#fork in the kitchen yadayada

[deadliestpieceontheboard]

this won't be a surprise to anyone but one of the things I'm most excited for tsc2 is the kevjean reunion in august. to talk about the ravens.

[gunsmokesoul]

---- the second hour

You stand in the midst of what you believe was once the bunker. You find it greatly changed. Amid the strewn pages of lore are scribbles done in crayon and marker; there are toys piled into the corners of the ancient bookshelves. A nest of pillows and blankets and shielded from the harder edges of the tables and chairs and shelves by drapes of translucent fabric bespeckled with shimmering stars and glitter sits at the base of the spiraled staircase. The pillows and stuffed animals and books spill from the nest and into the floor. There are drawings on the old walls of the little space and paper dolls and chains winding through the banister.

There is a Christmas tree with salt dough ornaments and strings of popcorn and scraps of colored paper draped across its boughs alight with gently pulsing lights of red and green and white and blue. You hear screaming, and your body tenses and readies for a fight, only to find the screams coming from a pair of children. A boy and a girl scamper down the staircase and dash toward the tree, where you are surprised to find presents-- actual presents.

Balancing on the tips of their toes atop a precarious stack of books is a creature with wings of spun sugar coiling around gently revolving gears and mechanisms; the backs of their two wings are formed of a patchwork of flannel stretched over the cotton candy and clockwork frame. Their hair is shaved at the sides and spiked with a swooping wave of golden locks veiling one pair of their many eyes. They bring a hand clothed in dark fingerless gloves to their lips and shush your questions before they can form completely. With their free hand, they gesture toward the children, who having collapsed to their knees before the tree, began to drag out and sort through the presents.

Sam and Eileen materialize from one of the bedrooms. There is a heaviness to their eyes, but a warm contentment in the easy way they settle into their routines. Sam goes toward the kitchen and Eileen lowers herself to the floor by the kids, pressing kisses to their hair and signing excitedly. 

You watch their Christmas unfold, a real Sam Rockwell painting brought to life, and you find yourself at a loss for words. It is everything you ever wanted and never achieved. You are proud of him, and you are jealous.

. . . . .

You and the creature with the toy and candy wings are now swathed in darkness. The creature conducting you pirouettes on the tips of their ballet flats and winks their three pairs of eyes, one a shade of melted chocolate brown, one a balsam green, one an icy blue. You follow them to a still form, a form as familiar to you as your own, and together you watch their chest rise and fall in a gentle sleep. The creature takes your hand and presses their other to the smooth forehead of the dozing form. 

You see yourself, or a version of you, with eyes a little too bright and a smile a little too easy and galaxies of freckles dusted over nose and neck and shoulders. This other you is bathed in warm light spilling in from a cabin window. Outside there is snow and a frozen over lake with a dock pushing out from the snowy hill over the still water. Everything is quiet. You-- this perfect, too perfect, likeness-- stirs in his sleep at the touch of the other man’s hand.

“Hey, Cas…”

Castiel’s hand brushes through the copy’s hair and presses his lips to the freckles on his nose. Despite the warmth of the scene, there is a sadness in the angel’s eyes and in the gentle upturn of his smile. You hear your own voice from the other’s mouth, asking Castiel to come back to bed. The angel obliges, but he does not sleep. He only watches the imitation of you fall still.

The darkness returns. It takes form. The creature holding your hand pouts as a tendril of darkness passes across the line of their jaw. You know the shape of this particular darkness, which is resolving itself into a form that makes sense to your mortal gaze. It smiles, glances at the still form of Castiel in the darkness. “I try to be good to my charges. Now shoo, Sparky… I need my beauty sleep.”

The darkness recedes, and the creature stretches their candy coated wings.

. . . . .

“What is this? What are you? Who is doing this?”

The creature known as Sparky stretches their lean arms up over their head until a soft pop issues from their back. “Pay attention.” They say. “You’re being stupid.” They step to you and prod you in the middle of your chest with the tip of their black fingernail. 

A dull ache roars through your heart and reverberates through your ribcage as if it were struck with a tuning fork. 

“You feel that? You know what that is?”

“I…”

“Oh… I gotta go. Balit’s coming. Dude freaks me out. See ya!” They give you a salute with two fingers. “Oh, yeah uh… I had some speech about like, ignorance and want and...yadayada that I was supposed to say, but…” They look anxiously to some spot over your shoulder. “Don’t be stupid, use your brain. You’ll get through this, okay? Bye!”

. . . AND THUS THE CLOCK BEGAN TO CHIME THE HOUR. . .