A Rock in the River

11- Father

"And he identified it and said, 'It is my son's robe. A fierce animal has devoured him. Joseph is without doubt torn to pieces.'" – Genesis 37:33

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"Fix this...and maybe it'll bring me back."

Francine had no idea why Alice said that. That wasn't part of the plan. They just had to do something- that was it. They only knew something had to finally change- no real fucking idea what that actually meant.

Alice would come back, Sammy knew; she hadn't "died" in a long time, but the puddles would keep her, of course. They kept her before.

...Then why? Why say it like that?

What was at stake besides Francine's own mortality? And what was she in this world beyond a hope that if she can survive, maybe there's something worth living for?

"Plenty more," Alice would have said if she could.

Because facing the demon, she had already seen something that would make itself known very, very soon.

After all, there was one toon that died and never came back.

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"Copper and gumdrops-"

"Joey-"

"-And flower chains and rings-"

"What are you doing, Joey?"

"Listing a few of my favorite things!"

A young man chuckled at his strange father. His hands squeezed the grass at his sides as he sat next to a fellow that looked nothing like him, perhaps, while being in a place in his life he never expected to be.

But even if it wasn't the expected didn't mean it wasn't right. That's how it felt to him- right.

Their second day on vacation, the budding- no...blooming artist looked up to the puffy clouds in the sky and felt sunshine tangle his hair. There was something in him, something that always wanted to reach up to the heavens since he was just a little boy. Joey did, too, and perhaps that's why he and his adoptive son felt so safe being vulnerable about dreams and loves with one another. There was a difference though; one man wanted to touch what was above their heads, and the other wanted to take it as his own.

But they admired that difference. A gentle grasp upon fate versus claiming tomorrow with a clenched fist, and perhaps neither was entirely bad nor good.

The young man thought of this in this moment, a smile flickering softly upon his face as peaceful but bright eyes caught light of the sun and the fire in Joey's red hair.

"You're a strange guy, Joey." Not as if this phrase hadn't been used as an insult towards the old man, but in this case his son meant it as a tease; it was taken as such.

"I'm a lot of things, my dear," the other cartoonist replied, humor dripping off his tongue like sap thick on a maple tree. "But-"

And then, with a similar, sharper light in his own eyes, the old man said something the younger did not anticipate.

"-What are you?"

Father and son looked at each other, the latter turning his head against the soft wind to someone already facing him- evaluating him, perhaps, in the most loving way one can. And, as always, nothing was there that was new, and yet- as Joey always was- it somehow felt distinctly, importantly different. Smile dropped not in unhappiness but ponderance, the young man held his gaze a bit so two soft, blazing lights locked in their meeting eyes. His head turned, breeze combing dark locks as pursed lips opposed what was in front of crossed legs.