JOHN WICK (2014) Dir. Chad Stahelski

Three words, ladies and gentlemen of the Internet.

Hit. Me. Up.

Please and Thank You

Always yours, always welcoming to your questions, comments and requests.

Even though I’m not a Fan Fic author, as such, I am a writer and a professional. I encourage conversation and exchange of ideas. I am currently invested in content-creating for the John Wick fandom and will accept commissions and inquiries about what on earth all that writing I’m doing is related to.

There are incredible authors out there that can make your heart pound, melt and sizzle all at once.

My partners in crime are: @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat <- This is Liz. Talented, power-house author. John Wick actor extraordinaire! Specializes in fully immersive, adult related, sincere and heartfelt materials. Currently Tumblr’s premiere John Wick writer/Role Play Actor. Please read the lady’s rules and send a polite Ask request to engage her. She may have her writing quota full for the moment. 

@lalienna-dementriento <- Miss Lali is everything a classy young, street-smart author should be. Raw, unrestrained, dynamic and fearless. She approaches hard topics openly and without pre-amble. This includes soul-searching, broken families, abortion and sex. Another rising star to the world of immersive role-play authors. Again, be polite. Send a nice Ask and enquire on her terms and conditions. It’s always worth it!

You’re all very special to me, ladies and gents of the Internet. You may not have met me yet, but I need you to know, I’m thinking about you! No matter what your fandom is. No matter what your jam is, I’m right beside you.

Peace and Love

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut

Reblog this if you want readers to come into your ask box and ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines. 

Or, send in a ⭐star⭐  to have the author select a section they’ve been dying to talk about!

Good Dog.

“And the dog, does he have a name?”

“No.”

| Blessed as the new Spring morning as it glitters to life over the horizon. The scent of fresh beginnings and magnolias in the air. Leaning against the window frame, a hot tea cup in my hands and I wonder on what I shall learn today about the world. |

Your hesitation was always misplaced in my presence. There was never a moment I didn't acknowlge you sincerely, even if the pain pulled me deep into the resesses of only right now.

I know I will apologize to you later, when my reason returns and my lungs stop burning.

What part of "I care," didn't you hear the first time?

Man... I love watching people be harmlessly excited about things. Passionate about them. Start beaming and overflowing with chatter and get all animated and delighted. It breaks my heart when I see them take a breath and apologize and keep backtracking and quieting down because I know at some point they were told to control all that joy. I'm constantly like - don't be sorry! Tell me more! Honey go ahead and talk until your throat is raw. I love being in this moment with you and watching you light up. I don't need to even understand what you're talking about. I just like you, and therefore like anything that makes you feel this way. Lemme sit down. Gimme that Ted talk. Keep on glowing.

Joker || Fracture

Readers Please Note: Joker: Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion.

Joker: Fracture is a presented as an experimental speculative short story that will collaborate art and literature. If you would like to be added to the reader’s tag list, please make use of the Ask feature of this blog.

|| ONE ||

The chill of the September rain had promised nothing more if not the early coming of a frigid Winter haze that threatened downtown Gotham City. The people scattered beneath their black umbrellas, clutching newspapers and hot coffee cups on hurried footfalls, keen to get indoors. Into their offices and shop fronts where they might escape the cutting winds that sliced, unhindered through their layers of clothes. Traffic drove with their headlights on though it was mid-morning and heavily overcast under the sheeting torrent of water that collected in the gutters and soaked the stacked trash bags piled in the alleyways.

This sanitation workers strike was getting ridiculous. It was only a matter of time before private enterprise and public malcontent merged to a compromise. Nineteen-Eighty-One had lagged to become a grueling year across the nation.  The people were getting tired of having to burn their own refuse. Clean air in the city was getting harder to find without having to wrinkle your nose at some foul stench whilst walking down the street. 

And here they were. 

The glorious Eighties. 

Progressive freedom, entrepreneurship, education, industry. An endless stockade of possibility and expansion in the "land of the free".

Nineteen-Eighty-One had lagged to become a grueling year. 

But none so grueling as it was to forty-one year old Arthur Fleck. 

To think. 

Everything was going so well. More or less.

Arthur fashioned himself an up and coming comedian who spent countless hours filling a battered notebook with an array of satirical, observational comedy. A number of classic jokes and one-liners that he thought were particularly amusing, were scrawled in a careless, immature left hand. Occasionally punctuated with attention-grabbing images from magazines and newspapers that he found of interest. His index of jokes were far more entertaining than the notebook's conventional purpose. Arthur's state funded and overworked registered physiologist had suggested he use this book as a journal to record his thoughts and feelings. An outlet to assist in ordering his chaotic array of thoughts. From an early age Arthur had been diagnosed with a troubling cascade of mental illnesses. Amongst these clinical diagnoses were agitated depression, anxiety, physiological ticks that manifested themselves in the form of uncontrollable fits of laughter and borderline, low level schizophrenia, amongst other problems.

Arthur had, throughout his life, with the assistance of his equally dissociative and concerningly ill mother,  been taken to an array of doctors, specialists and clinicians that had connected him with an ever increasing roster of daily medications designed to tweak his unbalanced cerebral chemicals, allowing him to function in a less encumbered capacity. Currently, Arthur was on nine separate medications whose purpose was varying. Pills to fight depressive episodes, pills to regulate his anxiety. Pills of an anti-psychotic nature, pills to help him sleep. His prescriptions were filled fortnightly and increased or reduced depending on the outcome of his frequent visitations with his psychologist. 

There was little joy to be had in Arthur's life, for he lived as the man of a small two bedroom apartment on 42nd Street with his ailing mother, Penny. In her lucidity she had supported his dreams of entertainment, instilling in him the virtues of his existence being a blessing upon the world. That he was to be a ray of joy and happiness unto all. That his father, though very much estranged, would be proud of him, for he was a good boy. Kind-hearted, decent, soft spoken and gentle of nature.

And yet, Penny's deteriorating mental health and inability to function, meant Arthur was left with no choice but to quit his schooling in his mid-teens and take on the role of full-time carer. Cooking, cleaning, shopping and bill-paying were amongst his daily routine, removing him from the education system prematurely. This state of living had its own pitfalls. He'd lost contact with his friends, few if any, ever sought to write or call leaving Arthur regrettably alone. 

In spite of this, Arthur pressed on, finding employment where he may. Slightly difficult without a high-school or college certificate within his credentials. Not impossible however. He ran a series of local jobs across town that included working at a car wash, as a factory pick/packer and even at a local supermarket as overnight replenishment staff. These were but a few of the positions he held in his youth for several years. Often working two jobs in tandem with little respite in between. In spite of this, whenever possible, Arthur made it a habit of taking Sunday off duty so that he and his mother might take a stroll down the park to enjoy a cup of coffee and a nice sandwich at a quaint cafe. Permitting that Penny was feeling strong enough to leave the apartment. 

His love of spreading laughter and joy had eventually seen him to finding a contractual position with a small business known as Ha Ha's Entertainers. Ha Ha's specialized in loaning performing clowns, magicians, exotic dancers and roving MCs to businesses and events across town for everything, from children's parties, business promotions to charitable events. 

His contract at 'Ha Ha's Entertainers' had been a blessing. A means to segue into his dream career of stand-up stage performance. Financial stability, though meager as his pay-cheques were, seemed sufficient to maintain his mother along with her pension. At very least the bills were paid and there was food in the fridge. Their lifestyle was far from luxurious. Their apartment was a heavily dated decaying art deco building constructed in the late fifties for which building management was lax with general maintenance. That damn elevator had been on the fritz for longer than Arthur cared to remember despite how often the residents complained.  Even so, it was home. If nothing more. 

Now what would he do? 

In spite of his sincere pleading, his boss had dismissed him with callous words. Arthur swallowed his regret as he cleaned out his locker. His worldly possessions, magic props, theatre make up and his journal packed into a brown paper bag. 

He'd got on relatively well with his colleagues, or so he thought. The boss said he made them uncomfortable. 

Now he regretted ever accepting that pistol. 

That gentle favor had turned to ash. He found himself wondering if he'd been set up for this fall. Why did he bring the gun on shift? Protection yes, but it wasn't supposed to end like this. His ribs still ached where those cruel teenage thugs had knocked the wind out of him. And raising his right arm to comb his hair in the morning brought a shattering burn across his shoulder blade. He couldn't sleep on that side without whimpering. 

Even so those last angry words replayed themselves in his head. He made ready to leave 'Ha Ha's' for the last time. Punching out the tiime clock and vandalizing their stupid exiting sign was hardly enough. He had half a mind of going back and kicking the shit of the boss' car. Letting down the tires. Taking a crowbar to the windscreen. God! His head was pounding. His heart in his throat. He thought he heard his name as he marched down the street. He'd take the 32 bus downtown but stop at the newsagent on the corner first for a pack of smokes. 

"Arthur! Hey, Arthur, wait up man, c'mon!" His coat sleeve was tugged on. Aggravated, he ripped his arm away, noting Jimmy's profile. That hawk-like nose and slackened jaw-line of his colleague, well, ex-colleague now. 

"What?!" He bit out sharply, coming to a standstill and making the younger man wince and furrow his brows. The smell of greasepaint and cloves coming off Jimmy's sage green button down and corduroy jeans. 

"Jesus man, I'm sorry. Getting totaled like that just ain't right. What they sayin' 'bout that gun bein' real though-"

"It was just a prop, for an act." Arthur repeated for the third time that day, cutting Jimmy off cold.  He was starting to wish the lie was real. The tremor in his hands was more than the need for another hit of nicotine. The wind wasn't helping.

Jimmy however, nodded, searching Arthur's care worn face for a moment before pressing on. 

"Yeah well, listen. I got a buddy across town what works as a roadie for this place called the Regale Theatre Company. It's run by some overseas chick. I don't know if they're hiring any, but if you ask for Bill Tormey at the loading bay, he may know somethin'." Jimmy pressed a newspaper clipping where he'd scrawled the theatre's address and Bill's name in blue ballpoint across a show advert into Arthur's reluctant cold hand, explaining, "He's usually on shift till six on Thursdays through Saturdays. Tell 'em his ol' pal Jimmy sent you. I dunno. Maybe they might got somethin' for you. You never know."

Arthur stared at the clipping and its scrawled letters for a few lengthy heartbeats. His anger dissipating into an anxious ball that constricted in the top of his chest and forced him to swallow. He nodded slowly, muttering a 'thank you' as he folded the clipping in half and pushed it into his breast-coat pocket. 

"Yeah, all the best, pal. Maybe I'll see you 'round." Jimmy said with a nod, slapping his hand across Arthur's bruised back almost parentally. The gesture may have been awkward, but never forced. Jimmy wasn't a bad guy. Arthur shook his hand, exerting an undercurrent of his frustration into that handshake before muttering a final goodbye and turning away. 

He was pissed off, cold and hanging for a cigarette. 

@arthur-j-fleck​ | @jokerous​ | @daily-joker​ | @joker2019confessions​

| Bits & Pieces |

Art © Kim Joon

S.L.O.T.H

Who Is Judeth Clayton?

I.

Will.

Eat.

You.

Alive.

|| @reigningmonarch42 ||

Short story for @small-fortunes' #weekly writer's prompt ! This was alot of fun to do and when I started I couldn't stop- I apologise if it goes off the rails slightly I haven't practiced in a while!

They stood there, facing each other down from across the room amidst a cacophony of noise.

Ed’s mind was crumbling. It was crumbling as he was desperately trying to pick up the fragments, to understand. The delicate and complex machinery of his brain had failed. He knew it would happen one day, one day he wouldn’t understand.

But that day had come earlier than he had expected. But that’s the irony of it; It had failed because he couldn't comprehend his current situation. It wasn’t predictable. His greatest ally had failed.

His mind had now blurred into one white slab as he shakily fell to his knees. He felt Oswald’s demeaning gaze piercing his head.

“I have a riddle for you, Ed.”

No! No more riddles Oswald please he pleaded silently, his ears ringing as an explosion crumbled the building next to them.

“A nightmare for some. For others, a saviour I come.”

Colourful lights flashed past Ed’s closed eyelids as Oswald began limping closer, clutching his cane.

“My hand’s cold and bleak. It’s the warm hearts they seek.”

Oswald hobbled closer as Ed knelt on the floor, hands protectively over his head. He savoured seeing Ed in such a weak, vulnerable position.

“What’s the answer, riddler?” He mocked, eyes pointed.

Ed didn’t answer. He was still trying to piece his mind back together. Whatever Oswald had done to it, whatever he had done, he would fix it. He would.

Oswald was getting impatient.

“Answer me!” he yelled threateningly, raising his cane and striking his face aggressively.

Ed flinched as blood trickled from his now bruised cheek. What had put them in this situation? How had it turned out like this? He tried to rewind his mind back, to find the missing information, but it was corrupted. The tape had burnt out and broke.

“I-I don’t know” Ed muttered, his voice cracking as he weakly looked up to Oswald. 

His brain felt like it had been pulled apart and that a toddler was attempting to fit it back together; like some cheap, colourful puzzle to challenge the child’s mental capacity. 

That’s all it was now.

Oswald smirked approvingly, crouching down so that his eyes were level with Ed’s.

“What was that?” 

He sneered, making an ‘i can’t hear you gesture’ with his hand.

Ed’s eyes dimmed as the last of his reputation was pulled from him. He feebly looked up at Oswald, his gaze focusing in an out at random.

“I don’t know!” 

He sobbed, his bones shaking as he fell into a heap.

Oswald laughed heartily. It was a horrible, maniacal laugh that made Ed’s eyes sink into their skull. Oswald suddenly took hold of Ed’s suit and shook it violently, making Ed look into his eyes. 

“Look at me” he spat

“Look at me and see how you have failed. How, because of me, your whole life has begun falling around you. Look at me and see fear. You have nothing, Edward Nygma. Not me, not Gotham, not even your own Mind.”

Ed sobbed harder. “What did you do…”

Oswald laughed again as Ed heard a click as he drew a pistol. He loaded it and pressed it into the side of Ed’s head.

“Look around you, Ed. Look out the windows. Look properly.”

Ed slowly turned his head to look. It was Gotham. In ruins.

“This is my fault, Ed. I did this! I bet you hate me now, don’t you?” Oswald shook him violently again.

Ed didn’t respond, he just stared solemnly at Oswald. There was a pause as Ed closed his eyes, wishing this wasn’t real.

Oswald smiled and rested his finger on the trigger of the gun.

“The answer was death, Edward. Ha! Couldn’t even answer his own riddle. So this is what I've reduced you to, Hm? Well, not to gloat but i think i’ve done a pretty good job myself” He smiled gleefully and gave himself a mental pat on the back.

“Look at you! Wow, the great Riddler, no longer safe in his own body! Your own Mind hates you!” He tilted his head to the side “Well, I might as well put you out of your misery. You’re ruining the mood” He frowned. 

“Oh, also, the answer was death!” He chuckled and pulled the trigger.

Ed’s pupils dilated as he realised what was happening. He welcomed it. His world was no more. He had nothing left.

He heard the click of the pistol and felt a sharp pain. He felt his conscious splattered against the floors and walls of Gotham. He felt his mind obliterated, and he felt the cold. The cold was the worst of it. The endless cold that never stopped. 

It crept over his whole being, inside and out. It grasped him and held him tightly.

It suffocated him, and his mouth constantly gasped for freedom. But it never came.

No. What?

That’s wrong. Is it?

How did this happen? You know.

What happened…? You know!

No, he wouldn’t do this. Would he?

This is wrong. It’s completely correct!

No. Yes! 

Ed’s mouth finally gasped the freedom and warmth that he had searched for, as he was plunged upright through the cold waters of death suddenly. His pupils were small and his gaze shook as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light. He coughed dryly and wheezed for air.

“Ed..?”

 He flinched as he heard that voice, and slowly turned his head to see Oswald looking at him, confused.

“What happened, you look like you’ve seen Fish Mooney’s ghost”

He chuckled lightly and reached over to hold Ed’s shoulder reassuringly. Ed flinched away from his touch, and raised his hands defensively. He took a sharp breath in as he realised he was covered in a cold sweat.

“N-no leave me alone, I know what you did! I saw you!”

He began muttering inaudibly, his eyes growing wide as he sat face to face with the person who had just killed him.

Oswald frowned and shook his head gently.

“Ed… I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t real… it was just a nightmare”

Ed didn’t seem convinced.

Oswald slowly raised his hand and cupped Edward’s cheeks gently. Oswald’s touch was warm, and Ed melted into it, slowly warming up.

It was enough to reassure him, and suddenly he felt a heavy stone in his stomach. He hadn’t trusted Oswald, of all people!

“I’m sorry Oswald… I didn’t mean it, I don’t know what came over me…” 

He rested his head on Oswald’s shoulder as Oswald smiled and embraced him. It was just a dream. That was all. Oswald wouldn’t do that… He smiled as he realised the truth, and relaxed into Oswald’s touch.

“Hey, Ed?” He queried softly.

“Mmm?” Hummed Ed, closing his eyes.

“I have a riddle for you.”

The ending is left open for interpretation!