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astonishinglegends · 3 years

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Ep 209: The Phantom Horse of Greensboro

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

– Revelation, Chapter 6, Verse 8, King James Version

Description:

Many of us have taken an adventurous expedition to check out some local, notorious spot to see if we could witness or sense some evidence of a past famous or infamous incident. Most of the time, one only returns with a minor anecdote or pictures of an ordinary location bereft of anything noteworthy. The more realistic purpose is not so much to find a ghoulish memento but to imagine what it must've been like to have been there when it happened. But what if such an outing starts with strange coincidences and ends with the adventurers enduring a paranormal event seemingly unrelated to the original incident? This is the sort of tale we'll hear from our good friend, graphic designer, and illustrator Tommy Beaver about the time some friends went to check out the scene of a horrific crime that happened in Summerfield, North Carolina, almost 13 miles northwest of Greensboro. On June 3, 1985, the incident in question occurred when at the end of a murder spree and police pursuit, Fritz Klenner and his first cousin, lover, and accomplice, Susie Newsome Lynch, ended their standoff detonating a bomb in their Chevrolet Blazer. Klenner and Lynch had blown themselves up along with Lynch's already deceased two sons who were in the vehicle rather than face arrest. The site of this shocking finale was what the friends were hoping to explore, but their souvenir was an unsettling experience they'll never forget. Strangely, a mysterious white horse suddenly appeared to encounter the group, except that this creature may not have been a horse at all. Many people have claimed to see a spectral white horse, and the ancient Britons believed a sacred white horse was one's ride to the afterlife. Yet these friends may forever wonder, as will we, what was the connection of this beast to the tragedy if there is one? And if this wasn't a horse as we know it, what sort of monster haunts the location of one of North Carolina's most ghastly crimes?

Location:

The intersection of Strader Road & North Carolina State Road 150 in Summerfield, near where Fritz Klenner and Susie Newsom Lynch blew themselves up in their Chevy Blazer after a crime spree and police pursuit on June 3, 1985, and where Tommy’s friends saw the mysterious “horse.”

Location Video:

Reference Links:

Illustrator and Graphic Designer Tommy Beaver’s website, tommybeaverdesign.com

“Summerfield slaughter 30 years ago ended in deaths of couple, two sons” from the Greensboro News & Record

Bitter Blood: A True Story of Southern Family Pride, Madness, and Multiple Murder, a novel by Jerry Bledsoe, 1988

The púca, pooka, phouka of Irish/Celtic folklore

The kelpie of Scottish folklore

“Horses in Celtic Mythology” from Transceltic.com

“Have ghost HORSES been captured on video? Teenagers believe they spotted ethereal equine scene at one of Britain's most haunted sites” from DailyMail.co.uk

“Phantom Horses” on real-british-ghosts.com

Related Books:

Please help out our good friend Stan Gordon, by purchasing his books on Amazon and Barnes & Noble – you’re gonna love ‘em!

At Barnes & Noble:

Silent Invasion: The Pennsylvania UFO-Bigfoot Casebook

Astonishing Encounters: Pennsylvania’s Unknown Creatures, Casebook 3

Really Mysterious Pennsylvania: UFOs, Bigfoot, and Other Weird Encounters, Casebook 1

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Credits:

Episode 209: The Phantom Horse of Greensboro. Produced by Scott Philbrook & Forrest Burgess; Audio Editing by Sarah Vorhees Wendel. Sound Design by Ryan McCullough; Tess Pfeifle, Producer, and Lead Researcher; Research Support from the astonishing League of Astonishing Researchers, a.k.a. The Astonishing Research Corps, or "A.R.C." for short. Copyright 2021 Astonishing Legends Productions, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years

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Safe with me (Epilogue)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Brief description of smut. Mentions of depression.

A/N: The end has arrived! This Epilogue is a complete homage to CHAPTER 1, so I suggest giving that a quick re-read before diving in.

I am genuinely blown away at the reception this story has received - I never expected it and I’m SO grateful to each and every one of you. I’ve spent six months writing these characters and thinking daily about this story, and I’ll admit I’m feeling a little emotional about the end. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing.

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

*****

NEW YORK TIMES SUNDAY EDITION Features Section

The measure of a man By Anonymous

James Buchanan Barnes sits primly before me, mismatched hands folded on the table. Pushing a cup of coffee toward him, he unlinks his fingers, clasping them gratefully around the steaming mug.

"I don't really do interviews," he confesses. "Not sure what to say."

"That's okay," I tell him. "This isn't about being perfect or saying the exact right thing. It's just about being yourself."

He makes a face at that. "I don't think myself is something people want to hear about."

Looking into his nervous blue eyes, I give him a reassuring smile. "They absolutely will. People want to know the man behind the mask."

He doesn't like talking about himself, has never been overly comfortable in the limelight. Rolling his shoulders back, he takes a deep breath and gives me a tentative nod.

Like any good story, context is important, so we begin down the familiar route.

"Let's start at the beginning."

******

Crisp morning air wafts through the small kiosk, fluttering the bright covers of the magazines and newspapers lining the shelves. Taking a long drink of coffee, Riz smacks his lips and leans over his front counter, watching Manhattan's morning routine play out around him.

From out of nowhere, a giant stack of newspapers is hurled onto the counter and Riz tumbles back in surprise.

"What the - "

Bucky Barnes stands before him, wearing an old leather jacket and a delighted grin.

"Morning Riz, I need them all today. Oh, and by the way," he digs into his back pocket and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper, tossing it carelessly on the stack. "Got something to show you."

The black ink is smudged in places, but there it is, the numbered boxes filled with careful block letters.

Last Sunday's New York Times crossword.

Completed.

Riz stares at the paper in astonishment. Looking up, he begins to laugh at the smug triumph on Bucky's face.

"I fucking told you I'd finish one," Bucky says, slapping his hand on the puzzle once more to reinforce his success.

Still chuckling, Riz reaches below the counter and produces a dusty rectangle wrapped in tissue paper. Bucky peels away the layers, grinning happily when it reveals a black picture frame. Riz gives him a friendly slap on the arm.

"My friend, I never doubted you."

*****

He needs no real introduction.

Familiar to anyone who cracked a grade school history book in the last seventy years, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes is a quiet enigma. The American public first met him in 1943 as Sergeant Barnes, Howling Commando and right-hand man to Captain America. His lopsided smile became so well-loved, a comforting staple in the news cycle, the women on the home front declared it a national treasure. America swooned for him, cheered for him, prayed for him, and ultimately mourned him when the reports came home of his KIA status in 1945.

When he was resurrected in Washington DC, amid a whirlwind of gunfire and explosions, he was another figure entirely. Life ripped to pieces and commandeered for decades by Hydra's brutality, he bore only a faint resemblance to the grainy black and white pictures of America's charming hero.

The history books lean into war, into combat, into the tragedy of his service; it's where the facts are most prevalent, irrefutable and absolute. Barnes' first war was for his country and his second was against it, but both lead to an unfortunate truth – most of his life, has been death.

But, beneath that iron exterior lies something else. Focused on consolidating facts and figures, history so often forgets that war is comprised of a much more important number – the beating hearts and terrified souls of those on the battlefield. Soldiers are the flesh and bone reflection of a generation's ideals and Barnes is no different than the millions who came before and after him. Stretched across the burned-out fields and shattered cities of Europe, his first war was one who's consequences still reverberate decades later.

That was his first taste of battle. It was harsh and unforgiving, but in the grand scheme of things – it was blessedly brief.

His next experience would last a lifetime. As his world careened out of control, his moral compass was broken and recalibrated, setting a man full of soft smiles and boisterous laughter, down a path of unimaginable pain and torment.

Through the course of both his lives, he's been known by a million different names. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. The Asset. The Winter Soldier. Before we go any further, I want to make something crystal clear.

The man you will meet, is more than a number stamped on a paper-thin set of dog tags, clinking loose around his neck. He is more than the shadowy name in a ledger of Hydra weaponry, carefully and perfectly aimed. He is more than a salacious headline, blazoned across gossip sites for the world to read.

He is more. He is much, much more.

I want everyone to know him, because Bucky Barnes is worth knowing.

*****

Walking through the Tower, Bucky's giant stack of papers grows smaller. Opening every page to the Features section, he leaves copies scattered in every room he visits.

The coffee table in the common room. One in Steve's bedroom. One in Wilson's bathroom. One in Natasha's mailbox, because no fucking way would he try to sneak in her room. A copy in the library. One on each treadmill in the gym. One on Bruce's desk. Pausing outside Tony's lab, he sends the online link to Pepper and asks if she can post it to the official Avengers social handles. She responds with a winky face telling him it's already been done.

"FRIDAY, did you see it?" he asks excitedly, waving his last copy as he plops down on the sofa.

"Yes, Sergeant Barnes," comes the Irish lilt and Bucky wonders for the millionth time, how an AI can sound amused. "I found it to be an inspiring piece. She's a lovely writer."

"Yeah," he agrees fervently. "She's fucking awesome." Rustling the pages, he finds the article and folds it open, swallowing the lump in his throat when he reads the headline. Even though he has your story memorized at this point, he sinks into the words one more time.

*****

"Talk to me about growing up with Steve," I say, turning my phone to record and setting it between us.

Barnes looks to the ceiling and gives a low whistle. "Jesus Mary and Joseph," he says, "that kid needed a leash. Stubborn ass little ball of piss and vinegar, always getting me in trouble."

The pair met in a baseball field behind their apartment complex, when Barnes was seven-years-old, kick starting the most famous friendship in modern history.

"First time I met him, he was getting his ass handed to him. When I tried to pull him away, he was so wound up he took a swing at me. Got an arm around him and the little punk bit me. Still got the scar." Barnes extends his right forearm with a grin, showing me a faint pair of half-moons on his skin. "I knocked him upside the head, and then he wipes his bloody nose on his shirt and apologizes. Been best friends ever since."

Rogers is well-known for diving head-first into any fray, a behaviour an exasperated Barnes maintains he hasn't changed since that sweaty summer day in 1925.

"Look, he's a reckless idiot," Barnes states. "My best damn friend in the world and I'd do anything for him, but he's still an idiot."

Barnes is a colorful storyteller, spinning tales about their adventures through the streets and alleys of pre-war Brooklyn. While he talks, I find myself picking up on a theme, the word future cropping up several times. He doesn't notice until I ask.

"When you were growing up, what did you see in your future? How did you picture your life?"

Barnes raises his eyebrows at the question, falling silent as he thinks. He scratches his fingernail on the edge of the table for a few minutes, trying to articulate his thoughts. When it comes, I'm surprised.

"Not as a soldier. I never wanted to be a soldier." He bites his lip and when he speaks again, his voice is soft. "Guess I wanted what everyone wanted then. Get a decent job, put food on the table, buy a house someday. Find a nice girl to settle down with, maybe raise a couple kids. Grow old together." He gives me a wistful smile. "Always liked learning, would've loved to go to college."

The simplicity of his response is all the more heart-breaking, considering the trajectory he would later be set upon.

"All I ever really wanted, was a quiet, ordinary life."

******

The bruises littering your skin have mostly faded, the rope markings around your neck nothing more than a faint rash. Unconsciously rubbing the scabs on your wrists, you find the pain is gone, leaving behind a dull ache.

It's been over a week since that night and the entire experience still seems like a bizarre dream. There will be plenty of time spent parsing apart the details with a professional, and in fact Steve already booked you several months of weekly appointments with an experienced trauma therapist he knows through the VA. It's a relief to have that on the horizon, someone to help you work through everything.

Behind the walls of your heart though, a strange feeling emerges, one that is deeply frustrating. After everything he did, it kills you to think the traitorous thought, but your brain refuses to cooperate and there it is – there's a tiny part of you mourning the loss of a man you thought you knew. Not the man he really was – Jack deserved his violently bloody ending and you would never take that from Bucky. But Jack was someone you trusted, a mentor and friend, and you're bitterly disappointed in your inability to see the real man until it was nearly too late.

Nearly too late.

"But it wasn't," you say out loud, irrationally proud of the steadiness in your voice.

At Bucky's insistence, you've been comfortably ensconced in the Brooklyn apartment since you came back. Away from the bustle of the city, it's been heaven to hide away, resting and recovering.

Well, and of course – spending every possible minute with the moody, uncontrollable, uncooperative bucket of sarcasm that is none other than James Buchanan Barnes.

Waiting for him to come home, you wander through the comfortable apartment. Picking up his well-worn copy of The Book Thief, you tuck it carefully into the empty slot on the bookcase, tracing your fingers over the lettering down the spine, smiling to yourself.

Stepping back, you scan the familiar artwork on the walls, marvelling again at the cracked and peeling photos, at the beauty of Steve's sketches. Right then, your eye pauses when you notice two new additions.

In a shiny green frame, is an adorably childish marker drawing of a smiling Bucky holding the hand of a little girl with dark pigtails. Everyone is dressed head to toe in pink and the bottom is signed 'Gracie' in bright purple letters. The sweetness of the statement, of Bucky going to the trouble of framing and hanging artwork an adoring kid drew for him, makes your heart flip.

Above the drawing, in a simple black frame, is the other new addition. Peering closer, you find the selfie you took the night of Stark's party. Swallowing hard, you reach to touch the frame, losing yourself in memories of that night. The smooth motion of Bucky swaying, the feel of sinking into his arms, his quiet hums of pleasure sending ripples down your back.

"I had Stark get it off your phone for me," the husky voice is unexpected and you let out a bloodcurdling shriek when strong arms wind around you. Bucky chuckles, holding you tight, mouthing at the soft skin behind your ear. "Sorry, thought you heard me. Least you didn't attack me with M&Ms this time."

"That's only because we're out of them," you grumble, turning in his arms. Bucky grins, rubbing his nose to yours, before catching your lips with a sweet kiss. When he presses you against the wall, you feel every delicious inch of his heavy body and you shiver at the promise behind his hard grip. Smiling into the kiss, you slide your tongue against his, feeling the heat pool in your belly, before reluctantly pulling away. He gives a soft whine at the loss of contact, full lips dropping into a pout.

"Pathetic, Barnes," you sigh and he pouts harder. "Fine, you giant fucking baby. Ravish me then."

"Hell yes," he breathes, lifting you easily and tugging your legs tight around his waist. "Hell fucking yes."

*****

Ordinary was a sweet word, but it wasn't meant to be. Unknown to him, the darkest day of his life was drawing closer, one that would spin him in an entirely new direction.

Searching for more context around that horrifying day, I went straight to the man who saw it first-hand. He sheds the mantle when he talks about this memory, no longer Captain America – here, he is only Steve Rogers, a helpless young man watching his best friend fall to his death.

"I couldn't do anything. Nothing. I just watched him slip away," Rogers says. His guilt is palpable, the musings of a man shouldering far too much. "It pisses him off when I say it, but it's the truth. Won't ever forgive myself."

Barnes shakes his head when I mention this, adamant in his refusal to assign a hint of blame.

"There was nothing he could have done," he states emphatically. "Absolutely nothing."

While Rogers can recount every horrifying detail of that day, in this small fact, Barnes is lucky. I ask him what he remembers.

"It's funny. I remember wondering how the hell my hands could be so sweaty when it was so damn cold outside." He flexes the fingers of his right hand, considering them. "I lost my grip on the bar and I heard Steve screaming. I don't remember the fall itself though, must've passed out on the way down. Next thing I know, I open my eyes and I'm half-buried in snow. There was – the snow was red. All around me, bright red. My arm wouldn't move and I couldn't feel anything from the waist down."

Most of Hydra's files from the start of the Winter Soldier project have been lost, either as they changed hands over the years or through the natural decay of time, but those recovered allude to Barnes suffering catastrophic injuries in the fall that should have left him dead. His left arm was found hanging by no more than a few strips of muscle, his spine was shattered, his lungs nearly collapsed. There was no possible reason he should have survived.

But – running through his veins was something unexpected.

"Knock-off Nazi trash serum," Barnes drily refers to it. During his weeks spent as a POW in Azzano (the Hydra work camp he was liberated from in 1943), Barnes was an unwilling participant in a number of experiments conducted by that same Arnim Zola he was chasing that day on the train.

Laying in the snow, Barnes admits he thought he'd reached the end of the line. Every soldier entertains the possibility they may never return home, and Barnes made peace with that fact.

"Here's the thing. I had a family waiting for me in Brooklyn. A baby sister I promised to give away at her wedding. A best friend I left hanging on a busted train miles above me. I was 27-years-old, lost in another country, and I sure as hell didn't want to die. I kept thinking I had so much damn living left in me, so much I wanted to do."

His words are tragic in their familiarity, a prayer to be repeated by thousands of voices in the decades that followed, from Korea to Vietnam, from Iraq to Afghanistan. Generations of young men and women just like Sergeant Barnes, left broken and bleeding on foreign soil.

He cracks the knuckles on his right hand while he thinks.

"It seemed inevitable though, so I tried to get myself ready. Remember it being dead silent in that canyon, so I had plenty of time to think. Plenty of time to cry. There were definitely tears. But the longer I laid there, I started to feel warm and things didn't hurt so much. So, I thought hell, if I gotta go, maybe this is better than taking a bullet and bleeding out in the middle of a firefight." Barnes gives a hollow smile. "But right as it got dark, I heard dogs barking. Next thing I know, I'm surrounded by men shouting in Russian. Couldn't move a damn finger, couldn't do anything but lay there and panic. Took a boot to the head and passed out."

Here, he gets a distant look in his eyes. "The next time I woke up, it was – I don't understand it, I don't know how, but I guess it was months later. I was strapped to a table and the whole left side of my body felt like I'd been hit by a train." His lip curls. "And there was Zola, looking down at me again. Thought I was having a flashback."

It wasn't a flashback. On that surgery table, was the start of a waking nightmare that would continue unabated for the next seventy years.

******

The first night you spent together was marked with heat and urgency, a clear desperation to feel each other before the moment was lost. When Bucky pushed you away the morning after, it broke your heart, but the night itself, before all hell broke loose – it was beautiful and perfect and right. You wouldn't trade it for anything.

Now, though.

Now.

Fuck.

All his tight control and fervent attention to detail is one thing when he shifts into work mode – but in bed, when he turns that intense focus directly on you, he is devastating. Every stroke of his fingers comes slow and purposeful, building the heat in your stomach. Every kiss drips with love against your sweaty skin, full of unspoken promise. Every move of his body in yours is deliberate, wringing every last drop of pleasure he can coax from your body.

He was the kind of lover you dreamed about, committed to pleasing you above all else, making you feel everything again and again and then once more for good measure.

Never breaking his steady rhythm, Bucky now pulls you to your knees, your back flush against his chest. Wrapping his arm tight across your breasts, his tongue drags a leisurely line up your neck, his other hand slipping between your legs.

Breathless little grunts fall from his lips, warm panting against your skin with each sharp snap of his hips. Closing your eyes, you mirror his movements, clinging to the cool metal at your chest, desire crawling up your spine when you reach down and feel his fingers rubbing quickly.

Murmuring filthy little comments in your ear as he pushes into you, his words spark some unknown part of you that apparently lives for the sound of Bucky Barnes telling you how good you make him feel, how much he loves fucking you. Breath suddenly wrenched from your lungs, you tumble headfirst over the edge with a low, satisfied moan.

"There you go, that's it," he whispers encouragingly, sucking the smooth skin on your shoulder as you tremble in his arms, spiraling further and further.

You hope you never stop falling.

*****

Memories are a strange thing.

Through his time with Hydra, Barnes had his brain repeatedly wiped, cleared and cleaned out again and again. Since his return to the land of the living, thanks to intensive therapy and a determined Captain Rogers, he has broad strokes and frames of reference back in his life, remembrances before the fall settled firmly in his brain. But vestiges of his past still linger, and his time with Hydra has resulted in a sort of shared mental capacity.

"There's another guy in your life," I begin hesitantly and I see Barnes' lips twitch.

"That's one way to put it," he says.

When Barnes speaks of the Winter Soldier, his expression grows grim. The lines of his life are irrevocably tied to this legendary presence, a ghost sitting on the fringes of his mind, something more myth than reality. It is a heavy burden to bear.

"For the longest time, I tried to keep us separate. The Soldier was one thing. I was another. It was easier to blame all the terrible things that happened on him, rather than admit I played any part in it." I remind him he didn't – that's the fundamental issue with brainwashing, and he gives me a patient smile. "In theory, I know. All those years, it wasn't me. I know. But I still did it."

On a personal level, I own a single memory of the Winter Soldier, one that is overwhelming in its complexity. He was everything you've imagined. Hard. Violent. Angry. But behind that mask, I found a man I never expected. Gentle. Confused. Protective. Kind. The Soldier was a kaleidoscope of emotions, neatly packaged in the mind of a man who spent his entire life at the mercy of others.

I will not condone his past and neither will Barnes, but I highlight this simply to signal the opportunity for redemption. Earning that redemption has been a long process, one Barnes started by first bringing back his memories of their shared past. He recalls the experience of remembering cautiously, the process itself a memory that makes him flinch.

"There were days when nothing would happen. Mind would just stay white, it wouldn't show me anything. That was frustrating, but also kind of a relief. If I couldn't remember, then I didn't have to face up to the things I'd done. But other days. God." He blows out a huge breath and leans back in his chair, raking his hands through his dark hair. "They came back with a vengeance."

Sometimes the memories were hazy, surreal fever dreams that felt confusing in their reality. Other times, they were shockingly vivid, nightmares from which he visibly shudders as he recalls.

Not everything was returned, which is both a blessing and a curse. Some things his brain refuses to allow in, a coping mechanism he doesn't try too hard to unravel. He knows there are some things better left forgotten.

But where he can, as much as he can, he is adamant about making amends. He understands it won't change the past. That's not the point.

When he breaks it down for me, I ask a loaded question. Is there a measure of peace that comes with remembering? His nose wrinkles as he thinks, playing with the coffee mug still in his hands. One thing about Bucky Barnes, is that he never delivers a half-baked response. When he finally answers, his words have a philosophical bend.

"Yes. I've come to grips with the fact that all those years weren't something I could control. I don't like to remember, but I think I owe it to people." He nods slowly while he speaks, as if convincing his own heart to get in line. "If remembering is my penance, if my suffering gives others peace, then I guess yeah – I'm happy to pay it."

*****

Sucking tiny hickeys down his neck, you laugh at the sound of his pleased little purrs. Leaving one last purpley-red bruise above his heart, you settle comfortably between his legs and fold your hands across his bare chest. Propping your chin on your knuckles, you study him.

"Do you know my first impression of you, the day we met?"

Bucky raises a lazy eyebrow and grins. "Shock at how devastatingly handsome I was?"

"Don't get cocky Barnes, you're not that good in bed."

"Yes, I am," he promptly replies.

Wiggling against him, you rub your cheek against the bristly hair on his chest. "Hmmm. True. Anyway, I remember that day, you were acting all pissy and annoyed, big shocker I know, and I was looking at your scruffy face – "

"I didn't have time to shave that morning," he interrupts.

"And all your fluffy hair – "

"I was having a great hair day," he confirms.

"And that old leather jacket – "

"It's my favorite jacket, makes me look sexy and intimidating," he says.

"Buck, I'm trying to tell a story here."

"Right. Sorry babe."

"Anyway. You were standing there with your scruffy face and fluffy hair and that leather jacket, and I kept thinking you were the kind of guy who'd screw a girl in a bar bathroom, slap her ass, and never call."

"That sounds very unsanitary," he whispers, tapping your nose lightly. "But if you really want to try, I'll give it a go."

"What a saint."

"I really am."

*****

Just thinking about everything Barnes has experienced is enough to make my brain ache. Imagining what it must have been like for him, is baffling.

"All those years, through everything – how did you cope with it all?"

"I fought it for a long time, until they figured out how to wipe it all out – my memories, who I was. The longer I was out of cryofreeze, the more random thoughts would come back, but it was so confusing. I'd end up trying to compartmentalise it all. Separate it out, put parts of my life and my memories into little boxes in my head. It was the only way I could deal with it.

His ability to compartmentalise and separate himself from the situation at hand, would prove to be useful, a common coping method for trauma survivors. "I'd kind of retreat into myself. I got very good at finding safe spaces in my head." He gives a nonchalant shrug. "Knew if I didn't, there'd be hell to pay."

He must have learned new things then, other ways of coping. What gets him through the days now?

"I guess – it's like, you just put one foot in front of the other. Every day, you get up and do it and at some point, it becomes second nature."

"What was it like in the beginning?"

Rubbing his jaw, he shakes his head. "It was terrible. There were weeks I didn't want to get out of bed. Was terrified of what I might do, who I might see. And everything just felt – heavy, I guess? Not sure that's the right word. It was like my brain wanted to give up, but my body wasn't done yet. I hid from real life for a long time."

Known during WW2 as Combat Stress Reaction, Barnes was familiar with his symptoms. It took no time at all to diagnose him with one of the most disturbingly common conditions affecting those in service: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

"It wasn't something we talked about back then," he says. "But we all knew what it was. People just tried to deal with it though, they didn't look for help."

The world has changed for the better and now discussions around this topic are no longer taboo. Even then, Barnes says he initially found it difficult, because the idea of it – of help – was such a foreign concept. Now though, he's an enthusiastic supporter.

"We don't talk about it enough," he says firmly. "It's better now, but we need to be more open and honest with each other, so we can figure out how to live." Tipping his mug back, he drains the last dregs of coffee. "Humans are weird, you know? We make things hard sometimes and we shouldn't. You can't be afraid to ask for help. You're not alone."

*****

Bucky picks up his phone and gives a cursory glance at the list of notifications. The screen lights up with message after message, line after line, and he scrolls through nervously, before he realizes what he's seeing.

"Jesus H Christ."

Feeling your heart lurch, you look at him in alarm. "What? What happened?"

Slowly, he turns his phone screen to face you, eyes comically wide, face bone white.

"I'm trending on Twitter."

*****

Part of me expected Barnes to have a limited knowledge of culture and history. He likes to feign confusion at times ("honestly, screwing with Sam Wilson is a highlight in my life"), but in reality, he's one of the sharpest people I've met. Spending so much of his life as an undercover operative, he was required to keep up to speed on the world, always assimilating into new environments.

Finding a work-life balance is key though, so what are the things he does for fun, just for himself?

"Netflix," he declares. "is the greatest thing ever invented. You know Stranger Things, right? I love Eleven, that kid's my hero."

Agreeing wholeheartedly, I push him to expand. What else?

"Um, I like to eat? Tacos, pizza. Snickers. Breakfast cereal. Damn, yeah. Breakfast cereal. I could eat Captain Crunch every single day of my life. Captain Crunch kicks Captain America's ass."

On that note, he has a famous relationship with Steve Rogers, but what about the rest of the Avengers?

"Took me awhile to fall in with the team," he says matter of fact. "Didn't trust them and they sure as hell didn't trust me. But now? I'd take a bullet for any of them. They're – we're family."

Time for our interview is winding down, and Barnes is finally relaxed. With my final set of questions, I struggle to keep the smile off my face, but I can't help myself.

"You know you've got quite the status as a moody broody heartthrob, right?"

His eyes go wide at the question, a red flush instantly staining his cheeks. "What? No. No, that's – no. No. I'm definitely not – no. God no."

The look of horror on his face is entertaining and I wait for him to finish spluttering before I continue. "So, are you saying you're single? A free agent?"

He looks taken aback for a moment, but when realization arrives, along with a sparkle in his eye, he relaxes. He knows what I'm doing.

"I didn't say that."

"So – there's a special someone then?"

Barnes gives me that trademark smile and ducks his head. "Well, there's this girl."

"Tell me about her."

"She's a real pistol," he enthuses. "Smart. Funny. A real ball-breaker. Swears more than anyone I've ever met."

"She sounds like fun."

"She is," he agrees. Tilting his head, he fixes me with an intense stare and his voice grows serious. "She's got my whole damn heart, right in the palm of her hand. It's all hers. I'll spend every day if I need to, making sure she knows that."

At his words, my heart leaps. When I try to respond, I hear my voice crack.

"She's a lucky girl."

"Nah," he replies, bashful at the compliment. Reaching across the table, he picks up my hands and holds them tight. "I'm the lucky one. She makes me feel safe."

*****

"We haven't left this bed for a couple days. Should we go do something?" Drawing random little patterns across his skin, you pause at his nipple and give it a pinch.

"Nope, we're staying put," he says, shoving your fingers away and giving you a stern look. "That tickles."

"Does it?" Tweaking his nipple again, he yelps.

"Woman, don't you listen?"

"Sorry, couldn't hear you over the sounds of someone being a whiny bitch."

With an outraged growl, he rolls you over, using his knee to shove your legs open and pinning your arms above your head.

"Wanna try again?"

Batting your eyelashes at him, you mirror his earlier pout. "I was just saying how devilishly handsome you were and how much I love you."

Bucky grunts his approval. "That's what I thought."

Stretching up, you leave a sloppy kiss on his chin. "So, are we leaving or what?"

"Hard no," he shakes his head. "Made myself a promise, I'm not breaking it."

"Did you now? And what was that?"

"That if I got you back, if I didn't fuck it up again, I was keeping you in my bed for at least a week. Minimum."

"Hmmm," you say, trying to keep your face serious. "Sounds like a solid plan, except what if I want to shower?"

"Excellent," Bucky breathes, eyes lighting up at the question. "Then I'll join you. Never know what kind of trouble you'll find in the shower, when you're all wet and slick and soapy – yep, that's it. You're a dirty, dirty girl. Shower time you hussy, move your ass."

Scrambling off the bed, he tosses you over his shoulder and palms your bare ass, squeezing a handful. Giving you a playful smack, he stalks toward the bathroom, the sound of his happy laughter echoing through the apartment.

******

Recently, there was news coverage around the Avengers taking down a Hydra sleeper cell in upstate New York. The mission was led by Sergeant Barnes and was deemed a success, with the threat being fully eradicated.

That mission, was put in motion to save someone.

That someone, was me.

Here's the thing. In journalism, you need to remain unbiased and when I'm reporting on news, I'll always strive to report the unbiased facts. But if you haven't guessed yet, I have a more personal stake in this story.

Combine everything you know about James Buchanan Barnes, from annals of history to the words I've shared today, and you have a fact-based portrait of this remarkable man.

But facts are not what make up the measure of any human being.

Here's what else I know.

When he gets nervous, his palm sweats. He's terrible at sharing food and shamelessly blames his super soldier metabolism for that fact. When he concentrates, his nose scrunches up and when he laughs you can find little wrinkles circling his eyes. Sometimes when he can't sleep, he wanders down to the local rest home to visit with Alzheimer's patients, because he knows what it's like to not remember. He always keeps a crossword in his pocket because it keeps his brain sharp. He loves Rocky Road ice cream and fuzzy blankets and his favourite colour is actually pink. Bitter black coffee is his drug of choice and he could watch 'I Love Lucy' all day long.

Even now, as I hand you these snippets of his life and let you paint your own picture of the man so many still scathingly refer to as the Soldier, it's only a rough sketch. Like every person on this planet, Bucky Barnes is comprised of more complex layers and subtle nuances than it is possible to describe, a man full of contrasts. Made of unbreakable metal and soft touches, at times frighteningly rough and astonishingly gentle, swathed in despair and brimming with light. He's seen the blackest horrors lurking in the chaos of war and experienced first-hand the depravity of humanity, yet he remains one of the most compassionate people I've ever known.

The first day we met, I contemptuously declared "I don't do soft human-interest stories."

How times have changed.

Here I am, pen in hand and heart on my sleeve, so soft for this man I feel it in my bones. We live in a world where good does not always triumph over evil and where far too often, love is not enough. I am lucky beyond measure to have found Bucky Barnes. So here, at the end of my story, I leave these words, for him and him alone.

If Death sees fit to grant me his heart, I'll offer my own in return. Unreservedly, now and always.

*****

Bucky watches the shadows lengthen through the apartment as the sun sets. Eventually he'll get up and turn on a lamp to chase the dark away, but for now he's content to lay here with you humming sleepily, twirling a finger around his damp hair.

Sprawled together on his bed, tangled up in each other, the word flits through his mind. Bucky understands what he has now, what you gave to him. What it means to be –

Safe.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky #safe with me #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic

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ibloggingkits-blog · 7 years

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New Post has been published on Blogging kits

New Post has been published on https://bloggingkits.org/the-huge-dangers-of-big-facts-in-sports-activities/

The Huge Dangers Of Big Facts In Sports activities

On the pinnacle degree, Huge Facts and analytics are now firmly embedded across most foremost Sports activities. Athletes and coaches are in step with the idea that the extra they could measure and analyze, the more they can enhance performance.

And of the route that is authentic. What they consume, how they carry out inside the gymnasium or at the pitch, and the way they sleep, all impact on achievement. However gathering Statistics in the extent and depth this is vital to make accurate predictions carries its very own Risks.

What if the Information falls into the incorrect fingers? How valuable could certain statistics for your superstar players’ every heartbeat, breath, and repetition within the gymnasium be? Not most effective ought to it allow them to increase techniques to make the most their weaknesses, it would deliver them insider market knowledge whilst it comes to buying and selling.

These are capability Dangers that Sports activities groups are regularly leaving themselves open to, by means of failing to don’t forget Information security as part of their average Facts strategy, Sian John, a safety expert at Symantec, tells me.

Sian, who has worked with teams which includes Williams F1 and the London Irish rugby union squad to enhance Records protection, stated “There’s a whole lot of Information being accrued by way of devices, and in common with how the Internet of things normally works, it’s being evolved via producers who are experts in creating Sports activities technological know-how era, However, they aren’t necessarily thinking about the assault vectors.”

Of course, Sports teams have constantly used sorts of surveillance to study their fighters. However, because the procedure traditionally involves sending scouts to video games, or watching hours of video re-runs, while meticulously making notes by using a hand on people’ overall performance, get entry to the “fireplace hose” of Statistics accrued all through education could offer a massive quick cut.

The other important problem is the unfair insider understanding that an opposing crew should advantage inside the switch markets, with illicitly-received Statistics on their opponents. even as in-sport performance Records can be obtained via statement, athlete training and life-style Statistics is more difficult for an outside party to get maintain of. This Statistics isn’t generally launched into the public area (instead of in-game overall performance Facts, which is broadly broadcast with the aid of the media) But would certainly be very precious for some other crew seeking to advantage a bonus whilst it comes to shopping for and promoting gamers. Finding out, as an instance, that a particular player is not that exceptional at recuperating from damage should effect their charge, and if No longer everyone has access to the same Records, it isn’t a degree playing field.

So where is the answer going to return from? Well, it’s truely already here, consistent with John. The gear had to ensure Facts can be accumulated accurately and stored best in the arms of people who its supposed for are already to be had. The trouble is that outside of a few relatively Information-pushed Sports, which includes Method One, maximum golf equipment, and teams just aren’t conscious enough of the risks to have carried out them.

“The technology is to be had,” she says, “It’s approximately ensuring the teams positioned it in the area. Statistics can be secured with passwords and encryption. It’s about setting the proper precautions in area But doing it inside the proper manner so that the Facts is still useable.”

Running in, among others, the particular Sports I highlighted above – Rugby and Formula One – has given John an overview of both ends of the spectrum, in phrases of the level of threat that teams face.

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mcneelamusic · 3 years

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The Greatest Irish Fiddle Player of Our Time

When people think of traditional Irish fiddle playing, they usually think of furious toe-tapping tunes played at a breakneck speed with fingers flying and bows bouncing off the strings. One Irish fiddle player is responsible for breaking the mould however, and inspiring countless generations in his wake.

Martin Hayes is regarded today as one of the greatest Irish fiddle players in existence. His unique playing style is recognised across the world. But how exactly has this musical legend innovated Irish fiddle playing?

Keep reading to learn about Hayes’ signature style. I’ll introduce you to some of his most iconic and innovative work and show you how you too can play like this master.

Take your playing to the next level with inspiration from the greatest Irish fiddle player of all time.

Contents

Late Night Kitchen Sessions

Child Prodigy

Angering the Purists

What Was the Cause of all the Fuss?

Slow is Sometimes Better than Fast

How to Play Like Martin Hayes

Possibly the Best Trad Music Partnership Ever

The Gloaming: A Worldwide Sensation

Follow in Hayes’ Footsteps

Learn a Tune by Playing Along with Hayes

Late Night Kitchen Sessions

Martin Hayes was born into a musical family in a small village in East Clare. Music sessions were commonplace in his household and he would often stay awake late into the night listening to the music coming from the kitchen. This immersion in Irish music and the tradition was the perfect breeding ground for his musical genius.

I grew up in a household filled with music in a locality with a rich musical heritage. My father PJ Hayes and my uncle Paddy Canny were both highly respected fiddle players in the world of Irish music. My father also led the Tulla Céilí Band for most of his adult life.

From the very beginning I loved this music and was eager to play. I got my first fiddle when I was seven and the slow process of imitation and absorption began in our kitchen with my Father as my teacher.

– Martin Hayes

Child Prodigy

Martin’s talent was recognised from a young age. At age 13, he won the All Ireland Fiddle Competition. This was but the first of many awards he was to receive throughout his life. Hayes was crowned an All Ireland Champion a grand total of six times – a huge achievement for any musician.

In 2000, he was awarded the prestigious Instrumentalist of the Year at the BBC Radio 2 Folk Awards. He is also a recipient of both the coveted TG4 Gradam Ceoil award for Traditional Musician of the Year and RTÉ Radio 1 Folk Instrumentalist of the Year. In November 2019 he was awarded an honorary doctorate by National University of Ireland Galway in recognition of his contribution to the traditional arts.

While Martin Hayes is one of the most decorated traditional Irish fiddle players in the world, his music and playing style have not always received such high praise.

Angering the Purists

Today Martin Hayes’ soulful interpretations of traditional Irish tunes are recognised and celebrated the world over. This was not always the case however.

Hayes has faced criticism over the years, particularly in his early career, from Irish musicians who claimed his unique style is not representative of traditional Irish music. I for one have never agreed with this claim. (To be honest, trad purists will claim this about anything that’s the least bit innovative or outside the box.)

Hayes himself has always been well aware of this quiet judgment. Despite his successful music career, it wasn’t until he won the TG4 Gradam Ceoil in 2008 that he truly felt accepted by the tradition from which he came:

To me, it’s recognition from inside the world of the music itself, which I haven’t had in a long time. That vote of approval from the inner sanctum of the music is a very nice thing; it gives you a bit of strength going on.

– Martin Hayes

So what is it about his playing that so angered the gatekeepers of traditional Irish music?

What Was the Cause of all the Fuss?

Martin Hayes’ fiddle playing style is characterised by his unique laid back approach to the music. While he’s fully capable of playing tunes at a rip roaring pace (and occasionally does), more often than not, he chooses to drastically slow the tempo of the tunes he plays.

Why does he do this?

When you slow down a tune, you remove a lot of the rhythmic components on which traditional Irish music relies. Instead, the melody becomes the focus. This approach allowed the melody to shine through, taking pride of place. Suddenly, these simple melodies take on new shape and meaning:

While I can understand how it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, there’s no denying that Martin Hayes’ playing style comes from a place of great reverence for the music. His love for the tradition is evident in each note he plays. Never before has traditional Irish music been treated with such care.

Each note is carefully selected and played with the utmost sincerity. This is a man who respects his roots and wants to showcase the beauty of traditional Irish music:

In the learning process the dominant message always coming to me from my father and lots of the finest musicians of county Clare was their idea that music must first express feeling. In their opinion no amount of technical prowess could compensate for an absence of soulfulness.

I wasn’t content to simply imitate and reproduce, I needed to decipher the deeper musical aspirations of the older musicians. I needed to get to the heart of this music.

– Martin Hayes

Slow is Sometimes Better than Fast

Martin’s unique approach to Irish music has struck a chord with many.

In his music there is a sense of space and openness. The tunes he plays resonate differently than they would if played at a faster tempo. He allows the listener to engage with the melody, drawing them in with his haunting, soulful expression.

Hayes particularly excels at taking often overlooked tunes that people may dismiss as overly simplistic and giving them a new lease of life:

The melodies are sometimes deceptively simple but almost always beautiful and the rhythm is both understated and entrancing… My goal is to fully reveal the beauty and meaning of these tunes… My playing is focused on allowing the fullest expression of the melody.

The great genius of Irish music is therefore contained within the melody itself.

– Martin Hayes

One of my favourite tracks comes from Martin’s self titled debut album. Britches is his take on one of the best known Irish polkas in existence, The Britches Full of Stitches. Here, Hayes applies his signature touch, slowing the tune right down and exploring the melody and all it has to offer.

What emerges is a beautiful almost melancholy melody. The tune loses its polka feel, taking on a different persona entirely. It doesn’t lose any of its life or vitality however. Why not have a listen for yourself and see what your opinion is?

How to Play Like Martin Hayes

As you’ve probably noticed by now, Martin Hayes uses an awful lot of elongated sliding notes in his playing. These emphasised notes are also usually flattened slightly, sitting just below where the note should be pitched. This creates a vaguely minor tonality, adding an edgy quality to the tune. This stylistic feature has become synonymous with Martin’s playing.

Another distinctive aspect of Martin’s playing that is simple to emulate is the space he creates in tunes. He simply plays fewer notes. He lengthens the important structural notes within a melodic phrase and allows them to ring out. His melodies are never busy and he never overcrowds his playing with too many embellishments.

To truly learn how to emulate Martin’s iconic style however, why not learn from the master himself?

Learn a Tune by Playing Along with Hayes

Allow Hayes to teach you a tune on the fiddle as he takes you step by step through the traditional teaching method his own father taught him.

Possibly the Best Trad Music Partnership Ever

While it’s tough to choose a favourite (each of his albums is a gem), Martin’s 1997 collaboration with American guitarist Dennis Cahill definitely holds a special place in my heart.

Aptly titled, The Lonesome Touch might just be the best description I’ve ever heard for Martin’s own playing style. This album is a brilliant collaboration between two master musicians. I would argue it’s one of the best matched duets to ever exist.

Hayes’ and Cahill’s playing styles and sense of musicality perfectly complement one another. Like Hayes, Dennis Cahill plays just the right amount of notes. Nothing is ever too much. The care and focus with which he plays is evident throughout the album.

The Lonesome Touch offers twelve stunning tracks, each excelling in its own way. As on Martin’s solo albums, entire tracks are devoted to just one tune, rather than arranging them into selections (as is the norm).

The Kerfunken Jig is one such tune given this magical treatment. Played at half the speed one would expect to hear it performed at a session, this once ordinary jig is transformed. It takes on new life and a completely different energy. The tune is repeated with slight melodic variations and embellishments each time. Nothing complicated, yet the tune really sings:

Not all of Haye’s playing is quite so subdued however. This album also contains one of favourite renditions of the iconic reel, The Bucks of Oranmore. While still played at a slightly slower pace than usual, this version certainly isn’t lacking in drive or energy.

In this track you can hear that Hayes is not only a master of melody but also of his instrument. His performance, accompanied by Cahill’s flawless rhythmic guitar backing, is technically brilliant. A true lesson in virtuoso fiddle playing!

The Gloaming: A Worldwide Sensation

Once one knows the true essence of this music it is possible to absorb influences from almost anywhere and not alter the fundamental message of the tune… My collaborations with musicians of all backgrounds begins with the melody, with its universal appeal, its joy…

– Martin Hayes

Martin Hayes has collaborated with some of the greatest musicians in the world. His partnership with the outstanding Dennis Cahill was so powerful however that they decided to add a little more fire to the mix.

In 2011, Hayes formed the iconic ensemble, The Gloaming. In addition to Hayes and Cahill its members include sean nós singer Iarla Ó Lionárd, fiddle player Caoimhín Ó Raghallaigh and pianist Thomas Bartlett. This all star lineup is a veritable who’s who of some of the greatest musicians not only in the world of traditional Irish music, but further afield.

While differing in so many ways, the members of The Gloaming all share a common thread in their exquisite musicality and their expressive approach to the music. The music they create together is haunting and tender. They extract the hidden beauty of each tune and song they perform. Their signature melancholy undertones succeed in bringing the listener on an emotional journey.

In 2014, the group won the Meteor Choice Music Prize for Irish Album of the Year. The innovative ensemble have continued to go from strength to strength, gaining further accolades along the way.

The iconic track Samhradh Samhradh is probably their most celebrated and it’s not difficult to hear why. This traditional Irish folk song is a celebration of the summer months. In The Gloaming’s hands however, it takes on a pensive, reflective mood. It perfectly evokes a sense of longing for the lost season and all that has gone with it. A true masterpiece:

Follow in Hayes’ Footsteps

If you’re not already a fiddle player and you’re feeling inspired by the magical fiddle playing of this legend, you might consider giving it a go yourself. It’s never too late to take up a new instrument and start learning traditional Irish music. Our Irish Fiddle Store has a wide range of fiddles and violins to suit all levels.

If you’re looking to take your playing to the next level, perhaps a new fiddle might be just what you need. The McNeela Maestro Violin will help transform you into a musical virtuoso in no time.

For more inspiration from some of the greatest fiddle players of our time, why not check out my blog post: Modern Day Traditional Irish Music Legends – Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh.

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