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nehswritesstuffs · 5 years

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Ok, just learned how to do something new on Tumblr. Never did an ask before. Ok, I'll offer it as a prompt. A story about a young time lord/human hybrid living in New Jersey, being raised by his grandparents, Rory and Amy. In my version, he was born on Darillium, and never had daylight, so the sonic sunglasses have a practical use.

This actually sounds really cool and has a lot of potentialdespite the fact that I’m almost positive that Moffatt would’ve let us know ifhis Best OC No Steals had any sort of kid and whether or not it was theDoctor’s (let alone which face it was).

3385 words; takes place in November 1946 (was it New Jersey? NewYork City? Certain bits of Long Island? It all sort of blends together to myMidwestern outlook (at least for the time period)); reminder that this child isNOT what we refer to as The Hybrid—that’s any child Twelve has with Clara(with River being a proto-Time Lady, there’s nothing anyone can do to convinceme otherwise); while I still like Whouffaldi babies the best this is somethingthat interests me logistically speaking; just a lot of slow-paced domesticstuff so please be warned if that’s not what you like

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The house was quiet as Rory woke up, feeling that somethingwasn’t exactly right. He sat up in bed and waited, his wariness justified whenhe heard a small, wobbly wail filter in from another room. Amy began to stirand he bent down to kiss her cheek.

“I got him,” he said. She murmured incoherently and he tookthat as approval. Getting out of bed and shuffling down the hall to thenursery, Rory peeked in on his son, who was testing the limits of his vocalchords.

His son, hethought, picking up the baby and bouncing him gently. During the war, he hadconvinced Amy to adopt after peace treaties were signed and things settled downon the world stage, citing the incoming Americaneconomic boom that would create nearly the perfect environment to raise achild, and two months ago they had their chance. Anthony was a very happy,bubbly baby, generally speaking, whose adoptive parents were absolutely stunnedby their second chance at parenthood his presence gave them. It was almostpainful to take him from the hospital, knowing that another fifty or sixtyyears and his unwed biological mother would be the one raising him, though thatwas neither here nor there in the time period they found themselves in. It tookall of five minutes and a well-timed distraction to keep the nurses and doctorout, yet they were able to leave the nineteen-year-old with their names,address, and a promise that not only were they were going love the boy, butthat when she was ready—if she was ever ready—she could visit.

Rory wordlessly took Anthony downstairs and went into thekitchen to fetch a bottle from the icebox. He saw that the light was already onand braced himself, knowing that an unpleasant conversation was imminent.There, at the kitchen table with books everywhere, as predicted, was Marcus.

“What are you doing up?” Rory asked.

“Reading,” the boy replied. If he had been only a few yearsolder, there would have been some definitive sass applied to his voice, butluckily for Rory, Marcus was only eight and not yet near such things… that hecould tell.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“It feels like afternoon to me.”

“No, it’s definitelynighttime.”

“Oh.” He watched as Rory took a premade bottle from theicebox and began to feed Anthony. “Can I do that?”

“Feed him?”

“Yeah.”

“Come with me, then.” Rory and Marcus found the sitting roomcouch and sat down. Anthony was passed between them and soon the two childrenwere staring at one another, neither completely certain the other was entirelysafe. Rolling his eyes, Rory patted Marcus on the head, marveling at the boy’sbouncy, brown curls.

“Do you think we can go to the park again tomorrow beforeMiss Amy goes away on her book tour?” Marcus wondered.

“Do you enjoy the park?”

“It’s weird; I like it.”

“You have to be careful who you talk to about things thatare weird. Not a lot of people around here like weird things.”

“Okay,” the boy nodded. He kept feeding the baby, thenscrunched his nose. “Mr. Rory? I think Anthony’s nappy is full.”

“Then give him here,” he smirked. Marcus gave up the babyand looked at the hand that had been against the diaper, cringing. “Go washyour hands and head off to bed. We have a park to visit in the morning.”

“Okay.”

Marcus ran towards the stairs and soon Rory heard water inthe pipes. He finished feeding Anthony and brought the baby back to thenursery. A clean diaper and the infant was asleep once again, laying peacefullyin his crib as his father left the room and checked in on Marcus. The older childwas in bed, though staring at the ceiling while still being wide awake.

“Mr. Rory?”

“Go to sleep, Marcus.”

“Why isn’t Mum coming back?”

“…because she can’t, and leaving you with us was better thanleaving you alone.”

“I still miss her.”

“I do too, trust me.”

The boy was silent for a bit before croaking out a “goodnight,” and covering his head with the bedspread. Rory stood by the door tomake certain he did not hear any sniffling before closing the door and headingback to his room, where Amy was awake and waiting for him.

“Did I hear Marcus?” she asked.

“We need to do something,” he replied, getting backunderneath the blanket. “He misses River.”

“It’s only been three weeks, and we also miss her,” she reminded him. Amy rested her head on Rory’sshoulder and put an arm around his waist. “Give him a bit of time and he’lladjust.”

“Does he want tothough?”

“He has to, forhis safety, just as we did.”

A pause.

“You know, if I was told on our wedding day that we’d raiseour grandson, this is far from what I would have imagined.”

“Yeah; me too.”

They said no more, instead choosing to go back to sleep.Memories of the last time they saw River flooded their vision as they triedattempted getting a little bit more rest; nothing about this was easy.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Amy, Rory, I want youto meet Marcus,” River said, presenting the boy in the foyer. He was lookingaround curiously, an anachronistic pair of sunglasses perched upon his nosedespite them all being indoors.

“Aren’t you a cutie?”Amy grinned. “I bet you’re clever too.”

“I am,” Marcus beamed.“Mum says I might even be cleverer than her!”

“Now that I doubt,”she laughed. “There’s biscuits in a jar on the kitchen table; help yourself.”

“Thanks!” He scurriedoff and all three adults looked at one another with serious faces.

“Why?” Rory wondered.“You know it’s dangerous to come here.”

“It’s more dangerousfor me not to come,” River frowned. They walked into the living room and satdown, glad for the distraction of biscuits. “You might be able to guess thatMarcus is the Doctor’s son.”

“Aye,” Amy replied.“Where is he? I know he can’t come here, but…”

“He’s off, doing hisown thing in a face you haven’t seen,” River explained. “We were living happilyfor a while, but he left before we realized I was pregnant.”

“That doesn’t mean wecannot threaten him,” Rory added.

“No, the split wasmutual—we both needed time away fromthe other,” she said. “If I wanted him around that badly, I would have foundhim by now. You know how he handles domestic… I was surprised we could do it foras long as we did.”

“…which then begs thequestion: Why here and why now?” Rory wondered. He and Amy watched as theirtime-displaced daughter take a deep breath and close her eyes, bracing herselffor what she was about to say.

“I need you to takeMarcus.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Morning broke and both boys were up again, Anthony for hisbottle and Marcus for eggs and toast. Amy attempted to multitask in feedingboth children at once, but by the time Rory arrived from his shower, the eggswere burnt and his wife was sitting grumpily at the table, her front covered inspit-up.

“Go ahead, I got him,” he said, lifting the feeding babyfrom her arms. He concentrated on making sure Anthony didn’t try to suck downtoo much formula at once while Amy went and proved to herself that a simpledish of scrambled eggs was still in her repertoire. The older three were sooneating their breakfast, not bringing any attention to the fact there had been attempts at it.

“Miss Amy?”

“What, Marcus?”

“Mr. Rory said that we could go to the park today. Can we?”

“If Rory said we could, then yeah, I think we can fit thatin—we could even make a picnic of it.”

“I’d like that.” The boy shoveled some eggs on his toast andshoved the food in his mouth. “Mum used to take me to the park back home.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Rory scolded. Marcusswallowed hard and drank some milk.

“I’m sorry.”

“Just be careful, yeah?” Amy said. “If you hurry, you canhelp me pack the basket.”

“Okay!” The boy finished the rest of his food quickly and rushedout of the kitchen, leaving the adults and baby to themselves. They were ableto finish up the rest of their breakfast in peace before Marcus returned,bouncing up and down as he waited impatiently for their new task to begin.

Within the hour, the picnic basket was packed, Amy and Rorywere dressed in what were decidedly notpajamas, and everyone was nearly ready to go. They made their way out the door,with only Marcus lagging behind, lingering warily in the foyer.

“Come on,” Amy insisted. “Let’s go to the park like weplanned.”

Stepping out into the sunlight, the boy put his sunglasseson and grinned as he looked around. Being indoors was fine and all, but it wasso bright and sunny that the sun’s light proved to be too much for a lad whospent the first eight years of his life in twilight. He never left the housewithout them and, his new guardians noticed, it was thankfully much easier tospot him that way.

“Can I push Anthony’s pram?” Marcus asked. Rory eased thestroller down the steps and settled it on the pavement.

“I don’t see why not. Amy?”

“Sure.” She placed her son down and tucked him into place,the baby napping peacefully. “Let us know when you get tired.”

“Okay!”

The four of them then began to walk towards the park,keeping together on the sidewalk. It was plain to see, at least to the adults,that they looked like a family—cohesive and whole—and it was already considereda miracle that none of the neighborhood wives were questioning them and theirsudden extra child. Anthony’s adoption was no secret and now Marcus’s existenceonly added to the mystery. The Williamses were a strange couple, now a strangefamily, and it was only a matter of time that someone took interest in that.

Soon they were at the park and parking the stroller under abroad, leafy tree. Amy spread out the blanket while Rory took Anthony from theconfines of his blanketed existence and let him see the world around him. Theboy’s brown eyes grew wide as he looked around, completely entranced by theplace.

“Why don’t we go to the playground?” Amy suggested toMarcus. There were no kids on it yet, as school was still in session and noother families had made it to the park so far that day, making it the perfectopportunity to show him.

“Yeah! What are those things, anyhow?!” Marcus askedexcitedly. He pulled Amy towards the nearby play area and pointed at the monkeybars. “Is this public art?!”

“Uh, no, it’s something you play on,” she explained with alaugh. “Jump up and grab onto one of these, and then see how many you can grabonto.” She tried not to snicker as Marcus tried to jump and do as instructed,only to miss by half an inch. She lifted him up and allowed him to get a goodgrip before letting go. He dangled for fifteen seconds before dropping to the ground.“Harder than it looks?”

“Very much so.” He pressed a finger to the side of hissunglasses and it whirred softly. “There is no strategy listed for optimalplaying methods.”

Amy attempted to keep a straight face as she stared at theboy—this was definitely the Doctorand River’s son. Movement caught her attention, however, and she was glad forthe distraction. “Hey, those look like some kids your age. Why don’t you go seeif they want to play?”

“Are you sure…?”

“Yeah—the only sure way to find out is to go do. Now go makesome friends.”

“Uh… okay…” The boy walked away from his guardian andtowards the small group of children that were entering the far end of the park.Amy leaned on the monkey bars for a moment and watched as Marcus approached thekids. Hopefully he would eventually start making friends and try to be asnormal of a kid as possible, but with the genetics he was working with, “aspossible” was the key phrase. She glanced over at Rory waving a rattle overAnthony’s face, smiling at the sight before turning her attention back towardsMarcus…

…only to see one of the other boys hit her grandson right onthe nose.

“Oi! What do you kids think you’re doing there?!” she shoutedangrily, purposefully turning up the Scots in her voice. “Get your hands off mywee bairn there!”

“Ha, his mommy hasto come and help him,” laughed the boy that punched Marcus. The other threechildren were backing away, getting ready to run, while their ringleader stooddefiantly with all the cockiness his nine-year-old self could muster. “See?Baby needs his mommy.”

It took a split second to see that Marcus was not seriouslyhurt, which left Amy free to grab the attacking boy from the shoulder of hisshirt and lift him into the air, bringing his face more towards hers.

“How about if I make it so that you have a talk with your mam,yeah?” she threatened. “We all talk, us mams, so if you ever touch my sonagain, I will make sure that not only does your mam know, but also that all yourfriends’ mams know, and then who would you be allowed to run with? No one. You’dhave to be all alone with no one to boss around, and a bully without cronies isa sad, pathetic thing indeed.”

“…are we threatening children now, Mrs. Williams?” Amylooked to see a familiar police officer standing on the pavement, not entirely certainif he should intervene. “Why aren’t these kids in school?”

“We go to Holy Innocence!” one of the scared boys offered. “Thenuns are on a retreat and we have the week off! We’re not skipping! Honest!”

“Then what did you do to make Mrs. Williams here so upset?Don’t you know better than to make a Scottish woman upset?”

“This one,” Amy said, letting go of the boy’s shirt, “hit myson and broke his glasses.”

“I thought I heard you have two of them now; guess it’s notrumor after all,” the police officer nodded. “Now run off you kids, and don’tgo hitting anyone else, or not only will your mothers all know, but I’ll tellSister Stephen on you as well.”

The youngsters all scurried off and the officer shook hishead. “I’m going to have trouble with that bunch in about ten years. Just haveyour boy steer clear of them and he’ll be fine. Good day, Mrs. Williams.”

Soon as the policeman began to walk away, Amy turned herattention back to Marcus. His glasses were broke in half, sparking idly fromthe exposed wires at the nose bridge, and he was curled into a ball next tothem, sniffling as he kept his eyes wrenched shut. She stroked his hair andtried to move his head so that she could see the damage done.

“Amy? What happened?” Rory was now next to them, holding thebabbling Anthony in his arm.

“Some wee shite punched Marcus,” she explained. She pickedup the glasses and helped the boy stand. “I’m going to take him home and getsome ice on his face before it swells.”

“Shouldn’t I do that? I’m the nurse.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one holding the baby,” she said,giving him a wink. “Come on, Marcus; let’s go. There’s a bag of frozen peas inthe icebox with your name on them.”

Silently, Amy and Marcus went home, with the former leadingthe latter due to the fact he kept his eyes closed the entire time. He did not,in fact, open his eyes until he was sitting down on a kitchen chair, adishcloth-wrapped bag of peas being shoved in his hands.

“Ow… it hurts,” he whimpered, touching his right eye.

“Close it and put this on it,” Amy instructed gently. Sheguided his hands as he settled the cold pack on his face. “That should keep theswelling down.”

“Why did you do that?” he asked. Amy kissed Marcus atop thehead before ruffling his hair.

“…because that child is a nasty little boy who needed to bescared,” she replied.

“No… you said I was your son…”

“Oh, that.” She pulled another chair over so that she couldsit close to him, putting an arm around his tiny shoulders in a hug. “You’restaying with us now—far as anyone needs to know, Rory and I have two sons now.”

“…but I’m not…”

“Yes you are—now youare—and don’t think Rory and I will treat you differently than we’re goingto treat Anthony, because we won’t, and wouldn’t even if this was a time where openlyraising children other than your own wasn’t looked at as being odd. River leftus with you because she knew that about us… she knew you needed to be part ofour family.”

Marcus went quiet for a bit before leaning into Amy’s hug. “Iknow Mum’s not coming back, but I’m not even related to you. Why did she leaveme here?”

“We are related,” she said. “We were going to explain it allwhen you’re a bit older, but… you know how time travel does weird things topeople?”

“Yeah…?”

“Rory and I are your mam’s parents—River was our daughter—butsomething happened where we couldn’t raise her like we wanted to, and we knewher as an adult instead.”

Marcus dropped the dishcloth. “Really…?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yes, I’mtechnically your granny, and your granny wants so badly to take care of you andkeep you safe that she’s willing to threaten someone else’s child in front of apolice officer.” She picked up the dishcloth and rolled around the peas beforereplacing it on Marcus’s face. “I’m not reallylying when I say you’re my son… just leaving out a technicality.”

“…my glasses though…” Marcus looked at them sitting on thecounter. “They’re broken.”

“I’ll get you a non-sonic pair and when you get cleverenough, you can fix them,” she said. “How’s that?”

He nodded.

“Good.” The front door opened and shut, followed by Rorypushing the baby carriage into the kitchen. “Clean everything up alrightwithout me?”

“Yeah; now let’s see that eye,” he said. Rory passed AmyAnthony and crouched down in front of Marcus, easing the dishcloth away fromhis face for a moment. “You should be fine.”

“He knows, by the way,” Amy added.

“Knows what?”

“That we’re really Gran and Granddad.” Rory rolled his eyesat that.

“Don’t call me that,” he insisted.

“That would be weird,” Marcus agreed. “I don’t know if I cannow, but maybe… Mum and Dad…? Maybe when Anthony’s a little older?”

“We’d like that a lot,” Rory said. He patted Marcus on theshoulder before standing. “You know, it’s a shame to waste such a nice picnic—howabout if we have it in the back garden?”

“We can do that?” Marcus asked, scrunching his nose.

“Why not?” Amy added. She looked out the window and grinned.“Plus, I see some thicker clouds coming—it won’t be too sunny for you afterall.”

Half an hour later, the sky was overcast enough—and Marcus’sface had been iced enough—for everyone to move their picnic out to the backyard.They understood each other a little better now, and that was alright. They laidout a blanket over the grass and ate sandwiches while still being able to hearthe stereo from inside the house. It was near a complete success, with the onlything souring the entire situation being Marcus going wide-eyed in a mixture ofhorror and confusion while they were cleaning up the dishes.

“Wait… does this mean that Anthony’s my uncle…?”

#doctornigel #Amy Pond #Rory Williams #Saturday Night Prompts #on Saturday for once #Doctor Who #fan fiction #replies #may contain traces of #Twelve x River #DO AMY AND RORY HAVE A SHIP NAME I HONESTLY DON'T KNOW #let's just put this here and see what happens though #and now I feel the urge to write Whouffaldi babies but idk what

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chickensinliterature · 5 years

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From The Bill from My Father: A Memoir by Bernard Cooper

Light shot from the lens of the projector and burrowed through the room. It flickered over the furniture and gave the dark a restless depth. I watched dust motes whirl and collide in the beam, and this bright turmoil, this erosion of countless powdery grains, was proof of a fact I knew all along but hadn’t grasped until that moment: the world was being ground to bits. I was still transfixed when I heard my father tell me to snap out of it and pay attention to what was on the screen.

In a wood-paneled office, a stout black woman sat across a desk from a white man, whose bony hands were folded atop an ink blotter. A pen holder slanted in his direction, and next to it a name plate identified him as a judge. His lips moved nonstop, but the film was silent and I couldn’t make out a word he was saying. All the while he stared into the camera with the unnatural expression of a person who’d been told to act natural and not stare into the camera. The woman paid respectful attention, leaning forward once or twice in a futile effort to interrupt. She clutched under one arm a leather-bound book that was either a Bible or a volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. On the desk beside her lay an overstuffed purse.

The judge was still yammering when the purse, without so much as a twitch of forewarning, stood up, wavered on two spindly legs, and walked toward him, though “walked toward him” suggests that the purse had a particular destination, whereas its halting progress was more along the lines of two steps forward, one step back. For a moment I wondered whether it was a marionette, though I couldn’t see strings, and besides, who in their right mind would make a marionette that looked like a staggering handbag? No, the purse’s senselessness hinted at the possibility that it once possessed sense and now was trying to get along without it. This was animal motion, too reflexive with muscle and nerve to be anything inanimate.

The judge’s mouth stopped moving when the scruffy whatever-it-was lurched into his line of vision. He gave it a wary, sidelong glance, ready to react should something unexpected occur, which, considering what had occurred already, would have to be inconceivably strange. That’s when the camera slowly zoomed in, moving as if it, too, were an animal, a predator hunting its unsuspecting prey. It slid between the woman and the judge, intent on the mound in the middle of the desk. Feathers slowly came into focus. Wings bristled as the creature breathed.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Watch,” said my father.

He had been a witness to the actual event, but because I didn’t know this yet, his Watch was like a magic command that caused what happened next to happen. A stump emerged from the thing’s right side, which until that point had looked identical to its left. The stump pivoted toward the camera and paused long enough to reveal its severed end. A tunnel of tendon and pearly bone led inside the creature’s body, the sight no less gruesome in black-and-white. The woman’s fingers descended into view, holding an eyedropper by its rubber bulb. She squeezed until a bead of clear liquid glistened at its tip, then angled it toward the cavity. The stump strained upward.

The idea of watching the creature being fed made me speechless, queasy. How much closer would the camera zoom? What kind of contractions would swallowing involve? That blind, groping, hungry stump was the neediest thing I’d ever seen. Leaving the room was out of the question; my father would view my retreat as rudeness, or worse, as proof that I was a delicate boy unworthy of paternal wisdom. I couldn’t have fled anyway; sunk in the possessive depths of the couch, I could barely move.

The droplet wobbled.

“Sugar water,” said my father.

Not until later that night, after unsuccessfully begging myself to please stop thinking about the gaping wound, did I realize that sugar water referred to the solution in the eyedropper. At the time, however, my father might as well have said spoon clock or hat bell for all the sense his comment made.

The pendulous droplet fell into the stump. Then another and another. For all that creature knew it had started to rain, and the rain tasted sweet. As the woman doled out the final drops, words scrolled up the screen:

There is hope for you too

when you see how divine power

keeps Lazarus alive!

Mrs. Martha Green’s decapitated fowl

lives to become

THE MIRACLE CHICKEN!

This 20th century wonder brings a possibility

of new life and new healing

to an army of believers.

It’s all TRUE!

This movie is AUTHENTIC!

The woman’s purse was a headless chicken. I might have uttered this fact aloud since it came as such a great, if short-lived, relief. My father had used the phrase “like a chicken with its head cut off” to describe all manner of frenzied activity, applying it to bad drivers and harried salespeople and even to my mother, who cooked dinner in a state that could be described either as motherly gusto or stifled rage. Every time I heard the expression, I pictured the figurative chicken running around a barnyard in circles and spurting a geyser of blood before dropping dead in the dust. Dropping dead forever, I should add, because it never occurred to me that a chicken might survive its execution, give hope to humans, and star in a film. Wasn’t a head indispensable?

Dad towered beside the projector, his figure awash in flickering light. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar.

“There’s your old man,” he said, pointing to the screen.

A crowd dressed in Sunday finery milled around the front lawn of a clapboard house. People stepped aside to let my father pass, a sea of hats parting before him. Mrs. Green trailed in his wake. She cradled Lazarus in her arms, careful not to let the bird be jostled and also not to hide it from view. Making his way through the crowd, Dad cast frequent backward glances to make sure Mrs. Green and her bird were behind him. Photographers jockeyed to get a good shot. Reporters frantically scrawled on their notepads. Men and women craned their necks, some letting children straddle their shoulders to get a better look.

Mrs. Green refuses to hand Lazarus over to the S.P.C.A. despite a court order from Judge Stanley Moffatt. Her attorney, Edward S. Cooper, claims the bird is “an act of providence for the benefit of all mankind.”

The throng of spectators, two or three people deep, waited behind a listing picket fence as my father escorted Mrs. Green into a yard overgrown with blooming hibiscus and bougainvillea. She seemed at home there, so I supposed the yard was hers. It may have been an effect of the grainy eight-millimeter film, but this ramshackle Eden glowed with an ancient, paper-thin light, as if the screen had turned to parchment. It wouldn’t have surprised me if one of the bushes had burst into flame and spoken in a holy baritone.

My father carried his monogrammed briefcase by his side. He and Mrs. Green walked to a small table that had been set up on a patch of grass. They glanced nervously at the camera, humbled by the expectant crowd. Black and Caucasian faces looked on, soldiers in an army of believers. Mrs. Green gazed almost sorrowfully at the bundle in her arms. Hesitant to let it go, she inhaled a bracing, duty-bound breath, then gingerly lowered the chicken onto the table. Its feet dangled like scrawny tassels, and once his legs touched the table top, they buckled without a hint of resistance.

I’d learned over the years to heed my father’s impatience as one would a storm warning, and watching him stand there on-screen, I recognized signs of impending anger as he glared at that motionless bird. A prominent vein bulged on his forehead. His grip on the briefcase tightened. I could almost hear him thinking, Of course this would happen. What did I expect? Just when things were going my way, fate sticks out its leg and trips me. He and Mrs. Green stood side by side and I thought I saw him nudge her with a silent ultimatum: Do anything you have to do, but get that goddamn poultry to move! You want people thinking this is some kind of hoax? I felt the weight of his briefcase in my hand, his hot collar encircling my neck, his heart thumping inside my chest. “What if it doesn’t move?” I asked. Meaning if it didn’t, would we both be ashamed?

He looked worried in the movie but not in real life. He smiled faintly and crossed his arms.

“That bird’s as alive as I am,” he said.

Silent concern rippled through the crowd; a few people used their hats as fans or consulted hefty, gilt-edged Bibles. Mrs. Green patted her forehead with a hankie. The twentieth-century wonder looked about as wondrous as a feather duster.

What were my father and Mrs. Green to do? They couldn’t rouse it by snapping their fingers or waving their hands in front of its face. Maybe they could communicate to the bird through touch, the way Annie Sullivan had tapped the word water on Helen Keller’s hand. Of course, it wouldn’t look good if my father and Mrs. Green started poking at the chicken; you can’t badger a miracle to happen and then expect people to marvel when it does.

I gasped when the chicken sprang to its feet, wings thrashing the air. Feathers bristled when it stretched its stump. The camera pulled back as if rearing in fear and astonishment. People in the background flung up their arms in a mute hallelujah. Mrs. Green’s unbounded joy caught my father off guard; he swayed in her embrace, eyeing the chicken over her shoulder. Big letters bellowed from the screen:

Cock-A-Doodle-Do!

My father’s high, delighted laughter rose over the sound of the projector.

“Is that chicken something?”

“Rooster, you mean?”

“Chicken,” he corrected, annoyed that I might have missed the big finish, might have been distracted when water turned to wine.

“Chickens don’t crow,” I told him.

“What?”

Tricky business, repeating a statement that belonged, I realized too late, in the “back talk” category. I scrambled to match oinks and tweets and moos with the appropriate animal, only to discover that the correspondences were more debatable than I’d realized. My rooster remark sounded arrogant now, and possibly untrue. “Do roosters crow?” I found myself asking.

The projector lit my father’s face from below. His chin and brow were islands of light, his eye sockets deep, unreadable. “Supposing a chicken doesn’t crow,” he said. “Then this one’s more of a miracle.”

* * *

Remember the headless rooster?” I asked.

My father leaned toward the microphone.

“Chicken,” he insisted, then sat back in his chair.

“But the chicken supposedly crowed, Dad. And chickens—I’d stake my life on this—don’t crow. They cackle. Or cluck?”

The querulousness in my voice, and the irritation in his, had been preserved for thirty years.

“Look,” he said, “if the client says a chicken crowed, the chicken crowed. Mrs. Green heard it. So did half the people who were at the press conference that day. Maybe they were in a religious state. That kind of thing has never happened to me personally, so I wouldn’t know. All I know is that Mrs. Green buys the chicken from a local butcher, takes it home for dinner, puts a pot of water on the stove, and when she goes to pluck the thing, it stands up and starts strutting around the kitchen like this was just another day on the farm. She’s standing there gawking when a voice comes out of nowhere and tells her to name the bird Lazarus, and she hollers, ‘Praise the Lord.’” Here my father lifted his arthritic arms as high as he was able, the jumpsuit stretching taut across his belly. “She gets on the phone to call her friends, who call their friends, and so on, and pretty soon people are showing up at Mrs. Green’s house in droves, lining up just to get a look at the thing. Being your enterprising type, she starts charging admission. Can you blame her? She sees a brass ring and she grabs it. That’s America.”

Book “The Bill from My Father: A Memoir” by Bernard Cooper

Painting” “The Cock” by Chef and Artist Jacques Pepin

#chickens #chickensinliterature #chickeninliterature #headlesschicken #bernardcooper #jacques pepin

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tardispowered · 6 years

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Book Review: Harvest of Time

Summary

Spoiler Warning: There will be spoilers. This is not a good review to read if you don’t like those.

The Good: This is a well written book, fun and fast paced. It felt like a third Doctor adventure, the voices being spot on and characterization on point. I also loved the addition of Eddie McCrimmon (and it is not made clear if there is a relation) as a no nonsense oil rig boss who loves and respects her men and they her. I love that Jo was given plenty to do, too and UNIT was integrated very well.

The greatest draw for me and source of greatest entertainment was the dynamic between the Doctor and the Master and how they played off one another. Not only where they hilarious with the banter, it was sincere too. These are two old frenemies who are sometimes more one than the other. The Master is portrayed with the delightful Degaldo style hamminess but with a sincerity, too. There is a sense he could be more if he chose it and he’s not just a stock character that the Doctor opposes every other serial or so. It was nice to see the Doctor’s own feelings on the matter. You really get the sense that they were friends, even if things are held still at arm’s length and have a professional distance as is the style of that era—and three’s own personality to boot.

The story overall is just a great read with a nicely constructed plot and several moments were I said: ‘oh shit!’ with glee and/or trepidation. A great tension and sense of urgency builds up, too, and it kept the pages turning to see what would happen next.

The Not So Good:

While I wouldn’t say it falls apart at the end, it does get a bit more wobbly.

The biggest moment for me was the Master’s impassioned speech about how he wasn’t evil, honest. That it was an outside force but that he was trapped in that zeitgeist of negative influence (coming from the outside) but in that moment he was free! That he had the potential to be something completely new! And it was in the Doctor’s hands to save him or not.

It would be one thing if it was a trick or that the Doctor wasn’t certain that it wasn’t—but then it goes on to say that the Master’s plea was genuine and the Doctor felt bad for not being able to help him in order to do the hard thing.

The problem is that it is presented as a real desire and, other than the outburst being weirdly emotionally skewed, it doesn’t fit. There’s not a lot of lasting consequence. The Doctor feels bad and that’s it. The Master is back to his evilly zeitgeist. (Which also doesn’t make much sense how it’s presented because if the evil comes the influence of his incarnations, he certainly had a hand in making them evil.)

Also the idea that this decision of the Master’s welfare being very much in the Doctor’s hands is very Moffatt-era NuWhoish kind of thing. Like he is the only one to decide this, and the only one who can because of who he is and so on. Which I get gives him a Momentous Decision, but at the same time there’s not a lot of build up to it nor emotional pay off. It’s there. He feels bad. The moment ends. It also doesn’t really work. Especially with the pulled back style of storytelling. In other words we never get really intimate with either of them to see how this thing plays out in their heads.

Aside from that, from a world building standpoint and given what we know of regeneration, slippery as the Master can be—it’s hard to believe he has so freaking many of them. I mean more than thirteen sure I can buy. Twenty. Twenty-five. But that was kind of a zoo.

Also, as much as I enjoyed Eddie McCrimmon and the twist was pretty cool—somehow it was hard for me to marry her Red Queen self with her regular self. Granted the Red Queen had been alive for aeons but they seem like two different characters. I feel like mostly my problem was that Eddie seemed to go from someone tough and interesting into something that’s just the bearer of the specific plot point.

Finally, the ending was a little too pat for me. I think a large part of it has to do with the book pulling just a bit too far back in order to give an authentic third Doctor experience like what you’d see in a serial. There is a Status Quo reset button that’s contrived as hell (though necessary so I don’t mind so much), and while the immense loss of life was acknowledged, it wasn’t all that deeply felt. (Though deep enough to be satisfying on a basic level)

Conclusion: To sum up, I feel like this book starts off with great and interesting and fascinating ideas; especially in regards to the Doctor/Master relationship—but it never pushes quite far enough to where it would be really interesting (and thus shake the status quo)

Still, despite the quibbles, I thoroughly enjoyed this book and would read it again. What I found wrong with it doesn’t detract much from the fun I had with it and while it doesn’t go far enough for my tastes, what was there was interesting and thought provoking and pretty funny all told.

Definitely going into my canon library.

Four out of five stars.

#doctor who #doctor who books #doctor who: the harvest of time #third doctor #the master #sharon reviews #book review #canon library #four out of five stars

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inevitably-johnlocked · 7 years

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Parallels (in my head!) between TST and Dr Who (spoliers for Dr Who Clara Oswald era)

Hi Steph - I always enjoy your posts and have been loving your TST meta! There is something which was niggling at me about TST, and I wondered if anyone else who watches both Moffat’s flagship shows perhaps saw something similar?

Mary’s death in TST echoes Clara Oswald’s death, although Clara was a ‘goodie’ and Mary is established (as far as my reading of the content) as a ‘baddie’… when Clara died in Face the Raven I turned to my friend and said “What? That was too easy, too pat!” My friend pointed out that that is how death is, it’s mundane, but I said “No, not in the Who’verse, not with Moffatt and Gatiss. People’s deaths count, with those two. Mark my words, Clara is Not Gone.”

And sure enough, we saw Clara’s death, she IS dead, it’s a fixed point in time… BUT, she is also Not-Dead, she is spending an eternity of her own determination spiralling around the universe in a stolen Tardis with Me, having had the opportunity to resolve (however sadly) her relationship with the Doctor.

I agree with the many people who say Mary’s death in TST was too ‘Hollywood-filmish’. Talking for 5 minutes AFTER being shot in the chest? When this is a show which has painstakingly established that someone shot in the chest has three SECONDS of consciousness remaining? This death is a story-tale death, where there is time to save a hero, right a wrong, tell the love interest they’ve always been the most important person in the world to you, beg them to care for your daughter, then expire in a pretty, Shakespearean slump against their chest. There is something terribly off about it.

This was not a final resolution of the John/Mary story – their story was far more fascinating than this ‘ex-spy who made one mistake accidentally but is redeemed by a good death’. Mary may well be dead, but there is more to the story of her death (just like there was more to the story of Clara’s death) than we have yet seen.

(submitted by jeanniemckeown)

Hi Lovely! That you for the kind comments, though I personally haven’t written any recent meta for T6T (rather, I’ve reblogged interesting theories from other people more clever than I).

Interesting, this parallel you bring up. Thought I highly doubt that Mary stole a TARDIS (wouldn’t that be something), I do highly suspect that John and Mary’s story has a LOT left untold, and that we are going to see what really happened. Like you, I also read her as a villain and a psychopath, so even if she IS dead, she did it for herself because whoever’s after her is much worse than living. I personally hope we see some sort of showdown, but wishful thinking, hah hah!

But yes, Moffat so does like to take ideas or test run them on Dr. Who, doesn’t he? Given that Amanda is casted for the next two episodes, we’re definitely not done with their story.

#send me things #submission #steph replies #sherlock parallels #sherlock vs doctor who #t6t spoilers #t6t meta #mary's gunshot #john and mary's relationship #s4 speculations #the mary problem #john and mary #spoilers

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torentialtribute · 5 years

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Joe Farrell makes the final 40 in the Grand National after Pairofbrowneyes pulled out

Joe Farrell makes the last 40 in the Grand National after Pairofbrowneyes withdrawn by Willie Mullins

Hot favorite tiger role trying to protect Marcus Townend for the Daily Mail Posted by admin at 12: 45 hours Email this Blog this! Share on Twitter Share on Facebook 0 comments: 4 April 2019 | Joe Farrell, whose chances have practically been halved this week to 20-1, has secured a starting place in Saturday Grand National and will be assisted in the race by outsider Just A Par.

Joe Farrell, trained by Rebecca Curtis, who won Scottish National last year, was in the first reserve position but sneaked into the 40 guaranteed starting positions after Willie Mullins-trained Pairofbrowneyes was scratched during Friday's final declaration phase.

Jimmy Moffatt trained Just a Pair, who was out of place in two previous Grand Nationals, secured his place in the race when Mall Dini, trained in Ireland by Pat Kelly, was withdrawn. Aidan Coleman gets in for the ride on Just A Par.

Mall Dini & # 39; s owner Philip Reynolds delivered the news after winning the penultimate race with Henry De Bromhead-trained Moon Over Germany

Reynolds said: & I found five minutes before the race . He has a leg injury. & # 39;

Joe Farrell, ridden by Adam Wedge, had long been under the spell of the National and looked like he would miss a starting attack.

Curtis said: & # 39; It is clear that as a Scottish national winner, one of his assets is that he remains very good. Trainer Gordon Elliott & # 39; s team was reduced to 11 of 13 after two of his runners were sold last night.

Don Poli was purchased by Phil Kirby for £ 170 for £ 170,000 on behalf of the owner Darren Yates, whose £ 300,000 National Buy Blaklion was excluded last week due to an injury.

Elliott's Outlander was sold for £ 165,000 to Rebel Racing from owner Phil Cunningham. He will race for trainer Richard Spencer.

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scarecrow1701 · 6 years

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Scott Moffatt Honored by Metal Construction Association (MCA) with Patrick R. Bush Volunteer Service Award

The award was created in honor of longtime MCA board member Pat Bush and recognizes those who have made significant contributions to MCA and the metal construction industry. from Latest News http://www.buildusingsteel.org/Global/document-types/news/2018/construction---scott-moffatt-honored-by-mca-with-patrick-bush-award.aspx

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othersportsnews-blog · 7 years

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WSOP 2017 - Kenny Hallaert would make third consecutive principal function Working day 5, 297 stay

New Post has been published on https://othersportsnews.com/wsop-2017-kenny-hallaert-would-make-third-consecutive-principal-function-working-day-5-297-stay/

WSOP 2017 - Kenny Hallaert would make third consecutive principal function Working day 5, 297 stay

The battle to attain the ultimate table of the Environment Series of Poker principal function is a 7-working day journey necessitating a dynamic established of capabilities that can adapt to any predicament.

By and substantial (though not exclusively), the first 3 days are a issue of survive and advance, positioning oneself for an option for a little something genuinely unique. The 2017 WSOP principal function was no exception, and with Thursday’s Working day three action receiving things down to the actual funds bubble at 1,084, Friday’s early stages established the phase perfectly for transferring working day — a single of the much more vital factors for gamers striving to position by themselves for a operate at the ultimate table.

When all was claimed and done, a clean 297 gamers — the actual capacity of the Brasilia Area, which will house the remainder of the subsequent 3 days of enjoy — was all that remained in the hunt for the 2017 WSOP principal function title.

Damian Salas of Buenos Aires, Argentina finished Friday night time with the chip lead at four.678 million, adopted by Sebastien Comel of France at four.198 million.

Damian Salas leads an intercontinental contingent at the best of the WSOP principal function chip counts likely into Working day 5. Tim Fiorvant / ESPN

Kenny Hallaert, a member of the 2016 version of the November 9, sits in third position with four.a hundred forty five million. The Belgian professional managed to make his third WSOP principal function Working day 5 in as several decades, a virtually unmatched precedent in the record of this match.

Nevertheless the shiny lights of a single of the highlighted stages absolutely lie in advance — and Hallaert’s got a level of expertise at this phase that several of his opponents won’t right after finishing sixth in this function last calendar year — he relished an option to cruise in relative anonymity for the most part, to this place.

“The table where I was sitting right here was excellent,” claimed Hallaert. “I’m in a corner, hunting at a wall. It truly is so stress-free. There is certainly no cameras, no lights … at times the ESPN cameras do arrive by, but there’s no interruptions hanging all-around and you can aim on your activity.”

At this place in the match, by means of much more than 40 several hours of enjoy, the mental strain of concentrating so intensely at any presented moment is a stress for most gamers, such as Hallaert himself this time last calendar year. But with the third-premier stack, and a superior tempo and patience to this place, he is all set to be in it for the extensive haul at the time once more.

The 2017 Environment Series of Poker principal function is underway in Las Vegas. Miss any of the action? Don’t fret, this file has all of our everyday recaps.

Richard Seymour won 3 Super Bowls as a defensive end with the New England Patriots and was a 7-time Professional Bowler with the Pats and Raiders. Considering the fact that retiring, he is develop into an significantly relevant determine on the poker circuit.

A good deal has changed for Greg Merson in 5 decades, right after successful the 2012 Environment Series of Poker Major Function. Bernard Lee catches up with the previous champion to converse daily life, on the internet poker and how Merson has battled addiction.

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“I’m comprehensive of strength at the moment,” claimed Hallaert. “I would not have minded if we performed for 4 much more several hours. I however was sharp.”

He’ll undoubtedly have his hands comprehensive, with a perfectly-well balanced distribution of chips to this place. The best counts have a weighty intercontinental taste with just a single American between the best eleven stacks. Ben Lamb, who’s in 14th, has created a little something of a comeback thus significantly in this match right after just a single WSOP funds considering that his 2011 WSOP principal function ultimate table. He is not the only previous November 9 member in the mix for a repeat ultimate table look Hallaert, Antoine Saout, Michael Ruane, Jake Balsiger, Eoghan O’Dea, Chino Rheem, Tom Cannuli and Matt Giannetti all however suit that bill, too.

Working day three finished with the bursting of the funds bubble, placing the phase for a outrageous, chaotic start to Working day four, as approximately 200 gamers went out in the first hour.

The last 3 previous principal function champions in the 2017 subject — Scotty Nguyen (549th), Joe Cada (948th) and Carlos Mortensen (984th) — each fell out through the first fifty percent of the working day, guaranteeing a model new entire world champion of poker.

The repetitively named James James (1,046th) and Morten Mortensen (969th) each unsuccessful to make it out of the first thirty minutes. Liv Boeree (314th), Jeff Lisandro (383rd), Faraz Jaka (399th), Matt Glantz (433rd), JJ Liu (442nd), Christoph Vogelsang (444th), Bernard Lee (five hundredth), Gavin Smith (612th), Allen Cunningham (643rd), Nam Le (736th), Scott Seiver (939th), Dutch Boyd (956th) and Barry Greenstein (1,012th) are just a handful of the several notables who fell on Working day four.

Jacob Zalewski, who completed 374th, set with each other a quite unique operate in his first career principal function funds. For people who have attended a Environment Series of Poker for as tiny as a working day or numerous comprehensive summers, Zalewski, 34 has been a single of the most dependable and friendly presences at the Environment Series of Poker for much more than a decade.

Jacob Zalewski, a normal existence at the Environment Series of Poker for perfectly about a decade, earned his first at any time principal function funds ahead of likely out late on Working day four Friday night time. Tim Fiorvanti / ESPN

Even with getting cerebral palsy and getting to fight tooth and nail for almost everything he is got, as ESPN first specific in 2014, there’s tiny hope in striving to wipe the smile off his encounter as he consistently zips all-around in his motorized scooter. Zalewski’s appreciate of poker dates again to a time ahead of he was even technically intended to be moving into casinos, when he’d go to the WSOP at its previous household.

“When I was 16 decades previous,” recalled Zalewski, of his first journey. “My dad is a specialist poker participant, so I’ve been coming to the WSOP considering that again when it was at Binions. To be ready to most likely get near, creating Working day 5, it can be quite unbelievable.”

The kind of assist that the poker group has supplied Zalewski — a team he affectionately phone calls his “large dysfunctional loved ones” — is spectacular. As a result of sheer willpower, a couple of fortuitous breaks and that assist, Zalewski recognized the A single Move Nearer Basis. As a result of 10 decades of movie star-fueled charity poker situations and donations, the group has lifted about $1 million to assist people who go through from cerebral palsy and other devastating diseases.

“That function that started out out of very little but an plan, the poker group actually took it on their shoulders and however assist it today,” claimed Zalewski. “It truly is pretty humbling. All of the funds goes in direction of assisting the significantly less fortuitous, and creating the entire world a far better position.”

Zalewski’s funds in this function is the premier of his career, and his first in 4 makes an attempt at the principal function. His doggedness in driving himself to enjoy and in elevating recognition for cerebral palsy has attracted the interest of sponsors like PokerGo, RUNGOOD and many others, and irrespective of Zalewski’s disappointment in becoming eliminated, his endeavours in the fight versus cerebral palsy make his tale a single to bear in mind from the 2017 WSOP principal function.

A see from Friday:

The huge Amazon ballroom at the Rio is approximately devoid of WSOP principal function gamers. As the blinds climb to 10,000/20,000 with a three,000 ante, there are just 324 gamers remaining — and by the end of the night time, all remaining gamers will be in the exact same home for the first time. Absolutely everyone however in is presently assured to get at minimum $35,267.

Tim Fiorvanti, ESPN.com

Finish of Working day four chip counts

1. Damian Salas – four.678 million two. Sebastien Comel – four.198 million three. Kenny Hallaert – four.a hundred forty five million four. JP Kelly – three.973 million 5. Richard Gryko – three.559 million six. Cosmin Joldis – three.5 million 7. Colin Moffatt – three.086 million 8. Jonas Mackoff – three.076 million nine. Eyal Maaravi – three.03 million 10. Valentin Messina – two.979 million

Whole counts

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