#to get Harvey in a mentally delicate state before leaving him with little way out to refuse and leave

[pocketramblr]

Oh I forgot to mention. I'm pretty sure Oswald is trying to yellow wallpaper Harvey... Someone get him out of there...

[thegreenfairy13]

A Gotham Ghost Story - Part 3

A Gobblepot fanfic. Oswald Cobblepot shoots Jim Gordon on the pier. Unable to move on to the afterlife, Jim is doomed to haunt the infamous mobster. Tied to Earth but unable to live, Jim only wants to find peace in death. His path there might be bumpy. Read it on Ao3 here.

Thank you @mexican-texican for the beta <3!

Jim doesn’t stay frozen long. He’s a man of action. Leaping to his feet, he starts calling out to Oswald, overwhelmed by sheer joy. “You can hear me!” he yelps, gripping the other man’s arm tightly and trying to shake it. Of course, his actions don’t have any impact on solid matter. He keeps calling and touching though, anything to make himself noticed. If he could just communicate, there would a solution to this chaos, a way to mend this mess.

“You can hear me!” he repeats frantically, but the gangster doesn’t reply, just keeps drifting back to the land of dreams. Sleep is overtaking him, making his limbs heavy and sluggish in the process. His head lolls back as another shiver runs through his body and Jim curses. The only thing he successfully managed so far was to make the mobster freeze.

Mentally exhausted, Jim sits down on the fluffy carpet. It doesn’t make any difference if he stands, or sits, or lies, though. No position will grant him any kind of relaxation but humans are creatures of habit and Jim is still quite new at being dead. He still has to figure out how things work. If he would take a moment to consider, he would probably notice how Oswald only responded to him when being at the brink of sleep.

Sleep is, among other factors, a state of altered consciousness. Therefore, mental barriers are naturally lowered which allows a being like Jim, a bodyless entity who can otherwise only communicate by manipulating matter, to talk and being noticed - if only briefly. Yet he’s unable to put the pieces together that quickly; forgivable mistake, given the circumstances.  

To Jim, it is a cruel thing, this slight glimmer of hope. He’s back to where he started: ignored and with no clue how to change anything about this. It reminds him of his marriage, Jim thinks bitterly; up to the point that all of this is his very own fault, too.

It just hits him now that he hasn’t given Lee much thought so far. Maybe it’s because their relationship is by now nothing but a charade, kept up for public appearances. But that shouldn’t be a surprise, should it? They had found each other again when Gotham had been in shatters, when there was madness lurking behind every corner and then they decided to play house. Two people who had already descended into the darkness, the queen of the Narrows and Gotham’s fallen beacon of hope, had clung to the dwindling flame of their love and to each other, hoping against all odds they could go back to being the people they used to be. They had almost succeeded.

In the end, their normal life had fallen apart. Lee had been unable to let go of all the people relying on and following her. Jim couldn’t blame her. Under the impression of running a clinic for the poor, she had kept ruling the narrows while her husband sought to ignore her morally gray activities. She was only helping people, he heard himself say in public more than once. The inhabitants of the Narrows loved her, so where was the harm? And didn’t the Commissioners before him look away, too? For the sake of public safety? She kept the order, didn’t she?

And Jim? He kept annoying her at any given minute. He tried stubbornly going back to the innocent boy he was when leaving Chicago and the army, attempting to be an honest cop once more. He was a fraud, and he knew it.

Jim can’t remember when it first started. Maybe the first time he looked away when Harvey dangled a man from a building in order to get information, or maybe the first time he used his fists during an interrogation. It definitely was there when shooting Galavan right between his eyes and walking away to let Oswald pay for his crime. And wasn’t it justified? Oswald had killed before, would continue doing so. What did it matter if he went to prison for a crime he didn’t commit? Jim would save others in the meantime, would go back to being an honest cop. It had only been one tiny mistake. Just this once, he had left his unit, his ally behind.

Jim knew he was nothing but a hypocrite but he pushed those thoughts away whenever they emerged, became quite good at it over the years, too. Yet now that he’s dead, he has nothing but his thoughts creeping over him, drowning him, haunting him. Jumbled bits and pieces of his former life wash over him, choke him. He can’t contain the flood much longer.

Oswald stirs in his sleep, setting the cop on high alert and granting him a much-needed distraction.

Jim is quite obviously somehow tied to the gangster. He wonders what his purpose might be. Should he try keeping him from taking over Gotham? Should he just follow him around, wondering what might have been if had granted the other man the friendship he sought in the early days of their association? Or is there no reason behind his fate at all besides tormenting him?

With nothing to do, Jim waits. He stares at the paintings decorating the room, looks into the dark eyes of Elijah Van Dahl’s portrait and the lighter ones of Gertrud Kapelput hanging next to it. Jim has never met Elijah but like any other Gothamite, he has read about the gangster finding his father again on the news. He compares the long nose to Oswald’s, the high cheekbones, the thin lips, and sighs. The similarity is striking and he wonders what possibly went wrong in the criminal's childhood, how Elijah and Gertrud drifted so far apart the man didn’t even know he was a father.

Probably not much, Jim muses. After all, can’t he count himself lucky Barbara told him he would become a father? During Gotham’s darkest days, he and his former fiancée had found each other again - only for Jim to push her away the very next morning, disgusted and embarrassed by himself. She could have kept her pregnancy a secret and denied him his right to ever lay his eyes on his little daughter if she’d just been a slightly more cruel woman. But she hadn’t. Would Barbara come looking for him, too? Would she consider it had been Oswald who ended his life?

It had been Oswald Jim had sought out for consolidation after she had broken the news to him. Not Harvey, not Lee. No, Oswald. Under the pretense of asking the gangster for more ammunition, he had made his way to his ridiculous headquarter where entire choirs used to sing his praises.

Back then, he didn’t even know why. In hindsight, it was quite obvious, really. Whenever things went south in Jim’s life, he turned to his personal mobster. Getting fired? Ask the King of Gotham for help! A criminal mastermind on the loose? Go to the Penguin! Gotham is about to get destroyed by a redheaded nutjob? Well, there’s always a pale criminal to fly a blimp in circles for hours. Gotham will thank him, right? It will always provide him with three warm meals and a pallet to sleep on, courtesy of Jim Gordon.

Oswald had been bemused when he turned up. The great Jim Gordon, defender of the innocent, had been in bed with a wanted criminal, forever tied to her now by their common child. It was hilarious. He deserved the mocking, he really did.

The Penguin turned to his bar, sneering victoriously. “Need a drink?” he asked, filling up a glass and holding it out to him. He snatched it away right before Jim could take it. “I just remembered you’ve already had one too many,” he mocked, draining it in one go. “So what can I do for you?” he asked. “Do you want me to provide you with a cute little crib? Don’t know where to get diapers in this No Man’s Land?” he laughed while Jim scowled.

Oswald refilled his glass, swirled the bright liquid around while watching the ice-cubes slowly melt and everything clicked into place. It was Oswald. It had always been Oswald. Jim’s problem and solution.

When embracing Barbara, he had subconsciously embraced Oswald. Over the years, she had become his carbon-copy. The lady with the iron will, the Queen of Gotham, ruthless and cunning but ultimately just a copy of the original schemer.

“What are you going to do now?” Oswald urged, the infuriating grin still firmly in place. “You gonna arrest mommy dearest once she has given birth and take little Gordon to prison for a visit every Sunday?”

He had thrown Jim off guard. It wasn’t like Oswald to taunt him that mercilessly, not with such acid. Jim wanted to smash him against the nearest wall.

“How do you think will this child turn out?” the Penguin asked. “Do you think it will be more like mommy or like daddy?” he urged, bitterness dripping from his tongue. He put a finger into his drink, licked it off, grinning like the cat who caught the canary, obviously enjoying to be on higher moral grounds for once.  

Checking him out shamelessly, he added, “I’m not talking looks, obviously. Both mum and dad are quite dashing, but if it inherits mum’s insanity…”

The Penguin never got to finish his sentence. Jim had by this point already leaped to his feet and grabbed him by his lapels. With unhidden satisfaction, he witnessed the smaller man’s eyes widen almost comically. Beneath the polished surface, the Penguin was still a quivering, cowardly little bastard; just a kid playing with a club.

Jim could almost hear his beating heart. His breath was hot on his face, ragged, abbreviated puffs, coming out too quickly. He truly was a delicate little bird, trapped in an iron grip.

Leaning deeply into his personal space Jim asked, “are you jealous?” He arched his eyebrow at him, pushed him harder against the surface behind him, almost squeezing the answer out of him.

“Why would I be?” His reply was nothing but a pathetic squeak, his breath coming out even faster.

“You tell me,” Jim replied with a smirk, knowing the answer already. If asked the same question, he would have the exact same answer. Right from the start, it had always been those two, dancing cautiously around each other and never overstepping their self-drawn line. Up until tonight.

“Because I would be,” Jim told him earnestly, slowly relaxing the grip on his throat - but not entirely, never entirely.

The Penguin didn’t move, just stood there, frozen, wondering if that was another one of Jim’s tricks.

All those years, Jim had tried being a good man, a good boyfriend, a good cop. He had epically failed at all tasks. Maybe, Jim thought, he would be better at being a bad man. If he just let go, if he stopped playing by the rules, stopped going back to his self-imposed rules any given moment, his life wouldn’t be such a mess. Maybe he should just cross a line and see where this step takes him. No harm done, right?

His finger started tracing the outline of Oswald’s throat until his thumb was directly on his carotid. He could feel the life pulsing through him, just underneath his finger. If he’d push only a little too hard, the Penguin would fade to dust. Oswald closed his eyes, his breath stuttering to halt and Jim could practically taste his fear.

Oswald didn’t run away, though. And it was all the permission Jim needed to continue. His hand crept further down, loosened the tie around his neck, opened buttons one by one. It was too easy. The jacket barely landed on the floor with a soft thud when Oswald dared to open his eyes again.

Jim had never seen such intense fear before. It should have stopped him, but it’s hard to pull the brakes on a train once it’s set into motion. The fear only spurred him on further. After all, it was his own horror mirrored on Oswald’s face. His mouth crashed against the mobster’s teeth, swallowing every protest the criminal might have wanted to bring up.

Oswald kissed him back just as vigorously. He was like a puppet suddenly come to life, greedy to no extent for anything and everything. He practically ripped off Jim’s shirt and the cop didn’t mind, though some part in his brain supplied that this was in fact damage to property and punishable. He shushed his thoughts as he started returning the favor, fought his way through layers and layers of clothing until finally being rewarded with bare skin. He picked Oswald up as if he weighed nothing and bent him over his throne.

Jim had always hated and loved the picture of the Penguin sitting on this darn thing, ruling over Gotham. But with no doubt in his mind, he wholeheartedly admired the picture of Oswald sprawled over the expensive furniture, writhing and whining for more: more touches, more kisses, more tongue, more teeth, more nails sliding over his back, following the outline of his crooked spine and the pattern of countless scars, some of which Jim is responsible for, some of which he isn’t.

He’ll never forget the sounds Oswald made, those needy screams, begging him to continue, only outmatched by his own craving for fulfillment.

It should have been their start.

In those delusional moments of pleasure, Jim truly thought they could be together. They had always completed each other, had always been at their best when working together. So why not take it to the next level?

The harsh truth hit Jim the very next morning. After gathering their clothes and walking down, Oswald had become the Penguin anew. Jim had almost made the choice, had almost embraced his dark side and stood by Penguin’s side. But just when Jim said his goodbye, equipped with more goods than he could carry, he heard the gunshot.

Oswald stiffened, clearly terrified. But not by the fact that someone had just been executed on his account, but by the fact that Jim had witnessed it. It shouldn’t have been a reason for him to turn his back, it wasn’t a surprise. He probably was only a coward - like always, but it gave him the excuse he needed to run away and not look back again, leaving his gangster hurt and humiliated in the process.

The criminal stirs again in his sleep. More drool lands on his shirt and he smacks his tongue against his teeth. It’s Jim’s moment to talk again if he wants to be noticed but he misses it, just observes the Penguin slowly waking up, flapping around like a bird in the process. He groans in pain when flinging his legs over the edge of his sofa and cranes his neck. Even a healthy person is in a lot of distress after sleeping on a sofa and Jim wonders how the mobster must feel right now.

Without warning, Oswald hugs his middle as if trying to contain the sob that escapes his throat. He whimpers again and convulses, unable to stop the tears streaming down his face.

Jim stands awkwardly beside him. Seeing him so broken down makes him want to put a consoling arm on his head but by now he knows Oswald can feel the cold emanating his ghostly figure, if nothing else, so not to distress him further, he remains unmoving. Jim wonders if the gangster is crying over him, their shared history, or about himself. It’s probably all three.

Another sob rattles through the murderer’s body before he gets up, starting his morning routine. He’s far from being well-rested. Not after going through an adrenaline-high and the inevitable, bone-crushing low that follows right afterward. He drags his bad leg after him as he shuffles clumsily down the hall, an increasingly embarrassed Jim in tow.

No, no, no, Jim thinks when the bathroom door closes behind him but there’s absolutely no escape for the cop and no privacy for Oswald. All Jim can do is turn around when the Penguin starts stripping down, getting ready for his shower.

It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, Jim tries telling himself, but in this context, it is. He hasn’t seen the soft swell of his belly before or the fresh scars littering his chest, undoubtedly unwanted souvenirs from Blackgate. He hasn’t seen Oswald’s shattered leg in broad daylight either, this broken limb that has seemingly been put back together by a child. The kneecap is turned sideways, his ankle is flexed at a painful angle and a good chunk of his muscle is missing. Jim hisses through his nose at the sight - well he would if he still had a nose.

With a pained groan, Oswald climbs into the shower, just stays under the hot spray for a fair amount of time. When emerging, his eyes are still swollen but he looks a lot more composed. Leaning against the sink, he studies his own face, examines the wrinkles next to his mouth.

“Time to move on,” he mutters to his reflection. “The past doesn’t count. It’s only worth living in the future,” he carries on, probably trying to reassure himself. “Not that there’s much left of the past anyway,” he mumbles. “Had to bury and forget them all: mother and father, Martin, even my dog. And now Jim.” At the mention of Martin, Jim feels the guilt rushing through his form, like a flood of ice seeping to what is left of his mind.

With a sigh, Oswald snatches a towel from the hook beside him when another shiver runs down his spine and he starts wrapping himself up. “Gotta talk to Olga,” he grumbles. “The heating must be broken.”

With that, he starts piling up his hair, crafting it into one of those odd towers he’s so fond of. Jim thinks it’s quite soothing to watch him shape his hair into a literal skyscraper. He’s almost done when his housekeeper starts knocking at the door.

“Police here,” she announces with her heavy accent, startling the gangster and Jim who had been engrossed with Oswald’s dexterity.

The Penguin scowls at the door before slowly sitting down on the toilet seat. “Took them long enough,” he whispers.

“Sir, they want to see you,” Olga carries on.

“Just like the old times,” he murmurs before calling back he’ll be ready in a few minutes.

He glances one last time into the mirror. “Well, Jim,” he sighs. “Seems like you’re troubling me even from your grave.”

The cop snorts. He might feel sorry Oswald is about to pack his bags and move back to Blackgate but he really brought this onto himself. He was always sloppy with bodies. It’s truly a miracle he only went to prison for tax evasion (and maybe some sloppy police work on Jim’s part). This time, he’ll get more than ten years. Well, that is if Harvey can put the pieces together properly.

[butterflyphil]

And Marigolds All in a Row (Chapter 7: Hydrangeas)

Summary: Dan is angry. Angry at the world, angry at his parents, angry at his classmates who treat him more like a punchline than a person. New to Brookwood Academy, he does his best to keep his head down and take advantage of his opportunity at a fresh start, but getting through sixth form unnoticed proves harder than expected. Then, one day, he wanders into a garden with as many secrets as flowers and meets a boy who has managed to do just that.

Warnings for this chapter: description of death (non-graphic, but feel free to message me if you’re worried), bullying, swearing

start from beginning, previous chapter, read on ao3

“Well that was one way of telling you, I suppose,” says Phil, chuckling unconvincingly, a weak attempt at humour to break the tense silence.

Dan, who has been gaping wide enough to catch raindrops in his mouth for what feels like hours (but definitely isn’t), remains silent. Not just vocally, but mentally. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he is vaguely aware that he should be buzzing with questions, but he isn’t. For once, his overactive brain seems to have shut itself off.

“Do you still wanna go home, or…?” Phil trails off.

Dan honestly isn’t sure what he wants until he finds himself shaking his head.

“Should we head back to the shed then? Get out of the rain?”

Dan nods.

He follows Phil to the shed in a daze, noting once they get there that it’s far cleaner on the inside than he expected. There isn’t a cobweb in sight, and as he sits on the floor he finds that there isn’t much dust settled on the old wooden planks. Phil grabs an electric lantern from the corner and switches it on, its warm glow making the place seem almost cozy. Almost as though someone used to live there.

“I stayed here for a while when I first…” Phil starts to explain, then stops. “You’re safe here,” he says instead.

“Thanks,” Dan says, his first words in many minutes. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s thanking Phil for, but it seems like an appropriate thing to say.

Phil nods but doesn’t say anything else, watching Dan expectantly as if waiting for him to address the elephant in the room. Or the incorporeal being in the shed, as the case may be. Dan just wishes he knew where to start. For a long time, the only sound is that of heavy rain on the metal roof.

“My hand went through you?” Dan says finally, though it comes out more like a question than he intended. Like he’s expecting Phil to laugh and tell him he’s imagining things. It’s what he’s hoping for, at least.

Phil doesn’t laugh, though he does offer Dan a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck and looking almost as uncomfortable as Dan feels. “Yeah, I suppose it did.”

Dan blinks once, twice, opens his mouth then closes it. “How?” he settles on asking, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

This time, Phil does laugh. It’s short, shaky, and unconvincing. “I thought that’d be obvious by now.”

Dan looks back and forth. For what, he’s not sure. A neon sign, perhaps, or someone with a camera waiting to tell him he’s been pranked. No such clue appears, so he settles his gaze back on Phil. Stares. Waits.

“I’m—” Phil clears his throat, gestures vaguely to the air around him “—you know…a ghost.”

Dan double-checks for hidden cameras. “But,” he starts slowly, “ghosts aren’t real?”

Phil inclines his head. “That might be a valid point if I wasn’t living proof that they are. Well, not living, but—”

“No,” Dan interrupts, standing abruptly. He can feel Phil’s eyes on him as he starts to pace the floor. “Ghosts don’t exist, and even if they did, my best friend wouldn’t be one.”

“Best friend?”

Dan stops in his tracks and turns to face Phil. “That’s the part you’re focusing on?”

Phil shrugs. “I’ve had a lot of time to get used to the whole ghost thing.”

“Stop saying that!” Dan growls in frustration, scrubbing his palms over his face before pointing a finger at Phil’s. “You’re not a ghost. You aren’t…” He trails off, looks at Phil.

Phil stares back, eyes wide and unafraid.

Dan’s shoulders sag. “You aren’t dead.”

Phil’s expression softens. Dan’s limbs do the same. He lets himself sink to the floor with a heavy thud, rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. In his periphery, he sees Phil reach out as if to pat his shoulder but pull away at the last minute, apparently thinking better of it.

“Alright,” Dan says after a few shaky breaths, still staring at his knees. “Let’s just say, hypothetically, that you are, you know…”

“A ghost.”

“That. How come you can, like, turn that lantern on and stuff, but you can’t touch me?”

“I could if I wanted to,” Phil says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You just surprised me, is all.”

“So if I were to touch you now,” Dan says, making no movement to do so, “and if you were ready for it, you’d feel…like anyone else?”

Phil sucks his lip into his mouth, running his teeth back and forth along it. “I’m not sure,” he says after a moment. “I don’t actually know what I feel like to other people.” And then he does something Dan doesn’t expect: he sticks out his hand, palm-side up. An invitation.

Dan hesitates. He studies Phil’s hand for any abnormalities, but it appears just as real as his own. It’s delicate and pale but decidedly solid-looking, with lines and freckles and even veins working their way up his knobby wrist. Dan reaches out slowly, unsure what to expect.

The second his fingers brush Phil’s, he gasps and pulls back.

“What?” Phil looks worried now. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Dan says, cautiously reaching back for Phil, this time prepared for something that looks but does not feel like skin. “I was just surprised, I guess.”

He begins tracing the lines of Phil’s palm, mesmerized. It feels like wind, Dan thinks, warm air pushing against his fingertips when he presses down but feeling like a gentle breeze when he eases back. Phil is the first day of summer and a hurricane all at once, captured and confined to a human-sized space.

“So what do I feel like?”

Dan stills his movements, looks up into Phil’s genuinely curious eyes. “Weird as hell,” he says.

Phil scoffs indignantly.

Dan lets out a short laugh. “Not bad weird, though.” Without thinking, he threads his fingers between Phil’s. “Nice weird.”

Phil’s lips part in surprise—not gaping, but forming a perfect o. He stares at Dan and then drops his gaze to their hands, which Dan now realises are still joined.

Dan drops Phil’s hand and clears his throat, feeling heat climb up his neck. He’s slightly comforted to see that Phil’s cheeks are in the same state, though he does wonder how a ghost can blush. “I thought ghosts were supposed to be cold,” he says while his mind is on the subject.

“Am I not?”

Dan shakes his head. A thought suddenly occurs to him. “What do I feel like to you?”

Phil giggles at this, tipping his head back and hiding his mouth behind his hand. “You just feel like a person.”

“Oh,” Dan says, slightly disappointed.

They lapse back into silence, curiosity eating at Dan until he finally says, “I don’t mean to be nosy, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but just…can I ask how you…you know…”

“Became a ghost?”

Dan nods.

Phil begins chewing on his lip again. He ducks his head, studying his feet, and Dan has almost decided he isn’t going to get an answer when Phil says, “It was an accident.”

Dan doesn’t press him further; he just sits and waits to see if Phil will elaborate.

“There was this guy,” Phil continues after a moment, “in the year above me. I tended to keep to myself at school, and most people left me alone, but this one…maybe I did something to make him hate me, or maybe I was just a convenient thing to take out his frustrations on.”

Dan lowers his eyebrows. “He beat you up?”

“Nothing quite that bad,” Phil rushes to say. “He’d, you know, taunt me, kick the back of my chair in class, trip me in the halls, that sort of thing. It was more annoying than anything else.”

He lets out a deep breath, flicks his gaze up to meet Dan’s, looks back down again. “So this one day, the end of a school day, right? And normally I’d just wait for the halls to clear a bit before leaving my last class, but my brother was coming to visit from uni, so I was in a rush. I ran to the main staircase and sort of—” he claps his hands once “—ran into the guy. Like, ran-right-into-his-shoulder-and-made-him-drop-his-books ran into him. In front of all of his friends, who thought it was hilarious. Before I could apologise, he shoved me back. Only, he was a lot bigger than me, and my back was to the stairs, and I guess I fell back a little farther than he’d intended.

“I must have hit my head pretty hard,” Phil says, rubbing the back of his skull absentmindedly. “I didn’t even realise it at first. Everything hurt for a split second, and then it didn’t, and I was somehow at the bottom of the stairs feeling completely fine.

“People started rushing towards me, crowding around me. I tried to tell them I was okay, but…it was like they couldn’t hear me. It wasn’t until I saw my own body lying at my feet that I realised they really couldn’t.”

Dan stays quiet for a long time after Phil finishes speaking, trying to process it all. Finally, he says, “So what happened to the kid who pushed you?”

Phil shrugs. “Nothing, I guess.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

“There were no adults around, and I don’t think that many students actually saw what happened. As far as most of the school was concerned, I just fell.”

For most of the conversation, Dan has felt rather detached. He’s been in a trancelike state, hearing Phil’s words and responding with his own, but only understanding any of it in the shallowest of senses, the way one understands logic in a dream.

Now, though, he suddenly finds himself very much awake.

“Who?” he demands, the word coming out surprisingly low and even.

Phil tilts his head to the side. “Who what?”

“Who pushed you?” He stands up quickly and starts pacing the floor. “What was his name? It wasn’t Harvey Crenshaw, was it? Or Trainor? Fuck, I bet it was. I swear, next time I see them—”

“Dan.” He doesn’t realise that Phil has said his name at least half a dozen times until pale fingers suddenly wrap around his wrists, not solid but most definitely there. “I don’t know who those people are.”

“Well who was it then?”

“Someone who’s already graduated, I’m sure.”

“Fuck, you’re right. I forgot it was two years ago.” Dan thinks for a second. “I bet Ellington knows who it was and can tell me where to find him. I just have to figure out how to get the information out of her without seeming suspicious.”

“Dan,” Phil repeats, a little louder this time. “I’m not quite sure what you’re on about, but you’re working yourself into a panic.”

“I’m talking about finding the person who did this and…and…”

“And what?” Phil says, his voice annoyingly kind.

Dan snatches his wrists back, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know. Doing something. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You need revenge before you can finally rest?”

“You watch too many horror films.”

“Said the ghost.”

“Touché.”

“How are you not angry? Don’t you want to at least tell the police?”

“You’re right. I’ll just dial up nine-nine-nine and say I’ve been dead for two years and would like to report the person responsible.”

“Would you take this seriously for one fucking second?” Dan is shouting now. “This isn’t just about someone pushing you a little too hard. This is about everyone who saw it and didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything. They watched you die and they didn’t even fucking care!”

Phil has been standing there with his mouth partway open, waiting for Dan to finish so he can respond. When the rant is finally over, though, he snaps his mouth closed. He looks at Dan, and he should be angry or hurt, but strangely, Dan finds only sympathy in his expression.

No, not sympathy. Empathy.

The anger that has been ballooning in Dan’s chest deflates, leaving an aching hollowness in its wake. “They killed you, Phil.” Even Dan can hear how pitiful his own voice sounds.

“I know,” Phil says, and he opens his arms. Dan leans into them, closes his eyes, allows the smell of wildflowers and warmth of ocean breezes to envelop him. “I know.”

next chapter

[themusicenthusiast]

Saturday, May 19th, 2018 – Shooter Jennings Previews New Tunes Amid Fan Favorites while Helping Rockwall Celebrate Founder’s Day

Apparently, Rockwall, Texas is the free live music capital of North Texas. I’ll confess, that’s a fact I was unaware of; and as the city prepared to mark another year since it was established, they were going all out. An event where Rockwall natives and residents can celebrate their city, the annual Founder’s Day seemed like the ideal family friendly event. Taking place at Harry Myers Park, it allowed for the event to feel somewhat secluded, despite it not being too far away from the downtown area. From the sprawling grounds where kids could play, to other activities set up around the park and plenty of food vendors and trucks, Founder’s Day had a little bit of everything to offer. In a way it was rather quaint, capturing the idealistic small-town aura, most everyone there seeming to know one another, while also being accommodating to other North Texas residents who decided to seize the opportunity and explore a side of Rockwall they may not have known existed. And, of course, there was live music. A day full of it, a handful of local artists playing from the morning through the afternoon, setting up the two headline caliber acts that the city had tapped to perform this year. The first of those was Shooter Jennings. A substantial amount of people had gathered on the hilly patch of land that overlooked the main stage, few people being able to turn down a free event; the throng of attendees applauding once city officials introduced Jennings and company. “How you doing, Rockwall? Happy birthday.” That was greeting Jennings extended as he and his band mates kicked off their set, one that would be just as long as the act they were setting the stage for.

The sun beginning to set, it was still beating down on everyone. “How y’all doing out in the heat?” Jennings asked after their opener, sounding genuinely concerned about everyone. “Yeah, it’s hot as hell. But we’re here to have a good time,” he remarked as they continued working to make that good time a reality. One so good that patrons could kind of forget about the intensity of the heat. Jennings’ wore his heart on his sleeve this night, such as owning the outlaw country mentality by including some songs that expressed his feelings (and more touched on the reality) regarding the current state of Nashville and country music. “Well, I been sinking like a rock in this high society, 'cause all that means so much to them, don't mean shit to me…” That opening line of “Solid Country Gold” sums up the track perfectly, and it was paired nicely with “The Outsider", a seamless transition making each feel as if they were part of the same story. The first setting up the feeling of disconnect, while the latter was all about embracing it. Surrounded by a guitarist, bassist, drummer and a fiddle player (‘cause if you’re going to play in Texas…), Jennings and his band mates continued tearing through the set list, next touching on a couple of offerings from Electric Rodeo. The avid fans in attendance were overjoyed to hear the gorgeous “Gone To Carolina”, some cheers erupting once they recognized it. A fine blend of sweet and delicate and gritty, rocking country, it highlighted the vast range in which Jennings has to work, being a versatile musician who is equally as amazing when it comes to handling a balled-esque number as he is when boldly singing one of his country/rock hybrids. Barely 24-hours prior to this show it had been announced that Jennings would have a new record out, Shooter set for release on August 10th (and out via Elektra Records), a lead single releasing as well. One would have imagined he and his band would offer some taste of the new record on this particular evening, though it wound up being more of a comprehensive look than anyone would have even dared hope for. In all they would perform five of the songs that will be featured on Shooter, the first of which was one originally found on the Don’t Wait Up (For George) EP. Fully capturing the somber tone depicted in the lyrics, Jennings and his acoustic guitar along with the fiddle were the only things heard on the brief, though emotional “Living in a Minor Key”. Another previously released number was Jennings’ Texas anthem, the one penned last year in the wake of hurricane Harvey, done so that the proceeds benefited the relief fund. “When I say, ‘do you love Texas?’, I need you to say, ‘hell yeah!’,” he informed everyone. Maybe it was the hot weather, or perhaps it was the fact that most of the patrons were there just to hang out and enjoy a carefree Saturday. Whatever it was, both main acts had a tough time getting audience participation going. That just meant that the musicians had to put some extra effort into songs like “Do You Love Texas?”, which stands as a quintessential Texas song; and even if few chimed in on the lyrics, everyone did enjoy hearing it. The gears shifted around the halfway mark, Jennings setting down his guitar and taking a seat at the keyboard. The sound may have changed slightly, though the demeanor didn’t, as “Manifesto No. 1” quickly proved, the invigorating song being infectious and a perfect foot stomper. “All of This Could Have Been Yours” was another stunning one that they did, the instrumental breakdown that was thrown in adding significantly to it, turning an already impressive song into something breathtaking. Wistfully nostalgic, the new single proceeded it, “Fast Horses And Good Hideouts” sounding even better in the live environment than what the recording suggests. It was readily apparent just what a deeply personal track it is, Jennings going above and beyond in terms of the emotion injected into it. Back on the guitar, some of the best had been saved for last. “This is a song about Nashville,” Jennings remarked ahead of his song that honors all the rebels – past and present – while again taking aim at the current state of mainstream country music. “Outlaw You” is splendid, being truthful and unapologetic as it addresses those who claim to be country or an outlaw but lack the heart that accompanies it. Their 85-minute long set nearing its conclusion, Jennings dedicated his final original of the evening to his wife, thanking her for flying down to Texas in order to spend the day with him. Not only was the city of Rockwall celebrating another year of existence, so, too, was Jennings. A classy move, it was hard not to be impressed by the fact that not only had he not mentioned his birthday earlier, not wanting to distract from the celebration of the city, he only did mention the personal significance the day held for him when speaking of what his wife had done for him. “Rhinestone Eyes” was for her, a beautiful tale that depicts the depths of love. Still far from done, they closed it out with a handful of covers, Waylon and Hank Jr. included among them; Jennings eventually thanking everyone and walking off the stage, leaving his band mates to go all out for a roaring instrumental finish. I had seen Shooter Jennings once before, a few years back when he was being backed by Waymore’s Outlaws. That was a special experience, though I would say this performance was a little better overall. That one was about paying tribute to the past, with plenty of Waylon Jennings covers thrown in, best that I remember. The one on this night was more about Shooter and his own material, spotlighting many of the highlights of his career thus far and whetting appetites for what’s to come, while also honoring some of the country greats that paved the way for him. A true-blue country artist with a definite outlaw streak, Shooter Jennings serves as a purveyor of legitimate country music and is one of many key figures helping to instill hope in the genre. He possesses the mentality and even the attitude, that certain swagger being a prominent aspect of his performance, never having to work in order for it to show, but something that was evident to all watching. And that makes he and his band all the more transfixing to watch, the nuanced way in which they finesse the onlookers being impossible to resist as they earn the audiences’ respect. It was clear on this particular night that they had a job to do, knowing full well that it was to entertain, and they certainly made sure that everyone had a great time, providing one of many memorable moments for the day. Jennings’ jam-packed tour schedule will continue this summer, Jennings getting back on the road on June 2nd with a performance at Summer Fest in Brighton, CO. He’ll be back in the Lone Star State soon enough, too. That includes a June 24th performance at Gas Monkey Live as part of the annual Taste of Dallas event. June 8th will find him in Austin at Texas Rot Rally, with other gigs planned for Belton, TX, Splendora, TX and Pilot Point, TX at Schoepf’s Backyard (June 21st), Coals Smokehouse (the 22nd) and Western Son Distillery (the 23rd), respectively. That’s just scratching the surface. He has plenty of show dates lined up all around the U.S. through the fall. A full listing and details can be found HERE; and be sure to pre-order Shooter in iTUNES or GOOGLE PLAY. Set List: 1) “Steady at the Wheel” 2) “Solid Country Gold” 3) “The Outsider” 4) “Electric Rodeo” 5) “Gone To Carolina” 6) “The Door” (George Jones cover) 7) “Living in a Minor Key” 8) “Do You Love Texas?” 9) “4th of July” (momentary “Deep In The Heart Of Texas” outro) 10) “The Real Me" 11) “The Other Life” 12) “Manifesto No. 1” 13) “Denim and Diamonds” 14) “All of This Could Have Been Yours” 15) “Fast Horses And Good Hideouts” 16) “Wild and Lonesome” 17) “Outlaw You” 18) “Rhinestone Eyes” 19) “Belle of the Ball” (Waylon Jennings cover) 20) “The White Trash Song” (Steve Young cover) 21) “The Pressure Is On” (Hank Williams, Jr. cover) 22) “Good Time Charlie's Got the Blues” (Danny O’Keefe cover)