c.c askew

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Yoga Hosers: Yoga Hosers: A Sundance Super Special

A red-hot collectible previously only available at the Sundance Film Festival, Smodcomics proudly presents the official prequel to Kevin Smith’s Yoga Hosers, starring Johnny Depp, Harley Quinn Smith, and Lily-Rose Depp! Since the remarkably charismatic duo of Colleen C. and Colleen M. debuted in the horror-comedy film Tusk, fans have been clamoring for more of these 15-year-old yoga nuts… and with Yoga Hosers: A Sundance Super Special, True North Trilogy devotees will finally see the continuation of their story! What is the secret “eh-rigin” of these convenience store clerks destined to face the monsters of Manitoba? How did fate bring two Colleens together to survive all the craziness that Winnipeg could throw at them? And can they harness Moksha, the ultimate goal of yoga, to destroy everything that threatens the things they love, eh? - $1.99

hanni-chan-rising  asked:

6, for Will

6. the one where when you dream you’re seeing whatever your soulmate is currently experiencing.

It hadn’t happened often, for Will. Oh, he’d heard stories of couples– soulmates who had spent their whole lives living in fragments of the other’s consciousness. Stepping through their dreams, and feeling the light of their other half’s life.

For Will, it started when he was a child. Young, by all accounts; young enough that the nightmares that sent him screaming into his father’s room were considered just that. Another bad dream. Too much television, maybe, or the stress of moving to a new city. Again.

They stopped for a time, after that. And there were no more flashes of a stone fireplace, or the terrible, biting cold. No more laughing in a language he didn’t understand consciously, but which pulled at his heartstrings and made him want to curl into his blankets and hide. It was like the world on the other end of his soulmate bond had simply withered, and the world had turned to grey.

He asked his father if it was possible for your soulmate to die; he hadn’t liked the answer.

The day with the fish, Will realized that his soulmate was alive. And living, for the first time in years. In the space behind his eyelids, Will saw the sunlight on the glittering, iridescent scales, and the red blood that gathered under them. He knew this sight, it was as familiar as his own hands; but they weren’t his hands, turning the fish, and clearing away the entrails with a flick of a sharp blade.

He knew, when the man appeared around the corner, what he was going to do. What his soulmate he tried to tell himself– not him, never him!– had planned. He wasn’t sure why this man needed to die, but his other half was so very sure. And maybe he did, Will comforted himself. Maybe the word was better off without him.

He had moved, he realized when he woke up. The harsh, clipped language of before had become something he recognized. It was French.

The man with the fish was the first, but not the last. And there were good moments woven through the carnage; there were studies and anatomy, and Will watched and learned as his soulmate’s delicate touch dissected cadaverous flesh with the same ease as he did the living– and when he woke up from those dreams, Will could still smell the formaldehyde in the back of his nose.

He never saw the man’s reflection, but he looked. Sometimes there was a flash of dark hair at the edge of his vision, but it was rare. Mostly, Will could see his hands as he worked, and he learned to love those hands. He dreamed of their graceful articulation, their eloquence, and imagined the feel of them on his skin.

His soulmate was far away, he could feel the truth of it in his bones.

When he father died, Will wondered seriously for the first time if his soulmate could see him, as well. And if he did, was he as disappointed in the quiet life he had lead? An endless monotony of schools and new towns, bullies. And the vague sense that he would be floating forever, rootless, a round peg in a square small town hole.

Will started university when he was 18. By now the dreams had become clearer, and he knew that the distance between them was smaller. The connection between them didn’t vibrate and strain with the same hopelessness that it once had, and Will felt as though he could almost reach out across it. He didn’t dare.

It was, he considered, probably like reaching for clouds. Sometimes they looked so close you could touch them. But no matter how high you stretched your arms, you were never tall enough.

One day he walked into the morgue. On the table were deftly dissected pieces of one-living heart, bloodless now and seeping preservative.

There were hands in white nitrile gloves. And Will didn’t need to see beneath them to know the shape and the lines of them, the tracework of bones beneath skin that he knew would be pale.

He had wondered all of his life what would happen when they met.

“Oh..” Will murmured, stumbling a step back against the stairwell, “You’re here.”