GOD DIES A THOUSAND TIMES A SECOND.

JAMES MARLOWE 21 / FINE ARTS / NOLAND “That’s the American Dream: to make your life into something you can sell.”

[jamesmarlowe]

[jamesmarlowe]

RT @freyanils: i was unfaithful daddy 😔

[jamesmarlowe]

marlacrane​:

the song that had been playing on repeat in marla’s head for days now sang of aspiring fires, and if she had been the sort of person who properly believed in omens she might have been taking the significance into account as she accidentally-on-purpose tipped the can of turpentine over. there wasn’t much in it. probably a good thing, which didn’t stop marla from being somewhat disappointed. pretending that she’d only just noticed this opportunity, she took her journal (it was full to the brim with writing, and therefore long overdue for a ritualistic pyre) and dipped it in the little puddle. “marlowe,” she called, voice all sing-song. “you seem like the kind of guy who might, like, provide matches to people in need at times like this. you seem like the matches type.” she turned to him. “like, all traditional. i, like, guess i can just use a lighter…” she tossed the journal onto the ground and retrieved the one she always kept in her pocket, that she’d found on the floor of a theatre and decorated. it didn’t so much match her aesthetic as contribute to the chaos of it. it had a lot more glittery adornments than it had started out with, though the base colour was a pale blue. “marlowe,” she said, still staring at the journal where it lay, covered in a thin veneer of turpentine and in a pool of that very same substance, looking a little bit like paperback roadkill. “i think i might be an idiot.” @jamesmarlowe

Hearing his name sung out, Marlowe glanced around— changing directions as soon as he spotted Marla, he abandoned his previous destination without a second thought. It was important, he believed, to stay open to these kinds of split-second changes. Life could be quite sudden in its switches of channels— but also rewarding, if you surrendered yourself freely to the current, taking bends in the river like a twig on a fast-moving stream. “Happy to be of service,” he shouted back, all habitual chipperness and ear-to-ear smile. Whatever was going on, he didn’t question it; merely raised his eyebrows at the notebook on the ground, clearly doused in something harsh and chemical. He recognized the smell after the first strong whiff— turpentine. You seem like the kind of guy who might, like, provide matches to people in need at times like this. “Well, I do have,” One hand slipped into his back pocket, “Exactly one.” He produced a folded scrap of leather, raw-edged, like a piece of jacket sleeve torn off by a dog’s teeth. It’d been badly-sewn together to resemble a wallet. No credit cards, no folded bills, not even a driver’s license or student ID. Just a motley collection of loosies rolling around the inside pocket— and tucked between the Camels and Marlboros like a little sister at a sleepover, a single match. “Don’t even remember how long it’s been in here,” he mused, sliding the match out. He rolled it between thumb and forefinger, admiring the blue phosphorous tip. “You should always have one. Especially when you use cheap-o lighters, which tend to fail exactly when you need them most.” On that note, he aimed his bright, curious gaze back at Marla. “Watch this.” Holding the match up, they both stared as Marlowe gave the tip a single, hard flick— and it flared to life with a hiss, a bright leap of light. His smile doubled in size. “Strike-anywhere matches! That’s some old school cool, right?” Shaking one of his cigarettes free— the leather wallet was still open in his hand— Marlowe held it between his teeth, bobbing the tip over the flame and then tossing the still-burning match onto the notebook at their feet. Thoroughly-soaked, the book flamed a perfect halo. “What are we doin’, by the way?” he mumbled to Marla around his cigarette. Smoke escaped with his words like a visible speech bubble. “Destroying evidence? Voodoo ritual? I’m down, it’s just good to know— for plausible deniability reasons.”

[jamesmarlowe]

If you wanna judge me, that's fine 'Cause I'm all lit up in my mind Yeah, I'm headed for the good life Feelin' like a baller Gucci rock 'n roller

[jamesmarlowe]

By now, he’d had a lot of practice with planning apologies— like a seasoned gambler who held tightly to the belief that a deck could always be stacked, Marlowe knew there were certain ways to improve the odds on forgiveness. Time and place both mattered, more than you’d think. Possibly more than the apology itself. Misjudge either and rush in with some slapdash excuses, or hold back too long, ignoring the wound till it festered, and it wouldn’t matter how well-worded your mea culpa was. So, he’d left the mess with Levi alone after their return from Provincetown and waited a week before sending the first text, asking to meet. This felt like the right amount of time— long enough for the sting to fade, but not so long that it seemed like he’d forgotten— and as far as location went, where else but the McDonald’s? The setting of so many previous late-night conversations, back when they’d simply been two people who couldn’t sleep, occupying a shared space, finding a strange comfort in the smell of grease traps and bright, humming fluorescence. Returning here had the feeling of going back to that, the way things had been. It seemed like the only place where they could untangle the hopelessly-snarled knot of what things had become.

Well past midnight, Marlowe sat in one of the red booths, arm stretched over the backrest, his beach tan glowing under the artificial lighting. There was already a small pyramid of apple pies stacked in front of him, warm and waiting. Next to them, some fries spilled out onto the tabletop; he was slowly emptying the carton while gazing out the window, admiring the puddles of yellow reflected on the wet asphalt, the huge Golden Arches providing the only splash of color in the black night. The late-shift cashier was a heavy-lidded girl with a lopsided ponytail, her nametag identifying her as Annette. For once, she wasn’t sleeping on the clock; Marlowe had made one-sided game of trying to engage her in conversation. “Hey, how about a quiz? My Mickey D’s knowledge versus your’s.” Annette looked up from her phone, her expression clearly reading as I’m-not-paid-enough-for-this; Marlowe angled an easy smile at her, then motioned through the air with one limp fry. “Only one location in the world doesn’t use the Golden Arches. Where— and, bonus point, what color are they?” Kohl-lined eyes rolled. Her expression remained staunchly unamused as she dropped her gaze back to her phone, muttering, “No fucking idea.” Unfazed by this divided attention, Marlowe continued. His voice had the cheerful intonation of a game show host. “Sedona! They’re turquoise. Or teal, I guess, somewhere in that family. Wanna know why?” The lack of an affirmative answer, or any kind of answer at all, didn’t stop him. “Some zoning committee decided that the yellow would clash too much with the natural landscape. Bad color combo. All that red sandstone, the blue mountains in the distance, and then you’ve got this ugly, honkin’ yellow McDonald’s sign smack in the middle. But, can’t say no to the potential money-grab of a fast food chain when you’re a tourist economy. So they compromised on teal. Corporate will, bending to the law of complementary colors.” Annette was obviously tuning him out, with no response or movement except the sweep and play of her thumbs as she tapped her phone screen. It didn’t matter; he could go on like this for hours, talking so vividly, so amusingly, to no one at all. Hence why the gig at the school radio had proven to be a perfect match for him. Minutes trickled by. Drops collecting in a bucket, plink, plink. Filling it up more than expected. His eyes slid back out the window to where his own face was visible in the black glass, then beyond that, to the darkened parking lot occupied by only a few remaining cars. Levi was much more reliable than he was— by the world’s standards, most people were— so there was no question of whether he’d show up. Just a matter of waiting. And Marlowe had time to spare, time to waste. Time like a kid at an arcade had pockets full of change.

“Your friend’s here,” Annette announced in a voice devoid of any inflection, a brief blip of attention before she resumed her game of Candy Crush. Marlowe twisted around to see the door as it chimed open. “Hey!” The greeting came paired with a smile, one of his best: spreading on both sides, lacking all symmetry. Then he turned back with his arm still draped over the vinyl seat and waited for Levi to slide in across from him. “As you can see, I’m on the straight and narrow now. Payin’ for my fries and apple pies like a good upstanding citizen. Annette can vouch.” His eyes flicked up to her, ready to wink mischievously if this almost-confession earned any reaction. She didn’t even lift her yellow-visored head. Clearing his throat, Marlowe’s brows drew together as if pulled by an invisible drawstring. “So.” He chose one of the last fries in the container and eyed Levi carefully across the table. “Thanks for showin’ up. Already more than I deserve. How’ve you been?” A nonchalant question, asked with what seemed like genuine, friendly concern— but one they both knew was really just an opening for something else.

@leviprk

[jamesmarlowe]

[valtsv]

im reading about cowboy phrases and sayings and like 95% of them are just solid life advice

[valtsv]

like idk how accurate these are but somehow they manage to be both peak shitposting humor and genuinely helpful suggestions

[valtsv]

fuck self-help books and therapy, all i need to make it in life is my trusty Cowboy Tips™

[jamesmarlowe]

RADTASK 005 ➯ “You gotta have style. It helps you get down the stairs. It helps you get up in the morning. It’s a way of life. Without it, you’re nobody. I’m not talking about lots of clothes.”

seen daily in: clashing prints, vibrant patterns, silk shirts never fully buttoned, thrifted T-shirts with bizarre logos (worn so thin you can see the tattoos right through them), a cherry-red leather jacket craggy at the shoulders, loosely-knotted bandanas, a pawn’s shop worth of jewelry, paint-stained jeans, assorted keys and keychains hanging from his belt loop, an endless rotation of statement earrings, and a pair of heavily-scuffed, silver-capped cowboy boots, worn rain or shine. 

[jamesmarlowe]

lanajvmeson​:

Lana preened at his touch, no matter how fleeting. Sometimes, she felt like the light up piano Tom Hanks danced along in the toy store, each key only illuminated when someone had put their weight to it – she could hear the coordinating melody in her brain, was always tempted to hum along. “Some guy told me not to grab my can when it flew – like, flew, sucked up by the wind like God was slurping a Henry the hoover. Anyway, it flew on the grass and he was, like, hooting and hollering about it. You know, ‘cause it was raining. Called me baby and everything. Totally sickening. Had to defy him.” She missed out the part where she’d shimmied along the grass, hips shaking, mocking him with various dance moves while the rain gently spit. Bubbling laughter died in her throat when he barked a last order, elastic of his patience snapped, seeing her prance back and up the steps. They’d ventured to the bathroom shortly after, Lana pulled like a rag doll. A strange part of her liked it, had grown accustomed to the hard gouge of an unrelenting hand – it was required, she thought, to be made new, reborn in a way, shaped into something different she had more of a chance of liking. Instinctively, she reached to twirl at whatever fraying thread of Marlowe’s was closest. “Exactly. A tingly toe is totally sacred. If you ignore them, they turn black and drop off. And that’s gross. Nobody wants that? Except maybe Viktor, but. I just feel like he’d appreciate a black toe. Keep it in a jar,” Lana chattered, dimples becoming prominent at his choice of name. “James. I like that name. Makes me think of, like… vodka on the rocks, blazers with puffy white shirts. Navy and candles.” All based on one she’d met in high school. Lana was like that. She assigned names tastes, colours, smells. Most of them changed all the time, it depended on the mood. Out of nowhere, Lana lifted a card so high into the air it strained her shoulder – it practically reverberated around the room, the slap of it down against the carpet. Somebody in the corner cricked their neck in shock. “Three of swords!” She announced it like she was manning a bingo wheel, excitedly shouting the number. “Huh. Interesting. Eeeeen-ter-es-teeeeng… This one’s kinda, like, heartbreak, I think. All, like… wah, me heart’s gone mouldy!” she butchered a British accent, something dated and Cockney, before tapping it twice. “Had any light saber battles with two other dicks, lately? Three swords. It’s what I’m sensing. Or maybe it’s just on the horizon. Much to think about.” Barely leaving an intermission, Lana lined up another at random. The Devil. “Whoa. He’s, like… kinda hench. Shredded. I mean, look at those abs? I couldn’t nap on those. Hard and bulky. Kinda hot, though. Hm…” trailed off, realising in delay she hadn’t given a reading. “Maybe this means you’re gonna go to Texas. If the devil were a state, it’d be Texas. Suddenly? Your flight’s booked. You’re chewing a strand of wheat. Playing a banjo.”

In Lana’s company, everything became a story— sometimes, in the wandering middle of these stories, there came a point where you could stop listening to the words and just listen to the way she said them. The whimsical musicality of her voice. Flew– like, flew, sucked up by the wind like God was slurping a Henry the hoover. Marlowe let his eyes close. There was something about it, something about listening to her that felt like watching a kite dance, weaving through the air on unpredictable currents, soaring and dipping like bird— it was easy to forget everything else. You were up there too, for the time being, light on the surface of the world. Makes me think of, like... vodka on the rocks, blazers with puffy white shirts. How like Lana to make it seem interesting; reality could be much improved if only someone replaced it with her imagination. A smile formed on the outer edges of his mouth when he said, “Oh, yeah. Very seafaring. Very nautical. Naughty, nautical...” Talking without thinking, his voice a slow-moving stream. His words floating away like toy boats set loose on the current. And then, with the same enigmatic smile, “Makes me think of nothing.” 

A pond with no ripples. A cluster of wind chimes on a windless day, hanging perfectly still. No recognition. No sense of ownership. Nothing he could still identify— like turning on the light and illuminating a childhood bedroom where all the furniture had been removed, all the pictures had been taken down, only outlines in the dust and scuffmarks on the walls and a few notches on the doorframe. Nothing else to show it had ever been his. But it was not a loss, just a name. An arbitrary arrangement of letters. A luggage tag. Didn’t matter that Marlowe didn’t entirely belong to him, either. There was a whole litter of them somewhere in Virgnia, all variations on the same face. Helle with her narrow, golden eyes, flashing so often with scattershot fury. Luke with his high, scraped-back cheekbones, his smile like a wire bending. All of them angular, hungry, like the feral cats that haunted the park, their mirror eyes glinting from the undersides of trailers. And he’d taken this thing that was equally theirs— a family name, the only inheritance they’d ever get— and made it his own. But fuck them. They could let him have this one thing.

Thunder, like the rumble-rumble-thump of a double boiler in another room. He realized that Lana’s voice had grown distant, a kite let go, and that the false restorative of the outside air had worn off— now he was undeniably drunk, sinking into the darkness behind his eyelids, sinking far below thought. Forcing his eyes open, Marlowe heaved himself up on the backs of his arms. He blinked groggily against the harsh lamplight and spent a few seconds reorienting himself— here was the floor, the ceiling, the dark windows off to the right, rain beading on the glass and the room vividly reversed in them— then struggled into a new position, flipping over onto his stomach. He balanced his chin on the back of his folded hands, taking a closer look at the first card she’d put down. This one’s kinda, like, heartbreak, I think. He squinted at the illustration. A heart triple pierced. Storm clouds gathering, ominous and dark. His lips crooked to one side. You didn’t need the Sight or the Shining or whatever to figure this one out. “Oof. Shish-kebabed,” he muttered, voice low, unconcerned. “Good thing my heart doesn’t do that. Zero percent chance of heartbreak. It just— boings. Got more bounce than J. Lo’s ass.” And then he let his head roll to the side, resting one cheek while the pulse in his temple ticked away like a very small heartbeat. Had any light saber battles with two other dicks, lately? Eyelids drooping again, his smile kept its sly shape. “Something like that.” Meaning, if it existed at all, was always interpreted. That’s how they got you. Inkblots, fortune cookies, tarot: they were just clouds, and you were the one seeing shapes. “But no, no actual dick light saber battles, sadly. Maybe that’s what the universe is tryna tell me. I’m lettin’ things get too vanilla? We can’t have that. It’s bad for the brand.” His sigh was muffled by the back of his hand. “I guess I gotta intercept the Star Wars Club next time they’re havin’ Jedi practice out on the quad.” Half-open eyes, warm and amused, lifted to find Lana’s face. He watched as she slapped down the next card; he wanted to get it all from her expression, a patient looking at the doctor and not at the X-ray. The Devil. Delighted, his smile cracked open wide. Everyone had an opinion these days! Even the fucking Universe was throwing her two cents in about his recent exploits. “Technically, the devil went down to Georgia,” he observed in the same wry voice with its hint of sleepy drag, not bothering to look down at the card and see the Devil’s shredded abs for himself. Instead, Marlowe furrowed his brow and channeled a croaky Johnny Cash. “To tempt the fiddle player, ‘cause he’s just a mortal man... But yeah, sure, I’ll go to Texas. Tex-ass. See El Paso, the Alamo. Don’t know what happened at the Alamo, but I do like the name. Maybe I can have my dick sword fight there, make it more of a Western showdown. Anyway,” he lifted his head, feeling it double in weight, and propped it groggily on one fist. “I know you’re just the messenger, but I’m gettin’ like, a distinctly judgey vibe comin’ off these cards. Very doom and gloom in June. Maybe, give ‘em a shuffle. Or just pass on that— James— thinks they’re bein’ a bit harsh, with this whole karmic sentencing.”

[jamesmarlowe]

📱→ boo bear 😍💞👨‍❤️‍👨 (dom perkins)

Marlowe: hey heard you're back!

Marlowe: i set off the fire alarm in perkins last week and when you didn't show up in 5 seconds flat (your current record) i asked around

Marlowe: all good?

[dclgados]

this part, they can do in the kitchen. it’s maybe a little too small for noah’s taste and there have already been several moments in which he’s considered hauling everything over to the lab, but he’s pretty sure it’s occupied right now, and besides, doesn’t feel like explaining this shit to any of his professors. he doesn’t mind them being a little wary of him – god knows he deserves it – but it makes experimenting with chemicals a little tougher when people are asking you what your intentions are about ten times per five minute window. still, feels kinda stupid sterilizing shit with ethanol in a kitchen. he doesn’t even think he needs to do that for this step, and yet… why not? better safe than sorry.

“alright, so i got a still online. just arrived yesterday.” he gives the still a friendly pat, hoists the maize and sugar onto the table, grins at marlowe. “i couldn’t find the right kinda yeast at first but then i figured, you know, there are a lot of people who brew shit ‘round here, and i got… it’s champagne yeast? some guy on youtube said it could handle alcohol best. only, i figure some trial an’ error’ll be involved, so i got this too.” another variety of yeast is set down on the table in front of him. “so i guess it’s gonna take a couple weeks?” noah smiles at marlowe. “don’t know why i’m tellin’ you all this. i just had fun learnin’ it.” he feels a little giddy with excitement. most of the entertainment value in chemistry comes from lab work, and though he enjoys research and acquisition to an extent, he’s raring to go. “oh, i checked if it was legal, kinda, i mean. didn’t really look that hard but i think it might actually be. we don’t need licenses. nothin’ like that.” a pause as he begins to measure out sugar and maize. “i thought flaked maize’d be okay. some guy used cracked corn but i looked that shit up and apparently it don’t always work. what d’you think?” @jamesmarlowe

[jamesmarlowe]

Moments earlier, he’d burst into the room like one of those tense dogs with too much energy, a blonde retriever quivering from nose to tail, straining at the leash. After capturing Noah in a one-armed hug around the neck, accompanied by a mystifying greeting (“You smell good, man!”), Marlowe had released him and hopped backwards onto the kitchen counter, where he now sat, kicking his feet, listening attentively. Or at least making an effort to listen, as attentively as possible. The weight of his feet in his boots made him feel somehow like a boy again: swinging his legs over the side of the old railway bridge in the ravine, spending as much time as possible outside the confines of the park. This whole project had awoken something very boyish in him. It was giddy, this child-like excitement, undeterred by the technicalities of the process, the actual how of what they were setting out to do, or the very likely possibility they wouldn’t succeed. Marlowe really had no clue how to brew moonshine— only the confidence that the knowledge must’ve been inherited, stored deep within him like a dormant spring. It’d make itself known when the time came. “Oh yeah, thought about that,” he added, giving a nod towards the still. He adjusted the knotted bandana at his throat, tugging pensively. "Had a girl who said she could lend us the keg she brews kombucha in, but forgot to ask. And then I was gonna bring one of those six-gallon water cooler jugs, ‘cause I got one kickin’ around with my art supplies. Thought we could MacGyver it, but— ” he shrugged, as if this whole explanation of his repeated failures was some kind of delightful anecdote, before finishing brightly, “Forgot that too. Looks like you got somethin’ proper, though, so... problem solved!” Noah talked through the ingredients he’d compiled, the amount of research he’d clearly put in. Marlowe’s grin doubled in size. He’d barely skimmed the first page of Google results. “Champagne yeast? Fuck! We’re makin’ the fuckin’ Moet of moonshine!” He slapped his palm against the countertop, a gavel slammed down in approval, and slid from his perch to take his place besides Noah. Marlowe dropped his chin and summoned a look of serious, frowning concentration at the brand-new still, already lined with a mesh bag. “Was she pricey? I can pay you back for half— not now, obviously, but y’know. Eventually.” 

While Noah weighed and measured, Marlowe dipped his hand into the open bag and let the maize slip through his fingers. “Sounds like you did enough learnin’ for the two of us,” he observed. “I’m just countin’ on natural talent. Y’know, my grandparents used to brew shine right outta their shed.” Noah did know this; Marlowe had mentioned more than once when they’d hatched this idea, and many times before that. “Everyone in a fifty mile radius knew ‘em for it. Don’t know what kinda corn they used, though, we never got to see much behind the scenes.” His grandfather had died before Marlowe had been anywhere close to drinking age— even by backwoods Virginia standards— so there wasn’t much substance to him in memory. Only the vague impression of a man, a soft-voiced Korea vet with a halting limp, some kind of danger still coiled inside him. Marlowe had no recollection of ever exchanging a word with his grandfather. The most he could summon were isolated images: the old man sitting silently in that faded blue-plaid armchair by the window, or shambling out of the tin-roof shed behind their dilapidated trailer, bringing the sting of ethanol with him into the sunshine. His wife Eugenia, who everyone called Genie, had outlived him by four years. The tattered labels had switched from his handwriting to hers, but the recipe stayed the same. Still sifting through the brittle cornflakes, Marlowe went on. “Gran carried a jar with her all the time. She’d unscrew the lid, stick it under your nose, and fuck,” he laughed, “The smell, I swear, could singe the hair straight from your nostrils. Fuckin’ caustic.” Not her only famous trick. At Christmas one year, always a dangerous time for drunks, she’d finished the whole jar and put her hands around his little sister’s neck, murmuring in her thick Virginia drawl, Little angel, you wouldn’t be so hard to kill. Supposedly that was only the whiskey talking— but for Gramma Genie, soaked like a rag in her own homemade mash, there was no difference. The whiskey was the only thing left; it did all the talking.

Remembering this, he felt an uncomfortable stirring in his chest. Something old still attached to the memory, dragging behind it like a rusty tin can on a string— but it vanished, bumping and rattling away down the road, and Marlowe turned to his brewing companion with the reappearance of a smile, finally withdrawing his hand. “Alright, chief, you got a handle on the dry ingredients, I’ll start with the wet. How many gallons of water we need to boil, like eight?” He was already moving towards the sink, where a massive pot sat waiting under the faucet. Not a precise unit of measurement, but it’d save them some time. Once full, Marlowe hauled it back with a lot of sloshing, water escaping over the sides and dispersing quickly over the floor tiles. He tipped the pot, dumping it all at once into the still. At least a fourth of the water ended up on the floor. “Fuckin’ hell. That’s gotta be at least two gallons, right? You’re the eye on this, man, you tell me.”

[jamesmarlowe]

abelromanov​:

A headache had made a home behind Abel’s left eyebrow since the second day of the trip. Probably a poor mix of several medications, too much alcohol, and definitely not enough water. It didn’t deter him, even now - overtired and simultaneously refreshed, somehow, Abel made his way into the Perkins kitchen with a grin. He made it a habit, to stock up Moris’ kitchen at random with whatever snacks he could think of in case any of the students there needed something. When he technically wasn’t supposed to be on campus, it felt safer to stock up Perkins’ kitchen instead, less likely to be caught there than his own residence, “Morning!” he chirped back automatically, grin only widening when he saw Marlowe’s classic sunshine demeanour. It took a few seconds for his brows to furrow in confusion, glancing down at his watch then back at the boy across from him, “Afternoon,” Abel corrected, setting the armfuls of snacks he was still clutching onto on the provided kitchen table, “You look like a very put together zombie. Not bad enough to be a real one. Not The Walking Dead level. Y’know?” Wordlessly, he walked closer to where Marlowe was so that he could pick up the brick of cheese, “I’m gonna take a wild stab in the dark and guess this isn’t yours?” he asked, already placing it back into the fridge, “You can have something from what I just brought, but I don’t mind taking you somewhere to get a proper meal. It’s the least I can do, got nothing better going on anyway. You even have anything real to eat since we’ve been back? Not to sound like your dad or anything. Just a concerned citizen. I’m not ready for grey hairs, yet,” About as dramatic as Abel got, he was already starting to reload the fridge with the other ingredients Marlowe had taken out, set now on dragging him somewhere that had more than just eggs on the menu, “Was the trip fun for you? You’re very popular, I didn’t find you once even when I actively tried to.”

The version of Abel that came through the doorway was freshly-tanned, a smile stretched broadly across his face— he seemed looser, after their week at the beach. Good for him, Marlowe decided, mouth curling up on both sides. Every stick in the mud deserved a wiggle every now and then. You look like a very put-together zombie. This earned a faint noise of amusement, somewhere at the back of his throat. “Well that’s encouraging, ‘cause that’s exactly what I was going for. Three days resurrected. Half-a-corpse, half-a-god.” He was good at striking that balance. Most days, with his lazily-buttoned shirts and unbrushed hair, he had the demeanor of someone just-roused from some luxurious sleep— disheveled, but always purposefully so. Now, there was very little glamor to the way he looked. Standing barefoot in the weak afternoon light, sour-mouthed, eyelids raw from being rubbed, hair tangled and damp— but still, somehow vivid. The fire of him, still burning; his amber eyes, inextinguishable. After a yawn, which segued into another smile, Marlowe leaned over the counter on a straightened arm. He gave Abel a proper up-and-down now, moving only his eyes. “You look like you just came back from a fuckin’ week of rest and relaxation on the beaches of Maui. How the fuck did you manage that? Did we go on the same trip?”

The refrigerator puckered open, whooshed shut. Abel replaced the musty, expensive cheese back on its rightful owner’s shelf and Marlowe was left frowning down at the counter in its absence, as if the remaining Tabasco sauce and single egg were his only clues to a riddle too complex to solve. Clearly, there would be no miracles performed here today. He ditched the omelette plan, then, and sidled up to the snacks heaped onto the counter. Always on the mooch, always checking around for food— if he was near food then he would be eating it, but he’d mastered doing it in such a casual, non-offending way, usually while engrossed in conversation or while looking engrossed in conversation, that no one ever protested when he stole something off their plate, or helped himself to some of their lunch. "You’d look good with gray hair,” he said in a sighing tone, sifting through the pile. Their backs were turned to one another. Abel was busy replacing the ingredients Marlowe had rallied— a feeble effort which wouldn’t take long to clean up— and Marlowe was investigating a box of cookies, turning it over in his hands. “Just a bit of silver around the temples. Very dignified. Very ‘tenured English professor who doesn’t sleep with his students, but totally could if he wanted’.” Most of Abel’s steady chatter went past him, questions and concerns simply ricocheting off— in this exhausted state, his attention was Teflon, non-stick. But the suggestion of dining out did the trick. Marlowe looked up, suddenly bright-eyed— before something else about this plan occurred to him, and his enthusiasm visibly dimmed. “Abel, you know I’d normally let you take me out anywhere, any time, but...” With a sigh, he ripped the cardboard flaps off the cookie box, “That would require me gettin’ dressed. Which would require me showering. Which already sounds like a lot required of me on this particular— morning, afternoon, whatever it is.” Pausing, he glanced down at his bare legs, the cut of the black briefs barely visible past the edge of his shirt. The downy hair on his thighs had turned golden in the sun, shining against his tan. “Can I just go like this?” Picking up his head, Marlowe aimed another smile over his shoulder; a smile that could get away with anything, even showing up to a restaurant half-naked. “No shoes, no shirt— doesn’t say anything about pants.” Turning around, he leaned against the counter with the box held to his stomach, one hand digging loudly inside. After the first cookie disappeared (bite-size, as advertised), Marlowe chewed and spoke. “Sure, it was fun. A bit messy, but y’know.” He shrugged. “Messes are the natural consequence of fun. Nothin’ that won’t sort itself out.” One eyebrow lifted, pleased to know that he’d been actively looked for; didn’t matter that the search hadn’t been successful, the effort was flattering enough. “I’m not that popular, Abe, I was definitely around. Maybe you were the one too busy havin’ a good time.” Tossing up another cookie, catching it like a trained seal, Marlowe finished chewing again and went on. “Can’t tell me this glowin’ mood’s got no reason behind it. What'd you get up to? Hang up your holster, unpin your RA badge, get a little naughty?” The smirk was already there, ready at the corners of his mouth. “Get laid? I can always tell when someone’s gotten properly fucked, it’s my special sixth sense. Good for you, man!”

[jamesmarlowe]

“I saw a spoiler. On Twitter,” he informed her no sooner had he burst into the room, plopping onto the bed with enough oomph to make the mattress bounce, disrupting her pile of decorative pillows— one of which dug its buttons into his shoulder blade. Marlowe wrenched it free with a wince and tossed it to the floor. “Apparently, there’s ravioli warfare. Someone threw a fuckin’ ravioli hand grenade— ricotta shrapnel, everywhere. I scrolled before I saw, but my money’s on the new one, y’know, the young-ish hot one? Keep thinkin’ of her as Erika Jayne Lite. Or, fuck- Tinsley!” From his lower position on the bed, his attention was divided between upward glances at Syd— who sat against the headboard, laptop open on her thighs— and his determination to gnaw open an economy-size package of Twizzlers. “Tinsley Moritimer, junkyard dog in a Chihuahua body.” His mumbling was barely intelligible around the plastic he was chewing. Succeeding in finally tearing off a strip, the piece went fluttering over the edge of the bed the same way the offending pillow had disappeared. “She could absolutely go feral. Give her a ravioli and one good reason, motherfucker.” Previously, on the Real Housewives of New York City… the recap began, taking them through a montage of previous episodes, previous fights, previous displays of entitled awfulness: middle-aged women screeching at each other like a pet shop full of deranged macaws. Marlowe wriggled till his shoulders were also flush against the headboard, handing Syd the opened candy and choosing one of the softer pillows to wedge underneath his neck. For all his pretenses at unconventionality, it felt good to be back here— to slow down the unstoppable velocity of his life for a moment, return to something resembling routine. They’d been spending more time apart lately, partially due to the trip and partially due to usual end-of-semester mania, with graduation looming and his departure to New York casting an equally long shadow— and also because, these past few weeks, he’d simply been showing up at her window less often. It was a period of flux, nothing new for them, nothing that hadn’t happened before over the course of their friendship; more nights spent in other welcoming beds meant less time with Syd and Len, that was the Marlowe pattern. But as he glanced around the room, he found that he’d missed it more than he’d realized. The single dorm outfitted with a clothing rack, twin bed and desk, the bare canvases leaning in the far corner, the pieces of her finished artwork lining the walls, pencils and paintbrushes arranged in a ceramic cup next to a jewelry stand he’d knocked over too many times to count. The pliant mattress, the smell of the fabric softener she used on her sheets, and Syd herself, the most comforting and familiar thing of all: her face lit up by the glow of the screen, her feet ice cold whenever they brushed his leg. Marlowe shifted and placed his cheek on her shoulder, to be as close for a moment as possible— much like a cat headbutting for affection. “Twizzle me, please.”

@syd-belcourt

[labeutedelarose]

[jamesmarlowe]

monet-jones​:

There was a certain thought process that occurred when she was about to cook, and it didn’t ever matter if it was the smallest minuscule snack or full meal. She could hardly even focus on what Marlowe was or wasn’t putting away, a slightly manicured finger tapping her lips in deep thought as she thought through her choices before finally deciding. One would have thought she’d have chosen a major in culinary, with how careful and precise she was about flavors and recipes––and the fact that sometimes there really was no recipe. 

Once she wasn’t so focused on what she’d planned to make she can answer his many questions––and there were many. “Uh, yeah. Sorry I don’t know your name though. Just sorta seen ya here and there.” She shrugged, pulling out a variety of ingredients for the cajun pasta she would make. Tomato slicing and an assortment of other veggies had soon begun, eyes focused and yet distant as she spoke. “My mama was an artist so she was real into that whole scene––personally I’m not too particular about what I like, all real beautiful and each has their own uh, story and style.” She shrugged, giving him a glance for the first time since she’d arrived. My daddy just really loved the name too, and loved my mama enough to just trust her with it so..yeah, that’s about it.” Mauve lips spoke with their southern tone, a hint of a smile perched on them as she moved to start boiling water for the pasta. “Cajun pasta––and good, probably gotta see that someday.”

He thought by now he’d earned his notoriety, and could simply walk around with it attached to him wherever he went— secure in his status as a campus celebrity, Marlowe rarely ever introduced himself. Even in first-time encounters. After all, who didn’t remember the strange, fantastical sculpture garden that had overtaken the lawn in front of Noland for three days last fall, a guerilla art exhibition he’d sprung to celebrate his feature in Cultured Mag— before a summons from the Office of the Dean had politely but very, very firmly, reminded him that his scholarship was not unconditional (it was in fact, very conditional on whether those sculptures came down in a matter of hours). Or, the blaze which had taken out one of the studios in the Art Building, which he’d never admitted to causing— though that smoldering husk of electrical wiring and burned plastic, still vaguely resembling poor Olivia Newton John, had him written all over it? Sorry, I don’t know your name. Marlowe blinked at Monet, mildly baffled. Then he leaned further back on his hands, shoulders hunched, and replaced his lifted brows with an easy smile. “Sorry, guess I’m used to just havin’ my name flashin’ on a marquee sign above my head, visible from twenty miles away— don’t know where that’s gone, but, anyway,” He inclined his head, placing one hand to his chest in a formal introduction. “Marlowe, Monet.” The hand swept out. “Monet, Marlowe.” 

Then he sat on the edge of the table in a thoughtful silence, looking around at nothing while she talked over the aimless clicking of the gas range. After admiring the Wedgwood blue trim on the cabinets for some length of time— why was the upkeep in Perkins so much better than in Noland? Surely couldn’t all be Dom’s doing— his eyes ventured back down and landed on her hands. He liked watching people’s hands at work. The practiced ease when performing something they’d done many times before; the charming fumble of a new, more unfamiliar task, the learning you could watch them do. Her hands were clearly no strangers to cooking, they were a harmonious, synchronized pair: while one held the tomato, the other wielded the knife and left thin, watery slices on the cutting board. “An artist,” he repeated, taking in her story, her parents’ story, with a slow nod. “Well, that does explain the name. I’m sure your mom's an incredible talent.” A murmur of voices strengthened out in the hallway, and then some laughter, followed by the slam of a closing door. Afternoon classes letting out for the day, more student life eking back into Perkins. The kitchen was still bright, sunny, but light spilled through the window on an angle, painting a wide stripe across the floor tiles. Marlowe got up and crossed the room with his soundless barefoot walk. “If you get lucky, maybe you will,” he told her over his shoulder, then added, with another lopsided smile, “And really, that one’s nothin’ compared to my other party tricks.” He took two glasses from the drying rack and turned on the faucet, feeling the satisfying jolt in the neck of the tap as the water hit. One glass filled, he drank every drop; the overheated sleep seemed to have burned off every calorie and every bit of moisture in his body. Then he poured more water in each glass and came back towards the stove, holding one out for Monet to take. He sniffed at the smells of cooking saturating the air. “Smells fuckin’ divine. Family recipe?” He’d noticed the slow lilt of her accent; where his own was twangy, bouncy like banjo strings, hers was more like the melt of butter on a biscuit. Truly Southern. “I can help, if you wanna boss me around. But I need orders or else I start gettin’ creative, and that’s where the trouble starts.” 

[jamesmarlowe]

lanajvmeson​:

Propped up by elbows as she lay on her front, red cowboy boots kicked up in the air behind her, Lana had made herself right at home on a sheepskin rug during the embers of a dying gathering – some student house, she didn’t remember the address or how she’d arrived. Her ride bounced while she was in the bathroom with a stranger. Light glinted off a butterfly clip keeping a lock of hair at bay, hair framed in rogue waves for the majority – subtly damp with rain. “Wanna have your June predicted?” She’d fanned a pack of tarot cards across the carpet, stolen, and was poking at the naked bust of lovers on one without lifting her eyes from the artwork. “Boop!” Distractedly, she’d merited the sound effect to a finger touching a nipple. Moved on without acknowledgement. “Jameson edition. Very high brow, sought after. Exclusive offer. My toes are tingling. I have the sight, I can totally feel it. Doesn’t happen often, so… Come sit, I’ll deal you in. You have to pick a new name for yourself, though. It’s a strict rule of my operation. Keeps things spicy.”

It was two o’clock in the morning. He’d been standing outside with a group of chatty smokers, looking out at the curtain of rain just a foot beyond the porch, waiting for each quick sizzle of lightening to tear across the sky and illuminate the trees like things too suddenly, too briefly, remembered. After a while, Marlowe forgot about his cigarette and let it burn away between his fingers. He breathed nothing but the earthy smell of rain, the sharpness of ozone, till he felt something returning. Wandering back inside a little later, to a party that was already mostly over, he could tell there’d been some restorative effect— he felt clearer, no longer blinking to keep the room straight. In the living room was where he found Lana, belly-down on the sheepskin rug and kicking her feet like a lazy swimmer. Clearly she’d been out in the rain, but she didn’t look soaked, more faintly misted— her skin and hair had a muted shine in the light of the room. Marlowe gave the butterfly clip a tweak as he crouched down besides her on the silver tips of his boots. “Hey, cowgirl. Couldn’t resist a free shower?” Around them, the windows blurred with water. The rain’s gentle percussion beat down on the roof. “Honestly, that’s smart economics. You save on laundry, save on time. And the danger of electrocution really elevates the whole experience.” Feeling heavy in a way that required immediate laying down, he eased himself to the floor and stretched out, one knee bent, upper body propped on an elbow so he could watch her hands poised over the array of cards. He’d seen Kasey do this too many times; been the subject of too many readings to believe that anything could really be said about a future that would always remain indecipherable and dark. There’s a lot around you, Marlowe. You just have to figure out how to keep doors open, instead of closing them. And yet the problem was that he kept throwing open doors without care or consideration for what might be behind them, like a kid who didn’t even know who or what he was looking for in an endless game of hide-and-seek. Absently, he scratched at the flesh above his thumb. “Normally, I’d say that to take the surprise away is to take the life out of life. I don’t like to know the narrative in advance. Don’t even like to read the back cover.” His gaze climbed up to her face, one corner of his mouth lifting along with it. “But, hard to say no to Lana Jameson’s tingly toes...” Then he lay down flat on his back, folding his hands over his stomach, training his eyes on the ceiling with his head in a corona of white sheepskin, laying there like a man on a shrink’s couch. “Alright, tell me what June looks like for James,” Marlowe decided. His mouth was shaped like he’d just said something funny, though it must’ve been a private joke. “Haven’t caught up with him for a while, would love to know how his life’s goin’.”

[jamesmarlowe]

📱 marlowe

freya: nice try but ik that medieval torture is one of ur kinks. these psychological mind games won't work on me. i won't give u the gratification 🔪

freya: it was quite hard for me 2 admit? considering that i personally have never done anything wrong in my life bt i'm such a kind soul....i choose to see the best in everyone ❤️

freya: haha sure

freya: [...]

freya: nothing explicit

freya: [...]

freya: awww....widdle marlowe.....crushing hard....look at him go....watching maks' text bubble hoping for a reply....weeping when nothing's sent....the yearning....the anguish.....💔

marlowe: dw a knife emoji from u is all i need i'll be thinking about it later👌😩💥

marlowe: i know ❤️ ur an angel without a single blemish to her name ❤️ hey when they make u a saint or whatever can you put in a good word w/ the big man and pardon all my sins? i think that would be a nice thing u could do for me

marlowe: [...]

marlowe: just wanted to know who ur source was on all this

marlowe: clearly it was levi so! mystery solved.

marlowe: anyway i love our talks freya but this adhesive is starting to set into concrete and this garbage isn't gonna assemble itself

marlowe:😘🐍