My favorite recent example of memetic mutation is how the Spanish-speaking internet has now established any picture of a character smoking a comically large cigarette or a comical amount of cigarettes as the visual language for saying something is peak cinema.
Similar to the Martin Scorsese "absolute cinema" meme, over the course of the last couple years it became a meme to use this picture of Mads Mikkelsen smoking a cigarette as a reaction pic (both unironically and ironically) for the quality of a movie or TV show, commonly captioned as "en efecto, es cine" ("indeed, it is cinema"), "joder, esto si es cine" ("fuck, now this is cinema"), or "hoy ganó el cine" ("today cinema won").
This led to people establishing the visual shorthand of "cigarette = good show/movie" (such as people commenting a single cigarette emoji under screencaps or gifsets of movies), and eventually the meme of treating the size of the cigarette and/or number of cigarettes as being directly representative of cinematic quality, leading to reaction pics like these being used.
You’re small, young, your face is hardly the size of your father’s hand.
You were once small enough to fit in one arm, he says.
You’re small, and young and afraid of the space between your room’s door and the bathroom’s door.
You’re small, and your friends at school made a little house with the desks at lunch and told scary stories and you’re afraid of your sister’s barbies.
The space between your room’s door and your parent’s is less scary than the one to the bathroom, and your dad is always willing to hug you when you lay in front of him in the bed, even if he is asleep.
You’re still pretty small, the smallest in your classroom, and your sister played a game which made her so afraid she woke you up to ask to sleep with you. She’s older than you, by just a few years, but in that moment, it feels like you’re suddenly a warrior, full of fire and faith and you tell her you will stay awake with her silently, so your parents don’t notice.
You stay in the living room, your parent’s door closed, you stay awake until you get hungry, and you make fried ham, and your mom wakes up to the smell and tells you to go to sleep after eating.
You hold your sister’s hand anyways and you both sleep well, knowing the other is beside if one of you should need her.
You’re not so small anymore, your face is bigger than your dad’s hand now, and you aren’t afraid of the space between the door and the bathroom, but of the shadow in the corner you see at the foot of your bed when you are trying to fall asleep and the only light is that of the street, peeking through the window.
You’re not so small anymore, you shouldn’t be so scared of a movie, you think. But the wind rattles the trees, and there are sounds coming from the roof, and your dad is always warm and willing to hug you even if you wake him just so he can hug you for a while before you go to sleep. He isn’t home much, but when he is you can always count on his arms which he says held you when your head was smaller than his palm.
You’re really not very small anymore, and you should be better than to get nightmares from a video of all things. But the thought of a world so full of despair makes you shiver, and tremble and your teeth are trembling, and you want your mom and your dad and everyone to live forever full and happy.
You’re not very small anymore, you don’t fit in the bed, but your dad has always been willing to hug you when you’re scared. Even if only spirits are awake and you are big enough to know better, and he does, he does hug you to sleep, and you fall asleep warmed, knowing you could be thirty and he would still be willing if the need arises.
Pull a trigger, make a beating heart out of the carved flesh you tore out
Of the throat from the corpse that lays at your feet
At the mouth of the bunker there is a girl with a button,
What is just, is this justice ? Who gets to decide that?
The judge or the executioner?
Faith is beautiful when you put it in the right place but may any god help you if you put it in the wrong one
There are three answers in a room, but none of them match your question
So which will you choose?
The girl is not a girl, she is not a boy either, she is hardly a human at all
Peel back her skin and her smile and let's see what's left underneath that.
There were eleven children in one room, one pulled a trigger and now we lack two.
What is justice? Who is just? This easily defiled thing, as fragile as glass, as branding as iron, as soft a petal, as unbending as steel
There are ninety-nine killers in one room, push the button. You'll become one too
Give the just a gun and revenge shall be made, give the greedy a gun and a crime shall be orchestrated, give the wrathful a gun and a mistake will be committed, give the innocent a gun and watch the tragedy play out
The Collette is a gun of gravity, a parlor trick more bark than bite.
A detective doesn't really prevent much crime. They are only critics of all those who try to commit the perfect act.
Tear out a cardiac vein, twist it and weave it and put it in the wrist of your best friend
Murder is easy, just bite down in a heart.
So what shall we do now?
Don't cry, tears don't do anything for you
Open your bleeding ribcage and take out the ticking bomb called heart
What is just, should I kill a man? Is murdering a murderer just or is that too far? These crimes could have been prevented, if only anyone cared at all.
The truth is simple; the truth does not exist. This are both facts, these are both perspectives. She gazes at the clues lined in the wall; in her hands rests a knife which has cut many times, in her hands lie entire lives. She stares into the eyes of everyone she passes; she cannot afford to miss a slight fact.
The Colette is a gun of gravity, the bullet pushed only by the earth itself. Its reload takes time the mechanism has to align itself. It is not a quick draw; it is a calculated move, but for all of its draw back the Colette has a job to do. It is not for self-defense, it is not for easy killing; it’s a parlor trick with not much filling.
But the Colette is still a gun, and it can be deadly wielded well.
The truth is simple, she is a critic of the deadly artist of the night, that artist called criminal whose art is painted is illegal acts. In her hands she hold a knife called law, and from this fight one might not come out.
Many are the lies, surrounding the many acts, and under her watchful eyes they unravel; revealing all which humanity can do when at its lowest, when the time and place align unbearably right.
Making a person capable of murder requires only the right ingredients, a bit of desperation, a slight of hand, a pinch of bravery and the bitter reality of life.
The truth does not exist, is a criminal really a criminal when we force their hand? When we leave all the wrongs left so unchecked they learn there is only one way out? What goes through the criminal’s mind when they hold a heart in their hand and then bite down? Is the wretched worthy of living? Should we be the ones to decide that?
There are ninety-nine killers in one room. Push the button and you will become one too.
When is a mystery is better let a mystery? When does my knife cut the righteous hand? There are many perspectives, none of them are right, none of them are wrong either. But which one shall we draw? A murder is a murder, but the truth does not exist, so this is not a fact.
The Collete is a gun of gravity, it is made for one job only and only one job it does right. It is a parlor trick, which can be deadly wielded right.
Her knife is dull in everyday life, it holds not much value, in the light of all. The only place it cuts is in the presence of a lie. Sometimes they call it destiny, sometimes they call it fate, but to her, her knife has only one name and that name is law.
Person A is a witch parent, who every night brushes their children’s hair and, like otters blow bubbles into their pups’ fur to help them stay insulated, Person A whispers and braids enchantments into their children’s hair to keep them safe and protect them and help them.
She does it every night, without fail, since the day she was born.
The wolves rub into her when it's time to go to sleep, leaning their weight in her. Almost always toppling her and it is in this a t that she knows the wolves bid her goodnight and promises another day of learning in the forest tomorrow.
But mother's sings into her hair diferently. She does it reverently, feverishly, almost like a nightly prayer for the morning to arrive and never let the shadows touch a single hair in her head.
Mother has many secrets, many stories full of people she has never met and whose names mother never speaks outsider of stories.
Her hair is long and black. It reaches down to the floor and it will stay that way until the day she leaves her mother's protective arms.
She sings songs of protection, of guarding, of caution, of luck. She weaves between the braids ribbons full of enchantments made especially to meld together with the spells she lays in each strand of her hair.
Another week. Another job. Another Sunday she tries to forget.
She wonders how things could have ended up like this?
With her working for a government who did not give a shit about any of the people they were supposed to be providing and protecting.
Her mother had warned her; 'you carry your heart in your sleeve. And that is a dangerous thing to let people see.'
She wishes she had ended up like her ancestors. In a caravan in a travelling troupe or a circus. Maybe even being a conman would have been better than this.
She takes a swing from the bottle, halfway full now.
Oh, gentle wind,
Won’t you tell me, in a summer night, how it feels like?
To fly?
You who caresses bird’s wings
Like a gentle lover
In the spring.
Oh, gentle wind,
Won’t you tell me,
When the flowers fall
In the chilling feeling of autumn nights?
How it feels like,
To fly
You who carries so many secrets,
All the stories, of all life
And holds them gently,
Like a mother to a newborn child
In the cold of winter
To keep warm
Oh, gentle wind,
Will you tell me? Come back the warmth of summer nights?
The truth is simple; the truth does not exist. This are both facts, these are both perspectives. She gazes at the clues lined in the wall; in her hands rests a knife which has cut many times, in her hands lie entire lives. She stares into the eyes of everyone she passes; she cannot afford to miss a slight fact.
The Colette is a gun of gravity, the bullet pushed only by the earth itself. Its reload takes time the mechanism has to align itself. It is not a quick draw; it is a calculated move, but for all of its draw back the Colette has a job to do. It is not for self-defense, it is not for easy killing; it’s a parlor trick with not much filling.
But the Colette is still a gun, and it can be deadly wielded well.
The truth is simple, she is a critic of the deadly artist of the night, that artist called criminal whose art is painted is illegal acts. In her hands she hold a knife called law, and from this fight one might not come out.
Many are the lies, surrounding the many acts, and under her watchful eyes they unravel; revealing all which humanity can do when at its lowest, when the time and place align unbearably right.
Making a person capable of murder requires only the right ingredients, a bit of desperation, a slight of hand, a pinch of bravery and the bitter reality of life.
The truth does not exist, is a criminal really a criminal when we force their hand? When we leave all the wrongs left so unchecked they learn there is only one way out? What goes through the criminal’s mind when they hold a heart in their hand and then bite down? Is the wretched worthy of living? Should we be the ones to decide that?
There are ninety-nine killers in one room. Push the button and you will become one too.
When is a mystery is better let a mystery? When does my knife cut the righteous hand? There are many perspectives, none of them are right, none of them are wrong either. But which one shall we draw? A murder is a murder, but the truth does not exist, so this is not a fact.
The Collete is a gun of gravity, it is made for one job only and only one job it does right. It is a parlor trick, which can be deadly wielded right.
Her knife is dull in everyday life, it holds not much value, in the light of all. The only place it cuts is in the presence of a lie. Sometimes they call it destiny, sometimes they call it fate, but to her, her knife has only one name and that name is law.
Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than the atoms in your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about the universe: we are all stardust. You wouldn't be here if stars hadn't exploded because the elements (the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, all the things that matter for evolution) weren't created at the beginning of time, they were created in stars. So forget Jesus. Stars died so you could live.
He skated his eyes over the many pictures and stickynotes in the walls tied with strigs if they were only concrete it almost couldn’t be seen over them, and turned towards his fidgeting companin who waited beside him like a nervious bride waiting for the groom’s mother aproval.
“It could look worse,” he says, It’s possible ok? “but if you think I am going to spend the rest of my time with you down here if it doesn’t improve then you’ve got another thing coming.”
They smile. A rare thing. He looks away, he can’t fall inlove yet. Not yet
King in the corner had not moved, he did not want to move.
The Knight walked up to him, the fire of their soul shining through their eyes.
“We have to get going King, we need a plan.” The Knight announced.
King did not move.
“We have no time for this King, we can not afford to waist time like this King!” The Kinght shouted.
King still did not move.
The Knight walked up to King, their little hands reached, and pulled, King from their position, making him look up at them.
“We cannot waste more time King!! So GET UP!!” Knight pleaded.
King snapped.
“What do you want me to do Kinght!? What do you want me to do!? I’m scared Kinght, I’m so scared I can’t even think straight at all. How am I supposed to help them if I can’t even get ourselves out of this GODDAMED CELL!?” King shouted, pushing Knight back andd rising from his crouched position.
“What, you think I’m not scared? But we have to help them anyways, we have to help them or else no one else will.
We’re all scared, this is no decetive’s job, it shouldn’t be our job. But we have to do it anyways, we have to do it because the rest won’t
We’re all scared. Be angrier than that. Be spiteful. Be compassionate. And do it anyway, because you are The King. I am your Knight. We are all that’s left of hope’s flame and we will burn fucking brighter than anyone before or after us!” Shouted Knight, their usually calm and playful tone replaced by the desperate shout of a True Knight.
The King raised his head and shook it, his shoulders shook and his eyes looked tearful, but he stood tall and walked fowards, his Knight right behind him.
