my dead grandfather

Fran and Jock

by reddit user Pippinacious/ tumblr user muricanmagpie

I was the last in a long line of grandkids on both sides of the family. No one has ever said as much, but I’m pretty sure I was an “oops” baby; the result of one too many glasses of wine and a couple over forty who thought unplanned pregnancies were for teens.


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Fran and Jock

I was the last in a long line of grandkids on both sides of the family. No one has ever said as much, but I’m pretty sure I was an “oops” baby; the result of one too many glasses of wine and a couple over forty who thought unplanned pregnancies were for teens.


By the time I came along, both of my grandmothers had already passed away and my grandfathers were elderly and lived in different states. Trying to coordinate travel plans for a family of five, including an infant, was difficult on a budget and neither of my grandpas were up to frequent trips, so visits were rare and spaced out over long periods.

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My radiant Rey,

I hope you are getting some well-deserved rest after our latest adventure. I just wish it had gone more smoothly. I guess it really is always one step forward, two steps back for us, isn’t it? I should have known. No, I did know. I knew about the way Korriban (or Moraband, to hipster douchebags) tends to affect people, let alone a tomb in the very depths of the Valley of the Dark Lords. It doesn’t get much more intense than that, when it comes to malevolent energy. It’s strange. For so long, I have wanted so badly to give myself to the Dark Side completely. The spirits of the tomb finally took me up on that offer, gave me all the dark power I had always craved and then some. And somehow, once I finally had it, it was a massive let down. If the Light has always been constantly nagging at me, the Darkness clearly wants to control me completely. Snoke says it’s an acquired taste. But I’m not so sure I want to acquire it.

I honestly don’t remember anything from my brief Dark Side freakout, and I have absolutely no idea why I ripped off my own shirt. I assume it was me. I wouldn’t be mad if it was actually you ;) Now you know that while there are a lot of things about me that aren’t perfect, my abs aren’t one of them. Anyway, it feels weird to say this, but I am truly grateful that you punched me in the face, and even more grateful that it snapped me out of it before…. Under the spirit’s control, I could have hurt you! You gave me quite a shiner, by the way. I look like I got kicked in the eye by a bantha :p

I told grandfather all about it, and he says it’s about time that someone tried to beat some sense into me. He thinks I’m being offered redemption on a silver platter. Before you ask, yes, my grandfather is dead, but he does really talk to me. I think. I’m actually not sure. Maybe I’m actually just talking to myself. He used to always tell me exactly what I want to hear, but lately he has taken to telling me hard truths, ever since…. Certain regrettable events on Starkiller. He’s been saying that it’s not too late for me. He says that my crimes have nothing on his (did Skywalker ever tell you about the thing with the younglings? Yikes.), and even he came back. I countered that he died immediately afterward and never had to face any real consequences. If I were to…. It’s a lot to think about.

Enclosed is a little something that I hope will help you relax, before the next leg of this quest. Now that we both have one half of the artifact (sorry, I couldn’t come back to Snoke empty-handed again), it’ll be back to Jedha. I have been instructed to fuse the pieces with the Chaos shrine, and I assume you have been told to use the Harmony one. I guess we’ll have to talk it out when we get there. Either way, I am glad to have another excuse to see you in person.

With love to the bright center of my universe,


PS. I apologize for that confusingly random comment about sand, when we had that brief Force Bond chat, the other day. That was Grandfather’s idea. He’d insisted that it would definitely get me to first base, and had been bugging me to say it for months. He likes to give me suggestions as to what I should put into these letters too, but some of it’s a little over the top, even for me. He’s at the other end of the room right now, hollering that I should write that I’m in agony and can’t breathe. Now you know where I get my dramatic streak….


Psst - the Kylo Ren snuggie is like 60% off on amazon, at the moment.

Bruce Wayne/Batman X Reader- She Seems Interesting (Part 3)

I’M BACK!! The writing camp was so much fun and I learned so much!!! I’m sorry for making you guys wait so long for my next fic, but the wait is now over!! Hopefully I’ll get back on schedule by tomorrow!!

She Seems Interesting, Part 2

Warning: Swearing, mentions of murder (The usual)

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Christopher Larkin as Hershel Greene-Rhee

You step outside, you risk your life. You take a drink of water, you risk your life. And nowadays you breathe, and you risk your life. Every moment now…you don’t have a choice. The only thing you can choose is what you are risking it for.

so much of desi culture is about respecting your elders and obeying them unquestioningly, but we really REALLY need to talk about how abusive and bigoted so many of our grandparents were, how badly they fucked up our parents, and how we’re afraid to sit down and talk about their problems. 

Thank You, Dad. For Everything

by DoubleDoorBastard

My father was a quiet man when I was growing up.

He wasn’t cruel or cold, he wasn’t neglectful, he was just quiet. When he did speak, he did so in a mild, soft-spoken tone, the audio equivalent of tofu. It was the voice of a man who just hated stepping on anyone’s toes.

Mum died during childbirth, so he had to bring me up all on his own. Looking at my life now, I’d like to believe that he did a good job laying the groundwork for the person I’d go on to become - I think that’s a fact a lot of people like to ignore. I had the privilege of being shaped by my childhood, for some people adult life is just the process of getting over it.

We waste too much time in life paying for mistakes we never made, and forgetting or overwriting relationships we never asked for.

I’m a truly lucky individual to be able to say that this isn’t the case for me.

Like most people, my childhood is a blur, with a few notable snapshots floating at the surface of the mist. The older you are, the thicker that mist gets, until all the photos of the past look faded and distorted. It’s not a long story that I’m here to tell today, but it’s one that warrants telling before the snapshot fades.

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also one time, last year, when i was failing several classes my Dead grandfather, my fucking Dead Ass Abuelo showed up in my moms dream and kept saying “talk to your daughter” over and over again

guillermo told on me from fuckin beyond the grave



“Willow….” Georges said, approaching his wife as the lawyer he had been speaking to privately for the past two hours finally left the estate. “We…. well we need to talk. Urgently.”

He sat down next to her, his head falling to his hands. “My grandfather is dead.”

When I was 8, a little girl I went to school with told me that since I hadn’t been baptized, I was going to Hell. She actually said ‘h-e-double hockey sticks’ like even pronouncing the word might damn her too. I ran home and begged my mom to baptize me.
Tears running down my face, the word ‘forever’ on my tongue, shaking like the leaves falling from the trees outside my bedroom window, I begged.
My mother pushed my hair back from my face and pulled me onto her lap.
‘Be a good person,’ she said. ‘Help other people and be kind and treat everyone you meet how you would want to be treated.’
I nodded. I could do that.
‘Baby,’ she said. ‘If there is a God, he’ll accept you. He’ll accept you.’
That was my first lesson about you. I tucked my mother’s words into the spaces between my ribs and listened to them expand with every inhale.
The first time I was angry with you was that same year.
I had gone back to the country where my parents were born and on every corner I saw the scars of genocide, the wounds of ethnic cleansing. My father’s childhood home was burned to the ground with only the foundation still peeking out from between the weeds. Army tanks rolled down the street where my parents had first held hands as college students. An entire country, bleeding and breaking.
My parents told me the story of Adem Jashari- a nationally celebrated war hero, the face of liberation, a fearless fighter whose entire family was killed in one vicious siege right when his outstretched fingers seemed to be closing around freedom for his country.
The Jashari family was killed on a clear March day in 1998. When I walked through their house in the summer of 1999, their blood was still splattered against the walls, faded reminders of their deaths. I held my fingers out as I walked through the rooms, touching ghosts as I went.
‘Sixty people,’ my dad said. ‘His whole family.’
Behind the house was a graveyard for the Jashari family and as I walked through the rows of the mass grave I mentally calculated the age of each of the people now sleeping beneath the cold ground.
Adem was first. Forty-two.
His wife, Adile, lay next to him. Forty.
I wove through the rows of graves, reading each headstone and moving on until I saw my brother’s name.
On top of the grave lay a plastic bag with two light blue shoes in it. The dead boy with my brother’s name had been only 13 years old when he was ripped from this world in a storm of bullets and blood. How am I supposed to believe you have a plan for everyone and if you do, why is that boy dead beneath the snow while shoes he’ll never wear rest on top of it?
I’m trying to understand, I swear, I really am. But some days, the world just seems so violent, so horrible, so nonsensical that I feel shards of glass in my lungs when I try to breathe. Is this our fault? Can you control us? Can’t you stop this? Did we lose touch with you somehow? Did we lose touch with ourselves? Are you even there?
I’ve been looking for you all my life and I’ve never found you in a church or between the pages of a dusty Bible. The places I’ve found you are the catch in my sister’s voice before she laughs and the wrinkles lining my grandmother’s face. I’ve found you in sunsets that look like they’re bleeding and the way my father’s eyes are the color of celery. Sometimes I see you in the faces of strangers on the train who look like my dead grandfather. Last week, my little sister asked me what happens after we die and I looked to the clouds like maybe you’d written the answer there for me.
Life is a gift from you, right? I know you’ve probably heard by now that last fall, I thought about returning it. My mother said she talked to you a lot during that time. What did you say to her? What should I say to myself? Do you forgive the people who put gun barrels in their mouths and whisper one last prayer for oblivion? Do you dry their tears when they get to you or turn your face away from their broken hearts?
I like to think that you’re sitting in the sky, resting amongst the planets and looking down on your creation, but some days I’m just not sure. Is it okay to say that? I know it’s not very original, but when I think of you I picture long hair and a robe, maybe a trident of some kind. I’m sure that if you’re there, you spend a lot of time watching us and crying. Smiling, too, and laughing some days, but mostly, there must be a lot of crying. Did we ruin everything?
One last question. We all come to you when we’re broken and on our knees and looking for salvation.
Who do you go to?
—  Fortesa Latifi - Letter to God

anonymous asked:

So um. Recently I made resolutions based on my dead grandfather (he raised me) simple things really, not cutting my hair for a year, not wearing makeup anymore other than special occasions, etc., Well I told my stepsister (who never met him) about it expecting some form of support.. And she said I was ridiculous and that it doesn't matter since he's dead. And I dunno captain, my grief has been bad lately and so has my depression. It's been six years without him already.

*pats your shoulder*

I’m sorry for your loss, cadet. Truly I am. Do these resolutions make you happy? Are they a tribute to your grandfather? If these tasks make you happy, and help to keep your grandfather’s memory alive, I say continue doing it.

However, make sure it’s something you want to do and not a sacrifice for your grandfather. Sometimes it’s hard to decipher between the two, I understand.

As far as coping, it’s okay to grief even 15 or 60 years after the death of a loved one. There will be times where the sadness just cannot be ignored. For these times, allow yourself to grieve… But do the very best you can to turn that sorrow around, into a fondness of his memory. Think of what he would say to you. Remember him with a smile and know that because of those memories, he is alive through you.

Do what you can… And do what makes you happy.

- Captain Levi

kpoptrash1000  asked:

Is it wrong to get a tattoo on your thigh to honor someone, cause my family is telling me I shouldn't get a tattoo to honor my dead grandfather, I don't really know if I should listen to them, help?

You do you boo.