“I’m scared of everything. Everything scares me.”
“What sorts of things?”
“All the things! Ebola, gluten, pitbulls, vaccinations, guns, Democrats, anti-vaxxers, ebola, hurricanes, GMOs, black people, fracking, sugar, birth control, sugar substitute, feminists, Republicans, brown people, drones, ISIS, Libertarians, gay marriage, cancer, marijuana, riots. Oh and Restless Leg Syndrome!”
“Why are you afraid of these things?”
“The people on the news and on the internet tell me to be! I’m so scared I wouldn’t even leave my house except I have to go buy the things to protect me.”
“The things the people on the news and internet tell me to buy to be safe.”
“Don’t you think that maybe they’re just scaring you so you’ll buy things?”
“Oh, I didn’t think of that..
Eliza’s Father fought in the war. After it was over the families of the losing side were too poor to leave, stuck in the same towns and neighborhoods as the winning side. Reconciliation sounded great on paper, but not in the day by day. Kids could be real mean.
Eliza loved her Father’s helmet. She could hide away and let it show her things about the world. It could tell her how hot it was, or if it was going to rain, or how far away things were. It could tell her if a person was healthy or angry or lying. But her favorite thing was to make it paint the circles. When she looked at one of the cruel kids and said “Target!”, a red circle would appear around them, and the helmet would announce “Target Acquired.”
It wouldn’t do anything else. If she tried to command “Fire!” or “Shoot!” something blinky would disappointingly say “Weapons Offline” or “Reload”. Her Father’s weapons didn’t come in his box when they shipped him home. But that was ok, it was enough that she could sit far away from where they could see, and let the helmet paint red circles over the ungrateful brats.
It wasn’t fair. Her father won the war, and she was stuck living with all the losers.
Danny enjoyed group more than he expected. Talking about his father, about the Overlook, it was different when the people listening had gone through similar shit, instead of shrinks. Hearing the stories of others also helped lessen the isolation he’d felt for years.
One girl had a brother who went on a dozen murder sprees, and couldn’t be killed. Two guys both had a dead serial killer stalk them in their dreams, just because they lived on the same street. A woman’s sister was possessed by a zuni fetish doll. One guy accidentally adopted the anti-christ. And half the group had survived severe hauntings of one kind or another; houses, toy dolls, you name it.
But there was one girl, Kirsty, that Danny really connected with, probably because she lost her dad, too. Her step-mom’s ex lover escaped from hell, and hid from demons by killing her dad and wearing his skin like a suit. Totally fucked up. But between strange shit like demonic puzzle boxes and evil ghost twins, they had a lot in common, and recently started dating.
Friday was going to be their first sleepover date, and Danny was pretty sure Kirsty was ready to go all the way, a big step for both of them. They were going camping all weekend, with some friends at a cabin in the woods.
Doc Brown and Marty saw the ewok give a signal, and jumped from the AT-DLRN just as two suspended logs crushed the cab from opposite sides. Mr. Fusion’s unfortunate reaction to the impact was roughly 150 kilotons, killing everything and razing the forest in a forty kilometer radius. On a positive note, the forcefield generator protecting the incomplete Death Star was destroyed, allowing rebel forces to defeat the Empire and win the day.
While celebrations broke out across the galaxy, Luke stood on Endor’s blighted surface, mourning everyone he’s ever known or loved, and trying to ignore the high-fiving ghosts of Jedis past. He remembered too late Yoda’s fateful warning:
“Trust time travelers, do not.”
The castle was cold this morning. If I hadn’t already executed the facilities manager I would go execute him right now. I contemplated using the Time Platform to go back and execute the facilities manager yet again, but decided the consequences would be a distraction.
Susan arrives today.
I still have to go through my notes, memorize my lines, and get the new “lair” set decorated and prepped. I really think this World Conquest Plan could be the one, it pushes all the right romantic buttons. It will make Reed look witless and controlling (not difficult), force the brother and the brute to act overprotective, and show Susan she can be empowered and fully equal to any man. In fact the entire scenario can only be defeated by Susan. Not fire, nor intellect, nor brute strength will have any effect. Only the thoughtfully applied abilities of Susan can save the world today, and “defeat” Doom.
It will be difficult of course. There’s little point in just handing her a victory, not when I’m trying to show her how strong and independent she can be. If during the day’s events her brother, or her damnable boyfriend were to be maimed (oh darn), or even killed (hee hee!), then so be it.
I changed my mind. I am going to pop into the Time Platform and execute that idiot facilities manager after all. I think it will be just the thing to relax me.
“Hi I’m Twilight Sparkle! What’s your name?”
“I am The Death Dealer. My steed was killed in battle. I wish to ride you.”
“Yes. It will be glorious.”
“How about we go make friends instead? Would you like some friends? Here [Bamf!]! I just made your axe thingy magical. Now when you hit people with it you’ll make them happy. Some might even sing! It’s always better to make people happy than to hurt them. Right?”
“I.. yes? Wait what are… you’re doing something to.. my head.”
“I’m Twilight Sparkle. What’s your name?”
“I’m the Death Dealer.”
“No. I SAID, what’s your NAME?”
“I’m.. The Friend Maker.”
“Yay! Let’s ride!”
After the storms, and the pesky birds, and that very peculiar shark, Pooh was tuckered out. Tigger cavorted as ever, nevermind their predicament. Pooh wondered about Christopher Robin, whom he had not seen since the frightful waves took him away. But he did not worry, for deep down Pooh had a pretty fair inkling that he was Christopher Robin’s dream. So how could Pooh think the thought, Pooh thought to himself, if Christopher Robin wasn’t out there, safe and still able to dream his thoughts for him?
So Pooh lived his life as best he could, protected his hunny from those pesky birds, and secretly wished that peculiar shark would come back around. Because Tigger was very, very annoying.
The problem with most wishing machines was, of course, that they worked. When nine year old Drake Marshall brought his Wishing Machine in for show and tell, Miss Marsh thought it was a nicely done magic trick when a large toad appeared from just an empty cardboard box. Sally Spencer tried it and wished that mean Timmy Hawkins would turn into a fish, and everyone laughed, but Miss Marsh could have sworn she heard screams coming from a classroom down the hall. But the recess bell rang and the sound was drowned out. The Wishing Machine was transported to the worst possible place for a Wishing Machine: the playground.
Sometimes I’m walking home late at night, stumbling perhaps, and lost in my personal sea of angst. Stuff isn’t going right, things I’ve failed at, or frustrations I haven’t gotten past. The bills are piling up, I didn’t get the job, the girl I like likes someone else, why can’t I solve the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, my knees hurt, the quality of my artwork is getting worse not better, I’m overweight, my car payment is too high, etc etc and all the other things.
But then I walk past someone sleeping on a bench, and it all fades away as I circle back to the important part at the start.
I get to go home.
When I was first learning to draw portraits, I would always start with the eyes, often to the detriment of the piece. I ignored composition, proportion, scale, everything, and just drew the eyes. Then I would sort of grow the rest of the face out from that point. Sometimes I would just get lucky and be relatively successful, but more often than not something would just be.. off.
I’m much better now at working the whole piece holistically, building the shapes and proportions together before adding any detail. But when I do start on the detail, the eyes usually come first still. There’s just something about the eye, when it’s down on paper suddenly there’s a real person waiting to be drawn, instead of just lines on a page. And they always convey the same message to me.
“Don’t screw me up.”
When asked about the videogame based on the dangerous and popular 1930s aerial sport, Hubert “Boss Hugh” Odworthy, the last known Sky Jouster still alive, got a little cranky.
“The game is rubbish,” Boss Hugh barked. “It wasn’t nothing like that. First off they didn’t use no wings to fly. Have you seen an ostrich son? Them tiny li’l flappers wouldn’t get them up off a nap, nevermind the ground.” Boss Hugh angrily flicked his cigar nub out the open window, checked if the nurse was around, and lit another. He continued, smiling. “When you were goin’ tap tappity tap on them buttons kid? you weren’t flapping her wings, you were pulling her finger!” With that Boss Hugh rolled back with a cackling laugh, that soon turned to wet rumbly cough.
When the night starts like this, you know it’s going to end with headache, heartache, and probably passport issues.
His spine tingled, a mix of excitement and fear he rarely felt anymore. He had heard the rumors, but never believed them. An urban legend, mass hysteria, a story to scare children. But there he was, standing right in front of him. He shouldn’t get this close, but he wanted to really see, really know. Frozen in this moment, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, only one thing went through his mind.
“Oh shit, Batman is real.”
“Please? Please draw us! Please you’re so awesome it would be so great!”
“Well thanks for that, I’m flattered. Unfortunately I don’t have much time to do commission work-”
“Oh not commission, do it just for fun! Come on wouldn’t we make a good subject? Look how cute we are!”
“Sure, and yes very cute, but I really only have time for my own personal work. My subjects and styles change all the time, it probably wouldn’t be what you were looking for.”
“Oh pleeeeeease?! We don’t care, make us look like anything you want! Can you make her look like Ke$ha? Ha no just kidding! Please draw us! Do whatever you want, we’ll love it! Please please please please!!!???”
She wasn’t very good at her job. Couldn’t type, couldn’t file, and her coffee was shit. Booth treated her worse, berated her constantly, the dresses two sizes too small, the cloud of cheap perfume hanging over her, and those ridiculous sunglasses she insisted on wearing.
Now she was dead, and the only person who cared was just about the worst detective in the city. She was a terrible secretary, but she was Booth’s terrible secretary. The least he could do was be a terrible detective for her.
The nurse bandaged the boy’s arm, covering most of the large bruises. This was his third visit in a week, and while she didn’t bother to ask anymore he volunteered that he fell from a tree. The nurse looked him in the eye, but saw no trace of hesitation. He’s had a lot of practice.
But beyond the first aid, there was nothing else she could do. When she accused his guardian, the richest man in the city, of abuse, the school put her on paid leave. She returned to find an entirely new wing under construction, a “generous” donation by the child’s guardian. She could quit, she should have quit, but told herself the boy needed what help she could give.
So she treated the symptoms each day, and feared for the violence the boy faced each night.
Architectural study of a street/facade in Bucharest, Romania.