I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.
...I might need to back up a bit.
My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.
They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.
Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.
My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.
Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.
It's a Great Van.
Very easy and comfortable to drive.
Stunningly good MPG for it's size.
The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.
It's just also.
Quirky.
Mischievous, even.
---
If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.
It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.
My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.
On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.
Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.
---
As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.
The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along.
Sometimes, they fight for Dominance.
The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.
Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.
I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song-
The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors
-is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.
You all know this song already.
...but in case you've forgotten the tune:
Yeah.
The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.
It does not play this song at a normal volume.
Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.
Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.
...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.
---
So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.
It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening.
I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window.
My feet are up.
There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv.
-But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage,
including,
among other valuable possessions,
the keys to her car.
...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.
There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.
Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.
Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.
I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.
The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.
It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.
I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic.
It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.
While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.
Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.
I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.
I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.
Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.
It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.
I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.
The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.
We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.
I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.
The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.
I look down at myself.
In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:
Flip Flops.
Not matching.
It's below freezing outside.
That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.
Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time.
It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.
The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.
A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal.
It is also Bright Red. with black accents.
The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.
The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.
My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge.
It is ALSO bright red.
A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.
The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.
I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:
The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.
This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes.
So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.
The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.
I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.
"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"
The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.
$6.66
"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.
I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.
It also turns on the music player.
I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.
Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.
---
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Do you think a Pikmin could run a tumblr blog? Asking for a friend. 🌻
thanks to research conducted by the rescue corps' brave and talented rookie, it has been confirmed that a pikmin can, infact, write a tumblr post. their ability to run an entire blog, however, remains to be seen ...
I am never going to complain about Greek Duolingo again
I mean, I am. But still.
So, as some of you know, my family has been coming to this tiny Greek seaside village for several years. Just over a week ago I came out here with my mum, under the impression that early September, after the height of the summer heat, would be a good time to have a holiday. ANYWAY Storm Daniel had other ideas about that. Locally things are improving (I'm actually really pissed off about the disaster-porn tone of most English-language media coverage, but that's another post). The power is back on, there's running water most of the time, and though the latter is not drinkable, a truck from the government came and handled out free bottled water yesterday. But we are currently kind of stuck. Can't do tourist things. Can't go home. There aren't any local flights out until Saturday and the road to Thessaloniki is still closed.
So this evening, feeling kind of aimless and depressed, I go down to the nearest beach with a couple of binbags and start cleaning up in an effort to at least do something positive. I always try to do this at least once out here and obviously, after the storm, there's a lot more plastic and rubbish than usual.
At some point I find this large, round bit of metal - some kind of machinery part, I think -- that's too big for the bag, so I take it to the bins on its own, leaving the rubbish bag on the beach. And when I come back for it, something among the stones beside it moves.
Specifically, it pulls its head sharply inside its shell
So, meanwhile I've been trying to learn some Greek with the help of Duolingo.
I currently have a 33-day streak and... I have questions. Shouldn't I be able to use the past or future tenses by now? Shouldn't I be able to say "x is like y"? I can't do those things. But one thing I absolutely can say all day long is έχω μια χελώνα : I have a turtle.
This is far from the limit of Duolingo Greek's turtle-related content. "An obsession with turtles" is my mother's characterisation. I can inform you that the turtle is not a bird, and, improbably, that the turtle is drinking milk. I can introduce you to a turtle in company with a horse and an elephant. As far as Duolingo is concerned, it really is turtles all the way down.
Now this, you may be able to see, is not a turtle. It has claws rather than flippers. It is a tortoise. I know there are wild tortoises in Greece: my aunt once rescued a pair of them shagging in the middle of the road -- but that was up in the mountains. I've even seen one myself, but it was also on a road and very dead.
I am 95% certain they don't belong on beaches. There's nothing for it to eat, except, unfortunately, a lot of plastic. Even if it gets off the beach it will immediately find itself on a road where it could get hit by a car. I'm pretty sure it must have been washed down by the floodwater and has been just sitting there, dazed, ever since.
Now obviously the first thing I want to do on encountering this unusual animal is to go and tell my mummy, so I do. The tortoise immediately brightens her day. She agrees that the tortoise is not happy on the beach and needs to be taken somewhere safe. it gets surprisingly wriggly when picked up so we put it in a carrier bag with some grapes and cucumber and go looking for somewhere to rehome it.
We find a path leading up between the houses towards a likely-looking field, but before we get very far a dog in a yard goes berserk and a man's head pops over a fence and demands to know what we're doing. He does this in English, as evidently we're just that obviously tourists.
"I found a tortoise on the beach!" I explain. "We want to find somewhere to put it."
"A what," he asks.
"It's like a, you know," I begin and then to my astonishment I find myself saying... "μια χελώνα"
"Oh! A turtle!" he says.
"But from the land. δεν είναι χελώνα", [it is not a turtle,] I say, as I am worried he will tell me to put it back near the sea where I found it. As it turns out it actually IS a χελώνα, Greek does not distinguish between turtles and tortoises, but I don't know that; I can't even name the days of the week or identify any colours other than pink yet, give me a break.
The man's entire demeanour changes and thaws. He does not worry about my turtle-that-is-not-a-turtle conundrum. He knows where οι χελώνες come from and where η χελώνα μας belongs. He leads us through a gate into a courtyard area.
"[somethingsomething] μια χελώνα," he explains to the assembled onlookers, of whom there are, suddenly, a surprising number.
"ΜΙΑ ΧΕΛΩΝΑ!!!" crows the throng of delighted small children, who are, suddenly, everywhere.
"μια χελώνα!" I agree, accepting that at least for current purposes, that is what it is.
"Μπορούμε να δούμε τη χελώνα σας; [can we see your turtle?]" asks an adorable little girl, shyly, and I understand??
The children fucking love looking at the χελώνα and showing it to them is kind of magical?
I finally put the tortoise down on the grass of this wild area off to the side of the courtyard, and marvel aloud that it is weird that I barely know any Greek except how to say μια χελώνα.
"I think she will soon run off," a kind lady called Aspasia assures me, seeing I remain slightly anxious about its fate. "I don't know why I'm saying 'she'. I suppose because χελώνα is feminine in Greek."
"Yes! I know that!" I exclaim, thrilled.
"Well done!" she says. And also she asks if we are OK for drinking water after the storm and if we need any help with anything and is just generally incredibly lovely and now we know more of the neighbours!
So "μια χελώνα" has just become, by a long way, my most-used and most understood and all-around most conversationally successful phrase in Greek. So I guess I have to admit I was wrong to doubt Duolingo's wisdom: it is correct to be obsessed with turtles. And I concede that prior to learning how to count to ten or to distinguish right from left, the simple ability to yell the word TURTLE over and over again is, it turns out, a crucial element of the responsible traveller's social skills.
(I am pretty fluent in Italian and turtles haven't come up in conversation even once?)
Okay, it’s late at night but i’m gonna be honest here. the more i mature as a person, the more i dislike seeing posts like “if you’re reading this, you should be writing” or mocking writers for having too many works in progress, or encouraging them to mock themselves for it.
Guess what! YOU are contributing to the grind culture and you need to stop and think critically about whether this is really encouragement, or if it’s going to lead to burnout and people slogging through WIPs that no longer resonate with them, all for the sake of that gold standard completionism.
Abandoned works in progress are part of the natural process of growing as a writer. Having too many ideas and not enough stamina for all of them is part of the natural process of growing as a writer. Eventually, you learn to grow your stamina, to create oneshots, to relegate certain AUs to remain just concepts or tumblr tags on your blog with a couple of posts, and not make everything a fic. Authors, like most humans, are capable of learning self-regulation if you give them a chance.
And pushing them to create finished, easily consumable works? BRO WHY ARE YOU STUNTING THE NATURAL CREATIVE PROGRESS IN FAVOR OF SOMETHING THAT IS EASY TO CONSUME? Why do you encourage the mindless grind?
Idk man, it’s suspiciously close to the capitalistic mindset to me. Some people just have fun telling goofy little stories, and we as a society need to treat them as growing artists and not endless content machines. writers are human too! we need community and emotional investment. why don’t you stop going for the low hanging fruit of “go work on one of your 50 wips” and let people live. Better yet, go leave a nice comment on a work that hasn’t been updated in months or even years. A drop of honey versus a barrel of vinegar and all that.
i said it in the tags of another post but among all the talk of how wtnv revolutionized queer media - which they did - i feel like we're neglecting to mention that night vale changed podcasting as a medium. fiction podcasts as we know them now straight up did not exist before cranor and fink got their start. nonfiction pods were very much a thing, but the only pre-night vale fiction podcasts i can name offhand the leviathan chronicles, metamor city, and we're alive. and if you go back and listen to them, they are a lot less like the format we know now (usually diagetic recordings) and were basically just fully acted audio books. and they were good! the leviathan chronicles is a personal favorite. but podcasts as truly immersive fiction? that's night vale, all the way. the fact that they tend to favor horror? also night vale. the fact that you can't swing a cat without hitting some form of queer in just about any successful show? bingo.
i just think that we don't give them the credit they deserve for being the fucking blueprint.
[Image ID: Ingo and Emmet from Pokemon Black and White are drawn somewhat neutrally from the chest up. Emmet is slightly in front of Ingo and leaning a bit foward to make Ingo more visible in the back. Below them, the text “thank you” reads in blue and green, and below the text is a drawing of the artist herself, a light-skinned woman wearing a sailor dress and tam hat with short wavy hair. Her eyes are closed with a tear running down her cheek, and her hand is clenched into a fist and held close to her chest. End image ID.]
Considering day seven’s themes were pride and solidarity, I made this one a bit more personal.
I got my autism diagnosis amidst an OCD-induced mental breakdown in 2009. It gave me answers I’d sought for most of my life, but the narrative back then was still heavily dominated by organizations like Autism Speaks, which preached that I was a blight on society, a burden to my parents, something that needed to be “cured” (i.e. eradicated). I actually started hiding my autistic traits at first, trying to compensate for what the world thought were my deficits. I had a name for why I was like this, but I also knew I wouldn’t be accepted like this, so I ironically started masking harder.
That changed when I found the self-advocacy community and started to blog about my own experiences as an autistic woman diagnosed in adulthood. By hearing other people’s experiences and feeling safe enough to share my own, I began to embrace my autistic traits and allowed myself to be open about my diagnosis and how it affected my life. But there was a part of me that I still felt I had to hide. Sometimes it broke through for short periods, but ultimately it was an autism stereotype and I felt like I needed to bury it deep.
I’ve liked trains since I was a little kid. But that little kid learned early on that this was an interest that people made fun of, so she kept that part of herself extremely private. It was a hobby she could only share with her family - indeed, she shared it with her dad - and friends didn’t even know she had it until adulthood. I ended up suppressing it further after my diagnosis at age 20 because I didn’t want to be an autism stereotype. People found out in 2014 briefly, but I went back into the train closet not long afterwards, and friends only knew I had a near-encyclopedic knowledge of the NYC Subway system because they traveled around the city with me.
In 2020, though, I found Submas, and it was like looking into a mirror.
They were both so much like me that it was unreal. I noticed people loving them as they were, just allowing them to be themselves, and it awakened something in me. Bit by bit, I began allowing myself to be more and more open about my interests again, and I started leaning into the train stuff intentionally and allowing myself to unapologetically enjoy it. I don’t think I’d have gotten to this point without Ingo and Emmet, but they were there when I needed them to be, and now I’m the adult version of the little girl who loved trains so much and so joyfully. I wrote an essay about it here, but the jist of it…is that I’m allowed to be me again, and these two helped me get there. I’ve finally achieved a childhood dream and driven a steam locomotive now, and I wouldn’t have gone for it if it weren’t for these two giving me myself back.
Drawn for day seven of @submas-autistic-joy, an event all about allowing Ingo and Emmet to be…well, themselves, without angst or ableism. For more on the event specifically, you can check the post out here!
Submas Autistic Joy Week 2022, day 7: Proud/Solidarity
Last day! I thought to myself "Go big or go home", and considering I am at home already, I went big. A nine image comic that made me weep at times, but damn if I am not proud of myself. ^^ Because the Image ID is so long, I put it under a readmore.
(Image ID: A nine image comic, drawn digitally. It is largely in greyscale.
In the first image, a young emmet is walking directly near the camera, and is slightly blurred and somewhat staticy. You cannot see his eyes, only his smile. He is in colour, while everything else is greyscale. Ingo stands in the back, holding a ball, and looks slightly distraught. In a box, the words "When we were younger, you always ran ahead. I wasn't sure if I could keep up."
In the second image, Emmet turns to the camera, and looks back. He is still in colour and is still slightly blurred. The words "Ingo?" are connected to him with a line.
In the third image, both twins are walking ahead, smiling and looking at each other. In a box, the words "You always held my hand" are written.
In the fourth image, Ingo is standing close to the camera, while he watches a teenage Emmet and Elesa fight in a double battle. They both already have their sideburns, and Emmet has Garbodor and Durant on the field, fighting against Elesa's Emolga. In a box, the words "When we became teenagers, you became so much stronger. I wasn't sure if I could keep up." are written.
In the fifth image, Emmet once again turns to the camera, and asks for Ingo.
In the sixth image, Ingo and Emmet point directly at the camera, ready for a battle. In a box, the words "You always made sure I was there" are written.
In the seventh image, Ingo, as an adult, is looking at pictures on the wall in the home he and Emmet share. His coat is hanging on the wall as well, on the far right of the image. The wall is made of grey brickwork, and two rows of Unovan gym badges are on the wall as well. in a box, the words "We are both so much older now. We have changed, we have grown. And yet, you still want me with you." are written.
In the eight image, Emmet is again turned to the camera, arms behind his back, dressed in Subway Boss regalia. He's asking for Ingo again.
In the ninth image, both twins are walking on the platform of the Multi train in Gear station, with Eelektross and Haxorus out. They are talking, and emmet is gesturing in excitement. In a box, the words "I couldn't be prouder to have you as my brother, Emmet." are written. End image ID)
Submas Autistic Joy Week 2022, Day 6: Special Interest/Teaching
A group of school children and their teacher take an excursion to Gear Station
"Now kids, remember to stay in line and listen to what the people at Gear Station have to say, yes?" The voices of the teacher and her class of children are loud enough to rival Ingo. It makes several Depot Agents look up, one raising her hand in a signal to inform the bosses.
"Hello and welcome to Gear Station!" She calls out to the teacher, putting on her best child-friendly smile.
"You are the group from the Nimbasa Primary School, right?"
"Yes! Thank you so much again for making this possible." The teacher replies cheerfully, keeping all twenty children in check.
"The bosses will come in a moment. Until then, I'll be your guide. Come, I can show you the way to the meeting room." The Depot Agents clasps her hands behind her back.
"For you kids, I'm Depot Agent Hana." A chorus of squeaky voices tells her hi, before she leads them into a Ducklett's March.
"Boss Ingo? Boss Emmet? Your visitors are here!"
"We will arrive in a moment!"
---
Emmet claps his hands in delight.
"Alright, children. I am Subway Boss Emmet Carril. I work here, and I run the Subway with my brother Ingo."
"I am Ingo Carril. It's good to meet you all." Ingo gives a quick nod, making the children giggle a bit.
"Your teacher told us that you are here today to learn about trains and how to ride them."
"That is verrry good!" Emmet nods.
"Ingo and I know a lot about them! So we will try our best to teach you." His eyes swerve around, landing on a child with a raised arm.
"Yes?"
"Why do you talk so funny? You stretched that word all weird!" The child swings his legs, gap-toothed grin on full display.
"Is it weird? It's how I talk. I have done it for a long time." Emmet tilts his head.
"That was rude of you."
"Sorry." It's a bit flippant, still earnest though.
"Apology accepted. Now, we have derailed! Ingo, if you would?" Emmet's smile stretches further.
"Ah, certainly. Now, let me tell you about Gear Station. Tell me if I use too many big words, I am not always aware I do so." Ingo hits a button on a remote, activating a projector.
"This is Gear Station. You entered here when you came here, right?" Ingo taps a bit of the image projected onto the board.
"That is the entrance. I'm sure you saw it while Depot Agent Hana led you here, but Gear Station is round." He switches the image.
"We did not build Gear Station, and we have worked here for a long time now, but even we don't quite know why it's round." He winks at the children.
"We have a few platforms inside Gear Station, and it's easy to know which is which. Does anyone have an idea why?" A few arms shoot up.
"You there, please." Ingo points at a little girl.
"Do the trains have different names?" Her question makes a few children snicker.
"Not a bad idea! Some trains do have names, but we don't usually drive them here." He nods.
"How about you?"
"Are there signs?" A boy this time, with hair sticking up wildly.
"There are! Very good. We have eight platforms here, and every platform has signs. There is another helpful thing though. Do you see these stripes here?" He zooms in on the picture.
"Every stripe means something different, and they help you find where you need to go." Ingo nods, before stepping back and allowing Emmet to take over again.
"Now, Ingo said we have eight platforms here. Did you know that the subways here are not just for getting somewhere? We also have battle trains." Emmet starts, hands moving about as he talks.
"There are two trains that you are not allowed to battle on. The train to Anville Town, and the Blue line." He hums for a moment.
"These trains are not able to hold attacks! It's verrry dangerous."
"Now even a tackle?"
"No, not even that. Do you know why?" Emmet leans closer, a spark in his eye.
"Pokémon are all verrrry strong! I saw a young Rattata defeat a full grown Charizard." Murmurs of awe.
"And that was only a small Rattata. Now imagine if a Bouffalant tackled the train! That won't be good. The train might fall over, and that will injure people."
"And we don't like having accidents. It's very bad if one happens, so always be very careful." Ingo adds.
"Yes! Not just in the trains! Also in Gear Station, but that is for later." Emmet taps his foot.
"I said there are six Battle Lines. In every Battle Line, you can find Pokémon Trainers to fight against while the train moves. In two, you can only fight single battles. Ingo runs these trains! I run the Double lines, where you fight with two Pokémon at once. And together, we run the Multi lines, where you fight with a partner."
"So can you only ride those trains if you're a trainer?"
"No! You can ride them even when you aren't a trainer. But you are not allowed to enter the battle cars."
"Because it's dangerous?"
"Exactly!" Emmet nods again.
"The Battle Lines are all normal trains as well. We have a small book for each of you. In there is a picture of our train map, and an explanation."
"Thank you, Emmet." Ingo takes over again, leaving Emmet to hand out the booklets.
"Let me ask a question. Who here was already on a train once?" Three hands shoot up.
"Tell us about it, if you feel like it." He nods to a girl with pigtails and glasses.
"When we visit Granny, we have to get to Anville! So we took the train there a lot. It's a lot of fun, I like watching from the window."
"The way to Anville is verrry pretty, yup." Emmet agrees, handing a small booklet to the girl.
"How about you?" He gently taps the next child.
"My cousin took me here when there was this reeeaaally old train once! It smoked! That train was huge!"
"I remember that day." Ingo hums, eyes closed in thought.
"That was last year during the introduction of the Heritage Line, wasn't it, Emmet?"
"Yes! That was an old steam locomotive you saw. They are old, and don't get used a lot anymore. It's always fun to see one."
"Can I go now?" The last child wriggles their outstretched hand in the air.
"Of course, go ahead."
"Mom and Dad both come from Opelucid, and we take the train there every weekend to visit my aunt and uncle! It's so fast!"
"That is a very fast train, yes. It makes the journey quite short." The corners of Ingo's mouth curl up.
"It seems we have a few children who know how to ride a train already. That is very good. Now, Emmet has some more, very important things to tell you."
"My favorite topic!" Emmet grins.
"Safety checks!" He claps once.
"It's best if I show you! Everyone, line up!" He waits until two neat rows form.
"Now, stay close. We are now departing the station!" In a mirror of how Hana led the children before, Emmet Now leads them to the platform of the Singles train.
"And halt!" He turns around, coat swishing.
"This is the Singles platform. Do you all see this yellow line?" Nods and shouts of affirmation.
"It is verrry important that you never cross it." An uncharacteristic frown is on his face.
"Let me show you why." He moves closer, arms swinging.
"If I stand here, I am close to the tracks! That is not good. If someone shoves me while I stand here, I will fall onto the tracks." He stretches his arms, as if to prove the short distance again.
"Do not cross the yellow line!"
"Yes Mister Emmet!" A rather enthusiastic chorus echoes back.
"Perfect!" A happy smile grows on his face.
"Now, promise me to tell that to every adult who wants to cross it. You can only go behind the yellow line if there is a train here." He steps away from the line.
"Mister Emmet, where is Mister Ingo?" Another child pipes up, looking around.
"Just wait a moment!" As if summoned, the noise of an incoming train begins to sound.
"He is on the train!" As the train pulls into station, Ingo started to lean out of the window, a single hand pointing out.
"What's he doing?"
"Point and call!" A child hollers before Emmet can. It's the kid who talked about the steam train before.
"Bravo!" Ingo calls back, volume staggering.
"That is correct! It helps us be safe while we work. If I cannot point at this plate when the train is stopped, that means I did not park it right, and people will fall!"
"Now, we have one last treat for you." Emmet grins, standing inside the door to the train.
"All Aboard!" The children file in, vibrating in excitement. As the doors close, Emmet briefly walks up to Ingo, handing him three spheres, before joining him in announcing them departing the station.
"As Emmet already said, we have one last treat for you all. Emmet and I will demonstrate how a fight on the single line looks, and you will be allowed to watch." Ingo can't help the chuckle at the screams of joy.
"This is my Singles train! So I am the Subway Boss here. If you do not like the battle, please tell me afterwards. Until then, please stay in your seats while Emmet and I conduct our battle."
[Image ID: Emmet from Pokemon Black and White is standing in front of a Pennsylvania Railroad GG1 electric locomotive, numbered 4935. He is beaming with delight and posing the way Speed Racer does in the opening to the show. End image ID.]
This is one of the most self-indulgent things I’ve drawn in a while.
The Pennsylvania Railroad’s famed GG1 electric locomotives were in service from the mid-1930s well until the early 1980s. They survived the merger into Penn Central, and later on went to work for Amtrak and New Jersey Transit. They were some of the most solid electric locomotives ever made, and their Art Deco streamlining designed by Raymond Loewy made them beautiful, to boot. When I was a little girl of about four or so, I went to Strasburg, Pennsylvania, and there I met the prototype GG1, Old Rivets, the only one without the completely smooth welded body, hence her name. Rivets has been a special favorite of mine ever since.
The GG1 I drew Emmet with here also resides at the Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania alongside Old Rivets; this one is nicknamed Blackjack because her number, 4935, adds up to 21. I went with the GG1 for this art because of Emmet’s tendency to gravitate towards Electric-types to a degree; he’s best known for his Eelektross and his Cross Poison Galvantula (that could only learn that move in Gen 5 via breeding, hence the army of Joltiks he’s often depicted with). GG1s used to run out of Penn Station, as well, so they have quite the history in NYC - you’d be able to see them resting in Sunnyside Yard in Queens when they weren’t at work.
Drawn for day six of @submas-autistic-joy, an event all about allowing Ingo and Emmet to be…well, themselves, without angst or ableism. For more on the event specifically, you can check the post out here!
Submas Autistic Joy Week 2022, Day 5: Pokémon/Friendship
The friendship between Elesa and the Subway Bosses is a special one. It just clicks. Just ask the Joltik.
[Image ID: A digital drawing of Emmet, Elesa and Ingo. Emmet stands on the left side, with his right arm behind his back and the left holding onto Elesa's back. He's somewhat looking at the camera. He wears a light blue shirt with the words "Ask me about my Joltiks" printed on it, with a small cartoon Joltik in the middle. Elesa stands in the middle, with her a slung over the twins' shoulders. She is wearing an orange tank top and a wine red cloth as a skirt, with black shorts barely visible beneath. Her hair is black and in a braid, and she is wearing headphones. Ingo is standing on the right, mirroring Emmet's pose. He has a slightly higher hairline than Emmet, and is wearing black pants, an orange t-shirt and a dark red, short sleeved button down shirt. His lips are curling into a cat-like smile like in the manga. End Image ID]
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