The leftmost one wanted oyster but ordered mussels instead.
The one to the right was the leader; when he talked about cars, cars were the thing they talked about. His daughter would bite at her cuticles when she was nervous, which was one of the reasons why she would never be loved. The man in the tweed suit had done things like that as a child, but not once since he learned how to drink. He knew twenty-eight jokes with which to excuse himself when he opened a bottle. Now he used the one about genies.
Posted in The Written
Drawn while listening to Passion Pit.
This required way more sketch work than it reasonably should have.
I suck at living life but I think I’m getting pretty good at drawing it.
Posted in The Drawn
Tagged Indie, People
The world needs more unglamorous female action heroes.
Have you heard of that Picasso dude? He’s made some kinda neat stuff.
Posted in The Drawn
The door behind Nadya slid shut with a satisfying thwup sound. She sat down, facing the display on the wall. A progress bar worked its way up to a hundred percent before fading away, and a female voice announced that the scan was complete. Nadya breathed in deep, twice, then opened her briefcase and took out the cleaver. A beautiful thing, bought two years prior at a market in Namwon. There were no decorative carvings or anything like that, but the shape of the blade had a pleasant balance to it. It wasn’t sterile, though that hardly mattered now, did it?
She laid the palm of her left hand flat on the floor and raised the knife with her right. She hesitated, and lowered it again. For a while she sat frozen like that. Cross-legged, taking shallow breaths, hovering the cleaver a few inches above the floor. Then in a single swift motion she raised it and brought it down hard.
The pain overwhelmed her. It hijacked her senses and replaced every thought and impression with a single blinding white visceral screech. Then it waned, or rather transcended. It became a numb, throbbing sensation that seemed to fill the world but left the front of her mind alone.
She opened her eyes. Inspected the mess with the same childlike curiosity that first inspired her to do it. She had failed to cut quite through the middle and ring finger, and had missed the pinkie altogether, but the index finger had come clean off. She took it up and studied it. Turned it over, weighed it in her palm, picked and scraped with her thumbnail at the parts poking out of the back end. She bounced it against a wall, then leaned over to pick it back up. In the next moment, she ceased to exist.
You should go listen to some Crystal Castles and then you should go buy all their albums.
A pale yellow plastic bag blew into the street, just in time to capture the woman’s attention as the paper bin which had previously held it disappeared from the field of vision allowed by the window of the second-to-last night bus southwards. The bag shuffled down the side of the curb, occasionally somersaulting into the air along with cascades of brown leaves. It flailed for a moment, snagged on a lamp post, but soon slipped past and flew on. As it approached the edge of the window, the woman tried to find a suitable new object of interest, but too late. The bag gone, she found herself forced again to consciously face her awareness that the man sitting three seats behind her on the other side of the aisle had fingernails where his eyes were supposed to be.