love shakespeare. did a hamlet run tonight, looked someone dead in the eye to say âam i a coward?â during a speech and the fucker shrugged and nodded
we literally ruined society when we invented the fourth wall. letâs bring back call and response. heckling, even. fuck you hamlet you dumb piece of shit kill your uncle or shut up
"When we took Shakespeareâs âMeasure for Measureâ into a maximum security womanâs prison on the West Side⊠thereâs a scene there where a young woman is told by a very powerful official that âIf you sleep with me, I will pardon your brother. And if you donât sleep with me, Iâll execute him.â And he leaves the stage. And this character, Isabel, turned out to the audience and said: âTo whom should I complain?â And a woman in the audience shouted: âThe Police!â And then she looked right at that woman and said: âIf I did relate this, who would believe me?â And the woman answered back, âNo one, girl.â
And it was astonishing because not only was it an amazing sense of connection between the audience and the actress, but you also realized that this was a kind of an historical lesson in theater reception. Thatâs what must have happened at The Globe. These soliloquies were not simply monologues that people spoke, they were call and response to the audience. And you realized that vibrancy, that that sense of connectedness is not only what makes theater great in prisons, itâs what makes theater great, period."
I was in the front row of a Hamlet performance where the "Am I a coward?" was directed at me and I, being a no-impulse-control gremlin, hollered back "Yes!!" (they'd primed us ahead of time that audience interaction was encouraged). Hamlet got right up in my face as he kept talking and just kept going until I gently pushed him back; I forget what line it was on when it happened but he took the direction of the push and reeled away across the stage.
This meant that I had marked myself as someone willing to be fucked with, and so during the graveyard scene later he approached me again. "Here hung those lips that I have kissed--" he booped my mouth with the skull's "-- I know not how oft."
I have stories related to me from those at Blackfriars, the American Shakespeare Center (they play in a replica of the original Blackfriars, with modern safety conventions like lightbulbs in the chandeliers, but a great dedication to the way structure shaped the original work in the original Blackfriars. Their house is only about 45 ft deep (roughly 15 m I think), which is about the max distance two sighted people can be from each other and still make eye contact. They play with the stage and house equally lit, they talk to the audience, they enter from the audience, they whip up crowds from within the audience. Itâs fantastic. But anyway, on to the stories.)
Hamlet. Thereâs a scene where Hamlet sees Claudius praying and debates whether to kill him now or wait (because if Claudius dies praying he will automatically go to heaven). The actor playing Hamlet was genuinely asking the audience the questions in the speech, and when he got to âand should I kill him now?â someone in the audience shouted âYES KILL HIM HE NEEDS TO DIE!â Hamlet took the entire rest of the monologue to that person, enumerating his reservations so persuasively that they started to nod in agreement.
Romeo and Juliet. In this production, the fight between Mercutio and Tybalt happens in several rounds, of which Mercutio won the first. Mercutioâs actor made the choice, upon his victory, to run down the audience with his hand out for high-fives. He decided this in rehearsal, so he had time to plan for the three responses people would probably give him: a) a high-five back; b) being stunned and not reacting; and c) the old âoops too slow.â What this Mercutio did not prepare for was the audience member who panicked and deposited their handful of M&Ms into his open palm. The way I heard it, Mercutio was still processing this when Benvolio came up beside him and stole the M&Ms out of his hand to eat them.
King Lear. Edmund has a speech in which he asks whether he should marry âGoneril? Regan? Both? Neither?â Again, the actor was legitimately asking the audience, and again heâd prepared for the audience to respond in favor of any of those choices. What makes it even cooler was that the next line is âNeither can be enjoyed while both remain alive,â which works as a response to any of those options. One night, though, Edmund got his answer as âKILL THEM BOTH AND TAKE THEIR MONEY!â To which he gleefully agreed, âNeither can be enjoyed while both remain alive!!â
#Oh I have SO many stories from peak audience moments at the American shakespeare center#I have been to plays there that legit felt more like rock concerts#And I don't even mean the parts of the show where the cast is also a live band and they play#Covers of songs relating to the show#Fair maid of the west with Ginna Hoben#We were all SO on her side we absolutely lost our whole shit any time she even entered or exited#Knight of the burning pestle where Rick would pick a random audience member to be his lady love he was fighting for every night#And one time (I saw it thrice) he picked an older lady#And there's a part of the show where iirc he like gets almost defeated?#And he calls out to his lady love to like inspire him to keep fighting smth like that#And she Got Up Out Of Her Seat and went over to him and kissed him on the cheek#And no one was expecting that least of all Rick#And we all lost our shit whooping and hollering#They did a hamlet where...I forget who was polonius that year but there's a line where he's like 'what was I gonna say again'#And he paused SO long on that line you were legit unsure if he the actor had actually forgotten it#And once someone in the audience called out the next line and he was like 'oh that's right' and carried on#It was scripted though there were other nights no one said anything and we all sat there#In wonderful horrid awkward silence#Until he resumed#Please go if you get a chance#And sit stateside (via @rootingformephistopheles)
I was in a production of Hamlet in a small black box theatre, when a drunk guy came in from from outside, wandered onstage and started singing "We built this city on rock and roll." The guy playing Hamlet just went with it until the stage manager and crew could usher the drunk guy back outside. Then Hamlet continued with his next line, which was (no joke) "Now I am alone." Brought the house down.
#shakespeare#this is the kind of shit that gets me hyper#I love it so much#best production of hamlet Iâve seen to date was in an historic home where the actors guided you through a house built in the gilded era#and the basement was entirely marble for cooling purposes because it was pre-refrigeration obvs#and the way Hanletâs howling ECHOED#when he realized Ophelia was dead#it was primal#it made people take a step back#and also you had to stand and watch Ophelia drown in a claw foot tub as she reached out to you offering flowers#it was fucking insane#I loved it#Iâm giddy just thinking about it @thebibliosphere please please please say more about this!!!
I was actually scrolling my blog to see if Iâd talked about it before but I canât find it, which is shocking because it was truly one of the best performances Iâve ever seen.
I forget what year it was, but the play took place in the historic James J Hill House here in St Paul. Hill was a railway tycoon during the gilded age, with all the disparity of wealth and privilege that implies. He was so successful and obscenely wealthy he became known as The Empire Builder and the grandness of his home reflected that. The walls in the dining room are literally gold. Itâs breathtaking. Itâs obscene. Itâs perfect for the kind of corruption and rot that takes place in Hamlet under a gilded veneer.
The play started in the viewing gallery, with actors walking through the literal gilded halls of the mansion, the leather wallpaper stamped with gold filigree glittering in the gaslampâthe perfect setting for the wedding scene. As the opening progressed the lights were dimmed until only Hamlet was visible illuminated from the upper gallery by harsh modern lights above, just this chillingly beautiful cold light after all the warmth of the gaslamp and gold.
As the play progressed we were led further through the house, witnessing Hamlet talk to the ghost of his father on the grand staircaseâthe stairs further used to show hierarchy among the characters with Hamlet spiraling ever lower until we were invited to descend into the bowels of the house through the servants quarters, an area just as vast as the rest of the house but infinitely colder and utterly devoid of the opulent grandeur above.
The space is also nearly entirely marble, which leeches the warmth from the air, so even huddled together the audience grew colder and colder the longer we were down there.
It also meant the echo was amazing, and listening to Ophelia sing forlornly as she descends into madness was absolutely bone chilling. Watching her climb into a claw foot tub that had been placed in the center of the long hallway was also hair raising. She just kept singing, strewing flowers around the empty floor as we stood around her in a circle, helpless to stop her as she purposefully slipped under the water, holding her hands above the lip of the tub even as her head slipped under the water and the last echoes of her singing faded.
It made the Queenâs account of how Ophelia died just so⊠the lie of it. Like we were still standing there, she was still in the tub (head now above the water) and weâd witnessed the truth of it, and there was Gertrude telling any one of us in the circle who would listen how the poor maid âfell.â Anything to absolve themselves of the sin of her suicide.
We were turned around for a bit after that, led to the end of the hallway near the boiler room where the gravediggers leaned on gilded age coal shovels, and Hamlet got to do his bit with Yorick, the echo of the marble hallway dampened by having brought us back toward the stairwell, his voice soft and intimate. Showing his quiet resolve and return to sanity.
Only to pull us back moments later to center as he ran to where Opheliaâs funeral was taking place, and when I tell you, Hamletâs howl of grief echoed. It reverberated. It was terrifying. It was amazing. People took instinctive steps away from him. It was just raw emotion bouncing off the walls of this cold, dark basement, entire worlds away from where weâd started.
The play ended back in the ballroom, the dead lying strewn amongst the wealth that couldnât save them with only Horatio illuminated in gold by the lights. When Fortinbrass arrived he looked around the space like it was nothing, like the way weâd looked around the empty void of the basement. The wealth meant nothing to him. It was just another graveyard.
It was brilliant. I keep hoping theyâll host it again. It was such a good way to literally walk us through the story and use the environment to set the atmosphere. It was all I could do not to put billing flier in my mouth and eat it.
the oldest reblogs for this post that i can find are from january 2nd of 2013. this can has been getting kicked around tumblr for almost 13œ years now
i don't know who needs to hear this, but guilt, self-hatred and shame are not sustainable sources of growth and healing. you can't hate yourself into feeling better, or being better. you can't repeatedly punish yourself for your flawed humanity and expect wholesome results.
Yes it did. I just let it slide because I was taught that I'm "too sensitive" anytime something bothered me. But now I'm finally standing up for myself.
"You never struggled with this when you were a kid."
Yes I did. I just burned myself out in order to do it so I wouldn't be punished. But now I'm accepting myself enough to not force myself to do what I was never meant to do.
"You didn't have these problems when you were younger."
Yes, I did. I just spent my child/teen years with structured institutions like school while not having to worry about whether I had a roof over my head or food to eat and spent my early adult years using up every bit of adrenaline I will ever have to ignore the fact that I've been chronically burnt out my whole life.
Based of this prompt list by @azzurina . I got 10 prompts in!
~
Scott stayed where he was.
It wasnât a choice on his part - his hands bound behind him and the goons on either side keeping him pinned down on his knees meant that decision was made for him - but it didnât stop him glaring at his captor.
The Hood merely stared back, the smallest uptick of a smile the only outward sign that he was finding Scottâs position amusing.
He stepped forward and crouched down, millimetres from Scottâs ear, and spoke softly. It was creepy and Scott barely managed to suppress his shudder as the manâs breath tickled his ear.
âYou think youâre brave, donât you? But youâre not. You're not brave. You're just too naive to know fear.â
Scott tried to rock back, away from having to be so close to the man who had killed his father, but the grip on his shoulders tightened, locking him in place.
The Hood stood up so suddenly that Scott flinched and the man laughed.
âYou couldnât have proved my point any better!â
âWhat do you want, Hood?â
âWhat I always want. Money. Power. The Thunderbirds. Your head on a platter.â
âForget it. Theyâll never give you what you want. They donât give in to monsters.â
âI didn't become a monster. I became honest. Your father, on the other handâŠâ
âDonât you dare talk about my father! You murdered him!â
The Hood paused and watched Scott struggle against his henchmen, and for one moment it looked like the boy might actually get free, but a particularly nasty punch to his side had Scott doubled over and they could start this delightful conversation again.
âSpare me your theatrics. If your father had left well enough alone he would still be here and I wouldnât be talking to you.â
With a disdainful sniff the Hood began a slow walk around his captive.
âI gave him a chance to walk away. That was my one act of mercy. Unfortunately Jeff chose to ignore that and it cost him. Dearly. But I did warn him.â
âYou would have destroyed the planet!â
âDonât be stupid, Scott.â
âOh really? You set off a chain reaction that meant total annihilation if Dad didnât stay and - and do what he did. He saved the planet!â
âThe world doesn't want saving. It wants someone strong enough to rule it.â
âAnd I suppose thatâs gonna be you. You need all this money, power, to make your bid for World President?â
âOf course not. The World President doesnât hold the real power.â
âAnd neither will you.â
âYou seem so sure!â
âI have hope. The world will not give you what you want. My brothers will not.â
âHope is just disappointment that hasn't arrived yet. I would have thought youâd learnt that by now - especially since it took barely any time for the World Government and the GDF to demand you hand over your âBirds last time!â
Scott ground his teeth. Villain he might be but the Hood wasnât lying about thatâŠhe watched as the man once more crouched down in front of him.
âYou think righteousness is armour. It's a blindfold. You're fighting for people who would turn on you in a heartbeat. That have already proved they would. You bleed for people who sleep soundly while you suffer. You're the last echo of a dying ideal.â
âYouâre wrong.â
The Hood reached out and patted Scottâs cheek condescendingly before standing and making his way around his desk to sit down. He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his chin as he thought.
âWell, much as I have enjoyed this conversation, Scott, I have much to do and so do you.â
âYou wonât get away with this, Hood!â
âGet away with it? Oh my dear boy, I've already taken everything from you. You just don't know it yet. Take him away.â
I'm loving the discussions about the role and purpose of fandom, as well and what activities are needed to keep fandoms alive and flourishing!
However... as a fandom creator (writer and artist), I sometimes feel like too much pressure is concentrated on creators. I don't know if this is a frustration others share? Not only should we keep making things, but somehow we also end up becoming these central fandom figures who can feel pressured into responding to comments (or else we're called arrogant or ungrateful), making friends (or else we're rude for ignoring well-meaning people who reach out), and being the drivers and pillars of that community (running events, responding to memes, etc. â and everything falls silent if we stop). It's a lot of work!! I don't always have the time and energy to make things for fun and then also engage in all the ways people might sometimes feel entitled to because they enjoy my works.
I really wish that more "non-creating" fans in the community would discover their fandom power!! and not just rely on the visible "producing" creators to be the only people worth engaging with. It takes nothing more than passion to write a meta-post about a character or a plot point, or to create an ask game, or to DM someone else who you see posting funny tags â not just the creator! Maybe your followers have other tips for evening out the balance a little more?
Thank you for sharing your thoughts on this, anon. This is an observation I've seen in many parts of life, not just fandom.
A lot of people feel as though they need permission or an invitation of some sort in order to contribute. That's why I always end my answers by asking people to share their thoughts. I want to make it explicitly clear that I want people to add things into the reblogs (which I can then share out for more people to see) and the replies (which people can at least read even if I can't reblog).
I have heard fans who are readers but don't write fic say that they think they can't get an AO3 account unless they plan to post something. This is incorrect, of course, but a lot of people make that assumption.
I think at least some people (I don't know what kind of percentage) assume that someone who is writing fic or posting art or making podfics and video edits etc. has some sort of expertise that "allows" them to post.
People with less confidence or with less practice etc. sometimes need an extra nudge before they realize that they're welcome to contribute too. If that's the case for you, please allow me to say:
You are welcome to post in your fandom, even if no one invites you to. Even if you think you're not good enough. Even if your idea isn't "popular."
Start a conversation. Share a thought. Talk to folks who reblog cool shit. Be a folk who reblogs cool shit. You don't have to do everything in order to do something.
As mentioned above, please do share your thoughts in the reblogs and replies to keep the conversation going.
Record and post clips of your show to get more people into your fandom
Make incorrect quote memes
Make silly little TikTok-style edits of your favs
Make character playlists
Figure out the layout of buildings/cities
Recreate those building in the Sims or with an online floor planner or even just draw it out because holy hell writers will be so thankful for that
Make your blorbo in various video game character creations
Build a pokemon team for your blorbo
Make up silly headcanons! What does everyone do at the fair or the beach or during a fire drill?
Outline a fic idea you have â maybe you donât have the time or energy or you just donât feel confident enough to create it, but share it anyway!
Create outfits based on your blorboâs design or outfits they would wear
There are so many ways you can engage with fandom that arenât making fanart or writing fanfics. Fandom is community - Please donât be afraid to join in!
(I've been on tumblr for 15 years, far longer than I was ever on twitter, but I've never engaged much beyond reblogging so please pardon how many times I reference fandom activities I witnessed on twitter)
Collect interviews with the author, producer, director, mangaka etc
Similarly, translate interviews
I remember someone in the haikyuu!! fandom kept a twt thread of every time two characters were in the same panel. Not sure what the tumblr equivalent would be. I guess just a regular old post with lots of additions? (Send help; i'm not sure why my brain is struggling so badly to translate twitter threads to tumblr posts)
Run a quote bot account: I'm not sure of the status of quote bots in a post twitter era, but those were quite fun. Again an example from the hq!! fandom, there was the hq!! bastille bot which would spit out a bastille lyric + a ship. The siken bot would spit out a line of poetry + a ship name. On tumblr maybe the equivalent would be a gimmick blog?
Run a ship/character week. I think these are probably the easiest kind of fandom event to run. it doesn't take more than one person, a blog, and rudimentary graphics skills.
Are socmed AUs still a thing?
Make gifs
Try to figure out the layers to a character's outfit and share your studies with the world. (I'm looking directly at you, Hoyoverse and all you're what-even-is-that how-do-they-even-put-that-on character design. beautiful, but confusing)
Update fandom wikis
Log fandom history on fanlore.org (another project run by the Organization for Transformative Works, aka the parent of ao3)
Volunteer for the Organization for Transformative Works/ao3
Fandom wikis!! One thousand blessings upon everyone who maintains fandom wikis, oh my god.
Some suggestions:
Transcribe episodes for film/audio canons
Podfic! We can always use more podfic, and most people's phones have a voice recorder.
Create bingo sheets (e.g. make a fanwork with five or more of these tropes for a bingo; read/reblog fanworks in five or more of these categories for a bingo)
Be a Your Blorbo expert consultant! If I'm writing about a character I don't have strong feelings about, but I know one of my friends is constantly reblogging and posting about them, even if it's all silly memes and "character <3"-type posting, I'll sometimes reach out to them for advice on if I'm getting Their Blorbo right. It's absolutely invaluable and I appreciate these people so much.
We are all just enthusiastic nerds on the internet. You have as much right to share your enthusiasm as anyone. One of the things I love about tumblr as a platform is that you can just start saying whatever about something you like, and you will find other people who like it too.
Be the person with The Listâą Be the person who has a collection of links who can jump in and answer someone's question with a "Hey! You may want to check this out!" This list can include everything from tutorials to userscripts to transcript sites to generators to communities and so much more
Itâs pretty likely that itâs a four digit number, and as there are four digits chosen there, that means that there cannot be any repetition. This mean that there are:
n!/(n-4)! possible orders. As ânâ is 4 (number of digits available). 4!/0! which becomes 4x3x2x1/1 which simplifies to 24. That means that there are 24 possible combinations of codes. This would take you about two or three minutes to input all possible codes.
well âtechnicallyâ the code is most likley 1970. statistically, a majority of people, when told to choose a 4 digit code will choose their birth year. and this key pad is obviously a few years old to put it nicely, thats most likley it.Â
No, no, no. Donât base your deductions of psychology. Letâs talk chemistry. When you first press a button, thereâs more of the natural oils on your skin, and therefore it wears down the numbers on the keys faster. Obviously 0 is the first one, then. Try 0791 first.
Close, but not quite, I think. People will almost always choose a number they can remember. Whatâs memorable about 0791? Try 0719 - a birthday, 19th of July. That is more likely.
No, Mr. Horse, donât worry, I certainly donât have a Plinko down here! What I do have is this lovely cask of wine, specifically for horses, Amontillado in fact! Exquisite vintage.
I know youâre not supposed to be in this hospital, but if youâll just follow me down this corridorâno, thatâs not blood on the floor, itâs color theory, Iâll explain it laterâI can bring you to this cask of wine that is certainly NOT a plinko machineâ
we can take the Eeby Deeby - no, no, I promise it's not going to Gay Superhell - look, Eebders Deebeorg was an outlier adn should not have been counted
hnnnnngg Iâm trying to get blorbo into my plinko but the eeby deeby I bought from the copper merchant who as it turns out was EXTREMELY disreputable (who is he, to treat me with such contempt?!) is dummy thicc, thicc enough to block the Suez Canal in fact, and the eebert of the deebert is so scrimblo bimblo it keeps alerting the horse
Bumblee's Finest whortleberry jam to be precise, although Estera had yet to persuade the man not to refer to it as jelly. She had however informed him that this was a hill on which she was willing to die and thus the war was far, far from over.
The small table between them was a chaotic battleground of crumbs, dollops of clotted cream and sticky ramekins. An industrial sized cafetiĂšre loomed over the scene, having been quickly traded for the laughably miniature 'coffee for two' pot.
They'd only been in the cafe forty minutes before the hastily suppressed widening of the waiterâs eyes confirmed Estera's suspicion that the two of them had prompted a sudden behind-the-counter reappraisal of the 'bottomless artisanal tea or coffee' deal that had accompanied the Ultimate Cream Tea for two.
If, in fact, Scott's innocently literal interpretation of unlimited cream and jam refills hadn't already pushed Sidmouth's fanciest cafe to the brink of bankruptcy.
She would leave a good tip.
In any event, the kitchen staff had given up on refilling the perfectly formed little dishes and just sent out the jars, the waitress visibly dissolving into goo at his enthusiastic thanks and apparently too distracted by dimples to notice the dollop of purple decorating his beaming face.
It was right there, how could he not feel it?
Surely he could actually see it?
Estera had to restrain herself from getting out the wet wipes again. There were plenty of brightly coloured napkins on the table and he'd realise in a minute. He wasn't some child that needed looking after. So she had spent the last five minutes at least trying to pretend she hadn't noticed but found herself slightly mesmerised by how the sticky substance caught the light as he moved and highlighted how animated his face became when he got talking about something he found interesting.
The gentleman in question currently appeared to be having an existential crisis at being unable to wholeheartedly commit to a favourite:
"It should be the wild blackberry and apple." He stuck his little finger into the dish in question and studied it with all the intensity of a connoisseur. "It's perfectly balanced and while it doesn't have the kick of the blackcurrant and sloe gin jellyâŠ"
"Jam"
"⊠jelly, it's got this lovely⊠mm⊠" Scott licked his finger then cast his eyes to the ceiling for a moment as if the adjective he was grasping for would be revealed amidst the faux grape vines that were artfully twined between the ancient oak beams "⊠appley flavour".
"That'd be the apple I presume."
The raised pinky of deep contemplation was smoothly replaced with finger guns of approval. Then a good humoured eye roll.
"Which is yours?"
Estera tapped the whortleberry jar without hesitation.
"I can't even give you a good reason, it's just⊠different to anything I had before I came here."
He hummed in agreement. "I'm inclined to agree. Although I do feel kinda guilty for betraying the apple one⊠Gordon would claim I had been body swapped.â
"Ah it's bound to be mostly blackberry." A grin stole across her face "I'm sure the World Confederation of Apple-Based Dessert Artisans and Appreciators will probably let you off with a caution⊠what? Don't tell me that really exists?"
"No⊠well I never heard of one anyhow. I was just thinkin' I should set one up."
The sparkle in his eyes made her laugh, sudden and enthusiastic
"And why not? If anyone could pull it off it'd be you! You could have expert committees for pies and pastries and crumbles."
"And jelly"
"Jam"
"Apple jelly research committee, confirmed. You can chair it."
"I'd lead the Apple Jam Research Committee with pride."
"Jelly. Oh we could give out awardsâŠ"
"Jam. You absolutely could! And you know what else?â
Estera leaned across the table to poke him gently in the shoulder "If you were in charge then you could choose your own Board!"
Scott's eyes shot up to meet the challenge in her own, then softened slightly as he inclined his head and accepted her unsubtle point with a quiet chuckle.
"Imagine that, huh?"
"Yes imagine! You could pick people who were not only experts in their field but who shared your vision and values. The kind of people you trust to challenge you when you need it, who raise complexities you might not have thought of but don't just⊠well⊠donât just block new ideas and make your life difficult because they think someone else might have done it differently. The kind of people who are proud to be working with you. Scott. Right now, in 2062, not some idiots clinging to their ideal of the past⊠people who see you not him. A real team! Because you need a team not a⊠not an examining board! A team like you have with your brothers. You deserve that. More than anyone! And I really do thinkâŠ"
The mild reminder from her lungs that they required regular top ups of oxygen came far too late and Estera flushed with embarrassment as she finally paused for breath and her sense of propriety and self-awareness staggered back on to the scene.
Scott had leaned back in his chair, absently rubbing the tip of his nose with the side of a curled finger. The jam was finally gone but so was the excitable sparkle - replaced instead by a cooler blue, sharper, more analytical.
As if heâd come to some kind of a conclusion and he wasnât sure he liked it.
The skin across her cheeks burned deeper even as her blood ran cold.
Jak ĆmieszâŠ
You dare?
"I'm so sorry⊠it's not my... Really. I know nothing about any of this⊠rude of me to⊠I just thoughtâŠâ
You don't get to think, girl.
The room pitched sideways at the edge of her field of vision and Estera pressed the back of her knee hard into the seat of the chair until it hurt, seeking to ground herself with the pain. Not now. Not now! Change the subject, quickly!
âI⊠uh⊠anywayâŠâ
You donât get to speak.
Bez nudged her leg and whined softly. Scott's scrutiny had shifted to wide eyed concern and he leaned forward again, but not before her body overruled her mind and obeyed the ever-present command:
RUN.
"Excuse me..." with a frantic wave in the direction of the toilets and a sharper but more subtle gesture to Bez to stay put, Estera all but threw herself out of the room.
Scott had been watching her, appraisingly. Estera was still an enigma in many ways, for all they had talked a lot it was mostly by instant message, or voice only call as she didn't have a holocall enabled device. They hadn't spent a great deal of time in each other's physical company and often there were other people to take account of then too.
So where he felt he had a fairly good grip on the nuances of her tone of voice these days, her visual tells were still novel. He didnât often get the chance to really figure someone out and was enjoying the challenge.
On the surface calm, never unfriendly with people, far from it, but while she spoke warmly there was often a sense that she was⊠guarded. That she didn't want to impose. Occasionally a phrase seemed almost rehearsed - perhaps that might be normal for someone speaking a second language, he wasn't sure. She certainly didn't refrain from giving her opinion from what heâd seen, but she listened and assessed and chose her words carefully. Words which usually seemed hand-picked to encourage and to cheer, even to cheerlead. You can take the teacher out of the classroomâŠ
Heâd started deliberately trying to wind her up to nudge away that mask. To extract the snappy comeback before it met the filter. He was reasonably good at that - years of irritating a genuine response out his more reticent brothers meant the muscle was well trained.
And yet.
Those few times she properly let her guard down and spoke passionately, when her words flooded out uncontrollably about something⊠it was always a surprise.
A tension in her face heâd never have said was there was missing, she blinked more, her jaw moved far more⊠in those brief hesitations where she was searching for the best English equivalent of the word she wanted to use he rather fancied he could see her brain tearing through the linguistic options, before the infinitesimal glint in her eye revealed she'd hit on the very one she wanted.
She fizzed.
And the bubbles were kind of intoxicating⊠he couldn't help but feel they could carry him too.
Right now she was saying nothing John and Virgil hadn't repeated a hundred times before. But somehow it felt new. Because his brothers were supposed to encourage him, they always had. They genuinely believed in him because they loved him which made it difficult for them to see the truth of it. They had never really understood why things were different for him - why it was right they had the choice to be themselves and do things their own way but that he could not.
What none of them seemed to appreciate was that TI wasn't his. At least it wasn't supposed to be. Tracy Industries was Jeff Tracy Industries and while the world had obviously expected that at some distant point the great man might step back a little and let whichever of his offspring had the inclination take the reins, it was never supposed to happen the way it did. Scott had never been handed those reins nor the authority to choose the direction, after all. He just just snatched them up, kept the show on the road and fiddled at rhe edges.
Yes, Scott had expanded TI⊠massively in fact, although mostly, he hoped, in a way his father would have approved of, even if the Board did not. The awful planet-destroying, employee-mistreating companies they'd acquired via hostile takeovers were never going to be balance sheet winners but manoeuvring things such that those factories and labs could have a positive impact on their communities instead, even if under a slightly different name⊠well that made the world a better place and Dad always said that was more important than the moneyâŠ
At least that was what he'd told his teenage son. Maybe he said different to the proper business people at work.
It had been a long long time since he'd been a teenage son though⊠maybe so long that Scott now counted as proper business people too? Estera seemed to assume as much. Maybe the rest of the world might too. The ones who didnât know.
Perhaps it was that simple after all? It was a dangerous thoughtâŠ. That perhaps he could start to believe he even had the right⊠that he could even reverse a few decisions Dad himself had made before he left.
The thought made him shiver.
In any event he suddenly found himself less certain that the dead end he kept pushing his face up against was the only route available to him.
Perhaps⊠perhaps as someone totally independent⊠someone who didnât even know Dad⊠she might be a good sounding board for a couple of the ideas he hadn't dared to allow himself to really flesh out⊠wouldnât hurt to tryâŠ
His train of thought was interrupted by the bubbles collapsing, Estera staring at him in horror like he'd pointed a gun to her chest and leaping to her feet to disappear mid-whispered sentence.
Sometimes a situation changed too fast even for Scott Tracy to keep up.
"More coffee for the ansum American and the dog lady."
Estera froze as she left the bathroom, torn between being seen and retreating to face the curious elderly lady who had walked in on her trying to fix her wet hair and t-shirt under the unnecessarily aggressive hand dryer.
The shock of cold water had done its job for once but she hadn't had the coordination to be careful. She'd smiled wryly and nodded at the sympathetic "ooh that jam's a devil to get out isn't it dear" but hadn't quite regained control of her voice and thus so firmly declined the offer of assistance, the lady had looked a little offended.
No, no going back but she couldn't possibly walk past the tiny kitchen now, they'd know she'd overheard and that poor waiter would be so embarrassed⊠instead she shuffled sideways to examine the shelf of toys and games the cafe had collected for customers to enjoy. Maybe she and Scott could play something to restrain her from running her mouth again.
"Thatun be the sweetest o' maids but 'ow she catched such a bey as eeâŠ"
Oh no. Please no. Not today.
"âS real cracker. They Americans love an English accent though."
"She's naw even gaht un ye gurt noodle, she be fromâŠ"
"Ah that I did know."
"Tarbul cawtch. Tarbul."
Estera tried to regain her composure by focussing on a mental note to look that one up again. She knew it wasn't the same as the similar-sounding Welsh word but the exact meaning was beyond the reach of her recallâŠ
"She's a dear thing, due a bit of luck."
"Ah tis. An 'er ulkin' dug, ee's a real duck. Our Edith were tellin'âŠ"
The roar of the coffee grinder saved her from revelation of her neighbour's opinion. Grabbing a random pack of cards she strode past and collected her expression into a bright smile as Scott looked up and swiped away whatever he was reading on his wrist comm. More than a hint of concern creased his forehead
"Sorry about that!" She forestalled the question but realised he wouldn't be satisfied unless she added a little grain of truth to make it believable "Just a little⊠dizzy moment, I get them sometimes but it's nothing to worry about."
He raised an eyebrow and she beamed her most convincing smile back at him.
âAre you sure? You looked kindaâŠâ
"Just a⊠a girl thing.â She hoped the guilt that lie reeked of might be interpreted as old fashioned embarrassment. âIâm One hundred percent tickety boo, I promise."
The bait worked at least temporarily
"Tickety⊠come on that one's definitely not real?â
Taking her chair and the last gulp of cold coffee from the mug, she reached down to reassure Bez whose trembling effort at ignoring his instincts in order to obey her stay command was making the floor vibrate. He sniffed at the cardboard box in her hand and she dropped it on the table "Oh I picked this up, thought it might be fun to play a game or something unless you have to head straight back?â
Keeping her eyes locked on Bez for a final few seconds of gathering herself, Estera was pulled from counting down by an amused cackle from her friend.
âBold move, E. Possibly crazy. But bold.â
Belatedly, she dragged her eyes the seemingly infinite distance upwards to behold the jarring typography typical of turn of the century budget game design. Sometimes the universe had a really twisted sense of humour.
Devonshire translation (because given Iâd put them there I couldnât resist a hat tip to the locals - no, the vast majority donât have such a strong accent but enough do)
Thatun be - that one is
Bey - boy
Gurt noodle - silly person
Tarbul cawtch - terrible mess / situation (always been amused this is so close to the Welsh cwtch and yet different in meaning. Sounds quite different spoken though because as most vowels are elongated with a Devon accent that âaâ punches.)
This is an alternative take on the time post Lucy's death. I have read and enjoyed many fics that have Jeff throw himself into his work after the death of his wife. And I will continue to love this take. But what if the need to keep busy hit Jeff a little differently?
â€ïž
Ao3
The days had blurred into one interminably long one. His eyes were full of grit, his ears ringing with a continuous high buzz, but what did that matter. There were things that needed doing, and it made it easier if he broke them down to individual tasks. Clean bottles, make lunches, rouse the kids, gather laundry, fold laundry, do the dishes, had to look after their boys.
It hurt, every time he looked at them, the pressure in his chest, his beautiful boys, that last connection to his beloved wife. They were his world and he would do everything to keep them safe. They needed consistency and a loving home, and he Would provide that. He could do that. He just needed to make sure they had everything they needed. He could do that.
Juggling Alan on his hip he dragged clean laundry into a basket. Stashing sandwiches into school satchels and dragging a comb through unruly locks. Emails got picked at between diaper changes, meals prep, grocery runs. Video calls were abandoned in favour of rocking Alan to sleep for his afternoon nap. The bedtime routine took three hours with extended bath time because Jeff just couldnât cut short Gordonâs fun. Bedtime stories were read until his voice cracked. Requests for a glass of water, one more plushie, the light in the hall to be left on? Jeff would sort it. His evenings were filled with folding laundry, emptying school bags, finishing those emails he had started at 6am. He would lay down to rest, but sleep wouldnât come.
Jeff would wake, with harsh drawn breath, in the middle of the night, to scribble notes on whatever scraps of paper were to hand. The guilt at writing across a school report revisited him regularly.
There was no point, he could be doing something else more worthwhile. Chasing away nightmare monsters, changing bedding after nighttime accidents. Soon the morning light would bleed in, and Jeff could try and get a couple of hours of work done before the morning school run began. So many times that work would be done with Alan curled up on Jeffâs lap. His steady breathing bringing mutual comfort to both parties. His hand would stall in its typing, drawn like a magnet to the downy soft head, âhush little oneâ.
They would find him there still, his older boys, when they emerged in search of breakfast. Jeff would blink away the gritty sleep from his eyes, wondering how it could even exist when sleep itself had been so elusive. Then it was on with the day, snatched naps, business calls, after school clubs, meals for all. If he just kept moving, then there was no time for doubt.
Scott tiptoed down the stairs, a little earlier than usual, almost not surprised when he found his dad tucked in the big armchair with baby Alan in his arms. Jeff had his head tipped back in a light doze, one had still patting Alans back on auto pilot.
The baby of the family had been particularly clingy ever sinceâŠ., well, it wasnât exactly surprising. He would only settle on their father, who would walk miles in circles around the kitchen and lounge seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
Despite all the upheaval, their father had worked himself to the bone keeping as much normality for the motherless family. After school pick up? Jeff was there, home later due to sports practice, Jeff knew, and had a plate of food ready as you walked in the door. 4 bagged lunches were ready each morning, with each kids preferences catered for.
Not that Scott wasnât grateful, but it was ridiculous. Scott hadnât been picked up at the school gates in years. Lunches had been one size fits all, or sort yourself out ever since he went to high school. And that had been fine. Why Jeff now felt the need to out perform the stay at home mom stereotype was a mystery. Well, it wasnât really, Scott could see that their father was just trying to be the best mom/dad possible, it was coming from a place of love. But even Scott could see that it wasnât sustainable. Their father was trying to be breadwinner, business owner and homemaker extraordinaire all rolled into one. There was no way he could keep this up.
Unread emails flashed from every device Jeff picked up and abandoned around the house. Excess groceries stacked up outside the larder. Clothes got cooked in the over packed dryer. The biggest give away, though, was the physical state Jeff was in. Each child left the house in freshly pressed clothes (Scott had never seen a pair of jeans with a center crease before.) Jeff, though, was living in a tight cycle of the same worn sweat pants. The bags under his eyes had got to the point that even oblivious young teenagers could notice them.
Scott decided it was time for action. Just like his father, Scott's go to solution was usually to throw himself into the problem. That hadnât been such an instant fix though. The first time Scott had tried to take Alan out of Jeff's arms and help with the bedtime kitchen circuits, Alan had screamed loud enough that everyone had feared for the structural stability of the old beams above their heads. Alan was not having it, he would only be settled by his Dad.
Scott was able to have a little more success helping with the cooking if he was quick enough. On a few occasions Scott rattled through meal preparation only for Jeff to pull out a pre-prepared dish out of the oven, but in a family of five boys nobody ever complained about an extra dish.
John was set to the challenge of doctoring the shopping list, always stuck to the front of the fridge, to adjust the quantities and plotted meals to best utilize what items they had or use up excess from one meal to the next. He saw it like the logic puzzle it was, and quickly found a pattern that worked for the family. They were never quite sure if Jeff noticed the adjustments, he bought what was on the list and that was fine.
Scott set Virgil to laundry duty, and if he was quick enough Virgil was able to drag loads in and out of the machines before and after school, thereby controlling the flow of clean clothes. By cross referencing the family planner on the wall, he mostly kept ahead of the kit requirements for different classes and afterschool commitments. They found that as long as the washing machine was on and the dryer was turning, Jeff seemed satisfied. Probably assuming that he had just forgotten loading it. Scott, John and Virgil set to scooping up clean dry clothes and flinging it into piles on each boys bed before Jeff had a chance to try and impose military creases onto their clothes, thereby removing another job. Sure some times the piles got mixed, but usually they just swapped clothes about until it got to the right owner. Well, everyone apart from Gordon, who assumed anything on his pile was his regardless of appropriateness. He did look adorable in a full button up shirt even if the arms were pushed so far up to allow Gordon's fingers to peek out of the cuffs that it created full puffed sleeves.
Jeff didnât seem to notice that they didnât have many white clothes anymore, or that the kids seemed to be favoring grey and light pink more than they had before. At least they were clean.
Panic ran through all the boys the day Jeff threatened to give them all home haircuts. A bit of rapid problem solving and the boys deployed the only weapon in their arsenal, a teething grouchy baby who couldnât find his favorite plushie (Scott would feel bad about that for years to come). Jeff was immobilised with clingy offspring, and the bangs got to live for another day! If Scott just happened to have a free period the following afternoon and used it to meet all of his siblings after school and make sure they went home via the barber shop rather than the library, well, they just hoped that no adults would look too closely at that, it was an emergency.
Despite all of their fixes, the boys were still struggling to help with one final load. The rapidly growing youngest brother who still refused to be settled by anyone other than Jeff, which consequently meant that Jeff was consistently running on less than 4 hours of broken sleep.
Scott turned the problem over and over in his mind, there had to be a way that they could offer their Dad some kind of break, without leaving the little dude completely distraught. They had tried bribery with soft toys. Alan had simply clung to them and Jeff, the boy had an impressively strong grip. They tried giving him an extra big drink of warm milk, praying he would be so knocked out by the soporific qualities that they could just peel him off their father and put him to sleep in his cot. Alan had nearly been convinced to have a nap whilst Scott was curled up next to him. Little eyes had started to drift, but when his pudgy little face had gone to snuffle into Scott's shirt, one sticky paw locked into the fabric, his eyes had snapped open again and all thoughts of nap were gone to be replaced by howling.
It was enough for John to suggest a slight adaptation before trying again. Next weekend Scott offered to take Alan while Jeff was trying to fix Gordon's bike. A task that would have been a lot easier without an armfull of baby Alan. âHeâs probably going to need a nap in a little while, Iâll be back inside in a few!â Jeff called after his retreating sons. Gordon pulled his Dadâs attention back to the problem at hand by being quite literally the problem at hand and wedging a stick through the rear spokes with a joyful âHI-YA!â Scott made his escape.
Back in the house Virgil handed Scott one of their fathers shirts, scavenged from the laundry pile. John doused Scott with a heavy handed splosh of their Dads aftershave and then had to excuse himself to wash the excess off his own hands, wrinkling his nose at the onslaught. Virgil fetched the warmed bottle that Scott had already prepared, a little fuller than Jeff may have carefully measured out. It was the work of a few moments to have the oldest and youngest tucked up on a couch with plenty of cushions.
Bottle of milk deployed, baby burped and the heavy blinks were coming in thick and fast. Virgil and John looked on, hardly daring to breathe in case they broke the spell. A sleepy little yawn and then Alan was gone, no hint of a fuss, no sudden start and scream of betrayal, 10 minutes later and the older brothers finally felt confident enough to try phase two of the plan.
The old family moses basket had been dragged out of the foot of Gordon's bed, where it has been holding Gordonâs plushy collection for the last few years. It had been deemed a bit past it by the time the fifth baby came along, that, and neither parent had wanted to try and part Gordon from it, who was rather attached. Little did they know that Gordon would be quite amenable to handing over the basket if the right leverage was applied. In this instance, John had repurposed a large cardboard box that had been flat packed in the garage and he and Virgil had cut holes in it and crudely painted it so it looked like a submarine. Sure it still had the branding for the previous purchase running along one side, and the âthis way upâ arrows. But there was a porthole, so Gordon was sold. The only problem now was that Gordon was determined to sleep in the box and had tried to make a mattress in the bottom of the box out of soft toys and blankets. That was a problem for actual bedtime, right now they were just trying to get through naptime without their father wearing a groove in the kitchen floor.
For phase two deployment, Virgil pulled out another item of Jeff's clothing, this time a sweater. John refused to do the cologne this time, so Virgil just scrubbed at Scott's neck with the sweater, despite Scott trying to bat him away with his one free hand. Virgil then removed a hot water bottle from the basket, checked the resulting temperature before neatly arranging the sweater in the pre-warmed moses basket and with incredible care. Next, with the kind of precision movements more usually seen during brain surgery, the three boys carefully shifted their baby brother into the basket. Scott sat for a few minutes after the relocation, his hand resting lightly on Alan's back, just to be sure he was still settled, before slowly inching away on tiptoes. All three older boys sat in the doorway, watching the sleeping baby for the rest of his naptime, partly to form a physical barrier should Jeff or Gordon try to come this way, and partly so they could continue to watch over the sleeping form. They were all a little shocked that their plan appeared to be working, they didnât want to jinx it by breathing a single word, it would be sure to break the spell.
When Jeff came hurrying in a few minutes later he nearly fell bodily over his three eldest sat in the doorway to the lounge. He caught himself on the door frame before Scott was on his feet and hustling Jeff out of the room.
Jeff found himself shoved, a little forcefully into sitting on the old rocker on the porch. John had swept up a giggling Gordon and hurried him out into the back yard. Virgil had shuffled on his bum until he was sat on the floor next to the moses basket, holding a serious faced vigil.
âWhatâs going on?â Jeff asked, only to be shushed by his eldest. âLook if theres something you want to talk about, Iâm all ears, but can we do it while I get Alan down for his nap, otherwise heâs going to be cranky.â
âNo need Dad,â Scott beamed.
âCome again?â Jeff tried to get to his feed, but was shoved back down and this time a blanket was deployed to pin him in.
âAlan is napping, and now you should be too!â Scott was far too please with himself, but then his face took a more serious expression. âDad, we know how much you do for us, but youâre gonna burn out, you donât have to do everything at once, weâve got this!â
Burn out? It felt so strange for such grown up phrases to be coming out of his oldest babies mouth, because they would all always be his babies no matter how big they got.
âScott, Iâm your father, itâs my job to look after you.â he tried to get up again, but then Scott deployed a look that was just every inch Lucy, and the energy drained from Jeffâs limbs.
â and you do Dad, but like I said, you donât need to do it all at once. We can help,we want to help, Mom would have made us help.â the last bit was said quietly, but still with just as much feeling.
It gave Jeff reason enough to pause. Scott was right, Lucy had always believed in the whole family pulling together, she wanted her boys to be capable and independent, and Jeff agreed. Just, what with everything that had happened, Jeff had plastered over any cracks with manic productivity, as if he could push grief away with âŠ.with busy work. Lucy had called him out on it enough times. When Jeff was stressed, he found things to do. When they had been expecting Scotty, Jeff had repainted every room in the house. He worked well under pressure, it was what had got him where he was today. Hell, the early plans for what would be come Tracy Industries had been hashed out on a space flight that had gone slightly off plan and required several âJeff Tracy fixesâ and a helluva lot of duct tape to get them home in one piece. But he had never had to run on that adrenaline for quite so long, and it was taking its toll. What could he do though? His boys needed him, and he would always put them first. He opened his mouth to protest, but Scott had raised an eyebrow in just a way to cut through all the arguments, so like his mother, that Jeff had to bite his lip and blink more rapidly.
âDad, please rest, Alan is fine. Weâre tough, weâre Tracysâ
âBut you shouldnât have to be tough,â Jeff sniffed, trying to keep his voice level and hopefully with a little authority in it.
âCanât help that! It's in our genetics!â and with that, Scott shot his father a massive grin, clearly pleased with himself, and turned on his heels sharply, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Jeff was too confused to know what to do with that, the lack of sleep may have played a part in his slow processing speed, Jeff was self aware enough to admit that to himself. Peeling the tightly tucked blanket off himself, he crept to the the front window that allowed him a view into the lounge. True enough, there was Alan, tucked up contentedly in the old slightly holey baby basket, snoozing contentedlyâŠ.was that Jeff best pullover?! He sighed, it was probably a fair price to pay to get out of pacing the kitchen floor for the next hour. He let himself slide down until his bum hit the porch decking. The sun was warm through the patchy clouds and softly dappled through the old tree on the front lawn. It was enough, and soon Jeffs head was leaning back against the house cladding, and his snores were adding to the white noise lulling his youngest son into a deeper sleep.
Occasionally the sound scape was punctuated by a squeal from Gordon who John was spraying with the hose out back, the theory being it would tire the youngster out and maybe reduce how long bath time took later.
(spoiler - it didnât work, Gordon managed to wrangle a two hour bath, through the liberal application of adorable gap toothed grins and old fashioned bargaining prowess. Jeff, recharged a little from his nap, and handing responsibility of Alan's bedtime story to Scott, was content to just soak up every bit of joy that he could from Gordon's evident love of the water - or at least the bath bubbles.)
Inspired by comments from @thebirdfantasy and @womble1 on Wings & Feathers. Unfortunately their comments wonât work with Marks & WingsâŠbut thatâs doesnât mean it wonât work with Eagle!Scott. With thanks to @mariashades for allowing me to use her lore of 'weres needing to eat raw meat, and for her and @the-original-sineater for the read-throughs.
This is a standalone series that isnât canon with my Transformation series.
~
âReally little babies sure are uglyâ was the thought that ran through Jeffâs mind as he held his three-day-old carefully.
He yawned widely as he regarded the wrinkled object of his thoughts. As if heâd known his father was thinking about him Scottâs eyes seemed to focus on JeffâŠand he screwed up his face and began to cry in earnest.
âIâm sorry! Iâm sorry, Daddy didnât mean it, Scotty!â
Jeff repeated the refrain over and over while gently jiggling the affronted tot, but Scott would not be comforted.
Eventually Lucy appeared. Even freshly woken up from her nap earlier than hoped for she looked radiant. And as Lucy took Scott and settled him to her breast Jeff could help but fall in love with her all over again.
Nor could he stifle a little grumble at how easily Scott had stopped fussingâŠ
Of course, once Scott hit nine weeks he began to look like the usual baby seen in pictures, and Jeff stopped worrying so much about having an âuglyâ baby.
Lucy had thumped him quite hard when heâd voiced this out loud one morning. And then sheâd fixed him with a fierce glare that promised worse if he should ever dare to say such a thing again.
Then sheâd been deliberately cryptic with what she next said.
âJust remember that when you see Scotty change.â
His wife had never hid from him her other-self. She was a wolf - a beautiful white wolf when she wanted to be or needed to be - and as such there was a distinct possibility that their children would inherit the gene from her.
What animal that gene would produce would be anyoneâs guess - anything was possible, and while Lucy secretly hoped for at least one of her children to be a wolf too, sheâd be happy with any creature, or even if they didnât inherit anything.
It was as Scott began teething a couple of months later that his very first transformation occurred.
One moment he was a beautiful (if dribbly) baby boy, the next he was a mass of pale fluff. The bird clacked his beak at Jeff before whatever raptor Scott had turned into carefully settled on Lucyâs lap.
A look at Jeffâs face had her laughing quietly, trying her hardest not to disturb the little eaglet, but Scott let out an indignant squawk at being jostled so, with some very visible effort, Lucy got herself under control.
âJeff, youâll hurt Scottyâs feelings if you keep looking at him like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike you have no idea what he is!â
Flushing, Jeff muttered and he also pulled himself together.
âDo we even know what bird he is?â
âHeâs an eagle I think. Very distinctive beak. Which one we wonât know until his feathers grow in.â
âAn eagle, huh? Nice.â
Again Lucy suppressed her mirth. Sheâd laughed along with Ruth at Jeffâs shock at discovering newborns werenât necessarily the most beautiful and now heâd have to go through that all again.
Baby birds were definitely notâŠpretty. But if Jeff thought a down-covered eaglet wasnât that pretty she couldnât wait to see his reaction as Scottâs feathers grew through.
But the pale downy fluff was soft and she enjoyed gently scratching her nestling and Scott seemed to thoroughly enjoy the attention too.
From that time onwards they could never be sure what would greet them first thing. There seemed no pattern as to whether Scott was a baby or an eaglet, but what was certain was that during his roughest times teething heâd frequently change into his bird self.
And as baby Scott reached his milestones so did the eaglet.
The pale downy covering was quickly replaced by a thick grey down. This stayed for a couple of weeks before the pin feathers began to emerge through the down.
Poor Scotty went through a miserable few weeks as this coincided with the breaking through of his upper incisors. Both his selfs were uncomfortableâŠ
Eventually though he had four incisors as his baby self and black-brown feathers on his wings, back and shoulders.
The rest of the eaglet stayed dark grey down, and sometimes, especially when Jeff was feeding Scotty raw meat strips, Lucy would catch him staring at the juvenile with a puzzled look.
The next stage of growth for both selves seemed to arrive suddenly, although Lucy knew that wasnât the case.
As Scott began to crawl in earnest so his down began to be replaced with his juvenile plumage. Light brown and white feathers replaced the down and a small crest grew at the back of his head.
All this meant that his parents finally found out what species of eagle he was. And Lucy laughed for quite a while. Of course their baby was going to grow up into the biggest eagle there wasâŠ
But for now he was still smallâŠish, and was beginning to flex his wing muscles, so Jeff and Grant set about building several perches at various heights and they cleared the surroundings so Scott could stretch out to his fullest without fear of damaging himself or anything else.
The crest that Scott sported amused both parents.
By the time his eagle-self was a fledging his wing and tail feathers had grown in. His flight feathers had hardened and Scott enjoyed flexing his wings. Heâd lost that âugly ducklingâ look and was a quite majestic Harpy Eagle even though he wasnât an adult yet.
Both Jeff and Lucy had done much research on raptors and Harpy Eagles in particular. The wingspan he had now would be a little longer than as a fully-grown adult bird â the web had referred to is as âtraining wheelsâ to provide extra help while learning to fly.
It was at this time they came to the realisation that their apartment, while reasonably roomy, was not fit for a growing bird, and as a walking Scott was just as difficult to keep an eye on as a flying ScottâŠ
Grant came to their rescue, letting them know about a farmhouse with land going on the opposite side of town. It was a large building with several outbuildings and fields that Grant would get his men to work if Jeff was interested.
Now eighteen months old, toddler-Scott was into everything and had a turn of speed Jeff frankly envied. He could get into places in the apartment that his parents were sure he shouldnât be able to. The boy had no concept of âslowâ as both human and bird, and it didnât take long for Scot to take a serious tumble and break his arm.
Thank goodness heâd been human at the timeâŠ
It was the deciding factor in them taking the farmhouse.
That, and finding out they were expecting again.
Step one: use hall bathroom instead of master bathroom, notice that Builder Beige switchplate is horrid with lovely new purple walls. Take it down and wash it thoroughly.
Step two: dig out stash of old seed catalogues saved for this purpose. Get super crabby because you can't find the Mod Podge anywhere. Give up, then have daughter find it immediately, in the "glue box" you forgot you created.
Step three: decide on a color scheme, and start cutting. I asked @phantomtheraccoon if we should coordinate or contrast and she cleverly said both.
Step four: collect your flowers and fiddle with layout.
Step five: paint item with Mod Podge, place your images, and paint them again. Leave to dry, which honestly doesn't take long.
Step six: trim edges add cut out holes. I didn't actually cut out the screw holes; I just cut little X's there for the screws to go through. Worked fine to put it up, we'll see someday how it survives taking it apart again.
Step seven: coat everything with Mod Podge at least one more time, paying special attention to edges. Dry elevated on something (say, the top of the Mod Podge bottle) so it doesn't stick down.
Step eight: okay, wow, that's awesomer than expected!
Ooh, yes, I should decorate my light switch plates here, even if I can't bring myself to do all the painting. I used to have a Lumos/Nox one I made very hastily when I was first renting and it made me happy every time I used it. Light switch plates are such an easy, cheap way to decorate when your space is temporary (they're like a dollar at home improvement stores and very simple to replace with the original when you move out), highly recommend this kind of craft.
Yes to this addition. They're so cheap! Just do something, and then you will enjoy it every time you use it! Do something crappy! You can redo it later. This is such a low-risk/high reward project.
ellievsbear
jbbartram-illu
janainaart
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
areudirty
