Tumgik
#and 2. the black and white part is the same squiggles i did for the edge of trueform purgatory cas (vertical section)
jacobfiel · 11 months
Text
Week #11
We firstly looked at some example spreads of patterned beginning and end pages. Following this we opened up Adobe Illustrator (AI) and InDesign (ID). We then setup our page as a vertical a5 but then thought it would be more helpful to make the page a4 landscape. This is because we wanted to make on pattern pages be a double page spread. We then made our fill black and took away our stroke. Then whilst using our rectangle tool and holding down SHIFT we drew a perfect box. We then changed to a white fill and then drew our desired shape, (in my case a squiggle similar to the ones on my other pages). We then learnt you can lock a layer quickly by clicking COMMAND + 2 and then to unlock the same layer you can click OPTION + COMMAND + 2. I then saved my current file as it was and moved onto the next step.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
The next step was to open the swatches tab and selected our drawn box and dragged it over into the swatches tab, turning it into a swatch. We then drew a blob type shape only using vertical and horizontal handles.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
I then added in my colour wheel and grabbed a reference colour using my eyedropper tool. Then with fill selected in swatches you can click on your pattern swatch to add your pattern into that shape.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
We then double clicked on our pattern in the pattern swatch and then were able to change the way the pattern is laid out in the pattern menu. We decided to use the 'brick by row' pattern type. Therefore we clicked this option and it applied to our pattern. I then changed the colour of my box and added this new colourful square into our swatched and applied this to my shape.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
We then started drawing a hexagon using our polygon tool. We then flipped the hexagon using the transform tool. we then OPTION clicked and dragged our shape to copy our squiggle into the middle of the hexagon. We then found our shape to still be behind the hexagon so we selected the hexagon and went to the 'object' tab, then the 'arrange' tab followed by 'send to back. This meant our squiggle was now in front of our hexagon. We then copied and 'pasted in place our hexagon. We did this by clicking SHIFT + COMMAND + V (paste in place short cut). We then added this pattern shape to our swatches the same way we did earlier. We then again followed the same steps as earlier and added this pattern to our shape except this time using the 'hex by row' pattern option so all the hexagons fit nicely together. Then with the pattern tab open through swatches we changed the colours.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
If you want your pattern to move with your shape you can go into the 'object' tab followed by the 'expand' button and it will do this for you.This also makes all parts of your pattern editable shapes and therefore you can delete and change and move around the pattern freely.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
0 notes
roxyandelsewhere · 3 years
Photo
Tumblr media
New series idea: what if I drew how specific lines/moments in spn make me feel? Stream of consciousness, I think of it and whatever I come up with goes. First installment: “It’s kind of like being chained to a comet.”
324 notes · View notes
mmvalentine · 3 years
Text
The Bargain Pt 7 | Feysand
Modern AU. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 8
Rhys and Feyre sat on the sidewalk passing a tray of chips between them.
Rhys had woken up in a good mood. The two of them were meeting at the mural site, and on the way Rhys passed a cart selling hot chips and slices of sausage with a curry sauce. Not a conventional breakfast, but delicious.
Today, he was spending the day alone with Feyre, making a giant painting, and he that sounded like the best offer he'd had in a long time. In fact, they would be doing this for the next five days. He had whistled on the way there.
Feyre had turned up in these adorable little paint splattered overalls, with her hair piled up in a bun. Part of Rhys wished he was painting her today.
They were staring up at the wall where their mural was going to go, armed with an array of paint tins and aerosol cans and discussing how to start. On the one hand, when designing the piece they had taken turns and that had worked really well. On the other, it didn't make sense for only one of them to be working at a time. In the end, they decided they would lay down the base structure, and work from either end until they met in the middle.
When they finished their chips, Feyre got up and started pulling out reams of string and weights from her pocket to make a grid, the same way she always started. Then the wind picked up, blowing the string out of her hands and Feyre cursed.
"What are you doing?" Rhys asked her, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"Making the reference grid." Feyre looked at him. "Don't tell me you were just going to freehand the whole thing. Don't be a hero, Rhys."
Rhys laughed. "I was going to use a lazy grid. Use a gibberish reference instead of a grid, so you don't have to get the lines perfect."
"I don't know what a lazy grid is, but if it cuts out the straight lines, then be my guest."
Feyre put the string back in her pocket, while Rhys picked up a can of pink spray paint and gave it a shake. Then he walked up and down the wall, making big sweeping letters all over the white base.
Rhysand is a spectacular person. Rhysand is the most handsome mural artist.
"Hey," Feyre said. "What about me?"
Rhys didn't turn, just filled in the last section of the wall.
Feyre you look absolutely delicious today.
The wall now filled with pink squiggles, Rhys back down next to Feyre. Where she smacked him across the arm.
"Since when are you such an outrageous flirt?" she asked him. "I don't know," Rhys answered honestly. "I'm just in a really good mood today." He smiled broadly, and Feyre rolled her eyes at him. But he caught her grin before she turned her head away, and his day just kept getting better.
Rhys completed his lazy grid: took a photo of the wall, uploaded it onto his laptop and then overlaid their design onto the photo. Instead of having a square grid as a reference point, they could now see what parts of the design matched up to what curly letter on the wall, and plot the painting scaled up.
And then they started painting.
By the end of the first day, they got the outline and main structure filled in. Feyre used a broad brush for her half, but Rhys used a lot of spray paints to cover large sections. At one stage, he got so lost in the process, unused to having someone painting by his side, that he nearly forgot Feyre was there. Until he took a step back to check the image from a far, and realised that Feyre had painted Feyre is the most delightful mural artist along the bottom of the wall where his pink script hadn't reached.
On day two, it was Feyre who showed up with breakfast. Fresh pretzels and pastries filled with cherries, and more hot coffee. Rhys traded his aerosols for brushes and they began painting in broad sweeps of rainbow colours, in Feyre's style. He painted blues across the bottom, yellows in the top, and a stripe of green across Feyre's left ear. She shrieked and flicked purple right across his chest before she had realised what she had done, and then looked mortified.
"Rhys, your shirt, I'm so sorry," she had said. Rhys pretended to be outraged for a minute, and then swiped orange across her nose before running away from her and letting her chase him down the street before calling a truce. And leaving a handprint on her back for her to find later.
On the third day, Feyre brought a speaker and they had music to work to. They added shadows and depth, and the image started to come alive before them. A wave of summer rolling from left to right. And everyday Feyre and Rhys worked closer and closer until they met in the middle. They had been swapping which side they worked on, too, so that they could make sure it was nice and cohesive. Rhys started leaving tiny messages in the spaces he knew Feyre was going to paint over.
I like the colour you put here, he wrote in one section.
In another: This bit reminds me of picnics.
And then especially well-hidden: I never thought I'd see you again.
When Feyre found the last one, she said out loud, "Rhys you big baby you have me on Instagram, you can talk to me whenever you like."
"I couldn't," he said, "you were a client." "I'm not now," she retorted, "so you can."
And then she returned to her painting, leaving Rhys to wonder what he might text her if he did.
Day four was the day of details. They picked up smaller brushes, and picked out careful patterns, finer outlines, points of solid black and white. Highlights, dot work, and the points on curls and tendrils. When they reached the centre, and then crossed the road to see the full effect, neither Rhys not Feyre could tell which parts were theirs and which parts were the other's.
Rhys whistled, and flung his arm over Feyre's shoulders.
"I think we might be done, what do you reckon?" he asked her. "I think we might be done, too," Feyre agreed. "A day early. We should call Tarquin."
Suddenly, it hit home that if they were done, he'd have to go home and Feyre would a continent away.
"No," he said. "Tarquin's not expecting us to be finished until tomorrow afternoon. Let's just have fun tomorrow, take the day off and tell him it's done at the end of the day."
Feyre looked up at him from under his arm, squinting through one eye.
"Rhysand you diabolical thing," she said. Then she stuck her hand out. "You've got yourself a deal." They shook on it, and Rhys breathed a sigh of relief. He was sure he could make one day last a lifetime.
"Come on," she said. "We'll just sign our names on the bottom."
She picked up the brush and put her signature in the corner, and then handed the brush to Rhys. He squatted down where she had been, pushed up his sleeves, and scrawled his name in next to hers. Then looked up and grinned at her.
But she was staring at his hands with her jaw hanging open. His smiled faded, as he followed her eyes and saw what she was looking at. Not his hands. His arm.
And the coloured tattoos that he had inked there after she drew them on in sharpie at their last booking a year ago.
****
Okay but lazy grid, or doodle grid method is so genius. I'm trying to write but my brain is mushy today so if you happen to be interested here's a great explanation video. Anyway I know I've slowed down a bit and I wandered off to make some Jurdan there, so thank you all for your patience.
Also! There seem to have been a flurry of new followers lately so if you are new here welcome and thank you so much for being here ❤️
MASTERLIST
TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @philosophorumaurum02 @story-scribbler @allthecolorsneverseen
104 notes · View notes
chilling-seavey · 3 years
Text
Passchendaele WW2 Extension - When the Angels Cry
T/W Descriptions of death and bodies, grief, funerals, child loss/loss, war trauma, etc.
September 30, 1945
Corbyn paid for Richard’s body to be brought back home. He was returned home to England on a cloudy autumn Sunday. Most of the fallen soldiers – especially those who were unrecognizable or unnamed – were simply buried in rows just off the battlefields but when the war was over, families could either allow their sons and brothers to be buried in a British cemetery overseas or brought home for an official funeral and burial. Corbyn wanted his boy home.
Richard’s body was brought back to England on a ship with dozens of other fallen men all in simply wooden caskets nailed shut after almost a year of the bodies being buried. The families were not permitted to open them – most likely to avoid seeing their son or brother or loved one’s decomposing. The loss was painful enough. Corbyn and Christine went to the harbour to meet the ship along with the other parents or relatives of the fallen.
The sky was grey. The crowd was donned in black.
As the ship anchored and the gangplank was set up for the crew to start to empty the coffins onto the tarmac, mother’s shed tears. Each wooden box looked the same and, in a way, Corbyn felt guilty he couldn’t tell which one was his son. He was always so good at picking Richie out of a crowd – especially since he was always a little smaller than his peers during elementary school. He held onto Christine’s gloved hand tightly and she kept her head bowed as the crew worked quietly. The weeping mothers around them didn’t make it any easier.
The officer of the ship had the list of the fallen in his hand that corresponded with plates on the coffins and stepped up on the end of the gangplank to address the crowd. He offered brief general sympathies but got right to work, calling out each soldier’s name alphabetically by last name. One of the first couples to be called to retrieve their son was in near hysterics and the mother threw herself on the coffin and sobbed until she nearly fainted. Corbyn looked away flatly.
“Lance Corporal Richard Z. Besson.”
Corbyn glanced at his wife who held her handkerchief over her mouth and he set a hand on her back, “Come on.”
They walked quietly across the dock to the rows of wooden coffins and a few of the crewmen offered their quiet condolences. Corbyn set a gentle hand on the edge of the box and swallowed back his tears but anyone could see them shimmering in his light eyes. Four crewmen helped to carry the body to the motorcar waiting in the parking lot behind one of the buildings and Corbyn and Christine walked silently behind it, the quietest of the couples that day.
They were finally able to welcome their son home…to meet him at the docks…but not in the way they had hoped.
It wasn’t until the crewmen offered well-wishes to the couple and blandly told them that their son died a hero and walked back off towards the ship that Christine broke into tears. With the wooden coffin resting in the back of their family car to head right to the church for the funeral, it felt much more real now. Corbyn held his wife for a moment, each of his breaths shuttering in his chest as he tried to breathe.
When they finally got themselves into the front seat, they took a moment to just stare out the windshield in the grey weather surrounding them. It was a lot to take in. It wasn’t raining yet – although the clouds seriously threatened it – but Corbyn’s silent tears that fell down his cheeks made up for it, streaking down his flushed skin and dripping onto the black fabric of his dress pants and suit jacket. He turned slowly over his shoulder to the backseat, the wooden box blurred slightly through his tears.
September 2, 1923
Corbyn glanced over his shoulder to the backseat, catching a glimpse of his son sitting there quietly and staring out the window at the rain. It had been a quiet few moments at the beginning of the car ride…usually five-year-old Richard was quite talkative to his father, going on about whatever little stories were playing in his head. He held a small toy plane in his hands, rolling it against his thigh lazily although his wide eyes followed each tree they passed.
“What are you thinking about, Richie?” Corbyn asked, looking back to the road.
“Why does it rain, Daddy?” Richard asked quietly, leaning closer to the window to look up to the grey sky.
Corbyn cracked a small smile at the sweet innocence of his son, “Because an angel’s crying.”
“Crying?” Richie gasped, looking to his father in concern. “Why?”
“Not sure, little man. That’s just what my Mama used to tell me when I was a boy. Why do you think they’re crying?”
Richie hummed quietly in thought and leaned his head against the window, bumping slightly against the glass as they navigated over the bumpy roads of their town. Corbyn glanced back at him again, watching as he traced a raindrop down the window with a small finger.
“Maybe they’re crying happy tears, Daddy.” Richie mumbled.
“Maybe so, Rich.” Corbyn agreed.
“Maybe God made a chocolate cake for them and they were so happy.”
“With ice cream?”
“Yes.” Richard smiled, resting back against the seat.
There was a pause in conversation and Corbyn drove on over the dirt road, the two Besson boys just listening to the rain pattering down on the roof and windows of the car. Richard looked so cute in his school uniform and he kicked his little lace up boots against the seat in front of him lazily. His chubby cheek that was still proof of his youth was squished up against the window and he puffed out a bit of air to steam up the glass and he ran his finger through it in a squiggle.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Will God make me a chocolate cake one day?”
Corbyn’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, and he replied with a gentle but serious, “Don’t say that, Richie.”
“Why?” Richie pouted. “I’m a good boy.”
“You’re a very good boy, Rich. But you do not have to worry about God’s baking skills for a long, long time, alright?”
“Alright.” Richard nodded with a sigh and raised his eyes back up to the grey clouds. His hand pressed flatly against the window and he tapped his fingers there gently, “They sure are cryin’ up there, Dad.”
He held up his toy plane and closed one eye so it could look like his plane was flying through the grey skies along with the car. Corbyn took a second to admire his son and his pure innocence that always made his heart warm. It was refreshing. He was born near the end of the Great War, Corbyn’s very own peace offering after months and years of hell, and there was no one gentler than Richard. No one who deserved a life of happiness more than Richard.
Corbyn didn’t know how he got to the church but soon he was staring up at the white paneled chapel with his once little boy laying in a box in the backseat. The funeral was to be a small event for just the Besson’s and the Seavey’s – including Corbyn’s brother and sister and a bit of their extended family.
They all wore black. The grey sky held off the rain.
The first while was a bit hazy as Corbyn and Christine got out of the car and greeted their family with hugs and kisses and handshakes and the priest joined the group in his robes with a bible in hand. He offered the usual condolences and invited the procession to follow him to the cemetery where the grave had been dug early that morning.
The plain wooden coffin was taken from the Besson’s car and carried slowly to the cemetery by Charlie, Daniel, Corbyn’s brother, Jordan, and Christine’s brother, James. Corbyn walked behind it with his wife and daughter followed by the rest of their family. When they reached the plot, the two gravediggers helped to lower the coffin into the six-foot-deep hole and the priest began the funeral.
Daniel found his spot beside Elizabeth and she tucked her arm in his and rested her head on his shoulder gently. Evelyn did the same with Charlie.
Corbyn didn’t process anything the priest said although he tried to pay attention the best he could. He stood between his wife and his daughter and stared at the sealed wooden box laying underground. Part of him yearned to open it. Part of him dreaded the thought of opening it.
The last time he saw his son was six-and-a-half years prior. The last time he looked at him Richie was barely twenty-one. He left as barely more than a boy and he was now laying underground as a man. Corbyn never got to see his son grow into a man. He didn’t even have a good photograph of him from his time in the air force. He felt like he was burying a stranger but it also felt like the sickening exaggerated reality that he was buying his infant son.
When the prayers coming to a conclusion, the immediate family was given the opportunity to throw in the first handfuls of soil. Christine went first with Corbyn’s protective hand on her back, tossing down a sprinkle of dark soil onto the top of the casket. Frances was next and she had tears streaking down her cheeks as she threw in her handful. Corbyn hesitated a moment, staring down at the two small piles of dirt sprinkled on top of the wooden box below ground and he turned behind him slightly and locked eyes with Charlie.
Corbyn nodded him over.
“Have your closure.” Corbyn whispered just to him.
Charlie nodded thankfully and bent down to take a handful of soil from the pile beside the grave. He stayed crouched, eyeing the unfamiliar wooden coffin below him, still hearing the agonizing cries of Richard’s final minutes as he tried to pull him from the plane. He was now silent. Charlie stumbled over his breath as he tried to keep himself from crying and held out his hand over the deep hole that now housed his brother.
“Alright, Richie.” he breathed and let the soil fall.
Then it was Corbyn’s turn. He took his handful of soil and stood at the side of the grave, staring down at the last of his son. He said a quiet prayer, kissed his hand, and then tossed the handful onto the top of the wooden coffin.
Corbyn stood a few metres away as the family members started to leave and the gravediggers filled in the hole. The sound of the metal shovels in the mound of dirt and the sound of it dropping dully onto the wood almost made Corbyn sick. But still, he stood and watched his son be buried until the grey sky finally opened up and angles wept down onto them.
Corbyn only hoped Richie got his chocolate cake.
14 notes · View notes
ishouldgetatumbler · 3 years
Text
Kissed an cast into the sea
Fandom: HunterxHunter
Pairing: Mito Freecs/Illumi Zoldyck (Miumi)
Warnings: Alcohol, Illumi’s brain
Word count: 5343
AO3
1
      A man was sitting at her kitchen table. He was tall, even sitting he was nearly as tall as Mito. He was watching her with the palm of one hand resting on the back of his other. His hair was long and black; it seemed expensively cared for. His clothes were clashing, and poofy, but his face was all business. Mito wanted to curl up in fear of his big dead eyes.
      Right. Okay.
    She was standing in the doorway of her home, holding a fish by the severed fishing line. Her hair was tied back and her dress was sky blue with clouds drawn from spilled bleach and white paint. It was darker blue at the knees and below, where the marsh water soaked it through. Her rubber boots squelched on the tiles of her kitchen, mud caked wellington boots oozing onto the floor.
    Right. Okay.
    She set down her catch on the cutting board before stepping on the toe of her rubber boot and working herself free of it. The next shoe she stood on one foot to pull off with her hands. She set the both of them in a tin caked with sand and dry and turned to the person sitting at her table. 
    He was still there, eyes on her curiously as she stood in soaked wooly socks. The fact he was still there made the fear worse.
    Right. Okay.
    "Ging isn't here right now."
    The man cocked his head to one side, curiously.
    "You're not the first person to try this. I don't know where Ging is and I don't know how to find him."
    She'd said that to everyone who had come through looking for Ging. It was the truth, but she always imagined she could find Ging if she really wanted to.
    "Gon Freecs? Do you know where he is?"
    That was new. Gon really did take after his father.
    "No."
    The stranger looked at her reproachfully. He wasn't the first to believe breaking into her house would scare her. They'd come and gone, polite euphemisms for threats and poorly concealed weapons. She didn’t see any weapons, but the man was too calm to be threatening her without one.
    "He broke my arm." He added after a moment, still reproachful.
    She gave a tight smile with no humor or joy.
    "I'm sorry to hear that."
    The stranger continued to look reproachfully at her.
    "He kidnapped my brother as well. Boys really should not be taken from home at such a formative age."
    "Kidnapping? That doesn't sound like Gon."
    "I'm very certain he did. Killua Zoldyck?"
    Things clicked into place. She tried to remember his name, scrawled on loose leaf paper three times folded. Gon's handwriting was nearly illegible when he was excited. That name was in one of the three paragraphs reduced to squiggles as he talked about Killua.
    "Illumi is it?"
    He raised both his hands from the table, putting them up as if to say 'you caught me.'
    "Hi."
2
    He watched her as she gathered laundry for the drying lines, swept out the mud she'd tracked in and washed her hands again to begin preparing the fish. She hesitated for a moment before grabbing her knife. Good, she understood the situation.
    She scraped the scales from the fish with the same intense focus Gon had broken his arm. So it was hereditary. She laid the fish on its side, deboning it and gutting it with a few sharp moves. She glanced at the fish as she set it aside, blindly reaching for another. Her hand found an empty countertop, and she turned to Illumi.
    "Could you go to the market and buy another salmon?"
    Illumi cocked his head to one side. She didn't seem unnerved. "Why?"
    "Because I have two people to feed tonight." She grabbed her apron, using it to wipe at the bits of fish on her hands.
    She’d moved on very quickly. She knew he was dangerous, she knew he was after her son by extension, but she didn’t know why. It was probably in her best interest to stay polite, in case he was there to help. But she knew about him, she knew his name. How much did she know? She was offering him dinner, so it couldn't be much.
    He could kill her and puppet her, but maintaining that concentration would be harder than just waiting for his brother to return. Maybe a few needles, to make her more obedient. The Zoldycks were made to have power in any case. 
    He tutted his tongue as it occurred to him Killua would notice if he ever came back, and that attention to detail was why he'd tried to cut his prodigy brother out of the mix in the first place. Everything would be so much more… cooperative when he'd stuck a few needles in Killua's brain. He was twirling a needle now, spinning it end over end between his fingers. 
    Killua would be the head of the family, of course. Tradition had to be upheld, and it was easier to deliver bad news through someone else's lips. And maybe, for some mysterious reason, Killua decided never to marry or officially sire that duty would just have to fall to the eldest relative. And after having a son who could be heir, Illumi could-
     Illumi noticed he was walking back up the hill, holding a bag in his other hand. He stopped, instinct stopping the needle he was holding in the throwing position. How had she done that? He stared at the ground, at the foot worn path back up the hillside and he waited for the feeling of nen to crawl over him.
    Instead, he remembered what happened; his memories creeping out from hidden places like they were ashamed. He was embarrassed to see them.
    She had just… asked him to go shopping again. He replayed it in his head over and over, trying to piece it together. He was distracted, thinking about the future, and she'd said, very firmly, "You're just going to sit there and think, go out to the store already!" He’d idly translated this, before saying "Guáng  jiē", repeating the verb to indicate he'd do as he was told.
    He'd only ever spoken Chinese with his mother and grandfather, and both of them spoke like that to him. Was that all it had taken?
    Illumi started walking again; his steps short and angry. No, that was quite impossible. He'd worked very hard to remove such needless extremities from the brutal, exact machinery of assassination. Emotional blindspots were a luxury he couldn’t afford. The six dozen needles he kept lodged in various parts of his body were supposed to help with that.
    He stopped, before digging his heel into the dirt with force enough to fold sheet metal. He was pouting, he knew he was pouting and he was basically stomping and whining, but it was a Command. A command he had listened to. He never wanted that to happen again, that's why he did any of this. Power is just the ability to say No.
      Mito was halfway down the glass before she caught herself. She was thinking about the boys again, about Gon and Killua. Apparently her hands had grabbed the bottle and a pair of glasses from the cupboard. Scotch. She licked her lips, trying to chase it’s cruel taste away. The scotch laid plans on it’s own; oiling the inside of her skull to send her brain skidding across it.
    They were probably in the forest somewhere, having an adventure. Chasing rumors and stipulation through the wild places. She scoffed at her own fantasy: it would be nice if the world worked like that, but it didn't. There were people out there, intelligent motivated people, who only wanted to hurt people. As she thought this to herself, she saw Illumi crest the top of the hill, gaunt form holding a gently swaying bag. He might kill her.
    She took another drink and her eyes watered; at the taste, at the smell, but mostly at the fact she hadn't been strong enough to dump out the glass. 
    She could still see his silhouette from the road. He was tall, must have been more than six feet. His hands, fingers long thin and agile, sprang into her mind. It was easy to imagine them slipping gently around her neck. She gripped the front of her dress and tried to make that a scary image.
3
    She was sitting at the table: brown skin and freckles, soft red hair cut short and strange. He gestured with the bag. She smiled at him.
    "Thank you."
    He made a noncommittal noise and nodded his head.
    She stood, before walking closer, but he cut her off, stepping smartly to the counter's edge and placing the bag down on it, before looking at her.
    "Yú."
    Mito nodded, and took one or two slow, lumbering steps to the counter. He couldn't be bothered to count for once, he was busy watching her face.
    You were supposed to be able to learn alot from watching someone's face, but Illumi had never quite got the trick of it. He could tell you what a face was like, if he liked looking at it and what it was doing, but had no idea what it was supposed to mean.
He could see the redness of her cheeks. The glassy, watery look in her eyes. Her eyelids were puffy as well, agitated and swollen. She took a short glance at him, before turning back to her fish and cutting board. 
A moment later she said, "If you're just going to stand there gawking, go and close the door."
    Illumi was halfway turned around when he caught himself. There it was again: that emotional blind spot. He turned back to her.
    "You keep doing that. Do you mean to?"
    Mito’s knife dug in at the base of the fish's spine, and froze there. Her eyes went wide looking at it. Fear was an expression he knew, but it was a volatile thing: it melted into other expressions and emotions so quickly it was useless to identify.
    "No." She said, after a pregnant pause.
    Illumi considered this, rolling it around in his mind, this way and that.
    "You're lying," he concluded.
4
    Fear pounded at the back of Mito's mind. She would have a headache from it later, if the scotch hadn't already taken care of that. He was looking at her like a child inspecting an ant. She wanted to be angry about this, but she was just scared. He could kill her.
    She mustered the will to look him in the eyes. They were dark brown,  she'd mistaken them for black from a distance. His nose was small and pointed. His mouth pressed into a thin, expressionless line. She looked away, back to the fish before deboning it.
    He was tapping his finger on the counter. His body was contorted, bent at nearly every joint to put his face next to hers. His hair drooled down onto the cooled burners, and his eyes bore a hole in the side of her face.
    She realized he was offended, and was waiting for her to apologize. She, an ant to his eyes, had told him to do something, and he'd done it. This was an affront to his power and oh, he's a boy. Roughly her age too, by the look of him. Boys never liked to be bossed around by a girl their own age; they were sensitive about that sort of thing.
    Her mother and father had met in a similar way, albeit less veiled threats and mysterious intentions. She had walked into the wrong house, and was halfway through making herself a snack before she noticed. From her father’s perspective, a beautiful woman had wandered in and started eating his food. 
It was like that, the scotch told her, before she tamped the thought down. The giddy feeling still bubbled up out from under her heel and let out of her in a soft teary giggle.
    "What's funny?" He asked finally.
    His tone was calm, speaking like the sound of an iced over lake cracking. Mito's brain whirred, and her hands gutted the fish on instinct. 
    "I was just thinking this almost feels like a date."
    She shouldn’t have said it. She should have kept it to herself, but the sickening taste of booze made her tongue eager to move.
    Illumi took a step back from her.
    Oh. Oh. Why had he never thought of that? He had never considered she could be useful. He was daydreaming instead of planning. After he'd puppeted Killua, after his father retired as head and Killua succeeded him, Illumi would need to sire the next heir. 
    She had clearly raised a capable son. She would, as was tradition, kill his mother and take her role as matriarch and teacher. He could sculpt the next generation through her. It would be so eloquent. The same person he used to establish his power would solidify it.
    Illumi sat at the table, brushing away imaginary dust.
    "I suppose it is." He said finally.
5
    They had never said a word.
    Illumi had sat across from her, taking seconds and thirds without a moment of eye contact or conversation. He seemed to be judging her by the food, taking a moment or two sometimes to slowly chew, or try a sauce in isolation. He didn’t speak, perhaps waiting for her to crack. She could feel him watching her when she looked away. It was like the feeling of a spider crawling up your back.
    Mito hadn’t spoken either, but she had no idea what to say. Her drunken suggestion had been taken all too seriously, and she really didn’t know what to do now that she had been taken up on it. What was she supposed to say? "Why do you want to kill my son?" The answer was obvious: Gon had stepped in Illumi's plans, sprinting down the muddy road towards Ging. He must have done it a hundred times on his journey.
    And what about Illumi? What did he want in any case? Why sit down to dinner? She had decided not to ask based on a parable Abe had once told her, about asking a tightrope walker how he kept his balance. If you asked the wrong question, someone could die.
    She dabbed at her mouth, cleaning the sauce and fat from the edges of her lip. Illumi looked up, fork laden with breaded fish and seared vegetables.
    "Can I help you?"
    It wasn't a rude thing to ask, and she was genuinely interested in the answer. He was on his third plate in any case, When someone's belly was full was the best time to ask probing questions.
    Illumi set his fork down.
    "Do you live alone here?"
    Mito stood sharply up, turning to wash her plate. His hand was around her wrist. Her brain sloshed angrily around in her head as she jerked to stop, mashing into one side and the other. The back of her eyes hurt too, stinging and aching in turns. She tugged against his gripping fingers, the joints in her arm threatening to dislocate as she pulled
    "You're very strong." He commented.
    She looked back at him.
    "Yes, I am. Those who live on Whale Island are hardy."
    She tried to spin the inflection so that it sounded like they were a community. The truth was that she was so strong because she worked the pole barges and row boats by herself, refusing to split her wages with anyone. They'd needed that money once; doctors were expensive on Whale Island. Now that Abe was gone, she did it for the principle of the thing. 
    "You're angry." He said, slightly accusing.
    "Never touch a woman without permission, you're liable to lose a hand."
    He looked at her, and then cracked into a smile. She tried to not to be fascinated by that smile.
    "You know I live alone," she finally answered.
    Illumi nodded, saying "yes, I suppose I did. I was waiting for you to lie to me."
    The anger and fear were mixing with something in her guts, probably the alcohol, and the mixture made her stomach froth with undigested butterflies. 
    “I don’t lie.”  she said, lying.
    “Then perhaps you’ll tell me the truth this time. Where is Gon Freecs?”
    He wasn’t squeezing her arm, just holding his hand in an implacable shape around it; only touching her skin when she pulled against him. She tried to think, but found her mind stumbling back and forth over the warm pressure of his hand around her wrist as she pulled. She was still drunk, the processes of her mind mummified by alcohol.
    “Do you really expect me to sell out my child?”
    Illumi hummed.
    “I hoped you would.”
    Mito snorted, “You don’t know me very well.”
    Illumi nodded, and said “I suppose I don’t, but I think you could be useful.”
    He added, after a moment, “I could make you tell me.”
    For the first time, he tightened his grip slightly around her wrist. It wasn’t a painful grip, like sailors would use, it was nearly promissory; implying he could squeeze much, much harder if he had to.
    She could struggle, but part of her suspected he would tear her arm from the socket and that would begin the pain. He’d reacted well to an offer of dinner, perhaps he would be willing to sit through more. Or he would get tired of the charade and break her arm. The heavy meal was sobering her quickly, and aggressively apparently. She licked her lips, and tried to pitch the tone right.
    “Drink with me.”
    Illumi browsed over her liquor cabinet, and she busied herself with the dishes. Her pulse jumped when she suggested it, which meant she may have poisoned them. At the same time, he had no idea what he was looking for, and it’s not as though poison would do much. There were bottles of various heights all crammed into the cabinet, and at least a dozen of them were identical and unlabelled: frosted glass and rounded edges. He tapped a finger on his chin, and turned to look at her by the sink.
    She was humming to herself. It was sad, and the tone tilted and swayed like a ship in the sea. He could feel his emotions stir inside their cage. One of the pins in his chest twinged, regulating his heartbeat. He looked back to the cabinet, before pulling out one of the identical bottles from the middle of the pack. He set it on the table as she wiped her hands on her apron.
    "You can pick one of the nicer boozes." She said lifting his bottle to  inspect it.
    Illumi cocked his head to one side.
    "Isn't it what you use the most of? I imagine you'd be less likely to poison those. Not that poison would do much mind you."
    She scoffed, and delicately bit the cork and pulled it loose with her teeth.
    "Boaster."
    She made a good point. Why had he told her that? It served no practical use to mention, it was better to wait for the taste of poison. His father had once mentioned that he believed everyone could be seduced by power. This probably wasn't the seduction he meant, but Illumi supposed it would work. He could show his power to her, informing her the differences of their abilities.
    Gently, he slid his fingers between hers, around the bottle. She turned slowly to face him, her other hand frozen while rooting through a cabinet for glasses. He took the bottle, pressing the mouth of it to his lips and drinking.
    The taste was unpleasant.
    He set the bottle on the table without looking at it. Her eyes were hazel, not the pure brown of her son. They were looking at him the way Hisoka looked at everyone, though perhaps not exactly the same. She wasn't like anyone else.  After having this thought, Illumi realized two things. 
    One, his mother should have trained their tolerances for poison more broadly. She had insufficiently trained them for what she called "low poisons," or poisons people generally used for entertainment. This would be rectified when Mito was matriarch.
    Two, whatever they were drinking was, at least legally speaking, unfit for human consumption. It had more in common with disinfectant alcohol than anything most humans could safely drink. Perhaps Gon's remarkable tolerance was genetic.
     She looked him in the eyes as she turned her head slightly away from him, lifting the bottle and pressing it to her lips. She drank silently and greedily, and when she turned back to him, her mouth smelled of pungent moonshine. He wanted to kiss it. Instead, he took the bottle back from her, feeling the skin of her hands a much as he could before she relaxed the neck into his grip, and took his own drink. 
    Chasing the imagined taste of her lips, he drained the bottle through his Adam's apple, feeling it burn in the backs of his eyes and the weight of his stomach. He hadn’t been truly poisoned in such a long time, the feeling was nearly pleasant. He sat at the table, deliberately and carefully setting down the bottle with the care of someone who doesn’t trust his fingers. He adjusted his ass, having apparently missed the chair the first time. He looked up at Mito expectantly.
    She grabbed another bottle, and a pair of glasses, before sitting across him, apparently less drunk. She poured each of them a generous glass of ethanol flavored like sulfur. She drank first, taking a long shallow drink of the stuff. He matched her pace, drinking less steadily and more deeply. He could feel the tight pressed spring of his instincts and reaction time starting to loosen. It made him feel vulnerable, insecure. 
She was pouring him another glass, hardly looking at him. He furrowed his brows looking at her, trying to read her face.
    “What are you thinking about?”
    The clear, reeking liquid stopped in it’s journey to his glass, the bottle turned at an angle to stop it. She chuckled slightly.
    “Gon and Killua,” she said.
    Another needle jammed into the base of Illumi’s throat twinged, stopping a hiccup before it formed.
    “He would be safer at home,” he said.
    Mito chuckled.
    “I don’t think Killua would see it that way.”
    Illumi shook his head, before taking another few swallows of the stuff. It hurt, and the needle he’d used to stop hiccups would twitch every few seconds, hurting him to inform he was drunk. The tears dried behind his eyes made it clear they wanted out.
    “ I’m not talking about Killua. Gon. The boy. Things would be easier for me too if he was home.”
    He finally drained the glass again, and as he set it down Mito refilled it, expression blank, staring off at his chest.
    “We want the same things,” he ventured finally.
    She chuckled. It sounded like windchimes 
    “Do we?”
    He nodded, ignoring the pain of bouncing his head.
    “Safety for the people we love. A future full of choice. Power.”
    She chuckled again. It sounded like rain tapping on the roof.
    “You’re a very sad man Mr. Zoldyck.”
    Illumi shook his head, making himself briefly dizzy.
    “Nuh-uh.”
    “Drink up.” she said, in that ordering tone of hers.
    Illumi pressed the rim of the glass to his mouth, and paused.
    “You’re poisoning me.” he said after a moment.
    Mito hummed a questioning sound.
    “You’re poisoning me.” he repeated.
    “No,” she mused, “you’re poisoning yourself.”
     He surged to his feet, but drunk he was too slow. Glass shattered and her hands were wrapped around his throat. She had to stand on tip toes to reach him. He could feel the cool edges of her fingernails scrape the skin. She’d overpowered him. A needle he’d stuck into his hip twinged, keeping his cock flaccid. They froze for a moment. 
    “What now?” he asked, airways unrestricted.
    Mito looked him in the eyes, before finally answering, “you’re drunk.” 
    Illumi nodded limply.
    She pushed and he keeled backwards, losing balance like he’d never had it to start. His view of the world sloshed and slid, like his eyes were made of water.
    Why had he played this game? He would have never challenged father, or Killua, or even Gon to it’s like. Perhaps his mother. Perhaps any other woman. Did the Zoldycks have blindspots just the same as everyone else? That was a worrying thought.
    Fortunately, his head impacted the floor a moment or two after he’d had it.
6
    Mito tried to find her balance, her equilibrium apparently as drunk as she was. It swayed and tottered as her feet danced the sailor’s two step, then five step, then steadied her. She’d had to put her full strength and weight into shoving him over. His skull had dented the flooring. She wound one leg back and swiftly kicked him between the legs.
    He didn’t make a noise, just rocked slightly in place. Then he was good and unconscious. She waddled drunkenly to his other end and tried to weave her arms under his armpits. It took a few tries, between drunken guesstimation and catching, vinyl fabric of his clothes. Once she had a grip, she crouched low and heaved. His body dragged and Mito took it with her as she took a few clumsy steps back.
    His ass caught on the doorframe. She hadn’t actually thought this out past this. What was she going to do with him? Drag him out to a sandbar and leave him to drown at high tide? Drop him face first into a puddle? Somehow it all felt cruel. He hadn’t hurt her, and the fact he would if he could was hard to hold against him, seeing him laid out. In any case, he had to get out of her house.
    She relaxed, letting his head hit the porch wood. She stretched out her back, wishing she hadn’t been so damn hard on her body when she was younger. She looked down at him. His shirt had hiked up to reveal skin across his stomach, equal parts toned and scarred. He clearly hadn’t had a terrific childhood either. He could just be a victim of circumstance.
    She stepped carefully around his sprawled arm, grabbing a tacky high heel shoe with each hand before stepping back. She heard his head impact the wall as she tried to rotate him through the door, watching his body curl to fit. With a last, less-than-safe heave, she pulled him though. He would likely be in a lot of pain tomorrow anyway. Would a hangover and mountain of bruises not suffice?
    She squatted low again, and a little sobered by the work, she tried to lift him. Carrying it like Abe’s bags of sweet trout, she laid him across her shoulders. He was dangerous, that much she could be certain. She could write a note, explaining he would be killed next time she saw him. But he was well mannered, human even, under the odd clothes and blank expression. She started waddling to the port. She wanted him off her island at the least.
    She found a secluded jetty, a few rowboats with sailor’s most complicated knots tying them to the docks. She picked hers, farthest inland and threw, as best she could, 200 pounds of murderer into it. He landed feet first, the boat keeling and splashing as his full weight hit the bow. In a moment of surprise, she found her hands reaching for her apron tie, ready to strip the excess fabric and dive in to save him. The boat steadied. 
She stepped in, carefully to avoid stepping on him. She let out a sigh. What now? She could row him to the Gzana, drop him at one of the hotels near the port. She hadn’t brought her coins, and she couldn’t risk him coming too while they were halfway there. She sighed, looking back at him.
He was pretty, and that might be the hardest part about killing him. It was a shallow reason to be sure, but she couldn't shake the feeling it would be wrong. The world would be a better place, but it wouldn't be the right place. She traced her hand along the line of his jaw, feeling the steady pump of blood. She hadn't killed people before, and it was supposed to change you to do so.
He was very pretty, lips softly parted and long black hair splayed out like an angel's halo. It mingled with the water, cast across the boat like the shadows of night. His eyes, wide and disconcerting, were closed.
She leaned down, careful to keep balance in the small row boat, and kissed him. Then she clambered back onto the pier, taking a sharp breath to bring down her blush.
One hand on the dock’s pillar for support, she got down on her knees to unmoor the boat, and, as an afterthought, snatched one of the oars, before gently shoving the boat out to sea with a bare foot
The tide around Whale Island is different than it is around most land masses; the sea seems to ignore it, like a sandbar or a sea stack. On clear night at low water, it's as good as riptide for getting out to sea. Mito watched as the horizon, blurred by fading moonlight, swallowed her small boat.
7
    Illumi awoke to the scream of seagulls and the piercing pain of his headache. There were other aches and pains, spread out like paint smears across his body. Without open his eyes, fearing he would be blind with pain and sunlight, he stuffed his hand in his pocket and withdrew a needle, sticking it carefully between the ridges of his spine. The pain stopped, and he dared to open his eyes.
    A sky blue dress with clouds of bleach and flour.
The needle in his spine was not something he liked to use, he was liable to forget it was there, and pain was useful for keeping track of damage, but worst of all it stopped his other needles from hurting. The only way he knew his heart rate picked up was the feeling of it, hammering in his chest. He sat up.
The ocean surrounded him, featureless. He might have imagined it was heaven or hell if not for the smell; too imperfect to be either. He withdrew his phone from one pocket, turning it on to ascertain his location.
He’d missed messages from his father. That would be trouble, but it could wait. He flipped on the GPS, and tried not to sigh. He was nowhere near anything, floating in the international waters between Azia and Yorbia. He looked around, trying to take stock of what he had. One oar, an empty tackle box, and his phone.
Only one oar. Quaint. It left him unable to row his boat, only to meander in circles. No doubt it was a popular way for amateurs to kill, they generally don't enjoy the crunchy parts of the work.
For a moment, he considered calling his family for help, but he knew better than that. He took a few minutes to braid his hair, holding the phone in his teeth, before stripping and folding his clothes in the boat. For a moment he took the phone in his hand, ensuring he understood the direction he had to go, before smashing against the floor of the boat. It would never survive the journey.
He tried not to think about her, and found it vexingly difficult. She could have killed him. She should have, by all rights. He was a danger to everything she held dear. He cracked his neck, then his shoulders, then his back.
She should have killed him. Why hadn’t she?
He dived.
13 notes · View notes
bujopapercreations · 4 years
Text
The Undead Perfectionist: How Perfectionists are Zombies
They’re coming...
It's no use denying it anymore. You've seen the signs. You know, the one kid in your first period that never seems quite all there. The coworker that randomly growls and snarls at things. The friend that has a weird obsession with dissection videos on YouTube?
…No?
Okay, then. Maybe you’re oblivious. Regardless, you need to be ready for when the dead start walking. Don't let your mental blocks be the reason you succumb to the undead. Keep scrolling for the Perfectionist's Guide to the Apocalypse.
The Outbreak
The apocalypse typically starts with some idiot scientist messing with something they shouldn’t have, right? Perfectionism kind of starts the same way. A person (typically a child) is living their life, and then some Outside Force (typically society or well-meaning parents) comes along and essentially tells the person they’re not good enough.
They mess with something that didn’t necessarily need to be messed with.
Here are some ways perfectionist tendencies are formed.
Braaaaaaainnnss...
Basic knowledge: you take a zombie out with a head shot. Unfortunately, dealing with perfectionism isn't that easy. Part of understanding it is getting into a perfectionist's head, though; more specifically, understanding their way of thinking.
Here is a guide to understanding some of the underlying cognitive tendencies of perfectionists. 
Adapt and Overcome
I can think of several zombie movies that feature a protagonist that seemingly (or even overtly) live by a set of rules that keep them alive in the apocalypse. Since they typically aren’t dead by the end of the movie, they must be following some pretty decent guidelines, right? So, let’s take a few of them and use them for our perfectionism. 
Rule 1: Cardio. Between hacking at zombies, climbing hard-to-reach places, and sprinting to escape a horde, surviving in an apocalypse means you have to be in shape to some degree. Stay at least healthy enough to be able to run faster than the slowest person. Likewise, part of the battle with staying on top of perfectionism is not letting it catch up to you (i.e. not letting it get in the way of taking care of yourself). Your body is the temple that houses your greatest weapon. That mean you take showers, you remember to eat, you get more than two hours of sleep, and you set aside time to relax every now and then.
It might also literally mean getting your cardio exercise in. A study by Herring and colleagues (2012) found that those with Major Depressive Disorder who exercised regularly received as much benefit as they would from medications. Furthermore, women with Generalized Anxiety Disorder who did 2 weeks of resistance training or cardio decreased their worrying symptoms by 60%. If exercise can benefit those who have a diagnosis, then surely it also benefits those of us with perfectionist tendencies.
Rule 2: When in doubt, know your way out. Obviously, when the zombies arrive, it’s smart to know your escape routes in any and all situations. It’s also smart to be able to talk yourself out of a mental rut so you don’t get “stuck” in an unhealthy thought pattern. 
Recognize when you’re being overly critical of yourself or others, and replace your perfectionist thoughts with more realistic and helpful ones. Channel your inner Hanna Montana: “Nobody’s perfect,” and “everybody makes mistakes.” As cheesy as pre-2012 Cyrus lyrics were, they actually are reflective of reality. In the end, you’re only human. You know. Until you get bitten. 
Rule 3: Don’t be a lone hero. In an apocalypse, the chances of surviving by yourself are pretty small. Don’t be your own worst enemy by being the loner that’s afraid of dragging down your friends and family. The burden isn’t all on you to save the world. You need other people on your quest to find the antidote that will cure humanity, so don’t be afraid to trust people, and allow them to help you when you’re struggling. It’s okay if you’re not pleasant all the time; it’s okay if you mess up, and it’s okay if you’re not perfect. You can at least increase your chances of thriving during the apocalypse (i.e. thriving in spite of your perfectionism) by surrounding yourself with people who show you support AND people that you can support. If you’re distancing yourself from friends and family in an apocalypse, you’re also unable to protect them if trouble comes their way. Likewise, you may not realize how many of those around you also suffer from perfectionism. Perhaps the burden would be more bearable if you reached out for help. Keep that in mind, and your’re well on your way to becoming the ultimate undead survivor. 
Keep From Going Stir Crazy
Surviving in an apocalypse isn’t all just killing zombies and finding food, you know. Remember in Train to Busan when the protagonist learns to thrive by building relationships with the people on the train? Escaping the zombies and surviving wasn’t the only thing consuming his mine anymore; instead, he was learning to thrive  by building meaningful relationships with the other people on the train. There’s a difference between surviving and thriving, and that’s where these handy little things called “coping mechanisms” come in.
Like the zombie virus, perfectionism isn’t something that just goes away.  You find ways to live around it, so it’s not the only thing consuming your thoughts, day after day. Here are a few coping mechanisms:
Habits with Habitica: Habitica is an online role-playing game that can help the wayward perfectionist fight procrastination and provide incentives to get things done. Level up and go on quests while keeping your life together!
The art of Zentangle: Zentangles are a form of art therapy. They’re basically swirly masses of lines, shapes,and doodles, typically drawn in black and white. You don’t have to be an “art person” to do Zentangle; the whole idea is to destress with mindless squiggles and doodles.
Alter the way you think: a large part of managing perfectionism is simply altering your mindset. Alongside the rules above, this page should also provide more concrete ways to change your mindset. It may be hard, but I promise you can do it. 
4 notes · View notes
edsrich · 6 years
Text
I Walk The Line - Reddie [ 01 ]
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is finally enrolled into the Boarding School that he had been fighting for years just to get in. However, not all is what it seems between these walls, full of shadows and unsolved mysteries that dangle on loose threads. Derry Academy has a dark secret that is yet to be revealed and the more Eddie finds out about the unknown, more grains of sand fall to the depths of the hourglass.
Warning(s) For the Whole Series: Rape, self harm, sexual assault, depression and death.
A/N: Please ask in my inbox to be tagged in a taglist for this series if you wish :)
Playlist ( X )
Part 1 | 2 (Soon)
"And this is your room, Edward."
"It's uh, Eddie. My friends call me Eddie."
Mr. Maguire lifted a single key that was attached to a metallic hoop, it hanging between the Principal's wrinkled fingertips and scraping at the thin air. Other students passed, giving almost shocked looks as the two stood in front of his now new dorm room.
"Well, Eddie, I'm sure you'll be a good student here at Derry Academy however, I'm going to go over the dorm rules with you. Does that sound good Eddie?" Mr. Maguire spoke with his monotone voice, his eyelids slitting his eyes.
Eddie could only nod, feeling very intimidated by how his new Principle said his name in such a broad manner.
"One, in your dorm you shall not play any loud music after 8pm. Two, you shall not have lights on past 11pm. If you are going to study, you should use your desk lamp and not your main room lamp. Three, you only leave your room for the bathroom after 9pm and you shall not stay in other dorms overnight; weekends are an exception." Mr. Maguire paused before tilting an eyebrow down at Eddie, "Do you understand, Eddie?"
"Yes Sir, I understand completely." He tried to keep his voice stable, however his tone only quivered all over the place.
A smirk toyed at Mr. Maguire's lips as he then nodded at Eddie's hands, Eddie caught on straight away and held his hand out before his Headmaster who placed the key into his palm. Eddie quickly closed his fingers around the silver key, tightening it between his fist.
"With that in mind, this is now your room Eddie. I expect you to design it to your liking; this room is already slightly altered as someone used to live here before you. Although, you can't alter the wall colours."
"Oh, thank you Mr. Maguire!" Eddie grinned, pulling his pastel pink polo down by the collar to allow air to flow through.
"No problem, kid." The Principal's facade faded slightly as something flashed through his eyes, but with a clear of his throat the facade was quickly hardened. "If you need me, I will be located in my office. Have a good day."
Before Eddie managed to muster the words to even form a goodbye, the Principle of Derry Academy had already legged himself down the halls of the boys dorm. Eddie sighed shakily, pulling his suitcase along beside him in his other hand, stopping it right in front of his wooden door that had a chalkboard before him that was nailed deeply into his door along with a stick for him to write his name upon. The chalkboard itself looked as if it had been scrubbed at many times with faded skids of white crossing over each other's paths. Eddie's fingers lifted away from the suitcase handle and grabbed at the thin stick of chalk and that was then he wrote his name onto the black surface. He simply wrote the name 'Eddie' with a smiley face right next to his name and a few squiggles here and there to let his personality shine through his name introduction to those who walked by.
Eddie placed the chalk back down on the small indent of a shelf before lifting the key to room 27 and unlocking his door to be revealed to what was before him, his new room.
The room was quite bland, as if it had been cleared- but some aspects shown that someone had been living here before his presence was. Such as how the bookshelf was half full with a variation of different colours and sizes with some more thick and some more slender. Even how the bed that was cramped into the corner of the room and how it had a plaid bedding with specifically three pillows and the fourth tucked at the end as if it were a foot rest for when the boy that lived in this room previously slept.
Something about this place was off, though; Eddie couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Eddie walsted his way inside with his brown suitcase rolling behind him, chipping at his heels with discomfort. A ragged sigh left his lips as his feet sunk into the rug below him which too must've been something that the person previously had in the room as an accessory to give a more homey feel.
His hand dropped from the suitcase as he placed it up against the pale wall and resting against a few cracks that had surfaced past the thin paint which showed its age just by that small detail of a crack. Eddie then walked forward, going over to the bed and bouncing down on it to test its comfiness.
It wasn't comfy.
Eddie could practically feel the springs through the thick blanket sticking up into his skin, causing his eyes to narrow as he quickly became unimpressed.
He was already starting to regret stepping his foot through the door of this school. He recalled how his Mother actually was hesitant to let him go after forcing him to go here herself; all because she was scared of him around other kids his age and staying under the roof of other girls. Eddie rolled his eyes at the thought.
Eddie was glad to be here though, he was finally away from home and from the tight grasp of his Mother, he finally felt independant just being away from her. The truth was that Eddie's Mother was far too protective over her son; to the point where Eddie couldn't leave or sleep without taking his medicine and wasn't allowed to eat certain foods for some odd reason. Eddie hated it, but he knew that he needed to take the medicine.
As he thought about his medicine, he stood up and walked over to his upright suitcase and quickly flattened it against the dark oak wooden floorboards and pulled the zipper across to unravel its insides. Inside of his suitcase was mostly matching pyjama sets and a few weekend clothes that he could rewear; most of the things inside contained medicine, decor and some personal belongings to keep him occupied.
Eddie huffed, grabbing his medicine packet which was sealed tightly at the top and placing it on top of his chest of drawers- quickly organising them after taking them out of their clear plastic bag.
Each was labelled with when they should be took, for example, the bright orange packet had the words '9pm / 7am' stuck to them from his Mother, alike to others but with different times. Each capsule holder was organised with what time they were to be took so that it was easier for himself somewhat.
With that done, he knelt next to his open suitcase once again to start packing away his personal belongings neatly just as he always would. His underwear kept tidy inside of his top drawer, his pyjama set collection and in the final and bottom drawer he kept his usual clothes and soon to keep his uniform for school days. Eddie sighed at himself, shutting over the final drawer and resting his frame against the wooden chest.
Did he really want to be here? He had friends back at home that he would barely see until Christmas at this rate and who was to say that he'd make friends at this school? Bad vibes were written all over it.
The only good thing that was coming out of all of this was that he didn't have to have his Mother breathing down his neck at every possible moment. He felt free, but at the same time these walls still enclosed him.
The air that surrounded him in his own dorm started to thin; becoming congealed. For some odd reason also, Eddie's small brown thorns along his arms stood on ends along with the goosebumps that strengthened the strands upwards.
Eddie didn't feel as safe as he probably should within his own dorm.
Maybe it was something about the aura of this place- afterall, it was quite an old building from the 1800's. Who knew what lurked these halls.
He hummed a soft tune, setting up his boom box up against the side of his chest of drawers and setting his stack of mixtapes next to it- each one labelled different to the other. Yes, he labelled his mixtapes based on certain moods and vibes that he was looking to listen to, some even labelled just as genres. It was out of habit, he couldn't help it.
What was also left in the room was in fact a large grandfather clock that was snug into the corner of the room and ticked itself to and thro by each passing second. The clock currently struck itself at 20 past 7 in the evening.
Tomorrow was going to be his first official day.
Eddie clung the metal key in his grip as the thoughts of his uniform and schedule ran over his brain, as he now realised that he should probably go and grab what was his from the office- which was probably downstairs where he came in through the dorms.
Bonus points: he also stayed on the first floor, so it wasn't hard to find his way around.
With making sure his keys were intact with him, the small boy walked towards his dorm door and opened it up- walking out as it shut itself behind him. Other male's of his age walked past his door and up and down the corridor and getting lost into the shadows of the night.
Eddie walked by his lone self, not making eye contact with the unusual eyes that scanned over him. They could probably already tell that he was the new boy, hopefully that wasn't a bad thing. But from what Eddie had seen so far, he couldn't tell; this place gave him a bad vibe. With each step that he took against the oak wood creaks beneath him, he felt like an outsider even more. Everyone here already seemed to have cliques, especially since groups of either those in two's, three's of four's were just staring in confusion.
Please, don't let me be an outcast again. He thought.
His feet strode to the staircase and eventually he allowed himself to tiptoe down each step; each one creaking which put Eddie on edge. Again, this was another reminder to how old this building truly was.
One person shoved themselves into Eddie's side as they passed on the stairs, causing the hand railing to stick into Eddie's waist- causing a subtle squeak to surpass Eddie's parted lips.
When Eddie glanced to the side, he saw a slightly older and much taller blonde with a scraggy mullet glare at him with a sickening smile of some sort- his three other friends trailing alongside him. One more on the chubbier side with a few pimples sporting to his face and dark brown thorns sticking up on his head, showing that his hair was gelled a bit too much. One of the other boys was rather thin and was the smallest out of the boys that were stood, he was more of a platinum blonde and his face was sort of scrunched up from his sour expression and oddly pale. Finally, a lanky tall boy with wavy brown strands of hair that almost danced at his shoulders, his smile wasn't as teasing however- but more odd, it was hard for Eddie to specifically pinpoint an emotion to it. He did know that it was weird, however.
"You're next, girly boy! " The mullet boy snickered, his friends too laughing.
Eddie felt as if they knew something that he didn't know, yet. His chest tightened as his thoughts were swarmed over with his kneecaps trembling close together.
Great, I've only been here for 30 minutes and I'm already being teased. Eddie thought. But why? No one knows who I am yet.
The laughs echoed through the small space, before they trotted upwards and to the dorm sections. Eddie could feel himself able to breathe properly again, for once not needing his inhaler.
With that situation quickly passing, Eddie stumbled his way down the stairs much more urgently so that he could get back to his room as soon as possible. The new scenery of the entrance to the dorm space and it's bottom office came into view, a large chandelier hanging from the ceiling before Eddie and down onto the long old fashioned rug that was placed over the new change of floor, tiles.
Eddie sighed, noticing another boy was waiting at the office and leant up against the wooden desk. Eddie didn't want to start a conversation at all, especially after his first experience seconds earlier- but he needed his schedule and his uniform for tomorrow. The sooner he got back to his room the better, right? Right.
The desk grew closer as Eddie eventually found himself in front of it, with no one attending the desk as they probably should. A sigh drew from his lips yet again as Eddie pressed the bell in order to alert the receptionist that someone needed assistance.
"I-I've been here for ten m...minutes now, I wouldn't get your hope up."
Eddie's eyes flickered beside him, seeing the boy that he saw when walking up to the desk. The boy was tall and looked around his age, his hair was cut neatly with some of his forehead exposed to the light, his bright blue eyes blinking as he too scanned the new Eddie.
"Oh." Eddie replied, feeling a sense of awkwardness rile up.
The boy blinked again, before speaking up. "Y..You new?"
"Huh?"
"New, as in new t-to D-Derry Academy?"
Eddie finally managed to pick up on the fact that this stutter wasn't just a nervous habit- but an actual thing for the boy.
"Oh... Yeah, I'm Eddie Kaspbrak."
"I'm William D-Denbrough, but call me Bill."
Eddie finally found a smile to twitch over his face as he finally had met someone who was nice despite his first experience. He nodded to the boy known as Bill and fidgeted with his sleeves.
"So... W-what's your room number?" Bill questioned, his head slightly tilting.
"Oh, I uh- room 27 on the first floor, what about you?"
Eddie also too found out that he was terrible at continuing small talk, or any type of talk in general.
However, with Eddie's response Bill almost stiffened up- with his prominent adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat, signalling something had changed in this innocent conversation that Eddie was unable to figure out.
"O-Oh, I um, I-I share o-one of those spuh-special rooms with another g-guy, it's r..room 45 on the second f-floor."
Eddie could also pick up on how his stutter had gradually gotten worse within the few seconds between their answers.
"Oh!" Eddie nodded, tapping his fingers against the polished wooden desk to create a soothing rhythm for himself. "I didn't know you could share with others."
"Y-yeah, we've been friends since kids a-and when we first joined we.. we saw that it was an o-option in the leaflet."
Luckily for Eddie, he didn't have to respond as the receptionist at the office was quickly back in her seat with smudged crimson lipstick and a pen between her claws. Eddie gulped but before he could speak up, the woman cut him off.
"Oh you must be the newbie." She cooed, almost admiring him. "Edward Kaspbrak, right? Mhm honey, I've been expecting you- Mr.Maguire informed me about you."
"It's Eddie." Eddie spoke up, trying to be polite as possible.
He hated being called anything but his nickname that he had grown used to over the years, Edward was just too much and Eddie was simple.
"Oh alright, Eddie."
Eddie flashed his eyes down to her name tag on her blouse, the name Elaine imprinted onto the shiney gold. Of course her blouse had popped buttons upon her white blouse and her glasses were slid down to the tip of her nose. Her eyebrows were drew overly arched, almost Marilyn Monroe like; her hair was curled into tight ginger ringlets. If she wasn't wearing so much makeup, she'd probably look around mid-20's, however right now she seemed late 40's at the youngest.
Her green claws moved away from the pen and pulled out a cupboard near her feet, rummaging around for a few seconds before pulling out a sheet. She then handed it over the desk to Eddie, looking through her clumped lashes at him.
"I'll go get your uniform, honey."
"H-hey, can I-"
"Wait your turn, Billy." Elaine spoke sickly, standing up and flattening her skirt down before strutting into the back office.
Bill sighed exaggeratedly, rolling his eyes at her usual behaviour and drummed his fingertips into the wooden surface; his eyes rolling back to Eddie.
"Well... She's certainly a character." Eddie muttered, glancing at Bill.
"Y-yeah, she's banging the Principle."
Eddie almost choked.
"W-what?"
Bill smirked at the smaller boys reaction, "Yeah, that's the only r-ruh..reason why she still has her stupid job. She can barely s-stand in her own heels, n-nevermind sort out who's timetable is which. I'm surprised his wife hasn't found o-out already."
"Wife?" Eddie expasterated, completely in awe of shock and disgust to already find out that an affair was taking place under the school premises.
"Yes, wife." Bill hummed, standing a little closer to Eddie and shakily picking up the sheet that was his timetable, "Lucky, she g-got yours right."
Eddie peeked at the sheet, wanting to see his classes and teachers.
Bill's eyes scanned over quickly, as if he was digging for information that he needed to confirm for himself- however, his eyes quickly settled on a class that he wasn't sure to expect or not.
"D-drama?"
Eddie felt his face flush lightly to a dusked rose, "Yeah, I suppose I take drama."
"Suppose?" Bill looked to Eddie.
"W-well.. I specifically asked for that to be my chosen subject."
"Ah." Bill confirmed it with his very eyes, "Well h-here."
When he handed the sheet back, Eddie could almost see something click in Bill's brain. But again, Eddie found himself to struggle why he saw that.
Bill then hummed between his stutters again, "W-well, I also saw you take History with a friend of mine, Mike. He's one of m-my teammates."
"Teammates?" Eddie asked, tilting his head.
"Yeah!" Bill smiled, his straight teeth poking through his lips. "W-we're on the b-basketball team."
"Oh!" Eddie nodded, trying to show as if he was impressed in order to seem kind to Bill. "So you're popular?"
Bill practically laughed in his face, in mockery of himself.
"P-popular? With this stutter? I wish." Bill's smile only grew in surprise to Eddie, "I-I also write a lot, which is n-not cool at all."
Eddie shrugged, "I think writing is pretty cool, it's cooler than acting."
"I write about c-creepy stuff, it makes m-me look weird." Bill stuffed his hands in the pockets of his pants and swayed back and forth onto his heels, then his tiptoes.
"Well, you're not weird to me Bill." Eddie spoke gently, smiling softly.
Bill just looked at Eddie with soft eyes, his eyelashes dangling over his own iris as he scanned the boy with his own thoughts battling against one another. Eddie, confused, just stared back awkwardly.
"I'm g-going to make an offer, Eddie." Bill paused, "And this is s-something I or we don't do anymore."
"Oh? Do go on." Eddie urged, his curiosity growing by the seconds.
Again, Bill was silent for a few seconds before clearing his throat.
"I'm willing to offer y-you a place in a club, there's si- I mean f-five of us, including myself. We're all weird or d-different and I think you'd fit in."
Eddie felt his heart skip a beat at the thought of actually being offered to practically make friends; his first day of school had not even started yet and this was already a sign of luck.
"What kind of club is it?" Eddie beamed, trying not to show too much excitement.
Bill poked his tongue into his cheek as if to think for a moment before finally finalizing on an answer, "Well... I guess i-it used to be a uh- well... A club where y-you'd go if you needed to t-talk to someone for help or to let something off your c-chest, a escape." He paused, his smile growing and infecting his face yet again. "Over time w-we all became friends, did things t-together and the club just became... ours. We call it the losers club now. Because w-we are all losers."
Eddie enjoyed watching how Bill was obviously happy reminiscing on how he met his friends and how he found his place in school, the nostalgia clearly softening him.
"Are you calling me a loser?"
Bill's smile quickly fell and his lips fell into an 'o' shape.
"No! It's just... I feel as if you'd fit in with us e-even though we might have differences, we call ourselves losers b-because its funny."
"Oh, are you sure they wouldn't mind? The rest of your members- friends, I mean." Eddie fumbled around with his words, his eyes flicking down to his pumps.
"They'll u-understand why you've joined, so they'll be f-fine." Bill grinned, cutting himself off at the sight of Elaine.
Her buttons were fixed this time, but her lipstick still remained trailed to her chin; a stack of clothing in her grip.
"I hope this is the right size, pudding." She dumped the fabric against the wooden surface, "Your Mother called up earlier and told us all of your measurements and sizes- even telling us what fabric is the best for you!"
Eddie felt ashamed.
"So this seems to be the best match, now you hurry along. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow sweetheart."
Eddie nodded frantically not bothering to say goodbye, scooping up his new belongings. Just as he was about to walk past Bill, he was stopped when Bill placed a hand on his shoulder.
"If you d-d-do want to join, go to the room next to the d-detention room just beside the cafeteria during breakfast time." Bill smiled, "W-we always provide breakfast anyway, so you won't g-go the day with an empty stomach."
Eddie nodded, making a mental note. "Got it. I'll see you there?"
"We will." Bill nodded, smiling as Eddie parted pathways with him.
That night Eddie laid in bed wide awake with his matching pyjamas, his eyes staring at the cracked ceiling above him with soft and strained eyes. His bambi like eyes were slid over with exhaustion, but for some reason he still couldn't sleep like he wanted to. Something about this very room seemed off, almost eerie.
His window was shut, along with the blinds and curtains. His door was shut and locked tight too. So why did it feel as if eyes were boring into him?
Everything about this place was just weird, more weird than expected.
This school was supposed to be strict and ordinary, like any other boarding school. But it wasn't. How is a married principle having an affair a receptionist normal? Also, the vibe of this school had gotten worse as the night ticked on. The building would constantly creak and the sound of the old grandfather clock ticking put Eddie on edge, despite his medicine calming him down as they usually would.
But what did that boy mean by 'you're next'? Eddie could only imagine the possibilities of what it could mean. Was he next on their list? Was he next to be shoved into a locker? Was he next to die?
Oh gosh, he didn't want to die.
Eddie's exaggerated thoughts quickly became calm whilst he turned onto his side, facing the chipped wall in order to cut off the feeling of being stared at.
With those thoughts pushed back, Eddie closed his eyes once again and brought up fluffy thoughts of rainbows and future dreams. Anything but thinking of how stressful and nerve wrecking tomorrow was going to be.
A/N: Thankyou for reading part 1!! Like I said at the top ^^ if you wish to be added to a taglist, please ask me in my inbox :)
620 notes · View notes
tcm--holland · 7 years
Text
memory // peter parker
summary: best friends till the end…or rather, best friends until two months ago. what happened to you, and why did you suddenly disappear? an arcane letter with a single date on it is all peter has left of you as he ponders a love that could’ve been.
word count: about 2.8k
a/n: so comic was very light-hearted, so i took some time to write something a little more on the angsty side. i stayed up last night for this, because i just love it so much!! do i even need to say it’s unedited anymore? also thank you so much for all the notes comic got (about 150 in 2 days !!!!!) and have fun reading this one, i hope you love this as much as i do!! <333
masterlist
________________________
On the floor sits the Spider-Man suit in a small pile. A few feet away are the remnants of what appears to be a LEGO Death Star. The shelves are stocked with books, and the desk has some kind of mechanical parts scattered about. On the wall hangs an Iron Man poster. Looks like that poster’s been there a while.
And finally, sitting on the bed is Peter Parker. His earbuds hang in his ears, but he’s not listening to anything. His eyes are faintly bloodshot from crying just a few minutes ago. The phone in his hand shows that he was looking at a picture. The girl in the photo is you, grinning and holding up a peace sign next to him. You’re both in black pants and a red polo, the uniform of an old job.
In his mind, he remembers a long forgotten memory. When that picture was taken, he’d just made a lame pun about popcorn (“Here’s a bad joke about popcorn. Wait, never mind, it’s too corny!”) Of course, you thought it was the funniest thing ever and got caught mid-laughter while Peter tried very hard to not laugh with you. He remembers how contagious your laughter was, and how it sparked up something something very pure inside of him. He wishes for what could’ve been.
Peter stands up and walks over to his desk, moving aside the mechanical parts and digging up a piece of paper. He takes a seat and a deep breath before he starts writing.
You looked up just as Peter walked in. Well, not really walked so much as awkwardly shuffled. His pants looked like they could slide off his waist at any given moment, and his shirt was definitely three sizes too big. You burst out laughing, to which he looked a little miffed.
“Oh my god, who gave you that uniform?” You quickly told someone to cover you for a few minutes as you grabbed Peter by the arm and dragged him into the back room.
“Uh, there was this guy, I think his name was, like, Josh -”
“Josh! Here, if you’re going to work at this honorable movie theater, you can’t look like that.” You shut the door behind you and tossed him a new polo and pants.
“Wh - Josh told me these” - he motioned to his ill fitting attire - “were all you guys had!” Peter gaped at the clothes you gave him, sliding his hand into his pocket to retrieve his name tag.
“Yeah, well, you’ll learn quickly that he’s notorious for messing with people.” You grab his name tag, which reads, ‘Parker Peter’. “I thought Peter was a first name, but cool. Parker Peter.”
“Yeah, I’m Park - wait, no, I’m Peter Parker! What the hell?” He grabbed it back and looked at it before groaning. “Did Josh do this too?”
“Uh…he didn’t. He just kinda gave me the idea to do it.” You gave him a mischievous smirk and winked. “Sorry, Parker Peter. See you ‘round.”
Peter could only stare in utter shock as you clicked the door shut behind you to let him change. It was in that moment that he realized that he was crazy for you, and he smiled.
Or at least, tries to start writing. His hand starts shaking, just a little at first. But it gradually becomes so bad that he can hardly hold the pen anymore. Peter sets the pen down and runs his hands through his hair.
When he met you, it was like he was alive again. As though he hadn’t been breathing right this whole time and he had just figured it out. He knew you were going to be one of his closest friends that summer.
Peter sets his head in his hands, wondering how this ended up the way it did. He writes a few lines about how you never pick up when he calls you, or how you never text back anymore. He crumples up the paper into a ball and throws it into a random corner of his room. It bounces off of the wall and, coincidentally, into the trash can.
“Yeah! Come on, maybe you have a hidden talent here. See if you can beat my record!” You encouraged Peter, giving him that grin that he can’t say no to.
“Ugh, fine. I’m only doing this ‘cause you want me to, Y/N.” Peter reluctantly stepped up, taking the crumpled up Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice mini movie poster and aimlessly throwing it. Miraculously, it landed in the trash fifteen feet away.
Cheers erupted from the crowd of teen workers, and suddenly everyone was high-fiving and fist-bumping Peter. You went on about how you just knew he could do it and how proud you were and how far he had come. You threw your arms around Peter in a big hug. He hugged you back, smiling wider than he thought was possible until he spotted a dark gaze from someone standing nearby. Josh.
“Peter! If you want dinner, there’s pasta in the fridge for you!” A faint voice from downstairs briefly jolted him back to reality.
“O-Okay! Thanks, May!” Peter called back before returning to his thoughts.
Maybe if he’d written you sooner rather than waiting so long, or if he’d taken his chance when he could, something would’ve been different. Maybe if you hadn’t moved away.
Peter stood nervously in front of the theater. It was about mid-July and he decided he wanted to do something about his massive crush on you. So, courageously, he’d asked if you wanted to hang out sometime. In his hand was a single white rose. Earlier, one of its thorns had pricked his thumb, so now a Captain America themed band-aid was wrapped around it.
He stood there, watching as the sun shining above started to make him sweat. He smiled awkwardly to people going in and out, but paused when he heard something. He turned the corner to see something he wished he’d never seen.
You were entangled in Josh’s arms, and you were kissing him. You laughed your beautiful laugh, the one Peter had imagined hearing when you saw him with the rose. “No, babe, I have to go. I can’t leave Peter waiting. He’s my best friend.” You chuckled and gave Josh a tight hug. Over your shoulder, he looked at Peter. Slowly, his face contorted into a smug smile. It was the same one Peter had been given when Josh played his first prank on him.
Unable to do anything else, Peter fled the scene. He tossed the rose into the first trash can he could find and ran. He ran as fast as he could until he got home. May looked confused.
“Back already? Where’s Y/N? And the rose?”
Peter gave no response as he stood there for a moment, panting. Finally, he went upstairs and locked himself in his room.
He brings his hand to his face, inspecting the scar on his thumb. Peter thinks the scar is just a reminder of why he doesn’t need to contact you anymore. You’re fine. You probably found yourself another Peter and another Josh.
Peter wonders how he was so oblivious to Josh that whole time. It’s only in retrospection that he remembers how much you talked about Josh to him. Or how you sneaked glances at him while making batches of popcorn and giggled.
He vividly remembers the last letter you wrote him, nearly two months ago. The only thing on the entire sheet of paper was a date. That date is today. Your signature, a cute collection of squiggles ending in a few hearts, was absent. But there’s no mistaking that handwriting for anyone else’s.
Peter nearly drove himself crazy trying to figure out what it meant. Is the date a memory of something that happened last year today? Is it a warning? There’s no way that it’s a threat. Or, to be optimistic, is it the day that you’re coming back? His stomach had taken a sick turn when he wondered if it was a suicide note.
Now? Well, it’s almost nine PM. And nothing happened. Is this some kind of joke? Is it supposed to be funny, but Peter just took it too seriously?
“Peter, are you okay?” You asked gently. Peter quickly wiped away a tear, but he gave himself away with his flushed cheeks. “I’m sorry, I really am.”
“I-It’s okay,” he said, trying to muster up a smile. It wasn’t okay. He didn’t get the joke. He didn’t know why it was so funny for him to get popcorn butter dumped on his head. As a prank.
“No, it’s not,” you shook your head. “I told Josh to use popcorn, not the butter. Maybe he didn’t hear me right or something…” You sat down next to him on the floor of the back room.
Peter wanted so badly to tell you. He wanted to tell you about the cruel smile Josh had on his face as he dumped the bucket of butter on him. He wanted to tell you everything. But he didn’t, because he knew how heartbroken you would be. He couldn’t bear to see you stop smiling.
“It’s okay, Y/N, it really is,” Peter reassured you instead.
“Here, I’ll cover you for the rest of your shift. You go home and wash up, okay? And then we can hang out,” you grinned. It worked instantly, and soon, Peter was smiling too.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Yeah, same here, Parker Peter.”
You were the light of his life. You always made him so happy, except for now. This whole day, Peter has been anxious and worried that something bad will happen. Maybe it is just another old prank. But he can’t help but think something was supposed to happen that didn’t. There’s a strange feeling in his gut telling him there’s something he’s missing.
Or maybe the only thing he’s missing is you.
The back room had become Y/N and Peter’s spot. No one really hung around in there, so they occupied the space when they had nothing better to do. They would just sit in silence on their phones, only disrupting the quiet to show each other memes. Other days, they’d talk about everything there was to talk about. It was a place that harbored good memories. The tiny back room with nothing more than shelves with extra uniforms and a table.
It was good until Y/N dragged him back there to talk about something important. There was a worried look in your eyes, and you were more energetic than usual. But this time, it was nervous energy.
“I need to tell you something, Pete,” you said quietly, jaw set.
Peter was worried, to say the least. The only other time he’d seen you like that was when you were talking about how stressed you were recently. You were trying to juggle your job, family, friends, and your boyfriend all at once. Things were getting difficult.
“I’m moving.” You finally blurted out. Peter’s heart sank as soon as you said this.
“W-What d’you mean you’re moving?” He couldn’t believe what you’d just said. He felt himself going numb with shock.
“I mean moving. Out of the city. Far away.” Peter felt the soul-crushing weight of what was going to happen. No more hours spent in the back room, laughing and chatting away. He wouldn’t get to hear your laugh ever again. He wouldn’t be able to be near your positive energy. And he would get to see you up close anymore. You’d become a distant memory, and maybe one day he’d even forget what you looked like.
You didn’t cry. You weren’t that kind of person. But Peter knew you felt it too. A claw wrapped around your hearts, squeezing as hard as it could. It was heartache.
“Does anyone else know?” Peter asked solemnly.
Your face fell at this. “Uh…yeah. I told Josh. H-He said he didn’t ‘do’ long distance relationships and dumped me. I just, uh. Thought I meant a little more to him.” You swallowed and looked at Peter.
He hugged you, arms tight around you. He wished he’d never have to let go. “Oh, Y/N,” was all he said. He thought about telling you the truth about Josh now, but he didn’t. The words never came out. He kept his mouth shut.
Peter grabs his phone and opens Instagram. He goes to your account. The last picture posted was also two months ago. It’s a picture of you sitting at the edge of a pool with a grey pitbull in your arms. You’re grinning as wide as you can. The picture is captioned, ‘The only guy worth keeping around!’
What happened? Why did you go AWOL on the world? Or did you do it on purpose?
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” You exclaimed as he rubbed his arm.
“So you’re telling me it was a total accident that you punched me.” It didn’t hurt that bad anymore, but he knew it was going to ache later.
“Uh…yeah…?” You gave him a sheepish smile. “Here, I’ll kiss it to make it better.” You slid up the sleeve of his t-shirt and placed a kiss on the warm skin by his shoulder.
Peter stared at you, unable to form words for a few seconds. “Man, my cheek really hurts,” he finally joked, turning his cheek towards you.
You looked confused for a moment before you started laughing. You pecked his cheek and grinned. “Better?”
“Much, much better,” Peter laughed with you. He felt like he could run ten miles, he was so happy.
Peter recalls May’s reaction to you leaving. She was sad that you wouldn’t get to have dinner with her and Peter again, or sit and play board games all day. You ruled at Monopoly.
He glances back at his phone to look at the picture of you. You look a little older, and you grew your hair out. You’re just as beautiful as he remembers, if not more.
There were days spent staying on the phone for hours and hours, sometimes even falling asleep with his phone in hand. You told him everything about your new life, and he told you everything about his life. Well, almost everything. He didn’t tell you about Spider-Man.
And then, one day, you stopped picking up. For the first few days, Peter just thought you were busy. For you, especially, life had a habit of tripping you up. But weeks went by with no response. Just one cryptic letter with a mysterious date written in black ink, which you never write in. That’s all he has left of you.
“You have to call me at least every weekend. I want to know everything! And text me all the time,” you reminded Peter.
He didn’t need a reminder, but he nodded anyway, a sad smile on his face.
“I have an idea. Let’s write each other letters.”
“What do you mean? Like in the mail?”
“Exactly! It’s so old-fashioned and cool. Like sending messages to each other by carrier pigeon, hand-written and signed and all.”
“The last passenger pigeon died in 1914.”
“I did not sign up for your nerdy ass to ridicule me like this, Parker Peter!” You make a face at him but laugh anyway.
“It was in the fine print,” Peter winked.
You threw your arms around him for the last time. “God, Pete, I’m gonna miss you so much,” you mumbled into his shoulder, the one you punched only a few weeks before.
“I’ll miss you more, Y/N,” he whispered into your hair. You didn’t let go for the longest time, but when you did, a smile was on your face.
“Write me in case I don’t make any friends, okay?” You said as you slid your sunglasses onto your face.
“Please. You’ll make friends. But I will anyway.”
You turned to leave but stopped. You quickly ran back and gave Peter a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t forget about me. I’ll be back one day.”
“I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”
Peter sighs. Who is he kidding? He’s foolish to think something would really happen. Two months and no word from you. Why would some enigmatic date on a piece of paper mean anything?
He loosens the tie around his neck, feeling stupid. He should just focus on what’s happening in his life. But Peter just can’t let go of you, because you told him to remember.
Maybe that’s all you’re supposed to be. A memory.
.
.
.
.
Somewhere nearby, but not close enough for Peter to notice, sits a shadowed figure in a crouching position. Her suit keeps her blended into the night. She’s watching him pace around his room. His phone is still opened to a picture of a girl. She feels something inside of her, like she’s supposed to remember something but doesn’t. A long gone memory begins to resurface.
_______________________
tag list:
@thelifeofanengineeringstudent
@deans-angel-of-thursdays
113 notes · View notes
mst3kproject · 7 years
Photo
Tumblr media
Reptilicus
I defy you to find something in this movie that doesn't qualify it for MST3K.  Giant lizardy monster?  Check.  A musical number that has nothing to do with the plot?  We have that.  Actors who appear to be dubbed despite also appearing to speak English?  The entire cast!  Black and white footage tinted blue in an effort to make it look like it belongs in a colour movie?  You betcha!  Wooden acting?  Beakers of kool-aid standing in for SCIENCE? Foreigners pretending to be Americans?  Toy boats?  Yep, Reptilicus has it all, wrapped up in a bright technicolour package by our old friend, American International Pictures!
It seems tailor-made for the show, and Joel apparently agrees.  I wrote most of this review before I found out that Reptilicus was slated to be the Season 11 debut, and now I’m looking forward to seeing how many of my predictions here come true when the episode hits Netflix on Friday.
SPOILERS: none of them! Not a damned one!
Copper miners on the tundra of Lapland discover a piece of a frozen prehistoric monster in the arctic permafrost (never mind that the scene was shot on a nice spring day in the woods somewhere).  A guy named Sven is charged with bringing the find back to civilized parts for study.  I hope you like Sven, because he's going to keep hanging around for the entire movie, and apparently possesses the same all-purpose security clearance as a Japanese child.  He's still in town when the chunk of monster thaws out and begins to regenerate. Ultimately the regrown beast escapes its tank at the Copenhagen Aquarium and goes on a cartoon-people-devouring, scale-model-smashing rampage.  Because what else is a prehistoric lizard monster going to do with its spare time?
Tumblr media
Yep, that's the quality of effects we're talking about here.  I like the windows that appear to be drawn on with crayon.
Being as the movie is set in Denmark, the sign on the building where the monster parts are being kept says AKVARIUM.  I don't know why, but my friends and I used to find that outrageously funny.  Every time it appeared on screen we would all shout AKVARIUM! in obnoxious faux-German mad scientist voices.  Of course, that was years ago.  We're now thirty-somethings with mortgages, children, and assorted professional qualifications – but I bet if we all got back together and watched this movie, it would be exactly the same.  AKVARIUM!
Had the MST3K of the 90s ever seen fit to tackle Reptilicus, I'm pretty sure they would have made some kind of running joke about the AKVARIUM.  I can also imagine them asking Reptilicus if he'd like some coffee with that Danish, the two monsters taking turns on the hexfield to offer competing stories of why Gamera vs Reptilicus fell through, and Dr. Forrester and Frank putting together a 'Visit Beautiful Deep Thirteen' campaign – with or without a lounge act.
Tumblr media
It almost feels kind of unfair to attempt any actual analysis of this movie.  Analysis is for movies that have higher ambitions, and Reptilicus really does not.  If I squinted hard enough I might be able to pull something about scientific over-reach or cooperation between nations out of the mess, but whatever I came up with would be sort of a Last Minute 11th Grade King Lear Essay, made mostly out of coffee and bullshit.  All Reptilicus wants is for the audience to have a good time (and maybe to visit Copenhagen), and it does accomplish that even if not quite in the way it wants to.
Rather than talking about what Reptilicus fails at (and believe me, it fails at quite a bit), then, let's talk about how it succeeds.  What we really have here is a very fine example of how having something fun to look at can go a long way towards saving a lousy movie.
When you get right down to it, just about everything in Reptilicus is bad.  The plot is contrived and full of holes – why do we keep Sven around when by all rights he should be back in the arctic doing his damn job instead of hanging around in Copenhagen?  How stupid is just about everybody at the AKVARIUM to let the tail thaw out?  Could they really not come up with a better way to suggest drugging the monster than the old trope about 'somebody offhandedly says I wish we could do Thing and somebody else goes why not'?  How does General Grayson keep forgetting about the monster's regenerative powers so that he starts shooting at it again?
The acting is terrible.  Apparently there's a reason for this – the Danish actors who starred in the production didn't speak any English and had no idea what their lines meant!  That's why everything had to be dubbed over later, which means each performance in Reptilicus is a collaboration between two un-talented actors who were truly less than the sum of their parts.  Worst of all is Carl Ottosen as General Grayson and the uncredited guy doing his voice.  Ottosen almost always looks like he's not entirely sure what he's reacting to, and voiceover guy has only two modes: grouchy grump and solemn declaration.  Sometimes he manages to do both at the same time.  I hate to say it, but the best actor in the movie is probably Dirch Passer as Petersen the Comic Relief Janitor, who has a passable sense of physical comedy.  He almost manages to sell his reactions to things like the electric eel and the microscopic view of his sandwich, even when the jokes themselves aren't particularly funny.
Tumblr media
The characters don't have much to them.  Sven is a terrible main character, without charisma or recognizable personality or even any motivation.  He sticks around for the whole movie and spends most of it just standing there watching other people do stuff.  Sometimes he answers phones or acts as a chauffer.  He comes across less as the movie’s hero and more as its administrative assistant.  Grayson's just there to shout orders and complain, but he's still closer to being a proper protagonist than Sven – maybe this is why they have him narrate a few scenes, in an attempt to correct this bizarre oversight.  The professor's two horny daughters never amount to much, and Passer's comedy can't quite save Petersen from being the character everybody most wants to see die (he does not, but at least he's out of the story once the rampage begins).  The Scientists are Movie Scientists, too interested in what they might learn to think about things like consequences and personal safety.
The effects are the opposite of convincing, always drawing attention to themselves as effects rather than contributing to the story.  I've seen some ridiculous movie monsters, but Reptilicus himself (everybody in the movie refers to the creature as male) is right up there in the top ten.  He looks something like a very silly Chinese dragon – a long, skinny, snakelike beast with a forked tongue, a mane of ratty fur down his back, tiny useless legs, and a pair of small wings that are, tragically, never used. Apparently a scene of Reptilicus flying was filmed, but was deemed ‘too unbelievable’ and cut from the film.  The monster's acid-spitting consists of squiggles of green goo that resemble radioactive silly string.  When he eats a farmer, it is represented by an animated cutout of the man in Reptilicus' mouth.
Tumblr media
Okay, so I did just talk about how the movie fails, and I could keep doing so for some time.  The comic relief isn't funny. The movie stops for a moment to break into a travel ad.  Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  The point is, Reptilicus objectively sucks and if it were shot like a modern disaster film, all gritty and gray and trying for realism, it would be insufferable.  Instead, however, it's cartoony and colourful, and while the effects aren't convincing they're always at least creative.  The sets always look like sets, and the models always look like models, but they're elaborate and inspired.  Everything sucks, but movie are a visual medium, so if it's fun to watch the viewers will forgive all kinds of sins.
It's also a perfect example of an important bit of bad movie truth: you can't make a bad movie on purpose, not the good kind of bad movie.  People can try, but they come up with stuff like The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra, which I couldn't even watch all the way through.  A truly enjoyable bad movie is one that's trying hard to be a good movie and fails in just the right sort of ways – an intentional bad movie is the equivalent of a belabored explanation of a punch line that wasn’t that funny to begin with.  The thing that makes Reptilicus so much fun is the same spark that animates Teenagers from Outer Space, or Starcrash, or even Troll 2 – its sincerity.
Reptilicus is one of the most utterly unapologetic movies I've ever watched.  We've all seen movies that seem a bit embarrassed by themselves – remember Being from Another Planet, which wishy-washily tried to be a Serious Movie about Serious People instead of just embracing the fact that it was about a fucking space mummy?  Reptilicus is the opposite of that. It's not ashamed of anything, even in the places where by all rights it should be.  Its monster is an immobile puppet in a scale model, but the shots linger lovingly on every shoddy detail. Peterson the Comic Relief Janitor ought to be painful, but the script is so earnest that he somehow becomes a meta-joke: the very fact that he's not funny is itself funny.  Somebody thought the movie could be used to sell Copenhagen as a tourist destination, so they have the characters tour the city and talk about what a great time they're having.  The movie never gives less than its all to anything it puts on the screen.
So yeah, I love Reptilicus.  It's never boring and it’s frequently laugh-out-loud funny, and there's nothing in it that's either offensive or scary.  There are much worse ways to waste eighty minutes of your life.
46 notes · View notes
Text
If you’re feeling down...remember there is a still someone in your hometown trying to be a rapper
“He rode up with her riding bitch while blasting "Dear Mama" in a suburban neighborhood at 1 in the morning“
As the title the suggests, the topic of discussion will be one mans dream of becoming the next Eminem. Is that racist by the way? Like the only similarities he shares with Eminem is that he’s white and raps. To my knowledge I don’t believe he even liked Eminem. It’s like when a black guy sings country music and iTunes labels it “Country Hip-hop” even though he has never rapped in his entire life. Got to love the blatant racism from super “open minded” people in a Northern California.  Sorry got a bit side tracked there. Back to the man in question, let’s call him MC Squiggles. MC Squiggles developed a love for rap, as many of us did, in the late 90s. He started “spittin rhymes” by middle school and selling his mixtapes (giving away to be more accurate) in High School. Say what you will, Squiggles never gave up. To this day Squiggles is still trying to make a name for himself in the “Underground Rap Game” of the grimy streets of Tucson. By grimy I mean in the literal sense, roads conditions are subpar at best. Anyway, he usually performs in places like hipster coffee cafes that turn into hookah/vaping lounges after 8PM. Which by the way, if you use a vape and you have said something in the realm of “I want cotton candy dank juice with no nicotine” kill yourself. I’ll touch on that later, back to Squiggles. Squiggles has done everything he could to find his niche in hip hop society. He started wearing flashy jewelry and wife beaters. Unfortunately, his Bolex watch (I wish that was a typo) didn’t gain the street cred he expected.  He started hitting on chicks on myspace from poor neighborhoods in Tucson to be able to adapt into their culture. It was like if Avatar was set in the Barrio. Though he was successful with his endeavors at least once. Turned out that the girl he was fucking was also fucking with several members of the local neighborhood crips. For those who don’t know, it’s a club for refined gentlemen who enjoy the finer things in life. Just kidding, turned out the girl he was fucking was referred to as a “strawberry”. For those who didn’t take Urban linguistics classes in college, “strawberry” refers to a woman who is “passed around’ and is usually compensated accordingly. In this case compensation was, if I had to guess, was paid in crack-cocaine. She was a fun character to be around. She had a lot of fun hobbies that the two would take part in. She collected silverware from the various white families she was introduced to through Squiggles. She then would proceed to the shadiest pawn shop one could find and trade the silverware for legal tender. That profit usually funded her favorite and most expensive hobby, horseback riding. By horseback I mean crack and by riding, I mean smoking. That said she did participate in a form of barebacking, because after all she was a “strawberry” (see aren’t you glad I explained that meaning?). Squiggles did not become aware of the other guys until later down the road. Which was interesting because she did not hide the fact she was a crack whore. I heard her reference other guys right in front of Squiggles, but he didn’t seem to catch on. In fact, one day they came by my place on his moped he was illegally driving. Just to be clear, he wasn’t knowingly driving it illegally, his justification was in the State of Arizona you only need a license for a car. Which is not the case, never was and quite frankly I still have no idea who told him this. So back to the time they came over unannounced. He rode up with her riding bitch while blasting "Dear Mama" in a suburban neighborhood at 1 in the morning. Instead of calling my cell phone, or at least knocking, the two decided to sneak in through my bedroom. As I awoke to crack barrio bunny and white Tupac breaking and entering through my bedroom window. I figured that they were going to either kill me or ask to hide out for a while. I found out that they needed to talk to me about a possible pregnancy scare. As to why they came to me still confuses me to this day. It wasn’t like I had the slightest idea of how to proceed. They were older than I was, and I was never the voice of reason before. You will find that waking me up in the middle of the night to discuss something that was none of my business was a trend. But for the first time I thought “Okay I’ll bite”. So, Squiggles says “ay dawg, I thought I pulled out or some shit but she pregnant”. So, at this point I figured they took a few tests and they were positive. “Well does anyone know? You didn’t take the pregnancy test at your mom’s house did you?” I asked. “Nah” said the teenage crack baby “we didn’t take the test, I just know I’m pregnant. It don’t feel right”. I asked “oh so you have been pregnant before?” after about a two second pause she replies “Nah”. At this point I’m waiting for them to connect the dots, and have a “wait that makes no fucking sense” moment. Alas that never happened, which at this point it started to make me feel stupid by association. “Okay, let’s say you are actually pregnant. What would you intend to do with it?” I asked. She didn’t want to go to a clinic, but she didn’t want to keep this imaginary baby. So, I look at Squiggles and asked for his opinion on whether he would want to father this imaginary baby. At this point I came to the realization that this wasn’t some fucked up dream I can wake up from, it was really happening. So, I figured to divert the conversation to something that could perhaps get them the fuck out of my bedroom. I asked him “are you sure it’s yours?” with that he looked at me with a look of full sincerity and said “Are you saying dudes be foundlin my girls pussy?”  “yes….yes I am” I said, “nah its mine” he concluded. It’s 2:15 AM, after spending a considerable amount of time in my restroom, Latina Whitney Houston came back saying “Just curb stomp my stomach! Just curb stomp my stomach! You disconnect it and I’ll piss it out.” Squiggles says “that aint how that shit works, you need a vacuum or something”. It is now 2:30AM, Squiggles and Cokey McCrackhead are now discussing a possible at home remedy that could replicate what most go to medical school to learn. Instead of medical equipment they thought a hoover duster and a pair of Jordans would suffice. Instead of correcting anyone, at this point I knew she was definitely not pregnant and the idea of Squiggles curb stomping her stomach was looking more and more appealing. I went into my closet, I had a college anatomy book I was given from my parents. I pretended to find the “abortion” chapter, which didn’t exist.  I said “hey guys I have this and it can tell you whether or not “stomping” would work. I knew they wouldn’t check, books to them is like bacon to Muslims. I read and said “in theory that is all an abortion is” and how that same practice has been used for centuries. Squiggles turns to his self-proclaimed “shawty” and she looks at me and asked “is it a bad idea?”. It’s now 3:15 AM, I had to wake up in 2 hours, any moral code does not exist in the name of slumber to me. I looked at her and said “Yes, it both solves the issue of not keeping the baby while also not visiting a clinic”. That was it, DJ Trust-fund and pookie rode off into the sunrise on an illegally driven moped and I never asked about what happened next. You may notice I started writing what the various characters say, these are based (if not verbatim) on what I documented from the time it happened. Yes, that conversation took place. No I didn’t add a convenient Segway with claiming to have a anatomy book, I still have that book and the memories of that night with it. So Squiggles was hard at work trying to become the next big rap star. He categorized himself a KC-Motown rapper, that signifies he is a Kansas City based hip hop artist. So you may be asking yourself “wait, didn’t this guy say that this is in Arizona?” To that I’d say “yes” and if you ask why I will say “no fucking idea”. The stupidity aside, he wasn’t that terrible. In fact I found that his technique was good. His tempo was the same as any other hip hop artist I’ve heard, then again I’m no Dr. Dre. The key issue with his stylings was the lyrics, and that was what kept him from his goal of fame. Then again being from Tucson is another great way to remain out of the spotlight. I swear if I’d ever attempt to publish this I wouldn’t get a chance the second they saw I was from Arizona. If I was from New York or Los Angeles all I would have to do is shit on printer paper and I’d get a book deal. Anyway, his lyrics were mashed up life experiences of famous rappers combined into one. It would be like if someone had the same life experience of Eminem, 50 cent, snoop dogg, and Tupac all in one. We are talking of course of someone who was shot 9 times, while being a member of the crips, whose mom was addicted to pills and got killed sitting next to Suge Knight. None of these were what Squiggles experienced in his life. So, it got to the point where no body understood what he was talking about, mostly because he didn’t either. He didn’t base his lyrics on any of his life experiences. No one really cared right up to when he felt it was socially acceptable to say the word “nigger” or “nigga” which there IS NO DIFFERENCE. While his lyrics were stolen from other popular artist of the time, his own life stories were probably best to be unheard. That, however, was not the case when he introduced (or “dropped” as he put it) his new mixtape. As you may remember, strawberry was also sleeping with the local crip chapter (is that how you refer to them?). Throughout her endeavors she picked up a few things other than crack along the way. Chlymidia, among others, were coursing through her veins and she passed them down to squiggles. Squiggles now experienced multiple different STDs that he ignored. While the details become disgustingly graphic, I will let his lyrics explain. “When I asked, she put up a fuss. Asking why my dick be squirting puss.” -MC Squiggles 2010.  Thankfully he tested that lyric with a small audience of friends before going to a show……..no he didn’t. Opening for tech n9ne he discovered the only thing worse than saying the n-word, discussing dick puss.  The room, who was filled with the “who’s who” of the Tucson Hip-hop crowd (few fat Mexicans drunk on cough syrup), in a state of confusion. “Dat mutha fucker say dick puss?” one crowd member said. The awkwardness the equivalent of someone shitting their pants came over the crowd. Rather than taking a hint, he continues with the STD riddled rhymes, then continued to confess his love for some girl named Kathleen that none of us even heard of. After the chorus fades out and his song ends the room was silent. Then a loud male voice screams from the bar, “Kathleen gave me crabs!”. 
0 notes
jesusvasser · 6 years
Text
Prototype Drive: 2020 BMW Z4 M40i Roadster
The BMW Z4 is dead. Did you notice? Looking over the sales from the last few years, I’m not sure you did. In 2016, the final year of production, BMW moved only 1,187 examples of the shapely little roadster in the U.S., a significant drop from the previous year’s 1,829 units. The two-seater was snuffed out without the usual fanfare reserved for final runs, BMW instead cutting the fourteen-year-old model from its lineup with a clinical and calculated swipe.
The BMW Z4 is alive. Well, almost alive–look for the debut of the third-gen roadster either later this year or early next year. While the E89 suffered, the forthcoming G29 Z4 thrived under heavy camouflage as it underwent the Nürburgring crucible, cold-weather testing, and accrued real-world miles around the world. This world tour included critical endurance and track testing at BMW’s Miramas test track in the south of France, the venue where I joined a group of BMW’s brightest and some camouflaged Z4 mules for some test miles of my own.
Located on France’s southern coast between Marseille and Avignon, the Miramas circuit is a sprawling proving ground for BMWs of all shapes, sizes, and character. The main attraction is the large banked oval wrapping around the facility that’s visible from air while approaching the Marseille airport. Clusters of tarmac squiggles hide inside its borders, giving off the distinct appearance of a cellular structure when viewed from above. Despite serving as the location for the French Grand Prix some 90 years ago, the oval isn’t used for high-speed testing. Instead, four- and two-wheeled test mules put down thousands of endurance miles. When it gets dark, an array of streetlights pops on to illuminate the circuit.
I’m not here for endurance. Our small group met four Z4 mules at one of the many handling circuits, cutting through a scythed field of tall, dense grass. We’re nervous—this is an exciting moment for everyone involved, and not just for the small cadre of journalists assembled in the tidy trackside garage. We’re among the first outsiders to sample the new roadster and engineers are eager for feedback.
If you’ve followed the Z4 saga up to this point, you know this platform doesn’t end with the white and blue roundel up front. Through a technical partnership, BMW and Toyota co-developed this next-gen sports car for both brands, kinda-sorta like the Toyota/Subaru partnership that begat the BRZ and FR-S/GT86. Only in this case, the forthcoming twins aren’t quite identical twins–think more fraternal.
BMW gets the roadster and Toyota gets the fixed-roof coupe, ostensibly resurrecting the Supra nameplate. Even in this access-heavy program, details on the partnership are scant. All we’re told is we’re not going to see a drop-top “Supra,” and no matter how much you want it, there are no plans for a Z4 coupe. You won’t be able to meet halfway with a folding hardtop, either—the Z4 will arrive only in soft-top form.
Before we sample the black-and-white mules, we’re given a surprise treat. Covers are thrown off of two cars in the garage, revealing a pair of production-ready Z4s. BWM isn’t ready to show off the new car just yet, but I can do my best to paint a picture. Start with the Z4 Concept that premiered last year at the 2017 Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance and scale back some of the more conceptual components. Drape that shape over the last-gen Z4, and enlarge it to a three-fourths scale Mercedes-SL. The front grille is similar to the concept, as is the rear decklid. The interior is remarkably similar to the concept as well, just with less wacky showcar bits.
It’s noticeably larger, sitting somewhere between the old Z4 and the current 6 Series Cabriolet. It’s not our imagination, either. Compared to the old car, the new Z4 is 3.2 inches longer, 2.8 inches wider, and 0.5 inches taller. Underneath the skin, it grows (and shrinks) in the right ways, cutting one inch from the wheelbase but widening the front and rear track by 3.6 inches and 2.2 inches, respectively. On a see-saw with older six-cylinder model, the new European-spec Z4 is lighter by around 143 pounds, spinning the scales at 3,384 pounds.
Inside, it’s a much nicer place to be. Loaded out, it’s a requisitely techy environment, packing digital gauges and for the first time on a Z model, a HUD. With the larger threads on the outside, the interior gets a size boost as well, with enough shoulder and legroom to satisfy those rare birds who will use the Z4 on a daily basis. No real surprises here – expect leather, aluminum, wood, and carbon fiber trim with BMW’s ever-present soft-touch plastic.
Both the sneak-peak models and the test mules were kitted-out with the M40i trim, the sportiest of the two available trims at launch. As equipped, the M40i is powered by the same 3.0-liter turbocharged inline-six as the M240i, albeit with a sharper tune. When the Z4 M40i hits our shores, power is an M2-beating 382 hp and 369 lb-ft of torque, surprisingly more than the Euro-spec, which is choked by a particulate filter that saps the sixer by around 50 hp.
Power is sent to the rear wheels through the trusty eight-speed ZF automatic transmission. U.S.-spec performance figures weren’t provided, but the less-potent Euro-spec M40i dispatches the 0-62 mph sprint in 4.4 seconds, topping out at a predictable 155 mph.
Even in the lo-po Euro-spec, the Z4 testers were fast. Aside from a worrying lack of edge definition, there weren’t many surprises out on the test track. Wide, sweeping curves gave way to short straights, culminating in a kinked straight where the best among us saw a little over 130 mph. From the first turn, it’s clear where the development priorities lay. Forget the heavy, numb boulevard cruiser Z4s of the past – this is the real-deal. It’s physically bigger than any prior Z, but it’s incredibly agile. Even in 2018, 3,400 pounds isn’t light, but variable electro-boosted steering and a trick e-diff in the rear means it’s extremely confident and very responsive.
For the first time, the Z feels cohesive. It’s wide, and square, thanks in part to the extended front and rear track, along with the beefy 255/275 tires in the front and rear, respectively. Nestled next to the upright shifter, a stack of driving mode buttons is a familiar sight, ranging from soft Comfort to the most hardcore Sport Plus.
On the track, Sport and Sport Plus were ideal. Setting it to the most aggressive setting dials in the adaptive suspension to its stiffest setting, agitates the throttle for quick response, modifies shift points, adds weight to the steering, and loosens up the rear differential. It’s not a weapon in the same way as the M2 or M5, but it’s more than capable for the odd trackday, should you find time between Sunday drives and beachside cruises.
Escaping the test facility spit me out onto the narrow roads of Miramas. The optional road route was a roughly hour-long round trip that wound its way through tight, blind 1.5-lane cross-town roads in and down shaded coastal paths. It’s a much more palatable package than we’ve come to expect from BMW’s roadster. It’s comfortable, easy to drive, and makes an excellent six-cylinder growl, accentuated by the aire libre functionality.
With its new size inside and out, the roadster is more consumer friendly than ever, and that’s rather important when faced with a rapidly shrinking small convertible market. Pricing isn’t official, but BMW expects pricing for the base Z4 30i to start in the 50s, with the M40i stickering somewhere in the mid- to high-60s. Now, for the first time in quite a long time, perhaps since the first six-cylinder Z3, the BMW Z is one of the better ways to muss your hair and get a nasty sunburn, with or without camouflage.
2020 BMW M40i Roadster Specifications
ON SALE 2019 (est) PRICE $50,000 (base, est) ENGINE 3.0L turbocharged DOHC 24-valve I-6/382 hp, 369 lb-ft (U.S.-spec) TRANSMISSION 8-speed automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, front-engine, RWD convertible EPA MILEAGE N/A L x W x H 170.1 x 73.3 x 51.3 in WHEELBASE 97.2 in WEIGHT 3,384 lb (est, Euro-spec) 0-60 MPH 4.4 sec (est, Euro-spec) TOP SPEED 155 mph
0 notes
eddiejpoplar · 6 years
Text
Prototype Drive: 2020 BMW Z4 M40i Roadster
The BMW Z4 is dead. Did you notice? Looking over the sales from the last few years, I’m not sure you did. In 2016, the final year of production, BMW moved only 1,187 examples of the shapely little roadster in the U.S., a significant drop from the previous year’s 1,829 units. The two-seater was snuffed out without the usual fanfare reserved for final runs, BMW instead cutting the fourteen-year-old model from its lineup with a clinical and calculated swipe.
The BMW Z4 is alive. Well, almost alive–look for the debut of the third-gen roadster either later this year or early next year. While the E89 suffered, the forthcoming G29 Z4 thrived under heavy camouflage as it underwent the Nürburgring crucible, cold-weather testing, and accrued real-world miles around the world. This world tour included critical endurance and track testing at BMW’s Miramas test track in the south of France, the venue where I joined a group of BMW’s brightest and some camouflaged Z4 mules for some test miles of my own.
Located on France’s southern coast between Marseille and Avignon, the Miramas circuit is a sprawling proving ground for BMWs of all shapes, sizes, and character. The main attraction is the large banked oval wrapping around the facility that’s visible from air while approaching the Marseille airport. Clusters of tarmac squiggles hide inside its borders, giving off the distinct appearance of a cellular structure when viewed from above. Despite serving as the location for the French Grand Prix some 90 years ago, the oval isn’t used for high-speed testing. Instead, four- and two-wheeled test mules put down thousands of endurance miles. When it gets dark, an array of streetlights pops on to illuminate the circuit.
I’m not here for endurance. Our small group met four Z4 mules at one of the many handling circuits, cutting through a scythed field of tall, dense grass. We’re nervous—this is an exciting moment for everyone involved, and not just for the small cadre of journalists assembled in the tidy trackside garage. We’re among the first outsiders to sample the new roadster and engineers are eager for feedback.
If you’ve followed the Z4 saga up to this point, you know this platform doesn’t end with the white and blue roundel up front. Through a technical partnership, BMW and Toyota co-developed this next-gen sports car for both brands, kinda-sorta like the Toyota/Subaru partnership that begat the BRZ and FR-S/GT86. Only in this case, the forthcoming twins aren’t quite identical twins–think more fraternal.
BMW gets the roadster and Toyota gets the fixed-roof coupe, ostensibly resurrecting the Supra nameplate. Even in this access-heavy program, details on the partnership are scant. All we’re told is we’re not going to see a drop-top “Supra,” and no matter how much you want it, there are no plans for a Z4 coupe. You won’t be able to meet halfway with a folding hardtop, either—the Z4 will arrive only in soft-top form.
Before we sample the black-and-white mules, we’re given a surprise treat. Covers are thrown off of two cars in the garage, revealing a pair of production-ready Z4s. BWM isn’t ready to show off the new car just yet, but I can do my best to paint a picture. Start with the Z4 Concept that premiered last year at the 2017 Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance and scale back some of the more conceptual components. Drape that shape over the last-gen Z4, and enlarge it to a three-fourths scale Mercedes-SL. The front grille is similar to the concept, as is the rear decklid. The interior is remarkably similar to the concept as well, just with less wacky showcar bits.
It’s noticeably larger, sitting somewhere between the old Z4 and the current 6 Series Cabriolet. It’s not our imagination, either. Compared to the old car, the new Z4 is 3.2 inches longer, 2.8 inches wider, and 0.5 inches taller. Underneath the skin, it grows (and shrinks) in the right ways, cutting one inch from the wheelbase but widening the front and rear track by 3.6 inches and 2.2 inches, respectively. On a see-saw with older six-cylinder model, the new European-spec Z4 is lighter by around 143 pounds, spinning the scales at 3,384 pounds.
Inside, it’s a much nicer place to be. Loaded out, it’s a requisitely techy environment, packing digital gauges and for the first time on a Z model, a HUD. With the larger threads on the outside, the interior gets a size boost as well, with enough shoulder and legroom to satisfy those rare birds who will use the Z4 on a daily basis. No real surprises here – expect leather, aluminum, wood, and carbon fiber trim with BMW’s ever-present soft-touch plastic.
Both the sneak-peak models and the test mules were kitted-out with the M40i trim, the sportiest of the two available trims at launch. As equipped, the M40i is powered by the same 3.0-liter turbocharged inline-six as the M240i, albeit with a sharper tune. When the Z4 M40i hits our shores, power is an M2-beating 382 hp and 369 lb-ft of torque, surprisingly more than the Euro-spec, which is choked by a particulate filter that saps the sixer by around 50 hp.
Power is sent to the rear wheels through the trusty eight-speed ZF automatic transmission. U.S.-spec performance figures weren’t provided, but the less-potent Euro-spec M40i dispatches the 0-62 mph sprint in 4.4 seconds, topping out at a predictable 155 mph.
Even in the lo-po Euro-spec, the Z4 testers were fast. Aside from a worrying lack of edge definition, there weren’t many surprises out on the test track. Wide, sweeping curves gave way to short straights, culminating in a kinked straight where the best among us saw a little over 130 mph. From the first turn, it’s clear where the development priorities lay. Forget the heavy, numb boulevard cruiser Z4s of the past – this is the real-deal. It’s physically bigger than any prior Z, but it’s incredibly agile. Even in 2018, 3,400 pounds isn’t light, but variable electro-boosted steering and a trick e-diff in the rear means it’s extremely confident and very responsive.
For the first time, the Z feels cohesive. It’s wide, and square, thanks in part to the extended front and rear track, along with the beefy 255/275 tires in the front and rear, respectively. Nestled next to the upright shifter, a stack of driving mode buttons is a familiar sight, ranging from soft Comfort to the most hardcore Sport Plus.
On the track, Sport and Sport Plus were ideal. Setting it to the most aggressive setting dials in the adaptive suspension to its stiffest setting, agitates the throttle for quick response, modifies shift points, adds weight to the steering, and loosens up the rear differential. It’s not a weapon in the same way as the M2 or M5, but it’s more than capable for the odd trackday, should you find time between Sunday drives and beachside cruises.
Escaping the test facility spit me out onto the narrow roads of Miramas. The optional road route was a roughly hour-long round trip that wound its way through tight, blind 1.5-lane cross-town roads in and down shaded coastal paths. It’s a much more palatable package than we’ve come to expect from BMW’s roadster. It’s comfortable, easy to drive, and makes an excellent six-cylinder growl, accentuated by the aire libre functionality.
With its new size inside and out, the roadster is more consumer friendly than ever, and that’s rather important when faced with a rapidly shrinking small convertible market. Pricing isn’t official, but BMW expects pricing for the base Z4 30i to start in the 50s, with the M40i stickering somewhere in the mid- to high-60s. Now, for the first time in quite a long time, perhaps since the first six-cylinder Z3, the BMW Z is one of the better ways to muss your hair and get a nasty sunburn, with or without camouflage.
2020 BMW M40i Roadster Specifications
ON SALE 2019 (est) PRICE $50,000 (base, est) ENGINE 3.0L turbocharged DOHC 24-valve I-6/382 hp, 369 lb-ft (U.S.-spec) TRANSMISSION 8-speed automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, front-engine, RWD convertible EPA MILEAGE N/A L x W x H 170.1 x 73.3 x 51.3 in WHEELBASE 97.2 in WEIGHT 3,384 lb (est, Euro-spec) 0-60 MPH 4.4 sec (est, Euro-spec) TOP SPEED 155 mph
0 notes
jonathanbelloblog · 6 years
Text
Prototype Drive: 2020 BMW Z4 M40i Roadster
The BMW Z4 is dead. Did you notice? Looking over the sales from the last few years, I’m not sure you did. In 2016, the final year of production, BMW moved only 1,187 examples of the shapely little roadster in the U.S., a significant drop from the previous year’s 1,829 units. The two-seater was snuffed out without the usual fanfare reserved for final runs, BMW instead cutting the fourteen-year-old model from its lineup with a clinical and calculated swipe.
The BMW Z4 is alive. Well, almost alive–look for the debut of the third-gen roadster either later this year or early next year. While the E89 suffered, the forthcoming G29 Z4 thrived under heavy camouflage as it underwent the Nürburgring crucible, cold-weather testing, and accrued real-world miles around the world. This world tour included critical endurance and track testing at BMW’s Miramas test track in the south of France, the venue where I joined a group of BMW’s brightest and some camouflaged Z4 mules for some test miles of my own.
Located on France’s southern coast between Marseille and Avignon, the Miramas circuit is a sprawling proving ground for BMWs of all shapes, sizes, and character. The main attraction is the large banked oval wrapping around the facility that’s visible from air while approaching the Marseille airport. Clusters of tarmac squiggles hide inside its borders, giving off the distinct appearance of a cellular structure when viewed from above. Despite serving as the location for the French Grand Prix some 90 years ago, the oval isn’t used for high-speed testing. Instead, four- and two-wheeled test mules put down thousands of endurance miles. When it gets dark, an array of streetlights pops on to illuminate the circuit.
I’m not here for endurance. Our small group met four Z4 mules at one of the many handling circuits, cutting through a scythed field of tall, dense grass. We’re nervous—this is an exciting moment for everyone involved, and not just for the small cadre of journalists assembled in the tidy trackside garage. We’re among the first outsiders to sample the new roadster and engineers are eager for feedback.
If you’ve followed the Z4 saga up to this point, you know this platform doesn’t end with the white and blue roundel up front. Through a technical partnership, BMW and Toyota co-developed this next-gen sports car for both brands, kinda-sorta like the Toyota/Subaru partnership that begat the BRZ and FR-S/GT86. Only in this case, the forthcoming twins aren’t quite identical twins–think more fraternal.
BMW gets the roadster and Toyota gets the fixed-roof coupe, ostensibly resurrecting the Supra nameplate. Even in this access-heavy program, details on the partnership are scant. All we’re told is we’re not going to see a drop-top “Supra,” and no matter how much you want it, there are no plans for a Z4 coupe. You won’t be able to meet halfway with a folding hardtop, either—the Z4 will arrive only in soft-top form.
Before we sample the black-and-white mules, we’re given a surprise treat. Covers are thrown off of two cars in the garage, revealing a pair of production-ready Z4s. BWM isn’t ready to show off the new car just yet, but I can do my best to paint a picture. Start with the Z4 Concept that premiered last year at the 2017 Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance and scale back some of the more conceptual components. Drape that shape over the last-gen Z4, and enlarge it to a three-fourths scale Mercedes-SL. The front grille is similar to the concept, as is the rear decklid. The interior is remarkably similar to the concept as well, just with less wacky showcar bits.
It’s noticeably larger, sitting somewhere between the old Z4 and the current 6 Series Cabriolet. It’s not our imagination, either. Compared to the old car, the new Z4 is 3.2 inches longer, 2.8 inches wider, and 0.5 inches taller. Underneath the skin, it grows (and shrinks) in the right ways, cutting one inch from the wheelbase but widening the front and rear track by 3.6 inches and 2.2 inches, respectively. On a see-saw with older six-cylinder model, the new European-spec Z4 is lighter by around 143 pounds, spinning the scales at 3,384 pounds.
Inside, it’s a much nicer place to be. Loaded out, it’s a requisitely techy environment, packing digital gauges and for the first time on a Z model, a HUD. With the larger threads on the outside, the interior gets a size boost as well, with enough shoulder and legroom to satisfy those rare birds who will use the Z4 on a daily basis. No real surprises here – expect leather, aluminum, wood, and carbon fiber trim with BMW’s ever-present soft-touch plastic.
Both the sneak-peak models and the test mules were kitted-out with the M40i trim, the sportiest of the two available trims at launch. As equipped, the M40i is powered by the same 3.0-liter turbocharged inline-six as the M240i, albeit with a sharper tune. When the Z4 M40i hits our shores, power is an M2-beating 382 hp and 369 lb-ft of torque, surprisingly more than the Euro-spec, which is choked by a particulate filter that saps the sixer by around 50 hp.
Power is sent to the rear wheels through the trusty eight-speed ZF automatic transmission. U.S.-spec performance figures weren’t provided, but the less-potent Euro-spec M40i dispatches the 0-62 mph sprint in 4.4 seconds, topping out at a predictable 155 mph.
Even in the lo-po Euro-spec, the Z4 testers were fast. Aside from a worrying lack of edge definition, there weren’t many surprises out on the test track. Wide, sweeping curves gave way to short straights, culminating in a kinked straight where the best among us saw a little over 130 mph. From the first turn, it’s clear where the development priorities lay. Forget the heavy, numb boulevard cruiser Z4s of the past – this is the real-deal. It’s physically bigger than any prior Z, but it’s incredibly agile. Even in 2018, 3,400 pounds isn’t light, but variable electro-boosted steering and a trick e-diff in the rear means it’s extremely confident and very responsive.
For the first time, the Z feels cohesive. It’s wide, and square, thanks in part to the extended front and rear track, along with the beefy 255/275 tires in the front and rear, respectively. Nestled next to the upright shifter, a stack of driving mode buttons is a familiar sight, ranging from soft Comfort to the most hardcore Sport Plus.
On the track, Sport and Sport Plus were ideal. Setting it to the most aggressive setting dials in the adaptive suspension to its stiffest setting, agitates the throttle for quick response, modifies shift points, adds weight to the steering, and loosens up the rear differential. It’s not a weapon in the same way as the M2 or M5, but it’s more than capable for the odd trackday, should you find time between Sunday drives and beachside cruises.
Escaping the test facility spit me out onto the narrow roads of Miramas. The optional road route was a roughly hour-long round trip that wound its way through tight, blind 1.5-lane cross-town roads in and down shaded coastal paths. It’s a much more palatable package than we’ve come to expect from BMW’s roadster. It’s comfortable, easy to drive, and makes an excellent six-cylinder growl, accentuated by the aire libre functionality.
With its new size inside and out, the roadster is more consumer friendly than ever, and that’s rather important when faced with a rapidly shrinking small convertible market. Pricing isn’t official, but BMW expects pricing for the base Z4 30i to start in the 50s, with the M40i stickering somewhere in the mid- to high-60s. Now, for the first time in quite a long time, perhaps since the first six-cylinder Z3, the BMW Z is one of the better ways to muss your hair and get a nasty sunburn, with or without camouflage.
2020 BMW M40i Roadster Specifications
ON SALE 2019 (est) PRICE $50,000 (base, est) ENGINE 3.0L turbocharged DOHC 24-valve I-6/382 hp, 369 lb-ft (U.S.-spec) TRANSMISSION 8-speed automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, front-engine, RWD convertible EPA MILEAGE N/A L x W x H 170.1 x 73.3 x 51.3 in WHEELBASE 97.2 in WEIGHT 3,384 lb (est, Euro-spec) 0-60 MPH 4.4 sec (est, Euro-spec) TOP SPEED 155 mph
0 notes