uselessminions replied to your post “This Ghost shit is getting too real for me. I went into S2 of X-Files…”

Ok I feel really dumb what do you mean Myka dies?

Sorry my bad! I’m writing this huge AU where Myka’s a ghost and Helena moves into her old house for unrelated reasons but then befriends her and eventually resurrects her. And I’m time-swapping all over the place to do this and arbitrarily decided to roll with the time frame 20 years for how long Myka’s been a ghost and then I’m using modern time for the present day/Helena setting and then making them college-aged so I can do more with the Mr. Bering angst which all means:

In this AU Myka was born in 1975 and died in 1994 as a nineteen year old (I am such a jerk). Then in 2013, an out-of-college-but-refusing-to-go-to-graduate-school(or get a corporate job) Helena takes a research project with Caturanga that brings them both to Colorado Springs to work with the local university. They rent Myka’s old house, books are stolen, disembodied voices are heard, and Helena works out there’s someone else sharing this house with them.

And yeah, I’ve been building this world up since itcameuponamidnightqueer reblogged a Casper gifset last October and I am now WAY too entrenched in this version of Myka. :S Early 90s teen Myka who gets pulled out of college and wants nothing more than to go back and finish her degree, but who instead dies through a tragic series of events (thoroughly entangled with but not at all caused by Mr. Bering and college and super not wanting to be home) and spends the next 20 years as an ignored ghost in her childhood home. Until Helena moves in and talks to her and resurrects her and Myka gets to struggle with healing and adapting and lots of healing and finally, FINALLY makes it back to college which is really all she wanted only to realize re-enrolling in college doesn’t make everything better, there’s still a lot to work through, and maybe she does have a lot to mourn. She did lose her entire damn life after all. (sob with me here)

But she has Helena now and Pete AND I WILL GIVE HER TRACY BACK I SWEAR so like I may have completely ruined her life, but I’m also helping her build a new one so it’s okay, right? Right?

nope. I’m still an asshole.

don't ever say goodbye. — evan’s eulogy

I’ve known for quite some time that I’d have to stand here and relay this eulogy to you all. I’ve had years to prepare, to ready myself for the loss I’d inevitably experience. I know that I should be equipped for this, with a speech that properly encompasses my relationship with my father, and how wonderful of a human being I thought him to be. I can do this, I suppose. This piece of paper in front of me is a demonstration of that. But I don’t want to. I really don’t want to, because I’m not ready to say goodbye to him. But I have to. I know this now as I look to you all with his coffin beside me.

I think all of us, at some point in our lives, have possessed the ridiculous belief that our parents will live forever. I certainly did, even after I found out about his condition. I was young, too young to properly come to terms with such a thing. Neither of us quite knew how to handle it. But my dad did his best anyway. I remember he’d assure me that everything was going to be okay, that we’d get through it together over and over until I started to believe it. He kept to that promise, and I’d like to think I did too.

That’s how it always was. He and I, us against the world, dealing with whatever fate happened to throw at us and holding hands through it all. It had been that way ever since my mom left. He’d been devastated by it, concealing his despair for my sake, keeping it behind closed doors that I didn’t dare to open. Although I hadn’t reacted in the same way, I understood. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be left by the love of your life, but surely, it was enough for anyone to disintegrate emotionally, to give up completely. But he didn’t do that. Quite the opposite, actually. He took the role of both mother and father to me, toiling day and night to make ends meet while doing his best to keep some sort of normalcy between us. He didn’t want me to grow up in a broken home. He wanted me to be happy, and he made sure I was.

There were a few other struggles I won’t mention so publicly, but let’s just say that in the lowest, most terrifying point in my young life, he didn’t run like my mother had. He didn’t turn away or allow his fear to get in the way of helping me. Instead, my dad did all that he possibly could to pull me out of that darkness. I’m not sure I would have survived it without him.

I will say sorry for not being open about his condition earlier. He felt guilty about it too; right from the moment we made the decision to keep it private. I’m sure you all would have appreciated additional time to adjust, just as I have. But I can assure you, no amount of time can prepare you for such a loss. It’s the kind of harm that endures, a pain that imprints itself upon you permanently, leaving a hole in your chest that can never truly be filled.

But my father wouldn’t want us to focus on that. But then again, he wouldn’t want me to stand here and list each of his wonderful qualities and achievements like I’ve been doing. He’d want us to instead follow his example by harnessing the pain and grief we all feel right now, and prosper because of it. By all means, I’m not telling any of you to stop grieving. I only ask that while we do so, we carry a little piece of Evan with us. That we incorporate the same resilience and courage he had into our own souls, particularly in hard times like these. And I promise you, if we do, we’ll end up kinder, braver and just plain better because of it.

Like I said, I’m not ready to let go of you yet Dad. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe your spirit will haunt me for the rest of my life. Maybe that’s how I’ll carry your piece. I can only hope.

anonymous asked:

Pink carnations, geranium, sunflower, violet, and an orange rose (Mordecai)

The sun set on New Haven, spilling shadows in the streets and painting the weathered walls and corrugated metal roofs in warm relief. Beyond the scrap of wealthier planets, a rakk cried; nearer, she heard the soft lilt of voices just out of sight - raucous laughter from the bar, a child’s giggle disappearing down an alley, two workers swapping war stories as they made their way home. In the corner of her eye she saw them; in a doorway here, in a window there, flashes of movement, there one moment, gone the next. She knew better than to look too long.

A scythid rooted around by a dumpster up ahead, placid and unhurried. It made no effort to skitter away as she approached. It made no noise as she passed by.

The town square unfolded before her. Before it, Pierce paused, brow furrowed. A familiar back retreated, picking his way through the street toward her office. Under her scrutiny, he did not fade away. Under his feet, the rubble of the shattered town shifted and clicked; the ruined walls stood round him in sharp relief. She followed.

“‘ey mamita. Long time no see…”

If she focused, she could still see the office as she remembered it; the ancient desk with its worn-away varnish, the shelves lined with paperwork and essentials for ready distribution, the bulletin board with its posters tacked haphazardly to the point of overflowing. If she focused, she could see the sturdy brick walls that felt so much like home.

“It’s nice to see you, Mordecai.”

Pierce’s expression softened as her gaze settled on the sniper. Time and tragedy had aged him, had softened the sharp tongue she remembered. The tinted lenses disguised his eyes, but they did little to erase the lines around his mouth, the shoulders hunched under the weight of the world. Watching him now, it was difficult to ignore the scorched brick against which he slumped; the skeletal remains of buildings silhouetted in the dying light; the carcasses of buildings bombarded and burnt beyond all recognition. She turned away.

“You’re getting sentimental on me,” she teased, as her gaze fell on the wildflowers perched on the scarred floor of the old office. A splash of colour in a dead town. A tribute to a dead woman. Her lips quirked into a lopsided smile. She shook her head. 

“They’re lovely, thank you.”