#jack has too much hair to ever go completely grey but it does go silver underneath and at the edges

[trickstercaptain]

this is your reminder that silver fox jack is indeed a thing as he gets older ( post trilogy ). instead of his hair turning an ugly blonde colour as it does in ost, he gets streaks of silver in it instead. in modern verse it is highly likely he continues to dye it for a while because god forbid you point this out to him

[dothwrites]

spn15 spec, destiel, post 15.18, mcd?? sort of???

---

And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend.--Antoine de-Saint Exupery, The Little Prince

---

Castiel opens his eyes in nothingness. 

It’s not dark, though the air which presses around him is thick onyx. There is neither gravity nor weightlessness here. Castiel exists but he does so in a void so barren that he doubts his own mind. He opens his mouth to call out, but no sound escapes. 

Castiel exists in ignorance for one, glorious moment. Then the weight of memory crushes into him. His chest buckles underneath the pressure. He tries to scream, but the vast emptiness swallows the sound. 

---

“Cas, we can fight this!” 

Dean, his Righteous Man, Dean, the shining beacon, his friend...The first real friend he’d ever made. Dean is ready to fight. Dean would fight God, has indeed fought God. But he can’t fight this. 

The door shudders in its frame. Blow after blow rains down on the weakening wood. Already, the wood is splintering under the assault. The thin strip of light at the bottom of the door disappears underneath a sea of writhing black. The Empty is here. It wants what it was promised.  

“Dean,” he says. He intends to say much more--It’s too late, let me go, thank you--but his voice cracks on the single syllable of Dean’s name. 

He wants to stay. God help him, but he wants to stay. 

“No, dammit Cas! You don’t get to give up! We can fight this thing, we can keep running, we can...” Dean’s voice trails off into nothing as he looks wildly around the small room. 

Though he might protest, Castiel knows that Dean is a man bailing out a sinking ship. In his heart, Dean knows the battle is already lost. But he’s still defiant, still clinging to the faintest shred of hope.

Castiel loves him for that. 

“You fought for the whole world.” Castiel’s voice is weak and pale against the ear-shattering thunder of the Empty’s attempts to break into the room. 

“Cas, no--” 

“But you can’t fight for me.” 

The words shatter something vital in him. Castiel gasps as the agony shreds through him. He thought there would be more time. He thought that happiness was an ideal that no one could ever reach. He thought there would be time, he doesn’t want to go, he wants to stay--

“Cas, I can’t...Not again, I can’t lose you again, please don’t go--” 

Black seeps into the room, slender tendrils snaking across the room towards where they stand. Castiel feels every second ticking away. He’s lived for millennia, seen worlds and empires rise and fall, felt the passing of centuries like nothing more than a passing breeze. Millions of years, and now, when it means everything, he has no time. 

Castiel cups Dean’s cheek with one shaking hand. If this is it, then he doesn’t want to leave with any regrets. “Dean,” he croaks. That word has become his compass, his prayer, the star to which he hitched his wagon. 

“I’m so sorry. I don’t want to leave you. If I had a choice, i would stay. I would stay with you through every sunrise and sunset, through every moment, the mundane and extraordinary alike.” Castiel’s voice catches in his throat as the door finally shatters and darkness pours into the room. 

“You’ve taught me everything, Dean, and I...I’m so grateful that I got to know you. Without you...” 

Castiel can’t continue. He’s immeasurably grateful for all he’s experienced with Dean, but he’s always been greedy. He wants more. He wants to see Dean’s hair continue to silver until it’s soft and grey. He wants to go fishing with Dean and discover the peace inherent in the activity. He wants to watch Jack grow into his own and Sam start a family. He wants, with a fierceness that takes his breath away. 

Darkness curls around his ankle and winds its way up his calf. 

Dean shakes his head. Tears well in his eyes but refuse to spill over, though his lower lip shakes. “Please,” he asks, tilting his head into Castiel’s palm. “I can’t...how am I supposed to do this without you?” 

Castiel starts to respond, but his voice is cut off by the swift, hard press of Dean’s lips into his. His heart jolts and gutters in his chest before it picks up again, beating so hard he thinks it might escape through the confines of his ribs. 

“I love you.” 

The words tumble out of Castiel’s mouth, the same as they did years ago when he was rotting from in the inside out. The same frantic need consumes him now as it did then, when every beat of his heart dragged him closer to the edge of oblivion, when seconds were more precious than gold, when he was so close to losing everything--

Dean sobs. He clutches the lapels of Castiel’s coat and kisses him, teeth bruising behind his lips.

Castiel’s whole lower body is engulfed in darkness so complete that it feels as though it’s ceased to exist. His whimper is lost in Dean’s mouth. 

“No,” Dean gasps, pulling away. Castiel already knows the cause of Dean’s denial. He can feel it, creeping up his chest and shoulders, slithering down to his arms. He remembers how it was to be devoured, remembers the noxious black ooze of the Leviathan crawling through him, but this is worse, is so much worse, because now he knows what Dean’s lips taste like, now he knows everything he has to lose--

“Cas, I love you,” Dean tells him, though his words echo strangely. The Empty crawls up his throat. Castiel chokes on it, but he doesn’t dare to blink. He can’t lose a second of this, of Dean’s face, horrified and tear-stricken though it is. 

Seconds tick away like centuries, Dean’s face in front of him. Castiel can’t hear what he’s saying, but he can see the words shaped on his lips. 

I’ll find you, I promise, I’m coming for you, Cas, Cas, I love--

And then. 

Empty. 

---

With the image of Dean’s face in his mind, Castiel screams. 

There is no sound in the Empty, but he screams anyway. His agony and loss pour out of him, his grief and fear. Everything that he’s lost, Dean--

Castiel screams until his voice cracks and breaks, until his throat is shredded and raw, until he tastes blood in the back of his throat. 

Hollow, he slumps to the side, curling into himself. His one consolation was that he would at least be asleep for the rest of eternity. He wouldn’t have to live with the weight of everything he’d lost. Now, even that slender comfort has been ripped from him. For the rest of time, he’ll have to exist with the memory of Dean’s glassy eyes, with the sound of Dean’s choked voice echoing through his skull, with the phantom ache of Dean’s lips against his. Castiel shudders, sobs ripping out of his throat. 

“Jesus. So much for helping.” 

Castiel blinks. The sound of another voice is foreign in this void where nothing should exist. He rolls over, looking up at the sardonic face staring down at him. 

“Ruby,” he rasps, then remembers himself. 

That’s not Ruby. 

“Go away,” he mutters. He wraps his arms around his legs, pressing his forehead to his knees. There’s no point in having pride here, not when time is meaningless and every second is a torture. The Empty already knows his secrets, though why it chose Ruby’s form to torment him is a mystery. 

“Look feathers, you were the one who screwed the pooch on this whole ‘fixing eternity’ thing. So I think I’m going to stick around for a bit.” 

“There’s no point,” Castiel says miserably. “You got what you wanted. I’m here. I’m suffering. What more could you possibly want from me?”

“Were you dropped on your halo? I told you what I wanted the last time you were here. I want out, you moron. I told you to find a way out, and you wound up here, which is kind of the opposite of what I asked.” 

Castiel blinks slowly, lifting his forehead from his knees. “Ruby?” he asks. 

Ruby rolls her eyes and sighs for dramatic effect. “Yeah, dumbo. You know, I’ve only been trying to tell you that since the beginning.” 

“I can’t trust that.” Castiel remembers all too well the last time he was here, the jolt of pleasure at seeing Meg once more only to realize that the Empty was aping her appearance to hurt him. “The Empty, it takes on your visage, your memories--”

“Yeah, you’re just going to have to trust me on this.” Ruby’s eyes flash black. “You know, as much as you can.” 

“I’d pay attention to her, Clarence. If you don’t, then she’ll probably kick your ass.” 

Castiel knows that voice. He whirls around. Meg’s face greets him, a tiny smirk twisting her lips upward. “Meg,” he whispers, an odd combination of grief and happiness twisting in his chest. 

“The one and only,” she assures him. 

A small shred of doubt clings at the back of Castiel’s mind, but he has to trust in something right now. Even if it’s two dead demons. 

“Castiel. So lovely to see you again. Though I can’t say that I agree with the company you’re keeping these days.” 

Make that three dead demons. 

“Crowley,” Castiel breathes. 

The demon looks exactly the same as he did  the day he died. His suit is pristine, down to the pocket square. He looks at Meg and Ruby with disdain before he turns that expression on Castiel. “I suppose you’re doing your biannual visit to this dump? Feel like taking any passengers out with you when you make your escape this time?” 

“I’m not...I made a deal,” Castiel whispers. He made a deal to save his son and he’ll never regret that, not for a second, but then he thinks of Dean’s face. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so negative, Cassie. You do have a way of wriggling out of the tightest of places.” 

Mingled guilt and joy sear through Castiel as he turns around. Balthazar’s familiar face looks at him. Balthazar raises an eyebrow. “No hug?” he asks. 

“I don’t understand,” Castiel breathes. Surrounded by ghosts from his past, he feels weak. “None of you should be awake. That’s the whole point of this place. All of us, asleep, forever.” 

“That’s the way it should be, but you have a habit of wrecking the natural order.” Castiel winces at Anna’s cool voice. Though there’s no real judgement in her voice, there’s also no real warmth. “It’s been changing here, ever since your last visit.” 

“I woke it up.” 

“And because you woke it up, we all started to awake as well.” Hannah’s calm voice joins their small group, though it’s growing steadily larger. “All of us, demons and angels, started awaking. At first, it was just for moments, but lately, it’s been distracted. More of us have been able to stay awake for longer. Eventually we started finding each other.” 

“That’s my boy,” Meg says, unmistakable fondness in her voice. “Shaking up the natural order, wrecking the whole of the afterlife.” 

Castiel’s eyes dart between all of them, former enemies, allies, and friends. “Is this all of you?” 

“Were you not listening? Did they not just tell you that we’ve all been waking up, at least a little bit?” 

Gabriel pops into existence next to Castiel. Despite himself, Castiel jerks back in surprise. 

“So, what’s it going to be, Cas? Are you going to just pop out of here like always?” Crowley brings Castiel’s brain back to the present. 

When he made his deal, he made it with full awareness that there was no coming back. He accepted that burden because he knew it was the only way he could save Jack. 

But that was before he felt Dean’s lips against his, before he heard the words fall from Dean’s mouth. I love you. 

When he made the deal, he had never heard those words directed at him. When he made the deal, he had nothing to fight for. 

Now he does.

He made a choice long ago. You don’t have to be ruled by Fate. You can choose freedom. 

Castiel looks at all of them, demons and angels alike, and makes a choice. 

“We’ve got work to do.” 

[beerecordings]

What if one of the boys got amnesia? -Bird anon

oh my gosh i’ve actually thought about amnesiac Marvin a lot lol i think i started a fic once about Jameson like getting into his dreams and trying to make him remember. but yes that’s a really interesting idea!! like imagine Jackie slams his head one night while he’s out on patrol and when he wakes up he’s just - no memory. nothing. doesn’t know his own name. and he’s standing in this abandoned warehouse wondering what the hell is going on, so concussed he can barely stand up straight, desperately trying to remember anything.

he’d probably get his phone out and call whoever he texted last, someone call JJ. they pick up but there’s nothing but silence on the other end and he just starts crying so hard JJ knows something is wrong and hurries off to find him and help. it would throw their family into complete disarray - Jackie is the leader, and in some ways the strongest of all of them, and now he just doesn’t remember?? any of them?? anything?? doesn’t even know who Anti is???? it’s stressful to Jackie. he knows they expect something from him, but doesn’t even remember the person they want him to be.

Marvin would be dangerous without his memory, freaked the hell out and seeing enemies on every side. someone must have done this to him, right? his emotions run wild and he’s forgotten how to control his magic - he’s screaming and casting without meaning to, and then a stranger in a red hood is grabbing him to pin him down, and a doctor in a mask shoves a needle into his neck, and then he’s drifting. it would take him days to come to trust them again and everyone, Marv included, would be distraught. he’s quite proud and he’d be so humiliated by having lost everything he used to know and having to rely on everyone around him to tell him everything. but he grows very fond of Chase and JJ very quickly, which helps.

Henrik I can imagine losing his memory to protect himself from trauma, and it just leaves him so fucking numb. maybe he’s even dissociated enough to lose track of what’s going on for a while before, but then one night he’s just out with Chase or something and gets triggered and his exhausted brain just goes “nope” and blocks everything out. Chase looks over and suddenly Henrik doesn’t know him anymore - he’s just sitting there staring at him, his face white, terrified but unable to even respond properly. Chase drags him home, trying to be very very gentle with him, reassuring him his memories will come back soon - they have to, don’t they? everything Henrik knows and loves can’t just be wiped away, right? - but  they just... don’t. he doesn’t know him.

Meanwhile Chase I think we just go missing for a few days and the others would be losing it with worry. did Anti kidnap him? or someone else, thinking he was Jack? or maybe he just couldn’t keep going anymore and he’s already gone? and then THANK GOD after days of patrolling for him Jackie finds him just wandering the streets, phone and wallet missing, beat to shit and exhausted and too terrified to go to the hospital. he bursts into tears as soon as he sees Jackie because he thinks he’s his twin and he lets him bring him home and wrap him up in a blanket and take care of him for a while. but Chase is just in hysterics and so low on dopamine he’s sleeping like fifteen hours a day. but Marvin’s got a good idea!! you know what’s most likely to make him remember in all the world? they call Stacy up and fifteen minutes later Chase is staring at these two little kids he doesn’t even recognize. And Izzy crawls up on his chest - he’s too exhausted to even sit up, but he reaches out to hold her steady - and she lies down to snuggle with him and whispers “I missed you, Daddy,” but he doesn’t even know who she is and he feels so much guilt he can’t even look at them and he locks himself in the bathroom for the rest of the day, throwing up and trying to find medicine to take too much of. he would not handle it well, but his brothers would all spoil him rotten, for what it’s worth.

Jamie, meanwhile, Jamie would switch between being absolutely ferocious and completely “please fucking protect me” terrified. he has spent his whole life being manipulated and he kind of wants to bite anyone who tries to touch him, but he can TELL that something is missing, that he should remember somebody, that there was somebody friendly and warm nearby and he wants them back but there is also someone dangerous and he knows it. so one day he threatens to melon-scoop Chase’s eyes off and goes sprinting off to hide with Marvin, but then the next day he’s sure Marvin’s going to kill him and he won’t let go of Jackie’s hand. I think he would respond really well to Jack himself - Jameson really likes his energy cause Jack isn’t as freaked out by this as the others (he’s walked all of them through waking up with no memory, he can do this too and he’s very calm even when Jameson’s angry) so maybe he goes to live with Jack for a while and the space really helps him. eventually Jackie starts taking him out to get in fights and it helps Jameson’s brain assign good guys and bad guys more easily, so he gets the chance to trust the others again.

Here, I found a snippet from that old wip about amnesiac Marvin! never going to finish it so you can check it out if you want

Blue dreams in halves and segments and slivers, looking at the sun through his fingers, scared to get burned.

He is magic more than mortal and he remembers it in his sleep, when joy surrounds him as an aurora the earth, and he sees the others before him, haloed in gold. He doesn't remember their names anymore, but still he knows them, knows their eyes, knows the joy in their faces. The word “family” is imprinted deep, deep on his heart, though it has been deeply scared over.

His master saw to that.

Still, in dreams in halves and segments and slivers, slivers, slivers of the man he used to be, he sees them.

There are four of them who are both familiar and unfamiliar, but only the three of them sit around him. Sometimes he cannot make out their faces, but there are flashes – the scarred smile of the head of the table, a hood drawn over his shadowed eyes, the worn, steady fingers of a man with icy blue eyes but warmth in the curve of his mouth, the dappling of freckles across the face and shoulders of the younger one, perhaps older than Silver, but not by much. He is the one who speaks, rapid and loud, a smile on his mouth most days, though sometimes the exhaustion that sits on his body is so heavy he seems to be an old man.

“One year older,” he says tonight. “Blow out the candles, dude!”

Blue blinks and adjusts in his seat, looking down to find a cake set in front of him, decorated with a single candle, flickering like a wave on its tiny wick.

He blows out the candles.

“What did you wish for?” asks the younger man.

“Oh,” says Blue. “I forgot to wish.”

Across from him, the other head of the table has slumped over onto the table. Tears run down onto the wood.

“I can't find him!” he cries. “I can't find him! Where has my brother gone?”

“Well, that was stupid,” laughs the younger man, still looking at Blue. He doesn't notice the weeping at his side. “Come on, you got to have some wish. It's your birthday – ”

He tries to say a name, but the word comes out distorted, as though it were spoken underwater, and Blue can't make it out.

Doctor blinks his cold blue eyes, adjusting his glasses and staring too intensely at Blue, who squirms under his gaze. He knows, somehow, that he's a healer, but there is very little else he remembers about him. Sometimes he catches a whiff of coffee off his clothes or looks over to see terror in his face or, at the sight of him, feels his chest flood with affection, but he does not know his name or what he means.

He just misses him.

You are not allowed to miss them, you are not allowed to think of them, look me in the eyes and listen, no one is looking for either of you!

“I hate these dreams,” he says, as the loud one continues to speak and the hooded one continues to cry and the doctor continues to look at him. “I always forget everything as soon as I wake up anyway.”

He gets to his feet and his vision flickers, revealing halves and segments and slivers: the flowers outside the house that he somehow knows are forget-me-nots, the bed upstairs that he somehow knows has constellation-patterned covers and sheets, a bracelet on the wrist of the boy in the hood that he somehow knows he gave him –

He isn't allowed to think about this. He isn't allowed to remember, no matter how much he wants to. He has to wake up. Steeling himself, he recognizes that the dream is a dream and he tries to wake himself up, distancing himself from the figures at the table around him as he always does, drifting back towards the darkness –

Silver grabs his shoulders. Blue screams.

Silver is the apparition that appears only at the very edges of awakeness, where the monster does not wander. Silver is always black and white, always clutching a clock in his hand, but the only thing Blue can ever see of his face are those two grey eyes, glowing with power, alive with determination.

Releasing his shoulders, Silver strikes three fingers against the palm of his other hand and touches his thumb and –

And Blue wakes up.

Panting.

Clutching at his heart with one hand.

At his hair, chopped short, with the other.

“Oh,” he whispers to himself, trying not to cry.

Banish the memories. Forget them. Stop trying to remember. There's no one looking for you anyway.

“Anti!” he calls, dragging himself to his feet. “I had another dream!”

His brother's voice drifts from the other room. “Of the strangers holding you captive?”

“Yes, please make it go away!”

The monster appears before him, mostly human today, though not quite. Its hands are wrong and it is losing a great deal of blood, enough that a mortal thing would be dead, or at least bothered.

“Don't worry,” says Anti, falling to its knees – knees, are those knees? Why are there so many joints? – beside him. “I'll make it all go away. Of course I will. I'll make sure the bad men never find you, little one.”

He kisses Blue gently on the mouth and drags him back under his spell, resisting the urge to murder the little nuisance before he gets out of hand.

No, he needs Marvin for a minute longer. Just a little while longer. Just a little while longer.

[maculategiraffe]

won’t you meet me at the gates to the garden

Little snippet: Nora and the gang, at the Castle, Halloween night. ~1500 words, and a lot of that is quotes from The Canterville Ghost. 

Happy Halloween, my darlings.

They can’t celebrate Halloween the way she remembers it, back in Sanctuary Hills, or before that, when she was a kid.  Dressing up in fancy store-bought costumes, based on TV and movie and radio superheroes: Grognak, the Silver Shroud, Mistress of Mystery.  Nora remembers going as a cat, a cowgirl, a witch, a hippie in thrift-store bell-bottom jeans and a peace sign painted on her cheek.  More nervous than excited, holding out a pillowcase or a pail for a neighbor to drop something into.  

She didn’t like how you weren’t supposed to say please.  Trick or treat, as if you might do something bad to people who didn’t placate you with candy.  She didn’t like that idea as a kid.  Still doesn’t.

Now Shaun’s the only kid around of trick-or-treating age, and he’s not the type to enjoy filling a sack with sugary treats at others’ expense, anyway.  He’d rather run around distributing any available treats to his brothers and sisters, and the other settlers at the Castle.

He’s enough like Nora that he doesn’t much like the idea of disguises, either.  Monsters are too real, these days, to take pleasure in the dressing-up of someone dear and familiar as someone, or something, less so.  

And the dead are-- well, Nora doesn't believe in ghosts, not that way, not seasonally.  If Nate can be here with her, and if there isn't a good reason why he shouldn't be, then he's here a lot more often than once a year.  

(She hopes he isn't.  She hopes he's with Shaun-- their first Shaun-- in heaven.  He believed in heaven, completely.  She's about fifty-fifty.  But if there is one, Nate's definitely there, and she can't imagine whoever's in charge wouldn't let him have his son with him.)

This time of year, she thinks more about the war, the bombs falling.  Ghosts, kind of, but not the fun, spooky kind.

But this year they’ve carved jack-o-lanterns, out of gourds and winter melons, scooping out the seeds to roast with a little salt and a little oil, carving cheerful, jagged-toothed moon faces and setting candles inside.  She was just going to show Shaun how, but then everyone else wanted to join in too.  After tonight-- after a night of bright faces all over the courtyard, grinning and spilling light-- she'll gather the gourds and melons and cook them, so the meat of them doesn't go to waste.  

It's Dee's turn to read aloud tonight, and he’s picked Oscar Wilde's "The Canterville Ghost.”  He’s reading outside instead of in the library, so they can all enjoy the jack-o-lanterns, for the little time they last.  The night's cool, but not cold; her kids curl against each other, for warmth and for love.  Shaun sits in her lap. Hancock's arm rests on her shoulders.  A real lantern, not a jack-o- one, lights the page, and Dee's face, in that spooky, atmospheric campfire way.  Dee has such a great voice for reading.  It's low and gravelly and dramatic as he reads,

"Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.

"'My dear sir,' said Mr. Otis"-- Dee's voice switches registers, turns prim and nasal, so that everyone's laughing even before he goes on-- "'I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper. I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more, should you require it.'"

Dee switches back to the dramatic voice to continue, "For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, leaned up against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realize his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted."

Shaun is having a fit of the giggles in her lap, struggling to breathe.  Everyone's laughing, as Dee keeps reading, about the family that just refuses to be scared.

"He laughed his most horrible laugh," Dee reads, "till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. 'I am afraid you are far from well,' she said, 'and have brought you a bottle of Doctor Dobell's tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy.''

"Oh my God," says Victoria, laughing.  "It's Mom!"

Even Dee cracks up at that, and loses his place for a second.  Nora laughs, breathless with happiness, with her family around her, in the darkness that makes the flickering golden light so incredibly lovely.

The story takes a sadder, sweeter turn towards the end, when the daughter of the family befriends the ghost.  Dee's voice goes soft, gentle, when he does her voice: 

"'I am so sorry for you,' she said, 'but my brothers are going back to Eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy you.'

"'It is absurd asking me to behave myself,' he answered, looking round in astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him, 'quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing.'

"'It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked.'"

"That sounds like Emily," says Michael, and everyone laughs again, and the story stays funny for a bit, until Dee's voice, his gruff rusty ghost-voice, changes:

"Far away beyond the pine-woods, there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.

"Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

"'You mean the Garden of Death,' she whispered.

"'Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is.'"

Nora's eyes are stinging, now.  It's Dee's voice, the tenderness and the pain in it, the yearning.  

He reads on, and little Virginia bravely helps the wicked old ghost be laid to rest, and everyone lives-- or dies-- happily ever after, and everyone is quiet for a bit.  Shaun's asleep, slumped on Nora's arm and chest.

Nora's heart is full, overflowing.  He made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than both.

Max says, "Good stuff.  Good pick, Dee."

Dee shuts the book, as everyone murmurs agreement, and says, "Thanks.  I thought, you know-- I kinda forgot about all that heavy stuff, there at the end."

Cog says, "It was funny.  It was good."

"Thank you, Dee," says Danse gravely.  

Dee waves them off.  "Yeah, OK.  Bedtime.  For people that sleep.  Look, 2.0's already out."

The night rustles and creaks with everyone's rising, flashes as they move through light and dark.  

Nora stays still the longest, Shaun breathing in her lap.  Wondering, or imagining.

She isn’t afraid.  If they're here, the beloved dead, called by her longing, or by the thinness of the veil tonight, then they belong here, just outside this circle, making the dark gentle for the living.

And if they're not-- 

(Emily’s voice, remembered: Sleep is a sweetness, so I hear it said.)

Someday she'll be with them, wherever they are.

But no hurry.

"Here, ma'am," says Michael, reaching down.  "I'll carry Shaun to bed."

She shifts, lifts her smallest son towards her tallest, feels her husband's hand on her back, as Michael lifts Shaun's sleepy weight from her, as she begins to rise.

[hannahchronism]

OC Tag -- 25 Questions

Tagged by: nobody, I do what I want (but obviously taken from @tellingscarystories )

Let’s have some fun and talk about our OCs! If tagged, pick the best/most developed OC you have and fill this out!

Rules:

Post these rules.

Answer the questions about your OC below. Go ahead and give more info than just a one-word response!

Tag at least 5 people! (If you don’t have an OC, you should make one and then fill this out *winky face*). You don’t have to be tagged to do this, if you want to do it, tag me so I can see! :D

// I think Tech still stands as my most developed (but it’s only because I’ve had her the longest of any of my currently (semi)active characters.) I might do this again for Lu later?

Questions:

OC’s name: Madelyn Fae Magson / Techno Havoc (/ The Radio Ghost) Fandom (if any): Danger Days Age: Assuming current year as 2027, 22 [can you believe...she was 13(?) the first time I wrote her. My bby. All grown up :’)] Occupation: professional loudmouth Freelance hacker / Rebel

1: Any nicknames?

Oh god, so many. Madelyn naturally got shortened to "Maddy" a lot when she was younger, as well as "Mads" and occasionally (sometimes with negative connotations) “Mad Mags.” Some of Jack’s friends, because they were so used to calling each other by their surnames, just called her “Mags” for a diminutive.

When she first got out to the desert, she picked up the habit of picking up little odds and ends, and with it, the nickname/first callsign "Magpie." (She had always had the tendency to horde things, really, but in-city I feel like clutter is probably frowned upon (at least in higher class places) and then, she spent those years where nothing belonged to her, not even really her body, so I feel like it probably was way worse after she got out.) After that, she named herself Techno Havoc, and from that "Tech", "Techie", and the occasional "Havoc" were born. DK called her "Rusty" (or maybe "Sparky"? I forget. Somebody called her one, someone else called her the other.) Weasel sometimes calls her “Spyro” for? some reason, I don’t even know if I had a reason when he started that. Jack has been known to lovingly refer to her as "Miss Mess" and then Grave almost exclusively calls her "Lil Miss" because he enjoys testing her patience. Then there's the classics: "Firebug" "Spitfire" "Firefly" etc. (cause of her hair. And, y'know, that whole temper thing.)

And then there's the "Pretty Bird" "Little Bird" thing that Mouse took up (from Kobes & DesertMomMouse respectively) but I mean? Those are like those "exclusive" kind of nicknames she definitely wouldn't tolerate from anybody else. Also "Kitten" falls in this category [Try it. I dare you.] but that was technically me who did that.

2: What is ‘home’ to your OC?

The desert, in the very broad sense of the word. Yeah she's got her designated corner of the Haven, and she can drop into the Trade Station more or less anytime she wants, but she's got that thing where staying anywhere too long starts to make her feel trapped, and she sort of struggles with naming a location as "home" in general since her only real "home" she had fell apart so spectacularly, uprooted by her own dang mom. Which, then, you might think her the type to think of people as her home, and I guess that's not wrong? necessarily?? But she struggles with that too thanks to those massive trust issues and a nice (un)healthy dose of C-PTSD. Really, it mostly just boils down to knowing where she doesn't belong, and where she doesn't want to be: home (used just.../so loosely there) is anywhere that isn't those places.

3: Favorite food and drink?

I have said this before but her favorite food is cranberry sauce! (Er, I think it's technically called "jellied cranberry" but we've always called it cranberry sauce.) The canned kind, because it's probably the only kind she's ever had tbh. I don't think she has a favorite drink, though. She's always been sort of... neutral (?) about food/drink in general, to the point where she often considers it annoying/a hassle to take time out of her day to remember to eat & drink. When it comes to alcohol, she’s just as non-picky. (I mean, she’d prefer the kind of ‘shine that won’t leave you blind, but that’s just common sense.)

4: Any scars/birthmarks?

She's got a birthmark on the back of her left shoulder! Just a lil oval, nothing special. She used to have those crazy 'signature' scars on her chest and mouth, but she lost those in ReEducation- partly to reinforce the conditioning, and partly because of BLI's good 'ol "Everything has to be beautiful" obsession. Since hitting the sand for the second time, she's picked up a few scars here and there, mostly concentrated on her outer left thigh (those are self inflicted) and her knees (she cannot, for the life of her, keep them unscraped tbh) but nothing too notable - with the exclusion of a brand stinkin' new one on the back of her right arm. (It's gonna fade a little over time/as it finishes healing completely, but it's there forever now. She's gonna fuckin' treasure that scar, too.)

5: What does your OC do in his/her free time?

She likes to tinker with makking tiny little robots that don’t really do anything besides crawl around, and she’s also got this side hobby/fascination with insects (beetles are her favorite because “they have the most personality”) And y’know how they say “if you love what you do you never work a day in your life” and she does so love to dig and disorder, so she’s got that going on a lot of the time too. And, of course, there’s the matter of expanding her collection of junk, little hoarder that she is.

6: When does your OC think killing is ok?

I wouldn't say she ever thinks it's "okay" so much as "occasionally slightly justifiable." Queen of indecision that she is, I'm sure this fluctuates, but she generally frowns upon the deaths of 'innocents' or anyone otherwise "uninvolved." Directly/physically confronted, if you threaten her life she will fight back and she won't pull punches.

7: Biggest fear?

mmmmmmmmm I wanna say something like losing herself again or being used or people she loves turning on her, but I think all of those really and truly link back to a root fear of being imprisoned again, and all the pain/circumstances around it.

8: What does your OC think is his/her biggest accomplishment?

Not being dead? Most of her loud fronting is that, fronting, and while she knows she's good at hacking (and, to a lesser degree, her engineering) but she has never really assigned much significance to her accomplishments. It's just, all to keep living y'know?

9: How clean/tidy is your OC?

She's a mess honestly. She's got this "system" of "orginization" and it is something that works for her, she can find things, but it looks like/is just a frickin' big ol mess honestly. Things all over the floor, amassed into little piles just everywhere. Expect to get an earful if you move anything up, though.

10: Favorite smell?

Smoke smells of the cigarette and wood variety. It definitely has nothing to do with her brother smelling like those things a lot, obviously.

11: What does your OC smell like?

Sun-baked sand and copper and that weird plastic-rubber smell that hangs around places where there’s a lot of wiring; also maybe a little like a cat, because she’s never more than about two feet away from Glitch. Also sometimes (depending on the availibility & her stress level) cigarette smoke, because she does occasionally smoke+ she also just burns them for the smell. (Plot twist, she's been Neil Josten the whole time. No seriously, there's this post on her blog from way the fuck back where she was like "I burn them for the smell" and I tried so hard to find it in her archive but I can't or I'd link it.)

12: What kind of clothing is your OC the most comfortable in?

She's never really uncomfortable in clothes unless they're a particularly awful texture/stiffness (but I mean..how often does that happen in the desert? everything's old and ratty and worn) but also she's low key most comfortable just ... not wearing any. And this absolutely links back to that thing I talked about once how she kind of never grew out of certain "childish" mentalities. She doesn't generally give any thought to how put together her outward appearance is, and she sheds any "unecessary" garments at the first given opportunity. Sometimes even when she should be wearing them. And then she gets sunburned. ‘Cause she’s dumb.

When clothed, however, she gravitates towards shirts/tops that are too big (plus a few tank tops she basically uses as underwear), and then she has a minor preference for shorts for some reason, but she really won't object to any pair of bottoms that won't fall off her skinny little butt (though, to be honest, most of her pants/shorts end up at least slightly too big as well.) 

She's also a known clothing thief - all of your t-shirts are forfeit if she manages to get her hands on them.

13: What do your OC’s living quarters look like?

When she's not in full vagabond mode with the grey tarp, she's got her little unit at the Haven. It's not super super full of anything, because of tendency to flitter around, but she is amassing a bit of a collection in there, as messy and "organized" into chaos as it always is. Some day I’ll sit down and describe all of the occupied units in greater detail, but not right now.

14: Is your OC impulsive?

HAHAHAHAHA YEAH

15: Most treasured possession?

I wanna say the cat? Does the cat count? He's technically a living thing and not really a "possession" because he's got a bit of a feral streak, but .. ?

OH OR - that fuckin stupid silver hard drive/her mom's will. She will not let that thing go, she put it on a freaking string and wears it as a necklace and it makes me (and Jack) so mad. But, she's attached to it, it's so valuable to her.

16: What does your OC consider to be good entertainment?

A nice good shouting match, honestly. She's just... so contrary and  really loves to argue. 

She's also fond of, like I mentioned above, studying insects. Not from like, a scientific point of view, she doesn't pull them apart or anything, but sometimes she'll catch them and keep them in a little jar for awhile before turning them loose again. Also he doesn't do it much now, but Jack used to write a lot (stories, some songs) and she's always loved to listen to those.

General radio chatter doesn't necessarily always fall under "entertainment" but she does often enjoy it. At the very least, it staves off the silence, and really anything that does that is good.

17: Most noticeable physical characteristic?

Uhhh... used to be her scar(s) but obviously that's a non thing anymore so.....50/50 between her natural hair color (and I mean...I guess even her dyed colors are technically still a physical characteristic) and her slight stature, especially when compared to her brother & parents. She’s pretty damn short and verges on alarmingly thin, even for the desert.

18: You OC is going out somewhere. Where is he/she going and what time is it?

When is she not "out" honestly?

(But, if going somewhere with the thought of social contact in mind, probably Tess's sparring ring or, even more likely, some cozy sunning rock where you'll find a snake and the time of day or day of the week becomes completely and utterly irrelavent.)

19: Did your OC enjoy his/her childhood?

Depends on where, exactly, you want to say "childhood" cuts off. Pre 10-years-old, hell yeah. 10-14, well, not exactly. I don't have much to say about either section right this second though because I tned to spend a lot of time talking about it in relation to how she is now, so it feels unecessary right here.

20: What would your OC die for?

...Love? to be general about it? I can't really imagine her going down in the name of a cause, or.. much else, really? But, if it came to it, I feel like there's some people she loves she'd be willing to meet death in the mosh pit for.

21: What does it take to earn your OC’s respect?

She's got decent respect for anyone who treats people with basic respect to begin with, but the way to get really really high in her sights is most definitely grand gestures. Swallowing your pride and abandonning all you've worked for to bust her out? Great, so great. Doing a death-march into the heart of the city in the name of protecting someone you love? Incredible. Giving the middle finger to the afterlife/death deity for the sake of coming back to your brother? Hi, welcome to the top tier.

And maybe that's a bit more like admiration / love but those tend to blur together a bit in my opinion.

22: Pet peeves?

I'm not even gonna try, the list is so long and so dependent on her moods anyway. Biggest, probably, I guess, is being called rat (but that's...honestly a legitimate trigger rather than a pet peeve.)

23: How forgiving is your OC?

I won't lie, she's got a thing for grudges, and sometimes they can be really easy to invoke with her, but she's honestly just as likely to forget she was mad at you. Not that you were explicitly forgiven, but that she  just...forgot to remember.

If you betray her trust though you're done. For like, the rest of forever. (Also: fuck you she has so many trust issues don't make them worse???)

24: What does your OC sleep in?

A cuddle puddle with Vi & Foxy

Typically, just whatever she was wearing as clothes that day. That's part of why she gravitates towards large shirts and such. She's very prone to wearing the same clothes a few days in a row before cleaning/airing them out because of this.

When she’s out wandering, she might actually throw an extra layer on because of how cold it gets at night, and the fact that she’s not so big on blankets, for some reason?

25: Biggest secret?

You know for all her self-isolation and walls-of-defense, I can't really think of any actual secrets she keeps? Obviously she doesn't just dump all of her life on you and she's less inclined to talk about things that upset her, but she's really just an honest person.

Tagging: @jediiwrites @kenziecarrion @wiscowrites @azianxpersuasionwrites & @theichthyostegawrites (but zero pressure to actually do it yo)

[studentsofshield]

What’s So Funny About Truth, Justice, and the American Way?

By Vincent Faust

(This was originally published on October 25, 2015)

Is Superman still relevant?

This is a question DC has struggled to answer since he came back from his heavily publicized death in 1993 (if not further back). An almost innumerable number of casual superhero fans will argue that Supes is no longer relevant. Legions of hardcore comics fanboys will go to bat for this position too. He’s too idealistic. He wears underwear over his pants. His secret identity is dumb. Why is our intended number one superhero not even from our planet? He’s way, way too overpowered. But at the same time, with all that power he doesn’t do all that he can do, he holds back. He’s an outdated hero from a forgotten era. These same sentiments are thrown around to a lesser extent toward Captain America. What went wrong? Can the “Big Blue Boy Scout” be saved? Joe Kelly’s revered “What’s So Funny About Truth, Justice and the American Way” tries to address this question.

Action Comics Vol 1 775 (2001) Written by Joe Kelly; penciled by Doug Mahnke and Lee Bermejo; inked by Tom Nguyen, Dexter Vines and others; colored by Rob Schwager; lettered by Comicraft

Superman hasn’t had a truly mass appeal ongoing title in years. Superman and Action have been critical and financial disappointments since the New 52, outside of the esoteric bits Grant Morrison did that were bound to not be film source material or mega sellers. James Robinson, Kurt Busiek and Geoff Johns (among others) were juggling him before the reboot with middling success. It seems that almost every great Superman story is a limited series or one-shot. All-Star, Birthright, Secret Identity, Man of Steel, Red Son, For All Seasons. Is he just hard to write for?

Much of the public dislike and misunderstanding of Superman has to do with his appearances in media outside of comics. Superhero adaptations had almost universally been bubblegum for decades. Batman ‘66 defined campiness, intentionally or not. Early serials were poorly adapted, purely picking up the superficial aspects of the characters and stories that had proven so memorable on the page. 

In 1978 Richard Donner changed that forever. He set out to prove that superheroes could work on the silver screen. Marlon Brando and Gene Hackman were involved. He figured out how to achieve the flight effect convincingly. It worked. The film was a massive success. Millions were inspired by Christopher Reeve’s portrayal. Everyone knows John Williams’ iconic theme just the same as his other masterpieces from Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Harry Potter or Jurassic Park. They can whistle it on cue. Despite it’s successes, the film started a blight on Superman’s reputation that wouldn’t be realized until years later.

Donner can’t be faulted for being a devout Superman fan. Years later, he would co-plot an acclaimed Superman story with Geoff Johns. However, perhaps he was too into the early Silver Age stories of his youth or had too much boundless imagination. His Superman had nigh endless powers. At the climax of the film, Lois Lane dies. Superman infamously flies around the Earth so fast that he manages to reverse time and save her life. Though arguably cheap plotting, the idea was novel and it made for a visually and emotionally memorable set piece. This stood out to the audiences though. It was a great movie, but people like underdogs and characters with faults. Spider-Man is ridiculously popular for a reason. The dude can just reverse time whenever he screws up and has only one weakness to a rare rock. 

Jerry Seinfeld, another fan of Supes, brought this argument even more into the mainstream through bits on his show and some Amex commercials. 

In his original stories by Siegel and Shuster, Superman could simply leap over buildings in a single bound. The more writers, artists and crazy stories that he was strung through, the more powers he picked up along the way. Flight, super strength, super speed, heat vision, X-ray vision, super hearing, super breath (with freezing ability), and depending on your canon, literally anything else. Post-Crisis on Infinite Earths, John Byrne tried hard to boil Superman down to his basic power set. The problem was that the average American was not reading comics in 1986. Their vision of the Man of Steel was still Richard Donner’s interpretation, and neither Bryan Singer nor Zach Snyder has done much to waver that in the meantime.

Parallel to the public’s souring on Superman, a new crop of superheroes was popping up that directly challenged his ideals. In the 1990s, Image comics boasted how their characters and stories dealt with the moral grey and weren’t simple 1940s cardboard cutouts. They killed the murderers, rapists and child molesters of the world. Marvel and DC understandably chased after this success and pumped up characters like the Punisher, Deadpool (interestingly Joe Kelly is considered Deadpool’s biggest innovator and signature creator) or Lobo. Though in retrospect many of these stories are considered garbage, they sold bucket loads. 

A new wave of writers and artists were popping up too. Some brilliant men from across the pond with trademark UK dark humor and cynicism to infuse into these stories. Though your early image anti-heroes were throwaway pieces of shit, some of these books were genius. Warren Ellis and Bryan Hitch’s Authority was arguably the peak of this. A superhero team with the motto “by any means necessary.” They fought “God” at a point. Though not the top of the charts, the Authority is easily one of the most influential projects of the era, its DNA of moral ambiguity and wide screen action bleeding into everything under the sun.

“What’s So Funny” starts with a new superhero team making their entrance by obliterating a giant mutated creature, along with half of the city around the battle. They announce themselves as The Elite by forcefully downloading their manifesto to every computer in the world (a la Apple and U2). They then completely demolish a team of villains that had aims to turn Tokyo to rubble. 

The reader is introduced to these infamous newcomers on the scene. We have Menagerie, a buxom woman with a symbiotic suit reminiscent of Venom or Witchblade; Coldcast, a comically humongous, muscular Black man accessorized with manacles and chains with abilities of electromagnetism; The Hat, an elemental with his eponymous fedora from which he can pull anything he desires; and their leader Manchester Black, a smoking, Union Jack graphic tee, Doc Martens and leather trench coat-clad, purple-haired, incredibly powerful telekinetic. Black’s inspiration is practically transparent, whether it is The Authority’s Jenny Sparks or more broadly the British writers aforementioned. 

Superman comes across them multiple times, witnessing their scorched Earth tactics. All the while, their approval ratings are soaring. 

A powerful series of panels shows a group of young kids playing “superheroes” like they would cowboys and Indians or army games. The kid playing Superman is pissed and storms off with, “I can’t KILL you, but YOU can kill ME! How can I stop you if I CAN’T KILL?” His friend dressed as Black replies, “You CAN’T. So let us kill YOU. And you can be SOMEONE ELSE.” Over a beautiful Metropolis sunset, “Okay, kill me an’ I’ll be somebody COOL. Bein’ Superman IS SO BEAT” is captioned.

In bed, Superman discusses with Lois his plans to put the Elite in line. 

Superman - “People have to know that there’s ANOTHER WAY, Lois. They have to hear a voice of COMPASSION and FAITH instead of SPITE and ANGER. They have to see that SOMEONE believes in humanity strongly enough…”

Lois - “To DIE for them?”

Supes requests the battle be held off-planet to prevent collateral damage (something slightly altered for the animated adaptation of this story). 

Black monologues that “This isn’t about LOVE. It’s about removing the cancers that fester in us and flushing them down the TOILET. The people don’t WANT babysitters in SPANDEX to slap them on the wrist when they’re bad. They want SURGEONS to cut the ugly bits from them and CHARGE them through the moral NOSE. DOCTOR MANCHESTER BLACK at your service.”

After initially wrecking the Man of Steel and thinking they have won without contest, the Elite are surprised by Superman coming back and seemingly killing all of them off without much effort. 

Before dealing with Black, he’s asked “How does it feel to have your FLAWS EXPLOITED? To be DECONSTRUCTED? How does it feel to WATCH DREAMS DIE?”

He proceeds to whip out the heat vision, to the amusement of Black. Supes then explains that he just performed surgery and removed the abnormality in his foe’s brain that lent him his powers. Black breaks down in tears and yells that the Big Blue has shown the world that he’s no better than the Elite. Superman turns to the cameras and explains how Black’s morals that he briefly borrowed aren’t right. He states, in an almost fourth wall breaking manner, “I don’t LIKE my heroes ugly and mean. Just don’t BELIEVE in it.” 

The issue ends with the poignant final page that begins this post.

“Dreams save us. Dreams lift us up and transform us. And on my soul, I swear… until my dream of a world where dignity, honor and justice becomes the reality we all share, I’ll never stop fighting. Ever.”

Through this story Joe Kelly argues that, even with his endless powers, Superman is still important to our world, both in the DCU and in real life, as a powerful aspiration to reach toward. 

Superman is often compared to Jesus. In reality, a pair of Jews gave birth to this monolithic figure that an entire fictional mythos revolves around. On the page, a mighty civilization sends their last son to ours to protect and inspire us. Cinematographers are especially huge fans of pumping up this parallel. Superheroes taught me my morality. Peter Parker, Bruce Banner, Bruce Wayne and Charles Xavier are my biblical figures.

Action Comics 775 is considered one of the greatest Superman stories of all time. Hell, it’s considered one of the greatest comic stories of all time. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I have to agree that it is one of the best Supes stories of all time. It isn’t without its faults though. 

The biggest flaw of the story is pacing. A running start to immediately introduce us to the Elite is a great idea. The initial reactions of media types and then-president Lex Luthor are handled well.

Once Superman actually meets the Elite, the plot moves along way too jarringly. Part of the problem is the conveyance of action. The quickness of the first scene makes sense to show the sheer power of the Elite. Their splash page introduction is on point. The second fight they crash with the Klee-Tees suffers from poor storytelling from the art team. It is simply unclear how time passes and movement occurs between the panels. It’s unknown whether this blame should fall on Kelly’s script or the execution on pencils.

The Lois and Clark conversation in bed is executed perfectly though. The monochromatic coloring on these pages works wonders to set the mood. The shot of Superman standing in the street right before calling on the fight is beautiful.

The final fight is way too confusing to tell what is happening. The action should be epic and brutal, not jump cutted along. This is handled a little better in the DC animation version of the story simply due to the differences in the two media. However, this isn’t an excuse when plenty of comics convey action expertly.

I’ve harped on the art a bunch. I’m honestly not a huge fan of this art style in the first place, removed from the actual execution of the story. So I concede bias. However, part of my dissatisfaction may be explained by the fact that this single issue has a grand total of six inkers on it. The premise and most of the script is top of the line though. Oftentimes writers are given too much credit in comics. Their name comes first on the cover. Artists arguably do the most work in actually telling the story. That is the downside with this book, but also why Joe Kelly deserves most of the recognition for its genius.

I think there are a few things that could have been done by Kelly and DC to truly ensure this would stand the test of time as a masterpiece. It desperately needs more focus on the artistic side. I’m honestly not really sure which parts of the book Mahnke did and which ones Bermejo did. I’m not a giant fan of the style, obviously if they somehow got someone like Brian Bolland it would probably be better. However, even accepting the general style, there should have been one penciler and one inker. Speaking of Bolland, it makes a little sense to compare this to The Killing Joke. They’re both highly regarded single issues. 

“What’s So Funny About Truth, Justice & the American Way” stands as a legendary story. Probably one of the absolute best single issues in comics history.

[ilakumar-blog1]

A New Style of Immigrant Story

When my grandmother, my father’s mother, died in January of 2014, in Bihar, I was here in New York. My father was on the next plane to India. I remember the night, he walked down the stairs that evening, slower than usual. He told us that he was going to India because she was unwell. And he felt he should be there. And that night, I was ten years old, barefoot on the kitchen floor completely uninterested in commiserating with my father. A child’s first exposure to death is a tragically hopeless and confusing time. And in the case of my grandmother, she wasn’t dead yet. It was a matter of jet fuel which determined whether my father would be with his mother, his hand in hers, when she died. He knew this, and I did too.

By the time my father had packed his shaving kit, clothes and notebook, I should have been asleep. I was brushing the curls, which I get from my dad, out of my hair. From my bedroom window I saw him climb into the taxi. Needing somewhere else to focus my energies, I then, baked a cake. I labored over it, for like three hours. Carefully, I piped small pink flowers placing one of those pearly sprinkles in the middles. This cake served as my nagging problem through the night. It was this perfectly vanilla cake, a simple or impossible task, to which my mind insanely clinged to avoid its real trouble. As I tried to move it from the counter to the plate, it crumbled in my hands like clay that’s been under pressure for too long. I began to cry, between the sorrow and guilt the jack-in-the-box inside my skull finally escaped my control and flooded the entire house with tears.

I could not bear to imagine my father, alone in that dark plane. You see, his sisters who were already in India, knew their mother had died. To save their brother from the most uncomfortable and saddest plane ride of his life, they didn’t tell him. It was a cousin, on FaceBook, offering condolences right before he was boarding the plane that really screwed the whole operation. Sixteen hours of torture and despair all suppressed in an illusion of composure for the flight attendants and the man sitting next to him. He might have been flying above the world, his heavy heart must have been the only thing tethering him to the world.

When my grandmother died I realized that I had hardly ever spoken to her. I am realizing, now, if her husband, my grandfather, was to die today, I would still be writing the same sentence. I haven’t learned from my mistakes, I have made no effort to know my grandfather. Nevermind that, my mother, who stayed with us--didn’t tell me or my brother what happened. The idea was that when my father returned, we would all talk. That night, I lay down to sleep. My mother didn’t tell me my grandmother had died, so was it even true? Had it even happened? Maybe she really was alive, breathing the same air as me. My grieving heart did not care for logic.

And my dad and I didn’t talk. When he finally came back home his head was shaved. Curls gone. He brought gifts- toys for my brother, dresses and jewelry, silver coins, a gold statue of a young girl reading a book from his mother’s bedroom. I remember the night he came back, he was jetlagged and I just couldn’t sleep. He came into my bed and I lay in his arms, trying to sync my breathing to his. We lay there, for hours in the dark, neither one of us falling asleep. He spoke once, he asked me if I had any questions, about anything. Of course I did. But I would never ask them.

My father and I didn’t spend evenings in a treehouse talking about boys, he was never my lacrosse coach or whatever most dads are for their daughters. The mornings we share together are silent. I wake up disturbingly early, but he wakes up earlier. The heat is on, the house is warm. Breakfast and tea is waiting for me to finish my mascara. He waits for me. And we leave our warm grey house to stand outside. Just us in the cold. He likes to listen to writer’s almanac and drink his coffee. I don’t like it, but this day, I did. Robert Hayden’s poem, a tired one, my father had read to me so many times, played.

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

My bus hasn’t come yet. We stand in silence as it nears 7am and more and more cars drive by. “It always reminds me of my mother,” he says. “Did I thank her enough?” The bus came. There was a kiss on the forehead and that was it.

I found my answers almost a year later, in London on Christmas day. That sounds misleadingly glamourous. There was a party, everyone was outside in the lavish backyard smoking cigars. I was in an awfully crappy mood. It was the smoke, that really was the cause for my drama. My father does not smoke, as in cigarettes, as in regularly. But the occasional cigar is an attractive idea. It’s a stylish thing-- an accessory, a fetish object, something to help pass the time, a communication tool. It’s selfish, if he only knew it bothered me. But anyway, this night is only relevant because as my father was distracted, outside, doing what he does so perfectly--he left a book inside, on the kitchen counters. It was the mock-up of his forthcoming book of essays, including “Pyre” about his mother’s death.

All I desired was a simple medical diagnosis--but that is not what was given to me. I didn’t want to feel sad, there was no need to, we barely knew each other. And then, I read. It was my grandmother's life, suddenly revealed to me-- her wonderful charitable life, and then what happens to my father after her life.

I have not yet learned how to properly, live and talk and write about my very peculiar relationship, my limited understanding of where I come from. The drift began at the age of 6, when I became aware of my thick hair and big lips. It was not so much being aware of the large lips, but knowing what they meant--it was a symbol of difference in power, I felt like a clown. What is more, is I had a feeling, not being white, meant I was inferior to the rest of their world and the rest of my life would just be so exhausting.  

I can cannot help that those inaccurate portraits of Indians on TV make me sick, I cannot help the bitterness I feel whenever I stumble upon the inescapable stereotypes these shows have burned in our brains. I need you to understand, the images of the Indian in America have impacted my early life in such an influential and very dangerous way. At least, I now know why I have made no progress in accepting my public identity, and why one should not serve, or give into national taste. What has ruined me, is the most subtle form of oppression-- how one thinks about itself.

The story of an immigrant child in this country could be written a million times better and sadder and more eloquently. But that’s not the point and I don’t care. My fight for a seat at the table was based on how fast I could look or become like the table. Yet, I remain trapped and despised within this republic--and my situation is unique because I have not been kept in bondage for three hundred years. I have only been held together by my future, unwilling to accept my past. I have drowned in my past. As it was deemed unfashionable, so I hoped it cracked and crumbled under the pressures of drought.

No one is in the position to tell me that my only problem, Indian people on TV, is not a valid complaint. It’s a recipe for murder, really. I know mostly only white people, they have no intention to exploit me, and I love them for that. But their own glorification, their place in the sun and on the screen--has forced me to endure a great deal of pain and festor some anger and jealousy. These shows had told me I had a very specific place, socially. My dignity was just a character to the very ill people creating the illusions on of the screen. Of course, the sick illusions do not stay on the screen. The accents, of course, follow one around. The goal, is to separate yourself from that. And perhaps I have made a mistake, because in my separation of “Indian in America” I look back, as a stranger to “Indian.”

My mother is Muslim, my dad is Hindu. They got married when their two countries, India and Pakistan were fighting a war. Ila is a Hindu name; it is the opposite of my mother's last name, Ali (a Muslim name) Ila Ali. It forms a palindrome. It mirrors my mother’s, yet keeps its difference.

My father had written about the marriage between a Muslim and Hindu, and got himself on a hit-list. Far-right India was not happy about his news. But still he went to meet the man who put him on the hit-list, for lunch.

And what is worse, is it was the death of my grandmother that had brought me back to where I had started. No one told me she died. It was a text I saw on my mother’s phone, from a cousin, offering condolences. Really, it was my father’s essay, “Pyre” that I only saw because of the liking Franzen took towards it, gave me the scraps of information of her death. What is interesting, is his own drifting from what used to be his world.

“I left India nearly three decades ago, and would see my mother only for a few days each year during my visits to Patna. Over the past ten or fifteen years, her health had been declining. She suffered from arthritis and the medicines she took for it had side effects, and sometimes my phone rang with news that she’d fallen asleep in the bathroom or had a seizure on the morning after she had fasted during a festival. I knew that one day the news would be worse and I would be asked to come to Patna. I was fifty years old and had never before attended a funeral. I didn’t know what was more surprising, that some of the rituals were new to me, or that they were exactly as I had imagined. That my mother’s corpse had been dressed as a bride was new and disconcerting, and I’d have preferred a plainer look; on the other hand, the body placed on the bamboo bier, its canopy covered with an orange sheet of cotton, was a familiar daily sight on the streets of my childhood. In my notebook that night I noted that my contribution to the funeral had been limited to lighting my mother’s funeral pyre. In more ways than one, the rituals of death had reminded me that I was an outsider.”

In my school, we have been learning about India. Do you remember, in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, the chilled monkey brain for dessert? That desire to exploit other worlds using film, again, is not only in TV but documentaries too. The supposedly “accurate” or perfectly innocent or good and straight parallels that are supposedly drawn in documentaries-- they are a false and biased  look into the lives of others. Lives, that colonial powers have no place in, yet they do. I blame film, which is the most was the influential weapon old colonial power has, for my drift with India. That is my confession of to desire to be in that burning house seated at the broken table.