#i wonder how i can draw something funny with danny and dash

[literallyneurodivergentandaminor]

he's much more unique than the other guys

so basically im obsessed with dp again and read like 20 fanfics in 2 days i wanna rewatch the show with someone again please dp fandom talk to me none of my friends even know it

[lame ass dp doodle from when i was sick & also uncolored sam under cut]

[goldenchan-fx2thepeacock]

Friendly Neighbourhood Phantom

rKay, y’all remember how I said I would write a fic for that one post I reblogged? Well, Wattpad still hates me, but here ya go.

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Danny was bored. He’d finally mastered the powers that decided to show up when he ‘died’ in the portal accident, but nothing was happening. Not that it was bad, just boring. He felt like he should do something. And when he overheard Sam talking about volenteering, he got an idea.  “Sam, what was that thing you were talking about volenteering for?” He asked. “Oh, it’s a soup kitchen not far from here. You thinking about helping out?” she replied. “Well, yeah. I was thinking about using these powers for something useful,” “Danny, that’s genius. But volenteering is a big step. Maybe you could just help out people in ghost form?” “Huh, that’s not a bad idea. Thanks Sam!” He ran to class.

After school, he put his backpack down and changed. The first few times it was painful, but now it was a numb tingling sensation. He knew about the more sketchy areas in town and sped off. 

He set down in a playground with a bunch of kids. There was one sitting off on her own. She was glumly playing with the sand.  “Hey kid, want to play a game?” He asked. She stared at him. At first, she seemed startled, but she smiled. “Yeah! Let’s play hide and seek!” She giggled. He smiled. “Okay, I’ll count to ten and you go hide. Just don’t leave the playground,” He turned around and closed his eyes. She giggled and ran off. Once he finished counting to ten, he turned back around. He heard giggling from her, but decided to wander when looking for her. “Oh my gosh, you’re so good at hiding. I wonder where you could be,” He heard giggling behind him. After looking around a few trees, he acted like he’d just spotted the play structure. “Maybe you’re hiding in here?” He peeked under the structure. She giggled up at him. “You found me! Now it’s your turn to hide!” She ran off to the tree. He dashed into the slide and hid just in view. She spotted him immediately. “Ha! I found you!” “You did!” they played a few more rounds. 

They were the only ones left when her dad showed up.  “Iliana? Where are you?” He yelled. She dashed out from the play structure.  “Right here daddy!” She yelled and ran over to Danny. He smiled at her and waved goodbye.  “Iliana! That’s dangerous, don’t play with demons,” The dad snatched her away from Danny.  “He’s not a demon!” Iliana said. “I’ve heard about things like you,” The dad narrowed his eyes at Danny. “Stay away from my daughter,” “We were just playing hide and seek!” Danny protested. “And I’m not a demon,” “Preying on children is wrong. Go back to hell,” Danny held back the tears and left. He knew the feeling. Transphobes liked to tell him to go to hell, but this was horrible. 

Once he got home and finished his homework, he looked through his insta. Then he got a random idea. He went to the account blurb and clicked “make new account”. He took a selfie in his ghost form and set it as his profile pic. What to call it? He drummed his fingers on the desk and an idea came to him. He typed it in. Danny Phantom. He posted a bunch of anti bullying posts and selfies. He’d take pictures when volenteering as Phantom and put them up. 

When he got to school in the morning, there was the usual buzz. Sam looked at him. Tucker was on vacation for a few more days.  “So, how’d ‘volenteering’ go?” she asked. “Pretty good. I played hide and seek with a little girl. Is that a good start?” “Sounds good to me. But pretty good with you usually means that something happened,” She knew him too well. “I got called a demon,” He snapped. She grimaced. “Oh, Danny. I’m sorry. What was it?” “I think it’s just the whole ghost thing. I doubt he could tell I’m trans,” “Well, that’s gotta count for something!” “Maybe,” He sat down in Lancer’s class and pulled out a notebook.  “Anything else happen?” “I started an account on Instagram for ghost me. I called it Danny Phantom. Should be easy enough to find,” “Don’t you think anyone’ll notice the parralels between that and Danny Fenton?” “The people here are too stupid to guess that. Besides, no one’s gonna connect the dots between me and a random ghost,” “Good point,” Lancer walked into the class.  “Alright class, you know the drill,” Danny pulled out the novel they were reading this week. 

Danny spent the rest of the week helping out in random ways and putting the pictures up on insta. Maybe it was kinda cheap, but unlike some accounts he’s seen, he was doing it solely for the purpose of raising awareness, not to make a good face. There were a few other derogatory terms thrown his way, but it wasn’t horrible. Today, he was going to start volenteering for real. He set down in front of the soup kitchen.  “Listen, we don’t have soup till later. Come back then,” A guy wearing a big apron said. “Actually, I was going to volenteer to help out,” Danny said. The guy turned around.  “You got a bit of a look going on there. Why do you wanna volenteer?” “To help out the community. And I can’t help looking this way,” “Huh. Well, get an apron on and help me make this soup,” The guy turned around. Danny obliged.  “Uh, you never told me your name,” Danny said meekly. “Milton’s the name. And since I gave you mine, I’m gonna need yours,” “Danny,” “That all? No last name?” “You didn’t give me yours,” “Nah, but the kids like you usually boast about it. For a teen, you’re pretty humble,” “Thanks?” “Okay, enough small talk. Help me stir this while I get the other ingredients,” Milton thrust a long wooden spoon into Danny’s hands and walked off. Danny started stirring the big pot on the stove. He smiled and hummed a little tune to keep his attention. Milton walked back in. “No picture taking? You really are humble,”  “I guess it just didn’t occur to me. I mostly made my account to tell people to be nicer to the less fortunate,” (Yes, the first part is a Toph line, but less condesending in this case) He kept stirring but didn’t pull his phone out.  “You kids these days. Always an ulterior motive,” “I mean, I’m a ghost, so I could’ve been dead for hundreds of years for all you know,” Milton stared at him. “A ghost?”  “Jeez, don’t panic or anything. Not all ghosts are malevolent. And I’ve only been ‘dead’, per se, for about a month,” “I thought it was just dumb hair dye and contacts,” Milton gaped.  “Yeah, teenager just casually floats and nothing’s weird about that. Got the ingredients?” “Wha- oh yeah. Here,” Milton dumps the vegetable in the pot. “Sorry to scare you like that. I just didn’t want you calling me a demon or something when you found out,” “Why would anyone do that? Seems cruel,” “People don’t often care about anything but their prejudices,”  “Generalization or stereotype there?” “Stereotype. I guess. Let’s just make soup,” He wasn’t about to spill his troubles onto a random stranger. 

He stood in the window giving out soup. Sam was standing not far off taking pictures. He wasn’t completely sure if he should keep posting. But it was kinda late to do that now. Danny Phantom had started to gain attention Danny Fenton never would.  “What the hell? I didn’t know Milton was the type to let freaks help out,” One skinny teenager in ripped clothes said.  “I didn’t know there was a reason to not let a person help the less fortunate,” Danny handed him a bowl of soup.  “Sorry man. I guess the stress of having to come here everyday is starting to get to me,” “It’s okay. When Milton takes his turn, wanna talk about it?”  “Thanks dude,” The skinny guy sat down at one of the many tables set up. “No problem. It’s the least I can do,” Danny smiled at him. Milton walked up behind him.  “I’ll take it for fifteen minutes. Ghost probably don’t need breaks, but I’d feel bad if I made you do all the work,” Danny nodded and ditched the apron. He phased through the wall and floated over to the skinny guy. 

The guy looked startled.  “You’re floating,” He stared at Danny’s feet.  “Ya know, probably could’ve told you that myself,” Danny smirked.  “Danny! Is your shift done or something?” Sam ran over.  “Nah, I just was gonna let this guy talk about his problems to someone,” “You’re a ghost,” The guy looked lost. “Yes and no. Semantics. Listen, I’m not here to tell you about my weird life. I’m here so you don’t completely lose it from having to support yourself,” “Thanks again for that. So your name is Danny?” “Yeah. This is Sam. What’s your name?” “Jack,” Danny held back the snort that came with thinking of his bumbling father. Bumbling couldn’t have been more accurate. Jack Fenton gave Danny bumblebee vibes.  “Nice to meet you Jack. What did you need to talk about?” Sam snorted behind Danny. “Shutup,” Danny slid into the seat across from Jack.  “What’s funny?” Jack said. “Nothing. My dad’s name is Jack and you look absoloutely nothing like him. Sam is drawing certain parralels that don’t need to be there,” “Your dad? Do ghosts have dads?” “Half ones do,” Sam said.  “We’re not talking about that. Why do you have to come here. You don’t look much older than 15,”  “If it weren’t for the glowy hair and eyes, I’d say you don’t look older than 12,” “I’m fourteen,” “Close enough,” “Whatever. Why do you come here?”

Danny became a hit with the soup kitchen users. He’d talk to people about they’re issues with an air of concern. He didn’t shut anyone down no matter how small the issue. Soon, he wasn’t a freaky prospect, he was the ghost who listened to people’s issues.  “I think we should get Jazz to help you out at the soup kitchen,” Tucker said one day at lunch. “I mean, she knows, so it can’t be that weird. It’ll give her some field experience with helping people out too. Yeah, that’ll work,” Danny took a bite out of the glowing sandwich.  “Are you sure that’s safe?” Sam poked it.  “Eating ectoplasm won’t kill me anymore than I already am,” “Touche,” Tucker said. “That’s not how touche works, at least I don’t think so,” Danny replied.  “And you’re in academic english,” Sam laughed. “You are too! And english is like, my worst class,”  “Fair enough. But yeah, getting Jazz to help out is a good idea,” She forked her veggy lasagna. “Okay! I’ll tell her tonight,”

The soup kitchen wasn’t the only place Danny volenteered. He kept up the random helping and stopped a few crimes when he came across them. It wasn’t like he went looking for crimes, but it came with the territory. He stopped a car crash one time. Danny Phantom slowly became a hit on Instagram. Danny had to turn off notifcations at night. He opened it and gaped.  “500 followers overnight! And it’s going up?! Holy shit,” He turned the notifications back off and did his morning routine. It was break day, so he glared at the sports bra he knew he’d have to wear.  “If I find that ghost boy, I’ll tear him apart molecule by molecule!” Jack Fenton said. Danny winced. It was normal at this point, but he didn’t like it very much. “Oh Jack. You know we should study it,” He head his mom say. Danny didn’t know what was worse, his dad’s threats of death or his mother’s dissociation.  “Dann-o! We’re going looking for the ghost boy today!” Jack said excitedly.  “What did he do wrong?” “Nothing, but he probably has an ulterior motive to all this helping stuff!” Jack replied. Danny sighed and pulled out the cereal.  “That’s the ecto contaminated cereal Danny,” Maddie said. Mom, that’s what he meant.  “Oh, whoops,” He put it back and grabbed a new box. “Why’re we keeping it anyways?” “It’s an experiment!” Mom replied.  “You guys and all your ridiculous ghost stuff need to stop it,” Jazz huffed as she walked down the stairs.  “But we have proof of ghosts now! And some of them can get they’re hands on human tech,” Jack- er Dad, said. “You mean social media? People could just taken random picture of a random guy doing that and made something out of it,” “He’s floating Jazzibear, that means something!” J- Dad said loudly.  “Photo editting,” Jazz knew it was hopeless, but she did it for Danny. “Believe what you want,” Dad grabbed some fudge from the fridge. 

Jazz and Danny walked to the soup kitchen. Well, Jazz walked and Danny floated. It was Saturday, so they were taking an all day shift.  “500 followers Jazz! That’s crazy for one night!” “That’s great!” “I know. Oh look, we’re here,” Danny sped over to the kitchen while Jazz sat at one of the tables. “Hey, it’s my favourite ghost,” Milton said. “More like the only ghost you know,” “Yeah, let’s stir this pot and make soup,” Milton laughed. Maybe everything wasn’t great, but Danny was okay with that. He smiled and stirred the pot of soup. 

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And, la fin. Maybe it sucks, but I felt like writing something for this. My first oneshot actually. Let me know if you want more of this! The idea came from a post I read by @redrobin-detective. I reblogged it for those who want to see the original concept. Sorry if my grammar is a little strange to you. I’m from Canada, and grammar here is different than the States. 

[theplanetprince]

Amity Park Anomalies || Ch.3

Fic: AO3 | FFN

Fandom: Danny Phantom

Characters/Relationships: Wesley Weston, Dash Baxter, Sidney Poindexter

Fic Summary: Local paranormal Skeptic Wesley Weston aka Atlasdunked and paranormal enthusiast Dash Baxter aka Hisdudefriday discuss and explore the issues plaguing their town. Amity Park is a hotbed for supernatural activity, and who’s to say that’s all there is? We follow two amateur investigators trying to uncover the monsters under your bed, and the things that go bump in the night. They answer the questions you’re too afraid to ask.

Chapter Summary:  Dash discusses his paranormal experiences.

Content warnings: Extreme Medical Trauma, Paralysis, Parental neglect, Starvation, Unreality, Temporal Displacement, Possession

"Hey…" The familiar voice began. The glow of his computer catching his skin. There was a sharp exhale. The curtains were drawn, as to not draw any attention from outside. According to the article complete darkness was necessary for the ritual, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to shut off his computer. If he was going to die, he at least wanted his last words down somewhere. 

"It's just me tonight. On my own." He blinked at the clock in the corner. Watching it tick down. He wondered if this would be the night. 

He groaned, struggling to keep his eyes open, "I don't know why I thought this would help." There was a small laugh, "uh… for first-time listeners, hi, I'm his-dude-friday. Normally, I'm in a duo. My cohost, Wes, formally known on this broadcast as Altas-dunked, he's made plans to spend some time with his girlfriend." 

There was some canned studio laughter from the soundboard. 

At the illusion that Dash wasn't completely alone, he smiled at this. He perked up slightly, "Shocked? Yeah, me too." 

See! He could be funny! Just… when no one else was around. Okay, it probably didn't count. There was a void. Dash rubbed the pit of his elbow. This was the first night in quite while he had been alone. Dash’s parents always worked nights or traveled. Why they even have a house at all was beyond him. They seem more acquainted with hotels and the like. Dash got away with so much because— what were his parents going to do about it? Oh yeah, he smashed a vase they barely care about. Too bad they’re five thousand miles away. Why bother having a kid at that point?

Baxter had turned on the TV, flipped the channel to a sitcom he hated. The badgering wacky roommates and the fictional hijinks between two actors who looked like they’d rather be doing anything else did little to comfort him. He thought it would be like having actual warm bodies in his home, but no. The jock had near memorized the TV Channel guide, but there was no substitute. He wanted to talk to someone. He wanted to hear a reply. It was an undeniable need like if he didn’t, he would suddenly burst.

Dash would typically find a friend to crash with or invite people over, even ones he didn’t know very well to dull the silence. Wes had been at least consistent. It was nice having consistency.

"I guess we typically meet up every Thursday? I think? Anyway, it just felt kind of weird not having something out there." 

In reality, no one was ever afraid of being alone. No one was ever really alone. The fear was something was with you. Just over your shoulder. In the corner of your eye. Always with you. Watching. Waiting…

It was a tightrope. Dash didn’t care for most people, and most didn’t care for him. Yet, he needed someone, anyone, to fill the silence of his home. The quarterback’s fascination with the paranormal came from a place of trying to humanize the presence that perched on his shoulders. If he could understand it, as dumb as he was, then it couldn’t be… that bad.

"I mean, there’s like a hundred of you guys out there.” He tapped his nail on the computer screen to see if the number would suddenly fluctuate from its triple-digit standing. Dash imagined this is how adults felt about their credit score. Bigger numbers meant better results. Dash didn’t know a hundred people. He pretended to, but he didn’t think that many people would care about two kids screwing around.  At a bit of a loss, he fumbled through, “So… thanks. I think that's what I'm supposed to say. I'll be totally honest; I don't know why you keep coming back?" 

Dash could see his laughter on the read-out. It was forced. It didn’t hurt like real laughter did. It was a noise for noise’s sake, "I promise to do my best." 

"I don't really have much to discuss tonight. I'm trying to prove something…” He fell silent as if expecting someone to ask what he was doing. Dash had been conditioned to be interrupted. He had even turned to his right, predicting a voice. The plastic wheels of his chair squeezed together as he made the fluid motion. The clock down the hallway ticked. 

Geez, either he was tired, terrified, or genuinely missed Wes.

Shaking his head for a moment, Baxter had taken another pause to wipe his eyes of the sleep he was forgoing. Chastising himself for being so stupid, Dash groaned, "See, there's this urban legend that paranormal activity hits a significant increase at three in the morning. Since I have trouble sleeping anyway, I just thought I would at least be useful." 

An 'Awwww' emerged from the speakers. The soundboard buttons had that squishable vinyl texture that had a muted click upon each press. 

Another small smile grew on his features. 

"Yeah.” Dash punctuated, not wanting to leave a gap in the sound, “I'm usually a night owl, don't feel too bad. I don’t really like sleeping; I’m kind of bad at it.” Leaning into the mike, he whispered, “Plus it would be cool to have proof to wipe that smug look off of Weston’s face.” 

Checking the time, the jock reported, “We’re about ten minutes away from three.” 

He did a double-take before yanking his digital clock towards his chest. 

Oh shit, really? That’s a long time. That’s way too much dead-air.

“Uh… I guess I could tell you all a story. I didn’t really have anything ready...” Under his breath, he remarked, “Super pro-fesh, Baxter.” 

… What was he supposed to say? He had to think of something to say— Dash hit his forehead with the side of his fist. He didn’t have any of his notes on Sidney laying around; there was still follow-up there. However, Dash didn’t want to be so engrossed in his talking points that he missed the hour. With so many thoughts running around in his head, it seemed like the first one that left his mouth would be the winner— 

“Um, ha… I-I think I was possessed… once.” 

Ding ding ding, blue ribbon. 

Dash’s fingers fervently scratched at his scalp. Why? Why did he just say that?! This was live!

Reluctantly, he continued without provocation, “Well… I’m not an expert by any means— but I know I was possessed, once.” 

With his own weighty sigh causing a spike in the waveform, the athlete elaborated, “I get… these blackouts from time to time? It varies. The shortest one was like thirty seconds. I had apparently thrown my lunch on the girl I was going to ask for homecoming. At the time, I think I was just stressed out. So, I wrote it off as like… a muscle spasm or something.” 

“It happens every now and again. I just—” Dash snapped his fingers, “Switch off. Go offline. I don’t know what causes it…” 

“I— I just see black.” 

He had to stop looking at the clock. Leaning back into the chair until it creaked, the quarterback ran his hands over his face. Tracing every line and imperfection in his skin, “It’s scary. It’s really fuckin’ scary. The idea that something else is piloting me. It’s weird.” 

“After the blackouts, I would get these bad migraines, and I still do…” His shoulders bounced helplessly, “Occasionally.” 

“I would get the migraines— and I thought— whatever! I’m not getting enough water, yknow?” Resting his arms on his chest, he stared up at the smooth white ceiling, unable to discern it from the night sky itself. Faintly Dash could see the light from the monitor reflect off of the dome light that hung in the center of the room. That was his moon. It felt as far away as a heavenly body. 

He repeated, “I’d get these migraines. I’d black out— come back, somewhere completely different.” 

What was so jarring was seeing the sun’s position shift between the gaps in his memory. The time displacement. It was something he could never get back. The confusion between night and day— and then the desperation of finding out what day it was, it was complete vertigo. He was sleepwalking through his life. 

“My mistake was that I didn’t tell anyone.  I didn’t… I didn’t want to make out to be a big deal, whatever. They would have put me on the bench— I-I didn’t want that.” Dash didn’t realize how thirsty he was; the lump in his throat wavered. He swallowed down, “Then they got longer. Hours sometimes. The longer I was gone, the worse I felt after. I would wake up at school after it closed...” Dash decided some details best remain foggy. He’d rather he didn’t know anything that he was doing, despite how much it clawed at the recesses of his mind. 

“After the migraines, I’d get these shooting pains in my arms, and my… m-my heart would skip a couple of beats. That freaked me out the most. I kept imagining the thing inside me was… trying to tell me that it could end me whenever it wanted. I kept seeing this mental image of my heart literally enclosed in someone’s fist, and they were holding it down.” 

Unconsciously Dash’s arms were moving around his neck, protecting his vital arteries. His skin itched at the thought of it. The thought of that someone who resided just below the surface. If he couldn’t trust himself— 

Drawing his legs closer to the base of the chair, and with a shaky exhale from his nose, the jock ventured, “I would wake up in bed some mornings and— and I couldn’t… I couldn’t move my legs?” 

“God…” He didn’t want to recall the utterly hopeless feeling during one particular flare-up. Waking up to an empty house, screaming for help. Dash had lied in bed for a day or so before the effects subsided. He had fully accepted by that point that he was going to starve to death like that before his parents came home. Now the quarterback shuddered, “That was the worst.” 

That was rock bottom. 

“A friend of mine…”

It was Kwan. 

“He’d say I’d be in the middle of sentences and just stop. Uh… he was the one to force my hand an’ call a doctor about it.” Dash chuckled, feeling the heat of his face blend with his tears, “I don’t want to say he saved my life or anything, but yeah, probably, he probably did.” 

“I remember the appointment was… kind of weird. I described my symptoms, and she, the doctor said what I was experiencing was aligned with people who’ve been— like struck by lightning?” Covering his eyes, Baxter cleaned himself up before pinpointing the right phrase, “Electrocuted. She said I was experiencing seizures related to mild electrocution.” 

Still in disbelief over it all, Dash gripped the coverings for his ears, “Safe to say… I— a high school freshman, am not fuckin’ around on telephone poles.” 

“I thought she was a total quack, but the medication she suggested did help, so,” Fitfully Dash resigned, “I don’t know.” he repeated even quieter, “I dunno.” 

He sniffled. Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, the jock excused himself, “Allergies are real bad this year.” 

Enough with feeling sorry for himself! Dash couldn’t believe he was crying. He was supposed to be better than this.

Scooting forward in his chair, Dash’s hands found his keyboard, and he began typing into the search bar, “I had read somewhere in Edna Wicket’s journal that victims of ghost possession often take on symptoms that caused the ghost’s death. And this testimonial I read. A ghost possessed this chick. She had described everything so vividly while under hypnosis, the blackouts, where she went during them, what her ghost looked like—”

The quarterback said, “I saw that reading up for this history assignment, and... it just clicked.” 

At that moment, he turned to his head to the right where typically another chair would be beside him—expecting something. 

Dash… realized that he sounded total banana nut bread, “I, uh… obviously have no proof.” He then amended his statement, “ —and ignoring my symptoms for so long clearly didn’t help, but going to a doctor did. So, score one for modern medicine.”��

He hit the applause on the soundboard.

“That…” Baxter sighed again, trying to stomp out the excitement rising at the top of his gut, “Was sort of the first time I was possessed, and even then, I can’t say definitively that’s what it was.” 

It felt good to have verbalized it after all this time. Even if there was no one there to pat his back, and walk him through it. Wes was a good influence on him, he’d hate to admit it, but it was almost comforting how he balked in the face of anything vaguely superstitious. It made his fears seem a lot smaller in comparison. 

As pathetic as it was, he wheeled to his over to his closet, using his headset as a tether to navigate through the dark. The slatted doors needed a bit more force as the wheels got stuck on the track. Dash had removed one of his larger stuffed bears, before pulling himself back in front of his desk. He didn’t feel better but certainly, he felt a lot stupider. There would be no way the protag of a horror movie dies while holding a plushie. If this was Dash’s horror movie, he wanted to make it to the end. 

The bear in question was a light lilac color, filled with sand it weighed closer to a barbell than a regular toy. It took up the space between his lap and clavicle. Its limbs were loosely stuffed for mobility. It was a good bear. The weight on his body acted as a grounding tool. The weight was real. Therefore this moment right now was real.

Barring his arms around the plush, Dash effectively pinned the bear to his chest and hunched over it. Burying his face in the soft fur. God, he hated being alone. 

The clock in the hallway chimed on the hour. Three am. Showtime. 

“Uh, shit, shit, shit. Uh okay, so I’m gonna turn off my computer monitor— ” 

There was a hard click. 

It was pitch black. The complete absence of light.

There would be no way anyone would be able to see anything past their nose. 

Dash sniffled again, “I’m gonna shut up now.”

Sixty seconds didn’t seem like enough time to prove one’s existence, but Baxter didn’t feel like risking it. Everything seemed heightened in the dark. The water settled in the pipes picked the hell of a time to settle. At the very edge of this oblivion, the refrigerator downstairs gave off a faint buzz. The wind churned outside the window… dead tree branches scraped the shingles of the roof and sides of the house.

Digging his molars deeper into the flesh of his cheek with every faint hint of another presence with him, Dash refrained from moving. Counting his breaths, he stammered out, “Is— Is anyone here with me now?” 

He wasn’t sure which would be worse. No proof, or the possibility that he was taunting a spirit in its natural element. He wasn’t sure which would be more favorable. 

… 

… 

Beep. Beep. Beep-Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep-Bee—

Flush with relief, Dash threw down his headset, “What a rush huh! Sitting in a dark room, Jesus— I am never doing that again! We’re going to take a little break and we’re going to go over the classifications of EVPs or something. Keep it classy Amity Park!” 

Oh, thank fuck. Dash’s watch alarm chimed. Pressing all four buttons allowed the face to glow for a few seconds. In this limit, Dash already turned on any available light within reach. Desk lamp, floor lamp, lava lamp. Ceiling light— wait, that needed a new bulb. 

Scrambling out of the room, the quarterback tripped over his make-shift friend. He had pushed the door open with so much force it hit the outside wall with a pronounced smack. Dash’s heavy footfalls could be heard padding down the staircase. 

… 

… 

The squishy vinyl buttons receded into the sound effect machine.

‘Awwww.’ 

‘Ooooo~!’

Applause.

‘Gone so soon?’ 

[schraubd]

Should I PlagueWatch It?: Series Finale!

In March 2020, I inaugurated on this blog what I said "may but hopefully won't(?) become an ongoing series": Should I PlagueWatch It? Basically, it took the thing Jill and I do best -- watch TV -- and offered our recommendations for what you should watch to get you through the pandemic.

Over a year later, Should I PlagueWatch It? did, indeed, become a series. In addition to the first entry -- HBO's Avenue 5 -- I also did entries on Gentleman Jack, Marvel's Runaways, Alpha House, Never Have I Ever, Jelle's Marble Runs, Making the Cut, and a "roundup" post that covered Billions, Insecure, Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Ultimate Tag, Titan Games, and Holey Moley.

But now, it feels we're finally closing the chapter on the pandemic. Jill and I are vaccinated, my parents came to visit this past weekend, we're seeing friends, the CDC says we can go unmasked. It seems, alas, that all good things must come to an end. And while the pandemic itself is certainly not a good thing, some of us may be feeling a bit bittersweet at the prospect of being expected to interact with other humans rather than sit around and watch Netflix all day.

So to wrap up the series, one more omnibus "quick hits" review of all the shows we PlagueWatched that haven't yet gotten their own entry.

* * * Mild spoilers * * *

Blown Away

Reality TV can be wonderful in its formulaicness. Take a random hobby, find ten people who are pretty good at it, dangle $50,000 in front of them, and bang, you've got a competition show. This one's about glass blowing. I know nothing about glass blowing, but the competitors seem pretty talented to me?

I was impressed at how versatile a medium glass is. I worried when I started the show that the challenges would end up being pretty one note (how many vases can one make?). But the competitors actually made a lot of really cool material!

There's a lot of running and swinging and flailing given that they're handling molten-hot material.  It stressed me out. Also, apparently "glory holes" are an essential part of glass blowing, and nobody made a joke about it.

This show is definitely more in the "everyone likes and supports one another" mold of reality TV compared to the "constant cat fights and 'I'm not here to make friends'" mold. No judgment, just letting you know what to expect.

Sexify

A Netflix series about a young college student with no sexual experience who decides she needs to develop an app to optimize the female orgasm. It's not the most innovative concept, but it works well enough.

Of the core trio, my favorite character is Paulina -- the religious Catholic best-friend who is having (bad) sex with her fiancé and feels guilty about even that sin. She does a lot of great expressive work and has some superb character beats (her popcorn addiction -- just casually munching away while watching porn). 

Speaking of Paulina, at the outset I told Jill she looked like someone and Jill's first guess was "a plainer Emily Blunt" (that's not an insult -- who isn't plainer than Emily Blunt?). It wasn't who I was thinking of, and soon I realized the answer was like six women I've known over the years. So maybe "plainer Emily Blunt" is a more common face than I realized?

The show is in Polish (with subtitles), and I'm very proud that I managed to identify the language as Polish right away (I do not speak a word of Polish).

The musical motif for the show combines one of the catchiest guitar riffs I've ever heard with a sample loop of a woman's sex moans. It fits the show perfectly, but it's a bit awkward to listen to on its own.

Wandavision

You shouldn't need me to tell you about this show. It's good, but my hottest take -- and I stand by it -- is that as an exploration of grief Never Have I Ever does it better and it's not close.

Can we concede that Wanda is the unambiguous villain of the show? With only the barest shift in perspective, Wanda could be the nemesis with an admittedly sympathetic motive. To some extent, I think the show was far too forgiving of her. Motives aside, how different is she from Kilgrave on Jessica Jones?

Poor Emma Caulfield. So much build-up for her character, and it's only a head-fake.

Space Force

I liked it. It's not in the most elite of the elite comedies, and maybe that's the standard when Steve Carrell is the lead, but it was quite funny. That said, I keep on almost forgetting that I watched it, and have no substantive commentary to offer. So take from that what you will.

AOC lookalike alert (the character even gets the nickname AYC -- "Angry Young Congresswoman")!

Mythic Quest

I love that Ubisoft is actually involved in the show (which is set at a game studio producing a popular massively multiplayer online RPG).

Surprisingly, given my love affair with Community, Danny Pudi is one of the least interesting characters on the show.

The actress who plays Poppy isn't the very strongest (though she's improving), but Poppy herself may be my favorite character. Of course, everyone knows I'm a sucker for an Australian accent.

The show has some great characters in side parts who don't get enough attention, like Sue the community manager and Carol the HR director. Also, Aparna Nancherla has a small recurring role in the first season and apparently doesn't come back for season two? I don't get why she keeps getting sidelined like this -- she's funnier than the rest of the cast put together.

Ted Lasso

Good, sweet, endearing, fun. British soccer comedies with heart are a winner for me (Bend It Like Beckham, anyone?).

Ted's estranged wife is played by the same actress who plays Linda in Better Off Ted. This was very strange, though admittedly I'm probably the only person who cared enough about Better Off Ted to notice or care.

Lupin

Dashing gentleman thief who's always a step ahead of his adversaries, except maybe the one nemesis who actually can match him step for step in a constant cat-and-mouse game? Look, it's a cliché for a reason. I'm not going to say Lupin breaks the mold, but it certainly is a well-crafted entry into the mold.

If there is anything innovative, it's how Lupin particularly leverages stereotypes about race and class to maneuver more freely in certain spaces (e.g., he can smuggle himself into prison because the guards can't tell him apart from another inmate -- sad commentary, but useful for Lupin!).

It did do something I hate, which is release "half a season" and just leave the audience hanging at the end. Maybe it was the pandemic's fault, but one could really feel its incompleteness.

Kim's Convenience

Of the Canadian shows I've been watching, I'd say Working Moms (not in this post because it is pre-pandemic) is the stronger of the two. But this is fun as well.

It just got cancelled, unfortunately depriving it of the chance to wrap up its single greatest storyline (that's been ongoing since season one). That's a real, real shame.

Simu Liu as Jung is the latest iteration of the Jason Mendoza trend of "dumb male Asian hottie leads". I guess it's a blow against stereotypes?

Pastor Nina also could be an AOC lookalike. I think the show struggled a bit to draw a bead on her character.

Legomasters

I actually mentioned this show in my post about Jelle's Marble Runs, but it is such a joy to watch. I can't wait for season two, which is dropping very soon. For pure, simple, uncomplicated happiness, Legomasters beats out everything on this list.

via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/3yamzYb

[goliath-de-senfina-sango]

New People

Danny personally felt that he was well within his rights to be a bit weirded out by what was going on.  He was on his way to school, getting interrupted by some half-formed spider ghost with threads all over the place that he had to dodge out of the way of before he could even get close to shooting it, Tucker was freaking out and Sam was doing her best to shoot away the webs that Danny actually got caught in.  It took quite a bit of time to squish much of the bug and then get it in the thermos.  During this time, Danny got hit by its pincers and bitten, and the wound was exposed and dripping ectoplasm and some thick purple goop that he assumed was venom.   Things were the standard amount of bad.

The unusual thing was when a ghost with blue skin, pink eyes, and rippling hair that shifted colors between red, yellow and orange flew up to him and gently grabbed his arm.  And then he pulled out a cotton ball from his pocket and started dabbing Danny’s wound.  “Yikes, this is a nasty bite.  You’re Danny Phantom, right?  The bridge spirit?”

“Uh,” Danny looked down at his friends, who shrugged, weapons trained on the newcomer.  “Yeah, I’m the halfa Danny Phantom.”  The guy snorted and Danny scowled.  “What’s so funny?”

“Halfa sounds like something my son would’ve called it when he was 7.”  Once the cotton ball was soaked through it was put in a ziplock that vanished off to somewhere and a water bottle was poured over it instead, followed by a cloth.  “I’m Dr. Jason Pace.  Nice to meet you.”

Danny stared at the man while he cleaned his cut with wide eyes.  “There are ghost doctors?”  It felt like a dumb question, doctors died as much as anyone else, but with all the violent ghosts that came through it was weird to see someone who specialized in helping people.

“Death is hardly enough to keep a medic from helping people who need attention,” Jason said with a chuckle.  “When I woke up in the Infinite Realms I met this big burly werewolf in a hoodie who said he was here to take me where I’m supposed to go but he got to me late, and I thought ‘wow, psychopomps are real and they can be behind schedule.’”

“Did.  Did this werewolf happen to speak Esperanto?”

“Yeah, said his name is Wulf.  I told him that wasn’t very original and he agreed.  Then I told him that I needed to see my husband and he cut open a hole back to the living realm about two weeks after my death, and after a very passionate and emotional night, I headed back into work and just sorta.  Kept doing what I do.”  He hummed, holding up the cloth and setting it on fire before tossing it behind him, where Danny watched it turn to ashes before it made it five feet above the ground. He swiped the purple goop with a q-tip, and then a bunch of vials of glowing liquid appeared from thin air, spinning around him in a lazy orbit.  “Poisonous and venomous ghost animals are horrors and ecto entomologists can kiss my ass if they wanna preach about preserving species.”

“What… are you doing?”

“Ah that’s what it is- you’re going to feel numb in a couple of seconds, which is perfectly normal, but then your core will start to go … well let’s just say I’m glad I got to you in time.”  One of the vials stopped, the swab burned up like the cloth, and a syringe was put into play.  “This is an antivenom.  Please don’t squirm, or this will hurt more.”  Jason pressed the needle over where a vein should’ve been, and Danny hissed at the sharp prick of pain.  Then a lollipop of all things was presented to him.  “Hope you like blueberry.”

“So, what I’m gathering is that you just wanna treat people and you came up to me cause I got bit by a spider.  I don’t remember my folks ranting about a doctor ghost tricking the people at the hospital into dastardly plans so I’m gonna guess you’re not from around here.”

“Oh, this isn’t why I came to your town of course, but yeah this is the thing I’m gonna be doing.”  The syringe needle, once removed, was disintegrated like the rest, and a bandage was stuck on Danny’s arm before his suit could reform around it.  “You should be good… and don’t worry, I don’t mess with people’s heads.  I just help people.  And yes, I know how to help bridge spirits like yourself.”  He held out a business card and gave a two-fingered salute.  “Give that a little charge if you need me.  Bye!”

They watched Jason fade from sight and Danny stared at where he’d been with wide eyes, blinking rapidly.  “What the f-”

“We need to get to school!”  Sam shouted, drawing his attention down to his best friends.  Danny dove down and scooped them both up, turning invisible and flying toward the school.  “Oh, wow, ok.”

“So that was weird, right?”

“That was really fuckin weird, yeah,” Tucker said.  “I guess it makes sense that there’d be ghost doctors, hospitals are the evilest places.”

“I’m glad he’s here,” Sam said.  “Maybe he’ll be able to help you keep up with your habit of crashing into things.”

“I don’t have a habit thank you. My enemies have a habit of yeeting me into things.  There’s a difference.”

“You can turn intangible and go through things instead of slamming into them so.”  After that fun and lovely argument, Danny almost forgot the weirdness of Dr. Pace.

 That is until Lancer introduced the class to a very tall boy with brown hair, tan, freckled skin, and pink eyes.  Pink eyes that were glowing ever so softly. “Hello class, this is Kyle Pace. He’s an exchange student from Pittsburg.”

“Hey there,” Kyle said with a wave, smiling wide enough that everyone could see his canines were much longer and too pointy to be human.  “My last school was Three Rivers so uh I’m kinda not used to this kinda school, so if I’m weird I’m sorry about that.”

“Not a problem, Kyle.”  Lancer patted the large boy on the back.  “Your classmates will be doing their best to help you adjust, I’m sure.”  No one missed the look Lancer gave them, and no one even really considered caring.  Danny, Sam and Tucker were all staring at Kyle with varying degrees of subtly. “There’s a seat between Danny Fenton and Dash Baxter over there, Mr. Pace.  I’ll make sure you get a study guide to catch you up on where we are.”

Kyle nodded and plopped down in his seat, bookbag set down next to him, and the class moved on as though this were normal.  Well, Wes was fuming at the back of the class but no one paid him any attention.  He looked like he was paying attention, and after a while, Danny decided he should do the same, but the glow in Kyle’s eyes and the way Danny’s ghost sense was stuck in his throat, almost alerting him to a ghost but not, messed up his focus even worse than a regular old attack.

When Lunch rolled around, they had a chance to actually talk about it.  “So uh, when Dr. Pace said he had a kid,” Tucker said, “Do you think he meant like after he died?”

“My ghost sense says yes, which is gross to think about, but also kind of an existential crisis going on.”  Danny pushed his food around on his platter, staring at it and through it.  “How the fuck does that even work?”

“Well if Box Lunch,” Sam said with a shudder, “Can exist then maybe… what did he call it?  Bridge Spirits?  Maybe they can happen, ya know, naturally?”

“This validates everyone who wants to fuck Phantom,” Tucker said with a mouth full of meatloaf from home.  Danny punched his arm without looking and took satisfaction in his yelp.  “I’m just sayin.”

“Swallow first, and then - novel idea - don���t say it.”

“I saw him leave algebra with Dash and Dash’s hair isn’t looking so perfectly combed right now,” Tucker said anyway, earning a kick in the shins from Sam.

Danny groaned.  “Can we talk about something else?”

The universe did not agree with their subject of discussion moving away from Kyle, however, as he strode over to their table and plopped down next to Danny.  He had a lunch box filled with clearly homemade food that looked like it was cooked by a chef compared to the lunch meat on Danny’s platter.  He tossed an arm around Danny’s shoulders and gave them all a cheerful, “Hey there!  How’re you guys doing?  I saw your spider backpack and I know appearances aren’t everything but,” he pointed at Sam with a lazy grin, “do you like snakes?”

“Uh, yes?”  Sam looked between Danny and Kyle, likely assessing how dangerous he might be.  “Just not your kind of snake.”

“Pardon?”

“People who hang out with Dash Baxter tend to be just like him.”  Sam folded her arms and scowled, and Tucker rolled his eyes.   Kyle just frowned and looked over at the A lister table, making eye contact with Dash for a moment.

“Only impression I got outta Dash was attractive when he’s not talking, what kinda guy is he?” Sam was all too eager to share that and so was Tucker.  Danny watched as Kyle’s expression grew darker while staring at Dash, eyes beginning to glow brighter until he turned back to the table and covered Tucker’s mouth.  “Aight, an asshole.  Got it. Y’all know that’s all like, illegal, right?  Someone can record him doing this shit and either call the police or threaten it.”

“I mean, we could but then the other A listers would be out for us,” Danny said.

“I dunno what the A list is supposed to be, but I’m betting it’s something really stupid, and I have ta say: can we talk about snakes now?”  Kyle stuffed food in his mouth, and then the conversation about which snakes were cuter, cooler and more dangerous began.  Danny zoned out, stretching his senses to confirm the current of ecto energy under Kyle’s skin and wondered how to bring that up.

Before Danny could ask Kyle if he was possessed or just Like That, Dash Baxter’s voice caught his ear.  “Hey, Kyle, why’re you hangin out with these losers?  You should-” that was as far as Dash got before a pink bubble appeared around him and Kyle turned around to shove the bubble.  It rolled along the floor until it bumped into the A lister table and then popped, leaving Dash to fumble into his seat.  Then Kyle turned back to the table.

“I really want a pet snake, or like even some fish, but Dad doesn’t trust me and Pop thinks that I should learn to be responsible first before I go asking for a pet.  Like, aren’t parents supposed to use pets as a test of responsibility?”

“Some parents think that,” Sam said, her salad finished and her protein shake almost done, “but it’s unfair to put all that on a kid.”

“So,” Tucker said slowly, “everyone is staring at us and I’m kinda wondering if we’re gonna talk about you putting Dash in gay baby jail.”

“Is that weird?”  Kyle raised a brow, and Danny snorted.  “I just really didn’t wanna talk to him if he’s an asshole like y’all said and the bubble popped pretty quick.”  Kyle looked around at the dead silent cafeteria, and his skin began to glow.  “Why are people starin?”

“Because you just blew your cover, ghost!”  Valerie snarled across the cafeteria, and it exploded into chatter.  Kyle flinched at the noise and a bubble appeared around the table that blocked out the noise.

“What the fuck?  What’s going on?”

“Uh, dude, they don’t know about half ghosts.”

“But you’re a bridge spirit too!”

“They don’t know that!  I’ve got a secret identity to keep!”

“I- wow, ok spider-man.  Alright.”  Kyle took a breath and dropped his shield, floating up above the crowd of teens.  “HEY!”  The crowd when slowly quiet as Kyle waved a glowing hand around to get everyone’s attention.  “MY DUDES!  Thanks. So uh, yeah, I’m not sure what y’all think I am, but I can explain pretty easy.”

“Oh I’m certain you can, ghost, but we’re not interested in your lies!”

“Excuse you, I don’t lie anymore than you do.  Anyway, when a living human and a ghost love each other very much-”

“Are you saying your mom or dad banged a ghost?!”  Dale was always so eloquent, it had Danny wondering how he had such bad grades.

“Yeah,” Kyle shrugged, hands stuffed in his pockets.  “I don’t have a Mom though, Dad and Pop just figured out that ghostly physiology is malleable and they wanted a kid.  I’m done talking about my conception now, cause that’s gross, but like, this is a basic thing to understand.”  Kyle floated back down to his seat and crossed his legs.  “I swear I heard at least five girls around here want to start a family with Phantom, and I just gotta wonder: y’all did know that’s possible right?”

Silence eerie as a horror movie washed over the cafeteria.  People processed what they’d been told and some of their minds tripped over themselves trying to do so.  Kyle turned back to Sam and started complaining about pets while chatter erupted around them all, and Danny slammed his head against the table.

[kinglazrus]

i saw that post and thought of this yesterday but my brain was unreasonably shy but here it is now usdygbhjn: “It’s three in the morning.” danny @ dash

Milky Way

Sometimes Danny hates living in the city. Actually, most of the time he hates it. Not because of the noise, or all the people, or even the ghosts, but the stars. Or the lack of them, at least.

Danny was ten years old when he realized the sky he saw every night was a lie. He had seen plenty of pictures of the night sky taken from different parts of the world. At that age, he just assumed that’s how the sky worked. Some places had less stars than others, he was unfortunately born in a place with very few stars overhead.

Until his sister got him a big astronomy textbook for his tenth birthday and he learned the city was to blame. All the city lights polluted the sky and kept him from seeing the sky for what it truly was. For weeks, he tried to convince his parents to move, to pack up all their things in the RV and drive out far away into the middle of nowhere, where there was no people and no light pollution, and he could see the stars in all their glory every night.

He never got that wish, but nowadays Danny doesn’t mind it so much. Now, if he wants to see the night sky as it should be seen, all he has to do is fly up, up, up beyond the clouds, just past the edge of the mesosphere.

There, he floats along the Kármán line, the boundary between Earth’s atmosphere and space, and he can see everything. It’s beautiful. He can’t help but think of every childhood drawing he made of the stars and how wrong he was.

The sky isn’t an endless expanse of black peppered with bright white spots. It’s a gorgeous mix of blues and purples, and even some pink in the Milky Way itself. Every inch of the sky is covered in stars. There are so many he has trouble picking out the constellations he knows better than his hometown, but he manages.

The familiar cup of Ursa Minor, Draco’s lithe body winding past, Hercules’ crooked form by the dragon’s head.

Danny traces the familiar lines with his softly glowing eyes and feels as empty as the space between the stars. Even though that distance looks so small from here, he knows how vast it really is.

Tipping back his head, he stares back down toward Earth. Cities make their own constellations across the dark surface. The sixty-two miles between him and the ground right now is not enough. He wants to fly higher, way out into space, and get lost in its cold comfort. But he can’t, because he has a city to protect, friends who depend on him, and a family who loves him.

At least he thinks they love him.

Danny reaches for his phone and goes to check the time, but the screen doesn’t turn on. He frowns, tapping the screen, and even shakes the device a few times. And then he remembers how cold it’s supposed to be up here, something he can’t really feel anymore, and it probably killed the battery.

He’s just lucky it isn’t iced over. At this height, it should be, but he probably has the radiation from his ectoplasm to thank for that.

Grudgingly, Danny tells himself he should probably head home. He flips over, head to the ground, and starts flying.

He takes his time, it’s still barely more than hour before he’s back in Amity. Just before diving through Fenton Work’s roof, he looks back up at the sky. It’s empty and sad.

The first thing Danny does when he’s back in his room is plug in his phone. He considers transforming; it’s dangerous to stay in ghost form while his parents are home. But after staring at his blank phone for a few long seconds he decides against it. He doesn’t really want to be human right now.

Curled up on his bed, head against his pillow, knees pulled up to his chest, he waits for his phone to charge enough to turn on. Those five minutes feel infinitely longer than his flight back from space.

“Screw you, Clockwork,” Danny mutters. It’s not really Clockwork’s fault, but it feels good to have someone to blame, and the ghost of time is a ripe target.

The moment his screen lights up, Danny reaches out and snags it off his bedside table. He notes the time, quarter to three, then goes through his notifications. Some spam emails, a couple game notifications, but no texts or calls. Which makes sense, it’s the middle of the night, who the hell would be up right now besides him?

As soon as Danny thinks that, his phone buzzes and a message appears at the top of his screen.

From Dash: [image]

Another quickly follows.

From Dash: was that u?

Eyes heavy, Danny stares at the texts for a long moment before clicking them. The messaging app is bright and glaring compared to his dark home screen and he squints when it lights up his room. He clicks the image Dash send, feeling instant relief when his screen gets significantly darker.

It’s a shot of the sky from Dash’s bedroom window, the corner of the next building over cutting through the image. Just above that is a bright white speck. If Danny didn’t know better, he might have mistaken it for a star or a planet.

Closing out the image, Danny types back: yeah, it’s me.

He hits send, turns onto his back, and sets his phone down on his chest. He’s not expecting a reply, although he has no reason not to, so it startles him when his phone buzzes not even a second later.

From Dash: thought so. What were…

From Dash: Patrol?

Danny pulls himself up, opening his phone once again, and reads the full messages.

Dash: thought so. What were you doing so high up?

Dash: Patrol?

Hunched over his phone, Danny doesn’t so much stare at the screen as he does zone out in its general direction. He knows what he wants to type in response, but he can’t seem to get his fingers to move.

The phone sits cradled in his hand, his thumbs thick silhouettes against the white screen. The longer he looks, the more he thinks they aren’t his thumbs but just thumbs. Anyone’s thumbs. They didn’t belong to him. He was a hundred miles away, out in space.

Before he can decide if this is a good or bad idea, he hits the call button.

It gets through half a ring before Dash picks up.

“Hey, Danny.”

Dash’s is voice is rough and dry, but it isn’t thick with sleep, reassuring Danny he hasn’t dragged Dash out of partial slumber.

“Danny?”

The call time says it’s been going for over a minute.

Danny swallows. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Dash…” Danny trails off. He rolls his neck. It pops in a way that probably isn’t healthy, but is also so familiar he doesn’t think twice about it anymore. He licks his lips. “Why are we friends?”

That isn’t what he meant to say. He doesn’t know what he really wanted to say, but he knows that wasn’t it.

The call is at five minutes.

“Because Paulina and Sam are dating.” Dash chuckles.

Danny thinks he should be chuckling too, but the sound doesn’t come. It’s a joke they’ve made a hundred times, as familiar as the crick in Danny’s neck, but it’s not the answer he wants right now.

“I’m friends with Tucker because… because we’ve always been friends. I can’t imagine not being friends with him,” Danny says. He takes one the hands—his hands, he has to remind himself—away from the phone and turns it over. Is it really him doing that?

“Sam kind of made herself friends with us. But we always thought she was cool anyway, so, we wanted her.” Danny rubs his hand on his thigh, stopping to grip his knee. He can feel the pressure, but he can’t really feel it. “We hate each other.”

Ten minutes.

“We used to, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t think I ever really hated you. Just, stupid high school stuff.”

“Stupid high school stuff,” Danny repeats. He glances at the time at the top of his screen. “It’s three in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you up at three in the morning?”

“Why are you?”

Danny sucks in a sharp breath. “Just. Couldn’t sleep. Yeah.”

“Yeah? Same.”

This time, Danny chuckles. He can’t figure out why it’s funny, but it is. Dash? Having trouble sleeping? People like him aren’t supposed to have Danny’s problems. They’re supposed to date the head cheerleader, and have tons of friends, and get some big football scholarship that carries them through college, and be famous. Or something.

But the head cheerleader is dating Sam. Dash only has a handful of people he talks to regularly. He told Danny last month that he doesn’t want to play football in college. He wants to be a social worker, like his mom, and not be famous.

Danny laughs again.

“What’s so funny?”

“S-Sam,” Danny says between giggles. “Sam stole your girlfriend.”

“She really didn’t.” Dash sounds amused, a humorous lilt in his voice.

Danny can’t figure out what he finds so funny. It’s Dash’s life that isn’t going how it’s supposed to. Sucks to be him, thrust into a set role the moment he became quarterback in freshman year, stuck with a path he doesn’t want, that he doesn’t quite seem to fit. What kind of high school king is he?

The next time Danny laughs, it sounds closer to a sob. He sniffs and rubs his nose on his sleeve, the thick, rubbery material of his jumpsuit irritating his nose. The suit smells vaguely of burnt flesh and sulfur. No matter what Danny does, he can’t seem to wash it out.

Twenty minutes.

“Danny, I think you should go to sleep now.”

“’M fine,” Danny insists.

“You’re really not.”

“That’s kind of rude.” Danny drags his hand through his hair. It never feels like normal hair in his ghost form. Too wispy and light, like a silk veil.

“I can call you in the morning if you want. Or I can get Paulina to text Sam, or Tucker. I think I still have Jazz’s number somewhere.”

“Don’t hang up,” Danny says softly. He fells forward, curling onto his side around the phone, sticking his feet under his pillow.

They’ve been on the phone for well over half an hour now. Danny’s pretty sure they haven’t talked enough to fill out all that time. He wonders how much of it Dash has spent just sitting there, waiting for Danny to answer. It makes him feel like a bit of a prick.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Danny can tell Dash doesn’t know what the apology’s for, but he appreciates the acceptance nonetheless.

“You won’t hang up?” Danny asks.

“I won’t hang up.”

Danny nods, even though Dash can’t see it. He wishes he could. He wants someone here right now, but not Sam, or Tucker, or his sister, or his parents who maybe hate him, but he can never be too sure because they don’t know they hate him and he’s too afraid to tell them. Without all those other options, he supposes Dash will do.

He falls asleep, eventually, and wakes up human and cold, his phone still on beside him.

[silaslibraryclub]

Prompt Response #7

Pining!Carm and Oblivious!Laura are friends who are donating at a blood drive - delivered by @jg-firefly

The first year that Silas Inc. had hosted their annual blood drive, there had been approximately three donors, all of whom had been instrumental in organizing the thing in the first place. The goody-goody type, the sort that believed in charity for the sake of doing good, they had set up the damned thing again every year that followed, with an extra dose of guilt-tripping at each subsequent event.

When this had still not turned out quality results, they had resorted to a far more tried-and-true method.

Bribery.

Which was how the whole of Silas Inc., from designers to programmers to accountants, were bundled in sweaters and scarves, hands shoved deep in their pockets, in the parking lot on a blistery Tuesday morning.

An hour off of work had been a lot to promise, but it had certainly done the trick, once Perry had sorted out the paperwork and pushed the issue up the HR ladder. There was a camera crew from some nobody local station, a collection of balloons, and an assortment of food trucks. The whole thing was practically a fall carnival, if they just threw in a few rides, and it was nearly enough to make Carmilla turn on her heel and stride back inside.

If it weren’t for the veritable ray of sunshine working her way through the crowd, she might well have.

“They had pumpkin and apple, and I didn’t know which you’d like, so I got both,” Laura said, beaming. There was whipped cream on her lips, no doubt from the sugary coffee drink she had tucked awkwardly in her elbow, and it took a very real effort not to reach out and thumb it away.

She focused her attention on the proffered pastry, plucking one from Laura’s grasp with a shrug.

“Either is fine, cutie.”

The nickname, even after years of use, still managed to tug a blush up into Laura’s cheeks. It was a sight that Carmilla could not imagine growing tired of, but one that pained her all the same.

Laura had hated all of Carmilla’s pet names, when they had first met. Every time they met—sometimes there were days in between, but more often weeks, and, once, months—she would insist that she was not a confectionary and that she deserved to have her real name used like any other coworker.

It was not until they were put on the same team, Laura the lead writer to her head of graphic design, that Carmilla actually backed off, and she had never meant for the names to come back. Laura had made her lack of interest quite clear, between her righteous indignation and her multitude of serious relationships, and Carmilla was hardly the type to waste her time where it was not welcome… but somehow they had become friends, and the names had crept back onto her tongue, and Laura had smiled and rolled her eyes as though this was an amusing inconvenience rather than a cardinal sin.

So, she kept using them.

“I can’t believe we actually got you out here, y’know,” said Laura. She has settled onto the steps, and Carmilla slid down beside her with a great, shivering awareness of the closeness in their shoulders.

“Mm. Does that mean you lost the betting pool?”

Laura’s eyes blew wide. “Wait, you know about that?”

“Accountants don’t know the meaning of subtlety, cupcake,” she offered dryly. Careful of the scattering crumbs, she peeled a bit of the crust off of her turnover and tossed it into her mouth. “They’ve been doing this every year. They’ve got one for whether or not I’ll join the Secret Santa exchange, too.”

This seemed to momentarily stun Laura, whose mouth opened and closed in a charming impression of a goldfish before she stuttered out, “Well, you’ve lost me a lot of money, just so you know.”

Carmilla, eyes widening in startled wonder, was spared the need to form words by the call of “Laura Hollis!” from across the lot.

“Oh, that’s me!” Laura cried, bouncing to her feet. She hesitated a moment, the uncertain shift of her toes on the pavement drawing a stutter into Carmilla’s pulse, but a moment later she merely thrust her half-eaten pastry forward and shattered any ill-advised hope. “I don’t think I can take this… could you hold it, Carm?”

She nodded—still lacking the capability to speak—and nearly caved in on herself when Laura’s fingers brushed against her own in the exchange of napkin-wrapped sweets.

Laura noticed none of this, giving a dorky little salute before she dashed off.

She was entirely too good for Carmilla, and Carmilla knew it, but every now and again she said something, did something, that challenged all of the foundations of reality. She would nudge an elbow into Carmilla’s side when she wanted to share something funny, or tilt her head just so when she was about to ask if everything was okay. She would send a text whenever she saw something that reminded her of Carmilla, or recommend a song that she thought Carmilla would enjoy, and every now and again she would look at her with a warmth that Carmilla had no way to explain.

And every time she found a new girlfriend, there was a piece of Carmilla that fractured.

There had been approximately two months between Laura starting at Silas and the start of her year-long relationship with an obnoxiously nerdy women’s rugby player. After that (messy) break-up, she had spent six weeks moping before she showed up at the office in a ridiculously chipper mood for a Monday, babbling nonstop about the perfect girl that had bought her coffee. That had lasted seven months, before Laura had broken it off, and she had spent three months going on dates before a one-night-stand turned into yet another year’s worth of flowers and drop-ins and joint photo-ops. That had ended, at long last, only because of her feelings for Danny, and it had been over a year and a half before that, too, fizzled out.

She had been single, now, going on five months. It was the longest Carmilla had seen her without a girl’s photo on her phone lock screen, without their work lunches interrupted by giggly visits, without her tossing in ‘oh let me see if insert-girlfriend’s-name can come, too!’ whenever the staff was planning an outing.

Carmilla would by lying, if she said she had not been waiting for the moment when it would start all over again. There was always another beautiful girl waiting in the wings, another girl with a supportive family and a real education and an encyclopedia of knowledge on all Laura’s favorite television shows.

Eventually, as much as the idea made her stomach churn, she’d meet the right girl—the girl that she would never break up with. The girl she would marry.

She’d probably invite Carmilla to the wedding.

It was with this rather nauseating thought in mind that Carmilla stood to follow the call of her name onto the donation bus, and she only managed to dull the ache with the image of Laura’s beaming face that was waiting for her.

“Carm! Look!” she declared, holding her arm up halfway in apparent pride at the thick, red tube that was sticking out of her elbow.

Carmilla grimaced, which apparently only served to amuse Laura. The nurse was less thrilled. She shoved a clipboard into Carmilla’s arms, directed her onto a cracked plastic bench, and then set about attending to one of the interns (who was looking pale with a full bag of blood hanging out of him.)

“You look nervous.”

Her pencil pausing halfway through her personal information, Carmilla raised her gaze to find Laura craning to see her. It was not a pose that looked particularly comfortable, but it did nothing to affect her temperament. Her eyes sparkled just the same as ever.

“I’m not nervous,” Carmilla scoffed. She returned to the papers, scowling as she took in just how many pages were involved. What did it take to give blood, a doctorate in medical science?

“You haven’t done this before, have you?”

How she always seemed to know these things, Carmilla would never understand.

“No. But it seems fairly straight-forward.” She tapped the clipboard, “Step one, fill out ridiculous permission slips,” she pointed to Laura’s arm, “Step two, part with half my blood supply. For free, apparently.”

“There’s a t-shirt.”

“Peachy.”

She turned back to the paperwork.

“Why do they care if I’ve been to England?”

“Mad cow disease,” Laura offered knowledgably.

“All of this seems unnecessary.”

Laura’s expression turned into a pout. “I swear, you better not give up on this over the paperwork. At least let it be over the needle, if you’re going to cost me my fifty bucks.”

There she was again, casually believing Carmilla was capable of more. Casually betting on her doing good.

The nurse stepped between them, surveying Carmilla’s answers and setting them aside, and then she found herself offering a finger to be stuck for what was apparently an iron deficiency test (something Carmilla could not help but think should have happened prior to the invasive questioning) and by the time she was settled onto the crinkly paper of a donating couch, Laura was being bandaged up.

Timing always had been a bitch.

“Can I get some cookies?” Laura asked, though, the moment the nurse had finished strapping a bright green ‘X’ around her elbow. She tested the flexibility, tapping her index finger on the crux in a way that Carmilla was certain the nurse would not advise.

[frankiefellinlove]

Bruce Springsteen, Life Giver to the Middle-Aged. I get it; it's easy to make fun of the crowd at a Bruce Springsteen concert: the middle-aged fist-pumping and out-of-practice high-fives, the lack of rhythm, the torn look on the ardent fans' faces as they simultaneously wish for a return to the mythic Springsteen four-hour shows of yore — while also secretly hoping that Bruce cuts it short because they've got that meeting with the sales team at 8 a.m. When I saw him for the first time at age 30 during the 1999 E Street Band reunion tour, I was there largely ironically, mostly to snicker at aging rock fans with minivans. I had never been a huge fan of Springsteen, considering him just part of the unavoidable ambient classic-rock, radio-scored soundtrack of my adolescence and little more. I never bought any albums, never saw a show. I had tagged along to this concert with friends with the goal of writing a snickering little article. I recently uncovered my notes from that evening and can trace a conversion that night through the tenor of

They start out with snarky little shorthand jabs at the guys proudly wearing their authentic now-way-too-small shirts bought during the Born in the U.S.A. tour (“practically translucent stretched over torsos gone portlier since the shirts were first purchased”), and the fact that the white crowd made Limp Bizkit’s fans look like a rainbow coalition. And yet, over the course of my three hours of notes, my scrawls quickly turned from self-satisfied digs at those around me into a take on Springsteen’s performance that vaults directly from begrudging respect to adulation. Now I am 42, and eagerly attend his shows with nary a whiff of smugness or sarcasm; I leave my air quotes at the door. I saw his ongoing tour twice this month and blended right into the sea of bobbing gray hair: These are my people, with their mortgages and procrastinated taxes and bad backs and irregular and yet so reliable sneak-attack whiffs of free-floating panic (Is my job really safe? Are my kids okay? Are my parents okay?). We are there to see a man who is 62 years old, who we know will not rest until he is sure that as we scream along with the lyrics of “Thunder Road” that are so embedded in our synapses that we will momentarily slough off our weary reality and feel like we are 17 and singing this same song while packed into a car with high-school friends, and dear God our backs have never felt better. Springsteen is the howling hope that we never have to feel old, and as he indefatigably dashes across the stage, contradicting everything science has taught us about the human aging process, one can’t help but pray he’s immortal, because when he’s gone, what hope have the rest of us?

It would be facile to say that Springsteen spits in the face of mortality, as in his current Wrecking Ball tour he shines a spotlight on it and gives it its due. It is his first major run since the passing of his beloved sideman Clarence Clemons, a man whose importance to the E Street legend is illustrated by the fact that Springsteen literally leans on him on the cover of his most iconic album, Born to Run. Clemons is the second member of his longtime band to pass away, after organist Danny Federici died in 2008 of melanoma. Springsteen overtly pays tribute to them during the current tour, ending the band-intro roll call in the middle of a spiritual take on “My City of Ruins” by asking, “Are we missing anybody?” as two lights shine on the definitively absent musicians’ traditional spots onstage, now empty. He then adds, “The only thing I can guarantee tonight is if you’re here, and we’re here, then they’re here,” and pauses for the crowd to give a lengthy ovation.

But the concert is not a farewell to the mortal coil. It is a pounding, defiant statement that just because death is inevitable doesn’t mean you have to sit around waiting for it. Springsteen is soaked in sweat by the twenty-minute mark, just as he has been since his twenties: There may be more preshow groin stretches, but any allowance for age is not visible to the audience. Instead, he circumnavigates the stage in the most joyful of way, his voice at full growl and bray the entire time, urging the audience to get their asses out of their seats, shaming us with his energy. Midway through the encore I looked across Madison Square Garden and saw some empty seats, to which I thought for shame. You’re tired? You’re tired?

Bruce is in constant contact with the audience, at one point wading into the middle of the general-admission pit, crowd-surfing his way back to the stage — a move that crosses from shtick into merriment: Again, irony fades. We are in this together, let us do young things. Let us pass the sweaty rocker forward. David Lee Roth, currently touring with Van Halen, revives his flamboyant leer, but to me it felt discordant coming from a 57-year-old; he’s acting in a way I thought was cool as a teenager. Springsteen acts the way that I want to believe that with the proper (but unlikely) dedication to fitness, I could still pull off. On a couple of occasions during his concerts, he lays down on the lip of the stage and continues singing with a sly smile, and he was quickly covered by hands reaching out of the front rows. There was something near religious about the gesture: Fans have been grabbing at rock stars’ garments since Elvis. (Well, since Jesus, technically.) But these hands were not yanking at his shirt, they simply gently laid them upon him, as if to draw his life force, like he was the pool in Cocoon. Watching from afar, I was surprised that not a single person ducked forward to suck some sweat from his sopped shirt, hoping it contained some sort of immortality serum.

One night during his 2009 tour, while ramping up to begin the song “Growin’ Up,” Springsteen told a shaggy dog story about a bad dream he recently had, the punch line being that someone emerged with a cake with “60 fucking candles” on it. In September, that cake will have 63 fucking candles on it: Sadly, this type of candle only goes in one direction. One wonders, how much longer can he keep doing these epic shows? His new albums and tours have been coming at a quicker pace, as if he realizes there is a finite amount of time he will be able to enjoy this, and he will relinquish none of it. He has buttressed himself with an even bigger band, hitting the road with a five-man horn section and a percussionist, bringing the head count to seventeen; he spites the fates that take his band members away by only building a bigger army. And everyone onstage knows it is their duty to deny the aging process: During “Because the Night,” the 60-year-old Nils Lofgren tore off a frantic solo while dervishly spinning in a pirouette, courtesy of two artificial hips.

When the concerts end, we unquestioning fans chatter exhaustedly to our companions about the high points and the higher points: It is graded on a harsh scale of A to A+. We go home and collapse, still too hyped to dwell on the alarm clock that awaits us after too few hours of sleep. To a 20- or 30-year-old this may feel maudlin and melodramatic, the endlessly uploaded YouTube clips of paunchy fist-pumping suburbanites at the concert worth a giggle, an eye roll, and jokes about how the “Promised Land” from Darkness on the Edge of Town is now Boca Raton. New York magazine culture editor Lane Brown told me that when he went to see Springsteen at Madison Square Garden last week, a man who looked to be in his sixties seated next to him went berserk when the concert kicked off with “Badlands”: this concertgoer sang along at the top of his lungs, waving his arms and showing the energy of a much younger man. Then, the song over, he collapsed in his seat and soon fell asleep for the remainder of the show, the sounds of his snores drowned out by the band. This anecdote made me snicker, as I acknowledge that no matter how old you are, seeing those twenty years older at a rock concert is always funny. But one day I too may wake up with a start in the middle of a concert, and I hope that Springsteen is still going when I open my eyes. Because the thought of him not there shaking his head in displeasure to see my ass not just sitting down, but sleeping, is a sign of mortality too real to bear.

By Josh Wolk