imagine miles’ dad is on his way home one night when he spots spiderman sitting by himself on the roof of a building
he looks small, and lonely, and fragile
and jefferson, who has a son around spiderman’s age, can’t ignore the impulse to make sure he’s okay
so he finds his way to spiderman’s perch and settles down next to him
they sit in silence for a long time, spiderman staring up at the moon in thoughtful silence
it’s almost five minutes before he finally speaks
“i was there, you know”
jefferson doesn’t understand
spiderman hugs his leg to his chest, resting his cheek on his knee as he turns his face to the officer sitting at his side
“when peter died,” he says by way of explanation, and his voice is wavering with the threat of tears. “i’d only had my powers for a day, and i was so scared. i had no idea what was happening to me. but then he showed up.”
jefferson is baffled, his whole world turned on its axis. somehow, he’d never thought about who spiderman had been before he was spiderman. there was a part of him that had just kind of assumed he’d been different from birth. a part of him had bought into the lie that spiderman was indestructible, that he had always known what he was doing and who he was.
“he said he’d teach me,” says spiderman, voice bitter with longing. “he promised he’d show me the ropes and be there for me when i needed him. and then he died.”
“i’m sorry you had to experience that,” says jefferson, because he doesn’t know what else to say. and it’s the most natural feeling in the world to reach out to the young hero and wrap him in a hug.
he fits in jefferson’s arms like he’s always belonged there, and in a moment of clarity, jefferson feels everything click into place
“i watched fisk kill him, and i didn’t do anything,” sobs the child in his arms, the child that jefferson would recognize anywhere, in any life. “it’s my fault he died. i killed spiderman”
“Oh miles,” he says, voice gentle as he reaches down to remove the mask from his son’s face so he can wipe his tears away with gentle fingers. “you didn’t kill spiderman. you brought him back to us.”
I see OP just wants to dehydrate me via crying huh
You teach them responsibility by entrusting them with these devices.
You teach them teamwork by taking them away at night and storing them in your room.
My dad kept the computer locked and monitored (and only used when under direct supervision), an intolerable situation to which my little brother and I reacted with gusto. We set up a camera to get the password, coded password guessers, bootcamped a Mac to allow us to use an entirely different system, and figured out various ways to avoid logging internet activity, logins, and even the hidden camera my dad set up. He would discover our new hack and put even more restrictions (he is very computer literate), and we would crack it again. We learned computer security just because my dad didn’t want us to.
I breezed through AP comp sci into a tech field. Ironically, I was introduced to porn because I was looking for another bypass and stumbled into a BDSM site so I can also blame my dad for me being a freaky ho.
Out of all the responses to this post. Yours was my favourite. I cried laughing when I saw the last paragraph
A story that the Jews tell each other is that when the slaves were fleeing Egypt they came to the edge of the Red Sea and thought: well, fuck, this is it. Water in front of them and enemies behind. They had escaped, sure, but all this meant was that they were going to die free instead of in chains. A meaningful distinction in an abstract sense, but the Jews are a practical people, and mostly what they were concerned with in that moment was: they would be equally dead either way.
A man stepped out from the group. He stepped into the water. He said: mi chamocha ba’eilim adonai? Who is like you Adonai, among the gods who are worshipped? He sang that verse over and over again. He sang it as he waded into the sea. He gave his body over to his faith as he walked. There was nowhere to go but forward. If he was going to die, he figured, and be equally dead either way, he was not going to die in slavery and he was not going to die at the hands of the Egyptians, either. He was going to die walking and singing, believing, trying to find progress in the chaos, in the waves.
In the story, the water laps first at his feet, then his knees, his thighs, his ribs, his neck, finally flowing into his mouth as he sings and sings and sings. The words get choked, mispronounced: the hard cha of mi chamocha becomes mi kamoka, strangled but still certain.
In the story, this man is why the people get their miracle, the waters parting to let them cross through on dry land. It is an act of divine intervention, but it only comes because someone is willing to put his life on the line to make it happen. I keep thinking about him this week, that apocryphal man and how it is a story we make sure to keep telling each other: when there is water in front of you and enemies behind, you do not wait for your god, or a sign. You trust in something larger than yourself and open your mouth to sing about it. You put your feet on the ground and walk forward.
idea for a classics podcast: get a bunch of people together who learned greek mythology at some point in their life and kind of remember it but have mostly forgotten it, and then try to get them to recount stories from greek mythology with only their vague recollection to guide them. as they attempt to piece together the story, they’ll likely end up with something that sort of resembles the original myth but with a bunch of weird differences, thereby creating new traditions in the vein of the greek bards of old
This is a work of fiction and thus I have taken some artistic liberties in characterization and the presentation of the timeline of Jesus’ life while doing my best to be respectful to the texts while also framing it in a personal, creative way. That being said, historical notes and other thoughts below the readmore:
