prison brick

fic: Yin and Yang

title: yin and yang

genre: fluff/tiniest bit of angst if you squint

warnings: swearing | word count: 1500

description: a sunset beach walk after phil’s thirtieth birthday brings talk of things to come and decisions they figure they need to discuss. plus there’s this metaphor about the sunset.

yin and yang; light and dark, day and night - two opposites that are made to be together.

“I think you’d be a sunrise,” Phil says.

Dan quirks an eyebrow and prompts him to elaborate. “I’m all gloom and darkness, I’m definitely a three am sky.”

Phil frowns. “Maybe, but you’d be scattered with stars. And you’d be five in the morning, not three, the sun would be just about ready to rise. There is some light in you, Dan.”

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I spent last year with my eyes closed

Entombing myself into a chrysalis

Two sizes too small, I lost my

Voice to a shadow that swam

In the sea and looked like my

Reflection if I had been whole

I chalked up regrets on a

Concrete prison whose bricks

Were laid by my faults and fear

I slept through nights I could

Have been dreaming, sowing

Nightmares in a fractured psyche

Today I break up with my PJs,

I focus on the otters, the bunnies

The people who lead me to sunshine

When I’m drowning in tears

  • parents: Why aren't you married yet?
  • my corpse, smashed through a prison roof, covered in bricks, on my last dying breath: Thou who art Undead, art chosen... In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords... When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know...
WTF is Thomas the Tank Engine

I’m revisiting Thomas the Tank Engine as an adult and let me tell you–

It’s wild. It’s a wild world, that Sodor. 

In this one episode, Henry the engine doesn’t want to leave a tunnel because it’s raining and he’s worried about his nice paint getting all rusted up and ruined from the rain. Kind of a jerky engine, Henry. He has coaches full of people but he’s like wah rain, I’m not leaving the tunnel, and as someone who has a daily commute I’m like, Not cool, Henry. But that’s the kind of behavior where like, the character does it, and then realizes they’re being difficult and they need to find a way to compromise with the rest of the world, and you all grow up a little bit, lesson learned, kid’s TV show, hooray!

So back to Henry. 

Henry stays in the tunnel stubbornly until–and this is a REAL CHARACTER from the show–the “Fat Controller” shows up to solve the problem. After Henry refuses and refuses and refuses to move, the “Fat Controller” is like well all right Henry. 

And Henry is subsequently BRICK WALLED INTO THE TUNNEL. 

Only Henry’s eyes peer out over the top of the brick wall as the people leave him one by one.

“All right,” I think to myself, “this is a children’s show. Freaky as this is, surely Henry will learn his lesson, and then the humans will return and set him free from his brick tunnel prison, and this won’t go full Cask of Amontillado, because that would be INSANE." 

Oh, no. That does not happen.

The narrator–Ringo Starr, somehow simultaneously cheerful and somber–informs the viewers that, despite it being Henry’s great fear, he is now rusting and wasting away in the tunnel, as the other engines pass him on the parallel track, laughing at him all the while. 

But that’s not even it. The episode simply ends with a close-up on Henry’s hopeless eyes and Ringo Starr’s conclusive, "But I think Henry deserved his fate–don’t you?" 

Then happy theme music plays! Episode over! Henry is bricked away forever, as his fire dies and his fellow engines mock his slowly rusting husk of a corpse! But don’t forget, he’s aware of every wretched moment, incapable of saving himself, immobilized and abandoned and powerless! Oh Henry! What a lark!


I bought my own prison,

every brick keeping me,

solidly, firmly,



Window-panes (don’t let the breeze 

in) Door with locks (all bad things live

outside) walls and walls in layers 

(and then there’s me)


In a thousand years when

my bones are dust,

my prison will still stand.

A plastic womb keeping,

securely at bay, the touch

of mother nature’s wet hand.


When I fell out,

in the beginning, I wonder if,

with loving, ever-loving hands,

my midwife dried my freedom

off of me.

always watching myself , my thoughts are no longer addressed to my/self , but like unsent letters (to you..,) —

and the “to” already designates a split which is necessary for thoughts (images , voices , letters) to occur ; for there must be something distinctly other to hear a voice that it itself (the other) creates as a possibility

— is the weak voice that speaks only its weakness, its inability to speak which can be spoken (for validation? succor ?) only if it knows it won’t be heard , or if it will , like the captive ‘s unintelligible scrawls on prison brick , be heard too late


Padded at the prison of the city Venev Soviet tank KV-1. The tank belonged to the 32nd tank brigade, was shot down on November 27, 1941, the tankers of the 35th tank regiment of the Wehrmacht during the battle for the city. Before that, he broke the wall around the prison, the bricks on the armor from her. In the starboard side of the tower are visible at least 20 hits of different caliber, a bullet and a gun barrel.