#despite how many photos i have of alans side i think i kind of like sagas more . i just cannot deny the dark place is very photogenic

[potofbees]

red lighting in alan wake 2

[gumnut-logic]

Fabio Blue Nose

Aaaargh, this was supposed to be a short, but it has demanded to be longer and I’ve run out of time. I did not want another WIP!

But anyway, here be Fabio Blue Nose, or a start of some kind at least. I hope you enjoy this random fluff so far.

Many thanks to @tsarinatorment​ and @janetm74​ for their support.

It should also be noted that no sea shanties were harmed in the creation of this fic. Nor are their any sea shanties in it, despite there being an urge to add one.

Aaaargh, it is 12.45am. I gotta go sleep, damnit.

-o-o-o-

The first time was an accident.

None of the brothers owned up to it but chances were it was Gordon, no matter how many times he swore complete innocence.

Though, come to think of it, Scott was rather more compliant than expected, so Virgil threw a little unspoken suspicion his way as well.

But anyway, it happened and it was a good thing.

There was always press at rescues that they could reach. Scott was fully aware of the importance of the media, particularly where communication and, to a certain extent, promotions were concerned. But when they got in the way of a rescue, the commander was well known to be intolerant.

This particular time, however, the press was managed by the GDF who were also onsite due to the scale of the disaster and possible sabotage, so International Rescue didn’t have to worry about them so much while they dug fifty miners out of a kilometre deep hole.

All but John were on the rescue. All but John were dirty, sweaty and ever so tired. There had been a chunk of rock that had needed demolition charges to get through, causing enough headache that even Virgil had been heard to spit profanity over comms when one of the charges misfired and nearly took his head off with shrapnel in the tunnel.

Eleven of the fifty men didn’t make it and there was some body recovery after the far too many trips it took to get them all back to the surface. In short, it had been an ugly, hard day. All the Tracys just wanted to go home and disappear into whatever distraction worked best for them.

Scott had to liaise with the GDF regarding red tape and reporting circumstances in the mine...that they should probably go down and see for themselves instead of relying on a civilian rescue organisation to do their dirty work for them. But whatever the reason, Virgil, Gordon and Alan were left to pack up and wait while all the dots and crosses were applied to appropriate Ts and Is.

It took longer than expected.

Virgil, sporting an aching shoulder, was reduced to pacing the length of Two’s open hatch. He should just take his brothers home and leave Scott to tackle the GDF.

But Scott was just as tired as they were and he had only just returned from another rescue when this callout came in. His big brother was exhausted and Virgil feared that if he left him behind they might end up a few GDF personnel short before the sun went down.

And the press were watching.

It was probably at this point the photo was taken.

It was iconic, even Virgil had to admit it. Emotive and made a statement about who they were and what they did.

The shot was from a forty-five degree angle, using a zoom lens that caught every detail of Two’s open module. Virgil stood in the middle of the ramp, paused mid-pace and staring off at something, probably Scott, in the distance. The shadow of Two in the evening light had his head in shadow, adding a heroic seriousness to his expression.

That alone was dramatic, but behind him from the camera angle, sitting on the top of the ramp to one side of the open hatch were Gordon and Alan.

Gordon had his arm around his little brother as they both stared in the same direction as Virgil. All three brothers were grimy and exhausted, Alan’s head was resting on Gordon’s shoulder.

It must have been an extraordinary lens to capture the detail because the media were fenced off a considerable distance away, but there was enough clarity to see one tear track in the dust on Alan’s face.

Their littlest brother claimed he had scratched his cheek, but they all knew better.

So, yes, this photo was taken and thrown across the planet as an illustration of three heroes of International Rescue.

There were rave reviews. Whole swaths of text praising everything their organisation did, what had been achieved that day and what had been achieved in the past. Inevitably, the history of International Rescue did the rounds again, their father’s legacy and all that. An unfortunate reminder of both the parents they had lost in the process. Being proud didn’t negate the pain that came along with it.

But due to the quirkiness of human attention, none of the above was the source of the impact the photo finally had.

It wasn’t Thunderbird Two or any of the three brothers photographed that captured most of the public’s attention.

It was a teddy bear.

Virgil kept a number of cuddly toys on Two. Some he had knitted himself, or purchased, a few were donated, but all were kept and given to children and occasionally adults, who were terrified during a rescue or evacuation and found themselves secured in Two’s module.

Perhaps the bear had fallen out of its storage, perhaps one of the brothers had shoved it aside. Whatever had happened, in the iconic photograph of three hardworking Tracy brothers, right at the back, inside the module sat a dark grey teddy bear with a blue nose and shiny eyes that caught the setting sun.

Staring right at the camera.

And the world went nuts for this bear.

It took less than a day for the fame of the teddy bear to become enough to alert Thunderbird Five and, in turn, roust Virgil out of bed - it’s lunchtime, Virgil, time enough to wake up.

Virgil’s answer to that was clear, precise and rated for adults only.

John triggered the coffee maker in the kitchen to start working its magic before his brother busted up something other than the English language.

Eventually, Virgil made it down to Two and dug out the bear responsible.

It was still sitting on top of the storage locker, which added kudos to Virgil’s flying skill.

He was going to shove it back into the locker when John asked him not to. Apparently, the bear had a following on social media.

So, Virgil picked it up and took it back up to the comms room. He placed it beside him at their father’s desk and pulled up a search screen and typed in ‘bear’ and ‘International Rescue’. He could, of course, ask John to forward him whatever his brother had obviously found, but he didn’t.

The search results that sprung up made it very clear that the world was most definitely obsessed with that bear.

There were zoomed in pictures of the inside of the module – a fact that had Virgil a little worried regarding security until he realised that anything that could possibly be compromised was just that little bit blurred. No doubt that was Eos at work. Probably snared the original photo before it could perpetuate.

But even then it was obvious that the posters had no interest in the technology. Several photos had the bear circled in red.

Various comments attempted to give reasons as to why the bear was there. The explanations were rather fantastical in the majority. A few were actually disturbing and linked Alan’s tear track to the bear – Virgil threw that bit of information at Thunderbird Five and that line of thought suddenly disappeared from the results. Some suggested the photograph was posed, a few mentioned that Thunderbird Two did carry such things and that was followed by a wave of genuine thanks and admiration for what they did…and then completely ignored when more fascinating ideas were presented.

Virgil was quite frankly amazed at what people could concoct from a photograph of a bear.

Said bear sat and stared at him the entire time. Its nose was very blue.

But ultimately the outcome that had occurred somewhere between all four brothers making it home last night and the time John dragged Virgil out of bed, Fabio Blue Nose had become a mascot for International Rescue.

Yes, ‘Fabio’.

Some inspired person had mentioned ‘F.A.B.’ as IR’s callsign and it went downhill from there.

Fabio stared at Virgil almost accusingly. His curly fur was a shade darker than Scott’s baldric and his eyes as golden as Gordon’s. His blue nose shone in the sunlight.

They had a teddy bear with a fan base, fan art and a dash of fan fiction.

Virgil caught his own name in one of them and shut it down so fast the browser crashed.

It didn’t help that an hour later Gordon found the same story and promptly paraded it around the villa for all to see and hear whether they wanted to or not. Apparently, because Virgil was the pilot of Thunderbird Two, Fabio was his crewmate.

A very heroic crewmate at that.

Could a teddy bear really rappel down a grapple like that?

He shook his head and threw a lounge cushion at his brother’s head. He really didn’t need to know.

But in any case, they now had a mascot that wasn’t Alan.

Gordon was hit in the head again for that assessment.

So, Fabio found his way to being sat on Two’s dash and accompanying them out on rescues.

The second photo was more than they had ever expected.

-o-o-o-

TBC?

[tagsecretsanta]

From @Fallenfurther

to @vegetacide

Secret Santa does not own this work, full credit to the author above!

A night to remember

The crackle of snapping wood filled the air as John threw yet another chunk of driftwood onto the fire. Embers flew up towards the darkening sky, swirling on the gentle sea breeze. The smell of the sea competed with the smoke when Alan inhaled, but that was okay with him. His eyes were on his fingers as he scrapped the toasted marshmallow on his prong onto a graham cracker. A smile crossed his lips as he turned it upside down and onto the chocolate that he’d placed on top a second cracker. Squashing the sandwich between the fingers he took a bite. The sweet crunchy treat hit the spot and he devoured it hungrily, sucking off the bits of marshmallow that had stuck to his fingers, before reaching out for more supplies. 

“I’d be careful getting that close to Gordon, Penelope. You might find you’ll never get a s’more!” Virgil joked, as he toasted two marshmallows at once. 

Laughter rippled around the circle, as Lady Penelope settled down in the sand beside Gordon and allowed him to drape the offered blanket over her shoulder. She pulled it in closer, as Gordon wrapped the other half around himself. The two lovebirds, as Grandma called them, smiled contently at each other as Penelope rested her head on Gordon’s shoulder. Winters on Tracy Island were rarely cold, but they often involved late nights around a campfire when there was enforced downtime. It was a family affair, everyone coming down to the beach, to spend the evening in each other’s company. Alan had memories of it happening before Dad disappeared, though he’d only been present for some of them. They had stopped for over a year after Dad had disappeared, but as they grieved and learnt to continue without him, they started to occur again. It had been a way of bonding, remembering, and forgetting the troubles of the world. This was the first enforced downtime since Dad’s rescue that they were able do one, and his brothers were eager to take Dad down to the beach. So here they were, nine years since the last one, all older, wise and yet they were still the same family. Even though it still felt weird to Alan, having Dad around, it was okay. Everyone he cared for, except Brains who rarely joined them on the beach, was here. 

“Or he’ll let one rip like he did to me last time!” Scott chuckled before raising his beer to his lips. 

“Hey! That was so not last time, it was at least a year before that, and you’d just stolen the last marshmallow.”

Alan giggled at the memory. Scott had indeed taken the last marshmallow, and Gordon had sidled over and given Scott a side hug, in an attempt to relieve their brother of his freshly made s’more. Instead, Scott had pulled Gordon into a big tight hug and eaten the treat over Gordon’s shoulder, getting crumbs down the Squid’s shirt. Gordon had wriggled intensely, trying to free himself from their brother, which only prompted Scott to hold on longer, even after the s’more had been devoured. An angry and frustrated Squid had subsequently let off the loudest fart, not only prompting Scott to release him but also for evacuation of the log Scott, Kayo and John had all been perched on. Alan had cried laughing, and Kayo had stared daggers after Gordon’s retreating, chuckling figure. 

“Don’t remind me of the obnoxious smell. To this day, you still haven’t told me what you’d eaten that day.” John stated, in the way only he could, while entirely fixated on the careful construction of his own sweet treat.

“My bet is still on a rotten celery crunch bar.” Virgil piped in, having just passed one of his two s’mores to Grandma as he grabbed a beer from the cooler behind her. 

“Remind me never to go in Thunderbird Four with you again. The filth alone makes the craft smell without you adding to it.”

Kayo chipped in; her tone entirely serious as a small shiver rocked her body. She hadn’t been there for that campfire as she had been off the island trying to track down her Uncle. There had been so many small leads that led to dead ends, but they had all needed investigating, just in case. Alan glanced in her direction where she was sitting cross-legged to the right of Virgil, her beer half-buried but upright in the sand. Scott and Virgil were leaning against a small bench they had carried down and turned on its side. They both appeared relaxed, leaning back with a beer in one hand and marshmallow topped prong in the other. 

“I should hope Gordon knows how to treat his machine with respect by now. It is a rescue vehicle and should be in pristine condition, ready for a callout. Although, I could ask Brains to add extra air filters to the inventory if such foul smells are a common thing.”

The deep voice of his father still surprised Alan and always seemed to demand the attention of the room. It was something Alan was still getting used to hearing. This would be their first Christmas together as a complete family. His brothers would always say Mum was missing, and they were right, but Alan didn’t remember a Christmas with her. It had always been the seven of them for him; Grandma, Dad, his brothers, and him. His Dad was currently sitting on a blanket next to Grandma, who had one hand on his arm, almost as a way of keeping him there, and her s’more in the other. She had changed, in a good way, since Dad had come home. She pestered them less and chased after his father more. Dad always got first pick of her cooking creations, her excuse being he needed to make up for lost time, and Alan was not going to complain about it. The fewer of Grandma’s cookies placed under his nose the better.  

“There is no smell in Thunderbird Four and she is perfectly clean and ready for duty.” Gordon proclaimed. 

“So, you wouldn’t mind if I do a quick inspection first thing in the morning?” Dad countered. 

The sheepish look that crossed Gordon’s face briefly told the real story, though it was Penelope that tried to save his brother from the mess he’d gotten himself in. 

“That will not be necessary, Jeff. I was in Thunderbird Four earlier and gave it the once over. I can confirm that it meets all the required standards and is ready for immediate deployment.” 

“Sure you did.” Scott grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Heat rose in Alan’s cheeks as Penelope shot Scott a glance that radiated pure distaste for his vulgar mind. She managed to glare in the most ladylike way, but Scott just laughed. Alan just tried to get the thought out his mind. He did not want to know what his brother and Penelope did in their spare time; he was simply happy that they were happy. 

“I do remember you getting yourself into awkward situations as a teenager.” 

The sly grin on the space monitor’s face had Scott glaring a challenge at him. Scott had never been that open about his teenage years to Alan, though he had heard a few stories that had been told around the campfire. He’d also heard a few second hand from Gordon who remembered that time better or had eavesdropped on their older brothers’ conversations. 

“Don’t even go there.”

“I was only thinking of the time you got stuck in that tree trying to retrieve the model plane Alan had crashed into it. That woman really didn’t appreciate you hanging from the branches.”

John’s voice was dripping innocence as he lent back on his elbow. Scott shook his head. 

“I was worried when she called her husband, and so glad that he saw the funny side.”

“I remember that. The poor woman was distraught, despite her husband’s reassurances. She wanted to get the police involved. Thankfully he said was a waste of time because you were still technically a minor, it really was just a misunderstanding, and you were only in the tree for the plane. I had you apologise at the time as well as write an apology letter that went with the hamper I sent over.”

Scott groaned as Dad relayed the facts, his head falling into his hand. 

“How could I be so stupid?”

Scott had indeed gone up the tree to fetch the remote-control plane, which Alan had accidently got stuck in its branches. Alan had told Scott the wind had taken it, but he’d actually been trying to show off to Gordon by doing some tricks. Only he messed them up and sent the plane crashing into the top of a tree. He’d tried to climb the tree himself to get it down, but it was impossible as Gordon refused to help him. In fact, Gordon had laughed and chuckled the entire time, especially when Alan had to go up to Scott and his girlfriend and disturb their make-out session. Scott hadn’t been happy but had reluctantly gone up the tree to retrieve the plane. Unfortunately, a branch had snapped while Scott was up there, and he’d lost his footing. He’d ending up hanging upside right in the line of sight of the woman’s bedroom window. Scott’s relationship hadn’t lasted long after that either. His girlfriend had posted a running commentary of Scott’s ‘heroics’ on social media, including photos of the husband rescuing him, and she refused to take them down until a week later when Dad got involved. Scott had been upset by the incident and apparently some of his friends hadn’t been kind to him about it either. Alan had felt terribly guilty, knowing it was all his fault, but when he admitted it to Scott he was rewarded with a hug. Scott told him not to worry and was glad that he was no longer with such a horrible girl. They had spent the rest of that evening playing videogames together, his big brother trying to show of his skills and failing spectacularly.

“At least she got to eat her hamper. I remember quite distinctly receiving a lovely chocolate hamper that I never got to enjoy.”

Grandma’s voice was full of jest as everyone turned towards Gordon, who just shrugged awkwardly beneath the blanket.  

“I was young, hungry and it was chocolate. What was I meant to do?”

“Gordon Tracy! How could you be so mean to your Grandmother? I hope you replaced it.”

Alan sniggered along with his brothers as Penelope berated Gordon for his actions. There was a grin on Parker’s face, who was observing the couple intently over the rim of his beer. As her ever faithful companion, he always had Lady Penelope’s back. A little bark came from Sherbet, who had woken up from the nap he’d been having on Parker’s discarded jumper. There had been a grumble from the man about the fact that he’d only put it down for a second before the dog had claimed it. Alan hadn’t quite caught all the words, but it had sounded along the lines of ‘mangy mutt’. Penelope opened the blanket to the pug and allowed him to wriggle in and curl up on Gordon’s lap. Gordon gave Sherbet a scratch behind the ears as the dog settled down with a yawn. 

“Was that not the Christmas that Virgil got stranded at his friend’s ranch by the massive snowstorm?”

John shifted as he spoke, leaning back to snatch a chocolate bar and beer from the open cool box. The beer he passed to the man in question, who accepted it grateful. It was his father that answered John. 

“I believe it was. Mum and I went out on the tractor, as we had an old snowplough attachment, to some poor folk who’d gotten caught just a few farms over, so we ended up heading over and picking Virgil up too. It did mean we were out longer than expected.”

“Giving Gordon time to eat all the chocolate while under my watch! I caught him trying to make the hot chocolate, but I didn’t realise it was Grandma’s when I took over to stop him making any more mess on the hob. I got grounded because of him.”

Scott recounted with a sign. There was a clatter of glass as Scott dumped his and Virgil’s empties in the allocated recycling bag, before continuing. 

“Thankfully, that little hill was technically on our property, so I could still go sledging with everyone the next day. I remember the snow being so deep we had to carry Alan and we made a family of snowmen near the house.”

“I remember that,” Virgil interjected, “You and I raced the sledges while John judged who won. I had Gordon with me, and you shared yours with Alan.”

“And they both fought us for control. How many times did we almost hit each other?”

“Too many. I had to roll us off more than once, especially when Gordon had us going straight towards that big tree. Though I think Alan took it a step further when he tried to take you both off by steering you into the fence.”

His eldest two brothers were chuckling at the shared memory. Alan had a few memories of snowy winters in Kansas but had no idea if he remembered that one. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t tell if it was that day or another similar sledging day. They all seemed to merge into one in his head. He could only separate a few out as specific years thanks so unique events. Like Gordon’s bright yellow and orange wool hat that he got for Christmas only to lose it two months later, and the last winter before moving to the island as half the house was packed away and they had all enjoyed the snow for the last time together. There had been one Thanksgiving and Christmas on the island with Dad before the accident, so this would be the second. It felt weird to Alan. In a way, moving to the island was the start of his life without Dad. He had been at boarding school for most of the time and was only home-schooled after they had lost Dad.  

“Don’t forget the time Gordon aimed for me.”

There was a smile on John’s face and a glint in his eye that let Alan know there were no hard feelings, and no one had been hurt.

“Though I think my favourite was when Alan dragged Dad onto the sledge and demanded he be taken to space.”

Alan’s ears pricked up at his name as a deep chuckle rumbled from his father. 

“There was barely enough room for Alan once I’d gotten on that sledge, but we made it work. You managed to slip between my knees and yelled ‘To the moon!’ as we were pushed off. You were so disappointed when the ‘rocket sled’ got to the bottom and hadn’t launched into space.”

There were smiles on everyone’s faces while Alan’s cheeks reddened. His Dad’s blue eyes were on him, and Alan swore there were tears in them. He didn’t remember that day, but he did remember looking up to his astronaut father. Alan had loved the time Dad had made for him, when they would sit together, and Dad would recount his stories of space. He also remembered his Dad getting busier, and that time becoming less, as Dad started to set up International Rescue. John had filled in, telling Alan of the stars, while Scott, when on leave from the Air Force, told him of the thrill of flying in planes and going superfast. However, for Alan, there was nothing faster or cooler than a rocket. 

“Remember Alan’s first Christmas when we were decorating the tree with Mum?”

Scott asked the group, though his eyes were on Virgil, obviously expecting him to have the clearest memory. 

“Yeah. Mum was trying to keep Gordon from running around and breaking everything while we were emptying the boxes of decorations. She’d left Alan on the mat with some toys thinking he’d be happy and safe there.”

“He’d been oddly quiet at the time when you think back.” Scott slipped in, “We wanted to get the lights on the tree, only to find Alan had managed to roll over to them and was lying on his belly happily chewing on them.”

“Mum had rushed over, and Alan had screamed his lungs out when she’d managed to pry the light from his mouth.”

“He had refused to let go of them as well, to the point that we almost didn’t have lights on the Christmas tree. Mum managed to coax the wire through his little fingers, though we all spent the next five minutes trying to find a suitable substitute to stop Alan from crying. John then had to check over the lights, but Alan was too young to do any real damage, but Gordon managed to scatter baubles everywhere in the meantime.”

Alan watched his brothers gleefully relay the story between them. There was a hollow feeling in his chest at the mention of Mum and him. He’d been told how much she’d loved and adored him, but this was the first time this story had ever been told. Not that there were many to tell. His brothers had been young so didn’t always remember things and Dad; well, he’d always struggled to tell stories about Mum. It’d gotten better recently, but there still weren’t many of him and her. A hand fell on Alan’s shoulder and he turned, half expecting Scott to be there. He had to blink when it was his father, who lowered himself onto the sand beside him. The similarities between Scott and Dad were striking and Alan felt guilty for not thinking of his father first. It was no longer Scott’s responsibility to worry after him now. The hand slid along his back and pulled him into a side hug. 

“You okay, son?” His father whispered into his ear. 

Alan nodded, his head brushing against this father’s shoulder. There was no way Alan could express how he felt, especially not here and now, but the warmth that was seeping through from his father helped. It was new and it was different, but he had his Dad again. A Dad who was trying hard to fit back in and get to know his sons again. His father was being careful about not getting in the way or treading on their toes. Maybe Dad felt the same concerns that he did. Maybe next time they gamed together Alan would bring it up. He wondered if any of his brothers had asked how Dad was coping. He bet Grandma had and was paying close attention to their interactions. His father’s hand rubbed the top of Alan’s arm, bringing him from his thoughts and Alan shifted closer to the astronaut. 

“Talking about Christmas lights, I remember a December morning when a certain someone woke up strapped to the bed by a large tangle of lights. Fancy reminding me of how that came about Alan?”

There was a sparkle of mischief in his father’s blue eyes as he peered down at Alan, who gave the man a big grin back in return. Alan remembered that morning well, especially how hard it was to not giggle as he carefully wrapped those lights around his brother’s bed. 

“You mean the December Scott was been a really moody teenager and didn’t want to spend the day decorating the house with his family? Apparently, his girlfriend was more fun and a lot less annoying than us, and that he’d rather spend the day with her.”

Alan enjoyed taking the lead on the storytelling, especially when he got a satisfying groan from Scott, who appeared to have forgotten the events of that day until now. Alan’s body rocked as his father chuckled. 

“Gordon and I only wanted to help cheer you up and fill you with the same festive cheer we had. The night before, we collected up every string of lights we could find and hid them in my room, before setting our alarm clocks for seven am. We snuck into your room, quietly unravelled the lights, then we each started wrapping them around you and the bed. We wrapped them tight enough to stop you from getting out. Our PJs were covered in dust from wriggling under your bed, but we managed, and we even found an extension cord and plugged some of them in. Your room lit up with some many colours and cheerful flashing lights, it was the most festive thing we’d seen that year. You almost woke up too, trying to turn over. We snapped a few pictures, turned off the lights and your alarm before we snuck back out to my room where we fell on the bed laughing. Your angry cry of “GORDON!!” had been the loudest in a long while, though you weren’t happy when it took so long to free you. You ended up missing the time with your girlfriend. Dad told us not to cut the lights unless we were prepared to buy new ones, which we weren’t, and you couldn’t afford new lights as well as a present for you girlfriend. We did get to spend the day decorating the house together, so the prank worked!”

“Leanne refused to wait for me saying if I really cared about her, I would be on time. She dumped me four days later for a guy two years older. At least I hadn’t brought the present yet, so I didn’t waste my money.”

There was a little bitterness in Scott’s voice when he mentioned her moving on so fast. If Alan remembered rightly, they had been dating for almost a year until that point, though it must not have been going as well as Scott thought considering how quickly she replaced him. Bet she wished she’d made it work now he was the commander of International Rescue, though for all he knew she could still be bragging about it. Gordon had insinuated on many occasions to Alan that not all the business trips their brother took were all strictly business, though the fact that Scott often returned stressed and with more ‘urgent’ paperwork made Alan doubt Gordon’s claims. 

“That was the year you all ganged up on your father in that snowball fight, practically making him a snowman! You all came back inside red in the face, damp, and shivering. I had to get out so many extra blankets and make so much hot chocolate to get you warm again.”

“But you do make the best hot chocolate, Mum.”

“Seconded!” Scott cheered, raising his bottle to the sky. 

The stories and drinks continued to be passed around the fire, which John packed high with the last of the dry driftwood. The stories were now from more recent times, tales from the past eight years without Dad. The gentle rocking from his Dad’s chuckles reassured Alan, who offered his own versions into the mix. When goosepimples covered his arms and legs, Grandma wrapped a blanket around him and Dad. Even on a tropical island the evenings were cool, especially when you are still in shorts and a t-shirt. Alan’s head was comfortable against his father and he started to fight his eyelids that kept trying to close. It was a battle he lost. 

******

When his eyes flickered open again, the fire was dying. Alan was still beneath the blanket with his father’s arm firmly around him. He yawned as he rolled his stiff shoulders. Blinking, he took in his family who still circled the fire. John and Grandma were cuddled up in a thick patchwork blanket, while the legs of Scott, Virgil and Kayo were cover by a striped one, as they all lent against the bench. Lady Penelope had fallen asleep in Gordon’s arms, though they had acquired a second blanket from somewhere. Parker was still standing in the background, his reclaimed jumper now on, and there was a bucket of water in his hands. 

“Shall I h’extinguish the flames now, Mr Tracy?”

“Please do, Parker.”

The fire hissed out, sending steam into the night sky. Stars were scattered above them, and Alan’s eyes were drawn to the familiar constellations. With the fire out the cold started to creep in, and his family started to move, yawn, and stretch. With practiced movements, everyone started to collect their belongings and rubbish, shaking sand off everything and heading towards the path. John and Grandma held coolers, Virgil and Scott took each side of their bench, and Alan grabbed the rubbish bag as Kayo grabbed the recycling. Gordon coaxed Sherbet off his lap before sweeping Penelope into his arms and carrying her away. Sherbet and Parker, bucket still in hand, followed close behind them. As Alan started up the cliff path his Dad’s arm returned to his shoulder. He was staring up at the stars though Alan couldn’t place which constellation he was gazing at.  

“It’s good to see these stars again. Did I ever tell you about all the nights Lee and I would stargaze on Alfie? There was the observation deck with this massive glass window in the ceiling, and we’d lie beneath it….”

Alan smiled, remembering the story well, but wanting to hear it again. There was something special about the way his Dad told it. 

[thunderbird-one-ai]

Oldest To Youngest Pt2

So this turned into a multi chapter. I had so much fun writing the first section and so I thought I’d include Gordon since Scott and Gordon are @tsarinatorment fav bro pairing. (I apologise for Gordon because I cannot write him to save my life)

I also changed Scotts age a little, to kind of make it fit better as I got some nice feedback on this on A03, so if that person is here another thanks to you to!

I apologise to @angelofbenignmalevolence for having to beta my work ^^’ [Part 1] - John

Gordon knew that he and Alan were the best pranking duo on the island, maybe even the world. But Scott had given them a run for their money. It had been almost a week now since they had found the oldest Tracy now younger than any of them. It was Gordon who had found him.

It was after a rough rescue, everyone went to bed including Scott, which took everyone by surprise. Apparently, he had taken the rescue hard, which they could understand. They couldn’t save everyone, and Scott took those losses personally, more than anyone else. When the sun rose, everyone was already up except for Scott, which was out of the ordinary. After a bad mission, Scott would normally be up at first light, push himself throughout the day to keep his mind busy. Gordon thought that maybe he was blaming himself too hard again. Nothing a little prod and maybe a small prank wouldn’t solve to get him out of his room at least.

For someone who would always want to make everyone know he entered the room, Gordon was light on his feet, making sure to not stomp around to ruin the surprise prank. However, when he opened the door, Gordon was met with a seemingly empty room. The bed was unmade which wasn’t like Scott at all. The bathroom door was wide open, so Scott definitely wasn’t in there either. He knew Scott hadn’t left his room, so he had to be in here somewhere. Gordon quietly made his way into the room, keeping an ear out for any signs of his brother. He did eventually hear some movement, coming from the wardrobe of all places. No way Scott could fit snugly in there without the door being somewhat open.

“Scott aren’t you a little old to play hide-,” Gordon opened the wardrobe to be met by bright, scared blue eyes that belonged to a young teenager. “Scott?”

“I want to go home…” the young brunette mumbled, tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes. “Hey kid, it’s okay. How did you even get here?” Gordon said, still shocked that there was a young child in his brother’s room, which if he thought a little harder, this kid looked a lot like his brother just almost twenty years younger. “Dad says I’m not allowed to speak to strangers…” the kid said, though he sounded far from confident in his own words. The poor kid looked terrified. “I’m not a stranger okay? I’m… a friend,” Gordon said, giving a small smile and kneeling down in front of the young boy. “I’m Gordon and I’m not here to hurt you, I promise okay? I’m just confused as you are right now,” “I don’t know where I am…” the young boy mumbled. “Well, this is my house, and this is my brother’s room,” Gordon said calmly. He didn’t want to make the boy more fearful than he already was. “So, you know my name. What’s yours?” The young boy looked reluctant to speak more at first. Gordon gave a small, warm smile to help the kid feel more at ease. He even moved back away from the wardrobe so the kid could make a quick getaway if he wanted to. “Scott….” The boy finally mumbled. Gordon forced his jaw not to hit the floor. No way. No way could this be his brother. Impossible. Nope. None of Alan’s sci-fi movies ended well when something like this happened. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Scott. Now I want to help you get home as much as you want to get home, back to your Dad. But we can’t do that with you hiding in a wardrobe now, can we? I have a really, really smart friend who might be able to help us,” Gordon said as he slowly held out his hand for Scott to take. It was obvious Scott was scared; he had seen that same lost expression on many children’s faces when Gordon had to rescue them from less-than-ideal situations. This wasn’t so different from a rescue, so Gordon fell into this role easily, though this was a very unique and strange situation. After some tense seconds, Scott’s hand slowly held onto Gordons. It was a big step, sometimes it took minutes for kids to grab his hand. Gordon stood slowly, matching Scott’s speed of ascension, everything had to be done at their speed, otherwise, they’d be back to square one. “Now we’re standing again. Are you feeling okay? No injuries?” Gordon asked, years of training not easily lost. “I’m okay, head hurts a little though,” “Headache maybe?” Scott nodded and Gordon made sure to continue to take things slow. Head injures seemed to be a running curse on this island. Not in the family because this wasn’t Scott. Nope, this wasn’t his older brother now young again. Definitely not, because that wasn’t possible. He kept a reassuring smile on his face as he led Scott out of the room and into the overhead balcony. “Er…guys, we er…have a situation,” Gordon said and that statement sounded very weird since it was coming from him and not John. The entire room went dead silent when each Tracy looked up to see Gordon holding hands with a child. Jeff was the first to move. Gordon saw his father bolt up the stairs, a confused and slightly fearful look in his eyes as though it looked like he knew this child. A child he hadn’t seen in a long time. Scott clearly was the same because the word Dad echoed in the large quiet room. Scott had let go of Gordon's hand in favour of wrapping them around his father’s neck, holding on tightly, looking scared just like when Gordon first found him. “I didn’t mean to hide. I didn’t know where I was,” Scott said in between happy and fearful sobs, making Gordon’s heart lurch. “It’s okay, Scooter. You’re okay. Do you know what happened?” Jeff said, holding this child in an almost suffocating embrace. Who was Gordon kidding? This was Scott. He’d seen family photos from when they were all younger. This was Scott Tracy. His older brother. Gordon didn’t even begin to try and think how in the world this happened because it would make his head hurt. No, scratch that, it would make Johns head hurt and give Gordon a migraine. Gordon saw Scott shake his head. The kid really did have no idea what was going on. He didn’t even recognise Gordon. “Why do you have grey hair Dad? Did they do that to you?” Scott asked looking a little more at ease now he saw a familiar face. “Well…I thought it was time for a change,” Jeff said clearly lying through his teeth, “Let's get you to the infirmary and give you a once over to make sure you’re okay hm?” Scott nodded and Jeff picked him up with ease despite Gordon's quiet protests that he could do it. His father wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore, not that any of his sons would say so, but Jeff seemed very set on carrying his son to the infirmary. Everyone moved in unison to follow them. A quick check over showed that this indeed Scott Tracy and that he was healthy, apart from the obvious headache and stress. Everyone seemed to sigh, relieved that he was okay, but the main issue of ‘what the hell happened’ and ‘how do we fix this’ came into the conversation. Jeff had moved over to one side with Virgil and John as they discussed what to do. That was over two hours ago. Gordon and Alan were able to set up the games system which Scott looked very interested in, much to their surprise. After a few games, Scott seemed to have calmed down and even moved to sit next to Gordon for the next game. Scott wasn’t great, in fact, he was losing every time, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. The real challenge was with Alan, who was pulling out his old tricks to beat Gordon again. One of which, resorted to throwing a cushion at Gordon’s face to distract him to take the lead. “That’s hardly fair. You’re playing dirty! We have company,” Gordon protested. “You cannot use Scott as an excuse to be bad at the game, Gordon,” Alan replied grinning and storming ahead in the game. Gordon glanced to Scott; he was not about to lose this game in front of his big/ little brother. He had a reputation to uphold! Gordon focused on the screen in front of him, desperate to get ahead of Alan and prove who the real gamer was out of the two of them. He then noticed Scott’s character was well behind the rest of them in comparison to the previous round and then noticed Alan’s character suddenly halting. “Hey! No fair! Stop I’m going to lose!” Alan shouted suddenly as Gordon crossed the finish line, claiming his victory. Gordon then looked to his right and started laughing out loud. Scott, his cool calm collective brother, had picked up the very cushion that Alan had hit Gordon with before and started hitting Alan instead with it. No wonder Alan’s character lost; Scott was distracting him. “Come now Alan, you can’t use Scott as an excuse for being bad at the game,” Gordon replied grinning. “Thanks, Scott. You’re the real best player,” The comment got Scott grinning widely and giggling. Gordon noticed that Alan was in his annoying playful mood due to the fact the youngest (second youngest?) had picked up a cushion. “Now you’re in for it, Scott,” Alan said, and Scott starts running. Grabbing another cushion and giggling louder, Alan was on the chase. Alan was easily faster, Scott being younger and not quite as fit as his older counterpart was losing his lead. Gordon was going to be on Scott’s side in this game. Gordon was above the two as Alan and Scott raced around the table. Gordon held out his hand above the sofa and Scott grabbed it. If Scott didn’t love flying, he was about to now. Gordon lifted him up high in the air above the sofa and Alan. “Target acquired! Throw it!” Gordon shouted and Scott threw the pillow, hitting Alan square in the face, “Direct hit!” Both Scott and Gordon cheered in victory. Gordon moved Scott slightly, so Scott was now sitting on his shoulders, something Gordon never thought he would ever witness. He’d had Alan on his shoulders once but that was it. Gordon had been on Scott’s shoulders many times growing up. Maybe now it was time to repay the kindness. Gordon did not know what the future held for the family. But he would protect his brother to the ends of the earth. Just like Scott would always protect him.

[scribbles97]

Left Behind - Chapter 38

PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3

Chapter 37

Read on Ao3

Leaning back in the desk chair Scott sighed to himself, he ran a hand through his hair as he looked to the family photo on the desk. Dad, Mom, and the five of them, all smiling happy, safe and healthy. 

A far cry from where they all were now. 

Two brothers were half way across the world with Hugh, investigating a sudden blackout of communication from their London agent and Grandmother. John was out on space junk duty. Leaving Alan the only brother safely accounted for, in his room partaking in some sort of gaming marathon. Mom was getting stronger by the day, awake for longer periods of time and finally able to at least eat and drink for herself. It seemed like some form of small mercy that her injuries from the explosion that had almost killed her were mostly healed. A broken leg only needing physiotherapy and surgical wounds that had long since scarred over low on their list of major injuries. 

Still, it didn’t mean he relished the idea of persuading her to go to the mainland for rehab. 

Mom wouldn’t want to be away from home for any longer than necessary. 

Not when she found out what Brains had told him about Dad. 

There was a signal, weak, scrambled, far from anything possibly decipherable. As far as they could find, there was no way to actually determine what it was or where it was from, not unless they got something better come through. They were still waiting for the Calypso to be in the right place, waiting and hoping beyond hope that the plan would work and they would get the signal they were all waiting for.

He wasn’t sure what any of them would do otherwise. 

“International Rescue, we have a situation.” Ridley hailed over the comm, “John’s picked up a Space Mine out there, can you get the disposal squad?”

He was already reaching out to make the call, “On it, is he in imminent danger?”

“Negative, the pod is small enough that it hasn’t locked onto him. He’s cleared the area of all major vessels so that’s not going to be an issue.”

He wanted to launch Thunderbird Three, set about getting involved in protecting his younger brother and diffusing the mine. Logic told him the ship was too big though, it was exactly the kind of target the mine was aimed at and would lock on to him in moments. 

“I won’t let him get into trouble Scott.” Ridley murmured, eyes flicking up to watch him, “You know I won’t.”

He did. Ridley was as stubborn as any of the rest of them, and as clever and quick to boot. Something in his stomach was unsettled though, restless like he should do something more than just call the bomb disposal team. 

Mom trusted them to manage in the field without her being there. He had to trust them too. 

“Keep in touch,” He murmured, “Tracy Island out.”

It only took a moment to get the disposal team en route, Little Lightning ready to launch as soon as the group arrived at the base. All Scott could do was watch and wait, listening into the comms between Ridley and John and trying to ignore just how relaxed they both sounded despite the obvious risk. 

“What’s going on?”

His eyes snapped away from the hologram monitoring Lightning’s progress to the woman stood in the door. 

“Mom!” He snapped standing and rushing to her side, “What are you doing up? How the hell did you make it up here?”

She shrugged but accepted his help down into the armchair in the corner of the room, “I needed to stretch my legs and see something other than those four walls.”

Scott could sympathise, none of them liked being in the infirmary. It was too enclosed and clinical in comparison to the space and fresh air of the rest of the Island. He knew from his own experience that any of them would escape the ward as soon as they felt capable of doing so, even if it wasn’t in their best interests. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” He frowned, crouching to take her hands lightly, “I would’ve come down.”

Her eyes were wandering back to the hologram, “What’s happening?”

He knew better than to try and brush her off, especially since she had found out that both John and Ridley were up on Five. It had been a conversation Scott had been avoiding, but in true fashion, Mom had taken the revelation in her stride with little more than a smile and a nod.

“John found a space mine, we’ve got bomb disposal on their way now.”

“Five’s pod is too small to register on its sensors.” She murmured, eyes still fixed on the projection, “He’ll be safe.”

Scott nodded, “Ridley’s keeping a close eye.”

He felt her eyes on him as she pulled her hand from his to brush his cheek, “And you’re sat watching?”

Lips pursing, he shrugged, “I’ve gotta trust them, haven’t I? At least I can hear what’s going on with them. I’ve still no idea what’s going on in London, I guess Hugh hasn’t called you either?”

Mom’s snort suggested she knew the exact thing he was feeling. As she shook her head she shifted slightly, her face twisting in discomfort. 

Finally stood in her shoes, as commander of a team and some sort of leader everyone else was looking to, he got it. All the fussing, all the hovering over comms, all the commands to back off when he didn’t want to, it all made sense to him.

“I’m proud of you Kid,” She murmured, eyes falling back on him, “I get none of this could have been easy for you, but you’ve stepped up.”

He could only shrug in response, “I screwed up at first. I let Virgil get hurt and then I got myself hurt.”

Mom shook her head at him, smiling as she did, “You both lived. I read the reports, yes it wasn’t ideal. Yes Virgil’s injury could have been avoided, but you learned from it. As for getting irradiated, that was just you being you kid, stubborn and determined and absolutely convinced that your way is the right way. You’d have done the same even with me lecturing you down the comm.”

Scott snorted, “I’ve learnt otherwise since then.”

“Good, because your father never did.”

He had to smile at the comment, knowing that Dad’s stubbornness had been the source of plenty of arguments over the years. 

“I had to inherit something from you.” 

She nodded, “You are your father's son.”

Looking down, he sighed, “Brains picked up a signal.”

“I heard. You and Hugh thought I was asleep. I thought you would have known better.”

Rolling his eyes at the comment, he shook his head. Yes, he should have known better. How many times had he earwigged on conversations himself without others noticing?

“It could be him.”

Her sigh was soft as her hand squeezed his, so much lighter than he was used to from her, “It could be a lot of things.”

Swallowing, he shook his head, “It’s got to be Dad. We can’t stop hoping for him now.”

“We’re Tracy’s, we never stop hoping.” Mom murmured, “But it doesn’t do any harm to be realistic at the same time.”

She smiled as she nudged him, “For example, I hope you’ll take me to sit out by the pool. Realistically, I know you’re going to send me back to bed.”

Laughing, Scott shook his head, “I hope you’ll be sensible and go for physio on the mainland, realistically I know it’s going to take a lot more persuasion.”

He hated how tired she looked when her smile fell from her face as she shook her head and brushed his hair back again, “No. I’m sensible enough to know I need it, that’s why I need your help getting outside.”

Frowning at her, he tilted his head, “Really? So that’s it? I can get you on the next flight out there?”

The smile was back in an instant, a laugh on her lips as she lightly whacked his shoulder, “I have a condition though.”

Raising an eyebrow he sat back on his haunches, suspicion couldn’t help but leak into his voice as he watched her, “I’m listening?”

“Come with me and take a break from things. Just for a couple of days, let me make things up to you.”

He had to frown, not understanding what there possibly could be to make up for. Kneeling forward he shook his head at her, confusion masking his features as he locked eyes with her.

“Wha--”

“The last thing I remember is thinking that you’d be okay for a few days,” She shrugged, the weight of the memory clearly heavy on her shoulders and in her eyes, “I told myself that you could cope and that you’d understand.”

“And I did -- I do!” he told her without hesitation, “Mom what happened wasn’t your fault! It was a shock to us all and yeah it scared me for a bit. You don’t need to apologise for leaving me in charge.”

He hadn’t even thought too much about it once it had happened. It had seemed natural to step in and lead in the way Mom and Dad always had done. 

“And no going to try and force memories either.” He started again, remembering what Eli had told them when she had first woken, “You can’t pressure yourself on this.”

It wasn’t the look on her face that had him thinking what a hypocrite he was. Scott knew exactly what he would be trying to do were the situation reversed. 

Mom sighed as she shook her head, running her hand through the hair that had barely begun to regrow, “I know that something happened Scott. I just… I have no idea other than what you guys have told me about Gaat being here on the island and the ship--”

“Hey,” He cut her off squeezing her shoulder, “It’s okay Mom, just give it some time. That’s all you need, just a bit of time and a change of scene.” he forced a smile as he took her hand from her hair, “Put it out of your head and start thinking about which restaurant you’re taking me for dinner at, okay?”

She smiled and nodded, squeezing his hand with a slight sigh, “Okay.”

Shifting, he stood, knowing from years of watching his father just how to distract her, “How long do you think we’ve got before Grandma gets back?”

Her smile widened to a grin as she let him take her weight as she stood, “Long enough to get outside?”

Wrapping his arm around her waist, he nodded, “Let’s find out.”

[canadian-riddler]

Like Father Like Son

by Indiana

 Characters: Edward Nygma, Alan

Synopsis: A return to Quebec dredges up a lot of things Edward spent so many years trying to forget.

Note: For those of you just joining us, Edward is Canadian across my fics.  His father is Quebecois and his mother is Acadienne from New Brunswick and they met while attending the University of Toronto.  Edward was only spoken to in French at home, but cannot speak Cajun French because after his mother left his father made sure to overwrite those habits with Quebecois French.

 AO3  en français

 He hated having to come back here.

He hadn't been to Quebec since he was a boy.  Some excursion his father used to drag him along for.  When he had made the discovery one of his best informants was based in Trois-Rivières, he had considered ending their relationship then and there, despite the man's extreme usefulness.  But he couldn't.  As much as he despised it, removing that part of his network would be a mistake he would find difficulty recouping from.  

Edward had received word of a very important package that had been acquired for him, which the informant insisted he retrieve personally, and though he had initially decided against going he had changed his mind.  It was his accursed need to know rearing its demanding head again.  And so he had made the arrangements to get himself back to Canada for the first time in twenty years.  It had been a lot harder to get back than it had been to leave in the first place.  He'd kept all his citizenship documentation up to date, but his... notoriety required a false identity regardless.  

So here she was.  La belle province.  It was nice, he admitted to himself rather grudgingly.  He didn't want to like it here, but as something of an architect himself he could appreciate the old-world flavour of the city.  That was about all, however.  He could still speak French like a native, of course, but while grinding his teeth between sentences.  Of all the places in a country this size his man had to be...

The location of his informant was a relatively distinguished nightclub.  This was nothing new to him.  A great deal of his persons worked in such places.  Many a shady deal had been cemented in a smoky VIP room.  What was a little unusual was the man leaning against the storefront outside, ostensibly using an electronic cigarette. In the minute or so it had taken Edward to close the space between them he had seen no sign of it being used.

"Good afternoon," he said when he had reached the other.  "I wonder if I might speak to the owner.  He's expecting me."

The man looked over at him, and his eyes widened in surprise as he dropped his cigarette.  "I'm sorry," he said, bending over to retrieve it.  "You look familiar."

Damn.  If he recognised Edward, Edward was going to have to find a way to kill him.  It could not be known he had come here.  If it got back to the GCPD that he had international dealings, he would be placed under a great deal more scrutiny than even he would be able to duck out from underneath.  "I don't believe we've met," Edward told him politely, sliding his hands into his pockets.  There was a toonie in the left one, change from the taxi he had taken from the airport. His thumb sought out the grooves. "Is the owner here?"

The man snapped his fingers, shoving the e-cigarette into his back pocket.  "I do remember you!  Nashton, isn't it?"

Oh dear God.

Edward held his politely oblique expression with more effort than before.  "Excuse me?"

"Yeah!  You used to work down there."  He waved an arm at a bar down the street that had seen its heyday quite a while ago, by the looks of its facade.  "Biggest barkeep they ever had.  Place took a dive after they fired you.  Sure, you punched a guy out.  But he probably deserved it."  The man gestured with his head towards the door of the club. "Trust me.  I know what you went through."

There was something hot seething in Edward's chest and it took conscious effort to stay outwardly calm. This was the worst possible thing that could have happened.  Not only had he been mistaken for his father, but it confirmed that he had not ducked the arm of genetics after all.  He had spent these past decades doing his best to distort the memory of his father's face, to convince himself his father's eyes were a different shade of blue and he didn't have that man's damned French nose.  But here the reality was, a blow to the face every bit as harsh as the ones he was once physically dealt.  He more than vaguely resembled his father.  He in fact passed for him completely.  

He swallowed around the constriction in his throat.  "I'm afraid you have me mistaken for someone else."

"No," the man said incredulously.  "Edwin Nashton!  It has to be you."

"I am not Edwin and I have no connection to him," Edward told him, his tone too harsh.  He bit his tongue momentarily.  God, he had never wanted to hear that name again. "I have a meeting with your boss and you are impeding me, not to mention wasting my time."

"Oh."  The man was toying with the cigarette, confusing creasing his face.  "I'm sorry.  If I didn't know better..."

He walked over to the door and pulled it open, but Edward was frozen to the ground despite it being one of the six months out of the year no such thing was possible.  "If you didn't know better what," Edward said.

The man shrugged. "I'd say you were the spitting image.  But he didn't have any kids.  Said after his bitch left, he had nobody."

He didn't know why it was so hard to breathe all of a sudden.  It wasn't as though he actually cared.  "No children at all?"

The man shook his head. "What was your name again?"

It's me! He wanted to scream at the damned fool.  Edward Nygma! The Riddler!  The Prince of Puzzlers!  The Curator of Conundrums!  How did he not know?  How could he not see it?

Because this man looked at him and saw his father.  Just as Edward would be doing for weeks onward because this encounter was already solidly encased in the forefront of his brain.  He should never have come here, nor would he ever again.  Yet another thing his father had destroyed long before Edward had ever had a chance to touch it.

"Wynne," was what he said.  "Arthur Wynne."

 //

 He didn't open the envelope he had received from the owner of the club until he had been on the plane back to Gotham for an hour or so.  He had a bad feeling about it.  There was nothing about this trip that was going to go well.  That was already quite obvious.

It was a clasp envelope in an unassuming orange-brown, and he slowly pinched the ends of the clasp together and lifted the flap.  His hand met plastic, and withdrew from the envelope a collection of photographs contained in album sheets.  There were two to each side of the pages.  The first two photos were of a young woman with flowing auburn curls. He frowned.  He had no idea who this was.   This was what he'd gone all the way to Quebec for?  Photographs of some woman for whom he had a face but no name? What was he supposed to do with them? Was she supposed to be important? He turned the page over, more out of exasperation than because he had any desire to see what was on the other side. More pictures of this woman, at some institution or other.  Her with someone who looked vaguely like her; a sister, probably.  Her again in a hospital with a baby.  He sighed in annoyance.  What a waste of his time.  He didn't know who this was and had no real way of finding out.  The only thing he could think of was that the owner of the club wanted him to find information on her - a bad relationship he wanted vengeance for, in all likelihood - but he hadn't given Edward anything else to move forward with.  Edward was extremely good at these kinds of things, of course, but even he would have difficulty trying to locate someone based on their facial features alone.

There were a final two photographs on the back page, and he was loathe to admit it to himself but seeing them caused his breath to catch in the back of his throat.  He knew who that man was.  Knew far too well, though here he was a great deal slimmer and much more... content.

Edward could remember every day of his life, every minute of his life, from sometime after he had turned eight years old.  Very few people believed him when he told them this, but they weren't the ones who found themselves unintentionally comparing all the lunch periods he'd had in grade eight, or pinpointing the exact parts of his life he'd realised he'd gone up a pant size, or agonising over all the days he'd left the house with his hair uncombed.  The people who did believe him were very jealous, for some reason.  They seemed to think he only remembered the things he wanted to, but just as any other person that was not so.  The bad memories came to light far more often, and the ones he was going through just then were all bad indeed.

His father was in the first photograph, underneath an engraved sign indicating the location as the University of Toronto, his arm around the woman's waist.  He was also with her in the second, which was the prerequisite photo of the tourist alongside the only Canadian landmark worth mentioning.  In both of those photos they looked quite happy with their places in life.  These two photographs were the only proof Edward's father had ever smiled.  Edward had never seen him do such a thing, and quite honestly he could have gone without knowing he ever had.  The pictures presented a window into a world where Edward did not exist and all parties were more than happy about it.  

Wait.  'All parties'?  Why had that come to mind?  He turned back through the previous pages and found himself stopping on the one with...

He looked to his left but found nothing particularly distracting.  He had the row to himself - expensive but necessary, considering the risk of being recognised by anyone who had the opportunity to stare at him for several hours - and without leaning forward all he could see of the man on the other side of the row was a pair of crossed legs.  He did, however, realise his mouth had gone dry and set himself to retrieving a water bottle from his valise.  He tried not to think about why that had happened, or why he was suddenly very aware that it seemed difficult to breathe all of a sudden, or why his stomach seemed to have turned to dry ice, but as always he did.  

He was the baby in the photograph.

The woman was not a random stranger he was supposed to track down.  She was not a nobody, or the unsuspecting subject of a photoseries. She was his mother.  

He regretted not asking after the circumstances under which the envelope had been obtained.  He had been so preoccupied with getting out of the province he had barely accepted it at all.  The informant had come across these photos - from a discarded album, perhaps - and had either recognised his father or had believed it was Edward himself in those last two pictures.  It could have been, he bitterly acknowledged with a violent twist of the lid on the water bottle.  It could have been.  He stuffed the album pages into the valise and closed it.  He could do without ever seeing them again, and he would dispose of them as soon as possible.  He didn't know why his informant had seen fit to pass them along, but he was going to do his best to forget he'd ever had them.  He looked at his watch and then out the window.  As soon as he got back to Gotham, he would do it.

 //

 He'd had that thought in his mind for the hours it had taken to return to the United States and deplane and all the way back to the Orphanage, but he hadn't done it.  In fact, here he was, with the photographs laid out neatly on his desk in front of him.  He had already memorised them but was sitting back in his chair anyway, arms folded and eyes fixed on those two people at the University.  No, they weren't just those two people.  They were his parents.

Something about that thought didn't feel right.  It most likely had to do with the overall lack of parenting they'd ever done.  His gaze drifted to the picture with... himself in it.  He knew that was who the baby was, and yet he could not quite reconcile it as such. The more he looked at it, the more he wondered just why the photograph existed in the first place.  He had been well aware for many years now that he had been unwanted, the result of a regretful night of irresponsibility.  His father had never made a secret of that. So who had taken this picture? Had his mother asked someone to? Had she been... happy to have him, originally?  She didn't look particularly pleased, but he didn't know how arduous the labour had been. Had her nurse insisted?  He could imagine one doing so.  

Oh, it didn't matter. None of these mattered.  This was a life they had closed the door on when they had conceived him, the consequence of their actions, and he needed to know no more than he already did.  Only bitterness could be found in the history of his parents.  In a life he had not been allowed to have.

I didn't know you came back, Alan said, and he had to catch himself before he jumped out of surprise.  For a robot, Alan was incredibly quiet.  

"Only a brief time ago," he told him, putting hands on the desk to gather the photographs, but Alan put a hand on his arm and looked at them.

Who are they?

"Nobody," Edward answered, piling the ones on his left since Alan did not have possession of that hand.  "They're nobody."

That man looks like you, almost.

"Don't you say that!" Edward snapped, snatching his arm back and crushing the offending photos into his fist.  Alan took a step back, folding his hands in front of him pensively.

Is that your dad?

"Yes, it is my father," he ground out, pushing the photographs into the back of a desk drawer. He would deal with them later. Damn.  There was nowhere pleasant this conversation could possibly go.          

Who's the woman?

"My mother."

What's a mother?

He leaned back in the chair. He was exhausted all of a sudden. Planes were the only place he'd found sleep to be impossible.  "A female parent."

You don't like your mother either?

He took off his glasses. He should have known Alan would come upon him and start asking questions.  "I never knew her.  She left my father when I was young and I have no memory of her."

Well, not having a mother isn't so bad.  I didn't even know I was supposed to have one.

He directed what must have been a quite displeased look at Alan, because he almost put his hands up. I meant... there's no need to wish you had one.  

"I don't." He really did not at all feel like explaining parents and parenting to Alan right now.  "There are things I'm better off not knowing."  He stood up with full intentions of walking off and leaving Alan hanging, pushing the chair back and moving away from him.

Like why she left?

He bit his tongue hard before he said something he really would regret.  Rage had tightened his throat and hands and it took him a good thirty seconds before he thought he could speak without snapping too much. "Yes."

It doesn't matter at all, Alan said, and that surprised him enough that he turned around.

"Why would you say that?"

Alan shrugged. I don't think she deserved you anyway.

Edward was taken aback. This was not the sort of talk he usually heard out of Alan.  "Is... that so."

She didn't take you with her, Alan said.  She didn't want to be your mother anymore so she doesn't deserve to be.

Edward picked up his glasses, partially as a distraction and partially because he didn't know where he was going after this conversation, but he would probably need them. "As far as I'm concerned, I have neither mother nor father.  I just came into those photographs quite by mistake, I assure you."  And he started leaving the room then, except Alan of course began to follow him.  He badly needed a cigarette but he liked smoking in front of Alan less and less, not because of anything in particular Alan did.  It was solely that he knew his son did not like it, and even though he knew Alan was not judging him for it he still felt as though he was.

He did end up sitting outside and lighting one, and it did a lot towards improving his mood.  He knew full well that quitting altogether would also help all the time, not only when he was stressed, but that could wait a little longer.

Do you like being a dad?

Edward considered the cigarette.  Alan was kneeling on his left, as usual, so he didn't want to look in that direction. "Hm?"

You said you wanted to be one, but do you like it?

He sighed, which unfortunately led to a lot more coughing than he would have preferred while Alan was around.  After his breathing had settled he said, "Sometimes."

Sometimes?

He hoped this didn't lead too far into things he didn't want to talk about right now.  Or ever, really.  "Being a parent is... difficult."

That doesn't excuse what he did to you.

He'd heard that before, but never from someone whose opinion he valued.  He didn't feel particularly validated, more... ashamed, almost.  If his father had no excuse, then what did it mean that Edward had been leaning on those actions his entire life?  If one was null, so then was the other.

Edward did look at him now, but Alan's posture held nothing and his tone had been matter-of-fact.  It was times like these Edward wished he was more reactive.  What was Alan expecting him to say to that?  Alan didn't even know what had actually happened.  He'd been given vague hints, nothing more.  "It doesn't excuse anything I do, either," he found himself saying.  It felt wrong to do so, given that he did indeed use it as a crutch when the opportunity arose.

How did Alan do it? Before him, this would only have made Edward angry and indignant.  But no. No, he couldn't be that right now. He had to suddenly deal with the creeping suspicion that perhaps he had been directing all of his efforts in the name of the wrong people this entire time.  Over twenty years of trying to prove himself bigger than the shadow of people who never would have given him a second thought if he did not keep demanding from them things they had already decided never to give.  He didn't want to think about this anymore.  He threw his cigarette into the yard and stood up.

I think it's okay if you're only a little bit better than your father, Alan said, walking through the door Edward held open for him. It's not a contest, anyway.

Edward closed the door a little too carefully.  'A little bit' wasn't good enough. ��'A little bit' was never good enough.  He might as well have failed entirely.  He turned around and was suddenly struck with some strange sense of... dissociation. As though he didn't know where he was or how he had gotten there, while also being able to remember it in perfect detail.  It was like knowing a stranger's life intimately while existing as an intangible entity within it, and for the first time he looked at Alan and thought, My son is a robot.

There wasn't anything inherently wrong with that, but it had never struck him before just how bizarre it was.  How... disconnected.  He had two hundred robots in his basement and he thought of them as his children.

He had the horrible sinking feeling that his entire life had slipped away from him at a point he could not identify, even now when he was being forced to look at things far more objectively than he'd ever wanted to, and he wanted terribly return to his ignorance. He hated that he'd even contemplated such a thing with a burning passion, but he didn't want to know.  He didn't know what or why he'd been doing any of this and he really, really did not want to.

Dad?

Again everything made sense, suddenly, and his moments of confusion seemed to have been imagined. He was going to chalk that up to having been imagined, anyway.  "What."

Alan had removed the photographs from the desk drawer and was looking through them.  Why did she leave you?

He took a long breath and crossed the distance between them.  "I don't know."

Alan faced the photograph of the hospital somewhat in his direction.  What is that?

"What is what."

Alan pointed at... Christ. Alan didn't know what babies were? Then again, he didn't particularly need to know such a thing.  That.

"That's... me. As a baby.  One of the... primary stages of human development."

Alan looked from the photograph to Edward and back again.  Are you sure?

He almost laughed. "Yes."

Alan shrugged and put the photographs back in the desk.  I know it wasn't good for you, but I like it better that she left.

He folded his arms. "Why is that?"

I know you'll never do anything your parents did.

He found himself frowning a little but this statement had the potential to mean something he did not like.  "You thought I was going to leave you behind someday?"

Not exactly, Alan said, and he sat himself on the desktop in exactly the manner Edward himself would have done.  I just know there are some things you won't even think of doing, that's all.

So Alan knew Edward would neither leave nor hurt him.  He felt as though that meant he'd done something right.  Maybe not everything, or most things, but something.  "I have time to play a game, if you want," he told Alan.  He tilted his head curiously.

Don't you have work to do?

"I said I had time, didn't I?" he said, a little too harshly.  Alan's only reaction to this was to climb off the desk.

Just making sure.  You were gone for a while.

Edward was about to protest that he'd only been gone for one day when he remembered Alan's sense of time was far more attuned than his.  They went up to his room and Alan set up the board while Edward ensured he had no important messages he needed to attend to immediately.  He did, but the more he thought about answering them the less he wanted to.  He put the phone in the bedside table drawer on top of his pile of handkerchiefs so he wouldn't hear it go off and put his attention to the game.  It was not overlong but after that Ada insisted he read to her - he still had not figured out why she wanted him to do that, seeing as she could probably read better and faster than he could - and by then he was so tired he did not have any inclinations to do any work.  He just went back down the hallway to his room and sat down on the bed.

He wasn't just tired, period, he was tired of... something.  Not knowing what was frustrating.  How could he solve a problem he had no knowledge of?  Physical fatigue he knew how to put up with extremely well. This other, new kind... it was worse, and he didn't know what to do about it.

Quit, something whispered in his ear.  Walk away from all this.  You've given all your best years to this and come up short every time.  When is enough enough?

When I say it's enough, he answered angrily.  

You don't know when to quit.  You never have and you never will.  One day you're going to go too far and you'll be lucky if you have anything left.

He didn't believe in luck. It was mere superstition and -

You believe in superstition.

Only because I have to!

Are you going to bed, Dad?

At least it served as an interruption.  "Yes."

Alan nodded and seemed to have the initial intention of leaving the room, but he hesitated. "Yes?"

Alan pressed his hands together.  Where we're going after you finish this... is it nice?

He didn't know where they were going.  He didn't know anything beyond the places in this city Edward had sent him.  It suddenly struck Edward just how much trust his son must have had in him.  He also realised that, though Alan was far more capable than Edward would ever be, that Alan was almost entirely dependent on him.  He didn't actually know that much about parenting, it was true, but wasn't he supposed to have prepared Alan to go out on his own by now, if that was what he wanted?

"Yes," he said, remembering suddenly he was having a conversation.  "Yes, it's nice."  As an afterthought, he added, "But if you wanted to remain here you are free to do so."

Why would I want to do that? Alan asked in confusion. Edward neither knew himself nor particularly wanted him to.  He only said evenly,

"You have a choice. That's all."

Alan looked away from him for a moment.  Finally he said, I'm unsure whether you're aware or not that I really don't.  But even if I did, it wouldn't matter.  I'd do the same either way.

Edward bit his tongue. Even when he was actively trying he still didn't manage to succeed.  It had momentarily slipped his mind that his son was more intelligent than he himself was. Alan had probably thought this through many, many times.  Perhaps even debated with himself over it.  This tightened his throat.  

If Alan ever left, it meant Edward had well and truly failed.  Just as his own father had done.

Dad? Alan asked.  Edward raised his head tiredly.

"What."

What's the purpose of a mother?

"A mother does what a father can't," Edward said.  He folded his hands together.  More to himself he added, "Or won't."

Ah, Alan said.  Now I understand why I don't have one.  And he left Edward there to process that.  

He rubbed his thumbs together.  He couldn't deny his pulse had risen a smidge upon hearing that.  Alan was intelligent and tactful, but he wasn't a liar.  He'd meant that.  Edward could accept that as completely heartfelt and genuine.  Alan had just said it.  Something to temporarily waylay all of his concerns. He was enough.   He was good enough.  He didn't recall a time he'd ever been able to believe such a concept before.  But there it was.  

Perhaps he wasn't really doing that badly after all.

[jasonmcgathey]

DiMarco’s

Concerned the draft reserves in our keg might not hold through morning, we start marching, up Bethel and across a deserted bank parking lot to the nearby neighborhood watering hole, DiMarco’s. A divided, four lane concourse of revving engines and weekend mad revelers, strip mall facades on both sides lit up indexing, variously, every known shade of the rainbow, this stretch of Bethel still sizzles with a heat only unexplored turf can sustain. Not only this stretch but the wealth of Upper Arlington beyond where, having conquered campus in our peculiar slipshod way, which is to say incompletely, but the best we’re ever likely to, may very well stand my next great project. Cataloging this terrain, or any fraction of the buffer separating their world and ours, or another series of blocks entirely. We cavort in myriad clusters like zoo animals gone AWOL, and I’m suddenly reminded of those January nights scouting out High Street for the very first time. The feeling that anything can happen and you’re on the edge of some tremendous discovery, a sensation you can never explain, nor one you’re ever capable of replicating on command.

DiMarco’s is a simple dive bar with a pair of real dartboards along the back wall, one pool table near the front picture window and not much else. Booths around the rim, and wobbly mismatched tables in the middle, square and shoved together in blocks of two or three. Jukebox topheavy with 1980s hair metal the clientele has never stopped listening to, one large screen television between the pool table and the entrance. This place might not have much of that elusive element, class, but enough that nobody’s cracking someone else over the head with a pool cue. Everyone here’s a friend, including the squat blonde middle aged barmaid Jan, quick to smile, her slightly pudgy right hand man Zerby, wiry black curls distributed sparsely across his prematurely balding pate, large black eyeglasses lending him the appearance of an owl. They are always here, I’m told. A schedule as religious as the price slashes they apply each trip to the bar, just because we know Doug and the Yanik sisters.

DiMarco’s has at no point ever been my favorite bar in town, but I sure have spent a ton of time here, nonetheless. Enough friends who lived up this way did consider it their top spot, to where the rest of us wound up here constantly by default. There’s so many random memories swirling around my head about this place, as is often the case, that it’s difficult to determine what episodes or details to share.

I know I’ve spent at least two Halloweens here, in part, of which that photo up top documents one. This would be the year that a really sharp looking brunette flashed her tits at the entire room, and Miles – though dressed like a doctor – raised both of his arms like a football referee and announced, “that’s a field goal!” This makes the highlight reel, to be sure, and is also a great example of the classic Miles comment, memorable despite or because of not making 100% perfect sense…even though you basically know what he means anyway. Otherwise, on this particular outing, I’m going with the self-explanatory bathrobe and pipe look, while Lisa, though she’s removed it by this point, had earlier adopted some sort of slutty kitten mask.

As far as other memories are concerned…Roy, Doug Fogle and I once caught a ride here in a pizza delivery girl’s pickup, in an absolute downpour. A bunch of us had been at Polo’s and virtually everyone else in our crew already left on foot for DiMarco’s. By virtue of hanging around just a smidgen two long, the three of us are caught up in this rain, though we don’t know it until stepping out the front door.

“Hey,” Roy says, spotting a pizza joint next door, “let’s wait in there until this lets up.” 

We walk over and begin rattling the locked glass door. The lights are still on, there are two girls working behind the counter, and an Asian couple is milling around in the lobby. So what gives? Finally, the Asian lady strides over and unlocks the door, to the visible consternation of both employees. 

“We’re closed,” one of the girls calls out as our motley trio staggers in. Apparently, the two ladies were making up one last order for this couple, and that was to be the end of their night.  

“Here,” the other, nicer girl offers, a modest looking brown haired chick, “we’ve got two whole pizzas left over – you guys can have them.”  

We thank her in an appropriately profuse fashion, and Roy hands a pie each to Fogle and me. Then he lays three dollar bills on the counter before we leave just as abruptly as we came, and in no better shape. The rain hasn’t abated any yet here the three of us are standing beneath the same awning, except encumbered now with the additional weight of two pizzas.  

The nice girl bursts through the glass door, jogging to a nearby truck, expertly toting a piping hot pizza bag in one hand which bears the well known company logo. One last delivery, it seems, before her night is through, before she can wash her hands of fools like us – that is, until her next shift in hell comes calling. 

“Hey, can you give us a ride up to DiMarco’s?” Roy shouts across the parking lot, long after she’s passed us. She’s standing beside her truck now, fishing for keys, and offers no immediate reaction to the question, or whether she’s even heard it. 

“I’m not supposed to,” she shouts back to us, “but okay. Come on!” 

Sprinting over to join this chick before she changes her mind, Roy jumps into the shotgun seat while Fogle and I are left sitting like a pair of rain drenched idiots in the bed. She tears out of the parking lot and only then do I realize we’re still holding the pizzas, also, too moronic to keep them inside the truck with Roy. Still, weighing the pros and cons of this arrangement stacks up well for us, better than walking, and the cardboard boxes somehow fare better in the rain than we do.  

Two minutes later, we arrive at DiMarco’s. Roy and Fogle sprint inside, while I stop to have a few kind words with our driver. Inviting her to either come in for a drink or else swing by Doug’s apartment later, though she laughs off each suggestion before driving away. I have no choice but to join the others, now, and meet them inside. 

II.

I happen to remember the night Damon first met the Yanik sisters, too, for whatever reason, even though nothing about it is all that remarkable. I think this is because we’d been in town for almost a year, and Alan and I both had already enjoyed some scattered bedroom adventures with Lisa, not to mention partied with these people an unholy amount for months on end. Yet here our third roommate had somehow not even made their acquaintance, not only the sisters but this entire crew.

Then again, our lives are often more compartmentalized than we think. Coworkers we’ve worked beside for years upon years, though they’ve never met our families, to give one example. Or, like how this particular gang never really ventured down to campus or Grandview much, just as my campus and Grandview friends were almost never up here.

Bored on some random winter weeknight, I decide to call them up, having not seen these folks for a number of weeks myself. Since Doug moved away and I left Kroger, that outrageous era had ended and I hadn’t been on this northwest end of town much. Learning now that a bunch of them are heading to DiMarco’s, Damon and I decide to ride up there ourselves.

Their younger brother Tommy now occupies Doug’s old couch, and Dane, who’s gotten into one bad situation after another over the course of a few weeks, has wound up getting fired from his most recent job, at a department store, for not showing up and dicking around when he did make it in. Then he busts out the windshield of Maria’s car during a nasty fight, and Mike Nelson drops him to the ground with a haymaker and he’s kicked out of their pad as well, exiled from the charmed circle of friends.  

I introduce Damon to everyone – seated at one table in the dimly lit other half of DiMarco’s, the half away from the bar, is the cool but somewhat spacey Charlie, a part-time drummer, his stringy black musician’s hair now almost as long as Damon’s; the ever talkative and impossibly busty redhead, Jen McBride; Lisa with her admittedly comparable breasts, dark blonde locks currently worn straight and halfway down her back; and her sister Maria, a brunette, whom we are fortunate to catch in a really vocal mood this time around. The two of us squeeze in beside them and brace ourselves for this conversation. 

Junior, Tommy, and their preppy jock friend Cooper, who I remember from one other party back in the spring, are playing pool nearby, while the girls relate to us the latest adventures and trending gossip concerning everyone else. Meanwhile, Damon sits looking bored and sipping on a beer, or else trying to strike up a conversation with Lisa and Jen, even though they didn’t know what to make of this longhair character in horn rims. 

Although, it is possible he’s having a better time than it appears. “I knew I’d be in trouble meeting these fat girls with pretty faces,” he whispers to me at one point, after downing a couple brews. Even if Lisa’s ruining the good cheer by bitching incessantly about her roommates. Finally, the clock reaches two thirty and house lights are coming on, as we pay the ever present bartending duo and head for the doors.

“Jesus Christ, Dude!” Damon exclaims with a sigh as we steps outside, “they seem like nice girls and all, but man, that one was getting on my nerves.”

“She’s usually not that bad,” I explain, which is true.

“And what about that other one, the redhead, what was her name, Lisa?” 

“No, Lisa was the blonde,” I correct.

“Well, whatever, she was the one sitting on the outside, right? I couldn’t believe she was bitching about everyone not cleaning their rooms! Maaaaaaan, I’d tell that bitch to fuck off!“

“Well, they’re usually not that bad,” I tell him, “especially after you get a couple beers in them. They throw good parties though, and they do have some nice looking friends.” 

III.

They used to keep decks of cards behind the bar here and DiMarco’s, and possibly still do, as we’ve played many a game of euchre here. There was a long running tradition, and may still be, of pool tournaments played blatantly for cash in this bar, and nobody batted an eyelash. Then again, I don’t remember ever seeing law enforcement around these parts, and the help situation was always remarkably consistent, with Jan and Zerby here just about every night. So you weren’t going to catch any heat from them, either.

That TouchTunes jukebox at the very least had an REO Speedwagon album on it. This I know because Lisa, who I constantly berated for her somewhat horrible tastes in music, was particularly fond of that one, would play it here often. At some point along the line, though sleeping together off and on for about a decade, we did try actually dating for approximately an eight month stretch there in the middle. One night she was at this juke and that infernal Speedwagon disc was blasting Time For Me To Fly, while Lisa and Jen F stood there still picking out further tunes, and Jen told her, speaking of me, “Lisa, this song is for you. It’s time for you to fly.”

Despite this period (or maybe because of it, as the more Lisa would yell at me, the more inclined I was to laugh in her face), I always was and continue to be thought of as somewhat of a zany, hopeless goofball with this crew. It’s funny how you get off on a certain foot with various scenes, be it socially, or with work, or with family, and nothing much can ever really change this. You begin to realize it’s a combination of elements contributing to this phenomenon: a little bit of people only seeing what they expect to see, a little bit maybe of you falling into your familiar role with each circle, but then also, I half suspect sometimes, it almost seems like life is throwing events in everyone’s lap to bolster these impressions. Even one night here in DiMarco’s where Lisa’s been screaming again and Tommy’s threatening me with, “don’t do anything stupid!” won’t change the dynamic, is pretty much forgotten about five minutes later.

“She doesn’t listen to anything, dude,” I tell him.

“It’s my fuckin sister – you think I don’t know that?” he retorts.

Perhaps riding around with pizzas in the rain isn’t the best idea, if you’re trying to dispel some image. Even so, in the late 90s I was dating this perfectly fine looking brunette named Stacy, however briefly. I’m pretty sure that the first time I ever came out with her around this group, we were at DiMarco’s. At any rate, it was one of the few occasions I was ever with her, around this bunch. We’ve been here a while and she says something about wanting to dip over to Polo’s. So the two of us say goodbye to everyone, climb in my car and drive over there. Stacy and I sit at the bar and order one beer…and then she completely disappears. She saw somebody she knew across the bar and was going over to say a quick hello, and this was the last I saw of her that night.

I was more than a little embarrassed at the time about my pathetic glasses, thus would never wear them. So my eyesight wasn’t the greatest to begin with. Nonetheless, I did sit there for quite a while, nursing my beer, and even made a cursory lap or two of the place. May have possibly ordered a second brew, even. In this pre-cell-phone era, this basically represented the extent of your options. Therefore, despite not exactly rushing into this decision, I eventually shrugged it off, hopped back in my car…and returned to DiMarco’s alone.

“Where’s Stacy?” everyone asks, baffled by this turn of events.

“I have no idea,” I tell them.

Of course the entire mob – which, now that I think about it, was fanned around one of those larger central tables, itself a rarity, instead of spread like normal all over the bar – is howling, clapping their hands together, pretty much on the verge of spewing beer out through their noses. I was unwittingly playing the same old part as always. I guess it’s somewhat amazing that Stacy and I actually went out some more after this. But I never quite lived this one down. Nor did I ever bring her to DiMarco’s again.

IV.

Though pretty much everyone else has moved on, we do still swing by here from time to time, of course. It was here one night that it became obvious Damon was really hitting it off with this Maryland chick, who worked with Tommy, and the two of them soon turned into a serious couple. At some point, a window was installed connecting DiMarco’s with the Ange’s Pizza next door, and there became even less of a need to leave your barstool than before. Fluke reunions across the years have almost always meant a pit stop in this place is required, if it involves any of this old gang. Like for instance, the last I’ve seen of such disparate characters as Miles or Jen McBride, these occasions have transpired right here. I seem to remember hearing something about Jan and Zerby buying the place, even, though I’ll have to research that – but either way, I like to think that the two of them are still behind the bar, every night, just like always.

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[bethsteury]

“Come to Maine next fall,” urged my “new” brother Alan as his visit to Indiana wound down, in September of 2017.

He had traveled a thousand plus miles to meet us, the half-sister and family DNA had linked to his paternal side, and now he was inviting us to visit him and his family, and become acquainted with the area where my birthfather and siblings grew up.

We loved the idea from the first mention and so began the murmurings and repeated references to “Maine next October”.

But first we’d journey to Hawaii to meet my birthfather and sister, and if the opportunity arose, Alan implored us to mention the plans for our trip east in 2018. And while we were at it, why not convince bio dad to join the fun? It arose, we mentioned, he showed interest.

All year we talked about “Maine in October”, hoping our entire immediate family couldmake the trip. The thought of meeting more biological relatives and the chance to introduce my kids and grandson to their biological grandfather / great-grandfather, had my mind whirling. Of course, we’d have to finagle around the work schedule of six adults on our end and one in Maine and encourage retired bio dad to get on board.

With a fair amount of ease on our side, the pieces fell into place and the hoped-for trip shifted to a reality with confirmed vacation time for the working adults. And then came an affirmative nod from birthfather/grandpa/great-grandpa.

So many firsts to look forward to . . . None of us had been to Maine which we’d heard to be simply gorgeous in the fall. Our immediate family hadn’t vacationed together since a weekend excursion when six-year-old grandson Dylan was still housed snuggly in his mommy’s tummy. And the chance to meet more bio family in the form of nephews, first cousins, second cousins, and a grandpa.

My organizational planning genes rallied and shifted into overdrive as a thousand details begged for attention. The “fixer” part of my personality, aided by my tendency to worry and my leanings toward perfectionism, all yearned for this second, once-in-a-lifetime trip, (Hawaii being the first) to be awesomely amazing in every way for all seven of us. After months of late-night planning, the day of our departure finally arrived.

Our flights, although exciting for the first-time fliers among us, were thankfully uneventful in air-travel terms. Having left a 95% green landscape in Indiana, the fall foliage that greeted us, even from the air, was stunning. “Gram, it’s all orange!” exclaimed Dylan, peering out the window as we descended toward our final destination.

With only one mishap involving a lost jacket and wallet, we arrived—two from Colorado and five from Indiana—in time to meet for dinner. Or supper, depending on your term of preference for the evening meal.

A lot of taking it all in took place around the table that first night after the initial introductions. As I watched my daughter and son interact with our newly discovered relatives, I was sooooo grateful that my husband and I had already met those in attendance that night. It would have been far too overwhelming for all of us to meet the new kin for the first time, at the same time.

“You look like my mother,” announced bio dad, pointing at me from the other end of the table. An observation that had been made time and again over the past eighteen months about my Grammy, as my siblings referred to her, who’d been gone for thirty years.

With the promise of more family introductions and time together tomorrow, we retreated to our Airbnb lake house, with a bountiful supply of groceries. I breathed a huge sigh of . . . something much more than relief. Spirits remained high despite a long day of travel, the lake house was beautiful and would suit our needs well, the radio had declared the fall foliage at “peak” this weekend, and my children, their significant others, and grandson had been welcomed by my biological family.

  For the next three full days, we took in the sights of this new-to-us breath-taking part of the country and made up for lost time with family as eager to spend time with us as we were to be with them. Alan hosted our gang, his family, and our bio dad accompanied by our Thai sister, for a total of twenty, at his house for a feast of steamed lobsters and clams. We were all about indulging in the local cuisine. When in Maine, you know.

We pored over old pictures accompanied by tales of times long ago. Remarked on likenesses that I honestly will never grow tired of discovering, like how young Alan’s pictures bare a striking resemblance to our son. And might Dylan and Alan’s granddaughter, Eliza, look a bit alike as well? The siblings chatted, first cousins mingled, the second cousins raced around as youngin’s do. And as Alan had once suggested, we didn’t think about the relationships in terms of “halves”.

The next day found us gathered for Sunday brunch, the traditional family-together-time bio dad hosted when he journeyed back to his old stompin’ grounds. We tucked the second cousins in a booth with crayons and such next to the long table of hungry, talkative adults. Our end of the table was quieter. Not so much because this was our first family Sunday brunch, but because this was it. The last time we’d all be together as a group, a family, on this trip. By now familiar with and learning to be accepting of how this new-to-us family was not the get-together-often type, did not stop the unspoken wonderings and the questioning glances shared between us. Would we see them again? If so, when and how and where? Very similar contemplations to those that had weighed heavily on me when leaving Hawaii.

But the more important concern of the moment, a group photo to capture the special occasion. Many candid shots had been snapped at the family bash/lobster fest the previous evening by our son’s girlfriend who happens to be an accomplished artist and photographer. But the group pics had been saved for last. So, we transitioned outside to a spot bio dad had scoped out, despite his well-known camera-shy status. Sunshine warmed the fall air as our personal photographer shuffled us about, offering bright-sun-don’t-squint tips. Oh, one of the siblings together? Of course. How about great-grandpa with the little ones? Absolutely.

And then too soon, it was time for goodbyes. I beckoned my kids not to miss the final moments with their grandpa. “This is goodbye,” I said, motioning them toward him as the group spread out across the parking lot as if we’d reserved the space. “Not goodbye, so long,” he insisted as hugs and parting comments were exchanged. Lots of hugging all around, more moments captured on film by our attentive photographer. Then, with a sweeping wave to his offspring, bio dad excused himself. The photo session continued as the rest of us lingered, soaking up the togetherness, making memories, and being silly. A last, final round of goodbyes sent us on our separate ways.

I felt sort of numb as we drove away, pushing back against the acceptance of how normal family functioned for these folks. But no tears, choosing instead to drink in the autumn beauty and focus on the remaining time together for the seven of us. Besides, another adventure awaited us that afternoon.

At Boothbay Harbor, we buttoned up for an hour plus boat tour of the nearby islands under clear, bright blue skies. Some of us huddled together against the chilly wind at the bow for the best view of the shoreline, the lighthouse, the seals, while others took in the sights from the heated quarters below deck. Later, we dined at the water’s edge, indulging in more of Maine’s fresh seafood, entertained by Gus, the restaurant’s seagull mascot.

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The next day, Alan joined us for a two-mile hike in a gorgeous woods that set our cameras to clicking.  We shared a fun, delicious burrito lunch at a local establishment, one we vowed would make our list of regular haunts if we lived in the area. As the younger five of our party would be flying home in the morning, it was time for them to bid “so long” to Uncle Alan. The sentiments all around filled with sincere promises to meet up again. Goodbyes are no fun, you know? Even the “so long” kind.

grandson Dylan

A last evening of lounging together at the lake house brought our totally awesome, did-not-disappoint, whole family vacation to an end. After dropping the fam at the airport the next morning, we settled into a hotel for three more days of soaking up all things Maine. On the agenda? More local cuisine with Alan, a jaunt to Acadia National Park, and of course, a cemetery field trip, as what would a vacation to a genealogically significant locale be without a trip to a cemetery or three?

But first “There’s something I want to show you . . . ” Alan beckoned us to his car for a mystery excursion. He pointed out landmarks, “We went to high school here,” and other interesting trivia as we cruised about the nearby tiny town where he and my siblings had spent most of their growing up years. And then, he whipped out the file folder containing the pictures that he’d brought to Indiana from Maine, that had traveled with us to Hawaii before journeying back to their home in Maine. He held up a photo of my three smiling half-siblings as children, sitting on an outside staircase. “This was taken right here.” He pointed out my car window at that very staircase. My mouth agape, I held the photo to the window. It was a truly wow, goose bump moment. A minute later, we stopped at another exact past-picture location and then a third. For those brief minutes, I felt totally immersed in my siblings younger lives.

Then it was on to the gravestones of our grandparents and great grandparents as well as various aunts, uncles, and cousins. Folks I knew from studying their vital statistics on the family tree. Inspired by Dylan’s attention to the family markers back in Indiana, Alan had spent time tending the plots and stones a few months earlier.

  We drank in the stunning beauty of Acadia National Park. We indulged in more local eats and took in every possible local sight, right up to the moment of rushing to the airport to catch our flight home. By week’s end, we’d compiled at least a hundred reasons for coming back to Maine, including the extended family reunion the next July for our grandmother’s branch of the family tree.

Alan had indeed accomplished his goal: that we would have such a great time we’d want to come back to Maine, often.

So long, Maine. Until next time . . .

Alan, me, husband Mike 

      Meeting the Bio Family: Chapter 9 — “Maine in October” “Come to Maine next fall,” urged my “new” brother Alan as his visit to Indiana wound down, in September of 2017.

[katthebeijingcat]

8/6~8/11: Exams, Tats, and Bittersweet Farewells

So here we are. The Final Week. 

OPIc

Any of y’all remember the OPIc, that computerized oral test I took in the first week of the program? Probably not? Well yeah me neither, as I almost slept through it if it hadn’t been for a teacher calling me about my whereabouts. 

On Monday, we took the OPIc a second time, to compare our language level pre- and post-program. And I realized during the test, wow I really improved. At the beginning of the program, I remembered freaking out when I heard the questions, struggling to make a single coherent sentence, and occasionally having no answers whatsoever. But this time, I was able to answer fluidly, even if my grammar or vocab wasn’t correct, and if I didn’t know quite how to answer something, I was able to talk around the answer to get a point across. I felt the difference, and it honestly made me so relieved. 

That said, the sad thing was that I kinda messed up. In the beginning of the exam, you pick one out of 6 options best describing your comfort level, and essentially the 1st option is easiest, while 6th option is hardest. Pre-program, I picked the 4th option and got r e k t. Post-program, I still should’ve picked the 4th option, but I chickened out and picked the 3rd option. This meant that, despite doing quite well, the test scored me based on the 3rd level, so my result actually wasn’t much higher than pre-program (I think I went from Intermediate Mid to Intermediate Advanced). I am very aware that I was not Intermediate Mid at the beginning of the program, but the OPIc overrated me because I picked the wrong level. But oh well, improvement is improvement :) 

圆明园 / Old Summer Palace

On Tuesday, I went to Yuánmíngyuán, the Old Summer Palace. So this place is quite fascinating. There is a mix of both Chinese and Western architecture, so it was interesting to find European style columns with the 12 zodiac animals. Moreover, there are many ruins from the looting and destruction by the French and British during the Second Opium War, and to this day many artwork have yet to be found. But the garden was a beautiful sight, and I felt so much more relaxed. 

Also, Yuánmíngyuán is apparently famous for its black swans. I found a happy couple with three cygnets! 

Tattoo!

And here’s a surprise! On Wednesday night, instead of studying for my final oral exam, I decided to get myself a permanent reminder of this time in Beijing. 

So I found a tattoo artist named Shawn, and I asked him to give me a tattoo that I’ve been planning for about a year now: a dragon. This is because my Buddhist name (摩尼珠 / Mónízhū in Mandarin; 마니주 / Maniju in Korean) means the pearl held in a dragon’s claw, which, according to Wikipedia, is “associated with spiritual energy, wisdom, prosperity, power, immortality, thunder, or the moon.” In other words, I am a Dragonball lol. 

And wow, that was a LOT. The whole process took 5 and a half hours, and halfway through I was getting incredibly tired and hungry, hence leading to adrenaline shock. The pain intensified, especially when he got to the coloring portion around my ribs. But this episode showed me the unbreakable bond of HBA friendships, because Shane, Amanda and Alan came to the rescue! They took an hour Didi ride to give me Tylenol and McDonald’s. I can’t ask for better friends, and we would have not had this relationship had it not been for HBA. 

As for the tattoo, I love it! Here it is, on the right side of my torso: 

This time in Beijing is really special to me. And while I had been planning on this tattoo prior to the program, I think what made me decide on doing it here was that I wanted a Chinese dragon, and I felt it best for someone who truly understands the significance of the dragon to ink it onto my skin. So thank you Shawn, and thank you all my supporters :) 

Final Exams, Graduation & Celebration!

We had our final exams on the last two days: oral exam on Thursday and written exam on Friday. And despite my lack of thorough preparation (like I literally got a tattoo lol), I felt surprisingly confident. This just shows how well HBA prepared me, and I was again proud of my improvement. 

On Friday 8/10, after our written final, we had our graduation ceremony, where we finally ended our language pledge! Let’s just say, it was pretty awkward. We’ve really only used Chinese with our teachers, so to speak in English, to hear them speak English, was incredibly bizarre. But there were a lot of shared feels and photo ops at our farewell lunch banquet. Some tears may have been shed. Jk, a LOT of tears have been shed. 

Here are some of the best photos: 

The iconic trio: Amanda, Shane and me

w/ Jeongyoon, Ben, Emily, Wang Dan laoshi and Wang Le laoshi

w/ Jia laoshi ft. photobombs Chen laoshi, Amanda & Shane

w/ Yang Qian laoshi aka my older sis coz we realized we’re the same being

w/ Jonah ft. photobombs Lu laoshi, Joyce and Gong laoshi

w/ Yang Bin laoshi

w/ Tan laoshi ft. photobomb Bai laoshi and unknown eye

w/ the cutest Yuan laoshi and Yi laoshi

w/ the Taiwanese queens Lu laoshi and Wang Yongxuan laoshi

w/ the angel Yu laoshi

w/ Tang laoshi ft. photobomb Shane

This isn’t even all the photos I took, but all of you mean so so much to me!!! Thank you for spending this joyous summer with me <3 

But actually, our farewell banquet wasn’t our actual last farewell. No, of course we had to party!! The second years went to KTV with some of our teachers, and we had some iconic moments, such as Tang laoshi seducing us with his serenade: 

We also went clubbing together with teachers!!! WHATTTTT? Well, we all deserved it, ESPECIALLY the teachers who put so much work into teaching us. They needed the break. I have some good snapchats, but I respect their privacy and will not post here. But it was great!! I loved that we were so comfortable with each other that we could party together. That’s what great about HBA :) 

Flying home

Oh the final day!!! On Saturday 8/11, we took shuttles to the airport. And wow, saying goodbye is so. hard.

When we arrived at the airport, Caleb and I were sooo hungry, that we went into this restaurant to have our last taste of authentic Chinese food in China: 

And here’s Caleb being a cutie: 

So it turns out Caleb, Hasan and I were all on the same flight to JFK! We weren’t sitting near each other, and I didn’t get to see Hasan upon arrival, but Caleb and I were able to say goodbye later. It was nice that my official last HBA farewell was actually in New York. It somewhat felt like I didn’t leave everything behind in Beijing. But, I was finally back, and I went home to finally have some good Korean food and see my dog <3

End of Program Reflections 

I don’t like getting too feelsy, so I’ll keep this short and to the point. Beijing is not the best city. It’s crowded, extremely polluted, and you literally la duzi everyday (that’s the word for diarrhea; it’s so common and no one is phased when you say it). But I am thankful for everything, and I’m so glad I came here. I’m thankful to HBA, to all the teachers who not only taught me so much Chinese but also were amazing friends and companions.  I’m thankful to all the new friends I made, and I’ll forever cherish our memories of trying to uphold the language pledge and going on adventures. I’m thankful to the people in Beijing, for inadvertently teaching me so much about living in a foreign city and adjusting to a new culture. And finally, I am thankful to the Light Fellowship, as I am all too aware that this kind of special opportunity is otherwise impossible for a low-income child of immigrants, who just graduated from college and has yet to figure out her life, and who prior to this program spoke worse Chinese than native 3-year-olds. I couldn’t afford to live in a place like Beijing, let alone fend for myself, so thank you to everyone who supported me through this process. 

And last but certainly not least, I’m thankful to my loving family who, despite their continued empty-nesting, unconditionally supported me in my pursuits, and waited for my return with open arms. So while I’ll miss my time in Beijing, once I flew home on Saturday, I only had one thought:  

It’s good to be back home. 

[gumnut-logic]

Mosaic Beach

It has taken me since Thursday morning (it is now Saturday night) to write this goes-nowhere-piece-of-fluff. I had a low level migraine Wednesday night and felt awful Thursday morning, so the first 850 odd words are me visualising being in a better place other than outside my daughter’s school. Then Scott had something to say and promptly ate my fic. But then at least he was thinking about Virgil.

Also, Gordon is evil.

As always, many thanks to @tsarinatorment​ @scribbles97​ and @janetm74​ for the read throughs and support. You guys are amazing to me :D

I hope you enjoy this totally lazy fic ::hugs you all::

-o-o-o-

It was a lazy day.

Virgil suspected John, who had been kicked off Five the day before, had Eos routing all but the most dire situations to local authorities whether Scott authorised it or not.

There were days where Virgil wondered if Scott was really in charge, since John had so much ultimate say.

But that thought was for another day. He was tired and it was likely going to be a day off - please let it be a day off - and he was going to find a corner of the Island to sit alone and scribble in his sketchbook.

He ended up on Mosaic Beach, a personal favourite on the edge of the caldera. Gordon had mentioned it the day before regarding the quality of flotsam available after the last storm and Virgil thought he would see what he could find.

It was overshadowed by an ancient pokey tree brilliant in red blossom and the sand here was a mass of black and white swirls as the coral detritus fought the eroded igneous rocks – the reason they had given it its name. Gordon was right - there was all sorts of things tossed up the sand and Virgil spent the first half hour wandering along the strip of sea wrack picking up shells and whatever caught his eye.

One of the shells appeared determined to return to the ocean and it was with a small smile that he picked up the tiny hermit crab and watched it curl up into its shell.

Holding it gently in his palm, he sought the shade of the giant tree and sat down on the sand in its shadow. Here the breeze was gentle, the sand cool and, leaning back against a rock, he set the little crab down on a smooth patch of sand, along with his small hoard of shells and let it scamper across the little landscape that resulted.

Sketchbook out, he spent the next few minutes sketching the crab madly as it moved about. It shifted angle at random and he found himself increasingly switching from real life to a character sketch. A little personality sprouted from the page that reflected the little crab’s determination.

Ever aware of the crab’s needs above his own, he sketched fast, took a few photos and then gathered the little creature in his hands once more. He trotted down to the rock pools at the edge of the beach and found a spot he felt the crab would be happy.

Crouching down, he watched it scamper into the water.

His lips curved into a smile.

Gordon would know what species it was, where it lived and how to best care for it. Virgil was pretty sure he knew what type it was. Mel was pedantic about crabs and had given them a list of ‘these are endangered, tell me if you see them, kill one and I will kill you’. Fortunately or unfortunately, it wasn’t a long list, so Virgil had memorised it. This little guy...he should be happy here.

The crab found some weed and promptly hid under it.

The rockpool drew Virgil’s eye a little longer before he finally stood up and let the breeze cool his face. A sigh at the sun’s warmth and he wandered back to the shadow of the pokey tree and sat down again.

The little crab stared up at him from his sketchbook, spritely and determined.

Kind of like Gordon really, despite the claws.

That prompted a smile at the thought of his fish brother’s reaction to being compared to a crab.

He would squawk, but he would love it.

Virgil returned to sketching the shells and bits of coral he had collected. Rearranging them, repositioning for lighting. He picked one up and stared at the colours created by a little mollusc. He was ever amazed at what Mother Nature was capable of. Simple geometrics and chemical formulae made one of the world’s strongest and most beautiful substances in nacre. Another broken shell showed the rainbow of colour that he knew his paintbrush would never quite be able to capture, much less the pencil and stick of carbon he had with him today. He was left with a little snapshot from his phone...which was never quite the same either...and what his memory could provide.

Perhaps it was nature’s way of ensuring it was always the most beautiful.

He shifted to scribbling down the beachscape after that. It wasn’t the first time he had drawn this beach, but as with all beaches, it was different every day as the tide sculpted it.

His fingers grew more and more lazy, his lines wandering through more emotion than reality as the day drifted on. At some point, he ate the sandwich he had packed, quite happy to not care what time of day it was and refusing to look at his watch.

Eventually the sketchbook was set aside and he let himself just stare out at the ocean lagoon, eyes tracking the movement of the distant waves and the laps of the ripples against the shore.

And nature’s rhythms lulled him to sleep.

-o-o-o-

“Hey, big bro, you might want to drop by Mosaic Beach before the tide comes in.” Gordon waltzed past the desk Scott was sitting at with a smirk on his face.

“What?” Scott’s brain was still stuck in working out what the hell Simmonds meant by the ‘urgent memo’ that had interrupted his afternoon off.

“The snoring is scaring away all the wildlife.” With that Gordon grabbed a book off the shelf on the far side of the room and backtracked out the way he had come in...without another word.

Scott was left staring where his brother had been.

But then Gordon was worth ignoring some times.

He turned back to his display and continued to try and work out why Simmonds had ordered sixty plastic flamingoes and then memo’d him about it in a panic.

It took him a good few minutes more before throwing it back at Simmonds’ supervisor in Japan with a ‘concerned’ note.

What did Tracy Industries need with sixty plastic flamingoes?

He shook his head and forced himself to stand up and not invest any more in any comms from the business. Today was hopefully his day off and he refused to fall into the trap of losing himself in all the things that required attention.

All the things.

He paused mid rise.

But no. No! Vacation day. He forced himself away from the desk and out onto the balcony.

It was a beautiful out here. The afternoon sun was blazing in a brilliant blue sky without a single cloud. The sea was murmuring far below. It was an artist’s dream.

He blinked as certain Gordon utterings connected neurons together.

A frown. “Gordon!”

No answer.

Another frown and he strode back inside, following the recent tracks of his fish brother down to the kitchen.

Scott found him reading at the table, a phone that was most definitely not his in one hand and the book in his other.

There were lots of photos of crabs.

“What are you doing?”

“Confirming the identification of a crab.”

“Why?”

“Virg found one down on Mosaic Beach and I wanna make sure it is what I think it was so I can report it to Mel.”

The dots that had been connecting earlier fused into a solid line with an arrow pointing directly at Gordon. “And where is Virgil?”

“Snoozing on the beach.”

“And why do you have his phone?”

“Because his drawings were excellent, but I needed a colour shot.”

“Gordon!”

His brother didn’t even look up. “What?” But then he blinked and frowned at Scott. “He’s fine. Well above the high tide line.” A glance down at the book again. “There, that’s it. Oooh, Mel is going to be so excited.”

Scott glared at Gordon for a whole second longer before storming over and snatching the phone out of his hands. Without another word, he strode out of the kitchen and took the path that would lead him down to the reported beach.

Younger brothers were hard work.

The little beach wasn’t the closest on the Island. Probably one of the reasons Virgil chose it to get away from pesky younger brothers. Trust Gordon to find him anyway.

He fingered Virgil’s phone in his hand as he walked. The green leather case was embossed with an elaborate dragon design.

Looking at it, all he could really feel was fondness.

He must be tired. Grandma was right. He needed a day off.

Easier said than done. It wasn’t like he could park himself on a beach and fall asleep.

He grunted as he stepped over some rocks to start the climb down to the little cove. The path was thin and wove amongst several pōhutukawa trees – or pokey trees as Alan called them, their dark green leaves adorned with puffs of red blossom. Birds darted between them squawking at each other. That combined with the surf in the distance and the breeze rattling palm trees, it wasn’t the quietest of places.

Nevertheless, he found his brother sprawled against a rock under the largest pokey tree at the edge of the beach, snoring his head off.

Definitely noisy.

Virgil was dressed in an old pair of work shorts and a t-shirt with a hole in it. Both sported spatters of paint and clearly showed how relaxed his brother was trying to be.

Beside him on a rock, carefully placed, no doubt by Gordon, the brat, was a sketchbook and a box of drawing tools. Virgil’s artist backpack lay folded up supporting his head - again likely Gordon.

Virgil snorted and curled up just a little more against the rock.

Gordon was a shit, but he was a kind one. Virgil slept like the dead and would likely need one of those waves off in the distance to wash over him if he was going to wake up before he wanted to.

Staring a moment longer, Scott sighed, gave up and sat down beside his brother. He dropped the phone onto the sketchbook and looked out at the beach.

Virgil continued to snore.

His biggest little brother had always snored. Scott had cornered him and got him tested for a variety of sleep issues, but he was fine. Just loud.

The terrible two used to make a point of pointing it out as much as possible. But that was before the hydrofoil accident.

Gordon didn’t know it, but due to his injuries, he now snored, too.

The ribbing about snoring in the Tracy household had dropped to a minimum since, Gordon the only unknowing ribber.

But Virgil remained the major noise maker and the brothers worshipped the soundproofing in the villa.

Regardless of the racket, Scott did find it strangely quiet out here. Sitting on the sand with nothing to do was oddly relaxing. Of course, he wasn’t really one to do nothing and Virgil’s sketchbook was right there. Gordon had obviously already stuck his nose into it and Scott was pretty sure Virgil wouldn’t mind if he took a peek.

Would he?

Lifting the phone off the book, Scott carefully picked it up and nestled it in his lap...ever, ever so careful. Okay, so he had some respect and not a little fear of damaging Virgil’s artwork.

The pages were thick and stiff and likely designed to support wet media as much as dry. Most of the work in it was pencil, however, maybe some charcoal? The darks were so deep in some that they had to be.

But Scott was no artist and really only had eyes for the content.

The first page found him looking at himself. Virgil had obviously either captured Scott’s likeness on the sly or drawn from a photo or holoprojection. His drawing stared up at him in almost all three dimensions. The expression on his graphite face was thoughtful, almost wistful. He could see his rendered self was thinking or planning and totally distracted...which was likely why he had no clue his brother had captured this shot.

But the artistic strokes were strong and sure, simple in their complexity.

Scott blinked, moved that his brother was so talented and capable.

Though he really shouldn’t be surprised.

Turning the page, he discovered their grandmother.

He had to smile. The concentration on Grandma’s face was almost comical. A bowl and a recipe book sat in front of her and the very tip of her tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth as she frowned at whatever she was reading.

There was a touch of caricature in the drawing, a little exaggeration, but done with love and fondness, not mockingly. His grandmother was beautiful.

Scott swallowed and turned the page to find several detailed scribbles. They looked like pieces of machinery and the pages had notes written down the sides.

It was a spark moment. He knew Virgil well enough for that. One of those times when his thoughts all came together and saw him running naked out of the shower to grab whatever he could find and get it written down.

Several major equipment improvements had occurred exactly this way. It appeared that at some point, this sketchbook had been the nearest note book and had borne the brunt.

He stared at the diagrams, doing his best to work out exactly what they were. Sharp notation, numbers, that had to be the backend of a pod. It clicked. This was part of the pod assembly redesign from the previous year. Virgil had come to him with some major improvements, including a pod body redesign. What followed had been a massive overhaul of all the ‘birds’ assembly systems and a whole new set up, including colour changes according to which Thunderbird housed which pod. Virgil and Brains had been buzzing for weeks.

And it was possible it had all started here on this piece of paper. Now he could see the scribbled down inner workings of the assembly mechanism and the shape on the second page was a worked and reworked pod shell.

He glanced over at his brother who was still snoring peacefully. Virgil was amazing. Scott could not have been prouder of what his little brother had achieved. Yet Virgil never really boasted or bragged or even highlighted what he had done. He was just there. Always there, one step behind him ready to help.

He must be really tired because now he was getting emotional. There had been a few times in the last couple of years where he had come close to losing Virgil. He hadn’t, but there had been nightmares and many a night where he had spent reassuring himself that his biggest brother was still with him.

And yes, he could stand outside his brother’s bedroom door and listen to him snore.

It gave him comfort.

Gordon had caught him once.

That had been a heartbreaking moment.

Because his fish brother hadn’t said a thing, just reached up, squeezed his shoulder, dropped his forehead against Scott’s arm and just stood there for a solid moment. Another gentle squeeze and he left, not even looking up at Scott before he was gone.

It said more than any words.

Scott sighed and turned the page...only to come face to face with Gordon again. Though this time the joy in their fish brother’s eyes was lighting up the page. He was grinning at a shell and there was a speech bubble - ‘Virgil, come and see this!’

Scott had to smile. Gordon was notorious for sharing his beach discoveries. Virgil was usually the target because at least he knew a little bit about their little brother’s fascinations. Scott loved to see Gordon happy, but honestly, he couldn’t tell the difference between one shell or another. He tried. He honestly did, but Virgil had the patience of a saint and was much more engaging.

Scott loved to watch the two of them instead.

And yes, he saw Virgil sneak things into his pockets. Usually shells, but occasionally rocks and bits of coral. Those finds made their way back to Virgil’s studio and there was a whole corner devoted to marine still life.

Which was why it was no surprise when the next three pages of sketchbook turned out to be exactly that. A curly shell, a pile of cockle shells - Scott knew those at least - they were good for fishing. The third page had a plan for a reef painting. It had scribbled notes, much like the pod redesign pages, but this was based around a sketched layout. Scott frowned at it...it was vaguely familiar. He would have to ask Virgil about it when he woke.

The next two pages sported today’s efforts. The same beach he was sitting on emerged from the paper, along with some sketches of a crab. The first few were realistic, but the last one had the little hermit crab with an IR symbol on its side and one of Dad’s old uniform hats perched on top of its shell. It bore a sash that resembled Virgil’s despite the lack of green colour and one of its claws was bigger than the other in a very exo-suit-like way.

That had Scott grinning. This was no doubt the reason why Gordon had run for the crab book. Mel, in her position of Director of the Kermadec Expedition south of them on Raoul Island, was very particular about the endemic crabs on all the islands in the area.

He wondered what she would think of them inducting crabs into IR.

He wondered what she was doing today and if she might be available later for a nice evening together.

That thought was very distracting and had nothing to do with crab identification at all.

Virgil snorted, rolled over off his backpack and face first into the sand.

Scott startled, fully expecting a woken bear of a brother to surface from that.

But Virgil just kept snoring, now snorting sand as well.

He placed the sketchbook down, scrambled around his brother and gently shoved the folded backpack under his head again.

His fingertips brushed sand off Virgil’s face.

And he found himself sitting beside his brother again.

Why was he out here?

Because Gordon was evil and dangled the concept of Virgil drowning in the tide simply to aggravate him enough to do exactly what he did.

Gordon was a shit.

But a good one.

Another sigh and he lay back against the rocks and got comfortable, because, let’s face it, he wasn’t going back up to the villa without Virgil. His brother was safe, sure, but walking off and leaving him to the elements ran against his grain.

And Gordon knew it.

He would throttle, and possibly hug, his fish brother later.

Besides, it was nice out here, taking a moment to just be.

Virgil would approve.

Virgil would fake being asleep just to get him to do it.

Scott’s eyes darted to his now softly snoring brother, a sudden suspicion at the forefront of his thoughts. He would put it past either of Virgil or Gordon’s conniving ways to conspire to get him out here.

Virgil was drooling a wet patch onto his backpack.

Ugh.

Well, maybe not.

Perhaps he was just being paranoid.

Perhaps he just needed to relax.

Relax.

He closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap. Kayo was good at meditation. So was Gordon. Virgil did some connecting with nature thing that seemed to work for him.

Exhibit A snorted as if in agreement.

He could try.

Out of all the sounds he could hear, only one really held his attention.

That same soft snoring. No waves or wind or birds squawking brought him any kind of comfort.

The sound of his brother breathing evenly beside him, safe and sound, was the most beautiful sound in the world.

What that said about him...well, he didn’t care right now. He was tired and worn out. Maybe Gordon was right. Maybe this is what he needed. He should care, should be annoyed, but the rhythm was lulling and, god, he was so tired.

So goddamned tired.

Virgil kept breathing and Scott followed him into sleep.

-o-o-o-

Hidden in the foliage of the grove of pokey trees behind his two brothers, Gordon just smiled.

-o-o-o-

[djgblogger-blog]

Got a boss who denies reality? A guide to tactful truth telling

http://bit.ly/2j3SyUQ

'He said what?' fizkes/Shutterstock.com

‘Tis the season for holiday parties at the office.

While they’re great for building workplace camaraderie and team spirit, when was the last time a colleague - perhaps fueled by too much alcohol - said something so ridiculous that it made your jaw drop? Perhaps a desk mate went into something political, claiming that George Bush is behind 9/11 or that Barack Obama is a Muslim from Kenya? Or maybe your boss voiced science denialism, arguing that the Earth is flat or the Apollo moon landing was faked?

Just as disconcerting as the conspiracy theorist in your midst is hearing a boss or colleague blatantly deny a business reality, such as evidence that a favored product flopped or a decision was absolutely the wrong one.

So what do you do when someone you work with – even the CEO of the company – tells you something that’s demonstrably false?

Dealing with truth denialism - in business, politics and other life areas - is one of my areas of research, and I recently published a book on the topic. Here are some tips to navigate that Christmas office party or one-on-one with a boss in denial.

To reality deniers, facts and photos won’t change minds. AP Photo/NASA/Neil A. Armstrong

It begins at the top

The worst-case scenario is when your chief executive is the one in denial.

A four-year study by LeadershipIQ.com, which provides online leadership seminars, interviewed 1,087 board members from 286 organizations of all sorts that forced out their chief executive officers. It found that almost one quarter of CEOs – 23 percent – got fired for denying reality, meaning refusing to recognize negative facts about the organization’s performance.

Other research strongly suggests that the behaviors expressed by CEOs “are felt throughout the organization by impacting the norms that sanction or discourage member behavior and decision making, and the patterns of behavior and interaction among members.”

Together, these findings suggest that organizations where CEOs deny negative facts will have a culture of denying reality throughout the hierarchy. Of course, even when the boss lives in the real world, others in the organization may hold false beliefs.

Professionals at all levels can suffer from the tendency to deny uncomfortable facts in business settings. Scholars term this thinking error the ostrich effect, named after the (mythical) notion that ostriches stick their heads into the sand when they see threats.

Forget facts and logic

Our intuition is to confront colleagues suffering from the ostrich effect with the facts.

But research - and common sense, if the colleague is your supervisor - suggests that’s usually the wrong thing to do. That’s because when someone believes something we know to be false, some kind of emotional block is probably at play. A number of factors explain why this happens.

For example, research on confirmation bias shows that we tend to look for and interpret information in ways that conforms to our beliefs. So even if sales are far below expectations, a CEO might reject that information in projecting good financial forecasts on the belief that his actions should lead the company to do well.

In another example at a company where I consulted, a manager refused to acknowledge that a person hired directly by her was a bad fit, despite everyone else in the department telling me that the employee was holding back the team. The manager’s behavior likely resulted from what scholars term the sunk cost fallacy, a tendency to double down on past decisions even when an objective assessment shows the decision to be problematic.

In both cases, facing facts would cause the CEO or the manager to feel bad. We often prefer to stick our heads into the sand rather than acknowledge our fault because of our reluctance to experience negative emotions.

Research on a phenomenon called the backfire effect shows we tend to dig in our heels when we are presented with facts that cause us to feel bad about our identity, self-worth, worldview or group belonging. In some cases, presenting the facts actually backfires, causing people to develop a stronger attachment to incorrect beliefs. Moreover, we express anger at the person bringing us the message, a phenomenon researchers term “shoot the messenger.”

There are many other mental errors that inhibit business professionals from seeing reality clearly and making good decisions.

Modeling emotions and values

This isn’t to say that emotions are the problem. They are not.

Emotions are fundamentally important to the human experience, and we need both reason and emotion to make good decisions.

So rather than offering facts, your goal should be to show emotional leadership and try to figure out what are the emotional blocks inhibiting your colleague from seeing reality clearly. To do so, use curiosity and subtle questioning to figure out their values and goals and how they shape their perception of self-identity. And focus on deploying the emotional intelligence skill of empathy.

Unfortunately, despite extensive research about the importance of emotional intelligence in professional settings, too many organizations still fail to provide such training.

Building trust

Once you understand your colleague’s goals and values, try to show you share them.

Research shows doing so is crucial to conveying knowledge effectively in professional environments. Practice mirroring, or rephrasing in your own words the points made by the other person, which demonstrates you understand how they feel and helps build trust.

With a CEO, you might talk about how both of you share a desire for the executive to be a truly strong leader. Try to connect the traits and emotions identified by the CEO to specific examples of his behavior.

And regarding the manager with the problematic employee, I had a conversation about how she saw her current and potential future employees playing a role in the long-term future of the department she ran. I echoed her anxiety about the company’s financial performance and concerns about getting funding for future hires, which gave me an additional clue into why she might be protecting the incompetent employee.

Unclogging emotional blocks

After placing yourself on the same side, building up trust and establishing an emotional connection, move on to the problem at hand: their emotional block.

The key here is to show them, without arousing a defensive or aggressive response, how their current truth denialism undermines their own goals in the long term. It can help to cite a prominent example of a business leader accepting difficult facts to move forward, such as how former Ford CEO Alan Mulally helped save the company through repeated course corrections. Research shows that offering positive reinforcement, without condescension, can be effective with colleagues and bosses alike.

So when you’re at your next office party and encounter a truth-denying colleague, remember these tips and perhaps you won’t have to spend the evening with your face buried in your hands.

Gleb Tsipursky does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

[jakbobbygalleryblog]

there’s no Neon Lights Festival this year

you may read a well written article about the event from Bandwagon, this one isn’t

It started raining that day. November is a rainy month this side of the world. And so is August, July, September, in any particular order. 

Some were still from Black Friday Sales as Thanksgiving was around 24 that year. But maybe because Singapore doesn’t really observe this holiday as a country, historically, so it doesn’t matter that much other than department stores.

So yeah, it was raining hard (it never not rained every time I return to this country, often with an amazing thunderstorm you get to notice before your plane even does the landing). I was all too excited to go to the festival but I am so tired that Friday after walking the streets at five in the morning up to seven from Lavender Road just to see the sunrise over Gardens By The Bay, Helix Bridge, and the Singapore Flyer. See, I am supposed to meet a fellow backpacker that morning, as we went around Changi the night before hoping we get ourselves a late night Hawker Centre experience. I insisted we check out the closest to the airport refusing to go McDonalds or such because I will just order McSpicy and I will never really enjoy food that much when going to another place. So yeah, we went to a Hawker Centre and missed our bus going to our places, mine over Lavender Road near Little India, her’s over Chinatown. The cab driver, as we later opted since we missed all our buses, kept on talking about Ferdinand Marcos and Lee Kuan Yew during their time and how things are going politically over South East Asia. It was never the easiest ride I say. All too preachy but well-educated conversation from a cab driver. I am always amazed how these conversations go this part of the world and such counts among those precious Singapore moments. But things are pretty much exhausting and mixed up that Friday; also that was when I decided to meet another friend who toured me from downtown to Bugis to Vivo City to Sentosa to Siloso Bay — everywhere! We even decided to go to the Casino if only the locker rentals for you to chuck your bag in aren’t that pricey. I never lasted ’til dusk. I went home around four in the afternoon just to really take a power nap.

While I am almost getting lost in this post let me get back to the events that Saturday. So I had a good rest and never did anything after dinner that Friday. Damn, it feels so bad thinking about how I missed that much that day.

So while I am contemplating over my loser escapades (don’t worry, it just gets much worse), I came into much more shit after trying to take a lunch over some fancy restaurant along Singapore River around Clarke Quay. It rained so hard I cannot find the place. I ended up hoping I can withdraw money so I can just get a cab to Fort Canning but my bank refused my transaction because I did not notify them in advance and I cannot make international calls because I refused to register to my network, because I really am positive I can hook up over any wifi signal over this country — which I did but I still need to verify some codes etc and texts aren’t coming. So yeah, there. I ended up eating my lunch in a McDonald’s somewhere until the rain stopped. McSpicy demmit.

Come Neon Lights Festival. 26 November 2016. Day 1.

It was raining so hard. Even caught more rain when I arrived at Fort Canning. I entered the wrong side of the venue and I need to walk around the park. I was even wet before another set started. So I only have the chance to take photographs of the live graffiti using my phone and the rest were Instagram stories — was new then so I am all too excited to use it everywhere I go.

One thing was memorable though — the sheer amount of mud, as I heard from one of those who were there, was Glastonbury-ish. Meanwhile, a mate who guided us throughout Singapore was a bit sceptical about that claim, also the crowd was a bit mellow. I should talk about this part later in this entry but I am a bit lazy to really formulate what I am putting in so I just type in whatever I get to think about.

It must be funny but I made friends. Met two people that I tagged along the entire time I was there. They’re the best. The rest of the guys I am supposed to meet were there but we never really made it together while watching Foals.

I was never excited before as I am that night. I was there only to see Foals. Nah, not really.

That day I came to see Foals. But I am amused to see both Lucy Rose and Shura on stage. I also glanced upon SBTRKT in flesh years after hearing his first feature via BBC Radio 6’s Lauren Laverne, if I am right that was a Maida Vale session. So yeah. Chairlift, being just introduced then had me wondering about their music. I missed 2MANYDJS set, but I sure had my chance to see Sugarhill Gang. Cherry on top, perhaps, was some kind of presence Alan Palomo had a.k.a. Neon Indian. Been geeking out how he does things live and I was there to see him with an army and full battle gears!

I walked my way home but this time acquainting myself about the place and how things go during night time. I came in around midnight only to hear people of different cultures talk so much, and so passionately, about world politics at the lounge. It was fun but that day I am just so tired I took the least amount of photographs and just unlovingly take my phone when I can and snap one only to see blurry or useless ones. So yeah. Day 1. DONE.

It was kind of a crazy mix, I have to admit. Both music and the arts are quite curated neatly all over the place — if only there wasn’t that much mud or rain it would have been great, but I love rains, and I do not even complain. I hated it when it started to go sunny around Day 2 but that is something else to even start talking about.

An eclectic mix of everything — and it never disappoints.

Just when people get too attached to calling this a ‘music festival’ must have missed the memo — it is a ‘music and arts festival’. oh for pete’s sake.

Sophia Natasha Wei, of all performers, had me uncomfortable. I never researched in advance what piece was she doing or what the entire thing was about but it kind of works how she does her thing while Daniella Beltrani gets to tie laces along the temporary fences that guide people up to the Fort Gate Stage. I took some videos but I have very bad settings then so I do not think any of you will care enough. That is if you are still reading up to this point.

diskodanny is among those interesting acts. People were a bit hesitant to go near him when compared to Singapore Sculpture Society — who did pretty good and interactive wood stuff by the way. I even took a picture of him tying a pregnant woman. That might sound crazy, but sure it is!

Ng Yi-Sheng. During my last day, I lounged the most inside the Rocking Horse Tent; and I am a bit late for this part when I really insisted I stay while new mates went around to take a photograph with José González. Yi-Sheng did a very nice touch of culture in his spoken poetry and such sincerity when performing poems need more than just claps.

Live graffiti from ANTZ, DEM, ROAK, SLAC, SPAZ and KILAS in Easy Street 

As you can see, I stayed most of the time in the Fort Gate area and The Rocking Horse Tent. 

27 November 2016. Day 2.

It sux, but for me, the festival’s second day is the best of all. Also, the performances for each stage had me asking which do I go first. I am so confused and tired of choosing that I procrastinated for a while that day.

On the way to the park, a guy asked me if I have some cigarette, I said no. Chap seems to be needy for a smoke but I am in Singapore. I need to remind myself that even chewing bubble gums in public is somewhat rude. I ate the best Laksa. Asked for parents to send me monies to spend for a day because, remember, I cannot withdraw from my bank. Went to a mall and notice how overseas workers spend their lazy Sundays hanging out. Saw local Chinese women dressed fancy for a photo shoot near a park bridge. Took the wrong bus. Keep walking like crazy looking at my phone trying to figure out where is north.

I never took pictures.

Initially, I went there to see BadBadNotGood but I arrived at their set almost done and so I just waited for José González and Saras Per Kristian Matsson, a.k.a. The Tallest Man on Earth.

Meanwhile, they were all soul and funk over the Fort Green stage. George Clinton brought his vibes along, while Yuna made the venue a surreal experience despite slight drizzles and the smell of mud some guys were playing to during day one. It was hella muddy everywhere.

I was a bit sick and tired that I get to miss a lot of performances during that night. I tend to ask myself if I really would push it through Sigur Ros or just take enough sleep until I board for my flight past midnight.

But I decided to stay much longer, but that I take a walk outside the venue and have a bar of chocolate — because, hey, there is nothing a chocolate cannot fix! But actually, it must have been the constant chocolate I ate during my stay that I get to feel sick. 

As per doctor’s advice, I should avoid as much as possible too many chocolates and nuts.

Yey!

So when I came back, Yuna’s set was done, there were performances in Club Minky while waiting a bit longer for Sigur Ros.

And so I came to see (or maybe something else) the best among other experiences (yet).

It was the idea of going to Laneway Festival that brought me to really want to go to Singapore, but I never really had the chance to schedule one, let alone catch a ticket sale ahead of time. And when I decided to finally go, I pitched my ideas to publishing companies and entities that follow the scene.

But they either referred me to another editor or they just ignored me.

Eventually pushing this through after documenting a local music and arts festival that same month, I thought, I will never make it that much just taking pictures. I did a portfolio, briefly, on which I had the chance to share it with people I hang out during the festival and ask friends about their thoughts about my photographs.

Was more assuring than I imagined it to be.

I will never forget that moment.

And I was alone most of the time just wandering about, really looking through what is happening. It was fun. Always fun.

This year, they announced that there will be no Neon Lights Festival. Meanwhile Clockenflap Festival is full green light over Hong Kong — another festival I thought of going back then but I chose Singapore first and opted to go this year for it. I never had the chance to push it through, though.

But I guess the trade-off was pretty good. I kind of understand my shortcomings recently. And like any rabbit with fresh batteries plugged, I will never stop doing what I feel I am alive at.

It is always surreal to hear your favourite bands perform live. And it will always be, even if it is not your favourite band, just regular good bands do really well live — I am talking about passion. That raw feeling you get when doing music, or anything you feel the joy of doing. Such a moment is worth any price you pay just to get there. It shouldn’t always be more than what you can afford, just go out there and find something. There’s a lot out there to enjoy.

As for me, Sigur Ros was not just an aural experience, it was a visual spectacle as well. I get to read a lot of their live shows being just like that. It was all worth the trouble.

[joshuazev]

On “the ‘burgh”:

There is nothing that brings me more joy than seeing my friends and family succeeding and putting on a show!  This morning I took an eight hour bus ride to Pittsburgh to see my buddy Spencer perform in “Equus” at the Pittsburgh Public Theater and he did nothing but absolutely destroy his performance and contribute to the entire ensemble putting on a fantastic show.  I remember when he left me a message saying he wanted to talk one day in New York.  I already had in inkling to what he was wanting to talk to me about.  When I called him back and asked him what was up he told me that he heard back about his audition for “Equus” and I jumped the gun and asked if he got the role of Alan Strang and he told me did and in the middle of 40th St., in front of Drama Book Shop, in between 7th and 8th avenue I yelled and bellowed with all the joy I had in my system.  This was huge, I told him.  This was exciting, I continued.  I couldn’t have been happier and I could hear that he was pretty pleased and happy as well on the other side of the line.  I had seen Spencer perform in a small little play called “The Wolves” in the West Village a couple months later.  He was great in that piece as well and again, I wasn’t surprised at all.  I don’t know too many people—actors especially, who are as immersed, passionate, and diligent in their work and also the world of theatre, acting, and the study of all the aforementioned.  It shows in the work, too.  The moment to moment stuff is present, the passion and access all highlighted.  It’s as provocative as it is strong.  So after a horrific first leg of the eight hour ride (the first two hours were spent on a bus in which the AC broke) I made it to Pittsburgh excited and ready to take in and explore (even though I’d only be there for 36 hours) a new city.  

My first impressions of the downtown area coming out of the bus/train station were similar to my latest experiences in Boston.  The hub is very central and it hosts districts that attract a lot of people.  However, when I took a little walk and got outside of main streets and avenues I saw all of these bridges across a huge mass of water that made me think of a place like Portland.  During that stroll I was delighted to see the beautiful outside of the Pittsburgh Pirates park.  What a location!  The outfield bordered the water and it looked like a truly great place for a ballgame, despite the fact that it was empty and I knew the season was over.  Like most cities that have a baseball and football team, Pittsburgh’s stadiums were located right next to each other.  As I continued to walk down the boardwalk I began to get queasy, nauseous, sick to my stomach, and ready to throw up.  When I finally reached the end of Point State Park, I was directly across from a stadium that wreaked of black and yellow, terrible towels, rigged Super Bowls, and Ketchup.  Heinz Field, the home of the Pittsburgh Steelers.  Even though I had no desire to keep that line of sight, I did have a while before the show started and figured it might be a good learning experience to sit in front of a place that frustrated me so.  

As the sky grew darker and the bikers and runners passed, as the daring friend in a group jumped into the river and another group of friends took turns taking photos, I made my way back towards the direction of the theater.  Pittsburgh Public is a beautiful space.  I can’t say for certain how many it holds, but it didn’t seem to me that there were any bad seats in the house.  I got an awesome seat to the side that proved to be closer to the action than I could have expected.  Lately, when taking in a play I have the habit of taking time away from the play to look at the audience and see how they’re responding to the action.  Despite being in the front row, there were a few people that were dozing off every now and then, but it wasn’t because the play wasn’t good or the acting wasn’t good.  They must have just been a little tired.  To be perfectly real, some of the scenes were a little talky, but one of the great things about Spencer’s role is that his character has this awesome way of grabbing the attention of everyone.  He owned that role like a champ.  On a personal level, I really gravitated to his performance because I remember rehearsing one of the monologues from the show as an audition piece.  When that scene finally arrived I half expected to say the words with him, but I’m happy to report that his performance and interpretation was so his own that there wasn’t an opportunity to follow him.  He had his own wonderful speed, own velocity with the language that was ripe with strength and vulnerability.  During intermission I spoke with the woman next to me, who was a native of Pittsburgh.  She was very very kind and we talked for almost the entirety of the break.  We spoke about theater, talked about the play, and when she found out that I wasn’t from Pittsburgh she gave me all sorts of suggestions for things to do.  She certainly gave me the lay of the land.  Among the things she recommended were other shows in the city, the incline, and the strip district.  She was the very representation of my time so far in Pittsburgh.  Outgoing, kind, and exceeding my expectations.    

The second act of “Equus” was downhill skiing.  There were so many great moments, so much awesome choreography involving the horses and the space on stage and a few scenes that were tip freaking top.  One scene that took place at an adult movie theater where Alan’s dad catches Alan watching the dirty movie was hilarious.  Later on, during the climax, the show reached its pinnacle and nothing felt unearned.  Personally, I thought the arcs were wide in range and the scene involving Alan and the blinding of the horses was fantastic.  When the show ended and they did their curtain call, I stood like a proud brother watching another brother work.  You could feel the energy in the theater gravitate towards him and his performance.  When he took his bow and faced the side I raised my arms and shook them.  I couldn’t have been happier.  He put it down!

We spent the rest of the night going out for tacos, talking about the play, talking about the process, and reveling in an awesome night.  He seemed a little exhausted and it made sense; it wasn’t an easy play and his role wasn’t any easier.  He said he had some cool things planned for us to do tomorrow and I was ready for it, indeed.  We had plans of going to the Strip District, eating more good food, and talking the good talk like we always do.  Later on that night we were talking about the film “Brokeback Mountain.”  Somehow great performances got brought up and Spencer mentioned that the great Daniel Day Lewis dedicated an award he had won to Heath Ledger.  We thought it would be cool to listen to the speech and we did and Daniel Day dropped a whole load of jewels for our hearing pleasure.  He spoke on the beast of acting and taking on a role and how it really is like stepping into an arena and getting fully enveloped in the work and challenge in front of you.  He then mentioned that there are certain performances, initially singling out his fellow nominees, that have provided every one of his subsequent works with the regeneration and inspiration to continue moving forward.   “Monsters Ball” and “Brokeback Mountain” were two of Ledger’s performances that he called attention to and said how much they had done for him.  I couldn’t help but find parallels to what he was saying in my own work.  How important it is to see good theater and good movies, laced with performances that regenerate us and inspire us to tackle the next job we’re given.  I know that Spencer had done that for me when I was watching him tonight.

Even though I’ll only end up being in Pittsburgh for about 36 hours it has made enough of an impression in the first twelve to make me want to come back again and in so doing has percolated all those little desires to visit and see other cool cities that I hadn’t previously thought of before.  I know that daydreaming of traveling takes up quite a lot of my days sometimes, especially traveling internationally, but it’s trips like these that remind me how many great places and overlooked areas there are within the country that deserve people’s attention as well.  Despite hating the Steelers and despising Ben Roethlisberger, I’d say my experience thus far has been entirely the opposite.  Looking forward to more surprises tomorrow.

[randomconnections]

2017 William Walker Memorial Singing

I almost missed it. A friend had posted on Facebook that he was attending the William Walker Memorial Shape Note Singing and that it would be this weekend. My original plans for the weekend had been changed, so I thought it would be a good chance to head over there. It had been awhile since I’d been to one of these singings, longer than I had thought, as it turned out.

From what I can tell from my records on this site, the last time I went to the William Walker Singing was in 2009. The singings had been held on the Wofford Campus. For the past four years they at been holding the event at Second Presbyterian Church, across from Wofford. That drove home how long it had been since I’d participated.

Saturday morning I headed across to Spartanburg, armed with multiple cameras and audio recorders while also lugging my copies of The Sacred Harp and Christian Harmony. Once again I’d be walking that precarious line between participant and documentarian. One of these days I should leave all of the AV gear at home and just sing. But, that stuff is just as much a part of me as singing.

I found the church with no problem. Even though this was a new venue for me, there was no problem finding the room.

Despite my long absence from the scene I walked in to see several familiar faces. Friend and fellow singing David Farmer was setting up chairs in the traditional “open square” formation. Robert Kelley was getting ready for his introductory class. Leon and Francis Carnell were setting up sign-in sheets and loaner books. I signed in, but this time I made the decision NOT to sign up to lead. I just didn’t want to make decisions today.

To me, this new space is much better than when they held the singing at Wofford. There they had stuffed us into a carpeted, padded conference room with horrible acoustics. This was a fellowship hall with a small stage at one end and kitchen at the back. There were lots of hard surfaces for the sound to bounce around.

When I was at the Furman Singing a couple of years ago I found out that I had the wrong copy of Christian Harmony. I was told I had the “King James Version”. I picked up a loaner for the morning, but as soon as the new versions for sale arrived I went ahead and purchased one.

I took my position in the bass section. I chose a seat on the end of the row next to the tenor, or “lead” section. That way I could jump between parts if I so desired. It would also let me get up and take photos without as much disruption. I also set up two of my recorders on either side of the room. Those would run for the entire day. I wouldn’t be doing any video, but I would take still photos.

At 9:30 Robert Kelley got up and did a quick “singing school”, describing the two different shape systems used for Sacred Harp and Christian Harmony.

I was a bit worried because there were only thirteen singers so far, an unlucky number. By 10:00 more had arrived for the start of the regular singing.

We began with the Sacred Harp, which is different for this particular event. William Walker published the Southern Harmony and later the Christian Harmony, which we would be using. Normally we would start with that book and use Sacred Harp later. At least the first leader selected a song by Walker for us to start.

The singing proceeded as these events usually do, with the regulars getting up to lead their favorite songs. I would sing a verse or so then hop up to take a couple of photos.

We took a break at 11:00 and I used the opportunity to explore the church. Second Presbyterian is an architectural gem. The exterior is brick Gothic, and the interior has wonderful open wood and plaster for resonant acoustics. The wooden pews were works of art by themselves, with elaborate scroll work. It looked like they were built specifically for this sanctuary because the curved pews fit perfectly within the space.

After the break we switched to Christian Harmony. Even after all these years I still have trouble with the syllables, especially when switching between books. The shape that was once “Fa” in Sacred Harp is now “Do.” I’m an excellent sight reader, so the syllables NEVER made sense to me, though I used solflege when I was a music teacher. I just find them more of a hindrance. But, this is part of the tradition. These singings came from the Singing School tradition, so singing the syllables is part of the event as the songs themselves.

We broke for lunch, after which we did more Sacred Harp for an hour, then finished with an hour of Christian Harmony. For whatever reason it seemed that the selection of songs took on a rather morbid tone. For example, the song New Topia had this lovely phrase in the refrain…

Remember you are hastening on To Death’s dark, gloomy shade; Your joys on Earth will soon be done, Your flesh in dust be laid.

“The Dying Californian” and “The Watchman’s Call” were a couple of other winners.

I have to confess, my preference is for up-tempo, happier songs. Even with the morbid themes there were a few good ones. One song I like is “Hebrew Children.” Even though it’s in a minor key the song is about the Promised Land rather than death and judgement. That’s one of those songs where I switched to lead because I like the melody. I have a good recording of the Waverly Consort singing this. A baritone sings the melody as a solo with the rest of the group coming in later. Here’s an excerpt of our group singing on Saturday…

We continued singing until 3:00. Tradition has been for several to head out to William Walker’s grave nearby to sing a couple of songs. I had finally found Walker’s grave on a recent photo outing, but I’d never participated in the singing. I was actually kind of looking forward to doing it this time, but no one else seemed to be interested. I decided I’d head on back home.

Some final thoughts…

Shape note singing is the embodiment of the corporate music making I mentioned in my earlier post. I’ve only been to a few singings, but in all the ones I’ve attended there has been no accommodation for an audience. If you’re there, you’re going to sing.

Most people I know, especially many of my choral singer friends, have a hard time listening to recordings of this music. I can’t even stand to listen to recordings. Many of them were like me – they learned about Sacred Harp through some choral arrangement of one of the songs from that source. These were probably presented in a refined concert setting or recording. When they hear the real thing they tend to be disappointed.

The point is that this is NOT a concert. You have to sing. You have to feel the raw energy and emotion of the event. You have to be there.

Those that participate in these singings do so for various reasons. Some are singers from other settings, such as David Farmer from the Greenville Chorale and music director Alan Reed. Some approach it as an academic endeavor, such as Lander professor Robert Kelley. Some come to it from an interest in folk traditions in general. For some this is an honest expression of their faith and an outgrowth of their church experience. Their reasons for attending often affect their approach to the music, and it’s fascinating to see how those reasons manifest themselves in facial expressions, etc.

I still want to attend a large singing in a historic setting, perhaps in the depths of Georgia or Alabama. I picked up copies of the past two years’ records so that I might find one of these.

From the minutes I learned that many of the Sacred Harp singings use the “Cooper Book”, and updated version of The Sacred Harp. I guess I’ll have to buy yet another book.

I used to think it would be fun to sing these in an old white frame church or meeting house. Knowing more about the traditions, I think a church is probably not appropriate. You would have to move pews, etc. A meeting house or old school would probably be a better fit.

Regardless, this was lots of fun. I’ll have to make sure I don’t let another eight years slip by before attending the next William Walker Memorial Singing.

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Hürriyet: Refugee deal the only bond left between Turkey, EU

BARÇIN YİNANÇ

A Turkish-EU refugee deal reached last March is a success despite certain setbacks, according to Erkut Emcioğlu of the European Stability Initiative, a think tank based in Berlin. 

The stalemate in the deal can be unlocked with a new road map, said Emcioğlu, adding that both Turkey and the EU had an interest in maintaining the refugee deal, as it is also the only point of dialogue left between the two sides.

What is your view on the implementation of the deal? 

The deal has had a dramatic effect on movement in the eastern Mediterranean. The number of arrivals on the Greek islands in the first three months of 2016, before the deal, was around 150,000. After the deal, it fell to 20,000 [the total for the rest of the year].

The number of people who died while crossing fell from 366 [in the first three months], to 68 in the last nine months, which is one fifth. So when you look at those numbers, there is success. 

There are some points where the deal was not fully implemented. I would not call them failures, but let’s say call it a lack of political will to implement [the deal], like the direct resettlement to EU countries.

Under the deal, we have a one-to-one scheme; for each person readmitted to Turkey, one person would be readmitted to EU member countries. Until now, the number of returns from Greece to Turkey is 915 as of March 15. The number of people resettled from Turkey to the EU is 3,800. 

Some countries like Germany, the Netherlands and Sweden did not implement the voluntary resettlement scheme, most probably because of their electoral campaigns.

The second point is granting visa travel to Turks. Turkey strongly expected to get that in 2016, but the EU did not deliver on this point. The link between the anti-terror law modification and visa liberalization in our view is a wrong link. We do think that there must be a link between human rights conditions in Turkey and visa liberalization. Europe fears that once visa free travel is granted, huge numbers of Turks could apply for asylum if there are human rights violations.

Turkey needs to improve human rights conditions and has to provide guarantees that torture will not be brought back. 

I think both sides need a new road map which links visa liberalization not to anti-terror modifications or these kind of topics which the government is very sensitive, but a topic the government has a commitment to. Turkey put its signature to the conventions to prevent torture: So it needs to implement this commitment and this should be enough for Europe to grant visa-free travel.

But Europeans are asking for a change to the anti-terror law basically because of their concerns in terms of human rights violations that might occur if there is no change to the law.

I see the point, but we are trying to find a way to unlock the stalemate. The stance of Turkey is very clear: they will not change the law when there is terror in the country. 

But the treatment in prisons and the treatment in custody can be improved, and improvements on these points should be enough for Europeans to grant visa-free travel.

The developments after the failed July 15, 2016, coup might have further complicated the developments, but do you think there was ever a possibility for the EU to give the green light for visa liberalization? Some never believed that Europe would give its consent and that they would instead find some reason not to grant it. I sincerely thought that it would have happened. There is a very simple reason: we looked at the European Commission report [on visa liberalization], and we saw that it said positive things and we looked at the European Council and we made a calculation: 255 votes out of the total 345 votes and a simple majority of the states to have what we call a qualified majority. The calculation we made and the information we got from some the government showed us that this was possible; it was not an illusion.

It is still not an illusion, despite what has been happening with the Netherlands and Germany. We still think that those countries are the only mainstream ones who can have productive dialogue on this issue with Turkey. Turkey cannot count on [Victor] Orban’s Hungary or Poland. Turkey cannot count on those extreme-right governments; it can count on countries like Sweden, Germany and the Netherlands. These are countries still looking for dialogue with Turkey.

Do you think Turkey sees an interest in having a dialogue with Europe to keep this deal working? That is the only point on which Turkey can have dialogue with Europe. And that’s why we believe that Turkey has plenty of interest to keep the deal. 

First of all, Turkey has an economic interest. Out of the 3 billion euros promised for Syrians in Turkey, 700 million euros have come, which is being spent. This is not something to ignore.  Turkey is already hosting Syrians and spending a lot of money. At least now it is getting assistance for an internal problem that it was already trying to cope with. 

Second, Turkey has a humanitarian interest in not turning the Aegean into a cemetery again. Turkey patrols the Aegean Sea, catches people in the boats and saves them, and we don’t want to see another Alan [Kurdi, a 3-year-old Syrian boy who washed up on a Turkish beach]. 

Third: stability. What happens if the deal is revoked? Greece will have a huge number of people coming to its islands. 

Some are saying the Balkan route is closed and migrants have found other ways and argue that Turkey is bluffing. But even with the presence of the deal, we have at least 50 crossings every day to Greece. How can others argue that there won’t be crossings? In 2015, there were 856,723 illegal border crossings to Greece; this dropped to 173,447. In Italy, there have been 153,842 illegal border crossings, down from 181,438 in 2016. What can stop people from crossing if there is no deal?

So stability in the region will be affected. Economically, Greece will be in huge difficulty. 

The camps have a limited capacity. They are not able to process asylum requests on time. They are not able to cope with the existing refugees currently; how would they cope if the deal was to collapse?

This is an important danger not only for Greece but for asylum seekers, too. They are stuck on the islands; human rights organizations keep criticizing their conditions.

As ESI, we asked that more personnel from the EU be sent to Greece so the processes could be accelerated: grant them asylum and if not, return them to Turkey, where they can be protected under the temporary protection system.

Human rights organizations are critical, arguing Turkey should not be considered a safe third country.

For at least 400 persons, Turkey was considered a safe country by Greek authorities. This has been done for each individual separately. But obviously Turkey needs to do more to be more transparent on the issue of returnees.

We don’t know what happens in the readmission camps; it is difficult to enter them; Turkish authorities say they are following some procedures but checking these procedures is not allowed.

So you think the deal will survive?

There is no alternative. What is the alternative? What will happen in the event that it collapses?

Turkish government officials have been proposing to suspend it or review it. Do you think Ankara will take that step? We cannot guess the moves of the government in Ankara. But there is a crucial interest for the Turkish side to keep the deal working. 

But do you see the chance for the deal to keep working when relations between the EU and Turkey go sour?

This is exactly our point: things are going bad in so many ways that it is the only point where Turkey and EU have dialogue. We are not talking about the accession talks, we are not talking about opening chapters, we are not talking about defense cooperation. We are talking about a humanitarian issue which is to the interest of both sides. 

And if the deal were to collapse, then those who say Turkey is not a reliable partner will be proven right. 

Turkey has delivered on its part, but looking to Europe, it appears even more difficult for Europeans to deliver on visa liberalization with the Donald Trump effect on immigration and the rise of anti-immigrant sentiments on the continent. The European Commission said, “Yes, let’s do it” and then it came to a point where out of 73 criteria to be fulfilled, three were not fulfilled, and Turkey said it wouldn’t fulfill them. Looking from that perspective, is it Europe which did not deliver or is it Turkey? How does it look? As ESI, we say Turkey has grounds to say I cannot deliver on those criteria [changing the anti-terror law]. Then let’s change the criteria. Let’s find a way out.

Who is Fikret Erkut Emcioğlu?

    Born in Istanbul in 1974, Fikret Erkut Emcioğlu double-majored in law and political sciences at the University of Strasbourg III. In 1998, he received a master’s degree at the University of Paris II. He spent seven years as a journalist and narrator at the Turkish Language Department at Radio France Internationale (RFI). 

Since 2004, he has carried out research on the social, economic and legal aspects of EU-Turkey integration at the European Stability Initiative (ESI), a Berlin-based think-tank. 

The ESI, which broadly focuses on enlargement methodologies for the European Union and the Europeanization of the Western Balkans and Turkey, has also recently devoted attention to the Syrian refugee crisis and its implications for the future of EU-Turkey relations.

Since 2009, Emcioğlu has been teaching constitutional law at Okan University. Between 2012 and 2015, he worked at the international relations journal Turkish Policy Quarterly.

  March/20/2017

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[inked-convulsion]

It’s not depression...

but it’s this incessant feeling of melancholy. The habit of creating depression when there is nothing to be depressed about.

Abs today are good, managed to start gauging my temporary food intake amount, and he’s sleeping over tonight.

Why do I feel like I need to look/feel jealous when reading the diary? Is it because it’s mostly about her? But it’s not, it’s his feelings... that are mostly related to her.

I have no right to be jealous or unhappy with their relationship - their relationship had surpassed so much more time and obstacles to become what it is today. I should feel blessed that I have him in my life, and has considered stopping her funding in order accommodate his changing lifestyle as I walk in.

Perhaps it’s the feeling of needing love, or romanticizing the idea that ‘the one’ will crave for me and only me in his lifetime. Who am I to have that desire, after being used by so many others?

But yet here I am, struggling with my own feelings. To look on the bright side, I may have been the subject of such a diary at one point, but to what extent? How old am I, and how much people have I ‘affected’ that it’s enough to make people desire me so much?

She’s knowledgeable, self-sufficient, and kind. I don’t even act like a decent girl. I’m just one of the few girls whom I judge for always creating non existent drama.

Davide always said that I had a deep mind, one that spoke in a way that no one else does. What good is that if I can’t take care of myself? It could be that I’m still young and sheltered, I still have not met with any life changing events in my life except my relationship with Alan, and dad’s passing.

What do I have to offer in life? Laughter? But always at the cost of someone else’s insult. Make-up? There are so much more talented people around me in make-up and art, what is my measly skills compared to them? Singing? Well, unless I’m a singer, all I can do is impress family with my voice, not even friends are that fascinated.

Could it be that I lack the initiative to search for a platform?

How well do I even know myself?

One good thing now is that I think much less of killing myself, or inflicting pain upon myself. I’ve managed to suppress any major body hate for now, it might be because I’m actually making progress, just not at the pace that I would prefer.

Every time he talks about her or mentions her, or if I see them chatting, it’s like how he described in the diary - their topic is impenetrable. I can play no part in that conversation, as their friendship far surpasses the depth of our relationship.

We’ve known each other for a year or so, and all he knows is pretty much how stupid I can be in a relationship, and how unfeminine I can be.

I imagine her to be demure, ladylike, elegant - everything that I’m not.

Why compare myself to her when he’s assured me he’s more attracted to my personality/mind?

Because she also wins. She’s found her footing in life, and even though she’s much senior than me in terms of age, she seemed to have found this footing at my current age.

Have I been ignorant for too long? Too self indulgent? Too self centered? Up till now I’ve only documented what people has done to hurt me and make me become the person I am today. I remember the words my family said to me, the way my “friends” deserted me when we used to say shit like ‘friends forever’, and the way guys did so many things to use my body and hurt me after.

No, I didn’t ask to be used then made fun of right in front of a group of guys, but I should have known better, to have demanded more from him instead of always just giving and giving and giving, expecting that they would return the favor. I say that my mother did not raise delinquent daughters, but here I am, tattooed, been called a slut/whore, thinking only about what I wanted to do and where I wanted to spend my money to please myself, and the boy that I’m with.

I should’ve texted him more, told him I missed him, told him to come home after so many years. I chose to estrange myself from my family, determined to only focus on their faults and not what they’ve sacrificed for us to live so comfortably. Questions still fly about. Who is she? How far did they go? Why did he have to keep one of those photos in his diary/planner/notebook instead of somewhere in his stash of photos in a box? How important was she to him? What attracted him that he would agree to doing such a thing?

Am I really worth loving? At all?

I have nothing to give.

I have nothing to offer except my body.

Will that be the only thing that would define me for the rest of my life?

That the only thing I could offer in a relationship was sex?

That all my other skills and knowledge was only mediocre, and I would die without making any significant mark in the world?

He says that we have to make peace with the fact that not all of us can change the world. I don’t need to change the world, I’m lost in my own world. I don’t know who I am, where I’m supposed to go, or where I am at the moment.

What do I start?

I seem to have gone the furthest of my knowledge, with occasional expansions in areas that I’m interested in. But apart from being able to drop sudden information bombs, what use is it? It’s nothing but a thought in my mind.

I tried to fool myself into thinking I was her equal, because with his standards, I couldn’t be too far behind. As time goes by, I realize I’m nothing like her... almost. Am I intimidated by her position in his life? Am I jealous that they are still close? Or is it because they have shared more of their lives with each other, did more things with each other than I have with him? But I shouldn’t be too impatient - it’s only been 3 months, there’s only so much we can do, what with work and distance issues.

Why is it that I imagine them to be more intimate than they would’ve been? Every time he touches me, I have a flash of a third-person view, with her in my place. Would he have done the same to her? Would he be more infatuated with her than he would be with me? Does he just say he loves me and my tears hurt just so that I would feel loved? Why do I doubt him so much when he tells me that he adores me? Would he have kissed her the same way? Or tolerated similar antics from me?

Am I already unconsciously pushing him away from me by being a stubborn brat?

My body is already improving, why do I still hate myself so much? It’s not about my body, then. It’s about how much I perceive I’m worth, which is - according to my assessment - close to nothing.

I may be a daughter, a niece, a sister, an employee, a friend, someone that someone else loves, but what am I in this world but a walking disaster? Would it be better if I had gone ahead with my suicidal thoughts earlier in life? Would it save so many people so much heartbreak and pain? Would it be better if I never confessed my feelings to him in the first place? Would I hurt him, despite all that he’s given me? Would I repeat history and put him in second place? Why is it so easy to take people for granted? Was it the right choice to have told him I had feelings for him at that particular moment, so impulsively? I never really questioned my impulses and just went though with them, and dealt with the chaos later.What if this chaos throws him back into the darkness? He stronger than I might think, yes, but love does strange things to a person. I don’t want him to lose any more faith in love and marriage than he already has.

Am I assuming things? How many more times do I have to ask him if he thinks he made the right decision to start a relationship with me before I’m satisfied with the answer he gives me?

Will I ever be able to accept myself?