I wish more people got this because some ‘low-empathy’ people are the most compassionate and sympathetic in the universe, and I hate it when that’s taken to mean ‘unfeeling and probably hostile’ when nothing could be further from the truth
Or, as my dad put it,
Sympathy: I know how you feel Empathy: I feel how you feel Compassion: is there anything I can do to help?
chihiro never forgets her time spent in the spirit world,
because that’s no fun for anyone. she never forgets her friends, how could she?
she holds them all close to her heart, which is where they belong, especially
her beautiful white dragon.
hake is hers as
far as she’s concerned, but she’s his too, so it’s all nice fair. of course,
haku thinks that she doesn’t know he exists, but that’s okay. she’ll go find
him again one day.
because chihiro plans to return to the spirit world. but she
knows the time isn’t right, that if she just goes darting through every place
where the boundary between their worlds runs thin, then nothing will change. as
is, she’s just a little girl, just a helpless little girl who will get lost and
killed in the world of her friends, of her dragon. so she doesn’t go back.
she could. now
that she knows what to look for, she sees entrances to the spirit world
everywhere. they’re rarely in the exact same place twice but she knows what to
look for, how to find them if she wants to, how to get back to rin and kamaji
and zeniba. but she’s not ready yet.
she needs to get stronger.
her family’s not religious, so they’re surprised when she
asks to go visit shrines, but maybe it’s for the history or the culture, or,
they don’t know, the architecture. it’s a simple thing, and so they go.
chihiro keeps her eyes peeled, because she’s looking for something
in particular.
she’s looking for a shrine with a lot of spirits living in
it.
oh, because that’s another thing she can do now.
she can see spirits.
not ghosts, not
the echoes of the dead. but spirits, nature spirits mostly, but tricksters and
guardians, and all sorts, really. so they visit shrine after shrine, and there
are sprits there, of course, but never enough, none of them are there for anything
but the offerings, and that’s not what chihiro is looking for.
it takes months, and she’s already started school, settling
into it easier than she knew she could. after her adventures in the spirit world,
human children are nothing. but one day she visits a shrine, and she knows it’s
the one. it’s small, nothing impressive, all the way at the top of a long hill.
but she knows she’s found what she’s looking for. someone
who can help her.
there’s an old priestess taking care of it all on her own,
and all around her dart spirits, some lingering, some running by and doing
nothing more than patting her on the shoulder or back, but all of them
acknowledging her in some way. she takes one look at chihiro and says, “looking
for an apprenticeship, then?”
her parents start to say no, but she interrupts them, says, “yes,
i am,” and her parents don’t understand, but they have no reason to deny her,
so they don’t.
“it’s been a while since i’ve seen someone else who was
spirit touched,” she says the first day that chihiro returns, this time on her
own.
“what happened to you?” she asks, and knows the old
priestess will understand. those with the ability to interact with the spirit
world aren’t born. they’re made.
“a spirit saved my life as a child,” she answers. “you?”
she grins. “a river spirit saved me. once when i was
younger, and then again just a few months ago. i’m going to back to him.”
“returning willingly to the spirit world is foolish, and
dangerous,” she says, but there’s something like approval in her eyes.
“yes,” she says, “teach me how to survive it.”
so the priestess does. chihiro becomes known to the local
spirits, helping them however she can just like the old woman. plenty of
guardian spirits offer to attach themselves to her, to mark her as under their
protection, but she always refuses. there’s only one spirit who’s mark she’s
willing to carry.
years pass, and chihiro grows, from a girl to a young woman.
she grows up strong, and beautiful, and thanks to her years under the
priestess, she grows up powerful. she learns how to shoot arrows that cut
spirits and to write spells on rice paper, she learns every inch of the forests
around her home and the spirits that dwell there, and on the day she graduates
high school she moves into the temple.
but she’s not planning to stay.
“i hope he’s worth it,” the priestess tells her.
chihiro grins, sharp and eager, and says, “i guess i’m going
to find out.”
she walks into the woods and slips through one of the places
where the border is too thin, and enters the spirit world once more. she has
her bow and her ink, and this time she’s not going to be easy prey, she’s not
going to be someone that has to be saved or coddled.
she’s come here for her dragon, and she won’t let anything
get in her way. it’s haku, and haku alone, who will be able to turn her away.
if he rejects her, she’ll leave. but for no other reason.
it takes her a long time to get to the bathhouse, to fight
and bargain her way there, because before it was an obstacle, so it came to her
easily, but now it’s a goal, so this world holds it back from her. but she won’t
let it stay out of her grasp forever. when she arrives she’s filthy and tired
and half her arrows are missing, her clothes are different, and she’s older. by
how much she doesn’t know, because time isn’t the same in here, but she’s not
the same girl who entered.
the whole realm is talking of her, of the human who walks
among them and won’t be chased away, of the girl who marched across the endless
marshes until she reached the end, something few ever manage, and then just
kept going. who aids those in need and destroys those who stand in her way.
when she walks through the bathhouse doors, haku is there.
“it’s you,” he says, eyes wide, and he looks older too, like
breaking free of yubaba’s curse finally allowed him to grow up. “i didn’t think
it could be. i didn’t think it was possible.”
she marches forward, grinning, and grips the front of his snow
white shirt with her muddy hands. “anything is possible. you taught me that.”
she kisses him, exhausted and filthy and feeling more alive
than she ever has. she kisses him like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do, because
it just might be, because if she angers him, then he could easily kill her.
he doesn’t kill her.
he kisses her back.
chihiro gets exactly what she wanted – her friends, a place
in the spirit world, and a reputation as someone who’s dangerous, even as a
human.
and her dragon husband, of course. she gets that too.
I have been working on this comic “Undergrowth” for the past month and I’m so happy to finally be able to share it with you!! This is the reason I haven’t been posting as much art on tumblr. I was very inspired by people who depict personal growth as a potted plant, and I wanted to do my own take on that idea: I think of it more as an entire forest or ecosystem within a person.
I hope reading this will inspire you to keep improving as a person even though it’s a process that is so difficult and convoluted.
My earliest memory of Denis dated back to the 2009 World Championships. I remember being impressed by his Biellmann spin and his triple Axel.
It was 2009, so my knowledge concerning figure skating jumps extended about as far as being able to tell whether a jump was an Axel or a not-Axel, so of course I had no idea what made Denis’ Axel impressive. I just found it strange and interesting to look at. I liked it.
(Years later, I would be able to talk to you about his powerful takeoff, his slight delay in rotation, the unusually straight axis and the astonishing ice coverage which came as a result.)
My next fond memory of Denis was from the 2011 Asian Winter Games. I had developed a soft spot for his Primavera Porteño short program since I first saw it, and on his home ice that year, it was delivered to near perfection. That was the first competitive program on which Denis worked with Stéphane Lambiel and you could get a glimpse of the Lambiel trademark on his meticulously choreographed spins.
The 2013 World Championships were another Denis landmark, this time not just for me, but for the entire skating world. His choice of programs for the 2012-2013 season was bold and creative: a singular story presented in two acts, which started in his short program and concluded in his free skate. It was the kind of experiment I had always wanted to see more in the figure skating world, and it was another fruit of the Denis-Stéphane collaboration (with a helping hand from Lori Nichol).
The stretch leading up to the World Championships that year was anything but easy for Denis. His results all season long were disappointing (we would later learn that it was the impact of a series of injuries) and not a few people started to consider the possibility that his career had already peaked with his 7th-place finish at last season’s Worlds. How fitting it was that his vision for The Artist was fully realized only on the final, most important stage of the season.
I will stay away from the scoring and the politics on this one occasion (there is a time and a place for such talk, but now is neither). Suffice it to say that this performance put down a permanent marker for Kazakhstan on the skating world map and we will not forget it.
His Bronze Medal at Sochi was, again, achieved at the tail end of a season full of mishaps. His free skate The Lady and the Hooligan at the Olympics, however, belied all of his struggles. It was invigorating in its quirkiness, flamboyant but not pretentious – it was exactly the Denis brand of skating that caught my attention all the way back in 2009.
My absolute most favorite performance from Denis came about a year after Sochi. You might have seen it and if you have, I think you would agree with me. It was his Silk Road long programfrom the 2015 Four Continents Championships.
This performance earned Denis a personal best, set one of the highest scores at the time, and wasn’t it ever so well-deserved. It was everything you could ask for in a skating program: lofty jumps, intricate spins, stirring footwork, bound together by the skater’s personal connection and dedication to the music in an interpretation that took you from flowing delicacy to joyous festivity, branded with Denis’ unique charisma and his ability to get the audience involved every step of the way.
For reasons too trite to comment on (his continuing battle with injuries, my shifting interests), 2015 Four Continents was also the last time I followed Denis’ skating closely enough.
In that which, in hindsight, turned out to be a cruel irony, just over a week ago, I stumbled across one of his recent show performances of SOS d’un terrien en détresse (which was slated to be re-used as his free skate for the coming season).
This program and its simple, affecting beauty reminded me that this was a skater I should have been, and should be, paying more attention to. It spooked me about the possibility of him considering a premature retirement, thinking of what a pity it would be if I never got to see Denis’ triple Axel in its full glory again (and the quad toe, oh yes the quad toe too). So I set out scouring for news about him. I was thoroughly, nastily, shocked because I had no idea, prior to that, of the extent of the injury he had to deal with before PyeongChang, but I was relieved, at least, that he had planned to continue competing, and I made a mental note to watch Denis more often, more carefully, next season.
As I said, it was cruel.
I cannot begin to comprehend the horror of the mindless violence that was inflicted on him, I dare not imagine the heartbreaking pain his family and his friends are going through. I have no words for the regret I feel about having disconnected myself from Denis for three full years, about having been indifferent to his perseverance in this thorny, slippery sport, and most importantly, about having neglected to appreciate his skating, his vision, his art.
And I got to think about how many other skaters out there who have been subjected to my disconnection, indifference, neglect – people who have devoted a substantial part of their lives to this uphill battle of a sport and have been met with nothing more than a passing interest or worse, an outright dismissal from fans – people like myself, who supposedly share the skaters’ love for the ice, but can be frighteningly apathetic to anyone who happens to fall outside of the periphery of their “favorites” circle. I am not saying this situation is unique to figure skating. However, for skating, it is somehow worse, simply because of how underappreciated this sport already is and what a modest number of athletes we currently have competing at the elite level.
I guess this is the point I am expected to say how Denis’ career and its untimely end will inspire me to change my behavior, to become a better, more universally supportive fan of the sport, but even as I am typing these words, they start to ring hopelessly hollow.
wade would die for aunt may, ever since the day they first met and she brushed aside his handshake for a hug and left him speechless, he added may’s house to his regular patrols
wade still doesn’t talk to may as much as peter would like, he still tries to get out of visiting her, but it’s because every time he’s around her it takes everything he’s got just to keep from turning into a sobbing wreck
she’s like the mother he never had, she drops by their place all the time to drop off tupperwares full of food because she’s worried they aren’t eating right, she’s right of course
wade breaks into may’s place to do chores for her when she’s not home, like he used to do for peter before they moved in together, after she found out what wade was doing, she started leaving out plates of snacks and thank you cards that made wade cry, wade’s kept everything single one of those cards in a shoebox in the closet
may once tricked wade into going shopping with her, she said she wanted to get peter something for his birthday and she wanted wade’s help, so of course he couldn’t refuse, but instead of looking for a gift, she took wade to the mall and spent the whole time window shopping with him, she remembered how excited wade was in the lush store and when his birthday came around, he got a basket full of skin creams and lotions and bath bombs, she even beat out peter’s gift that year
the first time may told him he was family, peter was in the avenger’s icu, may had been brought in, and when wade started feeling out of place with everybody hovering over peter, he tried to leave, just to have may grab his hand and tell him to stay because he’s family
when wade decided to ask peter to marry him, he went to may for help, they went to the jewelry store together and picked out a ring, something simple and heartfelt, she helped him pick out a day and a place too
but he and peter got on their knees at the same time and started laughing when they both pulled out the same engagement ring, aunt may had played them both like a f
when they got home there was a gift from may already waiting for them, a note with her congratulations and a carefully wrapped glass, because “it was about time”
what if when icarus fell apollo caught him before he hit the sea, arms as warm as the sun, but safer.
what if when ariadne cast the rope across a broken branch aphrodite stepped in with a reminder that this, this is not the kind of love you die for.
what if when achilles was ready for war ares appeared with a smile and said “you win well when you win, but what are you unwilling to lose if you lose?” and achilles knew the answer.
if you could retell the tale wouldn’t you want to tell it kinder? wouldn’t you want to give them peace, even love, where you could?
These dudes are fucking legit. They don’t just show up one day in court, either, they actually make friends with the kids and let them know they have a support system and that there are people in the world who care about them and will always have their back. And less important, but also cool, is that the few times a couple of them have come into my cafe, they’ve been super friendly and polite and when I told one of the guys that I noticed his Bikers Against Child Abuse patch and wanted him to know how awesome I thought he was because of it, he got kind of shy and blushed and said, “The kids are the awesome ones, we just let them know they’re allowed to be brave.”
The source is long, but so, so good. These men and women are available in 36 states, 24 hours a day to stand guard at home, in court, at school, even if the child has a nightmare. Many of them are survivors of childhood abuse as well, and know what it’s like to feel scared and alone.
In court that day, the judge asked the boy, “Are you afraid?” No, the boy said.
Pipes says the judge seemed surprised, and asked, “Why not?”
The boy glanced at Pipes and the other bikers sitting in the front row, two more standing on each side of the courtroom door, and told the judge, “Because my friends are scarier than he is.”
Actual tears.. hnngh
Show me more of people like this, world. I give up on humans too easily.
where do i sign up for this,i want to be in this gang
This is fucking amazing. It may be out of character for me to say this but rock on
Bikers Against Child Abuse was founded in 1995 by a Native American child psychologist whose ride name is Chief, when he came across a young boy who had been subjected to extreme abuse and was too afraid to leave his house. He called the boy to reach out to him, but the only thing that seemed to interest the child was Chief’s bike. Soon, some 20 bikers went to the boy’s neighborhood and were able to draw him out of his house for the first time in weeks.
Chief’s thesis was that a child who has been abused by an adult can benefit psychologically from the presence of even more intimidating adults that they know are on their side. “When we tell a child they don’t have to be afraid, they believe us,” Arizona biker Pipes told azcentral.com. “When we tell them we will be there for them, they believe us.” ( Article)
My parents are a part of this organization and they are metal af
They go on runs to protect the child if they feel even the slightest threatened no matter where. If the child needs them to go on vacation with them, they do. Bikers come from across the nation to watch over and take shifts for these kids. And the best part is once you’re adopted into this family as a BACA kid, you’re always one. Even when you’re 40 and the perp gets released from jail, they’ll come meet with you and find your best options for avoiding the person and maintaining the life you’ve built for yourself. Once a BACA child, always a BACA child. In Florida, there’s 100% rate for identifying the perp based on the child’s testimony. Why? Because BACA stands with the child and supports the child so they feel comfortable enough to point out their attacker.
What’s better than a badass biker gang being on your side???
NATIVE AMERICAN CHILD PSYCHOLOGIST WHO IS A BIKER AND NAMED HIMSELF CHIEF HELL YES I’M HERE FOR THAT AND BIKERS BEING BAD ASS TO PROTECT KIDS. HELL YEAH.
it’s back! I will always reblog BACA
Damn good people.
I know they wouldn’t consider themselves such, but these people are freaking heroes and the world is a better place because of them.
@copperbadge You like posting about heroes, Sam. Seems like this would be up your alley.
I love these folks! I’ve reblogged them before but it’s wonderful to see the donation information has been added.
Always reblog. Keep doing what you’re doing y’all.
Guys? This post changed my life. I saw this post. Forever ago. And thought it was only in america… and wished desperately that they could help me. But then I saw it again, during a bad episode, and checked their site. They aren’t just in the USA
They’re in Canada as well and probably other countries. I met and talked with a native guy who runs the place near me. His name is Shaman. I got in, and I’m considered a BACA child now. Despite being 17, turning 18 when I talked to them. They spent time with me when my abuser was over, they gave me therapy resources. They give you something called a ‘level 1′ where they go to your house with as many bikers as they can, i shit you not a solid 20-40 bikers came from even out of province, and met me. I got to choose my biker name and I got a vest with patches on it and my name on it. They all hugged a Teddybear before giving it to me, and told me if I ever felt the BACA bear was running out of love, to give them a call and they’d refill it for me, and then I got a ride on one of their bikes. Just a day or so ago I went to an annual party with them and they we ate food one of them cooked and had a lot of laughs.
I’ve never felt as loved as I did being a part of the BACA family. They also gave me dog tags with the names, and phone numbers of my 2 workers. So I can call them whenever I feel scared.
BACA is an absolutely wonderful group that will do everything in it’s power to help any child whos been abused.
And it doesn’t end when you’re 18 either. As long as you get in contact/get your level 1 before you’re 18? you’re ALWAYS a BACA kid. I’m 18 now and they still invite me to parties, ask me if I’m okay, and are there for me. They’re still trying to find me resources for therapy.
BACA has changed my fucking life.
I hope you all can read this, and reblog it knowing from someone who fucking been with them, that they are absolutely amazing.
This is truly amazing, I’m so glad people like this exist
What’s even better is that Maras mother LOVED the book Matilda. She loved it so much that she got her daughter the part, however she died before she got to see it. Or so Mara thought. Apparently just a few weeks before she died Danny Devito went in to the hospital with a rough first edit of the movie and got to let her watch it before she passed.
Scooby Doo idea: Daphne Blake as the weird rich kid whose parents signed her up for a shit-ton of rich-kid extracurriculars like polo, fencing, and all of this other shit so they wouldn’t have to deal with her/bolster her college resume. She puts a lot of effort into actually being good at all these extra-curriculars bc she’s competing with all of her ~super successful and talented~ sisters for attention and ends up athletic as hell and socially stunted and like…really aggressive and competitive and never quite satisfied with anything she’s doing. The only other ‘High Society’ kid who can put up with her is Norville “Shaggy” Rogers —an anxious stoner with freaky strict parents whose only friend prior to Daphne was his equally anxious rescue dog—Daphne’s been beating up Shaggy’s bullies for years. Then there’s student council dweeb Fred Jones who’s always been groomed to be this ‘leader’ by his parents and is always pressured to go to these youth leadership things and stuff and yeah he’s pretty good at directing group projects, but really Fred’s kind of shy and more interested in engineering, forensics and maybe criminal justice and he’s been friends with this chick Velma Dinkley in engineering club who’s brilliant but she’s also tactless, awkward and very bitterly sarcastic to cover up for the fact that her book smarts far outweigh her social skills.
So then there’s this mystery downtown and all five of them show up and there’s a mutual, “Oh hey it’s you: The weird kid from my school. What are you doing here?” and everyone goes around. Fred’s like, “Oh I knew the owners of this place and they said they might have to close down because of this ghost and I told Velma about it and Velma thinks we can get to the bottom of this.” And Shaggy’s like, “Scoob and I didn’t want to be home right now and we honestly didn’t know about the ghost but hey Daphne’s here so we feel safe enough to hang out and maybe Scoob can sniff out some clues or something.” And then everyone turns and looks at Daphne and Daphne’s just like, “I want to fight a fucking ghost.”
I appreciate all of this.
fine, you know what, FINE, i’m just going to LEAN INTO being an on-fire garbage can, whatever. this is who i am now. whatever. WHATEVER!!!! death comes for all of us.
Daphne Blake is very good at almost everything. She should be: she practices. Fencing, polo, archery, dance, tennis, volleyball, karate, yoga. She wrings them out of herself minute by minute, gesture by gesture until her muscles have memory.
She doesn’t mind the work. Daphne likes to struggle. She likes the feeling of victory when she gets to the end: learning a music piece, defeating an opponent, adding a language to the résumé she’s been building since she was ten. She doesn’t have to be the best, but she likes to be better.
She likes looking down.
Daisy revolutionized city-based trauma centers, Dawn redefined modeling with her The Body Is Art campaign, Dorothy was the first woman to win the Triple Crown of Motorsport, and Delilah is so highly decorated she’s run out of room on her dress blues.
Daphne’s sisters were born with the promise of one perfect thing written on their palms. Daphne was born with empty hands, and cannot make anything perfect. Daphne is only ever very, very good.
Norville “Shaggy” Rogers is high, right now. He is looking at the spiral of stucco on his ceiling, his dog Scooby’s head on his stomach, one hand in a bag of Cheetos and the other holding a joint. He isn’t floating, but he’s thinking about it.
“Daph,” he says, heavy eyes blinking open. “What time’zit?”
Daphne lowers her epee. She has a national tournament this weekend. Her parents might come.
Then again, Shaggy knows, they might not.
“Four-fifteen,” Daphne tells him. She flicks her red ponytail off her shoulder, adjusting and readjusting her grip on the sword until it meets some unwritten standard. “When you finish your Cheetos we’ll go over to the fair grounds. It won’t open until seven so we can have a look around before it gets busy.”
Daphne is a nationally ranked fencer; captains the Crystal Cove Country Club women’s polo, archery, and tennis teams; speaks French, Italian, Spanish, and Russian; she can even apply eyeliner on a train. Shaggy saw her do it once, in Paris.
Daphne is the child Shaggy thinks his parents probably wanted. Good at everything she tries, and tries at everything she does.
Shaggy had his first panic attack at age nine. He was seated at a piano. It was his first recital and he was going to play a piece by Béla Bartók. He had liked the song while learning it: fast, uneven, somehow new every time, new enough to keep up with the way his brain could never seem to settle. Shaggy liked it because he was never bored playing it, and he was always bored, in a strange way, in a way that made his heart beat fast and, sometimes, his stomach ache as if he was starving. Sometimes he was bored even when he wasn’t bored–sometimes he became distracted and forgot what he was doing. He lost things all the time. It drove his mother crazy. It made his parents yell like the first three bars of the Bartók piece, Norville! focus Norville! sit still Norville! Norville! Norville!
Shaggy fell apart in trembles on the piano bench, in front of everybody, in front of his panicked teacher and his wide-eyed classmates and his father, who only sighed and said he was doing it for attention.
“Shaggy,” Daphne says, and he realizes his eyes have fallen shut again. When he opens them, she’s bent over him, grinning, too sharp. Daphne is always a little too sharp.
“What?”
“You’re not gonna chicken out on me, are you?”
Shaggy thinks about it. He feels good. Calm. Daphne always makes him feel calm. She’s kinetic and sharp-sharp-sharp. She sucks up all the energy in the room and leaves him feeling like he finally has enough room to breathe.
“No,” he decides, “but I’m bringing Scoob and we’re stopping for burgers.”
Fred Jones is an Eagle Scout. The boys on the football team make fun of him, but the boys on the football team also go nuts for the jalapeño cheddar popcorn he sells, so frankly Fred thinks they can shut it. Fred had liked having tasks he had to complete before he became an Eagle. He had liked learning about nature, about how to survive in the woods, about how to build a fire.
He had liked learning how to identify tracks and what a branch looks like when it has been broken by human hands. He’s not going to be a park ranger or anything but he likes knowing how to leave something undisturbed. He likes thinking of nature the way they’d taught him to think of a crime scene at Forensics camp: How are things? How should they be?
Anyway, Fred’s dad had been excited. He likes when Fred gets elected to things–captain of the football team, president of Student Council, Editor-in-Chief of the high school paper.
Fred hadn’t wanted any of those positions, but his dad didn’t get excited about a lot of things, and…it was nice. When he did.
Fred’s phone buzzes. He flicks open the lock screen and reads Velma’s text: meathead bring a flashlight.
hi Velma, Fred types back. my day was great thanks for asking.
Fred has enough time to go to the kitchen and make himself a ham sandwich before Velma replies. The text says neat story. Thirty seconds later, she follows up with, i’m outside.
Fred looks out the window behind the sink. Mrs. Dinkley’s terrible van is idling in their driveway and Velma is already getting out of it, jogging up to Fred’s front door. He shoves his feet into the tennis shoes he’d last abandoned in the foyer and opens the door before Velma can knock, catching her with her hand half-raised.
“Lookit you, eager beaver,” she drawls. “D’you have the flashlight?”
Fred lifts his keychain. It’s got a small but powerful flashlight dangling between his house and locker keys. “Always be prepared,” he recites.
She cranes her neck as she peers over her shoulder. “Is your dad home?” she asks.
“No, he’s got a town hall meeting until dinner. They announced the plans to build a parking structure where the Neubright Community Center is and everyone’s pissed.”
“With great power, etcetera etcetera,” says Velma, then pauses. “Wait, the community center in south Cove? The only one with free daycare and after-school programs?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. Like, fuck your dad.”
Fred doesn’t say anything. He knows. He knows. But it’s his dad.
Velma winces into the silence. “Uh. Anyway. We should get going. The fair opens at seven and we want to get there before the crowds move in.”
Velma Dinkley is almost always right, but never says the right thing. She doesn’t know why. She doesn’t mean to. Words come tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them, and they almost always lead to that terrible beat of silence where the wrongness hangs, suspended, until someone is gracious enough to speak into it.
Everything lines up in Velma’s head: numbers, logic, equations, puzzles, those stupid Mensa games. But it never comes out right, or at least not just right. Her mother says she gets “a tone” when she speaks sometimes that makes other people feel like she thinks they’re stupid.
First of all, it’s not Velma’s fault if people are stupid, and it’s not her fault if they know it, and it’s not her fault if they find out only in comparison to Velma being smarter than they are.
But of course Velma lives in the world, so it’s not her fault but it is her problem.
She hadn’t meant fuck your dad, for example. What she had meant was: fuck the mayor. The mayor is Fred’s dad but she hadn’t meant to say it like that. Fred idolizes his dad. Velma knows that.
Anyway, Fred never gets mad. Everyone else gets mad eventually but Fred hasn’t, not since they were kids at Forensics camp together and Velma hadn’t had anyone to partner with and had been trying so hard not to show anyone that it bothered her. And then Fred had said, “Hey, we can have three in our group.”
Velma gets things right and people wrong. Her mother says she’ll grow out of it. Velma isn’t sure.
“So what makes you think we can do what the police can’t?” Fred asks, taking a left-handed turn that Velma wouldn’t have risked.
Velma rolls her eyes. “The police said that a ghostpirate tried to commit murder by tampering with a roller coaster, Fred. If our baseline of detection is ‘jinkies! we think a ghost did it,’ I am sure we can find something to bring to the table.”
Fred laughs. “We can put that in our report,” he says.
“Scoob wants a BLT,” Shaggy informs her, and Daphne rolls her eyes.
“Scooby’s a dog, so he’s getting the cheapest thing on the menu,” she says.
Shaggy frowns. “Daph, you’re like, a literal millionaire,” he points out. “And we’re at the drive-thru of a Denny’s. Splurge on the BLT, dude.”
“Potheads who live in four-story houses shouldn’t throw stones,” Daphne snaps back.
“Okay, girl wearing a Burberry tracksuit–”
“Uh, ma’am? Is that all?”
Daphne blows a long breath out of her nose. She glances at Scooby, who is sitting in the back seat but with his head on the arm rest between them. He looks up at her and whuffles what she swears to God sounds like, “please.”
“No,” she tells the machine, sighing. “And a BLT.”
“Sweet!” Shaggy cries and holds his hand up for Scooby to high-five. He ruffles the hair at the top of his dog’s head and beams over at Daphne like she’s won him a prize. “The Scoob looooooooves bacon.”
In the fourth grade, Daphne found Shaggy in the hallway, shaking so hard she thought his teeth might fall out. Some kid from the grade above–Red something–was standing over him, calling him names. Daphne hadn’t really thought about it before punching that kid in the nose. She hadn’t thought about it before crouching down in front of Shaggy and trying to get him to breath steady. She hadn’t known what to say, but Shaggy had joked, “Like, wow, you hit like a girl,” between shuddering breaths and Daphne had laughed.
Nobody in Daphne’s family is good at telling jokes. Not like Shaggy is.
“Eat those quick, you two. I’d hate it if the scent of delicious burgers lured the pirate ghost to us.”
Shaggy swallows a big bite. “Like–you didn’t say there would be a ghost!”
Daphne is neither convinced nor unconvinced of the reality of ghosts, so she shrugs. “I said we were going to check out the fair grounds! I thought you knew they said it was haunted.”
“Like, why would I know that?”
“It was all over the news!”
“I don’t read the news!”
“Well, ghosts probably aren’t real,” Daphne assures him as they pull into the parking lot.
“‘Probably’ is like, not as reassuring as you think it is, Daph,” Shaggy mutters, but gets out of the car and directs Scooby to get out, too. He’s still gently high, and his belly is full, and it’s not dark out yet.
And anyway, Daphne’s here. He’s seen her split an apple with an arrow from across two tennis courts.
“C’mon,” Daphne wheedles. “I’ll make you guys some Scooby snacks when we get home.”
Scooby’s ears perk up.
Shaggy’s about to answer when another car pulls into the lot–with any luck, it will be fairgrounds staff and they’ll be told to leave.
Instead of that, Fred Jones gets out of the car with a girl that Shaggy has Latin class with. Shaggy knows three things about Fred Jones:
His father is the mayor.
His Student Council presidential campaign rested on cafeteria and vending machine reform.
He and Daphne kissed once, in the seventh grade, on a dare.
“Jones, what are you doing here?” Daphne asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
Shaggy guesses it wasn’t a very good kiss.
“Hi, Daphne,” Fred says. He likes Daphne. It’s not that he can’t tell that Daphne basically hates him; he can, but he likes her anyway. He likes what her hair looks like when she sits in front of him, and how she grips her pencils too tightly. As far as he can tell she hates him because he beat her for Most Promising in their freshman year yearbook, which seems unfair because it’s not like Fred voted for himself.
Velma knocks his shoulder with hers. “They’re saying a ghost broke that roller-coaster that fell apart last week,” she says. “We’re going to figure out what really happened.”
“So, like, you don’t think it was a ghost?” asks the guy Daphne’s with, a tall and shaggy-haired kid Fred’s pretty sure is stoned. “Ha, ha. Ghosts. Right?”
“Right,” says Fred, as reassuringly at he can. The guy seems nervous, so Fred puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure it was just mechanical failure.”
“Anyway, what are you doing here?” Velma asks, eyeing Daphne Blake skeptically. Fred had kissed her in the seventh grade and told Velma afterwards that her lips had tasted like clouds. Velma had said that clouds had no taste.
“Scoob and I just came for, like, the free burgers,” says the guy with Daphne, who Velma is pretty sure is named something preposterous like Orville or Neville. “We hunt neither ghosts nor, like, pirates.”
“Well, great news for you: we’re going to prove it wasn’t either of those stupid ideas,” Velma tells him. “Right, Fred?”
“Sure thing,” Fred says.
Daphne snorts, then tightens her ponytail. “Whatever,” she mutters. “Come on, Shaggy.”
Velma frowns. “Wait–you do think it was the spirit of the Dread Pirate Roberts?”
“The existence of the afterlife can neither be proven nor disproven,” Daphne says, and throws a grin over her shoulder that’s so sharp Velma feels her lip get bloody from it. “All I’m saying is, if it was the spirit of the Dread Pirate Whats-His-Name…” she shrugs, and shoves the sleeves of her track suit up over her elbows. Fred’s smile widens.
“Then I’m gonna fight a fuckingghost.”
“You’re, like. My best friend,” Shaggy says, not looking at her. He pets Scooby’s head. Scooby looks up at him with liquid, dog eyes and whuffles. Daphne puts down the TV remote and turns to look at him, folding her hands into her lap.
“You’re my best friend, too,” she says immediately. “You … know that, right?”
Shaggy nods. He tries to figure out how to say what he wants to say. It’s never hard to talk to Daphne but that doesn’t mean he always gets it right. He knows Daphne better than he knows anybody, which means he knows there’s stuff that he doesn’t get, like how Daphne knows about panic attacks but doesn’t necessarily understand them. Why should she? Daphne can handle anything. She’s trained her whole life.
“It’s okay, Shag,” Daphne tells him. “If it doesn’t come out right, that’s fine. You can try again until it does.”
He breathes out, long and steady, and keeps looking at Scooby. “I just … wanted to say … it’s, like, okay? For you and Velma. I mean–it’s okay that you tell Velma things. Not that you need my permission, it’s just, I know Velma is different from me? Like, you guys have stuff in common that we don’t have?”
When he risks a look at Daphne, she’s frowning, and he knows he hasn’t gotten it right.
“You’re smart, Shaggy. Just because Velma’s more academically ambitious doesn’t mean–” Daphne begins, but Shaggy cuts her off, shaking head head.
“No, not–not that. I mean, yes that,” he corrects, because Velma is indisputably the smartest person he knows, smarter even than Daphne. “But I mean … you can have other friends. You don’t have to only have me. I don’t think it means you–love me less.”
Daphne blinks. Her jaw snaps shut.
It has been so many years, Shaggy thinks, just the two of them, the only two cool people in the world. The only two people worth hanging out with. He’s gotten used to Daphne being only his, to being only Daphne’s. But one person can’t be everything to everybody. They’d both tried so hard.
“I’m lucky to have had you to myself for so long,” Shaggy blurts, not sure he could stop himself even though he’s embarrassed about his own honesty. “But you–it’s good. That you can have other people, too. That we both can.”
Daphne is breathing slowly, in and out. Shaggy realizes that she’s trying not to cry. Horrified, he scrambles to think of something to say, to make it better, but then Daphne is launching herself at him and pulling him tight into a hug. Shaggy wraps his arms around her waist and holds on.
Velma kisses him.
Fred freezes, then tentatively kisses her back, because it seems polite, and because she’s Velma. He trusts her. Velma could tell him to jump into a pool of lava and Fred would swan dive.
She pulls back and looks at him. Fred waits as Velma clearly thinks it through, bringing her fingers up to touch her mouth thoughtfully.
“Hm,” she decides. “Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” Fred asks, suddenly nervous. Maybe he really is a bad kisser. No one ever taught him how; he’s been winging it this whole time. “Did you like it?”
“I don’t know,” Velma answers. She meets his eyes. “Did you?”
“Sure,” says Fred. “Kissing’s nice.”
“Kissing anybody, or kissing me in particular?”
Fred is already nodding halfway through the question; he knows Velma prefers precision. “Both,” he decides.
Velma narrows her eyes, studying his face. “Fred, are you attracted to me?”
Fred sits down.
“I’ve never thought about it,” he admits. “You’re Velma.”
He tries to say Velma the way he means it: smart, strong, methodical, determined, heroic. But he can see that she doesn’t understand how precise he’s being; can see she doesn’t hear all the shades of her own name. So he tries again: “I want to see you every day forever. I never worried much about the logistics.”
Velma shakes her head and falls in a heap onto the couch. “How come it’s so easy for you?” she demands, looking up at him. “I think about everything. I have to try so hard to understand what people want and what I want from people.” Then, in a small voice, she adds, “Are you in love with Daphne?”
Fred feels his cheeks get red. “Daphne’s not in love with me,” he says, instead of answering.
Velma glares at him, unfooled. “Are you going to date Daphne? Are you going to holds hands with her and spend every day with her and go to the movies and solve mysteries and–”
“Velma,” Fred interrupts, suddenly understanding. “It doesn’t matter if I do. It doesn’t matter if I date you or I date Daphne or you date Daphne or none of us dates anybody. You’re still Velma.”
“But what does that mean?”
“It means you shouldn’t kiss me just because you’re scared that if I kiss somebody else I’ll leave you behind.”
She sucks in a breath and look away. “Don’t be stupid,” she says. “I’m not scared. Whatever. Who cares.”
“I care,” Fred says, frowning. “I don’t want you to kiss me unless you want to kiss me.”
“I really want–” Velma cuts off. She swallows a couple times. When she starts again, her voice wobbles. “I really want to be normal.”
“Normal?”
She shrugs. “You–everyone says that we should like each other,” Velma points out. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. I just wanted to be normal in this one thing. I just wanted to get this one thing right.”
Fred is quiet for a long time. He doesn’t want to say anything until he can say something precise. He thinks about Velma believing she needs to kiss him. He thinks about Velma being afraid that if she doesn’t kiss him, someone else will, and it will ruin everything. He thinks about Velma not realizing that she’s perfect as she is.
Finally, he takes her hand and leads her to the couch. He sits her down and kneels in front of her so that she can’t look away.
“Velm,” he says slowly, “if what we have isn’t normal, then I don’t want to be normal. If what you are isn’t normal, then I don’t want a friend who’s normal. You don’t have to be anything other than what you are.”
Velma’s eyes search his face, bright. Then she inhales a quick breath, holds it for a few seconds, and lets it go. She nods and leans forward until her forehead is pressed against his shoulder. “Okay,” she says.
They had not been seen together in the museum galleries for quite a while. Monet’s “Women with Umbrellas” are once again side by side in the Impressionist gallery.
AND THEN THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER THE END!!!!
ok every time this post comes by i resist geeking out on it but NO LONGER so these women are probably the same woman and that woman is monet’s wife camille doncieux. he painted her a LOT. but fun fact: monet had this asshole friend named ernest hochede, and ernest racked up some debts, and like an asshole he basically just fled the country, leaving his wife alice and their six kiddos behind. monet immediately got alice and kids to move in with him, camille, and their two kids. at this point, monet, alice, and camille became my favorite probably historic poly threesome. they lived together, taking care of the kids. they were so poor that alice and camille took turns wearing the nice dress so they could go out with monet. when camille got uterine cancer and began dying, alice helped monet cope and took care of things while he painted camille over and over. when camille died, alice is the reason monet was able to survive. when ernest finally died, monet and alice married, and remained married until alice died. at that point, blanche, the oldest daughter, took care of monet until he died. anyway, the point is, the umbrella ladies are probably the same ladies, but as far as i’m concerned, there WAS a historically queer poly family in that household and they were wonderful.
wupacing 