Nakia watches Okoye in training drills with the Dora Milaje. She admires the way they move as one; their steps in rhythm with each other’s, all following the same rhythm; the sound of Okoye’s hands beating out a complex rhythm that they must follow without faltering.
Okoye’s voice is lifted, singing against the rhythm she is clapping out. She does not sing for ornamentation, for entertainment, but her voice is strong and rich. It thunders from the pit of her chest as she sings a song about the panther god, his lithe grace and fearsome power. Nakia thinks that Okoye is touched by the panther god too. The rhythm of her song fits against the beat she claps out but it is free of it, also. They are two systems, independent and separate, that wind around each other perfectly.
Nakia’s eyes follow the red and gold of their armor as they weave the steps, formation perfect, like a cluster of Nandi flame blooming in the trees. And Okoye’s bloom is always brightest to Nakia’s eyes.
My favorite thing is that Europe is spooky because it’s old and America is spooky because it’s big
“The difference between America and England is that Americans think 100 years is a long time, while the English think 100 miles is a long way.” –Earle Hitchner
A fave of mine was always the american tales where people freaked out because ‘someone died in this house’ and all the europeans would go ‘…Yes? That would be pretty much every house over 40 years old.’
‘…My school is older than your entire town.’
‘Sorry, you think *how far* is okay to travel for a shopping trip?’
*American looks up at the beams in a country pub* ‘Uh, this place has woodworm, isn’t that a bit unsafe?’ ‘Eh, the woodworm’s 400 years old, it’s holding those beams together.’
A few years ago when I was in college I did a summer program at Cambridge aimed specifically at Americans and Canadians, and my year it was all Americans and one Australian. We ended the program with a week in Wessex, and on the last day as we all piled onto the bus in Salisbury (or Bath? I can’t remember), the professors went to the front to warn us that we wouldn’t be making any stops unless absolutely necessary. We’re headed to Heathrow to drop off anyone flying off the same day, then back to Cambridge.
“All right, it’s going to be a long bus ride, so make sure you’re prepared for that.”
We all brace ourselves. A long bus ride? How long? We’re Americans; a long bus ride for us is a minimum of six hours with the double digits perfectly plausible. We can handle a twelve hour bus ride as long as we get a bathroom break.
The answer. “Two hours.”
Oh.
English people trying to travel around Australia and wildly underestimating distance are my favourite thing
a tour guide in France told my school group that a particular cathedral wouldn’t interest us much because “it’s not very old; only from the early 1600s”
to which we had to respond that it was still older than the oldest surviving European-style buildings in our country
China is both old and big. I had some Chinese colleagues over; we were discussing whether they wanted to see the Vasa ship (hugely expensive war ship which sank on it’s maiden voyage after 12 min). They asked if it was old, I said “not THAT old” (bearing in mind they were Chinese) “it’s from the 1500s.” To my surprise they still looked impressed, nodding enthusiatically. Then I realised I’d forgotten something: “…I mean it’s from the 1500s AFTER the birth of Christ” and they went “oh, AFTER…”.
My dad’s favorite quote from various tours in Italy was “Pay no attention to the tower – it was a [scornful tone] tenth century addition.”
My last boss was Chinese, and she said when her parents came to visit her from Beijing they pronounced Chicago “A very nice village.”
I honestly can’t believe that I had a full on conversation with my straight male professor about Supergirl yesterday (I do a lot of little comics for my other senior thesis class and I was showing them to him [he ALSO said that my drawings of the nude model looked ‘suspiciously like Miss Luthor’ last week]) and he stopped, looked into the distance for a second and said
“Do you know what the strange phenomenon is about that show? I couldn’t point to one single character and call them exclusively heterosexual. Not a one. They all have the potential to be gay. I wonder if that’s intentional or not.”
Like he fuckin SAID THAT.
I love college I love my professor I dont want to graduate.
Happy birthday to my loveliest, @mermaidandthedrunks! I meant to write you a much longer and much higher quality fic, but obviously I procrastinated too much and ran out of time. And whatever, you’re like fine. I guess I think you’re okay. So this is an okay fic for an okay person with an okay face who I miss an okay amount. (JK, but seriously, THIS FIC IS NOT VERY GOOD AND I AM SORRY.)
Title from The Fool by Ryn Weaver. Many thanks to @grevgrev for beta-ing and cheerleading. 🙂
Supergirl starts visiting Cat every week. She drops down on the CatCo balcony, silhouetted by the fire red glow of the sunset. Sometimes she wants to talk; sometimes she doesn’t. It doesn’t matter to Cat either way. The idea of being, well, friends with a superhero is already incredible enough. Celebrities have never really fazed Cat – well, there was maybe that time she met Hillary Clinton early on her in career – but by now it’s old news. But seeing Supergirl week after week, talking to her, that feels powerful. Beneath that S on her chest is an alien. Someone not from this terrestrial planet they call home.
She doesn’t mean to do it, but Cat starts waiting for Supergirl’s visits. She anticipates them with a buzzing urgency that grows louder as the week progresses. Cat lingers in her office until everyone else has packed up and left, using layouts and editing as an excuse to watch for the flutter of Supergirl’s cape out of the corner of her eye. She wishes she were better about catching Supergirl before she approaches – Cat likes to watch her land, touch down on the balcony so naturally. She doesn’t even have to think about it. There’s something marvelous about how graceful it is.
Tonight Cat catches her seconds after she arrives. Cat smoothes a hand across the side of her pencil skirt, picks up her drink, and pushes open the glass door. Supergirl’s in a contemplative silence sort of mood, and they sit quietly for a few minutes, both looking over the city. Cat watches the cars and people, miniature from above, go about their business, unaware of Supergirl’s gaze.
“You must have work to do,” Supergirl says, breaking the moment, her hair falling forward across her face. Her muscled shoulders hunch uncertainly beneath the tight fabric of her suit.
another dumb headcanon: superman is nice to birds because of course he is, and helps out birds who are in distress. also he can fly around with them. birds see a lot more of superman than they do of most people, basically. the unexpected consequence of this is that the crows of metropolis recognize superman as a friend. sometimes crows just follow him around like a weird flock, or try to give him shiny things. but mostly please just imagine luthor trying to gloat while threatening superman with kryptonite only to have a crow steal it. or just, generally, lex luthor getting attacked by crows. if that does not improve your day i don’t know what to tell you.
“What is that?”
Superman followed the direction of Batman’s gaze. A crow had landed on the rooftop beside them, and dropped a bottlecap near Superman’s feet. “Oh! Hey Francis. Is that for me?”
“Caw,” said Francis.
“Do you have a pet crow?” Batman asked.
“No, I don’t have pets,” Superman said as he bent down to retrieve the bottlecap.
“You named it.”
“Not this specific one,” Superman explained. “I just call all the crows Francis.”
“… why.”
“Caw, caw,” said Francis with a flap of its wings.
“I don’t know. Just calling them ‘crow’ felt rude after a while. I’d name them individually but I can’t actually tell them apart. Except for Old Francis and One-Eyed Francis.” Superman tucked the bottlecap into a small pocket on the back of his pants.
“Why Francis?”
Superman shrugged. “It’s gender neutral. I don’t want to misgender them just because they’re birds.”
“Of course you don’t,” Batman sighed, looking back out at Metropolis.
“Caw,” Francis added.
“Do you keep dog treats in your utility belt?” Superman asked.
“Why would I do that.”
“… in case you meet a dog that needs to know he’s a good boy?” Superman suggested. Batman shook his head, but opened a small pouch on his belt and held out a small treat. “See, it was a yes or no question, I don’t know why everything has to be such a production with you,” Superman said as he took it. He tossed it over by the bird’s feet. “Here you are, Francis. Keep up the good work.”
“Caw, caw,” Francis said. When it realized no more treats were forthcoming, it flew away in a flutter of black wings.
“You’re unbelievable,” Batman said, shaking his head again.
Superman took his eyes off the departing crow to look back at Batman, and frowned. “You know,” he said, “it’s really weird seeing you in costume during the day.”
“Don’t start.”
“It’s like seeing your teacher at the mall.”
“Don’t think I won’t take care of Poison Ivy without your help, if I have to.”
Superman shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
But…what if the crows also recognized him as Clark Kent? This mild-mannered reporter who doesn’t seem to do anything in particular to the crows that would make them like him, but they’re not afraid of him at all, and they keep trying to give HIM things, and Clark being a nice guy, he just. Accepts the bottlecap. Says thank you. Keeps walking. Lois adds another factoid to her “Weird Stuff About Clark Kent” file.
Maybe he tries to convince his coworkers that everyone is friendly with crows in Smallville. That the farmers discovered how smart crows are and decided to make friends with them instead of chasing them off.
Maybe he tries to talk the crows into palling around with him as Superman but going their separate ways as Clark Kent.
Please imagine Superman on top of a building holding Clark Kent’s glasses and trying to explain the concept of a secret identity to a flock of attentive birds.
Question of Smoke 