New York City, 1911. Syrian immigrant children playing in the lower Manhattan neighborhood known as "Little Syria" (also called the Syrian Quarter, it was a vibrant enclave along Washington Street near the Battery where thousands of Syrians, Armenians, Greeks, and others from Middle Eastern and Mediterranean communities lived).

average redmon hunter look circa 1978-88

redmon hates having an audience, he really does. he used to not be this way. he used to not be a lot of things – he used to not be a widower. this rowdy, gossipy bunch are his creations, they're all he's had, as far as company goes, as sad as it sounds, for years.

he's never had to explain this to anyone. the chatter from the peanut gallery becomes too much. he wishes jude could share in this misery.

" alright, allll–right! " so much for not exploding. " my characters, each and every one of them, when i write, live in my apartment with me. as if they were real people. it's always been this way. they come and go, most of them leave when their chapter is written, but the main characters remain for – for however long it takes me to send the book off to the publisher. "

they're quiet. it's comical, how they all fall silent, faces reacting before their voices do, before starting up once more, with more gusto. redmon has to not quite shout over them. " they're here, now, jude! dutch and gino and lesur and pomeroy and the sheriff and his deputy! can you see them? hear them? oh, for the love of god, if you didn't think i was meshuggah before – "

jude watches redmon cautiously, like he’s observing a patient, maybe hoping he doesn’t jump out at him. it’s not that he’s nervous — redmon’s not exactly a brawny type — jude’s worried. it doesn’t play particularly expressively on his face, he has to rely on the sincerity of his words.

"if you tell me the truth, your truth, whatever it is to you, then i'll believe it," he holds his gaze, leaning imperceptibly closer in concern at the expression that paints his face, "tell me what's going on before you explode with it."

pretty pretty girl

she thinks of her mother, then, inexplicably. herself, cross-legged in front of the television set, practiced hands braiding her hair. sometimes, out on their stoop. stretched out on the kitchen counter, for wash days.

maybe she could teach them, her new friends, her new family, how to do her hair. she's going to be spending the rest of her prolonged life with them at her side. it could be useful. it could be -- a bonding experience. maybe they already know, all those years combined between them. at least yusuf, she figures, knows how to coax tight coils with oils and leave them be, or fix them into protective styles.

" woah, alright. not what i was gonna say, but sure. " is it confidence that makes andy so decisive, or something else? " this is probably a stupid question, but have you ever done that before? just wondering. i bet you'll look cool. "

“yes. fine.” andy cut her off before nile could go on about the sight before her eyes. andy was well aware of what was sitting a top her head, no need to rub it in. if it wasn’t for a great many years of practice, andy would have flushed red with embarrassment. instead, she rolled her eyes at nile’s amusement.

nile did come with something useful — the boys would surely give it a go but, after all, they were boys. not that andy had ever especially cared, with her hair trim alike theirs, but in the modern age, it had its connotations. “do you think?” the words came tentative, almost unwilling before she shook her head out, ringlets bouncing with her, “whatever, i’ll just shave it off.”

gilda watches her, almost cat-like, her head turned to the side. one arm is thrown across the back of her chair, hand dangling behind. " i mean it. it's nice to see a familiar looking face. " not quite familiar, but familiar looking.

@choicescreen said: "there are people you seem to know the first time you see them."

the thought that comes to mind is, it may be my voice you're more familiar with — but the arrogance of the assumption shames her, and she thinks better of it.

"thank you. i suppose that's kind of you to say."

she was foolish to think she'd be able to pull the wool over yusuf's eyes. the quiet that seizes her frame isn't uncomfortable, but there's clearly a change, however infinitesimal. the video, she decides, can wait.

" ...yeah, we can go back. " she's a little or a lot reluctant. her thumb hovers over the carousel post. it suspends there, three four five seconds, before she finally presses. " it was sibling day. so i made a post of a bunch of pictures of us. "

she swipes, allowing yusuf a few moments on each. she sniffs, already feeling like she could be halfway to crying. she won't. she won't. she pauses for longer on one of them as very young children on some distant easter sunday. " mom and dad said we were fighting like cats and dogs seconds before this was taken. you wouldn't believe it, by how sweet we look. "

yusuf plainly does not understand. facebook people, age groups, instagram. at a certain point, even his ravenous curiosity for the ways people live their lives cannot compensate for his age, for how rapidly culture's been changing ever since it made the leap online. the beauty of yusuf, however, is that he does not need to understand. he makes "ah" and "hm" noises to keep her talking, but what she's saying isn't nearly as important as what she's showing him.

                   he latches onto nile's profile immediately. not that he would know to call it a profile; all he sees are photos from before. these, he has not seen.

                   hence, while he does huff a laugh at her joke, she's not quite caught his interest in the way she must have intended. ❝ i'll like whatever it is you've got on there. can we go back after? ❞ it is unfathomable to him, the well of memories she must have available right in her palm. yusuf has no proof his family ever even existed. he imagines it must be both blessing and curse, the ability to see their faces every day. he nods at her and her brother smiling into the camera. ❝ you look so happy in all of these. ❞

Amazing portrait photos of Ellis Island immigrants taken by Augustus F. Sherman around 1900s.

well, he's just tickled pink that he's gotten her grin in such a way. he might not fully recognize it, maybe because she's been so foreign to him, and – the whole thoutania thing, but it makes him feel good.

" 'course, i do. what, you think i'd stop drinking snail juice? " he gives a low whistle, impressed, mock offense. he's talking like they're old friends, like she should've known better. putting her at ease, like. " y'just, let 'em roam on this special type'a material, see, and collect the mucus left behind in their trail. " maybe freshly squeezed wasn't the right way to put it, now that he thinks about it. that's always been his issue. saying things, not thinking. thinking coming too late. but this ain't life or death.

she's going to have him getting wistful. " sure 'nough. we have a hundred and seventy-eight words for the stuff. "

she has to smile; for once, notably, it lacks a certain taste of mockery. has she grown fond of the ferengi on this station? impossibly. of all the various peoples that pass through this place, little had she expected to understand best the money-makers.

her brows lift and she considers her choice of drink more closely. a thought leaves her tongue before it enters her mind, "how do you...?" well. now she must complete the sentence. "...squeeze the snails? don't you drink it any longer?"

she does not make trite conversation. that is the domain of diplomats. rather: honest curiosity. if he means they used to drink it as children, as she suspects, then that is a foreign universe.

"is it true, how much it rains on ferenginar? is it across the entire planet?"

Source: butch/femme; Inside Lesbian Gender - editor Sally R. Munt , photo editor Cherry Smyth

" watch your tone. " she's being playful, but, jesus, the way xeno says seventy-one like she's in the fucking grave already. she can see why he and neek get along like a house on fire. little shits, both. with and without intention, depending on the hour.

she knows he's not nineteen, or twenty, or twenty-one. he's – however old he is, maybe ancient as the earth, and only looks to be a young man that has barely crested the cusp of adolescence. she'll look seventy-one for the rest of her days, however long she lasts. however long new york city lasts.

(the thought makes her a little sick. she can't think about brooklyn, still looking forty-something, sitting at her now-fourteen year old daughter's deathbed in seven, eight decades. she can't think about her chris, her mettshish, her grandchild.)

" people start to treat you like a kid again. " she doesn't mean to sound so ill. the truth must be told. " and the way most people treat kids pisses me off. like they don't know anything. like they can't do anything, or even have feelings. that's what it's like. "

bronca gives back as good as she gets, and xeno shifts restlessly in his chair. he surrenders to her fire, losing the squinting contest when he drops his gaze to the floor. it bounces back up again when bronca tells him her age.

"seventy-one?" he repeats, jaw only slightly slack, before he rolls his eyes. suppose he deserved that. not that he'll admit it. being around bronca brings out his stubborn, rebellious side. in that way, he's her mirror. "hey, c'mon, i'm not a baby! i'm, like, nineteen, for sure." as if five guess-age years make all the difference. "probably older. probably twenty—no, twenty-one. bouncers buy it." with a flash of his fake ID.

anyway, xeno shakes his head and fixes bronca with a—playful—glare. "you're distracting me! i wanna talk about you." before he can think about whether it's rude or not, burning curiosity makes him blurt out: "what's it like getting old?"

it's not funny, andy says, which just makes it funnier – like how everything becomes ten times funnier when you have to be quiet.

nile acts as if she has an itch at the corner of her mouth. really, she uses this in an effort to literally wipe the smile off her face. she looks as if that takes a great amount of effort. her shoulders lift and fall in a sigh that reins in, for the most part, her amusement.

" sorry, sorry. i swear. it's just that i never thought – " a small snicker escapes, and she quickly straightens her face, " we can fix this. "

andy glares at nile.  hard-eyed and unyielding.  it might register as intimidating were she not sporting a head full of springy curls like a manic shirley temple,  frizzy from her unsuccessful attempts to shake it out.  it’s obviously not her first go with curls but this is  . . .  unfortunate.   they never quite suit her,   regardless of the trends in season.   ❛   that girl with the motorbike. she did this to me.   ❜   despite her phrasing,   it was a voluntary endeavour.   she just didn’t know it would turn out like this when said girl very casually wanted to do andy’s hair.   ❛   well you’re not laughing with me. it’s not that funny, cut it out.   ❜  

wesley's parents. they donate to the school, no doubt something they lord over their son. not just their son, but everyone on the faculty. such is the way of parent donars. vincent barely disguises a grimace, thinking about it.

(he thinks about liam, his son. his son, at home, probably watching reruns of sitcoms from before he was born. he briefly wonders if the boys are friends. he'll casually namedrop him later and see.)

his next expression, this one more obvious, is caught between a smile and a smirk. as a history teacher ... clever kid. " that's a coinkydink. i'm looking for information, too. " he highly doubts they're looking for the same thing, but it isn't in him to turn wesley away.

besides, they both clearly didn't feel comfortable asking an librarian.

" what's it you're after? " don't say time travel, don't say butterfly effect, don't say t –

wesley is not unfamiliar with feeling awkward, but there is something particularly uncomfortable about running into his teacher in these circumstances. for both their sakes, he acts like mr. katsumata didn't just pretend to discover his own flashlight.

instead, a flash of guilt floods his face before he suppresses it again. he is not a natural born rule-breaker. "there's some information i need," he admits. "i can't ask anyone for it. as a history teacher—" or a... flashlight-wielding investigator? "i hope you can forgive me for wanting to do my own research. and—not tell my parents about this."

god-given tenor hushes as he says, sotto voce, " do go on. we could waste a little time, today. "

@choicescreen said: "everything you tell me surprises me. it's always interesting."

the reverend smiles, subdued but jovial. "you're easily interested, father. i must try not to disappoint you."

Sal Mineo in Six Bridges to Cross (1955) dir. Joseph Pevney

Foxy Brown (1974) // dir. Jack Hill

@eulogier as jude said: tell me what’s happened. i won’t judge you.

good eggs.

he pinches the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, rubbing inward towards his eyes. " you won't judge me, alright, yes, i'll give you that, and thank you, really, i can't thank you enough, but will you believe me? " that's the most pressing issue at hand.

behind him, unaware to jude, the characters are squabbling over who they think redmon's newest friend – oh, the very word being associated with their author inspires such feeling within them! – will see first.

redmon makes a pained face. they're very loud.