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'49 was a Bad Year by ZiBaricon
'49 was a Bad Year
Whoop, did an illustration for the short stories I did with Boyer. If you're interested, they're in three parts:

NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year
NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year Part II
NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year Part III

WARNING: The story does contain self-harm and alcoholism, so if you're not comfortable with that, don't read it.
AHAHA! I finished draft 2 for Noir! Final word count: 91,548!
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: strong language)
Why can’t we ever have normal faculty meetings?

Stepping in from the harsh cold, I stomped the snow off my feet. I could already hear the crash of pins and bowling balls across the room, along with the chattering of my fellow coworkers. With a sigh, I went up the stairs. Christmas garland wrapped itself around the handrails, despite January already being half over—as if the holiday wasn’t already gluttonous on time.

I should’ve just came late, I thought. At least I’d bypass this small talk before we actually get to business. Making my way towards the bar—Stop that! Just get the damn shoes and be done with it!

Making my way towards the shoe counter, I watched all the professors mingle—squabbling over points, clinking glasses together, and yammering on about their winter break.

Slipping on the rentals, it wasn’t long before someone was on my case. Erickson crouched down, meeting my eyes with a mouthful of chips and a dished caked in salsa.

“Boyer! I’ve been waiting for you!”

“What now?”

“Try this! Tell me how authentic it tastes!”

Tilting my head, I eyed the sauce. My sinuses squirmed at the mere smell of it. “I’m not eating that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t eat spicy food.” Laces tied, I got back on my feet.

“But you know what real salsa tastes like, right?”

“As opposed to what? Counterfeit salsa?”

“You know what I mean! Just try it!”


“Willy!” Is that a headache coming on? That twiggy prick Sampson wandered over, still insisting on that full suit with that cheap smile. Did he not understand casual wear?

“Can you believe this guy?” said Erickson. “Won’t eat spicy food!”

“You should make those pumpkin bars next time! I’m sure he’s got the sweet tooth for that!” Grin widening, he jabbed me in the stomach. Before I could act upon my desire to snap that pencil neck of his, Sampson wrapped an arm around me and yanked me towards the bowling alley.

“What did you do on your break?” he asked.

“Nothing of importance.”

“Come on! How was the family?”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“You can’t just not do anything on the holidays!” Sitting near the scorekeeping table were Turner and Mullins. Turner eyed us, fingers drumming against his thigh while Mullins stared off into space, oblivious of our arrival entirely.

“It’s fine—”

“Didn’t even celebrate New Years?”


“Come on! It’s finally good ol’ ‘54! A perfect chance at a fresh start!” Pulling up a chair, Sampson peered at the score pad. “Didn’t you two get started?”

“Why didn’t you grab Erickson?” asked Turner. Of course those two had to sit evenly on the damn bench. No matter what spot I pick, I’m huddled up next to someone.

“Willy’s a better bowler.”

“No one’s taking this shit seriously. Pick someone less weird!”

“I already invited him!” The twig grabbed his ball.

Turner groaned, sprawling himself onto more of the bench with his gangling limbs. I took my chances near Mullins, who only then came back to reality. She grinned at me, her bug-eyes swiveling around in her oversized head.

“Good evening!” she said. “I’m glad you could join us!”

“It wasn’t voluntary.”

“How was your birthday?”

My insides frosted over. How does she know my birthday? I’ve never told anyone! She must know more than she’s letting on—that’s ridiculous! There’s no way she does! Lucky guess? Must be—no, she sounds confident! Who is she working for? Why is she doing this? Is she toying with me—

“Mr. Boyer?”

“How did you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That I just had a birthday!”

She waved her hand, rolling her eyes. “You’re such a Capricorn.”


“Your sign. You just scream Capricorn.”

I stared. “That’s the most arbitrary reason I’ve ever heard.”

“As your kind would say.”

“Myra! It’s your turn!” Sampson jotted down his spare.

She stood up, wandering over to the lane. As she selected her bowling ball, there was that nagging feeling that I was being watched. It was only when Turner coughed did I notice him much closer than he was before.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“You weren’t even watching her bend over!”

“Why would I?”

He leaned in. “Do you like girls?”

If this isn’t a loaded question, then I don’t know what is. “Sure.”


“What the hell are you getting at?”

He flicked my hair—my curls rested halfway down my back now. “What kind of man lets their hair get that long? There’s something wrong with you!”

“I’m sure there’s a good reason he grows it out!” Sampson said behind a forced grin, eyes darting away from the topic.

“Like what?” Somehow, I don’t think, “It keeps me from screaming at my reflection,” is the answer they’re looking for.

I groaned. “How uneducated do you have to be to not realize that it’s part of my culture?”

The prying bastard paused, glancing at Sampson for confirmation. Met with a shrug, he turned back to me. “It’s—I knew that! It’s just strange is all!”

“Lay off the damn pills,” I said. “They’re warping your mind.”

“They’re for my heart!”

Glaring at the snickering twig, Turner folded his arms and fumed. Mullins returned to her seat, exasperated at the split pins she left behind.

“Your turn, Mr. Boyer.”

Giving myself distance from the conversation, I staked out a ball—one with holes big enough to accommodate my gloves. Five years already, and not a soul knows anything of what I’ve done. Either I lucked out or everyone I’ve met has loose change for brains.

I walked to the isle. How long will this last? Someone must’ve figured this out by now. Was it just a matter of finding me? I don’t want to run again—I never knew stability could be so comforting.

The ball rolled down the lane. Kind of wish I had someone to at least talk to—Don’t be dense! That’s what got you in this mess in the first place!


Keep to yourself—it’s safer.
NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year Part III
Part 1: NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year
Part 2: NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year Part II

That's it for this short! I'll keep making others with the rest of the Noir cast, though I'll do more Boyer if there's a demand for it.

If you'd like to see more Noir content, check out the blog here:
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: strong language)
This is killing my back.

I sat up, spine cracking. Even through the blankets, the hardwood floor sent chills all through me. A month in a new apartment, and I still couldn’t afford a damn mattress. Rain pelted against the glass, the low rumbling of thunder acting as my alarm clock.

How pointless, I thought. Not a single call. At this rate, I’ll be homeless by November—Someone has to call! I’ve applied for everything thrown at me! What’s wrong? Is it my resume? Shuffling through my small pile of belongings, I pulled out a sheet. Utterly bare. 30 years old and nothing to show for it—not that I never worked, mind you. It was just the fact my previous occupation wasn’t exactly glamorous.

Still, plenty of what I applied for didn’t require work experience. There was no reason I saw that I couldn’t at least get an interview. Mouth dry, I got to my feet and stumbled out to the kitchen.

I turned the knob, leaning down to drink straight from the faucet. The lack of anything was growing tiresome—no cookware, no furniture, not even the option to turn on the radiators if I wanted to make my money last.

The one exception to that rule I made was food—no more starving. I refused to go another day with hunger pains or trash picking. Couldn’t afford to get caught shoplifting out here, especially on the run. Opening the cupboard, I reached for a can of chickpeas.

Knock knock.

I ignored the door. Probably that damn neighbor again—


The telephone! Scrambling over to it, I grabbed the receiver—Wait, now. Let it ring twice. Don’t make them think you’re desperate. Once it chimed again, I picked up.


“Hello, is this William Boyer?”

“It is.” Still not used to that name.

“This is Grogerstone University calling about your application.”

Wh—huh? “Yes?”

“Would you be able to come in tomorrow for an interview?”

Wait— “Sure, what time?”

“How does one o’clock work for you?”

“Fine. Would you like me to bring anything?”

“No, just show up with appropriate attire. If you have any questions, please call. Have a good day, sir.”


I lost my appetite. Grogerstone University? I applied for that on a whim! I didn’t think they of all people would call back! My fingers tugged at my hair. I don’t even have teaching credentials! Are they really hurting that much for a professor?

Maybe they didn’t look at the resume—No, they must’ve. My phone number’s on there. Are they out of their minds? This has to be a joke. Where’s that liquor—

Stop it. This might be a real offer! I could finally get that mattress—Shit! I only have until tomorrow to not look like a complete madman! Glancing down to my wrapped-up hands, they still stung from the other night.

Not able to let this strange opportunity slip by, I rushed to the bathroom. Facing the opened medicine cabinet, I grabbed onto the swinging door. Stop being a fussy bastard and look. I flipped it shut, facing the mirror.

“You look just like—”


Err—That wasn’t meant to be out loud. Already off to a fine start at being normal. I tilted my head, examining all that needed to be done.

The stubble has to go. Just have to grab some shaving cream and a razor—Is that a good idea? Based on personal history—How else am I going to shave without a razor? Can’t snip it short enough with scissors. Just get rid of it before the interview!

I took a deep breath—plink. What the hell was that? A stray button laid in the sink. My eyes trailed down. Son of a bitch. My shirt found itself a new gap—admittedly a tighter fit now than I remembered. It exposed a patch of my stomach, hairy and swollen. Perfect! I don’t just look like a demented bird, but now a fat one too! I’m fucking disgusting!

There’s no way they’ll take me seriously! No matter what I do, there’s always going to be something wrong. I should just save myself the embarrassment—

Money. Need the money. This is the only call in a month! Who knows if anyone else will be dumb enough to consider me! I have to take it—

I’m not a professor and I’m not in my right mind! I’m barely a real person! I’m—


No one misses me. I wouldn’t miss me. Why can’t I just disappear in more ways than one? Just fade out of existence and become someone different. A clean slate. Someone better. Someone smarter! Someone worthwhile! Rushing out of the bathroom, I donned my shoes and flew out the door.

Someone else!

By the time I returned home, the street lights were lit up. Shaking the rain off me, I hauled my newly aquired supplies and hiked up the stairs. No wonder the rent was so low—five flights of stairs was agonizing! By the time I reached the sixth story, my legs burned.

When I slid the key into the lock, a voice shouted to me.

“HEY! There you are!”

I turned to face a mess of gray hair. Plump as she was shrill, the elderly woman trotted towards me. That’s the one that keeps knocking on the door!

“Deary me, you’re an elusive one!”

“You don’t know the half of it.”


“Nothing. What do you want?”

She held out her hand. “We haven’t met yet. I’m your neighbor! You can call me Maggie.”


There was a pause. Not taking a hint, she reached over and grabbed my hand. Squeezing, the woman shook it. That took all of my willpower to keep myself from shouting, pain shooting through me.

“Gloves, but no coat?”

“It’s at the dry cleaner’s.” I yanked my hand back.

“Oh! Of course! So, what brings you to our little neck of the woods?” Please, please, please stop talking to me.


“What kind of work?”



“I’m not sure yet. I have an interview tomorrow.”

“Aw, you really are new around here, aren’t you? Good luck with your interview!” She patted my arm, trying to catch glimpses at my bags—nosy old woman!

“If you don’t mind, I should sleep—”

“Dear, you have a button missing.” Dammit!

“I know, I’m—”

“Would you like me to sew it back on?” Behind her, more curious seniors poked their heads out from what I presumed to be her place. The whole lot of them watched.

“No, I’m fine—”

“Come over to my apartment and I’ll patch it up! You can meet some of the other girls here—”

“I don’t need—”

“It’ll be quick! I just need your shirt.” She walked down the hall, leading the way.

Deadbolt turned, doorknob locked, chain in place. I’m not getting shirtless in front of a cribbage party! I could still hear them chattering outside, exchanging conspiracy theories. Hard to make out the words from their hushed tones, but I at least heard, “What a strange lad! Did you see his nose?”

Getting back to business, I ripped open my bags and dug through my purchases. I threw my new attire on, brushing it smooth and fussing with the cuffs. Who am I kidding? Look at all this wasted money. Why did I do this? With a sigh, I trudged to the bathroom to face the deed I had done.

The man in the reflection was not someone I recognized. Between the new button-up, vest, and tie, I didn’t look pudgy—enough slack to thin my figure out. Everything else downwards also matched in color, adding to the surreal look of professionalism.

Though a dumb thought earlier, I started to like the round spectacles I found—small enough to see over them so not to suffer a headache, yet somehow made me look smarter. At the very least, more educated—quite a feat for someone that didn’t pass grade school!

The best part was the gloves. Honestly, I just bought them so I didn’t have to explain the bandages during the interview, but seeing them on me gave a weird feeling. A good one, but certainly not anything I was used to. How to describe it? Powerful. In control. No longer did I get that sinking pang of worthlessness upon seeing my hands, but instead a surge of moxie.

When I stood in front of Grogerstone the next day, clean shaven and sporting my new look, I somehow felt at ease. I don’t know why—I was still grossly under qualified for the job, yet my head didn’t spew so much bile. Still a few comments, but so many others faded to the back of my mind. Checking the time, I went up the stone steps.

I am William Boyer.
NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year Part II
Part 1: NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year
Part 3: NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year Part III

I got a lot of good feedback on the previous one across various websites, so I decided to make this one a three-parter! If you'd like to see more Noir content, check out the blog here:
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: violence/gore and strong language)
What the hell is wrong with this place?

No matter what street I turned on or flashing lights attracted my attention, not a single diner was opened. Eight o’clock and the entire damn city was shut down. I get it—it’s dark, but what do these people do at night? No clubs, no restaurants, not even the pharmacy! Did no one have emergencies at late hours?

Furious by this, my empty stomach wailed. Stabbing pains followed, all because I didn’t get the memo about curfew. It certainly was no New York—the fact that not a human being wandered the vacant streets made the night all the more insidious.

Giving up on finding any sustenance until morning, I drove towards the outskirts to the motel I saw along the way: Sweet Dreams Inn. Did the local mafia name that? Certainly looked like a hotspot for the underworld—patches of shingles missing, the pavement cracked with potholes, and paint peeling from the doors. At least it was well lit, with enough street lamps lining the lot to double as a landing strip. That was enough for me.

I stepped out of the car, only to grip the hood for stability. My legs tingled, wobbling under what little weight I had—ten straight hours of driving will do that. Taking a minute to breathe, feeling returned to my lower limbs and I stumbled towards the front office.

Inside the smoky haze, a blond woman leaned back with a magazine in hand and a cig between her lips. She sat behind a counter, cluttered with a service bell buried under sheets of paper. It was only when I leaned against the creaky surface did she glance up.

“Buenas tardes,” she said.

“I don’t know Spanish.”

“Really? You look—nevermind. Want a room?”

“Why else would I be here?”

“No need to be a sourpuss.” She reached over for a form, handing it to me with a pen. “Just sign here and here. $5 for a room.”

Digging through my pockets, I peeled a bill and handed it over. I paid her no mind as I signed a name—”William” sounds common. What about a surname? “Johnson” is too obvious. Same with “Smith.” “Boyer”? I’ve heard that name before. Plain enough.

I only noticed the woman’s stare when I handed over the pen, which she took so daintily by its end. Looking back at it, the reason was obvious: red gunk smeared all the way down—my bandages were already bleeding through.

“Do you need a doctor for your hands?”


“Because I can call one—”

“It’s fine.”

She paused, tossing the utensil into the trash bin. “How’d you manage that—”

“Stovetop. Where’s my key?”

I snatched it from her and and staggered out, reading “04” on the label. Making my way back to the car for all I could scrounge up on short notice, I grabbed my belongings and wandered to my room. That damn headache was already coming back by the time I undid the lock.

The smell of mildew inside didn’t help any, nor did the ongoing hum through the walls. Flipping the switch, the ceiling fan squeaked as it turned, rhymically adding to the white noise with each rotation. The room itself wasn’t much—a lumpy bed and a dingy bathroom. It was better than nothing only by technicality.

I locked the door, dropped what I had, and collapsed onto the bed. Between my skull throbbing, my stomach pains, and my heart refusing to slow down, I just wanted to pass out. My brain had other plans.

Just focus on the room, I thought to myself. Is there a newspaper around? Anything to read? Maybe in the drawers—of course the stand’s all the way across the room!

What’s that carpet stain from? Doesn’t look red, at least. Coffee? Is there coffee here? I need a drink—No! Wallpaper. What a disgusting pattern—so busy. Who thought that was a good idea? The world has no shortage of bad ideas—

It’s fine. No one saw me. No one knows me. Just keep my nose down and it’ll pass—No, it won’t. There’s no way they don’t know. They’ll send someone after me once they figure out where I am—Then skip to another town. It was easy enough the first time.

Why did I do that? Now I’m stuck fleeing for my life—It was his fault! All of it! Two-faced piece of shit! I never wanted this! Why did I ever bother with him? Just because he talked to me a few times? I’m a fucking idiot. At least he had that much right—Quiet—Stop!

What’s that hum coming from? Is it the electricity? Is it wired right? What luck it’d be to get all the way out here only to die from an electrical fire. I need a drink—dammit!

What am I doing tomorrow? Eating. Definitely eating. Should I stay here? It’s less busy, at least. So far, not a bad choice—

This headache would go away if I drank something. I’d get some sleep, too. There’s a bottle in the bag. Doesn’t have to be that much. Just enough to quiet my mind—I can’t! What if someone shows up? What if the cops knock on my door? I need to be alert—What’s the point? I’d be doomed anyways. Why did I bother running? Not like I have anything to look forward to—

Don’t. Just forget the bottle and—Well, it’s already in my hand. Just need to get the top off and I can get some sleep—What a news story that’d be! “Wanted Madman Arrested While Plastered!” Put it down and figure out a plan—Just enough to get rid of this headache! That’s not a lot to ask for, is it? Just a sip—

The glass shattered on the blacktop, booze splashing against the shards. What happened? My arm was extended. I was at the door. I threw it—right in the middle of the parking lot. Did anyone see that? I glanced around. When I saw no bystanders, I shut the door and locked it again.

Great. What a waste of money—It’s better off this way. Keep your head clear—Not exactly easy to do that with this damn headache! Maybe a shower would help? Not like there’s anything else to do here.

The bulb flickered, with the steady drip of the showerhead adding to the racket. At least on full blast, it was a continuous noise that melted into the background. Drawing the curtain, I grabbed the complimentary soap and stepped in.

I should’ve changed my bandages before this, or at least wrapped them better—the suds stung no matter how I held the bar. Gingerly washing with this in mind, it was at least a tolerable experience. Hell, the shower was actually hot. Water pressure of a fire hydrant, but I’d take that over the cold.

Hopping out and wrapped in a towel, I looked to the mirror—fogged. For the best, really. It didn’t need to tell me how shoddy I looked after a day like today. Couldn’t even get a finger through the curly, tangled mess of hair.

Am I easy to recognize? The hair can change, but what about the rest of me? Or am I enough of a nobody to blend in? My nose certainly stands out—looks like a damn beak—

“You look just like that flaky bastard—”

Why did I throw that bottle? This is the last thing I need to think about—Just focus on what you’re doing.

Turning the knob, water spilled from the faucet.

Dry off and try to get some sleep.

I twisted it farther.

Don’t even look at the mirror—It’s fogged anyways! What does it matter?

Steam rose.

Stop thinking about—

“I never wanted you in the first place!”


Only when the initial pain subsided did I yank my hands from the burning water. The bandages were drenched, sponging in all the goo and washed-out blood, with a fresh coat soaking through. Son of a bitch!

Careful to not do anymore damage, I peeled the wrappings off. It was only red underneath—my hands were never going to heal at this rate. Not that they’d make a full recovery in the first place, but at least to the point where they didn’t ooze everywhere.

I pulled out more gauze from my bag, steadily re-wrapping my hands. Not too tight. Go around enough times so it doesn’t bleed through. Do each finger separately.

What would even happen if I bound this with all my fingers touching? Would the skin fuse together? Would I end up with deformed mitten-hands? Not really a hypothesis I’d like to test, but I am curious—What was I thinking about before all this?

Now with fresh bandages, there was one place beckoning me: the bed. Bumbling out, I flopped face-first into the mess of springs and padding. Coils dug in, with only the blankets softening the pressure points. My brain was still rattling in my head, but at least it was quieting down.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but the sun’s glare through the shades was enough of a wake-up call. Rolling over, the clock read 10:35. Finally! There has to be stores open by now! Ignoring my innards strangling themselves for my attention, I toppled out of bed, got my shoes back on, and stepped out.

Making sure not to roll over the glass from last night, I drove into the city. People! Who would have thought I’d get a thrill of seeing other humans? Back and forth on the crosswalk, up and down the shopping strip, and in and out of my one and only mission in life at that moment: a diner. I grabbed the first spot I could and rushed for the door.

Recently refurbished, the place was as clean as an operating room: tiles polished, countertops wiped down, even the jukebox was spotless. I shuffled over to a stool, eyeing any and every dish around. I didn’t care if half the food was fried beyond recognition—I wanted it.

“What would you like?” I snapped back to attention towards the waitress standing in front of me. She kept smiling, yet her eyes couldn’t help but glance down at my hands.


“You need to be more specific, honey.”

“Uh . . . burger. A burger with fries.”

The woman jotted this down. “And to drink?”

Dammit. “Coffee.”

“How would you like that?”

With vodka. “Black.”

“Alrighty! Won’t be too long for your order.” The waitress left, wandering to the back kitchen window with her note before continuing on to other patrons.

A few seats down was a man and five pancakes lathered in maple syrup—the sweet scent drove me crazy. A dollop of whipped cream on top was squished down, spreading the sugar all across the surface. Syrup dribbled off the edge, pooling around the bottom pieces and dousing them. The lucky bastard cut his brunch with the side of the fork. Bread crumbs tumbled into the gooey lake and the pancakes themselves plump with flour and butter.


Ripped from my long-distance admiration, the waitress laid my plate before me. It was colossal—how could anyone wrap their jaw around such a thick sampling of meat? The bun was just as large, somehow able to contain the pile of melted cheese, chopped onions, and moist pickles together with all this. The fries—

“If you don’t mind me asking,” said the waitress, “what happened to your—”

“Boiling water.”

If she responded to that, then I don’t have the damnest idea what she said. I gorged—there wasn’t a moment without food in my mouth, with pieces large enough that I have no clue how the hell I didn’t choke. Juicy and tender, the burger slid down well with the crunchy toppings and handful after handful of fries. The plate was cleared and I drowned it all, chugging coffee like I was a human funnel.

It had been far too long since I remembered the last time I felt this stuffed—or even full. The meal weighed down inside me, the dull ache more than welcomed. While I took in some needed deep breaths, the waitress slid the bill near me. Dropping the coins down, I got back to my feet.

I lurched back towards the car when a newsboy waved. Young and dirty, he thrusted the paper at me.

“Five cents!”

Might as well figure out what’s going on in this crazy town. I handed over a nickel. He grinned, presenting me with the news.

“Thanks! Hey, what did you do with your hands?”

“Dunked them in acid.”

“Why’d you do a thing like that?”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

I kept walking, flipping my purchase open. Thumbing through, I found the page.

NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year
Part 2: NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year Part II
Part 3: NOIR SHORT: '49 was a Bad Year Part III

Heeeey guyyyys!

I decided to start writing some shorts for Noir to entice people for the novel. They'll vary with tones and themes (this one's pretty dark), but all will take place in the Noir universe. Let me know if you're into this and I'll keep posting them! If you'd like to see more Noir content, check out the blog here:

Since I finally decided on a pen name, I've set up social media for that Noir novel I'm working on! First draft done and halfway through second! Aiming to get it to a literary agent sometime next year when it's complete.

Once published, you will find the book under the name Beck Keep (Beck to keep my gender ambiguous because haha, woman can't write thrillers and Keep because Burg means "Castle," and apparently there's a fictional character that uses the pen name Castle already so I picked a word relating to it).

If you're interested in following the latest updates of my book, I've got a Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook set up as Beck Keep! A personal website will be at but I need a wait a day before I can get it up there (it'll be the Tumblr account set on its own site). I'll edit this when that's ready.


Edit: Got working!

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Add a Comment:
TheSkull31 Featured By Owner Feb 10, 2015  Student General Artist
Hey, Beck. First of all, I want to congratulate you for surpassing the 100,000 view mark. Second, quick question because I use Skype: do you and Rick Skype?
ZiBaricon Featured By Owner Feb 21, 2015  Professional General Artist
Thank you!

I actually don't really get use Skype, to be honest—neither does Rick. We're kind of social recluses that way.
TheSkull31 Featured By Owner Feb 21, 2015  Student General Artist
kibalover028 Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2014  Student Writer
Thankyou for joining:iconlove-writing:. I hope you enjoy our group:)
TFFanGirl2011 Featured By Owner Nov 6, 2014  Professional Digital Artist
Hey, i heard you got married. Congrates.
ZiBaricon Featured By Owner Dec 2, 2014  Professional General Artist
Thank you!
TheSkull31 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2014  Student General Artist
Hey there, Rebecca. Number one fan of A Loonatic's Tale here. Would you like to check out this song that I wrote? It's called "Riley's Rap" and it's dedicated to your comic, A Loonatic's Tale.…
ZiBaricon Featured By Owner Sep 24, 2014  Professional General Artist
Oh, cool!  I'll go check it out!
TheSkull31 Featured By Owner Sep 25, 2014  Student General Artist
Jinx-chan11 Featured By Owner Jul 10, 2014  Student Traditional Artist
Hi my name is jinx and i really love your artwork and style..sorry i am very shy talking to people
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