I finally hung up my beautiful print from the @billfordzine (along with the rest of my goodies <3) and I just noticed theirs a number on the bottom!! is this print 158 out of 200?? if so, thats amazing!! ill have to order a proper frame for it!!
I absolutely adore this zine, I am so happy with every single goodie I received <3
I meant to post about this AGES ago (life got away from me) but I was super super lucky enough to be involved with @billfordzine and it was an absolute joy to have my writing published as part of the project! The whole zine is just absolutely gorgeously stunning, all the merch and art and just WOWZA! What a testament to fandom, and all profits went to the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund, so it was a great cause too.
There are still some merch items available & digital zines for purchase! So be sure to check out the project.
Find them at:
Twxtter
Etsy
And here on tumblr: @billfordzine
You can also find my piece on AO3!
Right here: The Stars Are Blind by bapple
It was a real honour to be a part of this zine, especially as it's my first real instance of participating in a project like this! It still feels unreal that my writing is published in something that people can hold in their hands, and alongside so many other incredibly talented artists & writers, too. Thank you so much to everyone at @billfordzine for having me & for organising this wonderful zine! 💛
Working on a plush something based on the little stamp design that was on the packages I got from @billfordzine also heres what I got from the full bundle box! Most of it anyway I also got the tarot cards
Happy Friday! We finally got the okay to post our contributions to @billfordzine! It was awesome working with such talented folks on this project. You can read it on my Ao3, or just read it under the cut of this post. Enjoy!
“What is this?”
Bill Cipher glowered at his legion of Henchmaniacs, who were all sitting in a circle around his throne of petrified humans, looking awkward and uncomfortable as they avoided the triangular demon’s eye.
“You’re interrupting my interrogation of Sixer! Sheesh, it’s like you guys want to be stuck in picturesque, small-town Oregon for the rest of time!”
“That’s actually what we wanted to talk to you about, boss,” hissed Pyronica. She gave Bill a sympathetic smile and patted the chair next to her. Suspicious, Bill floated towards the metal folding chair and sat down.
“We’re having an intervention,” Teeth chattered with guileless cheer.
“Oh geez,” Bill nervously adjusted his bow tie. “I was worried about this. Look, fellas, if you’re that concerned, I’ll cut back on the Time Punch—“
“It’s not that kind of intervention,” said Pyronica, “we just have a few concerns we wanted to bring up.”
Everyone turned to Kryptos.
“Seriously?! You’re making me go first? This sucks!” The compass grumbled as he pulled a sheet of lined paper from the ether.
“‘Dear Bill, I don’t actually care about breaking out of the weirdness barrier surrounding the town. I am perfectly content to spend eternity here where we can party forever and maybe occasionally throw a few seasonal festivals, the kind where I can meet a girl to marry, one who likes video games and eating rocks. I think that will boost community morale more than torturing your dumb, stupid human pet.’ Can I go now?”
Bill was about to ask the same question when 8Ball, also holding a sheet of paper, began to read aloud.
“‘Hey boss, it’s me, uh, ya boy 8Ball,’” the beast said with a wince, “‘I want you to know that you are valued and heard by us, but I feel like there’s been a hostile and toxic environment here at the Fearamid. I was hoping we could take accountability and come up with a solution-based answer to heal all the, um, all the emotional negativity in this, uh, this environment—’”
“Ugh, spare me the therapy speak,” Bill scoffed. “That’s an emotional manipulation tactic I invented so tedious weirdos on microblogging websites could torment each other! What’s this all about, really?”
Pyronica cleared her throat.
“Boss, let me be frank: we think you’ve been… emotionally compromised by the human you’re interrogating.”
“WHAT?”
“You’ve been wasting time trying to get the human to talk,” Pyronica continued. “Surely you could have found a more direct way to extract the formula out of his mind, rather than making another deal with him?”
“Hello? Did you forget about the metal plate in his head? I can’t extract anything from him without striking a deal!” Bill tapped his foot on the ground like an impatient child waiting for ice cream.
“So what,” scoffed Kryptos. “Just crack his skull open and pull his brain out, we can probably just extract your precious formula out of his neurons—“
“NO!”
Bill’s voice blared through town, echoing off of buildings and exploding vulnerable ear drums with each reverberation. The Henchmaniacs shirked in their seats away from the now blood-red triangle, too shaken to say anything else.
Bill walked himself back from a full-blown rage and put back on his usual careless facade.
“Do you have any idea what a pain it is to get gray matter out from under your fingernails?” He forced a laugh that his most devoted sycophants nervously echoed back. “Please, it’s not worth the trouble.”
“And you’re sure it’s not because you’re still infatuated with--” Pyronica’s jaw fused to the roof of her mouth. Bill probably would have done much worse if it weren’t for the delicate chime of an oven timer going off.
“Will you guys excuse me for just a bit?” Bill tipped his hat to the crowd of henchmaniacs, who were now trying desperately to separate Pyronica’s jaws and left.
“Can you believe those guys?”
Bill glared at the cast iron skillet he pulled from the oven; he took a spoon from a jar resting on the kitchen counter and began to baste the rib-eye.
“Those ungrateful jerks! ‘I don’t want to break the barrier, I just wanna live in a farming simulator, Bill! Why don’t you just yank out his brain, Bill? You’re too emotionally invested in a senior citizen, Bill!’ Who do they think they are?” Bill put the steak onto a plate already piled high with a slurry of lobster tails, truffles, and gold flake. He glided towards the dinner table set by the fireplace, and placed the meal in front of Stanford Pines.
Ford had been tied to an uncomfortable rosewood chair, his ankles bound to the legs, his shoulders and waist to its back. His arms were free, but barely just. As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, he’d been forced into a tacky ball gown made of golden silk, and made to listen to the Human Skin Couch sing half-remembered Howard Ashman lyrics. He looked nostalgic for Bill’s more violent torture methods.
When Ford refused to touch the plate of food in front of him, Bill snapped his fingers and puppeteered the old man’s arms and hands, picking up the utensils and forcing steak into his mouth.
“Well, anyway, enough venting about coworkers,” Bill cackled. “How’s your day been, Sixer? Did you enjoy living it up in my luxurious penthouse? Feel like giving up any secrets about how to escape the weirdness barrier while you were all cooped up?”
Ford spat right in Bill’s face. The demon wiped the saliva away with his forked tongue and summoned a new glass of Time Punch. Bill swirled the cocktail in his glass til it formed a whirlpool.
“Just think, Fordsy: you and I can have dinner like this every night! All you need to do is hand over the equation that gets us out of Gravity Falls, and we can live like kings together over this reality!”
Ford rolled his eyes. “I am not selling out humanity just because you cooked me a steak dinner.” After another forced bite of food, Ford choked down the meat and added, “Especially one you managed to overcook and over-season!”
“Don’t be such a whiner!” Bill swayed his feet back and forth playfully, kicking Ford in the shin with each swing. “People love my famous mustard, wintergreen, and petroleum marinade!”
“You ought to be tried at the Hague.”
Bill playfully tousled Ford’s hair. “Give me the formula and I’ll take us there on our next dat— RESEARCH EXPEDITION.”
Suddenly, a timid voice called out from behind the door: “Bill? Are you coming back? Ronnie’s jaws are normal again, so we were hoping we could finish up the intervention?”
Bill scowled and crushed his drinking glass between his fingers.
“Yeah, yeah yeah, I’m coming,” he shouted back. Bill chucked Ford under the chin, dribbling blood the color of television static down the man’s neck.
“Sit pretty for me, Fordsy! I’ll be back once I get these dweebs under control. Bye bye!”
In his hurry out the door, Bill forgot to take the steak knife out of Ford’s hand. As soon as Bill was gone, Ford began to cut away at the ropes binding him to the chair.
The intervention was a total rout: as soon as Bill returned, the band of interdimensional sickos were caught in a vicious cycle of bickering, name-calling, and dismemberment. Pyronica, furious that she had to reattach Keyhole’s limbs with superglue, glared at Cipher as he feigned disinterest.
“Boss, I don’t know what to tell you,” she snapped, “you won’t admit you’re still crushing on that meatbag–”
“LA LA LA, I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” Bill screeched.
“You don’t even have ears! Ugh, whatever; you don’t want to stay in the town forever, but you don’t want to kill your little plaything to get out, and I hate having to tell you this, but you can’t have it both ways!”
“I can control all of reality!” Bill slammed his fist against a pillar in the Fearamid, causing several pounds of debris to crush a couple of petrified Gravity Falls citizens.
(Don’t worry, it was nobody important.)
Bill continued, “I don’t need to wreck Sixer’s body when I can just break his mind! I have Ford wrapped around my finger, he just needs a refresher on who’s really in charge! Once I get him to swallow his pride, he’ll give me– give us everything we want! Bill Cipher doesn’t get ‘emotionally compromised’ by his pawns! I’ve got that six-fingered freak on a tight leash, you hear me? A tight–”
BANG!
Bill and his friends jumped at the sound of gunfire blasting open the doors to the throne room. Stanford Pines burst forth, brandishing a blaster in front of him, wearing the tattered remains of a princess costume and a murderous scowl.
Kryptos sniped at Bill, “You left a gun lying around for him to find?”
“Relax,” Bill shrugged. “It’s only a t-shirt gun! I was going to fire it at a bunch of world leaders when we break out– they’ll have sassy slogans on them like “humans are dumb, throw rocks at them” or something like that. Don’t freak out, he can’t hurt us– OW, MY EYE!”
Ford shot a rolled-up shirt right into Bill’s cornea, knocking the demon flat onto the floor. The other henchmaniacs would have met a similar fate if it weren’t for a traitorous click from the gun as Ford pulled the trigger.
“Get him! Get him,” screamed Bill from the floor. Bill’s minions swarmed after their prisoner. Though out of ammo, Ford slammed the butt of the gun into stomachs, ankles, and groins as each member of Bill’s gang tried to recapture him. The only creature able to escape his rage was Teeth, who ducked Ford’s attack and snatched the weapon out of his hands. Hectorgon grabbed Ford around the waist, holding the man aloft like a trophy as Ford struggled against the monster’s grip. The victory was short-lived: abandoning all decorum, Ford sank his teeth into the meat of Hectorgon’s palm, drawing blood.
Hectorgon dropped Ford, who kicked out his feet and jumped atop of Teeth, knocking the living maw out. Ford ran out of the room into the endless halls of the Fearamid.
“Ow, he bit me! Am I going to get rabies?”
“I don’t know, probably, now shut up!”
Bill transformed into a writhing, many-limbed abomination. His screams pursued Ford long before he got off the floor and sprinted furiously into the labyrinthine corridors.
Bill cornered his prey at a dead end, the only exit was a triangular window: it revealed a haggard, razed landscape, one of destruction and chaos that the Fearamid floated high above in the stratosphere. Desperate, Ford began to climb up onto the windowsill, hoping against hope that there would be some escape.
“Will you get down from there, you fool,” snapped Bill, “You’re making a scene! One wrong move, and you’ll break your hip, or worse!”
“I told you once,” growled Ford, “and I’ll say it again: I would rather die than help you.”
Bill extended a long, clawed hand to grab his lapsed acolyte, but Ford dodged the attempt. Unfortunately, the old man lost his balance and fell backward out of the window.
“NO!”
Bill watched a myriad of universes unfold before him at this moment. Thousands showed Ford, the brilliant idiot who summoned him to this plane of reality, fall to the earth, some with calm acceptance, others screaming and flailing backward through the air. Either way, it ended with him breaking his body and dashing his powerful mind against the rocks below. Here lies Icarus: he should have flown harder.
Bill refused to be part of those realities.
After shrinking back to his usual form, Bill teleported a few feet below Ford’s falling body, catching him in his arms. They wrapped around Ford tighter than any chains or ropes could ever hold, refusing to yield even as Ford continued to struggle. Ford cursed Bill with every breath he had left, to the demon’s intense annoyance. He flicked Ford’s nose and put him under an enchanted sleep. Only then did Ford relax, soft and powerless in the protection of a monster.
Bill returned to the throne room, where all of his companions lay groaning in pain on the floor.
“Well, what do you know,” said Bill, his voice colder than frostbite. “Because of your little ‘intervention,’ Fordsy managed to escape, kicked the crap out of you goons, and almost died! And who do you think had to clean up your mess? That’s right, it was me, you idiots! I don’t want to hear a single one of you give me crap about my ‘attachment’ to Ford ever again! It’s like I said: I’m the one in control here! You better learn to mind your business, or your internal organs are going to become out-ternal!”
Kryptos mumbled, “It’s ‘external’, big shot– ARUGH!” The compass degenerated into a violent mass of viscera, but Bill paid no attention, not to the shocking scene nor the horrified players in it. He just wanted to go back to bed.
Bill glowered at the man resting in his arms. As he carried Ford to their room, Bill noticed his parted lips, his head lolling against his shoulder.
“What am I going to do with you, Sixer,” Bill sighed. He draped Ford over the sofa and scowled at the ruined outfit. “You’re lucky money means nothing now, or else I’d be annoyed that you keep wrecking all the good dresses!” Bill snapped his fingers, turning the rags into a diaphanous white nightgown. Ford, still unconscious, shifted his arm off the edge of the couch. Even in sleep, he was still trying to escape.
Somewhere in the multiverse, Bill was alone in the penthouse, keening with grief as he tore the room apart. In another world, he carried a mangled corpse, milky eyed and rigid, blood congealed over its pallid face. Bill cradled it the way a weepy child would hold a broken, beloved toy. He flicked these visions away like a swarm of gnats.
“I really can’t take you anywhere, you know.” Bill ran his fingers through Ford’s curls. The ghost of a smile flickered across Ford’s face as Bill scraped fingernails over his scalp.
“Guess I’ll just have to keep my eye on you,” Bill murmured. He climbed atop Ford’s chest and pinned him to the sofa, a cairn over a corpse.
“And Sixer… don’t you ever almost die on me again.”
Bill Cipher spent the whole night watching his human slumber.
On Friday night I had this really vivid dream that Facebook was called Toaster. I even knew the logos for it - including the animated gif where the T pops out of the toaster - and the one where the T is burnt into toast.
Anyways, in my dream Facebook had always been Toaster - and I was flabbergasted by their sudden rebranding - and even more shocked to learn no one remembered it being called Toaster. And people where trying to say that it’s the Mandela Effect, but then why did no one else remember Toaster? Just me? I was so frustrated.
I might have popped over a few dimensions in my sleep. Either that or my graphic design brain was triggered by all the rebranding of social media companies lately.
