle conceptual art, performance, and installation, as they’ve been assimilating it for generations through comedy. They just have trouble taking it seriously.

[I know, I know, I’m exaggerating, and of course there’s patently serious conceptual and installation art, such as by Christian Boltanski or Ai Weiwei. Oh, and yes,I do realize Warhol is a “Pop” artist, but some Pop art has a conceptual element, thanks. Point is we see the revolutionary techniques of radical conceptual art that challenge perceptions and start conversations — giving new meaning to a “conversation piece” — used extensively presently and historically in comedy, and without calling it art.]

~ Ends

Runaway Rant: Comedy as Unintentional Conceptual art Comedy as Unintentional Conceptual Art Anyone who watches YouTube prank videos and is familiar with conceptual art and its pseudo-philosophical underpinnings should experience some cognitive dissonance when YouTube comedians do performance and installation art without giving it a second thought.

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