Batim - Blog Posts
"Halfway through hell, yet it feels like I'm already there."
BS Doodles I did last night!
Based off of this:
Shout outs to @thelocalmoth !
Jack and Hudson's bond can never be unbroken, no matter how fucked up it actually is :]
Open your eyes.
I gripped the both sides of the sink, my knuckles turning white.
She can't be dead. She isn't.
The ceremony starts in five minutes. People are already gathering in.
And here I am in the backstage bathroom throwing up my guts.
I stare at the mirror, slowly tilting my head up.
There, a sick looking man just stares back. The rings under his eyes striking out on dull white skin and bleak looking freckles. There's a bruise right in the middle of the bridge of his nose, black, red and purple. His hair is dishevelled as well as darker than he remembers. His tux clinging to his frame, the tie slanted and the buttons loose. Red smeared across his lips.
That man is me.
I turn on the faucet, watching the crimson mixing with clear water as it spirals down the drain.
I cupped up some water and splashed it on my face, cold drenching my skin while it trickled down. I dry my face off with my suit's sleeve, erasing the blood and matting off the water.
I glanced back at myself, my eyes narrowing.
"I hate you," I hissed.
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People are beginning to take their seats now. I recognize a few people in the front row.
Cassidy, wearing a black gown and a tinted veil over her face. Her sea green eyes looking weary and bleak while her husband, Robert, whispered words of comfort and put his arm over her shoulder.
Like that's gonna bring her sister back, jackass.
Clifford, a sort of friend of mine, came as well. He's sitting next to Robert. His suit is a dark grey, looking well cleaned up, considering this guy couldn't give a damn about his appearance most of the time.
Florence also came. Her face looked upset and overwhelmed by sadness. She's wearing a black dress, white gloves and a black rose in her brown hair.
Weird. How do you grieve for a person you've never met?
Charlie's parents are here, sitting on the second bleacher in the front row. Their faces weathered from time, but now chiselled from grief. Her mother won't stop crying.
As people settle down, their voices hushed, the pastor began to speak. Something about her resting in peace and God is watching over her.
Behind the curtain, I visibly scowl.
He's lying. She isn't resting in peace. She isn't watched over by God. If God really was watching, he wouldn't have let this happen.
She was too young. Too smart. And yet too naive at the same time.
"Stop it, stop it, just stop it..!" I whispered under my breath as he continued.
"-may we all grieve for the loss of Charlie Forester. A good friend. A precious daughter-"
"No...no...stop it. You didn't even know her..!" I hissed quietly from behind the blue curtain. I can feel my nails digging into the palms of my hands.
"-and a wonderful sister," the man said,his voice steady as his words echoed through the church.
I froze, feeling like I've been hit in the stomach. My eyes are stinging. My heart is heavy and my chest is way too tight.
I can't breathe and I can't cry.
I can't cry.
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He finished his speech with a few prayers. His prayers are interrupted by quiet sniffles and a few whimpers from Charlie's mother. Does he stops and assures them? As a man of God, surely he cares for his people?
Nope. Just keeps on going with his worthless prayers.
Some prayers bring comfort to folks.
I don't judge. But to folks like me? They never really did.
He's finally done and motions me onto the stage.
I take a deep breath and walk slowly to the front of the stage, replacing the pastor. My figure was bathing in the light above while all eyes were now turned to me.
I can hear a few whispers.
"-he isn't suppose to be up there-"
"-not even related to the family."
"-looks a little young-"
I tense, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. My heart is now rattling against my rib cage.
I cleared my throat, my voice a little rough, "Charlie Forester was someone very dear to me. We weren't siblings by blood, but by a deep bond. And it brings me great...pain..to.." I trailed off.
What's happening?
Sweat beads down my forehead and my knees feel weak.
Stop it.
I continue on, "To have her gone. To have her ripped away from the people she loved and treasured. Even if...even if some of those people didn't deserve her love and time." My tone is still rough, but now it's unsteady.
My vision is blurred at the ends, fogging up almost like glass. The tips of my hands feel numb.
Stop it. Please.
My heart wants out. It's gripping my rib cage like prison bars and won't stop tugging on them, tearing at them. My lungs are getting too clustered and my face feels flushed.
I can't breathe. I can't cry. I can't feel my legs.
I watch as Cassidy looks at me with concern in her puffy eyes beneath the veil.
Clifford's mouthing something at me. Reassurance, maybe? I can't tell.
It's not that I haven't practice this speech. I practiced all the damn time before this day. Even in front of Jack.
I wish Jack was here. Here so he could tell me everything was alright. Here so that he could hug me and comfort me. "It's alright to cry, Hudson," he'd say.
But he isn't here to say that.
The pastor is whispering something to me. I think.
He places a hand on my shoulder.
Don't touch me.
"Are you alright, my son?" He asked.
Do I look alright?
"She's in god's realm. Resting peacefully," he assured me, his hand still resting calmly on my shoulder.
God's realm, my ass.
"Would you like to say a prayer for her now?"
I clenched my fists.
No.
...
I swung my fist, my vision still blurred.
Thud. Gasps. Yells. Heavy breathing.
Two men drag me away from my arms before I can finish the job.
Cassidy's telling me to stop.
Clifford looks horrified.
Florence is sympathetic.
And Jack would probably be disappointed.
They're yelling at me. The men behind me. Their grip forceful as they drag me off stage. Away from the pastor, who's also being dragged away. Not for the reason you might think.
I try and shrug their hands off my shoulders, thrashing as something streams down my face.
I'm crying. Yelling. Screaming.
She didn't deserve to die. She couldn't be dead.
My lungs are begging for air and my heart is still enraged.
My throat burns.
. . .
I̵̢̛͖̩̖͛͝ͅ ̵̧͖̩̹̦̰̲̆̃͑͘͜ḽ̸̢̣̘̭͓̉́̈́͊̇ö̷̢͕͓̘̲̤͇̱v̵̝̙͉̦̘͇̥̈́́͑̄e̸̟̲̼̼͉̜̠͚͛̑́ ̴̗̻́ý̷̨̭̥̲͉̳̦̓̎͑͗̐̂͘͜ơ̶̡͙̻̱̟͔̒ṷ̴͉͕̱̜͗̀͝ͅ,̷̼̭̐͌̃̀́͗̉̕ ̴̞̲͍͕̜͙͋̀͊̈́͐̎̏͑C̶̢̈́̈́͐͐h̴̦̥̻̎̏̌̉̅̏͛͘ä̸̦̬́̈́̏̇̂̌͜r̴͉̲͈̱̞̮̆̽̀ĺ̴̟̳̠̦̱͙͊̔̄͗͂͐̉i̴̧̝̞̺̤̰̩̦̐̇̆̇̄̔ȩ̴̻͎͕̂.̸̮̥̥̖̬̔͌̀͋ ̸̢̰̻̬̩̯̪̗͒̀͋͑͛̈́̐̕ ̸̨̎̓̈́͛̋̒̿͌A̷̞͇̰̓̆͒̕n̴̜̿̄̄͒̚͘d̸̫̪̺̰̟̐̈́̈́̔ͅ ̸̻̅̓̽́͝͠I̷̧̢̳̦̟̾͆̈́̀'̴̤̠̤͆̏̒̑̌͑̒͝m̸̮̓̐̂͑ ̷̺͛̈́s̸̢̈́̀̇̕ơ̴͍͓̜̜̐̀̾͑͋r̵̞̤̹͍͍̠̅̏̓͛̒̅͝͝r̸̡̥̯̘̠̖̼̜̆͌͝͠ÿ̶̖̖̳̜̥̼̜͉̾́̀̕ ̵̡̣͖̪̰̔I̷̝̅̌̿͋̌ ̴̼̭̽̽̓̑̿̽̒͛ŕ̴͖̗͈͓̈́̈́̋̑ų̴̧͕͚͙͎̥̆̂̊ì̸̧͕͓̳̻̪̘͐́̌̇̾̿͜n̷̜͔̙̩̠̞̳̑̊̏̆̚ė̵̤̤͜d̵̨͔͉̜̫̜̽̅͋́̀̂ ̷̟̲͇̓ͅe̵͉͐̉̈̽͑v̴̬̰̊̔͊͘ḙ̷̞̽̑̈́r̶̗̣̣̄͊̈ý̵͓͆͝t̶͙͓̠̼̞̟̦̐̂̍͛͠h̵̡͖̦̻͍̄̋͑̆̽̌i̵̮̱͂̈̅͑n̶̯͓̈́̏͂͒̈́́̇g̵̝̟̃͛͌.̵̳̲̳̭̇̈́ ̸̻̲̅̾͊́̈́̒͘ ̶̤͐̔̐͋͌͆͝E̷͌̕͜v̸̭̲̳̀̊̄͜͠e̶̘̙̦̱͐̃̆͌̕̚͝n̶̡̠͎̮̂̈́̂̇͂͒͝ ̵͖͈̙̗͈̖̍͆͝y̶̢̹͚͇̯͘o̸̢͋̑͗̎͐͐̃͝ǘ̷͍͓̭̼͔̠̈́̐̐̎͝r̸̖̞̩̱̆̊͗ ̸͖̲͙͈̦͈̀̿́͛͊̎́̑o̷̡̬͍̞̰͔͚͆̽̽̅̆̔͝w̸̰̲̖̲͂̊͛̈͛̒͂̉ń̷̡̙̬͖͎͖̎ͅ ̸̥͎̎͒̑̏̍̓͝f̴̩̦̭̬̳̣̜̗͒͑̑̎͋ư̴̪̏̐́̽̍͑ń̷̨̜͓̟͓͉̠͎͗͛͆̓̕e̴͓̔͋r̵̳͍͇̿͌͐͝a̷̻͌͑̈́̎̑̚l̶̙̅́͝͠.̸̳̘̯̝̹̼͓́̐͋̉̅͝͠
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(Gift for @creationandcalamityau . Inspired by our recent rp. @thelocalmoth 's Jack is mentioned as well)
I dunno why but,
👗 A headcanon about their clothes :3
Okay then:
Susie's clothes: mostly her fashion is based on women's fashion in the 20's. Ex: pearls, flappers, etc) Loves showing off her pearls.
Louise's clothes: Her clothes mostly based off the 40's, her dresses usually evening dresses and summer hats. Loves to stay on top of the trend!
Hudson's clothes: Hudson always has his sleeves up because the sensation of them down on his skin unsettles him. He likes wearing his collar unbuttoned, making him feel like he can breath easier. However, he cares (at first) too much about the employee dress code than he does of being comfortable.
Walks in on the conversation without ever being invited-
"If coffee is too bitter for you just put maple syrup in it. Just do it."
Hey, Alex. What’s the best kind of coffee in your opinion? I’ve always found it really bitter, but I really want to like it. Do you know of any Coffee that’s more sweet, or at least less bitter?
"I don't like coffee, actually, I prefer a sweet tea, or, perhaps French Vanilla, it's the only coffee I'll ever have."
"IT LOOKS JUST LIKE YOU SAMMY WHAT DO YOU MEAN-"
WHEEZES
Thanks to you i have discovered that this exists!!!
Thank you Mr Lawrence :3
"The fuck is that thing-?"
Angus Newman in my AU! Y'know...the lazy toy maker..? The one Shawn despises (Batdr)
Age: 51
Nationality: American/ Scottish
Height: 5'9
Gender: Trans male
Sexuality: Homosexual
Condition: None
😬 I kinda wanna know the worst thing Hudson has ever done.
Oo good one!
Hudson is no saint, even before he goes insane.
Before he was insane:
The worst thing he did was steal ink and paper for his typewriter, while also going behind his director's back and story boarding without her.
After he was insane:
Broke a Gent worker's nose, almost got fired
Hit someone with a picture frame during an argument
Probably more, but forgot
Anyway, the WORST thing he's ever done is probably during the cycle. He's a violent insane spirit who tormented Henry by actually cutting him with a pair of scissors. Later on in the story, he also torments Audrey.
Despite all this, I don't want to label him as bad, more like misunderstood on a whole new level.
Give it up for Susie Campbell! An angel in the making!
(Her poses are wonky and her hand doesn't make sense..oh well)
GUYS LOOK AT THIS! MY FRIEND DREW THIS!
THE SHADING, THE COLOURS, THE DETAILS...
ARGHHHH IT AMAZING SO AMAZING THAT I'M GONNA CRY.
Give it up for my moot!
You Bring Death
I spent wayyyy too long on this one. But finally he's finished! Badass Henry moment because yes. He deserves to be badass sometimes.
This drawing is a bit out of my usual style, but I like it that way!
The background, except for the ink on the floor comes from the game itself!
hmm seems like fun, is it alright to ask for two characters, can ask about Joey and Sammy disability head cannon (idk if I'm supposed to add the 🦾 emoji) I know they're neurodivergent /j I'm joking just interested in hearing how you head cannon them. anyways I'm going to go back to learning blender and freaking out about high poly models (scariest thing out there tbh).
In my AU,
Joey doesn't have a physical disability at first. He developed one later on due to Thomas's death ending in Joey having a bullet stuck in his leg.
Without having proper medical help or attention, he develops a limp later on due to damaged tendons in his right leg. Much later, he uses the ink to his advantage and stabs himself with needles full of ink, in attempts to fix his leg. (No idea what Joey's logic is here, but yeah.)
Joey also has a learning disability in mathematics (as well as a kind of phobia?). Either way, he struggles with numbers and heavily relies on Grant, even if he doesn't take him seriously. Things like taxes, make him increasingly stressed and frustrated (basically like most people. But he just doesn't know how to actually pay them. )
Sammy doesn't have any physical disabilities, but an anxiety disorder is considered a mental disability (at least where I live it is). Sammy (from my AU) also has anger issues, however that isn't considered a disability.
(Also....HUH? Poly models.....okay, I'm scared)
:O
Metaruu’s Headcanon Ask Game
Send in a character or characters and an icon and I’ll give you…
🏳️🌈 A sexuality headcanon
🏳️⚧️ A gender headcanon
😇 A headcanon about their religion/lack thereof
🧸 A headcanon about their childhood
👻 A headcanon about what scares them
🎶 A headcanon about music
👽 A headcanon about a weird quirk of there
💤 A headcanon about their sleep
🦾 A disability headcanon
💝 A headcanon about their love language
🫂 A friendship headcanon
💔 An angsty headcanon
🪢 A headcanon about their family
📓 A headcanon about their hobbies
👗 A headcanon about their clothes
🔪 A headcanon relating to fighting/violence
🌟 A headcanon about their desires/wishes
🥇 A headcanon about what they’re best at
🍫 A headcanon about food
🎭 A headcanon about what they lie about
❤️🔥 A romantic headcanon
💄 An appearance headcanon
🖕 A headcanon relating to anger
😺 An animal related headcanon
😬 A headcanon about the worst thing they’ve done
😭 A headcanon about the worst thing that happened to them.
😶 A random headcanon!
Sees a pen on the desk.
Picks it up.
". . ."
So, Jack; what triggers your misophonia? Are there any specific sounds or noises that set you off?
“Ooh, ok, interesting question. There are a few in particular but repetitive noises in general just tend to be something I can’t stand.”
“The sound of a clock ticking, dripping water, a pen clicking, or someone tapping on somethin’. Most sounds like that just sorta make me squeamish.”
“Before I started workin’ with Sam, a lot of the musicians I was around used metronomes and….ugh, I don’t want to think about those. It really gets into your head. Not only is it repetitive but it’s loud.”
HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO THE BATIM COMMUNITY!
Who's who? (right to left)
@saltysublimebouquet (I couldn't draw your persona, so I drew you a Charlie)
@ergoink1 's Wally Franks
@cabinetperson 's Grant Cohen
@thelocalmoth 's Jack Fain
@creationandcalamityau 's batim oc: Clifford Conway
@pixulsfant 's batim oc (couldn't find her name)
Hudson (me)
Next row
@cupidstarz 's batim oc: Melody Taylor
@r0zzk1ll 's Wally Franks
@azzy-demangel 's batim oc: Azzy!
@fancybendy 's Nathan!
@bloodofthedemon 's Maya Green
@eeveelikessoda 's Olivia Combs
@yourfavouriteboyrider 's batim oc: Rider Hoffman
@summerlyewe 's Norman Polk
@eviethenut 's batim oc: Sally
And shouts out again to the BATIM community! It's been an honour being a member and I hope this community thrives like today!
To those I did want to thank, but couldn't find a persona or OC, even au:
@rockyrat
@clonedchaos
@asknorman-polk
@asksamuellawrence
@troubledinkbeing2 (I don't think we're moots, but you still seem cool like the rest)
And more!
Discarded Letter
I think out of everyone and everything here, I'm the closest thing to looking "human", in some twisted way.
Catch me on my left side, you wouldn't think much. A short young man who looks drained, that's all. Sick, even.
Catch me on my right side and you wouldn't want to stick around. No one did, really.
It hurts. My teeth show through the gash and gore while my jaw is slightly slanted. My throat is a mess, inside and out. And my eyes...
I couldn't tell you where they were.
. . .
I've always been on the small side, there's no question about it.
I remember when I was little my mother would call me, "her little sparrow". Like I was weak. Helpless. But precious at the same time.
From the start, I wanted to prove her wrong.
And I think I did, honestly. But not without shame. Or guilt.
Or blood.
...
I remember how I was.
Witty, wistful, nostalgic and eager. Eager to help. Eager to prove what I was worth. Eager to look at the bright side.
What bright side?
I remembered when I went down hill.
I yelled at a friend who was only doing his job. He punched me afterwards. I hurt him with my sharp tongue and he hurt me with his fist.
I think a part of me wanted that. Wanted to be hit, to be hurt. As if maybe that could restore who I was.
Or could gain me a couple brain cells.
I remember how I would sneak off to the sewers, only to be met with welcome arms.
Even if I didn't always want them.
He was there to make me a cup of coffee when I needed it. To teach me melody and beats when I needed a change of subject. And to embrace me when I didn't know what to do.
I loved him more than my own father. And unlike my own father, he loved me back.
And then I pinned a knife to his throat. I asked if he trusted me, if we were friends.
I ruined it. I ruined his trust, I ruined our friendship.
He still loved me though.
I didn't deserve it though. It's not like I was actually his son.
...
I remember when she would comfort me, always treating me like she treated me when I was little. No matter how many temper tantrums I threw. No matter how many insults I spat. No matter when my heart beat had stopped.
She said she would share her heart beat with me. Her heart would beat for both of us.
Whenever I questioned her, she told me, "Because it's what older sisters do."
She said that a lot.
Even though it hurt that she wasn't really my older sister.
I guess she was just that kind.
And then, there was her.
Like the others, I didn't deserve her.
Not her humour, not her snappiness.
Not her kiss. Or her love.
But I wanted to deserve it. All of it.
His friendship.
His forgiving nature.
Her kindness.
And her heart.
I think I even wanted to deserve my father's pride or my mother's sweetness.
I mean, I don't think my father was ever proud of me.
Maybe because he just saw through me, even before I turned insane.
Maybe he was just that smart than everyone else from the beginning.
I got what I deserved though.
Blood, loneliness, wounds that never heal, headaches that never fade.
I'm finally as disfigured as my personality.
Happy Birthday, me. You did it.
Å̴̡̛̛̻͈̲̘̤͑̃̽̀̊̉͊̃̐͗͌̍͘͢͜͞n̴̸̸̢̨̛͍̞͉͖͙͎̝̬͓̤͖̘̪̮̿ͬ̏͊͂̋̽̔͐́ͦ̃ͤ̉̔͗̀̇̎̓̆ͅd͔̼̖̣̤̈́͌̈͋͛̆ͦ͑̋̓̀ͦ Ī̛̘͎̣͖̫̰͚̟͆͌͋̽͆̀͑͋̾̅͆͌̃͊̌̕͜'͓̝̭̅͆͛ͫ̚m̵̡̛̟̫̯̭̭̳̝̝̹̺̙̩͚̙̦̳̑͋͒̀̄̅ͫ͂͑ͤ́̀̎̈́̈͐̋̊ͤ̓̍ͦ̊̔͜͞ s̜̼̱̣̊̒̔̇ͨ̍͒͒͝o̸͖̹̰̦̩͓̭͙̠̖̬̐̋ͩ͒ͯ̆ͬ̓̇́̌̍ͪͪͧ̀͘͢͢͠͞ s̸̴̞͎̃́o̥͙̖͑̽ͨ̌͒r̷͇̻̺̦ͮ͌̅͑͆͊͋̑̑ͨ͝ͅ_̵̮̖̯̳̥͖̯̰̰̃̽̀ͨ̈́̋̒̏͆͊͒́͆͟͢͟͜͝r̹̻̽̑y.̷̗̺͈͌̄̀̈́̍̿͢͟
(For @thelocalmoth and for @creationandcalamityau who might so happen to recognise which characters are being mentioned ;) )
@thelocalmoth 's Jack and Hudson moments!
These were inspired by our rp!
As well as this, I guess:
(Not too proud of this one as I tried to take a break from my cartoony art style)
BRO LOOK AT IT.
FATHER AND SON MOMENT AT IT'S FINEST WHAT-
(Bro ofc you have my freaking consent, you're awesome what-)
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-
Based off of a roleplay I’m currently doing with @unnoticedunawarestillhere :O
Uhm. This is angsty. So is the roleplay though so yeaahhhh! Hahaha…. Anyways, if this gets enough reception maybe I’ll post like, an edited transcript of it with Untitled’s consent <3
For the mean time, father-son moment.
EDIT: JUST REMEMBERED I REFERENCED A SONG HERE OOPS LMAO
Lyrics are from Race by Alex G
"DID SOMEBODY SAY KNEECAP REMOVAL?!" *Grabs axe*
TALL MAN
TREE MAN
YOU'RE TALL LIKE A TREE
"I'm the tallest in the studio-"
When you have to use your insane little brother as a security guard.
Happy birthday to @creationandcalamityau 's oc Charlie Forester!
In our crossover Au: Forgotten Creations, she and Hudson have a sibling-like relationship! (They aren't blood siblings.)
Got bored so I drew:
@eeveelikessoda 's batim oc: Olivia C and @yourfavouriteboyrider
I'm not happy with how I drew Olivia, so one day I'll try and draw her again.
I don't know. You guys seem cool :)
WARNING GORE (?)
How the fuck did this guy go from this:
To this:
AND NOW THIS:
(I was trying to study muscles and bones. Sue me.)
I hate how I drew Allison, but oh well!
This post was inspired by 1920's, 40's and 50's fashion!
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Hudson didn’t look up from his typewriter, his dark eyes narrowed as he blew a strand of hair out of his face. As his fingers gracefully glossed over the keys, striking at the correct letter to collect and form into sentences. His eyes darted left and right, letters swishing back and forth in his vision. Papers were stacked next to him on the floor while his back was hunched over.
The pipes above him hissed, ink dripping down into a puddle a few feet around him. It rippled, distorting the light that reflected in the black inky surface. The shelves around him blocked his view of the hallway as they held boxes filled with reels.
The room smelled of ink, crisp paper and also dampened wood.
Hudson’s fingers abruptly paused, hovering over the keys. He ripped off the paper carefully, wary of tearing it. He set the typewriter down on the ground and gazed at his completed script. Only for his face to twist in a look of disgust.
The words had been typed far too quickly causing a calamity of spelling errors and unfinished words. Words had also been smudged due to the ink not being given time to dry off. Hudson’s teeth bared as he let out his hiss of frustration.
Another hour. Another script. Another mistake. Another headache.
Then he heard something. The sound of a little thud while little feet followed after the sound. Then a clink of a glass.
Hudson stiffened, his eyes narrowing while his shoulders tensed up. He slowly got up, his tired eyes darting suspiciously from left to right. His pale hands reached for an empty glass bottle that sat next to him. The bottle already collecting dust. With paranoia and something much darker. He crept forward, the bottle ready to strike if needed to.
Then he heard it. A giggle.
He swung his head, his grip tightening around the bottle. Before he could strike, he stopped himself. The sound of little shoes hitting the wooden boards. Poking his head out, he saw a little girl.
She looked to be about six years old, no less. Her floral pale pink dress hung neatly on her frame, swishing around with each movement. Her hair was charcoal black, silky and draped over her shoulders. She was holding a glass jar in one hand, the other grasping a metal lid and screw band.
Then there was a small flicker of movement and the girl let out a gasp of excitement. Finally, Hudson’s eyes focused on what the girl seemed to be looking at.
A moth. It wasn’t too big, its wings fluttered with a blur of pale white and birch brown. Before Hudson could think about what to do next, the little girl dashed forward, the jar swinging in her hand as she tried to capture the moth. The moth saw her movements and fluttered towards the light bulb above, providing itself a safe distance from the girl.
The girl let out a grunt as she leaned on to her tippy toes, her heel leaving the ground. Her green eyes glistened with determination. However, the moth was out of her reach, slowly crawling over the warm bulb as if to mock the child.
Hudson abandoned the dusty glass bottle on the nearest shelf, his mind calming itself and reassuring that the child was no threat. He took a step closer, coming into the light.
Before he could speak, the little girl swung her head over to him. The heels of her shoes landed smoothly on the wooden floor. Her green eyes scanned him, before an enthusiastic smile crept through her lips. “Could you help me, sir?” She asked, her voice young and innocent.
Hudson blinked, taking a wary step closer. He paused, collecting his scattered thoughts, before quietly answering, “I suppose so.” He gave a little nod, his hand reaching out gently for the jar.
The girl gave an excited little bounce on her feet. She gave him the jar with an eager smile, her little fingers releasing her grip on the jar as it was secured in the young man’s grasp. “Thanks, sir! That pesky moth is a little too high up for me to catch it,” She explained, which ended in a little giggle.
Hudson gave a quick nod, his eyes flickering over to the moth. The naked light bulb stung his eyes, but he didn’t flicker his gaze away from the moth. No matter how much the light burned his eyes.
He narrowed his eyes, before swinging the jar in an attempt to capture the moth. The jar hit the light bulb and caused it to swing, while the moth fled. Hudson felt a tiny spark of irritation, but didn’t back down. He carefully walked over to the poster that the moth had landed on curiously. His eyes had a predatory gleam as he crept closer then sprung forward with the jar outstretched.
“I caught it!” Hudson yelled in surprise, his eyes widening in his victory. “Holy sh-”, he trailed off, glancing at the little girl. “Holy sheep,” He corrected himself, flatly.
The little girl clapped her hands together, her eyes brightening while she rushed over to see the newly captured moth. “You caught it! You caught it!” She cheered excitedly.
The moth tried desperately to flee, hitting the walls of the clear glass jar, but to no use as Hudson quickly screwed on the jar’s metal lid. After securing it, he passed it to the little girl with a faint smile. “You gonna name it?” He asked, gesturing to the moth.
The little girl stared at the moth, grasping the jar and tilting it slightly. “I’m gonna name it Dusty!” She declared, tilting her head up proudly. She tore her gaze away from the jar and up at the young man. “What’s your name, sir?” She asked, smiling innocently at him.
Hudson blinked slowly, a little taken back. He took a step into the dark, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh….It’s…Hudson,” He murmured, looking a little reluctant. The name sounded a little loose on his tongue. He cleared his throat awkwardly, adjusting his tie. It had been a long time since anyone had asked him his name. Or cared.
The girl beamed, a strand of her black hair tickling her forehead and nose. Her green eyes settled on Hudson. “I’m Fiona! My Daddy’s working right now, so I figured I’d explore! Whatcha doing here, anyway?” She asked, tilting her head.
Hudson rested his hands in his pockets, shifting slightly. He motioned to the typewriter, sitting on the dark and dusty floor. “Writing.” He muttered, his dull dark eyes avoiding Fiona’s bright cheerful ones. He retreated back to the shadows, sliding down the wall and crossing his legs over. He reached for the typewriter and settled it down on his lap, used to its weight.
Fiona blinked slowly, the jar clutched tightly to her chest. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the scattered papers littering around the man. Without a word, she set the jar carefully on a second shelf, giving it a pat, before crouching down and picking up the discarded papers. Her small hands reached for each one as her knees were on the floor to support her.
Hudson paused, looking up from his typewriter. His dishevelled hair trickled to his face, covering part of his face. He combed it with his fingers, before his lips parted, “Hey…you know you don’t have to do that, right? It’s just papers, kid. Nobody cares for them.” His eyes softened as he watched the girl continue to collect the papers. Her floral dress brushed up against dust.
Fiona lifted her head, her hair covering half her face, like midnight obscured it. “I care,” She said simply, her green eyes glancing at the man. She scanned his features. The man looked wary, his shoulders tensed beneath his dull white shirt. His tie was poorly done, while his collar was slightly dishevelled. His dark brown hair was in the same state while his eyes seemed strained for some reason. “Were you in a rush? Sometimes, when I’m in a rush to go to school, I accidentally put on my dress backwards,” she said, a small spark of sympathy.
Hudson stared down at his typewriter, his hands resting on his sides. He didn’t know what to say. What was the nicest way of saying: “I think I’ve lost most of my sanity and I hardly take care of myself anymore”? Hudson let out a sigh, his fingers now hovering over the keys. “Yes. I was in a rush,” He lied, his tone flat.
Fiona narrowed her eyes slightly, as if her child brain was sensing something was off. She shrugged and picked up the papers, collecting them and neatly stacked them.
Hudson watched with a pang of surprise. As the child handed him the papers, his eyes softened. “Thanks…?” He raised an eyebrow, still looking mildly surprised. He took the stack and set it down next to him.
Fiona scooted next to him, watching him with round eyes as the young man typed. She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, watching as sentences were brought to life in just a few taps of the typewriter. She observed how focused Hudson looked, his dark dull eyes narrowed as he crammed a paragraph in and how the tips of his pale fingers were stained with ink. It reminded her of her father. Hard-working and always putting effort in. She smiled.
Hudson’s fingers paused, finally taking notice of how close the little girl was and how her eyes lit up with awe. Hudson’s lips pressed together in a thin line, not quite sure what to say. Usually, he hated when people looked over his shoulder to see what he was typing. But those “people” had usually been adults and seniors. Adults and seniors who seemed to judge his process or method of writing. Who would only point out his mistakes instead of giving feedback on what he could do better.
But this was a child. Yes, a random child, but a child with an open mind.
He cleared his throat before Fiona could lean in any closer. “Say…..uh, kid, do..you wanna know how to make a paper plane?” He asked, looking a little awkward. He tore off the sheet of paper he was working on. It didn’t matter. It was probably another page filled with mistakes. Probably.
Fiona’s eyes lit up as she nodded her head vigorously. She eagerly took the sheet of paper from Hudson and gave him her full attention, her fingers itching to fold the paper.
An hour had passed. An hour filled with wonder and laughter while paper planes flew, crumbled and had hit surfaces. The paper planes, who originally had been born as mistakes and frustration had now been folded into something fleeting, but joyful. There had been paper plane fights, while also a paper plane version of catch. It was childish, ridiculous and made them have a blast.
Fiona giggled as Hudson placed down an empty trash can at the end of the room, making it a target. With the crisp paper plane between her index finger and thumb, she launched it and watched with anticipation as it flew. She held her breath, but exhaled when the plane had hit only the rim of the can. She let out a groan, Hudson cheering in the background. She then shrugged, still having a good time.
She glanced at Hudson who was keeping score with just a pencil and a piece of scrap paper. She was almost taken back by the wistful look in his brown eyes. They weren’t dark or dull. They were bright and warm with a child’s playfulness. His eyes looked as if they hadn’t belonged to an adult, but a young boy. She smiled.
“Fiona?” A voice called out from behind, making Hudson and her turn their heads.
Fiona brightened immediately while she dropped the plane and rushed towards her father, her dress swishing slightly with her movements. “Daddy!” She opened her arms and was met with a warm embrace. Her father scooped her up and nuzzled her. His light stubble brushed against her face. She giggled.
“There you are. I was wondering where you wandered off to,” He chuckled, his dark eyes staring warmly at his bundle of sunshine.
Fiona grinned, immediately sharing her story and giving him a full report of what she had encountered. Her green eyes lit up with each detail she spoke of and her grin only got wider with each detail her father listened to.
Her father set her down gently, adjusting his glasses to meet the bridge of his nose. He paused, finally taking notice of the young man, who was sitting criss-crossed on the floor, still holding the scrap of paper.
“So, you must be the brave and talented moth hunter I’ve been hearing about.” The older man chuckled, his eyes glistening with amusement.
Hudson blinked, feeling like an outsider. “Uh ... .I don’t know about talented, “ He muttered, folding the scrap of yellowing paper and putting it in his pocket. He got up with a grunt and began to collect the wild paper planes, scattered throughout the floor.
Fiona strayed from her father and began to help too. She carried a bundle of them in her arms, some poking at her skin. She eagerly put them in the trash with a look of triumph and pride. “There! All better!” She announced, her hands placed on her hips.
Hudson let out a sound that resembled a quiet chuckle. He threw his share of paper planes, before grabbing the can and placing it in the corner. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his face heat up when his eyes met Fiona’s father’s warm gaze.
“Thanks for entertaining her. Must have taken a lot of work. My bundle of energy here can be a bit of a…handful.” The man chuckled, playfully messing up Fiona's black smooth hair. Fiona giggled, hugging her father’s middle while he put an arm around her.
Hudson awkwardly shifted. “Uh, it wasn’t that big of a deal. She’s…a good kid.” He then smiled slightly. “Besides, it’s not like I was getting much done anyway.” His tone was joking, but there was an undertone of truth beneath the words.
When a pause had hit between them, Hudson took a step closer, lending out his hand. “I’m…Hudson. Writer’s department,” He said, his voice steady, but his eyes a little uneasy.
The older man smiled, meeting the young man’s hand. “I’m Chris. Animation Department,” He explained, his tone friendly. The two hands parted and Chris looked closer at the writer. Something about the young man’s appearance was concerning, but so subtle that Chris wasn’t quite sure what it was. He pushed the feeling down and just smiled at Hudson. “Pleasure to meet you, Hudson.” He said while feeling his daughter tug at the hem of his shirt, trying to gain his attention.
Hudson’s eyes had a flicker of surprise, but was gone in a blink of an eye. “Likewise.” He mumbled, letting his hands rest in the pockets of his pants. His gaze wandered to the shelf, before it landed on the glass jar. He slipped his hands out of his pockets and reached for the jar, his fingers touching the smooth cool glass.
The moth had now settled to the bottom of the jar, its wings twitching. He carefully took the jar off the shelf and walked over to Fiona. He crouched down to meet her level and gave her the jar. “Can’t forget about Dusty,” He mumbled again, his eyes growing soft.
Fiona giggled, her small fingers gripping the jar. “Thanks, Mister Hudson!” She turned around and presented the jar to her father, who responded by giving her a thumbs-up. “Daddy, I’m hungry!” She said, staring up at Chris with pleading eyes.
Chris chuckled, patting Fiona on the back. “Alright, alright. Let’s get something to eat,” he said. He turned around, his hand gently grasping Fiona’s. He motioned towards the entrance. “C’mon then.”
Fiona hesitated, staying where she was. She threw Hudson a glance, who was standing closer to the shadows. She then tugged on Chris’s hand, a quiet plea for his attention. When Chris looked at her, Fiona carefully gave him the glass jar. “Hold this, please.” She then swung around, abandoning her father’s hand for a moment. She walked calmly to the shadows, only to wrap her arms around Hudson’s middle. “Thanks for everything, Mister Hudson,” she murmured.
Hudson stiffened in her hold, but gave her a pat on the back. “Take care, kid. You’ve got quite the talent. Use it,” He muttered, his tired eyes soft.
Hudson watched the two walk off, Fiona clutching the glass jar. He heard Fiona’s voice in the distance, chattering excitedly.
The room felt empty now. Silence filling every surface of the room, only the occasional buzzing of the lights above and the floors creaking below. A sense of loneliness hit him hard in the gut.
Tomorrow was July first. Canada day. His family would be celebrating back home.
Not him though.
He was far too gone for that. Too stuck in a blend of the tar of his frustration and the shards of his internal isolation. And was stuck in New York.
His throat burned. His mouth tasted bitter and salty while his eyes felt strained in the light above. He rubbed his temples with his hands and slipped back into the shadows of the room. He slid down the wall, retrieving the typewriter once more.
Ink splattering on the keys in a fluid motion.
Time for another hour. Another script. Another mistake. Another headache.
(This is a gift for: @creationandcalamityau )
Featuring Grant Cohen (with a chainsaw cause why not)!
I really like how Grant's ink form has a lot of detail and shows his guts hanging out. :3
Poor accountant doesn't get paid enough for this.
EVERYONE LOOK AT WHAT MY MOOT DREW!!!
Poor Grant :(
Death and Taxes
Don't you hate it when you hallucinate your boss being a shadow demon behind you? yeah me too, Grant, me too.
Yeah Idk what this was, but I wanted to draw Grant Cohen again!
What are we?
Human.
No.
No?
That's not what I'm seeing in the mirror right now.
...
What do you see?
What do you see?
Please stop. Let's be better.
Aren't we in too deep for that? Too blurry?
No, wait, please, let's think about this. We didn't mean to do that, we'll be okay. We'll be fine. We are Okay.
...
Where are my eyes?
...
Where is my throat?
...
Where is me?
...
Shut up.
We are happy, we are fine.
We have eyes, throat, flesh, blood, we are complete.
So where is me?