#do you feel validated by a ghost ken

[ainosgarden]

were you his boy? were you his number one boy?

[cina-full-moon-xanadium]

Part of the reason I don’t like Gaim and Kiva - though definitely not the only reason - is that they just... really seem to resent being Kamen Rider?

In Kiva’s case, I compared it to Ken Penders’ Knuckles comic before; and one of the reasons for it is that like Penders, Inoue just doesn’t really seem to care for what Rider is and just wants to use it as a platform to do whatever he wants. And I mean, it’s not like Kamen Rider isn’t often like that -- I’ve compared modern Rider to Metal Heroes before, where aside from keeping in mind a few core ideals and a Rider Belt you can basically do whatever you want! You can have your hero be a ghost with heavy religious overtones, you can have your hero be a doctor in the middle of a medical drama with video games, you can have a high school drama about space. All of these are valid, Kamen Rider doesn’t necessarily have to be a billion retellings of Shocker and I wouldn’t want it to be!

But the thing with that is, l said as long as they keep a few core ideals in mind. And this is what’s important to me and why even when I’m not hot on something like Ex-Aid or Wizard they’re still set apart from Gaim and Kiva for me -- because they’re still about saving people. They’re about heroics. They’re about ultimately good people having that heroism challenged and ultimately winning through with their ideals and getting through to others about it. I don’t think Wizard is fantastic at it, and I don’t think Ex-Aid is terribly well-written - well, that’s a lie; I don’t really remember much about Ex-Aid - but I have little trouble accepting them as Kamen Riders.

But Kiva and Gaim are... very much not about that. Not about any of that at all. They’re far more about a battle royale or some king of the vampires or whatever, and that doesn’t necessarily doom them - again, I dislike them for other reasons - but I look at them and I can’t help but feel an antipathy to Kamen Rider as a concept.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Satellite Mind

A/N  I can’t stop myself.  I’m weak!  Weak!  The Saorsa-sequel is coming along, but the Metric universe just won’t leave me alone.  This story takes place just after Lost Kitten and Gimme Sympathy.  Previous fics are available on my AO3 page.

Oh, and mild warning for foul language, if that’s not your thing.

The song by Metric that inspired the title and a few lines is here.

January 14, 2017, Spittalfields, England

“I’m happy for you, Geillis, really.  I mean... Cartagena, wow.  You can, what?  Dabble in the emerald market?”

Her friend saw right through Claire’s glass face to her latent fear of abandonment.  Fiercely independent, a precious handful of friendships and habits anchored her in the world.  Without those tethers, she lived with a nameless dread that she might spin off into the void, lost in a great emptiness.

“Dinna lie tae me, Claire Beauchamp.  Ye havna left yer bed in the twenty-four hours since I told ye.  Ye’re jus’ starin’ up at the ceiling.  Ye ken I wouldna ever want tae leave ya were it no’ for someone truly special.  Juan Carlos, he’s...”

“Built like a stevedore and hung like a stallion, I believe were your exact words,” she interrupted, smiling despite herself at Geillis’ moonstruck infatuation.  The redhead had met the Columbian businessman at a New Year’s celebration and now, two weeks’ later, had dropped the bombshell that she was planning on following him back across the Atlantic in the spring, leaving Claire without a roommate just as her income was nearly halved by the commencement of her medical studies.

“Aye, he is that.  Everyone thinks I’m mad, but it’s the real thing between he and I.  I jus’ feel it.  Ye’ll ken the feeling yerself one day.  But I willna leave ye high an’ dry.  I’ll see ye settled, a’fore I go.”

Claire doubted that very much.  It was Geillis’ name on the lease, which meant that as soon as she gave notice their landlord was free to increase the rent.   Spittalfields was moving upmarket as one dilapidated industrial building after another was converted into lofts and chic office space for the urban gentry.  There was no way she’d be able to afford the new payment at their current flat, even if she could find another roommate she could stomach.  And moving out on her own was equally out of the question.   The ghost of her past mistakes haunted her most when she was alone.

***

February 2, 2017, Royal London Hospital, England

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”  A metal spoon clattered into the break-room sink and a few other nurses glanced over, trying to decide if bloodshed between the two was imminent.

“Tis is a matter of some debate,” Geillis replied, undaunted.  She’d expected this reaction, which was why she’d cornered Claire during the short overlap between their shifts when she couldn’t run away.  At least the British Army had left Afghanistan, although South Sudan was still a possibility.

“James Fraser.  You approached Jamie Fraser, without my permission I might add, to find out whether he still had a room to let.  I cannot fucking believe you, Geillis Duncan!   Where do you get off...”

“First,” Geillis interrupted the predicted tirade by holding up her index finger, “you yerself remarked on his lovely flat, and how fastidious he was.  Second, tis in the neighbourhood an’ right around the corner from tha’ chipstand ye love.  Third, ye’re both shift workers and will hardly see each other.  Fourth, if ye do bump inta the wee fox cub when he’s runnin’ about in his skivvies, weel, thas a hardship many a lass would be willing tae face in yer place.  And fifth,” here Geillis raised her palm and outstretched fingers right in front of Claire’s nose, “ye can afford it.”

Claire huffed, but was otherwise silent.  She couldn’t deny that Geillis’ points were mostly valid, but she hated the idea of accepting charity from Jamie, of being seen as a burden.  If she’d approached him herself, perhaps...

“Wait a second.  How did you even know Jamie still had a room to let?  Have you been in contact with him?”  Something toxic simmered in her belly.   Geillis and Jamie texting each other.   Talking about her behind her back.  Sharing intimacies from which she was excluded.   It was a flashback of a feeling that hit too close to home for comfort.

“Och, no.  Didna I tell ya?  I ken the lad’s uncle, Dougal Mackenzie.  Bald as a billiard cue, but tha’ man can fuck for hours.  I remember one time, we were...”

“Oh my god, Geillis, please tell me you didn’t cheat on Jamie with his uncle!”

“It canna be cheatin’ if ye were ne’er together tae begin wi’,” Geillis pronounced.  “Ye’re too ecclesiastical by half, Beauchamp.  T’anyway, I hadna met Dougal when yon lad and I had our... dalliance.  But imagine ma surprise when I showed up tae meet Dougal at Bethall Fire Station in a wee red dress tighter than a nun’s chuff, an’ standin’ right next tae him is the fox cub, face turning bright as a forge.  Twas an awkward moment tae be sure, even measurin’ by my very high standards.”

***

February 13, 2017, Spittalfields, England

“Ye’ll be wantin’ tae look about the kitchen, I reckon.  Twas the only room ye didna really see, when ye were here last.  An’ the storage locker, but there’s nought down there but sportin’ equipment tha’ reeks tae high heaven.  No’ that I dinna try tae wash out the stench, mind you.”  

Jamie resolved to limit himself to two word sentences for the rest of the tour.   Anything more was too great a risk to his dignity.

“It’s lovely, especially with the morning sunlight streaming through the windows.  How much is the monthly heating bill again?”

It was almost Valentine’s Day and Claire still didn’t know where she was going to live come March.  She’d flipped through free rental magazines and scrolled a few message boards, but hadn’t made any serious efforts to secure a new home.   She told herself she was too busy preparing for medical school and working full-time, but in the back closet of her mind she allowed the idea of moving in with Jamie to take root.   

Then, last night while drifting through the deep fog just before sleep she’d had a thought.   Living with Jamie would finally put an end to all of Geillis’ awkward match-making efforts.  If they were roommates, they couldn’t be anything else besides.  Rolling over and grabbing for her phone before she could second-guess herself, she fired off a quick text to the number Geillis had added to her Contacts under Wee Fox Cub.   Despite the late hour, two minutes later he texted back.   And now here she was, seriously contemplating the impossible.

They were sitting across from each other on the couch, negotiating terms.  Claire found herself making ridiculous demands, somehow hoping that Jamie would balk at the last minute and this perilous adventure would come to its natural end.

“I’ll be studying when I’m not on shift, so loud noise and music is a deal breaker for me,” she listed while eyeing the bowl of trail mix set out on the coffee table.

“I own a good pair o’ headphones, and my sister would tell ye there’s a reason I dinna sing outside o’ the shower.   Did ye want some?”  Jamie extended the bowl in her direction, but she shook her head.

“If I’m to live here, the flat will need to be ours equally.  I know you lived here first, but I’d be paying half the rent.  That means we share common elements down the middle.  Half the cabinet space, half of the refrigerator and freezer.”  She looked around the main room, where it was obvious Jamie did most of his living.  “I’d want to put my desk below the window there, where there’s lots of natural light.  I don’t want to always be hidden in my bedroom like some low-rent AirBnB guest.”

“O’ course,” Jamie quickly agreed.  “I can clear out some of my books and such from the shelves as weel.  And I was thinkin’ of movin’ the Xbox inta my room.  There’s ano’er TV in there, ye ken, so ye won’t be exposed tae my tears while I’m watchin’ Six Nations matches.”

“That won’t be necessary, Jamie.  I really don’t have many things.  Some holdover to my years living out of a suitcase with my uncle, I suppose.”

He was being altogether too agreeable.  It was time to break out the big guns.

“We need to talk about one last thing.  Some might think it usual for a young woman who is single, living with a young man who is single to feel a certain...”

“Wha’ makes ye think I’m single?” Jamie interrupted, and she snapped her mouth shut in surprise.

“Well, with your history with Geillis, and I’ve never seen you with someone, I just assumed...” she trailed off, fighting down the urge to bolt.

Jamie laughed.  “I’m teasin’ ye, Claire.  O’ course I’m single.  Do ye think I’d be contemplating inviting a bonnie lass tae share my flat if I were spoken for?”

“Well, that’s just the thing, isn’t it?  People might make assumptions.  One of us might do so as well.   Feelings would get hurt.  So I think it’s important to be very clear at the outset.  You seem like a lovely man, but there will never be anything between us.”

“Because of my history wi’ Geillis, y’mean?” Jamie asked.

“Well, that as well.  But also because I’ll be far too busy with work and my studies to sustain any kind of relationship, least of all with someone who, when things fall apart, would be in a position to leave me without a roof over my head.  I’ve been there before, and I don’t intend to ever go back.”

“Aye, I see.” Jamie nodded absently, obviously digesting this large morsel of information and not finding it entirely to his taste.

“So that’s my final stipulation.  I don’t mind if you have overnight visitors. You’re a grown man, and you can act as you please.  But we need to agree that any kind of romantic relationship between us is off-limits.”

Claire grabbed a handful of snacks and popped them into her mouth.  She observed Jamie as she chewed.  In retrospect, this was a brilliant move on her part.  If Jamie accepted, she would have solved for both her housing crisis and her ambivalent feelings towards the Scot.  And if he declined, well, that would tell her something too.

Squaring his shoulders, Jamie extended his hand.

“We’re agreed.”

And that was how Jamie and Claire became just roommates.

[davidpastrsnack]

i always manage to convince myself that i don’t deserve to be in a loving relationship. pls help 😔 every time things get close to being a relationship i freak out and will ghost the guy and idk how to stop

oh bb :( i’ve struggled with similar things and i think the most important step is to practice self love in whatever form feels best for you. you probably won’t feel comfortable opening up to someone in an intimate way until you can do it within yourself. i’m so insecure about every little thing and i definitely require a lot of validation to feel okay, but i would also trust your gut! if a guy is doing everything right and showing you all the signs that he’s in it for you then let yourself try it. this was me with ken, i convinced myself he was only in it for sex because that’s how it started but i finally gave in and i’m so happy i did. you are so worthy of love and you deserve it i promise 🤍

[desperationandgin]

Deep as the Road is Long (Part III, Chapter 17)

Rating: General Audiences

Also Read On: AO3

Previous Chapter

A/N: New (final???) mood board by the lovely @smashing-teacups as usual!

January 2017

It doesn’t take long to find an apartment close to Lallybroch, which means it’s about fifteen minutes away, but not so far that going back and forth is a chore. The worst part about the move was finally having no choice but to sort through all of Frank’s things she’d never gotten around to throwing away or donating. It was his clothing, mostly; when he’d first died she could press her face against the lapel of his coat and smell the lingering scent of pipe tobacco. It was comforting then - she hadn’t been able to say goodbye to him, the loss was sudden and he’d been gone hours by the time she was notified. As she’d stood in his closet and looked at the clothes, there’d been a quiet ache in her chest before remembering why she needed to finally give it all away.

Jamie was waiting for her.

The idea to stay only for a while turned into moving completely the day she’d returned to the States. The last thing she’d been expecting was an office relocation to a different city, far enough that she would need to move. It’d taken sitting with Jamie on the phone for hours to well and truly come to a decision. By the time two in the morning rolled around, she’d made her choice; her job in medicine was, well. A job. But the passion she’d felt for doctoring was quieter now - still there, but not nearly as urgent. She could treat people anywhere in the world if she wanted to eventually, so the idea of leaving her profession behind (at least for a little while) hadn’t seemed as daunting as it could have.

Now that she’s here, standing in her new living room among all of the boxes, she’s starting to feel somewhat overwhelmed. Trying to figure out a place to start, she opens a box and instantly her heart constricts in her chest. On top, with some other kitchen things, is a picture Faith drew what feels like an entire lifetime ago. Claire, Faith, and Jamie, little blue stick figures under a smiling sun. Putting it aside with reverence (along with a few other drawings), she decides to get frames for them, worthy of more than a magnet on the fridge. Digging out the rest of her things, she puts together the kitchen, wondering if she should cook something for supper in her new space when there’s a knock on the door. Only one person would drop by unannounced in all of Scotland, so she’s smiling when she tugs the door open to find Jamie standing there, Chinese take-out in one hand, wine bottle in the other.

“Hungry, Sassenach?”

Claire gives him a lopsided smile, stepping aside to let him in. “A little. Chinese food hadn’t crossed my mind.”

Jamie walks inside, puts his bounty on the kitchen counter and shrugs. “I thought I should make sure ye ken where to get the best take-away.”

Looking at the branding on the plastic bag, she raises an eyebrow. “A place called ‘Lucky Bowl’ is it?”

“Aye, I brought ye noodles with vegetables and such.” Holding the bag open, he shows her the various cartons, obviously more than just noodles.

When her stomach rumbles loudly at the aroma and prospect of being fed, she smirks, going for plates. “Mind reader, are you? I was just trying to decide what to do for supper. Thank you.” Leading the way to the kitchen, weaving around boxes, she clears space on the counter. “Smells appetizing so far.” Handing Jamie a corkscrew, a hand presses to her forehead. “Alright, plates and paper towels I have. Wineglasses are...somewhere in a box.”

“I’m certainly no’ opposed to drinking straight from the bottle. Unless that’s a wee bit too unsanitary for ye,” he teases.

She’s kissed him with her tongue so far down his throat that she’s positive concerns over germs won’t be an issue.

A few minutes later, they’re settled on the floor, sitting cross-legged beside one another and surrounded by boxes in various stages of being unpacked. They talk, about everything and nothing somehow at the same time, but it’s not until she’s polished off the noodles (as he’s finishing off a fourth eggroll) that she wipes at her mouth and takes a long sip of wine before speaking.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, about what I want to do. Who I want to be now,” she begins, wetting her lips. “Do I want to be the Claire Randall from Boston who worked tirelessly to build a career, or do I want to be who I was before that? Plain Claire Beauchamp and nothing more?”

Silence lapses between them for a few moments before Jamie puts his chopsticks down, pushing his plate aside to look at her. “First, I reckon ye’ve never in your life been nothing or plain. Second, if ye still have doubts because of me…”

Claire stops him, reaching out to press a hand to his knee. “Not this time, Jamie,” she promises. “I know I can do the work. I know on some level, even, I enjoy helping patients when the outcome is simple. Easy.” Quick solutions; prescriptions for antibiotics to clear up an infection, simple tools to pull objects out of little ears and noses. She’s never minded that part so much. “But you never know. Something little could turn into more, and then I’d be right back in that moment.” She can’t. She doesn’t know if there will ever be a time when she can watch another child suffer. “I’ve spent too much of my life already beating back grief. I think I’m…I’m too tired to do that anymore, Jamie.” Maybe one day, but not now. Not this soon.

Tentatively, Jamie’s hand reaches out so that his fingers can rest in her palm, feeling his body relax the moment she readjusts so that her own fingers can lace through his.

“Sassenach, I need to say this one more time. And this time I need to get what I have to say completely out.” His Adam’s apple bobs, hand squeezing around hers before speaking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything that I said. I’m sorry that I caused ye pain so deep ye disappeared for a little while and could no’ find yerself. I’m sorry that I made ye think ye were anythin’ less than incredible at what ye do. Christ, I’m sorry for makin’ ye weep. I’m sorry for no’ acknowledging ye were just as hurt. This isna any good excuse, but the pain felt so…” Jamie trails off, wetting his lips. “I felt as though I was split in two and the other half of me was in the ground.”

“Jamie…” Claire whispers his name, turning to face him fully now and reaching out, pushing curls behind his ears only to have them spring back out around his face. “I understand. And you’re right, it isn’t an excuse, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t valid. How you felt, how you’re still feeling, it’s difficult to deal with. Grief is numbing and overwhelming. It makes you blind to other people’s feelings sometimes. It hurt, I won’t lie to you. But I never thought they were things you thought and felt before she…” Before. Claire can’t say it.

For a moment, the two of them look at one another, her fingers still resting lightly against his cheek.

“Still, Sassenach. I’m so verra...verra sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking just a bit. “Can ye ever forgive me for it?”

Claire’s forehead presses to his softly and her eyes close, nose nuzzling along the length of his. “I told you before, and I still mean it. You’re forgiven.”

For a moment, her words hang in the air before he pulls back, just a little, leans in, then pulls away again, too much doubt keeping him from doing what he truly wants.

“Jamie?” Her voice is quiet, touched with a hint of concern as the hand not cradling one side of his face rests on his leg.

Swallowing hard, Jamie lets out a heavy breath of air. “Claire, I would...I would verra much like to kiss ye,” he whispers, eyes meeting hers. He hasn’t tried, hasn’t asked, hasn’t professed anything more than simply wanting to make amends before now.

Her eyes widen a little in shock, not that he would ask, but that he still wants to.

“May I?”

Christ, he’s so earnest, and Claire feels her own breath hitch at the way he asks, at the way he cares to do so in the first place. Managing a watery smile, she nods at him. “Yes.” By the time he leans in, her cheeks feel so heavy from smiling that she has to stop once he’s close enough to share the same air with her. When she can feel the ghost of his lips, he seems to hesitate, and the hand on his cheek slides down to his neck in encouragement.

“It feels as though I have no’ done this in a verra long time,” he whispers, nose grazing the side of hers.

A single tear falls down her cheek before closing the distance between them both and pressing her lips lightly against his. It’s a slow kiss, soft and tender as they find themselves again in one another. Even with the hurt from months ago, the grief and aching, she never stopped feeling for him. When she pulls back, just a bit, he stays close and presses his forehead to hers, eyes still closed.

“I still dream of ye, Sassenach,” he murmurs, covering her hand with his own. “Ye’d come to me, during moments of grief so consuming I thought I must die from the hurt. Ye soothed me wi’ your words and yer smile, but…” His thumb moves over the back of her hand lightly. “Ye never touched me.”

Another tear slips down her cheek. “I can touch you now.”

Leaning forward, he captures her lips once more, kissing her deeper, with a bit more heat behind it. This time when she breaks from him she pulls back enough to see his eyes. Thinking back, to the book of poems he gifted her, one of Claire’s hands takes his, covering it and pressing it to her chest.

“I carry your heart with me,” she whispers, nuzzling his nose again, closing her eyes.

She can feel his smile against her cheek, their tears falling together.

“I carry it in my heart.”

Next Chapter

[michael-radi-the-glamorous-life]

What Is Quarantine Theatre?

This is a big question, and one that many people are currently trying to answer:

How can we make and perform theatre from our current states of quarantine and extreme social distance?

I’ve seen and heard this topic explored all over the place, particularly over the past two weeks, as we all look forward into a summer likely to leave theaters across the country (and the world) with nothing but well-lit ghosts.

I’ve personally seen this question posed by:

The Dramatists Live (hosted by Joey Stock, Amanda Green, and Christine Toy Johnson weekly)

Lauren Gunderson on her Howlround TV show (excellent, by the way!)

Ken Davenport in his blog

Multiple Artistic Directors of professional theaters

The heads of several University Theatre Departments

Teaching Artist friends and colleagues

And several quarantine-specific online creator groups

And if that’s just what I’ve seen - without specifically searching on this topic - I imagine that theatrical people everywhere are looking for these same answers.

So, what are people coming up with?

Is It Theatre Or Film?

The first aspect of Quarantine Theatre that everyone has questioned is:

Can it be done live successfully, or must it be previously recorded? And does that negate its qualification as “theatre”?

Let’s look at some definitions of theatre:

The activity or profession of acting in, producing, directing, or writing plays.

A play or other activity or presentation considered in terms of its dramatic quality.

Entertainment in the form of a dramatic or diverting situation or series of events.

By these definitions, I would undoubtedly say yes - Quarantine Theatre over the internet qualifies as “theatre.”

However, I would also like to point out that the second and third definitions could easily apply to most of what we have separately deemed “film” and “television.” TV and film are, essentially, their own subcategories of theatre, for which we have created purposeful distinctions.

With that in mind, where do we draw the (somewhat arbitrary) line in our Quarantine Theatre between the genres of theatre and film? And should we?

Things to consider:

Was it recorded, either in part or in total?

Was any part of it performed live online?

Was it directed as a play or a piece of film?

Was it rehearsed as a play for live performance, or rehearsed to be filmed in multiple takes?

Was it edited before release?

Clearly, the lines can begin to blur very quickly, which seems to be making some theatre-creators uncomfortable and anxious.

But I don’t think it should!

Yes, theatre has always distinguished itself in the non-coronavirus world as the “live medium,” and it absolutely should. But we’re all also trying to make art and tell stories with the tools we have at our disposal, and there is nothing wrong with that.

No matter how we qualify these performances, they all fall under the umbrella definitions of “theatre,” and the work is therefore valid and should be celebrated.

How Can Live Performance Work?

I knew that creatives were - well - creative, but I am impressed with the amount of unique creativity that is being applied to online theatrical forms in order to allow them to be live.

Theatre people really are the best.

So, what kinds of online live performance are possible?

Before I answer that, I do want to point out two very important things that many people seem to be forgetting:

We have been streaming live theatre for decades, from the Tony Awards broadcast, to the live cable musical presentations, to live opera streams, and more! The concept as a whole isn’t new, although there are more considerations now than ever before.

Watching recordings of live theatrical performances is still watching theatre. Perhaps you aren’t in the same room and you therefore aren’t getting the full experience, but you are still watching a piece of theatre. And major organizations - Lincoln Center, the National Theater, the Kennedy Center - have been airing filmed theatrical events for years!

But what about in the age of Quarantine Theatre?

Here’s some of what I’ve seen and heard discussed by colleagues, friends, college students, and other professionals in the field:

Play Readings - Getting people to sit on video chat and read a script cold isn’t much different than getting them to do the same thing in your apartment. And as long as you’re prepared for the slight delay in sound and don’t attempt to overlap dialogue, it apparently works very well.

Zoom Plays - This is a blossoming new genre, which I find fascinating. Just as plays were specifically written and adapted for the medium of radio with all its perks and limitations, something similar is now happening with Zoom. These can be plays about events taking place over the internet, or even plays about people in remote locations. I can’t wait to hear more about this genre as it develops.

Video Chat Adaptation - It seems people are getting very creative at finding ways to make it seem as though people in distinct squares on a screen are in the same space. I’ve heard of this being done with a stage manager/producer admitting and removing people from the video chat as they enter and exit scenes. Or to distinguish two locations, using a certain color in the background or the lighting. And even giving illusions of proximity by passing props out of your screen to have the other actor pick up their own version of that prop in their screen. Super cool.

Live Emceeing - Some events, and TV shows that are normally live, are having an emcee or host that is presenting live, but incorporating pre-recorded material as well. Think of the Hamilton cast on Some Good News - they pre-recorded the song, but John Krasinski remained live.

Using Tracks - Although music cannot be played live over video chat to be sung along with, people are getting very creative in singing to tracks in multiple locations. Sally Murphy and Jessie Meuller did this with a non-simultaneous duet of “If I Loved You” over a Zoom call. And dancing to tracks can be done in multiple locations fairly easily as long as the tracks are synced across all the screens.

Pre-Recorded - And, of course, prerecorded material being streamed - even with live conversation being held online via YouTube or Facebook - has been popular with many theaters over the past few weeks. And I think this is a practice that is likely to continue and to grow.

And these are just some of the ideas I’ve seen and heard!

So, is it doable? Absolutely.

Is it new and different? Yep!

And is that bad? Not in the least.

Resilience

Civilizations rise and fall, but the tradition of theatre persists.

We’ve always found a way, and Quarantine Theatre will be no exception. Let’s celebrate creativity and enjoy as much of our art form as possible, even as it looks and feels a little different.

Happy creating, everyone!

Stay safe, stay healthy, stay home!

[whatisthisnonsense]

Okay you know what I am gonna talk shit in a proper well-thought-out manner because I’m salty and stressed and I may as well channel it into something fun like yelling about anime in an over the top display of angery as befitting this cesspool of a social media platform. This being said I’m gonna do it under a read-more ‘cause most of ya’ll ain’t got time for no negative nonsense and some of you genuinely enjoy Tri, and you know what, I respect you, you’re valid.

Okay so to explain how much I want to throw Bandai into a dumpster, we first need to go back and explain Adventure and the fiasco that was 02.

Digimon Adventure came out in 1999 (March 6th in japan and August 14th in the states, which coincidentally means this show came out exactly on my sixth birthday!) and lasted for about a year, with 54 episodes. The plot was simple; seven punkass grade schoolers turned out to have been chosen by fate to defend the Digital World, an alternate plane of reality created by various forms of digital information (the wee baby internet of the era, for example), mostly to kind of justify Bandai’s V-Pet (Tamogatchis but they’re gross and can FIGHT) and sell toys. So like, Transformers but with more human characters and kickass monsters and sometimes a lesson about the Power Of Friendship. Later, they find out they were chosen because they saw their neighborhood get wrecked by two monsters and Inexplicably Forgot This, as well as the fact there’s actually a missing member of their group (which less than surprisingly turned out to be the leader character’s little sister, who had already been seen in a prior episode and had also been involved in that early monster attack). It was hokey, the english dub generally bordered on that of a proto-abridged series if not aggressively sanitizing things (turning sake into green chili sauce, for example) and it was just good dumb fun and in the end everyone was crying anyway because dammit, while it was dumb fun you still cared about these characters and loved how they grew up. And then came 02.

Hoo boy. Digimon 02 came out in 2000 (April 2nd in japan and August 19th in the states) and lasted for another year or so. While sometimes listed as a second season, in truth it was a sequel series and it had...some interesting ideas, lets say. And I mean that sincerely! They did have some good ideas! But it was pretty clear from the lack of direction and the constant roller coaster of serious and stupid that it was being a sequel for the sake of being a sequel. For example, a whole new super secret crest turned up out of nowhere, which brings up a lot of questions in the lore but is mostly used to prove Ken isn’t irredeemable because he’s a Chosen Child ,as well as the questions about how this Crest is still present and useable and then literally gets no use. No Ultimate Form Wormmon for you, folks, NORMAL digivolution is out! I think I and @yunisverse have made our opinion on how to use that crest better clear while we’re being salty over Wizardmon, ha People have said that it’s big draw was that it had a heavier focus on character development and...yes and no? On the one hand, Ken and Cody’s arcs were genuinely enjoyable, Kindness shenanigans aside, as was occasionally exploring TK and Kari’s trauma, something often brushed over in the original series. On the other hand, more or less the whole of Adventure centered AROUND character growth where in 02 it’s...sporadic. Sometimes even random. However the main two reasons everyone was mad at 02 were these;

The original digidestined that were not Kari or TK got shunted onto the backburner, usually using excuses as they had given up their crest powers sometime between Our War Game and the present (despite that A) this is otherwise disregarding the fact they were supposedly not able to enter the digital world again until 02 and B) the power is literally inside them as part of their core, not something the digiworld actually gave to them, and while it could be diminished it could never actually be removed) or that it was the New Kids turn, often with wildly out of character personality developments. (Looking at you, Sora’s new docileness and Mimi’s lack of involvement in most of the plot period.)

The epilogue, which not only gave everyone really weird future jobs (why is Matt an astronaut?!) but also seemed pretty much out to be as aggressively Happily Ever After without actually stopping to think about any implications or actual lead-ups.

02 usually gets a pass from riding on the Adventure coattails, but everyone still tended to be at least disappointed in what had occurred. Also, more serious takes on Digimon, such as Tamers and some of the games, had been growing in popularity.

Thus Bandai, in it’s infinite wisdom, decided to cash back in on Nostalgia by focusing on the Adventure kids, making them closer to 02 so they’re older and they can therefore do more serious mature takes like Tamers, while also trying to rectify how they would even begin to come around to their epilogue jobs. They do this by killing the 02 cast in the first two minutes.

Welcome to Tri folks! Okay, so the 02 cast isn’t actually dead, but we don’t know where they are for six movies. Six movies!! The most we know for a few years is Ken, for some reason, has reverted to evil! And he has Imperialdramon, which implies Davis is brainwashed too!

He is basically doing this most of the series (which was initially going to be a mini-series before becoming a series of movies which then proceed to often be cut up into episodes, which that alone should tell you the problems BEHIND the scenes much less on screen) and we find out what he is (not actually Ken but an evil Gennai clone which is also out of nowhere) and what he’s doing (apparently bringing Yggdrasil, long time lore big bad of various digimon continuities and also god, into the Adventure storyline) not by efforts of the kids. Oh no. They’re too busy playing with their new friend Mei!

God I wish I was joking. The original squad literally shows no concern for where the 02 gang is until halfway through, and it’s a handwave at best and quickly moved on from. Hell, they barely react to “Ken” and CHEER on defeating Imperialdramon! More gravitas was given to having to kill the plot coupon of the day, Meicoonmon, than someone they actually know and should be upset about. Also making Tai NOT want to rush into a fight (what?), Turns Out Homeostatis Is Also Evil Or At Least Amoral (why), a reveal one of the backstory five original digidestined went mad with grief (no), and also I guess for some reason the kids and digimon were separated again given their reactions despite 02′s ending? That’s. That’s not even keeping your own continuity. Why are you like this. Also connecting to the epilogue just seem to be on a whim (not metaphor, Matt decides to be an astronaut on a whim), the general lack of gravitas in most moments followed by moments of SEVERE gravitas (which is the 02 problem but Worse), and bad jokes. I don’t mean Good Bad Jokes like Adventure, just really not funny jokes. And the real bitch of the matter? It had a few things that should’ve made it AWESOME! Like listen, I miss these idiot kids a lot, and the concept of a virus forcing a reboot on the digiworld and thus having to explore, finally, the digimon as characters and what they would be like without the kids? That’s cool! The idea of undoing all the Perma Digideaths (like WIZARDMON goddammit, and in this own show friggin’ Leomon again) with said reboot and thus having a pretty legitimate reason to allow it? Also cool! Worldbuilding about the previous five digidestined? Neat! And lets be real, you all cried at the cast version of Butter-Fly. You know you did. But the thing is they didn’t DO anything with most of this, or did it in a sloppy way. Example; the virus was basically a means to an end for waking up Yggdrasil (I’m not calling him King Drasil, that’s stupid), right? Why? When the Adventure-verse, often to it’s own detriment, is actively tied to the Milleniumon mythos, you could just pull in that eldritch horror and finally have Ryo make sense everywhere not japan. Or heck, the Dark Ocean! Remember the Dark Ocean? Where literally cthulu is and also Daemon now? Apparently neither do the script writers since that would’ve been a golden opportunity.  Of course, this would be asking for continuity, which Tri has issues with within its own narrative. Remember when I said the reboot should’ve undone all permadeaths? Yeah, Wizardmon still shows up as a ghost later to lead Kari out of trouble. No lines or anything, just pops up facing away from the audience and leads her out, and then vanishes, despite the fact that according to the rules they made up for the reboot, he should be a cute little Mokumon in Primary Village at the moment who remembers nothing. Also it kind of low-key has the vibe that growing up is terrible and results in having to make awful decisions? Which I’m not sure is what they meant to do, but it does pretty much have that end result. And that sucks! Even Tamers didn’t do that! Growing up is HARD, sure, but there are GOOD things about it too, and being Adventure one would think that would be the main focus! Nope. I just. This should have been good and when it was announced I was super excited and now I’m pretty much exasperated by its mere existence. And now we’re getting a sequel after ANOTHER timeskip.

Bandai if this is how you give us a nostalgia feels trip, do us a favor and let Adventure die. You’re just making the sugary memories of childhood have a bitter aftertaste. Or, if you must, just do a proper reboot. Tie up things that actually WERE wrong with the original series and do some clean ups but otherwise leave it untouched. We all know you’re trying to capture the magic twice, guys, you’re not even trying to hide it now. TL;DR, The only parts I like about Tri are Butter-Fly (cast version) and the fact Tai and Matt are gayer than ever

[ghostbustermelanieking]

praescitum chapter three

chapter one, chapter two

casefile, season 10, season 11: post-10x03: mulder and scully meet the weremonster. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: As Mulder and Scully adjust to their reassignment to the X-Files and working together in the wake of their separation, they find themselves investigating a small town and a ghost that apparently warns people of bad things to come.

---

three.

november, 2015

In the weeks following the departure of those X-Files agents, Joe's faith is tested several times.

His insistent claim—to Kenny, to those FBI agents, to Robbie and Bonnie and all the townspeople who'd heard about his son's claims (sometimes Joe really, really hates living in a small town; news travels so fucking easy)—that the ghost isn't real is validated when he and Robbie find Bear while trick-or-treating on Halloween night. Robbie is more than overjoyed, and Joe is relieved as well. Based off of some cuts, and the leaves and briars stuck in his fur, it looks like Bear just ran off into the woods for a few weeks, which is what Joe tells Robbie. He still believes, personally, that Ryan Caruthers (that little shit) is the one who let Bear out, but Bonnie refuses to let him confront the punk. (“I will not have you tormenting that child and ruining my friendship with Annie just to prove a point,” she says sternly one night. Bonnie is firm on the subject of Ryan, having always liked him, and Ryan is about the only thing Joe and Bonnie actually fight about. Another reason to resent that kid.) But still, when the dog shows up, Joe truly believes it's all over: his son's insistence that he's seeing the Willoughby Specter, and the town's hysteria over it, and hopefully his association with Ryan Caruthers.

But this firm disbelief is shaken when more people begin to report sightings.

Joe is dismissive at first. This happened in 2002, he tells himself and Kenny: some people claimed they saw the ghost, and suddenly everyone wanted to become a part of it—and the next thing he knew, three people were dead. But he refuses to indulge it at first. It's mostly teenagers or college students, anyways, insisting that they saw the ghost when they were probably either drunk or high. A couple claim to have a video that spooks Kenny and screams hoax to Joe. Mark Johnson even shows up, more sober than Joe has seen him in years, and says he definitely saw the ghost this time, for real, he's sure of it.

Joe gets tired of it after the sixth claim. He asks the seventh person who comes in, “Why the hell is everyone reporting to me, anyway? This is hardly a crime, and it isn't like there's anything I can do about it.”

The girl, who can't be more than fifteen or sixteen, shrugs in a nonplussed kind of way. “I came because I heard you called in FBI agents last time. I figured that you'd do that again.”

Joe has no intention of calling those agents back again, of course; it was a hassle enough, and plenty embarrassing when they found nothing. But the sightings keep getting called in, and all of a sudden, there's bad things happening to accompany them, popping up all over town. Mark Johnson loses his job. An man who calls a sighting in calls again the next day, hysterical because his parakeet has died. There's an accident at the high school that manages to get rid of everyone's grades and test scores for the entire year. A man is abruptly evicted, and insists that he saw the ghost the night before and had thought nothing of it. The reports keep coming in, in the same frantic flurrying matter of 2002, and Joe begins to get worried all over again. The last thing he wants is for someone to end up dead again, because of this hysteria, or phenomena, or however you want to describe it.

He calls Kenny over to the house one night, wanting to talk the whole thing over, see if Kenny thinks they need to call the FBI agents back in. He's not sure what the hell they can actually do—the man as much as admitted that they didn't think there was anything here, and even if they changed their minds, what could they actually do to stop it?—but he's wondering if getting them involved will help everyone to calm down.

Kenny agrees to come over immediately. He's always been enthusiastic about this sort of thing, found it exciting; Joe knew he'd be willing to help. He says he'll be over right away.

Joe waits for him by the door; he doesn't intend for it to be a long wait, but there's a strangely empty period where he doesn't get any texts from Kenny or see any headlights in the driveway. It should take Kenny about five minutes to get over to Joe's house, but a half hour passes and he still hasn't arrived. Bonnie is giving him strange looks from the couch where she's watching a movie with Robbie, and Joe is trying Kenny's phone to see if he changed his mind and getting voicemail every time.

And then Joe gets a call about a nasty wreck, a car flipped upside down a block away. Kenny's car.

Joe rushes to the hospital immediately to wait for his friend to get out of surgery. After several more hours waiting anxiously in the waiting room, the nurses reassure him that Kenny is going to be fine.

He is relieved, immensely so, calling Bonnie thankfully to give her and Robbie the news, but a very small part of him can't help but wonder: is this related to all the bad things that have happened in the town lately? Kenny was the one who believed in the ghost in the first place, Kenny seems like a likely candidate to get involved in this stuff. Maybe Joe could've stopped him from getting hurt if he'd just listened, if he'd done something about the damn sightings sooner.

It takes another day for Kenny to regain consciousness, and when he does, he doesn't actually bring up the ghost, to Joe's surprise. Joe has to bring it up himself. When he finally mentions it, Kenny's face twists up, just a little bit, and he sighs wearily. “Was wondering when someone would bring that up,” he says, rubbing at his eyes with his palm.

“So you saw it?” Joe asks, knotting his fingers together on top of his knees. “The Specter?”

Kenny bites his lower lip, nods. “Just before I crashed,” he says, his voice unsteady. “I looked over at the passenger seat, and there he was. Scared me half to death. He kinda pointed at me, and then I think I blacked out or  something. The next thing I knew, I was in my smashed car and I could hear sirens. Then I blacked out again.”

“Holy shit,” says Joe, who knows that Kenny wouldn't be making this stuff up. Part of him wants to ask if Kenny had done any drinking that night, but he knows Kenny wouldn't drive if he'd had enough to drink to see things that weren't there. And the rest of him can only steadfastly believe Kenny, because Kenny's his best friend, and he doesn't make things up. “Did it look the way Rob described it?” he asks, because those are the best comparison sources he has, his son and his best friend.

“Exactly like the stories, man,” says Kenny seriously. “Like how everyone's been saying. I think… I'm starting to think that… that this might be like what happened in 2002.” His face is halfway guilty as he looks away from Joe.

Joe sighs, rubbing his mouth. Considers the fact that someone has almost died. Whether it's a ghost or not, Kenny could've died, was seriously injured in relation to the Specter story. It hasn't escalated to the levels it did in 2002, this mania or haunting, but it easily could. If this is the same thing. Someone else could get hurt, or die…

“Ken, do you think… I should call those FBI agents back in?” he asks gingerly. “To calm people down? Or… to prevent this from escalating worse?”

“I'm not exactly sure what they could do, but it's worth a shot,” Kenny says quietly. “We need to try and make this stop. So it doesn't end like it did last time.”

---

Three things happen as a result of the were-lizard case Mulder and Scully take in Oregon a few days after they leave Willoughby.

The first is that Mulder regains whatever confidence he lost in Willoughby. It happens surprisingly, but it ends in a satisfying encounter where Mulder actually shakes hands with a friendly monster. Scully doesn't believe him, of course (or at least she pretends she doesn't), but he tells her that she has solved a case and caught a serial killer and should be proud of herself just for that. (“I didn't say I wasn't proud of myself, Mulder,” she says. “I said that were-lizards aren't real.” “My point is that we both accomplished things on this case,” Mulder retorts, sitting on the edge of her bed. Scully pats his knee as if sympathetic, but she's smiling, and that feels like something.)

The second is that Scully steals a dog. It's the dog who she bonded with at the animal shelter, she tells him, the one who reminded her of Queequeg. A little yippy brown-and-white puppy. The animal shelter was in such disarray after she caught the serial killer that no one noticed her taking him. Scully is holding the puppy in her lap as Mulder recounts all of this, scratching the top of his head, and Mulder is reminded of Guy Mann's story. “You know what's funny?” he says. “The were-lizard had a dog named Daggoo. Daggoo is a character from Moby Dick, right?”

Scully nods. “A harpooner. That's a strange coincidence.” She looks down at the dog with the affection she used to bestow on Queequeg, that little shit. “Maybe I should call this little guy Daggoo,” she says, petting his back, and Mulder smiles. Calls her a ruthless dog thief, and she sticks out her tongue in retribution, bumping her shoulder against his.

The third is that they start having dinner together. Not every night, not anything that they openly discuss, but it happens, likely as a result of the night they spend in Oregon after the case ends, sitting on Scully's bed in the new hotel (sans creepy animal heads and creepier owner), eating pizza and playing with Daggoo. (Scully is wearing his shirt, an ugly striped one that he hadn't even noticed was gone, for the second night in a row. Mulder dutifully pretends not to notice, but seeing her in it makes him feel warm from head to toe. He can't believe that she took it with her.) From then on, they eat together three or four nights a week. Mulder tries to pick nice places when it's his turn to pick. They aren't dating, not officially (they always go to restaurants because of the unspoken taboo on visiting each other's houses, broken only once by Scully during the Tad O'Malley incident), but it's something, and he wants to take Scully to the nice places he never took her all these years ago.

They are at one of these dinners when he gets the phone call from Sheriff O'Connell. He doesn't recognize the number and almost declines the call, but Scully notes, “Mulder, that's the Willoughby area code.”

He raises his eyebrows at her, impressed. “You have area codes memorized? That's impressive, Scully.”

“I saw O’Connell's number when he called you about the key to the Caruthers's apartment a couple weeks ago,” she says, raising her eyebrows matter-of-factly. “Go ahead and take the call, Mulder, it might be important.”

It's nearly shocking to hear Scully refer to a case that she repeatedly called a waste of time as potentially important, but he goes with it. He nods apologetically, unusually formal (as if he hasn't known her for nearly twenty-three years), and answers the call just as it starts to click over to voicemail. “Mulder,” he says, out of an age-old habit.

“Agent Mulder?” says a voice on the other end that he recognizes. “This is Sheriff O'Connell from Willoughby, Virginia.”

Across the table, Scully shoots him a questioning look, and he nods in confirmation. “Yes, Sheriff, I remember,” he says into the phone. “How can I help you?”

“Well…” The sheriff sounds uncomfortable, and Mulder can practically see him squirming with discomfort on the other end. “I’m sure you and your partner will be glad to know that we found Robbie's dog. He's okay, looks like he just ran off.”

“Oh, that is good news,” Mulder offers politely.

“Yeah, but…” There's an awkward pause in which Mulder can picture the squirming again. “Look, I know I said that this is a bunch of horseshit,” Joe says finally on the other end. “And I know you and your partner… kinda agreed… but weird stuff has been happening ever since you left town. People have been reporting sightings, and a bunch of bad stuff has been happening… an incident with the high school… my friend, Kenny—you remember Kenny?—was just in a bad car accident. He's all right, but he says…  he says he saw the ghost just before he crashed.”

His eyebrows raise at that, remembering Deputy Jacobs's seeming fascination with the ghost. He doesn't know if he believes the story of the Specter, doesn't know if he can believe claims of a sighting from Deputy Jacobs anymore than from those kids, but he'll admit, he's intrigued. “I'm sorry to hear about the accident,” he says.

“Thanks.” There's another few beats of silence before O'Connell adds, “I don't know if there's anything you can do about all this. And I don't know if it's even a ghost doing any of this. But people are really riled up, and they've been asking me to call you in. Would you and your partner mind…”

“Coming down to take a look?” Mulder asks. He shoots Scully a questioning look, expecting her to resist, but she shrugs, resigned. She did say on their last case that she forgot how fun these cases could be; maybe the Willoughby Specter factors into that. “Sure, we could do that,” he says. “How soon would you need us there?”

---

It's oddly cold the morning they leave for Willoughby again. Mulder drives this time, picking Scully up at her house, and she turns the heat all the way up as soon as she climbs in the car. “There was a malfunction with the computer, or whatever it is that controls the heating in my apartment,” she says, clenching her teeth so they don't shatter, holding her hands in front of the vent.

“I guess technology isn't everything,” Mulder says, teasing and Scully makes a face at him. On an impulse, he grabs one of her admittedly chilly hands and presses his mouth against her fingers briefly. Reaches for the gear shift as soon as he lets go. Neither of them say anything about it, not a word, but Scully tucks the hand into her lap as they pull away from the curb. They drive to Willoughby with the heat turned all the way up.

Sheriff O'Connell meets them at the police station, mug of steaming coffee in hand. He looks like he hasn't slept in a day or two, stubble dotting across his jaw and circles under his eyes. “Agents, good to see you again,” he says, rubbing at his face and extending a hand to shake theirs. “I have absolutely no idea of how to handle any of this. Do you have any experience with cases like this?”

“Something like that,” Scully says in a nearly ironic voice.

“I’m assuming you want all this activity in your town to stop?” Mulder asks, and O’Connell nods earnestly. “I won't lie and say that I know exactly how to do that, but I think there's a way to figure it all out. A method of sorts. I'd say the next step is to get as much information on this spirit as possible and try to prove that it is, actually, a spirit that's involved. Maybe try to understand the spirit's warnings in the first place in order to stop whatever follows the warning.”

“But the spirit isn't causing these events,” O'Connell says. “Even if it is real, it's not an… evil spirit.” He looks slightly disgusted at himself for actually uttering these words. “My objective in bringing the two of you in is to calm down the public, try and stop the mania before it goes too far and someone else ends up hurt or dead.”  

Scully is nodding. “I think that's wise, Sheriff,” she says. “And I think that Mulder's right, that we need to gather as much information as we can to understand the full picture. Why only one person has been experiencing this… mania… before now, and why others have been experiencing it recently. And how we can stop others from experiencing it in the future.”

“You're talking about Ryan Caruthers,” says the sheriff, “right? His involvement in this?”

Scully nods. “We'd like to talk to him, if you think you could arrange that.”

O’Connell shrugs, nods. “He never found out that I suspected him of letting Bear out. And there's some advantages to my wife being friends with his aunt.” He pulls out his phone and starts to type. “I'll see if she can arrange a meeting.”

---

O’Connell's wife does arrange a meeting with the kid, at their house later in the day. The three of them spend the morning picking through reports of other sightings—the ones from the past few weeks, and earlier ones from 2002 and further back. There doesn't seem to be any particular pattern, besides this: out of the ones on record at the police station, the only sightings that were not singular or very, very sparsely occurred in 2002 or 2015. The sightings accompanied by other many sightings.  

Later, Scully and Mulder follow the sheriff back to his house in their car. Scully drives while Mulder reviews his notes in the passenger seat. “I just don't understand it,” he says finally. “Why have there only been two occurrences of repeated sightings? And why 2002 and right now? Why are those years significant over other years? What does a flurry of sightings mean?”

“We don't know that there have only been two… occurrences of this widespread mania,” says Scully. “There have only been two occurrences on record at the police station, but the lore is as old as the town itself. Who knows how many occurrences there have been?”

“Good point.” Mulder rests his chin in his hands contemplatively. “But I'm still not sure what Sheriff O’Connell wants from us, or how we're supposed to calm the public down. We could prove that the ghost is real, but what good would that do? Unless people want to try and understand it so they can stop whatever bad thing is coming.”

“It's a possibility,” Scully says, following the sheriff up a gravel driveway. She throws the car into Park behind his. “We've had a lot of nonsensical cases, Mulder. Why should this one be any different?”

“Because it somehow makes less sense than all the others,” Mulder says dryly as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Or at least the cases that I remember.”

Scully makes a face at him across the console, as if to ask, Really? They climb out of the car and follow Sheriff O'Connell up the driveway, silently debating the coherency of their case history the entire way there.

Robbie O’Connell is waiting just inside, and he runs to his father first and hugs him tightly before coming to Mulder and Scully where they cluster near the doorway. “Hi!” he says, taking Scully's hand and tugging at it. “I want you to meet Ryan, he's super cool.”

Scully laughs, a little anxiously, and follows Robbie's direction. There is a woman and a teenager sitting on the couch, the woman eyeing them suspiciously, the boy ignoring them with a bored look on his face. “Ryan, Ryan, these are the FBI agents I was telling you about!” Robbie says excitedly, letting go of Scully's hand to run to Ryan's side. “They're super cool, like Men in Black.”

Mulder chuckles, says, “Actually, we sort of have to fight the men in black,” as he comes to stand by Scully's side. Robbie giggles with delight, and the kid who must be Ryan offers him an indulgent smile and a subtle fist bump, but continues ignoring everyone else.

The woman stands up and offers her hand. “Annie Caruthers,” she says, totally serious and straight-laced. “If you don't mind, could I ask what this is all about? I don't want to subject my nephew to unnecessary interrogations.”

“Ma'am, we just…” Mulder start to say as he shakes her hand, but Scully stops him with a raised hand of her own. “Ms. Caruthers, I completely understand,” she says, and she does. She'd only lived nine months with her son, but she'd seen what he could do and it terrified her, the thought of people wanting him for these unexplainable abilities. She thinks that seeing a ghost and making things levitate are probably pretty different, but she understands Annie's instinct to protect Ryan. She wouldn't want strangers interrogating her son, either, if he was still a part of her life. “Ryan isn't in any trouble, and he doesn't have to answer any questions he doesn't want to. We just want to ask him about some stuff.”

“About his experience with the Specter,” Mulder adds from beside her. “What he knows about it, stuff like that.”

The kid, Ryan, barks out a sharp, mocking laugh. “The FBI is investigating the Willoughby Specter? Seriously?”

“It's like I told you, Ryan, they're cool,” Robbie insists. Sheriff O'Connell appears almost immediately, scooping Robbie up and carrying him out, avoiding the gaze of Ryan or Annie Caruthers.

“We're an unusual unit,” Mulder says politely. “We're just trying to gather information, get the facts straight. But you don't have to talk to us if you don't want to.”

Annie looks hesitantly between them and Ryan. Ryan hunches up against the couch cushions, arms crossed, pulling the brim of his Orioles baseball cap down over his eyes. “Don't ask me about my parents,” he mutters. “I don't want to talk about them.” And Scully is involuntarily reminded of William, even though the circumstances are very, very different. She swallows dryly. Her throat hurts.

“That seems fair,” Mulder says. Annie nods a little, as if giving permission, and sits on the couch beside Ryan. Mulder and Scully each sit in a chair facing the couch, Scully pressing her hands into her knees in an attempt to focus.

Ryan shrugs, a little aggressively. “Okay, so, like… what do you wanna know?”

“Tell us about seeing the ghost,” says Mulder. “How long has it been happening?”

Ryan shrugs again. “I dunno. Since I was a little kid. It scared me, though, I used to have nightmares.” Annie nods like she is confirming this.

Scully suddenly remembers a detail from Robbie's story; she blurts, “You never felt… safe? Around the ghost?”

Ryan looks disgusted underneath the baseball cap. “No, I never felt safe. It was a fucking ghost.”

“Ryan!” his aunt scolds, but Mulder meets her eyes, silently thanking her for asking about that.

“We've heard reports of this ghost being… good,” Scully continues. “Likened to an angel, even.”

Ryan laughs. “Did Robbie tell you that? Look, I like the kid, and I'm glad he wasn't too scared, but, no. The Specter was never… angelic for me. Absolutely not.”

“How often did you see it?” Mulder asks.

The kid shrugs aggressively. “Every fall or winter. I dunno why. Maybe it's significant for the ghost or whatever.”

“Was there any routine to the sightings? Like a specific thing that would happen to bring it all on?”

“No, he'd just… appear. Follow me around. Freak me out. Like a Sixth Sense type thing.”

“He never… made any contact with you? Warned you about some ominous future?” asks Mulder. “Did you ever have anything unfortunate happen in conjunction with the sightings?”

“Nope.” Ryan crosses his arms again.

“Have you seen it recently?” Scully asks, and Ryan hesitates, pausing in the wake of her words, looking down at his shoes sheepishly before finally confirming—supposedly—that he hasn't.

“Do you have any idea why this is happening?” Mulder asks awkwardly, assumedly thrown by Ryan's irritable responses. “Why this specter is… warning people more often now? Or why other people are seeing him for the first time since…”

Ryan shakes his head bitterly. “Okay, first of all, we don't know other people haven't seen him since my parents got murdered. We don't know! I might just be the only one stupid enough to announce it to the world. And second of all, I don't know why this ghost does anything that it does. It's a ghost. Do you hear yourself? You sound ridiculous.”

“Ryan,” his aunt scolds again, sterner this time, but Ryan isn't finished. He says, “Nobody actually understands the stupid ghost, you know. I don't know why all this bad stuff is happening. Maybe this town has, I dunno, pissed off some higher power, and now they're paying penance for it.”

“Ryan, stop,” Annie says, holding her hand up. “I think this conversation is getting a little ridiculous, and I'd like to request we stop.”

“That's fine,” Mulder says quickly, although Scully is sure that he'd rather keep talking.

“We just want to understand this,” Scully adds, trying to sympathize. “It seems like people are upset, and we don't want anyone to get hurt.”

“That's Joe O'Connell talking,” Ryan says harshly. “He thinks I'm crazy. He thinks the ghost is just an excuse for other people to act crazy, and he brought you guys in to calm them down. I'm guessing you don't believe in the ghost either, do you?”

“Ryan, stop it! We're leaving, all right?” Annie stands at the same time Scully does, and reaches out politely to shake her hand again. “This is kind of a sensitive subject,” she says quietly. “I honestly don't know what is going on with this town—although I know it tends to go off the rails a little when a good ghost story comes into play—but whatever it is, I honestly doubt my nephew can help you with whatever it is you're gonna do to fix it.”

Ryan's already halfway out the door. Annie calls a strained goodbye to Mrs. O’Connell, wherever she is in the house, and follows him.

“Well,” Mulder says as soon as they're alone. “That was… interesting.”

“It's understandable, Mulder,” says Scully. “I'd be protective if I had a child who was… unique.” And I did, she adds silently—and unnecessarily, she deduces, from the look on Mulder's face. She rushes to add, “I'm still not sure what we can actually do here, Mulder, besides try to calm people down. And I'm not even sure how to do that.”

“Maybe we're here to try and explain why this is happening,” says Mulder. “Maybe even to stop it. Certainly to try to understand it.”

“But who knows if there even is a way to understand it,” says the sheriff as he re-enters, his son on his heels. “I take it the discussion with Ryan didn't go well?”

“That's an accurate description,” Mulder says with a light chuckle.

O’Connell sighs wearily. “I figured that kid wouldn't be any help.”

Robbie pouts, tugging at his dad's shirt. “But Daddy, Ryan's nice.”

“Ryan is a troublemaker, Rob.” O’Connell ruffles his kid's hair again, looking at Mulder and Scully questioningly. “Agents? What should our next move be?”

Scully shrugs. Mulder says, “I think possibly interviewing people who have seen it. Recent ones, and then possibly the ones prior to 2002… Like I said to Agent Scully,  I think our first step should be to try and understand this.”

The sheriff nods. “I might be able to set that up tomorrow.”

Mulder nods, too, reaches out and shakes his hand. “We'll be in touch.”

Scully takes a turn shaking his hand, waves goodbye to Robbie, and then they are leaving, walking out into the cold again. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees since the afternoon, and dark gray clouds cover the sky in forewarning of an incoming storm. Thunder rumbles somewhere above them, and Scully shivers. Mulder draws closer almost unconsciously, his shoulder brushing hers through their coats.

It feels hard not to think of William in the wake of their encounter with Ryan Caruthers. William would be the same age as Ryan, and Scully silently wonders if he would be resentful in the same way, angry and sullen and haunted. She hears Ryan say again, Don't ask me about my parents, I don't wanna talk about them, and bites back a shudder. She is tempted to ask Mulder if he is thinking the same things as they climb into the car, but she can't get the words out, they're trapped in her throat. Mulder looks over at her from the driver's seat and smiles warmly, the same way he's been smiling at her since they got reassigned to the Files. She smiles back because she can't help it. There is so much they need to talk about, so much that needs to be resolved, but when he smiles like that, it makes her think they might be okay. It makes her want to move home.

It starts to rain before they get back to the hotel, lightning slicing across the sky, rain pounding the windshield. Like some odd warning, like a bad omen.

---

She's standing in her living room—not the one at the house she's living at now, but her living room, the one at her home—and William is there, and he is glaring at her. Why did you do this to me? he spits, his eyes fierce and furious.

I didn't do anything, baby, she tells him, pleading. Her eyes are wet. I just wanted you to be okay. I wanted to save you.

You threw me away because I wasn't perfect, William snaps. You gave me up. You're the reason I'm a fucking freak!

William, please, she says, nearly sobbing. Please, honey, I'm so sorry. I never wanted this for you. I love you so much, William.

You can't love me, he says plaintively, furiously, and he hates her, she can see it in her eyes. You don’t love me. You gave me up, you threw me away. You're the reason I'll never know my family.

She chokes out a pleading sob, stumbles away from his accusing eyes. She whirls around in a panic, runs for the door in a feeble attempt to escape, but someone appears in the door, a hulking, faceless shape with a black cloak fluttering in the air, and she tries to turn around and it raises white-gloved hands to her shoulders, clamps down painfully and pushes her roughly back into the room…

Scully wakes with a jolt, stifling her panicked yelp with a hand over her mouth. Shivering, her teeth chattering, her eyes wet, she rises up and surveys her surroundings until she remembers where she is. Mulder's hotel room. They'd ordered in takeout under the guise of working, but they are both much older than they used to be, much more tired. Scully thinks they fell asleep at some point after Mulder suggested they watch TV, after she got off the phone with her mom. She’s lying sprawled on the mattress, on top of the comforter, her hair mussed from the pillows. Mulder is curled up beside her, huddled against her as if to preserve warmth, his hand resting over her ankle. He is still asleep. The heater isn't on, and Scully's breath puffs out visibly before her, goosebumps rising on her bare skin.

As tempted as she is to just stay, crawl under the covers and cuddle up to Mulder for warmth while the terror of the nightmare leaves her mind, she knows she can't. She extracts her ankle gently out from under Mulder’s hand, wipes her eyes quickly, climbs off the bed and pushes the files aside before meticulously pulling the comforter out from underneath Mulder. He moves a little in his sleep, muttering something indecipherable, but he doesn't wake up. She covers him with the blanket, brushes some hair off of his face and quietly regrets her lack of courage. And then she flips on the heat, gathers her shoes and bag, her key card, and quietly slips out of the room.

The hall is pitch black, and Scully blinks in surprise; she could've sworn there were lights out here. It's just as cold out in the hall, and Scully buries the numb fingers of her free hand in her pockets as she heads down the hall to her room. It's just a few feet away from Mulder’s room, but she suddenly feels sluggish, unable to move more than a few inches at a time. Almost as if she is still dreaming. She blinks rapidly, shakes her head hard in an attempt to wake up.

There is a loud bang behind her, sudden and cacophonous, and Scully whirls, her hand flying to her waist where her holster should be and her eyes darting to the staircase. There is nothing there.

Heart pounding absurdly, Scully mentally scolds herself as she turns back to her hotel room. But the hall isn't empty anymore; at the end of the hall, there is a figure standing in dark clothes. His head is risen to face Scully, although she can't make out any features.

She offers a chilly smile out of politeness and fumbles for her key, inserting it into the lock. No click.

Her heart is still pounding too fast, and this is just ridiculous. Scully pulls the key out and reinserts it, jiggling the door handle in a frantic sort of matter. Nothing. She looks back down the hall, and the stranger has drawn closer. She still can't quite make out his face, but she can see that he is smiling. This strange man is grinning at her, and it doesn't feel polite. It feels almost menacing.

Her teeth are chattering again. How does a hotel get this cold? Scully turns back to the door and tries the key again. Nothing.

There are sounds like footsteps. She tries the key again and again. Nothing, nothing, nothing, until suddenly… There is a click, and Scully gasps in stupid relief, pushing the door open and stumbling inside. The door locks behind her.

The relief fills her entire body with a stunning warmth, and she turns up the heat immediately before changing into pajamas, the buttondown ones with one of Mulder's old shirts slipped overtop for extra warmth. She can't remember the last time she was this cold. She finger-combs her hair before crawling into bed, flipping out the light and burrowing under the thin quilt. She wishes she'd stayed in Mulder’s room. She wants to purge her mind of that nightmare, of William and his accusations and the horrible, consuming guilt that has stayed with her since the day she let that social worker walk away with her baby. She wants desperately to forget it, so she flips on the TV and curls up into a ball and tries to doze off. Lies shivering under the blankets, trying to concentrate on the voices on the TV instead of other, darker things.

She's almost asleep when she hears it: the heavy footsteps thudding outside of her door. The brief, faint glow coming from under the crack that she sees when she opens her eyes.

---

Scully isn't sure how long she sleeps. But she wakes up hours later when it is still dark outside, her phone buzzing loudly in her purse. Figuring that the only people who would call her at this hour—sometime after 3 a.m., she notes with a wince—are Mulder or her mother, she drags herself out of bed and fumbles through her purse for her phone, nestled up against her makeup case. The display reads William, and she blinks in rapid surprise, confusion. Rubs the sleep from her eyes. And then she sees that her phone says Mulder, and feels foolish for ever thinking it said William in the first place. Some leftover guilt from her nightmare. She swallows hard, her throat thick.

She answers just before it clicks over to voicemail and groggily answers, “Scully.” She’s still tired, still half asleep. This has not been one of her better nights, and she's guessing she'll be exhausted tomorrow.

“Hey, Scully, it's me,” says Mulder on the other end. “Sorry, I know it's early.”

“It's okay,” she says, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand.

“When do you leave last night? I don't remember…”

She presses the heel of her hand harder against her mouth, says sleepily, “Mulder, did you call me at three a.m. just to talk about that?”

“Oh… no.” He sounds slightly embarrassed. “Skinner called. There's a man dead in Philadelphia, apparently. Drawn and quartered. Apparently the detective that called said that he found something spooky about the crime scene.”

“But we're on a case right now,” Scully says with another yawn.

“I know, but Skinner asked us to go on and handle this one, considering that a man is dead.” Mulder sounds slightly miffed, irritable to be pulled off of one case and onto another. “I was thinking we could leave about… six?”

Scully rubs her eyes tiredly. “Sounds wonderful, Mulder.”

“Okay,” he says sheepishly. “So you can… get a couple more hours of sleep.”

“Sure.”

“See you at six, Scully.”

In one heart-shock moment, Scully remembers the stranger from the night before, the cloaked and the strange smile, and she remembers Robbie's description of the ghost. Minus the lantern, the figure she saw feels too familiar, and she says, “Mulder, wait,” on an impulse.

“What's up, Scully?”

She hesitates for a moment, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. The more she considers it, it seems silly. There's nothing in particular that distinguishes that man as supernatural. She'd had a nightmare, she's being silly and paranoid, she should just forget about it. She backtracks quickly: “It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she says. “I'll see you at six, okay?”

Mulder sounds skeptical, but he doesn't push, and she is grateful for that. “See you at six.”

The phone beeps as he hangs up on the other end. When she was much younger, she used to feel insulted that Mulder never said goodbye before hanging up. Now, strangely enough, she thinks it might be one of the things she loves most about him.

Scully slips the phone back into her purse and goes back to bed. Sitting here, with Mulder's voice echoing in her ear, she feels perfectly grounded. Completely dismissive of the idea that she could've ever seen a ghost. It's not possible. For whatever reason, talking to Ryan Caruthers shook her up, but she's fine now. Just fine. They're going to work on a different case now, and she's going to forget she ever had this nightmare, and everything is going to be fine.

She curls up in bed and tries to drift off to sleep—a hopefully dreamless sleep—before they have to drive to Philadelphia.

[mybeautifuldecay]

Private Tutor. Chapter One: “Which Door?”

Only slightly late to the party, as always, but here is chapter one of a re-introduction into my fic writing career because I’ve become so lax recently and my brain is on utter FANFIC OVERLOAD..but I can’t seem to be able to actually get much of it out of my head.

I actually have to thank @missclairebelle for this wise idea - because she is uber clever. So I’m going to try and catch on on the Writing Workshop the lovely @gotham-ruaidh put together by writing chapters of between 500 and 1000 words. I don’t particularly have a schedule, but I’m going to try and write 3-4 chapters a week until I have all 25 current prompts done. 

Hopefully this isn’t too terrible, but here’s to you Gothie. You’re my writing rock and I want to dedicate this story to you for being truly amazing. I love you loads <3 

As the clock chimed on the mantelpiece, Claire readjusted the large glass of scotch on her knee. The echo of the thing filled the small room, the steady ding reverberating through the thick, old walls and along the floor - finally tickling the base of Claire’s feet as she listened to the autumn breeze swish beside the large bay window. “I’ve finished the kitchen now, Mrs Randall. Is there anything else you need before I head out?” Mrs Fitzgibbons, her and Frank’s housekeeper, asked as she popped her head around the smoking room door.   Glenna had been working for Frank and Claire since they’d moved from Oxfordshire to Glasgow on business. Frank had begun his work at the University of Glasgow only two years previously and Glenna had been hired as a housekeeper for the family home. Since then she had become the one and only constant presence in Claire’s life as Frank became increasing more and more isolated, trapped in his office - buried beneath reems of historical documents that seemed to keep him so occupied that Claire became a rather distant memory to him - or, rather, that’s how he’d made her feel.   Claire nearly snorted at her earlier notion of the rather large Randall house. ‘Family’ was an abstract concept to her now - from the moment she’d left Oxford she had been isolated and borderline abandoned - left to fester alone in the massive corridors of the place she was supposed to call home. “I’m fine, thank you Mrs Fitz.” Claire replied finally as she slugged back the last of the amber liquid, the colour mirroring her dark irises as she watched her sorrowful reflection in the bottom of the now empty glass. She felt like a ghost even to herself. “Ye can call me Glenna ye know, lass.” Mrs Fitz said kindly. She’d been trying to get Claire to lose the formalities for the last few months but she’d only managed to get her name shortened from Mrs Fitzgibbons to Mrs Fitz. “Alright,” Claire finally sighed, her wry smile falling a little, “Glenna it is.” Nodding she stood and smoothed down her pyjama bottoms. “Actually, can I ask you something before you leave?”

“Aye, lass, of course.” Glenna replied, half moving into the room as she waited for Claire to finish.

“Did you ever have a dream, Mrs...I mean Glenna,” she corrected herself, coughing to cover the beginnings of her more formal address, “you know, when you’re asleep. That sort of dream. But one that’s so vivid you actively believe you’re living a different life. Until you wake up.”

Smiling kindly, Glenna walked slowly over to Claire and placed her hand against her shoulder lightly.

“Aye, lass. I have at that. Verra powerful things, dream, ye ken?”

Claire nodded, the sorrow in her eyes intensifying as she brushed the stray, light tears away. “Yes, they are.” She agreed, the daydream springing to life in front of her as she looked across at her kindly housekeeper.

“Do ye want to tell me, Claire? About the dream?”

“Before we were married, Frank and I,” Claire started, her memories of those heady days more foggy now as they aged and faded from her mind, “I told my parents that I wanted to be a doctor. I planned on it, you know. I researched university. I made sure my A Levels were valid medical subjects and I worked bloody hard to get the grades I’d need.”

“But…?” Glenna added as Claire took a sombre breath, her shoulders tensing and sagging beneath her fingertips as she gently massaged the aches and pains away as best she could from this angle.

Claire sighed. A long deep thing that seemed to last an eternity. Just like her flagging marriage.

“There shouldn’t have to be a but, should there? Not now. It’s the twenty-first century for Christs’ sake!” She cursed, more annoyed at her own battered resolve than anything else. “It should be an ‘and then’ not a ‘but’.”

“But life isna always that way, is it, Claire? Dinna be so hard on yerself. So ye met Frank, ye fell for him...marrit the lad? That’s true, aye, since yer here now. A Randall by name. I ken the man’s quite stubborn on his views, especially wi’ the money and the titles the Randalls have - old fashioned. He wouldna trust in ye to go to university then?”

“It wasn’t just him.” She choked, her throat closing as she battled to speak through the tears. Glenna had cut right to the heart of the matter in seconds eliminating the need for Claire to vocalise some of her story. Some but not all. “His parents didn’t agree with it. Not that they disagreed with a career so much as one that would take up rather too much of my time. If that makes sense?”

“Aye, I ken the sort. Ye were to marry. Raise a family? Attend some of those wee posh galas and gift money to worthy causes? That sort o’ thing?”

“Something like that, yes.” Claire sobbed, accepting the tissue Glenna held out to her as she moved to kneel by her side now where Claire had slumped back in her chair. “But I’m still the same headstrong girl I grew into, Glenna...and I still want to go to university. I just don’t know how to broach the topic. It sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

“Nay, lass. It doesna.” Glenna answered. Her natural motherly warmth seeped into her words, even when they were firm and it made Claire think of her own mum. “I think what ye need is a healthy dose of bravery, aye? Fortune favours the bold; so they say. Ye can truly be that lassie again. Ye just need to take yer first steps. Get yer arse through the door!” She continued with a certain kind of clout that Claire recognised.

Drawing her brows together, Claire took Glenna’s hand in her own and held on for dear life before whispering an answer to her incredibly impassioned reply. “B-but Glenna,” she stuttered and stopped, her heart beating a mile a minute as she asked an unanswerable (and partially indecipherable) question, “which door?”

[amybessschiller]

Hagar, Ishmael, DACA, and Forgiveness: The Sermon I’d Give For These High Holy Days.

I am, admittedly, not in the habit of reading the holiday Torah portion in advance. As I read the story of Hagar and Ishmael in shul on Thursday, the first day of Rosh Hashana, there appeared to me a reading of that story more topical and urgent than any other — and also more universal and evergreen.

For the story of Hagar and Ishmael is, above all else, a story of deportation.

Genesis 21:9 has our foremother, Sarah, insisting that Abraham “cast out” Hagar, the servant of her household and surrogate childbearer of Ishmael, “for the child of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.”

That statement cuts me to the quick. Three verses earlier, Sarah is rejoicing and a great feast is held in honor of Isaac’s birth, a moment of abundance and blessing. Yet this feeling does not last long in the text before Ishmael’s presence feels like a threat — specifically, an illegitimate claim on Abraham’s resources. Sarah’s insistence that Hagar and Ishmael be cast out for the sake of her son Isaac’s inheritance has the same vicious hostility of people who speak of undocumented immigrants “draining the system,” claiming welfare and health care that “rightfully” belongs to citizens, the “legitimate” children. This is a script that seems to only amplify the more it is refuted. Those who might be called undocumented become “illegals,” “criminals,” an abstract class of grifters. Their humanity is obscured by projections of their laziness and greed. Hagar, too, becomes an abstract symbol of illegitimacy. Sarah no longer refers to her by name, only by her status, that of “slave-woman.”

This turnaround is scary when we think of how Ishmael came to be for the very sake of Abraham and the need for his household to contain an heir. Ishmael too is defined by his role and his parentage. He came into the world because he was needed. The moment he and his mother appear to stop “contributing” to the household, they become dependents, and furthermore, threats. Ishmael too, is a child of Abraham, yet reduced to his household function.

So too, do the undocumented come to make contributions. They are, whether we like it or not, asked here, demanded even, to fulfill the needs of our household. And yet the idea lingers, that they will take more than they give. That they will claim what is not rightfully theirs. That their presence is a concession on our part. Since we need them, we must keep “their” opportunities for abusing that need under control.

Even more searing, the description of Hagar and Ishmael in the desert, the wilderness of Beer-sheva, where she “wanders,” desperate and so, so alone, and finally as their skein of water runs dry, hides her son under a bush so she does not have to watch him die. “Sitting afar, she bursts into tears.”

In my hometown of Cleveland, a woman, Leonor Garcia, has taken sanctuary at Forest Hill Presbyterian Church, just before her scheduled deportation to Mexico, which would separate her from her nineteen-year-old and three-year-old daughters. As she remained in the church, Immigration and Customs Enforcement pounded on the door of the house where her two children live, frightening them even as they were made aware that Garcia was residing in sanctuary elsewhere. Leonor had to witness her children’s fear from a distance, helpless against their intimidation. How many mothers are stuck wandering in a desert somewhere on the southern border? How many have to choose between watching their children die, and not being able to watch their children die, so great is their helplessness and grief?

Given that we read it on Rosh Hashana, what does this story actually offer to us about forgiveness? Forgiveness seems in pretty short supply here. Sure, God comforts Hagar (but opens in oblivious douchebro style with “What troubles you, Hagar?” like, “HOW ABOUT THAT BANISHMENT INTO STARVATION AND LONELINESS YOU ARRANGED FOR ME AND MY CHILD? THAT’S BEEN A LITTLE TROUBLING.”) Anyway, God summons a well, ensures that the twosome are taken care of in the desert, Ishmael eventually sires a great nation, ok fine. But these are palliative measures, happening well after the fact. There is no forgiveness in this story because there is no reckoning with what was truly *wrong.* Hagar and Ishmael present a most challenging opportunity for forgiveness: how do we deal with children, with families, who we think are not supposed to be here? Whose presence feels like a mistake?

Because when Sarah looks at Hagar and Ishmael, she sees a mistake. She sees things that are not as they should be. She sees something that has gone wrong.

And she’s right.

Something very much did go wrong.

It was wrong that Sarah could not conceive until her old age. It was wrong that she had to suffer so many years of feeling like a failure, of unmet longing, of desperate compromises.

It was wrong that Hagar’s will - her womb, her parenting - had to be subordinated to the demands of her mistress and the household. It is wrong that Hagar did not have her own domain, children that belonged to her and her spouse alone. It is wrong that she had to live a half-life.

There is very much a mistake at the center of this story. A heartbreaking, mostly blameless, searingly painful mistake.

And Sarah and Abraham’s choice — one sanctioned by God, who insists that Abraham set aside his distress and follow the orders of his wife — is to try and nullify the evidence of that mistake.

Again - Sarah reduces Hagar to her function as slave-woman. She is no longer a person, she is all but erased. Hagar is sent away to the wilderness. No other people are there to shelter her, to comfort her. Hagar no longer has a place in the world, nothing to validate or support her existence, she is a practically a ghost. All this is Sarah’s intent. To cast out the slave-woman and her son, and to move forward as if they never existed. As if they never had to exist.

As if her failure never required their existence.

As if Sarah had never failed.

How do we deal with the mistakes that dwell in the households of our souls?

I’m hard on Sarah, it’s true. This is an ugly episode for her. But my heart breaks for her too, for wouldn’t we all like to banish our mistakes, our painful histories, to the desert? Wouldn’t we all like to nullify their existence, especially when we finally do achieve our greatest dreams?

But Hagars and Ishmaels live among us. They live in our communities. Perhaps they are, in some way, a mistake. It is not they who are the mistake, though. The mistake is the desperation of their lives. The misery and fear of their original homes, the conditions so awful that they must flee or die. Either way, they too live half-lives, full of never-ending anxiety. Even as they dwell in our household they know they only get to stay as long as they do whatever we need. And stay on good behavior.

Hagars and Ishmaels dwell, too, in the households of our souls.

The remainders of our mistakes live inside us. We might like to project all of our anger, jealousy, sadness, onto some concrete being, and send it away.

But that story only ends in more tears. The saddest, loneliest, most desperate tears.

And, spoiler alert, the household of Abraham and Sarah has a lot more trauma ahead after this incident. Banishing Hagar does not exactly bring the utopian reconciliation that Sarah envisions.

What would happen if, instead, we saw our mistakes, the humans who represent all the brokenness, the wrongness of our world, and kept them as part of our households. What would happen if we found a way to let our most brilliant triumphs live alongside our greatest disappointments? For that is Isaac and Ishmael, to Sarah. And at the start of this parsha, they are playing together. Sarah’s sadness, the mistake of this son that is not hers, exists right alongside the miracle of her child’s existence. And for a moment, all are still people. No one is crying. And there is enough for everyone.

May we resist the temptation to nullify the humanity of others in an attempt to save ourselves. May we all find ways to see the people we depend on as fellow humans, rather than vessels of our frustrations. May we find ways to let our mistakes live with us, in laughter, abundance, and peace.

Ken Yehi Ratzon. G’mar Chatima Tova.

[violetsystems]

#personal

It can be a nightmare after all these years to be too transparent for public record.  I imagine it would be something like a poltergeist; always bumping into things and being misinterpreted or read into.  The age old posit of “Shit Happens” doesn’t leave much room for argument or even proof of life  Nobody ever seems to hear my side of things other than when I write about it here.  Nobody registers the endless frustration because I hide it all so well.  I changed a lot of my routines in the last two weeks specifically.  A year ago I started getting harassed at the gym so I changed my schedule there to an early one.  Eventually I quit the gym altogether.  These days I don’t even own a gym membership.  The Nike Training App core routines and some barbells have delivered far more than the stress I had leaving the house.  I think I’ve learned over time that Yoga and Pilates in the back bedroom teaches you more about form and control.  I use a mirror to monitor my posture.  I don’t feel any prying eyes on me behind closed doors.  For years everybody knows I’ve been my own coach and source of motivation.  The source of inspiration is a given and that’s always been fiercely personal to me.  The fact that it should be so obvious is something I’ve learned to enjoy because it is to me.  But nobody particularly knows or cares what goes on in my personal life other than here where I write.  They forget about the weeks and the work therein.  So I probably resemble a ghost clanking with chains in the hallways.  There’s no causality because nobody pays enough attention to accept I exist.  I’m stuck in a limbo between the known and unknown.  There’s some attention I avoid.  I avoid heavy doses of it every day because I know better.  It’s sticks out like a sore thumb socially and I’ve had to practice a sort of poker face.  People often have a habit of expressing their distaste that I think for myself.  I changed my train route to work.  I still bump into awkward invisible walls.  People trying to hijack my narrative in public.  People afraid of ghosts I guess.  Some cultures leave offerings for the dead.  Others try to exorcise and eradicate them.  Some people throw dust to the wind and some people keep their loved ones in a jar above the fireplace.  I’m still alive clawing at the fabric of society and not so much reality.  Society is fake this we all know.  More obsessed with post truth and fake news than statistical based science.  I used to have more dread towards my situation.  That I would be completely forgotten and misunderstood for the rest of my life.  Obviously people following me around on my commute regardless of my route disproves that fate.  People treat me like Frankenstein sometimes.  Pitchforks, torches and all.  Every other week I’m on trial for a different section of my being.  I’m a patchwork of things I’ve picked up from art school year after year.  And year after year there’s something else that claims it’s cooler, fresher, and more alive.  A good excuse to keep me buried.  To keep the heresy out of plain sight.  And then there’s me banging away at the keyboard early in the morning on the internet like a spirit in the tv static.  People free to read into the message however they please.  Most people just surf right through me.  The noise is still out there every Saturday pulsing like a brain in a petri dish.  The horror.

I read this article about how they were growing brain tissue in a lab.  There was this rhythmic pulse of electricity that they couldn’t explain.  The ethics of testing on conscious living material are dicey at best.  So are half the relational aesthetics driven social experiments done in the name of justice and revolution.  What is right and normal is a lengthy discussion.  But it requires dialog. Sometimes I feel like that brain in a dish trying to give a signal but nobody wants to acknowledge.  No one wants the inconvenience of reading how I really feel.  My routine the last year has been fairly measured and predictable.  Yet people still feel the need to watch and make sure.  It’s been a bit of an insult to come full circle a year later and know full well I told you so.  And some of that sting from my own pride is softened by the fact that I broke free from the petri dish a long time ago.  Patch worked my own identity in the face of valid harsh criticism.  I am who I am and I accept pretty much everyone at face value.  I have saved so much face this year that I’ve become more weary of public and how much it takes to put on the act and show.  For all the revolutionary movements I’ve supported and all the calls to action I’ve heeded nothing much has changed for me.  In America there is this endless cycle of outrage.  Right versus left.  Good versus evil.  Black versus white.  And it spirals into a fractal of endless opinions and vitriol.  Nothing gets defined.  Compromise is completely nonexistent.  Closure is a luxury most cannot afford.  You can’t have closure without getting yourself wrapped up in a bigger drama which limits and belittles the argument in favor of populism or worse.  The tribe of public opinion has spoken.  You have been voted off the Deleuzian Island you were shipwrecked on.  A reality exposition in front of camera phones and a conscripted army of influencers.  America has moved from clique to tribe.  Everything is a little more Mad Max than it used to be.  On the weekends I still stare out my kitchen window early in the morning.  People have so many hidden expectations for me now it exhausts me just thinking about it.  It is pure mental anguish to read into all the projections and there’s no real payoff.  What statement shirt will I see today.  What hidden message or Easter Egg do I have to squint my eyes at to prove I’m fully woke.  It’s what is expected of me to be left alone I guess.  Yes I’m ok.  Yes I have a job.  Yes I keep myself busy.  Yes I keep myself out of trouble.  Yes everything outside of my apartment these days seems to be causing me more trouble than it’s worth.  Yes I’m very sad on the inside.  And yes none of that really matters because when I shut the door and think about the people I care about it’s all worth it.  Because I’m not some experiment in a dish that demands some qualitative proof of my usefulness to science, life and America.  I’m my own science project.  A mixture of phantom, shade and shambling mound.  I figured out a way to hide the scar tissue in broad daylight and let the sun fill the hollows in my face.  I’m the most handsome Frankenstein to walk the Earth.  Maybe more of the Hulk for good measure.  Aren’t they pretty much the same thing anyway?

Universal Studios actually owns the film rights to Frankenstein down to the makeup.  The only Frankenstein movie to ever make it to Japan was because of a guy from Chicago selling the rights to Toho.  He’s also the guy that could have boosted Lenny Bruce’s career.  He instead launched Woody Allen’s rise to stardom.  A parable lies within all of this.  Maybe why we’ll never see a decent standalone Hulk movie inside the MCU.  Maybe I’ll just read the comics instead and let it play out in my own head.  There’s a lot of bullshit that I don’t ever want to be part of.  A lot of soul sucking corporate tactics that don’t honor the actual art form.  And there’s the reality that money, jobs, and careers make the world go round.  I work at a non profit.  I make a non profit salary.  I’ve lived being made to feel like I’m inferior to money.  I’ve learned how to budget myself a return to New York every two months.  Someone at work asked if I had any gigs there.  I said I quit music because it was threatening my safety.  In truth the last year was really about setting up a perimeter in my life.  A place that was safe enough and anonymous to share some intimacy with another person.  Music didn’t serve that for me anymore.  It hindered my goals.  How I’ve gone about building fences around my garden has been akin to that scene in Frankenstein negotiating with the villagers.  Except in a no holds barred me alone against the court of public opinion sort of way.  Modern day Hulk has evolved into a sort of cultured retaliation against the mobs.  He’s still too similar to the mad scientist story to make poetic cinema out of it all.  Me I live this shit every day.  Hulk in Hell.  Abused in some ways and blessed in others.  People don’t like it when I’m angry.  I guess as they say that’s the trick.  I’m angry all the time.  It’s how I act upon it.  How I sacrifice my incomprehensible rage and tortured feelings out of love.  For me I spent the whole last year doing something about it.  Challenging the infrastructure of all this bullshit and leading by example.  Too much force and you break things.  Too little and they walk all over you.  Lenny Bruce had the entire police department after him for saying what he felt.  Woody Allen succeeded in Hollywood.  How you view the hypocrisy of all that is all in what you accept and what you resist.  Resistance isn’t fun.  And it looks different for everyone.  The most political battle to fight is the personal one.  The right to be and the right to think.  What is the real different between Frankenstein and the Human Ken Doll anyway?  Who owns the rights to me being me?  What gives me the right to have an opinion?  Who I can talk to and who I can love?  What I need to become to be treated as an equal in the public eye?  What people have done to stop me from becoming who I really am?  Why do I even care about having a popularly accepted opinion when no one listens?  Who has room for drama in their life when I only make space for all the love I have for you?  Of all the pieces of my life that I stitched together you are the most important one to me.  Because you are the piece that makes me whole just by being you.  It’s not a missing link it’s been an important foundation to my struggle.  If I keep bumping into you in the dark just remember it’s a love tap.  I don’t mind if you tap back.  Only you though.  Fuck all this other shit. <3 Tim

[redstarfiction-blog]

Hogmanay pt.3 - Sian.

Part 3 sees Jamie and Bree collecting water for the Sian - a blessing that is carried out in the morning of Hogmanay with water, traditionally from the river. The story Jamie tells Bree is of my own creating so any inaccuracies about folklore are my own fault, but the premise of the tale is rooted in Celtic faerie stories. This chapter was a bit rushed as I really wanted to get it up before I go on holiday - maybe it could use a little polishing but I hope you will like it for what it is. Thank you for reading as ever, let me know what you think or any questions you have :) Han xx

Brianna was always eager for any chance to ride one of the Lallybroch horses so when her father had requested her company fetching some sort of special water, she had been only too pleased to go with him. Especially as she had heard him laughing with Mama in their room and knew that if he was in a particularly good mood he would almost certainly let her urge Aoileann to a gallop across the meadow which led to the river.

However as the horses made their way into the woods Bree felt a calm descend over her and no longer wanted to gallop furiously toward their destination. She was happy listening to her father point out which birds made which call and asking him questions about the woods. The air was cold and crisp and everything seems to be tinged with a faint blue light as the afternoon bowed gracefully toward evening and their shadows began to lengthen across the frosty ground.

“What makes the water we’re fetching so special, Da?”

“It is the source we are collecting it from. Your Aunty will have told ye of the ‘saining’ or Sian, aye?”

Jamie gave her a sidelong smile and Bree could tell that there was more to come. She hoped it would be one of his stories, about the Auld Ones or mythical creatures or ghosts that roamed the Celtic isles. Sometimes his stories would absorb her so much that when they were over it would take Bree a while to remember where she was and the best ones made Da’s eyes light up with the telling and his voice would get that deep far away quality as if he was travelling the tale with her for the first time.

“Yes, the blessing of the house and the animals and people to ward off spirits and bring good luck.”

“Aye, and the place we gather the water for the blessing is an ancient river crossing. It is what ye call a living and a dead ford. Have ye heard of such a thing mo chridhe?”

Bree shook her head and grinned at the flash of excitement on her father’s face.

“Ach weel let me tell ye of it.”

Jamie shifted himself in the saddle as if settling in for a long journey and Bree copied his movements faithfully, making sure that she held her head as high as he did.

“Ye’ll maybe no ken this but rivers are the dwelling places of the goddesses of the Auld ones. The waters are their kingdoms and any human that enters their depths must accept the rule of the Auld ones. That is why ye must no’ fight the current should ye ever get too deep, ye must show respect to the goddess by swimming wi’ the pull of the water, allowing her to court ye and release ye at her will.”

Jamie’s voice was softer than usual, his accent broadening as he spoke and his eyes rested on the path ahead of them as Bree watched him intently.

“The old folk of believed the goddess is the one who decides what the river will do, where it will bend and where it will flood and where the creatures of the land may cross safely to the other side. Before men built bridges to satisfy their own impatience they relied upon the kindness of the river goddess’s to provide them safe passage for whilst the deer was given strong legs to spring across and squirrels given agility that they might leap from branches, man needed to ken humility and so he waited on the river’s pleasure.”

Jamie paused to take a drink from his water pouch and watched out of the corner of his eye as Bree squirmed impatiently. Fighting back a smile, Jamie offered the flask to her but she shook her head

“No thank you, carry on Da … please.”

Jamie nodded and thought for a moment before reigning in and swinging down from his saddle.

“The path ahead is too narrow for both horses. We’ll tether Aoileann here and ride together.”

Bree would normally have pestered to be allowed to ride on but she was far too invested in the story to waste time bartering with her Da. Aoileann was tethered to a nearby oak and Bree settled in the saddle between Jamie’s legs within a couple of minutes and they set off again.

“Where was I?”

“Man had to learn humility…”

Bree prompted and he nodded slowly as if to himself.

“Och, that’s right. Weel, twas not only the living who needed a place to cross. Spirits needed to cross from this world into the next and though they could have chosen a passage between the trees or cliffs or over the sea had they wished it, they chose the rivers for they are the most beautiful of crossings in the Highlands and so the goddess of each river made a special ford, a ford where both living and dead might cross in harmony and go on their way in peace.”

“Wouldn’t the spirits mind sharing their crossing?”

Bree asked curiously and Jamie grinned

“No, their journey in this world is at an end and as they cross into the next, it pleases them to walk alongside a living soul one last time. The spirits who cross at such fords are not the same as the likes of the Wild Hunt.”

Bree shivered at the mention of that particular ghost story. The tale of the Wild Hunt had given her the creeps and made her reluctant to blow out the candle at bedtime for several days after the telling of it. She huddled closer into her Da’s chest now, surreptitiously putting her hand on his sleeve, feeling better for having a grip on him, certain that if anyone could protect her from the less friendly spirits of the woods, it was her Da.

“So where we’re going now, to the living and dead ford, it is a spirit crossing?”

“Aye.”

“How will we know if … well if someone is trying to cross it while we’re there?”

Bree bit her lip; the last thing she wanted was to get in the way of a spirit crossing.

“I doubt ye would feel a thing unless they wanted ye to, but we willna be there long. We will fill up our flasks and be on our way.”

Jamie reassured her as the ford came into view between the sparse trees.

*

Jamie lifted Bree down and handed her a flask, she edged toward the water but kept a tight grip on his hand, blue eyes wide with trepidation. Jamie had seen her look so when she was about to try a food that was new to her or confess to some wee foolishness to her Mam that she wasn’t sure would earn her a scolding or not.

Jamie watched her with a curious mix of pride and awe that he so often felt when his daughter was alone with him and his attention could be devoted solely to her. He had spent many hours; countless hours really, imagining the child he and Claire had created. He had usually, to his shame, imagined a boy sometimes with Claire’s dark curls and other times with his flaming hair. He had imagined the detail of his son’s face, small dimples when he smiled and the high arch of his feet. He had brought to life in his mind the crease of skin at the laddie’s elbows and the high giddy sound of his laugh and yet for all his imagining and dreaming nothing had prepared him for the reality of Brianna.

Jamie found himself enthralled by everything she did, her wee quirks and the thoughts she cared to share with him were treasures that he hoarded greedily and stored against the burden of the years he had lost with her.

In the stories he told her he wove the culture of their people and tried to impart the wisdom that he had received from his own father’s tales. Jamie wanted Brianna to have the world laid at her feet and he would do all he could to place it there, but he also wanted her to understand the soil on which she stood. To know the history of her country, to feel that Scotland was in her bones not just in her heritage and so he told her tall tales of kelpies, faeries and maidens in lochs and he brought her to the places that she might feel the connection most strongly, hiking in the hills and riding through the forests of their home so that whatever the future held, she would always ken that she had a place here at Lallybroch, a door that would never close and a welcome that would never expire.

“Should I just … you know … take it or do I have to say something?”

Bree whispered. Jamie considered her for a moment and then dropped to a crouch, the shallow water lapping over the toes of his boots. He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun

“Ar n-Athair a tha air nèamh, Gu naomhaichear d'ainm. Thigeadh do rìoghachd. Dèanar do thoil air an talamh mar a nìthear air nèamh.”

He wasn’t sure why the Lord ’s Prayer came to his head but he saw no reason why it was any less valid than another offering of respect and the Gaelic seemed to please Brianna, who with a sigh of relief that he seemed to know the right words to appease the river goddess and spirits alike, let go of his hand and dipped her flask into the babbling water, murmuring a shorter verse of prayer that Ian had taught her, eyes tightly closed, claiming what she needed before carefully tightening the lid and handing it over to him.

“Was that alright, Da?”

“Perfect Bree, utterly perfect.”

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #80

oh wow, sorry for the inactivity ya’ll.  been busy with moving and no internet...

is your hair damaged?   no, it's very healthy, actually.  people love my hair, makes me feel amazing tbh ;;u;; who was the last person you threw out of your life?    um idk really.  i rarely throw people out... i believe in fixing relationships.  most, realistically, are salvageable. how many hours did you sleep last night?   like... none. e_e has someone disappointed you recently?   yes.  a friend was acting rather immature last night. do you prefer hot or cold weather?   COLD COLD COLD are you afraid of roller coasters?   yup. are you shy?   VERY!!! do you hate it when you go over to someone’s house and do absolutely nothing?   no, so long i have my phone or laptop. what color is the hair of the last person you kissed?   black does the last person you kissed wear glasses?   nope you’re on your way home from a night out, and you’re sure someone is following you. what do you do?   drive to the nearest police station. what colors of mascara have you worn on your lashes?   only black what color ARE your lashes?   black what font do you usually use?   a small version of arial or garamond. do you put gel or mousse in your hair?   i do not. ever used to have an imaginary friend?   no actually. ever used a dreamcatcher? if so, did it work?   nope. ever took ballet, jazz, or tap dancing classes?   jazz, hip hop, clogging, modern... wear a specific necklace every day?   i do not. are you an affectionate person?   very. what is something you are proud of?   graduating in the highest tier of my graduating class. time of day you were born?   11:20 A.M., i think. are you a boy or girl?   girl how do you want to die?   idk, really.  some pretty painless way. ever made out in the bathroom?   no. are you scared of spiders?   most. do you have piercings? how many?   yes, two in each earlobe.  i've HAD many more, buuut... long story. want any more?   yep.  labret on lip, snake eyes on tongue, right side of nose, more on my ears... have you ever been on a horse?   i have. have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry?   i have, much to my dismay. do you believe your most recent ex thinks about you?   doubt it. ever been to alaska?   i wish! what’s your zodiac sign?   aquarius do you like subway?   ye what is your least favorite color?   brown or like, puke green. do you like to read?   not anymore, no. what’s something you’re really passionate about?   m e e r k a t s ! ! ! ever been bitten by a snake?   nope a spider?   not to my knowledge ever had a job? if so, what and for how long?   two, yes.  gamestop sales clerk for like a month.  dollar general cashier for legit four days lmao. ever won yourself a stuffed animal?   sure ever had someone else win you a stuffed animal?   i think. do you like lollipops or suckers?   yeah, sure. favorite fruit?   strawberries favorite vegetable?   broccoli favorite meat?   chicken do you drink energy drinks?   nope. ever used crest white strip?   no, but i'd like to. do you want to cut your hair?    i need it trimmed. do you have any scars?   shin and chin is your profile private?   my facebook one?  yes. what artist do you have the most songs for in your itunes/music library?   ozzy osbourne or metallica what’s your blood type?   a- do people ever say your name wrong? how do they say it?   no.  it's such a common name, so. which do you like better, biographies or autobiographies?   autobiographies, imo. do you think that your parents give you a lot of freedom?   even at 21, no. which do think is classier, black clothes or white clothes?   black have you ever seen a ghost? explain:   idk.  i KNOW i've seen some inhuman entity walking on all fours once before, but idk if it was truly a "ghost" do you like oatmeal?   eh, i'm picky.  can't have too much milk, i'll tell ya that for sure. are any of your friends in a band?   no. what is the worst food experience you’ve had?   eating brussel sprouts omg never again do you know how to tap dance?   i know how to clog.  same thing, just different shoes for a different sound effect. what’s your favorite flavor of skittles?   RED OMG when was the last time you used oil pastels?   high school art class do you know who edward gein is?   hmmmm... wasn't he some serial killer or even a satanist, something along those lines?  name sounds familiar.  think there's a character in the silent hill franchise in his name. if pot was finally legalized, what would you do?   idk if it's legal in nc, but anyway, i still wouldn't do it. do you like sitting on the inside or outside of a restaurant booth?   inside do you prefer an automatic or a manual transmission?   automatic who is your favorite disney character?   not sure, maybe mufasa. if you’re staying home all day, do you bother getting changed or do you just stay in your pajamas?   stay in pajamas. if you don’t drive - how come? if you do - how old were you when you got your license?   i have my permit, but i don't drive much because of anxiety.  i am a nervous wreck, and i'm not comfortable endangering other's lives. have you ever caught a tadpole?   ye. (: what kind of dog would you get if you could choose any breed?   right now, a chow chow. how often do you listen to rap?   like never. do you have the boobs to work at hooters?   boobs, maybe, but not the body.  granted, i'm only a d because of my weight.  when i wasn't overweight, i was a c. are you wearing a ring, if so who gave it to you?   yes, and my mama. if someone of importance checked your profile, would you be embarrassed?   what profile, my facebook?  not really. has anyone ever told you “forever”?   AND YET HE'S NOT HEEEEEREEEEE HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! :D which is harder - walking in the snow or sand?   sand, omg. do you like sour candy?   YEAH in one word, how would you describe your best friend?   honest. is there a song that reminds you of your best friend?   "friends" by... i think it's blake shelton?  she's established that's "our song," which i think is so cute. ;w; what's annoying you right now? even just a little bit counts.   okay so a friend from high school was talking to me via facebook last night, and he just... did something that REALLY got under my skin.  first let my say that in high school, he admitted to liking me.  i liked him as a friend; i hadn't known him long enough to really establish an "i like-like you" attitude yet.  well, we drifted apart, not that there was ever anything much holding us together.  anyway, he and i were messaging each other for a very short period of time when he asked me if i was seeing anybody, said no, then he asked if i liked him, and i was just like... uhhhh... no???  bc i haven't seen him since high school???  sooo tell me how i would have any valid feelings???  and more importantly, tell me how he'd have valid feelings for ME after so long???  idk, it just honestly pissed me off because it made me feel like he was after an easy piece of meat with no emotional connection.  he hasn't messaged me back yet, and i, frankly, don't care if he does or doesn't. have you ever painted a car?   no are you gonna buy lottery tickets when you’re old enough?   no.  the worth isn't there, imo. have you ever been into a real cave?   oh, i wish!! have you ever posted mean comments on youtube?   oh i can say with certainty i have as a pre-teen.  i was an obnoxious lil shit when i first started actively using the internet. what was the main subject of your last telephone conversation?   i was telling mom i was throwing up, so my anxiety was bad. have you ever kissed someone who has previously kissed someone you hated?   yup. what exactly did you drink the last time you were intoxicated?   mike's hard, i think. do you think the next person you kiss will be a better kisser than the last person you kissed?   impossible. is your all-time favorite television show still on air?   i wish, but no. are looks important in a relationship?   very!!  very!!  slightly!!!!  i believe emotional chemistry is incalcuably more important, but simultaneously, having a physical attraction to your partner is something that increases your connection.  i used to not believe this and you probably don't either, but ponder over it for a while.  it does hold slight weight. do you believe in love at first sight?   absolutely not, it's rubbish to believe you can "love" somebody just by fucking looking at them.  the idea is laughable. do you ever want to get married?   i do. do you shower every day?   no, that's horrible for your skin.  i shower every two days. have you ever experienced unrequited love?   yes and tbh i'd rather die have you ever written a song or poem for someone?   poems, yes. what’s the most superficial characteristic you look for?   i don't actively look for it, but hmmm... i'd say decent/healthy teeth. who are five people you find attractive?   1.) link neal is actually daddy; 2.) jason/my ex; 3.) adam levine ain't bad; 4.) chris hemsworth; 5.) oh my actual god i almost forgot mark fischbach/markiplier what's your profile picture?   i'mma cover for... almost everywhere.  this tumblr: me; main tumblr: link neal; facebook: me; km rpg: rhett mclaughlin laughing; deviantart: my oc what's your dad's name?   kenneth, but everyone just calls him "ken" do you still have feelings for an ex?   very strong ones do you like the rain?  ye!! what is your favorite fruit flavor?   strawberry which two friends can you see together as a couple?  idk, i don't really "ship" my friends what was the happiest moment in your life?   dancing to "stairway to heaven" with jason on prom night, in my front yard, in the headlights of his old truck. would you be brave enough to spend an entire hour alone in a cemetery?   yeah. got a phobia you want to share?  whale sharks.  lmao. how many places have you traveled to? name them.   new york, michigan, florida, ohio, tennessee, virginia... who are the 3 greatest living musicians?  oh god.  errr ozzy osbourne, otep shamaya, james hetfield. what’s the most beautiful place you’ve ever been?   michigan do you feel like a leader or a follower?   i'm a follower, usually. if you had to live in a different state, what would it be?   utah would you rather win an olympic medal, an academy award or the nobel peace prize?   nobel peace prize what is the scariest movie you’ve ever seen?  "the rite" scared me ONLY bc i am horrified by the idea of being raped by a demon, nevermind satan what is your favorite thing about the beach?   the shells and starfish! what’s the worst thing you did as a kid?   i hit my little sister multiple times would you ever donate blood?   i have before, but idk if i would again.  it was so stress-inducing. do you wear hats?   no. have you ever seen your best friend cry?   i have. have you ever been a vegetarian?   nope. do you find lube pointless for regular old intercourse (not anal)?   yeah, honestly.  if you're technically turned on, your body pretty much takes care of it? which sex position would you find more awkward: anal or some really crazy vaginal intercourse position (check wikipedia if you can’t think of any crazy ones)?   anal will always be weirder to me. do you ever wear temporary tattoos as an accessory?    no. when was the last time you had a panic attack?   two nights ago what’s your favorite color to wear?   black.  it's a flattering color. clay, crayons, markers, pastels, charcoal, or paint?   pastels have you ever broken anything because you were mad?   no are you ticklish?   yup. why were you last hospitalized?   i tried to kill myself. do you prefer baked potatoes or mashed potatoes?   baked.  mashed is gross. do you like bread sticks?   omg you have no idea what state were you born in?   north carolina have you ever been to an art gallery?   sure. do you have the same political views as your parents?   most, yes. what are you listening to?   a jim gaffigan stand-up if you could make your lips bigger, would you?   IF i could just snap my fingers and it's be that way, maybe.  i'd have to look in the mirror again lol are you one to sneak food into movie theaters?   sure am. what’s the funniest commercial?   omg the sexy mr. clean one bc i CRY do you own any form of a gameboy?   we have three.  i think two are broken, though. what’s your favorite store in the mall?   hottopic. have you ever seen a cat with blue eyes?   ... yes? would you be embarrassed to buy pads/tampons/condoms? which one more?   never bought condoms before, so i can't really say, but pads/tampons, nah man.  periods are just a totally natural part of life for a woman, nothing to be embarrassed about. if you were looking for a new pair of shoes where would you go?   hot topic is preferable what color is the computer/laptop you’re on? did you buy it yourself?   it's black, but it has a pink zebraprint cover on it.  and no, it's my older sister's technically, but now it's mom's. do you have a second home?   not anymore. does the smell of cigarettes, weed and beer repulse you?   all of them.  the worst is weed though, oh my GOD it stinks. was the last person you kissed younger or older than you?   two years older. how often do you drink monster?   never.  it's nasty. have you ever made totally pointless videos with your friends?   you forgot to mention cringey.  oh, the pre-teen years. do you own a nightgown?   no. have you ever worn fishnets?   for dance, probably.  i'm not sure. is someone in your family affected by asperger’s?   no. would you rather go out to eat or be eaten out?   *CHOKES ON DRINK* do you always wear your seat belt?   always! are there any diseases/health problems that run in your family?   welp.  here goes.  high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes, asthma, depression, bipolarity, cancer is in question, and i can guarantee i'm forgetting some... do you have asthma?   no.  my mother and grandmother do, though. last person to take off your pants, besides you?   jason might you enjoy hanging out in the woods for day or two?   so long i can bring my camera! do you have a bull ring through your nose?   no.  thought about it, though. do you and your dad get along?   yep. can you see your purse right now?   indeed. when you get colds, do you use nasal spray to help get your nose unstuffy?   yes.  i have allergies, so i sometimes use it even when i don't have a cold. do you actually like sneezing?   ... does anyone? do you wear skirts a lot?   i haven't worn a skirt in years. how many pairs of jeans do you think you have?   i have no jeans.  just yoga pants and sweatpants... are you one of those people who claim to live with no regrets?   hell no. do you love your computer?   yes ;-; do you shop mostly with your parents, your friends, or by yourself?   with mom. do you like zombie movies?   no particular opinion. what’s the grossest/worst thing you’ve ever seen in a public restroom?   saw an old lady puke on the floor once when i was little.  scarred me for life. x-what’s the worst relationship advice you’ve ever seen?   this was never told to me, but to my mother: let your husband be your head/be very submissive to everything he wants.  fuck that. have you ever volunteered in a hospital? if not, would you ever want to?   no no no no no no no. have you ever had to give a pet away?   cats, yes. did you play pretend a lot as a child? were there any recurring plots or themes?   oh definitely.  and i don't think so... has a teacher ever tried to teach you something that was undeniably wrong?   oh, you mean like evolution? have you ever meditated? if so, did it do anything for you?   not the whole "ooohhhmmm" deal, but yeah.  it only stressed me out. are any of your favorite bands broken up or on hiatus right now?   ozzy osbourne- probably metallica- no otep- no marilyn manson- i don't believe so rammstein- no cradle of filth- don't know a day to remember- no what kind of wild animals do you see most frequently where you live?   besides birds, squirrels.  occasionally a possum at night. do you have any physical photo albums?   sure do. do your parents and grandparents get along with each other?   dad loves his dad, mom loves her mom, but she pisses her off and offends her a lot. do you have a favorite hoodie?   the one i'm wearing now!  it's dark gray with pikachu sleeping on it and it says "current mood." :3 do you have a twitter?   it exists, but i never, ever use it. is anyone in your family artistic?   besides me, my cousin is. what do you want to do after high school?   after high school, i went to a community college very briefly.  quit.  took a break.  went to a university.  quit. are you emo/gothic/punk?   eh. would you date someone 20 years older than you?   definitely not.

[junker-town]

This is why the Warriors need Kevin Durant

We saw what happened in a 3-1 NBA Finals last year. Kevin Durant is in Golden State to prevent that from happening again.

CLEVELAND — The only thing this NBA Finals was missing, besides a victory by someone other than the Warriors, was a sense of the surreal that had shrouded the two previous meetings between these two teams. We had already consumed the requisite blowouts and enjoyed one well-played epic, but the element of the bizarre that seems to accompany the Cavs and Warriors during this trilogy? No, we had not seen that yet.

Game 4 checked every box on the freak scale, from shaky officiating to hard fouls, cheap shots, trash talk, and even a fan ejection. Unlike Game 3, it was not a well-played affair, and unlike the first two games at Oracle, it was not a blowout in the traditional sense. Sure, the Cavs enjoyed a double-digit lead for most of the night, but it felt tenuous.

That’s what playing the Warriors will do for a lead, but Golden State did itself no favors by leaving a ton of points on the floor. The Dubs missed nine free throws and 28 threes, with many of them coming from quality looks. They’re not likely to shoot that poorly again, but the Cavs couldn’t have been expected to keep chucking up bricks either.

Photo by Ronald Martinez/Getty Images

When you cut through the chaos and look through the clear eyes of objective data, Game 4 was the ultimate regression to the mean. That it had to get weird was only fitting, given the history between these two teams. They don’t do normal this time of year.

And so, we’re right back where we were a year ago, with the Warriors heading home with a 3-1 series lead and everything in place to clinch a title in front of their fans on Monday night. It’s not quite the same scenario, of course. Steph Curry is healthy, Kevin Love isn’t in the concussion protocol, and Draymond Green isn’t facing a suspension.

The true difference, however, is the ultimate reason why we’re once again at 3-1 instead of heading back to Oakland all square. That would be Kevin Durant, whose shot at the end of Game 3 stood as the signature moment of these Finals until all hell broke loose on Friday night.

“You can tell, he knows this is his moment,” Golden State coach Steve Kerr said after Durant’s shot stole Game 3. “He’s been an amazing player in this league for a long time, and I think he’s — he senses this is his time, his moment, his team. When I say his team, I mean it’s not literally just his team, it’s we got a group around him that can help him and create space for him with the shooting and the playmaking, and I think he’s having the time of his life out there.”

It’s honestly hard to tell how Durant feels about anything these days. He’s been reserved in media settings to the point of blandness throughout the Finals. After a year spent explaining his decision to ditch Oklahoma City for the Bay, he seems talked out by this point and it’s hard to blame him. How many more times can he rationalize the move when the reasons are as clear as the morning sun once the fog lifts over the Golden Gate Bridge?

Kyle Terada-USA TODAY Sports

“Basketball’s like a rhythm game,” Durant said. “It’s a free-flowing game, and you just want to be a part of it. That’s what makes it just even more and more fun. Guys are moving. You are working together. You’re communicating out there on both ends. You see it playing against them, and then you see it on TV. And then it’s a different feel when you’re around it every single day.”

I mean, who wouldn’t want this? He has space and freedom out here, not only on the court but off it, where he is merely a significant part of a larger machine. KD doesn’t have to do everything to help the Warriors win, even though he’s been their best player throughout the Finals. While everything else was disintegrating in Game 4, there was Durant keeping the Warriors within striking distance.

Even after shooting just 2-for-9 from behind the arc, KD had 35 points on 22 shots and just one turnover. He lived at the free throw line and was the only Warrior player who attacked the basket throughout the game. Without Durant, Game 4 looks a lot like last year’s Game 3, when the Cavs ran the Dubs right off the court. This was a competitive blowout for most of the night and that’s primarily because of Durant.

How he got to this place continues to be an object of much discussion and interest. Long after it’s been dissected, rehashed, and retold, it’s still one of the most serendipitous sequences of events in NBA history.

If the Thunder held on to their 3-1 lead in last year’s conference finals against the Warriors, then Durant probably isn’t wearing a Golden State uniform. And if the Warriors held on to their 3-1 lead in the Finals, then he really isn’t here.

Hell, if the television networks hadn’t decided to drop a bucket of cash on the league, and if the union had gone along with smoothing the salary cap jump slowly, and if someone had said the wrong thing in the Hamptons … we could go on like this all day, but none of it changes the ultimate outcome.

Ken Blaze-USA TODAY Sports

“In this job it’s hard enough to deal with reality,” general manager Bob Myers said earlier in the series. “I could spin out of control on hypotheticals. We lost. They beat us and we tried to get better. With Kevin we did.”

The Warriors clearly got better, but they didn’t improve this season so much as coalesce. They didn’t even try to challenge 73 wins, and at times it felt like one long extended practice session en route to this very moment. They needed to figure out how to blend Durant and Steph Curry’s scoring abilities and it took time to figure out just how good Durant was on the defensive end. (He’s really good on that end, as it turns out.)

At times the process has seemed seamless, and at others it looked like it didn’t even matter. Kevin Durant was on the freaking Warriors and there wasn’t much analysis or moments of discovery needed to understand the magnitude of the move. But maybe that was an illusion. It’s never as easy as it appears to fit talent into an equation like this. Maybe he didn’t get enough credit for making it look that way.

“He’s obviously unselfish as a person and as a basketball player when it comes to understanding how he can impact the game, every single night, and do it his way,” Curry said. “But that would fit right into our style and our identity. It took a while for it to kind of reveal itself consistently as the regular season went on, but once it clicked and the habits started to become second nature, it was kind of beautiful to watch and an amazing kind of style to play and watch unfold.”

Right up until the Cavs kicked their asses in Game 4, it’s been a treat. Lament the super-team concept all you want, and there’s validity to that recalcitrant stance, but the Warriors sure play a beautiful game of basketball. They may or may not be among the greatest teams of all time, but there’s never been anything like them and that’s an accomplishment that stands all by itself.

The Warriors have been so good they hadn’t lost in almost two months before Friday’s reality check, and that brings us full circle to the moment that has defined their run for the last year. Stop me if you’ve heard this before, but the Warriors blew a 3-1 lead.

Kevin Durant is here to make sure that never happens again. This is his moment. These are his Finals. All that’s left is one more game to complete the tale and exorcise those ghosts.