the grain of truth

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YOU GUYS CHRIS AND SCARLETT… Idk about you all but Im about to do backflips here!!! I know, I know…it’s just tabloids blah blah rumours…but my inner shipper heart is gonna come out and fangirl at this!!! Enjoy this wonderful grain of evansson salt ;)

SEVERING TIES WITH DEMA

Last night at the APMAs, the clique/TOP won the award for most dedicated fanbase. Josh had performed with other drummers earlier that night, and was at the award show without Tyler. Josh then stated that Tyler “wishes he could be here” and that he was “off severing ties with DEMA”. 

So, what exactly is DEMA? (this theory was brought to our attention on twitter by user @jecrules)

Well, when you click on the Wikipedia page for DEMA, you are provided with a list of what DEMA might mean.

The first result is an Iranian word that means “towers of silence”. (this may seem a little extra but stay with us) If Tyler is “severing ties with DEMA” or in this case, silence/towers of silence, then that means that he is creating sound. More specifically, a new album or song. As you all know, this is currently TOP’s twitter.

The word “silence” at the top is indicating their hiatus. Silence=lack of sound/music. If Tyler is severing ties with silence, then he is working on the band’s next album or project. Now, we know this seems a bit far fetched. However, something that gives this theory some credibility also happened last night.

The @blurryface account on twitter (which is generally believed to be run by Tyler) liked the theory put forth by user @jecrules. (NOTE: THE ONLY BLURRYFACE/ECHO ACCOUNT WE TRUST IS @BLURRYFACE ON TWITTER)

The fact that this account liked the theory leads us to believe that there might be a grain of truth in there somewhere. 

This could also be about Tyler severing ties with Blurryface.

Updates to follow if we find more information.

I like to think of S4E4: “The Voltron Show” as a riff on the fandom

While it’s probably more accurate to say that the episode is a riff on past incarnations of Voltron, it also calls out the fandom in a pretty hard way.

“Lance is the sexy one!”

How many fics do you read where Lance and his Latino background are hypersexualized?

“Hunk is the funny one! Fart joke!”

How many stories reduce Hunk’s character to a fat or food joke erasing his genius and his contributions to the team (Often giving his intelligence to Pidge and his problem solving skills to Lance or Shiro)

“Allura and Keith are interchangeable”

Allura is so often erased in Voltron stories unless she’s being shipped with someone. She’s a plot point or an ethereal, magical solution to problems. Much of Allura’s contribution and angst and development are given to Keith instead in order to focus on Klance or Sheith shipping.

“Pidge is a damsel in distress, or spits out science nonsense”

Again, in fics Pidge seems to exist as a snarky asshole or a creepy obsessive shipper trying to force klance into a closet until they kiss. Or she’s damseled because she would resolve the plot too quickly.

“Shiro the hero!”

Shiro being used as a deus ex machina again, turning him into a singular hero (often for shipping purposes) and not a member of a team. This also goes for any character that fics singularly focus on. Voltron is an ensemble show. There is no main protagonist and everyone contributes in some way.

I understand that the show creators are just having fun, but it’s also a good idea to step back and LOOK at these awful tropes and stereotypes and understand why they’re, well, bad.

We can improve our own work by examining the tropes that Coran’s show exemplified and find ways to avoid or subvert them and create a better product overall.

It’s all meant to be in good fun, but there’s definitely a grain of truth underneath the layers of silliness and pageantry. Just my opinion.

All right, so I’m amused by all the “Dorian is a skinny hopeless nerd without magic” headcanons, but I tend to disagree with them. This is one of the cases where I think the game models are actually closer to accurate.

I find it kind of implausible he’d have survived this long if he wasn’t in decent shape. By the time he joins the Inquisition he’s been a Tevinter drifter for a while, before camping out in the Storm Coast and Hinterlands. The vicious-mage-and-templar-infested, middle of a war zone Storm Coast and Hinterlands. With templars that can probably silence even a damn powerful Tevinter mage. He then, after having a pretty rough-scrabble time, ends up in the Inquisition where he’s fighting for his life and/or probably training most days. Even if he’d been cushioned or skinny or soft round the edges back in Tevinter, he wouldn’t be after a few months in Ferelden.

Yeah, he hates the cold and has allergies. Those things are both nice little realistic touches, and the former makes perfect sense for someone who grew up in a pseudo-Mediterranean(?) climate and is now stuck in, well, Ferelden. And when you end up in Orlais, it’s often the Emprise du Lion. Neither of those things makes him weak or less able to fight.

He likes to misdirect. The whole, “look at me I’m such a useless toff, Maker forbid I get a hair out of place” thing is an act the same way “I don’t care about anyone or anything, watch me hide behind my sarcasm” is. There’s a grain of truth to it, but he’s playing it up to amuse and exasperate. Also, I find that act hilarious because he’s trying to distract from the fact he’s a tough, dangerous bloke when he needs to be, from what we see in canon. After all, half his arc is “yes, Tevinter, but not a threat, please stop glaring at me and pointing swords at me.” Of course he’s playing down the fact he’s a brutal, capable fighter with plenty of ingenuity.

That said, Mr "What do you mean robes need shoulders and sleeves?” seems to like to show off. He’d probably take pride in being in decent shape, the same way he seems to take pride in most other aspects of his appearance. Exhibit A: mate, why do your more advanced robes have less sleeve, this makes no sense, I know it’s video-game logic, but honestly… As said: Emprise. Du. Lion. It also makes sense for the whole “perfect body, perfect mind” and “partners only valued him for physical attraction” ideas. That kind of showing off is something he knows and is comfortable with.

The first time he’s seen in In Hushed Whispers, he’s literally beating a demon back, no magic involved. And succeeding. I tend to theorise that, unlike southern Circles that want to keep mages as weak as possible, there’s at least some combat training in Tevinter. After all, they are in the middle of an ongoing war with Seheron. And DA2, with things like staff blades, has laid a precedent for melee mages. I mean… why not?

Basically, Dorian Pavus is a hot-headed, hard-drinking, strong as hell tough bastard who could probably take you in a bar fight but would much prefer to talk his way out of it instead, and like all the Inquisition mages, is just as much a fighter as anyone else. And that’s my headcanon.

God is love, but He is also justice and truth. We are called to live like Him to the best of our human ability. That means that we stand apart from the world. That we speak truth, even if it goes against the grain. It means that we use His Word as a guidebook rather than cherry-pick what we want from it. It means that we’re going to be hated and scorned and judged. It means that we can’t tippy-toe around the hard stuff.

Just food for thought.

Rethinking CIS: finding a few grains of truth in a fucked up TERF story.

If a bullshit argument gets repeated over and over again, sometimes it’s worth weighing it again to find out what it is inside that argument that makes it so appealing. I’ve been thinking a long time about objections people have to the word ‘cis’. Most is just bullshit ‘blah, blah, I don’t want my privilege labelled’, ‘blah blah, I want to be able to label you as other’ etc. 

But one argument stood out: 

We’re assigned a gender too. 

Now, before we start, some common definitions of Cis:

“Cisgender means that you agree and identify with the gender you were assigned at birth.”

“Cisgender is a t type of gender identity perception, where an individuals’ experiences of their own gender agree with the sex they were assigned at birth.”

“Denoting or relating to a person whose self-identity conforms with the gender that corresponds to their biological sex.”

“If the doctor announces a baby as being a girl, and she is fine with being a girl, then she is cisgender.”

“You’re cisgender if the doctor says “it’s a boy” and you’re basically like truuuuuuuuuuuueeeeeeeeeeeeee forever”. 

Now, there is something obviously absent here: transness. The experience of being assigned a gender that does not align with your gender identity. The experience of being transgender. But there is something implied in all these definitions too: agreement (notice the word agree in 2 of them), comfort, being ‘fine with that’, the absense of trauma. That, I think, is a mistake.

See, being assigned a gender at birth is not merely a word, it’s a pretty big package deal. It comes with a set of boundaries, a set of expectations, a set of pressures, a set of dangers, a set of assumptions. If you’re assigned female at birth, it comes with a second class status, a target on your back to subject you to violence and rape, and a worth almost completely defined by what you could mean to a man. We’re not just assigned a gender identity, we’re also all assigned a gender role in a violently sexist society. 

And gender roles never fit. They’re designed not to fit. The ideal male role and the ideal female role are completely unachieable goals that we’re nonetheless pressured to meet. Sometimes, when a man loves cars and beer and the gym and doesn’t cry much, they almost feel comfortable. But on some level, they never truly fit any of us. 

So, thing number one: We’re all coercively assigned a highly restrictive and violently policed gender role that does not fit us.

But that’s not all. A little side story: In 2009 I was sterilized against my will because I am trans. It was a very traumatic experience, a violation that turned upside down every right I believed I had and told me I did not have the right to exist. 

Incidently, I also never ever ever want children and  had at several points in my pre-2009 life considered sterilization. Given enough time, I probably would have eventually chosen the procedure myself. As a result of that, I am not childless against my will and do not suffer the same grief and despair as my trans friends who wanted children and find that that option was taken from them. That is a struggle I don’t have. But that did not make my experience any less traumatizing. I don’t ‘agree’ with what’s happened to me. I’m not ‘fine with it’. It was a deeply violating nonconsentual act on my body that marked this body and this life as ‘not truly mine to control’.  

So, thing number two: Being forced to walk a road that you would have walked anyway is still nonconsentual, coercive and potentionally traumatizing. 

And finally- I lack the experience and knowledge to explain this last point in depth - quite a few trans POC have already pointed out that what our society defines as ‘man’ and ‘women’ are very specifically white gender identities. Stuck between hypersexualization and desexualization, ‘dangerous’, ‘exotic’ and ‘submissive’, men, women and genderdiverse people of colour all experience that their gender will always be viewed as deviant because it can not comfort to white womanhood or white manhood. For those at the receiving end of genocide, colonisation and westernisation, frameworks for what it means to be a man, a woman or some other gender within their own culture are almost completely inaccessable, erasured, destroyed and replaced with a white western gender binary.

So, thing number 3: Colonialism means people of colour are marked gender deviants by default while being denied to a non-colonialized understanding of their gender identity. 

Now, put all those things together and I think we need to radically rethink what it means to be cisgender. 

I don’t think we need to get rid of the word cisgender. It’s very valuable to have a word that describes not being transgender and not having to deal with specific trans experiences. 

I do think we need to get to an understanding of cis that acknowledges that assigning a gender to a person who turns out to be cis is still restrictive, colonializing, potentially traumatizing and ultimately nonconsentual.

This is not fine. This is not in agreement. This is, in fact, still violence. 

anonymous asked:

I'm an Eruri shipper, but sometimes I get the feeling that Erwin didn't love Levi back, which makes me sad. Levi's feelings towards Erwin are 100% canon and have been reiterated countless times, but Erwin seemed too focused on his father and his mission to truly love Levi back! I think is why their relationship hasn't been established as romantic: Levi loves Erwin but cannot be with him due to Erwin's one track mind. It makes me sad, as I don't want Levi living knowing Erwin didn't love him :(

Okay so this is an argument that I’ve heard many times before and I’ve already answered a few asks about this: Undoubtedly. Unquestionably. Unconditionally. Let me see if I can set your mind at rest Anon…

You’re right that Levi is much more vocal about his devotion to Erwin.  There are countless examples in the manga, in the Smartpass content and most recently, and most heartbreakingly, in the monologue that accompanies Levi’s character song.

“In order to catch the freedom, I felt outside the wall. I chose everything by myself. Even Erwin will lead me to hell, I will never regret. Never. Not even a bit.”

JFC just kill me Levi….

Erwin is much more reserved, but that doesn’t mean that he does not reciprocate Levi’s feelings, and in actual fact there’s plenty of evidence that he does.  It’s there in the way he talks to Levi in the manga, the weird humour they share, the fact that he uses ore when talking to Levi rather than watashi, which he uses with everyone else.  It’s there in the Smartpass content, in the private meals they share after expeditions, the tender moment in the rain, the fancy clothes and the contraband tea that Erwin procures for Levi.  It’s there in the ridiculously shippy official art.  And it’s there in spades in ACWNR where Erwin is openly fascinated by Levi and pursues him with single minded determination.

Now I know there is an argument that even if Levi and Erwin’s feelings are reciprocal, they never have a chance to act on them as they are in the middle of a war.  And I think there is certainly a grain of truth in that.  However, war does not necessarily negate love, if anything it can heighten feelings of devotion, particularly for those who fight side by side.  Sure Erwin and Levi aren’t going to go swanning off on fancy dates, but it’s canon that they spend private time together when they can.  In times of war, love may be reciprocated in the smallest acts, a meal shared together, or the grandest gestures, I will trust you with my life and fight to the death for you.

And I know there is also an argument that Erwin is so focused on his dream that he has no time for anyone or anything else, and that’s certainly the way that Erwin himself sees it latterly.  But as I’ve said over and over again, Erwin is the most unreliable of unreliable narrators. It’s true that Erwin’s dream has always driven him forward, but it’s really only towards the end that it becomes an all encompassing obsession.  Erwin is clearly depressed towards the end of his life, he’s weighed down by guilt, and confesses to suicidal thoughts, however depression and love are not mutually exclusive.  You don’t stop loving someone just because you suffer from depression, even if it means you struggle to express those feelings.  Even if you are in the depths of despair, those feelings are still there, buried deep. I think it’s telling that when Erwin does finally confess his fears and his struggles, it’s Levi that he opens up to. And it speaks volumes that it’s Levi who is able to free him from the burden of guilt he carries. Ask yourself this Anon, would Levi’s words really have had such an impact on Erwin if he didn’t love and respect him? 

Daisuke Ono said in an interview once that the amplitude of Erwin’s feelings is so great that it can be hard to see.  So don’t worry Anon, I’m certain that Erwin did love Levi and I’m certain that Levi knew it, you just have to stand back to see it.

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ZIMBITS AU - HADES AND PERSEPHONE

People tell the dark tale of a twisted underworld god stealing himself a husband with false smiles and six bites of food. But there are others who whisper the story of a runaway son of the god of harvest, taken in and hidden by a surprisingly kind king of Death. And perhaps there’s a grain of truth there - after all, how could a truly evil man ever win the heart of Spring? 

Hey so, I know you aren’t allowed to question people on here about ethnicity and such, but people aren’t above lying about their heritage and experiences in order to get away with really awful behavior.  If they’re saying or doing something racist/abusive/etc. you don’t have to back off just because they claim to be a marginalized person because the behavior is still wrong.  

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Urban legends are as popular as ever, but the majority of the scary stories you’ve heard at sleepovers are based on at least a small grain of truth. One such tale that might have kept you awake at night is The Babysitter and the Man Upstairs, which tells of a young child-minder’s gruesome encounter with a crazed stalker. There are many adaptions of this 1960′s legend, with the general story line being that the babysitter receives several creepy phone calls from a man who keeps telling her to check on the children. Terrified, she calls the police who trace the call to the upstairs bathroom of the house. When the intruder is finally arrested, he has slaughtered all three children. While spine-tingling, you may be intrigued to know that this fictional story came from the very real murder of 15-year-old Janett Christman in 1950.

Janett was babysitting 3-year-old Gregory Romack at his home on West Boulevard and Stewart Road in Columbia, Missouri. At around 1:30 a.m, while Gregory was sleeping, and intruder entered through his bedroom window and proceeded to the downstairs living room where he raped, strangled and stabbed Janett. The crime scene was utterly horrific: the bottom picture is one of the less bloody photographs. Although a garden hose left outside was used to break the window, forensic investigators reported that the furniture and light fixtures near the window were totally undisturbed, making it impossible for him to have entered that way. This is likely to infer that the murderer attempted to make it look like the house had been broken into, when in reality, Christman probably opened the front door for someone she knew.

This case remains unsolved, with it’s prime suspect passing lie detector tests and successfully suing the police for his detainment.

Bitty was curled up on top of the kitchen table when Jack found him. 

“Bittle?” He asked quietly, afraid to wake him if he was this desperate for sleep. When no reply came, Jack glanced around the otherwise empty kitchen. A tray of burnt Totino’s sat cooling on a trivet and the recycle bin was overflowing with crumpled up Monster cans. Something suspect and brown stained the blender, dribbling sticky liquid onto the counter. All of Bittle’s notes were scattered across the floor and various other flat surfaces. Jack sighed, half exasperated, half fond. 

“Please don’t wake up,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Bittle, and very cautiously scooped Bittle into a clumsy bridal carry. Final exams were hard on all of them, but Bittle was the worst procrastinator of the lot. 

Bittle’s heaviness surprised Jack; the boy was in a unique weight class for hockey, under 130 pounds, but to Jack he always looked like he might blow away in the wind. Those protein chirps always held a grain of truth. 

Bittle stirred, blinking and unfocused. “My hero,” he grunted sarcastically. just as Jack was shouldering open the door to Bittle’s room. “Put me down.” 

With a chuckle, Jack tossed him onto the bed, ducking just in time to avoid the pillow Bittle swung at his head. 

anonymous asked:

Random thought. If monster souls require love hope and compassion/are made of the stuff, is a monster psychopath possible? What about other criminals? I understand crimes like theft of a family needed it, but murder, or assault? Are monsters even capable of these acts? What wild happen if they did? P.S. The whole turning to dust thing must make it very hard to investigate a monster body. Being a cop in monster society would be extremely difficult. Any details you care to add?

It isn’t literally true that monsters are made of love and hope. It’s only a saying. There, however, is a grain of truth in it. Monsters need hope and love to survive. A monster who is deprived of hope and love will quickly become sick and die. This was part of why it was so important that the monsters held on to some vain hope while in the underground, because without it they could literally start dropping dead in the streets. Asgore would not have killed those children had it not been for this reason.

And yes, it’s very hard to be a monster cop working on a murder case. Luckily though, there are ways to analyze dust to determine what kind of monster it belonged to, and if the dust belongs to a blood relative of another living monster. Magical signatures and dust composition run in families. You can even determine the feelings a monster had before death based on their dust. That’s usually how they differentiate between murders and not, because a murdered monster will usually feel fear or distress before death and their dust will have a lingering residue of that feeling.
-TQ

A piece of advice for parents of kids whose disabilities are starting to become apparent.

You’re probably going to have to deal with a lot of people who don’t respect your relationship to your child very much. You know a lot about your kid, and you’re probably going to have to deal with a lot of people who treat you like nothing you have to say matters.

You’re also probably going to have to deal with well-meaning people who say things like “you’re the expert on your kid!!!”. This sentiment can be affirming in some ways when people aren’t taking you seriously, but it can also be toxic.

Taken literally, “you’re the expert on your kid” isn’t true — and it doesn’t need to be. Even aside from disability, kids are complicated. No parent understands everything about their kid. Every parent faces confusing situations, and every parent makes mistakes. Parenting kids with disabilities tends to mean being confused more of the time. That’s ok. You don’t need to be a perfect expert on your kid. It’s both impossible and unnecessary.

There will be times when you have absolutely no idea. When your kid is struggling and you don’t know why, and strategies you’re trying aren’t working. When that happens, you’re still your kid’s parent, and the relationship still matters. You’re not going to be an expert on every aspect of your kid at all times, and that’s ok.

Sometimes when you don’t know what to do, others have useful ideas. It’s worth being aware that good strategies tend to get developed in silos. If you’re only looking in one context, it’s worth trying more. For instance, there are things medical/therapy professionals often know, things adult activists living with the same disability often know, things teaches often know, and so on. It can also be worth looking outside of your child’s disability group — resources intended for one disability are often helpful for another, and groups don’t always talk to each other.

(This goes double if your child is autistic. Nothing disabling about autism is completely unique to autism; all of it’s shared with some other disabilities. Resources associated with other conditions are often better (and less behaviorist.).

All that said — you will probably face situations in which none of that helps. Sometimes you’ll seek out all kinds of perspectives and still find that nothing you’re aware of helps enough. When that happens, you may attract people who give you a lot of bad advice loudly. When you’re worried, it can be hard not to believe people who yell at you and tell you that they are experts.

Don’t get psyched out by professionals who try to convince you to stop thinking for yourself. They’re good at sounding right in intimidating ways. They often do not actually know what they are talking about. And ultimately, you are your kid’s parent, and all parents are clueless sometimes, all parents make mistakes, and you and your child are allowed to be human.

Similarly, as your child grows up, they will grow apart from you in some ways. That’s how kids are, and that’s part of how maturity works. Teenagers do things that their parents don’t understand. All the more so, adults do things that their parents don’t understand. Even in childhood, no one can really be a complete expert on another human being. Disability doesn’t change that. It’s not going to be possible to be an expert on your kid, and that’s ok. They’re a person, and so are you.

Tl;dr “You are the expert on your kid” is too much pressure. There’s a grain of truth, but it doesn’t reflect reality — and it doesn’t need to. There are a lot of unsolved problems in disability support — and in any case, no human being can really be an expert on someone else.

Flood my Mornings: Winky

Notes from Mod Bonnie

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.
  • Previous installment: The Difference (J/C moment the first night Ian’s home with them) 

July 28, 1951

“Oh, little love….You are a sweet one, aren’t you?”

It was just after sunrise and Ian and I were already up and at it, fed (for his part) and cuddling on the sofa. Truly, he was an uncommonly sweet baby, calm and untroubled by most things encountered in the course of his day, and fairly easy to quiet when he did cry or fuss. Bree, by contrast, had been cranky by default, at least for the first month. No less fiercely loved for it, of course, but I couldn’t deny my relief at the prospect of having an easier go of things in general with this little lad.  

Beyond that though, even at only one week old, it was becoming clear that Ian had a very curious spirit. He was forever stretching his limbs and making little happy gasping sounds as he studied his surroundings, taking it all in with wide, keen eyes….. dark amber eyes, to Jamie’s utter delight. Currently, he was propped up against my bent knees, gumming his wrist enthusiastically. 

“What have you got there, sweetheart?” I whispered, beaming down at him despite my sleepiness (and roaring headache and aching nipples). “Does it taste nice?’ 

Apparently it did, for he kept moving upward until, by complete accident, he caught his thumb in his mouth. He blinked once in surprised, then began sucking with alacrity. “Oh, aren’t you clever! Found a treat, have you?” I laughed. The only problem was, he hadn’t quite mastered the art of getting the other fingers out of the way, so his tiny fingernails were poking into his eyelid. I watched as his face went from sensory delight to puzzlement to realization of his discomfort then complete despair as he burst into a wail.

“It’s alright, winky,” I half-laughed, half-’aww’ed as I helped him get the extra fingers out of the way and he quieted again, blissfully self-soothing. “There, love, that’s better, isn’t it?” 

“I swear, Sassenach,” came Jamie’s voice from the doorway to the kitchen through which he was walking with two steaming cups of tea.  “I never seem to catch him at it, myself.” 

“You’re awake! And an angel,” I all but moaned as he set my cup on the endtable to cool. “….Catch him at what?”

“Winking. Shout for me next time he does so I can see, aye?” He kissed my cheek, then his son’s. “Mind yourself, Ian. Ye must be trying it on wi’ your Mam a terrible lot for it to have become your name, aye?” 

Jamie gave me what he surely thought was a roguish wink in demonstration (see: unsettlingly-intense blink) and I spluttered laughing. “Well, if he ever did take to winking, we’ll know he got it from me, won’t we?”

“I can wink!” Jamie declared indignantly, demonstrating again, the only difference being that he now looked like a decidedly peevish owl.

“Trust me, darling, you really can’t, but don’t ever stop trying.” I kept giggling as I shifted Ian up off of my legs and cuddled him close. “But no, I call him winky for Rip van Winkle.”

“For what, now?” Jamie had just sat down, and he was looking over his cup as though he feared the fatigue had gone straight to my head. 

“Because of how much he slept those first few days. Don’t you remember? I know you heard me call him that in hospital.”

Jamie silently mouthed the words rip van winkle then realization dawned. “Oh, aye,” he said slowly, nodding, “ye did, at that. Just went over my head, I suppose.”

“Oh, I see, you just presumed your wife was spouting nonsense in her addled state, mm?” Jamie’s sheepish grin was answer enough. “Well, anyway, I kept calling him that on my own, and over time it became winky, and it seemed to suit him, so, here we are.”

“But what in God’s name is a rip-Van-winkle? And what’s it to do wi’ sleeping?

Rip Van Winkle: eponymous hero of a classic American short story. Well—as classic as something published in the early 1800s can be.”  

“Ah, ‘tis a name. Van Winkle: a dutchman, then?”

“Almost! He’s a loyal subject of George III residing in New York who gets drunk and falls asleep on a mountaintop. Upon awakening, he learns that twenty years have passed, and he’s left to take stock of all that has changed in the interim.”

Jamie snorted into his cup. “Canna even fathom such a preposterous thing.”

It took me a moment to register, but then there were chills rushing down my spine. Lord, if any two people in the world could relate to such a tale, they were in this room. Could there be some grain of truth behind the story, I wondered. Had Washington Irving himself experienced something that he couldn’t explain? Might one discern an ominous buzzing in the Catskill Mountains, had they the knowledge to recognize it? All of literature now suddenly seemed a secret testament, waiting to be sifted and seen for what it might truly be: evidence. 

I shuddered again, brought back to the present only by Jamie’s hand gently prying at my fingers. “Give him here, mo ghraidh. You’ve sat wi’ him all the night.”

In fact, Jamie had twice been the one to arise in the night to hold and soothe and change nappies, but he would get no protest from me. I retrieved my tea and surrendered to its comforting warmth, snuggling into the cushions and happily watching my two lads. 

And how fare you today, a bhalaich?” Jamie was asking in Gaelic, holding the baby up at eye level. Ian only burped and dribbled milky saliva down his chin. “Oh, I’m grand, myself, thank you most kindly for asking.” He kissed the tip of Ian’s nose, then cradled him expertly in one arm and cleaned the messy face with the sleeve of the other as he addressed me again. “So, then: what did Mr. Winkle find, when he awakened? Did he like the things he discovered?” 

“It was mostly a political commentary, if I recall correctly. The story was written a few decades after the American Revolution, and I think the author meant to give his own opinion of the new republic.” I sipped my tea, trying to remember the particulars of what old Rip had had to face. “The man got off easily, really,” I summarized flippantly. “Hardly anything at all compared to the adjustments you or I had to make.” 

Snob,” Jamie teased. 

You say snob; I say we’ve bloody well earned our laurels! Lord, I mean, what’s two decades in the grand scheme of things?” 

“Yet in a man’s own life,” Jamie shrugged, letting Ian chew on his knuckles, “'tis a verra long time indeed.” 

“That’s true… Particularly since the story suggests that he aged commensurately. Came down the mountain with the long beard and everything.”

“So he had to see his children already grown? All those years he missed?” Now it was Jamie’s turn to shudder. I saw him tighten his grip around Ian, a hand coming up over his head as though to shield him. “Perhaps you and I had the more difficult task in terms of weathering a baffling new society, Sassenach, but the dutchman had a burden to bear, himself….a mightily great burden.”  

Thinking on such things must have been painful, for Jamie looked up suddenly with a determined sort of cheerfulness. “I’ll count myself blessed that the stones let me keep my youth. Doesna bear imagining what I’d look like, now, at, what…. 228?”  

It was clear Jamie wanted to keep things lighthearted, so we laughed and joked as the sunlight continued to fill the room, but I couldn’t resist asking, “Did you like the society you found, Jamie?” 

He looked over at me across the baby’s head, Ian now—true to his nickname— sound asleep on Jamie’s shoulder. 

“I only wondered how often you find yourself longing for your own time? If the past seems—better, purer, easier, you know?” 

I myself had had such thoughts at times, particularly in those early days of readjusting to electrical contraptions and busy streets; or when reading the papers and seeing the pure scale of butchery and tragedy across the world. While the eighteenth century had surely been no picnic, there were days when I longed for it with startling fierceness. 

Jamie leaned his head against Ian’s, thinking, though it didn’t take him long before he said: “I dinna think there shall ever be a generation that doesna glorify the setting of their own youthful memories. Still…Change will always be for the good and the bad, but a ‘society’ is what you make of it, aye? Provided I was free and the governance over me (on the whole) just and principled? Then the greater merit of a time should always be determined by the loved ones I had wi’ me, to make it mine.” He beckoned me close and I nestled in, laying my hand on Ian’s back. “Both will always be home, in their way. But this…” His hand pressed overtop mine, overtop Ian, “this is my time. Wherever you are, our family is: that is what I claim as mine.”   

“Well, Jamie,” I said a long time later through the still-clearing lump in my throat, “you’ve got Mr. Winkle well and truly trounced on all counts, now.”

“Oh? How’s that?” 

“The only blessing he truly counted to himself after the twenty year sleep was that his wife had died in the interim.”

Jamie’s eyes, first puzzled, went red with fearsome indignation. “Why, the wicked wee shite!” 

“Yes, indeed,” I laughed, still wiping away a tender tear or two. “He grieved terribly when his dog didn’t recognize him, but was practically over the moon to learn he’d been made a widower. The story made quite a point of how hen-pecked the man was.”

“Well, as for that,” Jamie said, leaning forward to nuzzle his nose against mine, “I canna relate in the slightest.”


Loki, after proudly displaying their input to The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl #26 to the truthseer BFF: Sooo, what did you think~? c:

Verity, reading, rereading, rereading again: …

Loki: Verity?

Verity: I need to make a call

Verity, dialing Matt Murdock: Yeah hi can I sue someone for libel against themselves?

akashi: *sees kuroko*
akashi: hmmm hmmm what is it about you… can’t seem to put my finger on it… i am i n t e r e s t e d… no one has passed my test before?!… the feeling i get looking at you, wow, i will make u assistant captain… u will be a very valuable addition somehow im sure… focus on this assignment  no time for dating ok?? i will see you soon… *significant glance over his shoulder*