Heres the last 7 weeks of Lizzie Smithson webcomic updates. I was waiting for this "arc" if you can call it that to finish before I posted it here. This one was all about stuff that exists in the irl city of Cincinnati, Ohio
🌺💘🌷 get to know your mutuals ! when you get this, it means someone wants to know more about you, so list 5 things about yourself you want your followers to know. they can be as simple as your age or as complex as your deepest fear, as long as it’s something you’re comfortable with sharing. when you’re done, send this to 10 people you want to get to know better ! 🌷💘🌺
Ohh thank you my dear!
1. I’m a Mom of 3 kiddos, ages 2, (almost) 7, and 8. Makes trying to get writing done a whole experience. But they’re good kiddos and Idk what I’d do without them.
2. I went to the School for Creative and Performing Arts in Cincinnati for high school and majored in Creative Writing. :) There was a brief MTV reality show made about my school in 2009-ish called “Taking the Stage.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjX4N3zJm9E <---Taking The Stage Trailer
My school boasts alumnis like Nick and Drew Lachey from 98 Degrees (they often showed up to Alumni day celebrations), Sarah Jessica Parker and Carmen Elektra. For some of my younger followers I literally went to school with Andy Biersack from the band Black Veil Brides. He was a year below me and quite infamous even before he became famous.
3. The Rolling Stones are my all time favorite band.
4. Gone With The Wind is my all time favorite film.
5. My worst habit is procrastinating......... *glances at all my WIPS nervously*
Do you have trouble remembering your past, so much that sometimes you wonder if you don’t have one? Do you often feel like your personality is flat, and dependent upon someone else in your life? Do you have a best friend, a lover, or a child that has a unique gift or talent, but lacks the drive to use it properly? Are you something other than a straight white cis man?
Your life may be in danger!
Don’t let yourself become just another fridged person or tragic backstory. Take your life into your own hands today, call Secondary Character Protection Services!
“No one ever wants to admit that they’re not in charge of their own life,” Agent DeWitt began, thumbing over the edge of the flyer. “It’s like saying that you’re not worth it. You’re not worth the story. You’re not worth--worth even naming. Do you know what your middle name is?”
“My name is Kate,” the young woman across from them said. She twisted her hands, crumpling the flyer between them. “Kate Jackson.”
“Kate,” DeWitt repeated with a smile. “Is that short for Katherine? Did your mother pick your name, or your father?”
“I don’t know.” She picked up her mug of coffee aggressively, taking a drink to buy herself time.
DeWitt smoothed out the flyer again, and set it between them. “That’s okay. Tell me about the person in your life that made you call me.” They tapped the number at the bottom of the flyer.
“He’s my boyfriend,” Kate said quietly. Her knuckles whitened on the mug handle. DeWitt offered her a packet of sugar. “He’s--well, he’s a great guy, Agent. I love him.”
“But?”
She shrugged, and her gaze settled somewhere above DeWitt’s head. “He was acting oddly, and I thought he might be cheating on me, so I confronted him about it. Turns out he was in some freak accident at the factory, and now he has powers over electricity. I made him an outfit to help him hide his identity. He found out that there’s this evil woman who’s--I don’t know. Doing something terrible. He told me the less I know, the better. It’s the only way to protect me.”
“What’s his superhero name he’s using?”
“Power Surge.”
DeWitt grimaced. “And he told you specifically, he’s not telling you anything to keep you safe? Do you know the name of the villain, at least?”
“Frosticle.”
The Agent choked on their coffee, and set it down carefully. “Oh, honey.” They cleared their throat. “Ms. Jackson, you are in very, very great danger. This is terrible writing.”
“You think so?” Kate brushed her hair out of her eyes. One wayward dark curl obstinately bounced back onto her cheek. DeWitt was sure it was the same artist who put her in a shirt that cut uncomfortably low.
“Can I ask you, Ms. Jackson, when your boyfriend is at work, or when he is out protecting the streets at night, what do you do?”
“Usually I sit in my underwear beside the window and watch for him to come back.”
“Do you bite your lip?”
“Yes. I mean, when I’m not arching my back at odd angles so that the moonlight can hit my breasts and my ass at the same time.”
DeWitt glanced nervously towards the diner’s large window; they half expected a rocket launcher to come flying through the glass at any moment. “I’m taking you into immediate protective custody.”
There was no sign above the Agency’s door; in fact, there was no separate building for it. DeWitt just led Kate into a sprawling office building, passing doctor’s offices, tax preparation offices, industry offices, even a tiny closet-sized space dedicated for selling other people’s stuff on eBay. When they finally stopped, the door only had SCPA stenciled on its window.
“Do you ever get people coming here looking to adopt a kitten?” Kate asked, squinting at it for a moment.
“Yeah. There are a lot of disappointed dyslexics in this town.” DeWitt unlocked the door with a swipe of their badge, then held it open to allow Kate to pass inside. The room was mostly empty, save for a single desk against one wall, and a few doors that bordered a more private office, a bathroom, and a small kitchen area. The interior walls were plastered with newspaper clippings about super occurrences from all over the greater metro area. Kate touched one of the clippings carefully.
“This is him. This is Trent,” Kate said quietly.
“You said you made his outfit, right?”
She nodded numbly, tracing her fingers along the edges of the black-and-white photo that saw Power Surge facing off against a burning building, smoke curling around him. His back was to the camera. She put her hand to her chest, and her eyes fluttered.
“It shows off his arms so nicely,” she breathed. Her chest heaved, and her shirt seemed to tighten over the impossible planes of her stomach.
DeWitt groaned. “We need to find that artist ASAP,” they muttered, and draped their suit coat over Kate’s shoulders. “Come inside and have a seat. I need to talk to my boss, and then we’ll draft a plan for you. You’re in danger of kidnapping at the very least. How long has your boyfriend been fighting this villain?”
“Frosticle,” Kate supplied.
“That’s such a terrible name,” DeWitt whispered, but led Kate over to a white couch anyway. Kate draped herself across it, the suit coat slipping off her shoulders to pool around her elbows.
“Trent only just found out about her. She’s started freezing pipe lines leading into the upper district of the city. You know, where the big corporations are taking all the potable water and selling it?”
“While the poor still don’t have clean drinking water downtown, yeah. Typical mirror of current events.”
“I guess so. But the pipe lines are bursting and causing huge damage to the subway system that the same people depend on, so.” She shrugged. “Trent is trying to stop her.”
DeWitt leaned against the arm of the couch thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose he’s tried talking to her about it?”
“You can’t reason with someone like Frosticle. She’s crazy. And she hates men, so she won’t give him the time of day anyway.”
“Is that what your boyfriend told you?”
“That’s all he’ll tell me.” She sighed. Her bosom heaved. Her curly hair spilled over her shoulder. DeWitt could already see her broken and bloody on the floor, light framing her from a busted window in a clear display of martyrdom meant to make this Power Surge realize his true potential.
This was worse than the child sidekick they had put into witness protection three weeks ago.
“AGENT DEWITT!” The voice boomed from the corner office, and the door swung open to show a tall, broad man in a three-piece suit. He wore two eye patches, one over each eye. “THIS IS THE CASE YOU WERE TELLING ME ABOUT? BRING HER INTO MY OFFICE!”
Kate startled, and nearly fell off the couch. She nearly fell out of her bra, too.
“Yes, sir,” DeWitt called back, and offered her a hand up. “Chief Special Agent is a little loud, but you get used to him.”
“He has two eye patches. How does he see?”
“Sometimes I think he uses his voice for echolocation. Don’t worry, it’ll be a short conversation. Whoever writes his dialogue only knows how to steal from motivational posters.” DeWitt led her into the office. A shiny placard repeated CHIEF SPECIAL AGENT, and there were stacks of paper on one side of the desk covered in nothing but scribbles that were supposed to reflect writing. The walls were papered with repeated images of a kitten hanging from a branch, hang in there written beneath each sad-looking cat.
Chief sat behind his desk, steepling his fingers and making his shoulders even more impossibly wide. Kate could have laid across them from end to end and hardly need to curl her toes to fit. DeWitt was fairly certain the artist had no idea what human proportions were.
“YOU TWO CAN SURVIVE THIS. YOU JUST HAVE TO WORK TOGETHER.”
“Yes, sir,” DeWitt answered.
Kate’s hair disheveled from the force of Chief’s voice.
“REMEMBER THERE IS NO I IN TEAM. THE CITY IS COUNTING ON YOU.”
“Of course, sir.”
“WELL, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? GET BACK OUT THERE, AGENT DEWITT. YOU’RE OUR LAST HOPE.”
DeWitt escorted Kate back out of the office. The kittens swam in front of her vision.
“Our last hope?” she repeated, alarmed. “Is there some bigger danger that you’re fighting?”
They leaned back against the door with a sigh, then rubbed at their eyes a moment. Exhaustion pulled at their cheeks, before they cracked a smile. “No, Ms. Jackson. The Chief was the first one I saved, you see. He was slated as a police chief that was the inspiration behind a cop-turned-superhero. He was only ever written to be a supportive father figure. I only narrowly got him out alive, but some of the writing stuck. He means well, and I give him the big office, otherwise he starts to get anxious. I have to try and keep him close to his script for his sake.”
Kate tugged at her curls, trying to smooth them back down. “I don’t understand. How do you know all of this? And how--how are you going to save me?”
DeWitt pulled their suitcoat back up around Kate’s shoulders. “For starters, we’re going to buy you some new clothes. Then, Ms. Jackson, we’re going to rewrite your story. Are you ready?”
*****************
No one was ever really ready to rewrite their story.
DeWitt stared at the pouring rain, collar of their overcoat turned up against the chill, holding a smoking cigarette in one hand. They didn’t even smoke, but they had to think, and they knew this was the only way it was going to happen.
Kate wasn’t ready. DeWitt saw it in the way she moved. She couldn’t keep the sway out of her hips. She kept wetting her lips with her tongue, but her lipstick never smeared. She walked on her toes. Her back had an unnatural curve. Even DeWitt found her irresistible, and this wasn’t even the story they belonged in. Hell, they didn’t belong in any story.
“Agent DeWitt?” Kate stood in the pouring rain. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. She had followed orders and gotten a new outfit, one that was a relaxed fit and covered her from neck to ankles. Unfortunately, she had chosen a delicate and white fabric, and the downpour left it plastered to her every curve, even showing a flower-decorated bra underneath. And her jeans still hugged her hips. “Agent DeWitt, are you okay? You look--”
“Broody, I know,” they sighed. “I had to spend some time thinking, is all.” They dropped the cigarette, crushing it under heel. “And noir is the best way to think. I’m sorry about the rain.”
She blinked up towards the heavy clouds. Water trickled down her face. Her makeup didn’t so much as smudge. “I was thinking less broody, more mysterious. Why is the Chief a Special Agent, by the way, and you’re just an Agent?”
“There’s nothing special about me, Ms. Jackson.” DeWitt grimaced. They were not going to be the mysterious love interest if it killed them. “I was hoping you would buy sweat pants and an oversized hoodie.”
“I could borrow one of Trent’s hoodies. I wear it all the time.”
“Yeah, wearing that and just your underwear?”
Her mouth formed a perfect, innocent o. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.” They pushed away from the shelter of the low overhang at last, and tilted their hat against the rain. They didn’t remember putting on a hat when they left. “Damn it, there’s another one.”
“Another what?”
“Continuity error,” DeWitt explained. “Mistakes that happen for the sake of the aesthetic. Here, you can stay with me tonight. We’re going to practice changing your script.”
“Your place?” she repeated. “You sure it won’t be putting you in danger?”
“Not at all. Like I said, you’re not in my story.”
She took their arm to walk, stepping cautiously around the deeper puddles. Streetlights played across the dirty asphalt, and it took less time than it should have to reach their apartment. DeWitt guessed the artist didn’t want to draw any more cityscape panels today. They could hardly blame them. Windows took too many measurements, and with the rain there would be too many dramatic reflections and ominous foreshadowing.
“This is a cute place,” Kate remarked, toweling off her hair once they were in the safety of the apartment. “But...there’s only one bed. Where are you going to sleep?”
“What?” DeWitt dropped their cup of tea. It shattered dramatically, spilling hot water across their fingers. They swore, but the word only came out a series of asterisks. “No, I have a two-bedroom apartment.”
Kate stared at them as if they were insane. “This is a studio apartment, Agent. I can see everything from here. There’s only that one door to the bathroom, where I got this towel. You only have one bed.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” they said through gritted teeth.
Kate looked at the empty space beside the coffee table. “What couch?”
They dropped their head into their arms. “Fanfiction writers must be taking their turn.” With another sigh, they went to clean up the mug at last. “Listen, my first story was a slow-burn romance, too. Back when I was a private investigator. I was hired by a pretty dame, and she was in heaps of trouble. Well, I did everything that I could to help her. I fell in love with her.”
“What happened?”
DeWitt shrugged, the broken pieces of the tea cup scattering into the trash can like a broken heart. Tea dripped from their fingers. “We slept together, and when I woke up, she was gone. She had gone outside to smoke a cigarette, and was kidnapped. Beaten to death by an enemy I didn’t even know I had.”
Kate gasped. Her bosom heaved. The towel dropped from her trembling hands. “That’s horrible.”
“What’s horrible is she was never even named,” DeWitt snarled, using the anger to piece themselves back together. “I called her babe. Ms. Jackson, do you know why I introduced myself to you as Agent DeWitt?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t have a first name. Agent DeWitt is it. But at least I have a name, I have a profession, I have more than just a tight skirt and a plotline that’s only meant to end in pain and death.” They crossed the room, and took Kate’s hands gently. “So you are going to put on comfortable, loose-fitting clothing. You are going to sleep on the bed, alone. I am going to stare out the window all night and think of the love that I lost, because my angst will distract the writers long enough that you can get a good night’s sleep.”
“But...but what about Trent?”
DeWitt leaned forward to kiss her brow. The touch would be enough to satisfy for now, they hoped. “We’ll start on you and Trent in the morning. I promise.”
Kate’s hands lingered on DeWitt’s. She stroked her fingers across the back of their hands. “I’m sorry about your babe.”
They pulled away. Somehow, the hat they kept throwing in the trash was back on, and DeWitt gave in and pulled the brim lower over their eyes, casting a long shadow across their face. “Get some rest, Ms. Jackson.”
This music program continues to grow each day, which means the cost will keep on increasing as they continue to pay staff & get more equipment/props. However, as of right now, the marching band, indoor drumline, winter guard, and indoor winds have been cancelled. Uniforms, staff’s pay, competitions, etc. all depend on members’ fees and donations. They’ve all worked so hard;
2016-2017: marching band (3rd in CSBC, 1st in WBA), drumline (silver medalists in SCPA), guard (silver medalists in WGASC), winds (gold medalists in ADLA). Please help contribute to let these kids enjoy something that means the world to them and share the link as well. Thank you!
I’m heading your way this weekend, February 25! I’ll be giving a solo piano concert to raise money for the Anna Weinstein Piano Scholarship Fund, which provides piano lessons for students that can’t afford them. 🎹 🎹 🎹
I would love to see you there! The ticket price includes a dessert reception 🍰🍧🍨, and all proceeds go towards the scholarship. For more info, or to get a ticket, visit the link below!
