#John Peel Archive

[bongo-clash]

Peacock Au Part 1

Okay so Big Huge credit to @stealingyourbones for letting me do my own take on their amazing eldritch Danny idea!!!! This started out as me just doing a drawing but then I ended up with a whole DPxDC fic that I'll be posting the part two for at some point!!! Anyway, here's the vague designs:

And here's the part one of the fic under the cut!!! :D (Edit: Part 2 is Here!!)

There’s a Lazarus Pit forming underneath Gotham. Normally, this would not concern John Constantine at all, because it’s Gotham, therefore Bat territory therefore not his problem, and honestly he has his own things to worry about. Unfortunately for him, however, the infamous Dark Knight has somehow gotten it into his head that he can do something about it and, Hell, he’d said it would be a ‘big favour’, which meant the man really must be desperate; had to have been in the first place, he supposed, to have even bothered with John in the first place. 

Still, he’d almost kind of forgotten what a huge mess any kind of favour for Batman could be, and thus, he now holds possession of a book that is probably going to get him killed. 

Whether the actual book itself wants to kill him is up for debate, but Constantine has read the contents of this particular Book of Summonings and nothing in here seems remotely safe. He’s absolutely going to be hiding this away somewhere deep in the archives of the archives of the Justice League watchtower with an incredibly pointed ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ on it once he’s done with this, but for now, it’s the only thing he’s got in the way of sorting out this Pit problem. 

There’s an entity that exists, this book claims, that keeps the balance between realms. ‘Closes doors’, apparently, and the doors the pages depict certainly look like a Lazarus Pit. This is brilliant news, obviously, but the book doesn’t describe the entity itself at all beyond that; barely any of the other entries are as vague as this, and that plus some of the frankly bizarre sigils he’s having to draw to summon the damn thing are giving him no comfort. The only remotely comforting thing about it is that the ritual doesn’t require any blood- which either means the entity is benign, or it wants something more valuable than blood. 

…Okay, maybe not that comforting, actually. 

But, before he can consider that maybe this wasn’t his best idea and backing out would be for the best, the sigils flare with light, and Constantine squints to keep track of the way they activate, desperate for any indication of what he’s managed to summon with that stupid book. 

His feet feel feathery against the ground, like they’re barely tethered by gravity and just waiting to float away, and perhaps the seeming lack of atmosphere is fitting with how dust like stars lift from the summoning circle, bringing with them intercepting layers of purple-blue-pink-white, galaxies and nebulae being peeled off the floor. It comes with a sound- something whistling, almost. Seeming hollow, between a shriek and a bell ringing, or maybe more musical than that. It seems to change every moment he tries to focus on it, as if it’s something his ears can’t really hear but his brain is desperate to process, painful to try. 

And then, the entity begins to form. 

Unnoticeably at first, a white glow drifts forming in the centre. It congeals as Constantine’s gaze finally fixates on it, layers forming like jellyfish trails, or flowers, or peacock feathers with runic circles at the tips, fading smaller and smaller as they reach the centre, and a thing akin to a body unfolds into view at the front, a centrepiece. A child’s image of a shadow in opalescence, a strange curving feature where a neck might be, and searing-green spots of varying sizes scattered along the space where cheeks and eyes could’ve been, fading up and down across the lower-half of the ‘face’ and into the ‘hair’. He barely understands what he’s looking at, but maybe that’s the point. 

The sound of a thunderstorm rings across the room, and the curve of the neck unfolds, and it’s an eye, and the tips of a thousand twisted, cosmic peacock feathers become eyes as well, if they weren’t always. They move, wavering, either lashing or flickering from visibility. 

“And what is this?” The voice is a kaleidoscope, echoing off and from every corner of the room, and when they speak, infinite eyes become infinite mouths, too many teeth barely contained by the edges of what seem vaguely like frostbitten lips. To have something even remotely human suddenly etch itself onto the entity is somehow worse than the parts he can’t comprehend. “Who are you, to have summoned me, and seem so afraid?”

Constantine wishes, maybe for the first time, that it hadn’t been an obligation to do this alone; he’s never wanted Batman or one of the Light members with him more than now. It’s a difficult thing, almost impossible, to shake off the speechlessness. It’s a wonder that it’s possible at all, with how the room seems to have been twisted into a vacuum. “I was told you could- you could help with the pits?”

“The pits. There are many pits.”

God, this is creepy. “The Lazarus pits to, uh, to be specific. There’s a huge one cropping up under Gotham that’s not supposed to be there, and the local- I mean, the locals are getting antsy about it. …I heard you can take care of them.”

“I can smell its blood between the gaps of atmosphere, encircling. You, whose soul is bound in so many directions, who may be pulled apart like meat in time- can you sense it? Does it draw you?” John doesn’t know how this- this thing knows that, but he’s scared asking will invoke some kind of consequence, and more and more he’s wondering why the Hell he decided to do Batman this favour. He feels exposed. 

“Uh… no, I don’t think so. But can you fix it?”

“Yes.”

“…Will you fix it?”

The chill is getting to him. Goosebumps are running across his arms like a livewire, and he’s never doing anyone a favour ever again. The entity makes an approximation of a hum, his ears shriek with whale song and stars, and after a pause, everything switching up and down on itself, the peacock eyes form into huge, reaching hands. For a second, Constantine’s whole body freezes with terror, because he’s petrified the thing’s going to grab him, but then the arms tumble phasing into the ground, and the green spots on their ‘face’ flare with a supernova glow and they make another piercing noise, chiming or trilling. 

A long moment later, the hands slowly return to the entity’s back, and fade into the peacock feathers or jellyfish bells or whatever they were before, blinking at him. “It is gone.”

“Uh… cheers?”

“It will not return, but this place shall see its dead for some time. Try not to look.”

This is maybe the worst day of Constantine’s life. “Can I- uh, yeah, great advice. ‘Appreciate it. But, can I ask just, y’know, what you are? Or not.”

“That is up to you.” They say, and though the eyes that appear briefly between sentences bely or reveal no expression, it feels scrutinising. “What is it that closes doors? Is it alive?”

He hates riddles. He hates riddles and he hates cosmic horrors and he hates eldritch entities and he hates Batman for getting him to agree to this horrible favour. He wants to go back to the House of Mystery and pass out for long enough that this whole thing becomes a dream. “Fair enough! Forget I asked- cheers for sorting out that pit, though. Uh, don’t suppose you’ll just let me go on my way or anything now.”

“I know of your Bat.” 

Oh dear. Constantine’s stomach sinks like a shipwreck into the Mariana Trench, but the entity moves on like they’d never even said it. “I will recede, and find you in time, perhaps both. You will know when I am coming, and I will find my recompense.”

And just like that, their whole form shimmers into clouds and pearls and smoke and mirrors, and they fade back into the runes that summoned them like tap water down the drain. The galaxies they’d formulated within the confines of the room fold back in on themselves and turn to whispers and then nothing, but the feeling persists on his skin long after weight has settled back onto his bones. He hadn’t known a thing like that existed until now. He doesn’t know what it can do, doesn’t know how all-encompassing it truly is. 

And he owes it a favour. 

Crap. 

#I'll be posting the part two at some point soon since it's already written out so prepare for that lmao!! #Warning that there might be some mistakes in here since I literally just wrote this and the second part a couple hours ago #This is a Little bit of a thing about my hc on the Ghost Monarchy and how it isn't Actually a monarchy #It's just that the 'king' keeps the actual physical balance of the GZ (ie natural portal stuff) & the title originally had a different name #But when Pariah Dark took the mantle he decided it made him the ruler of the GZ and that's why the Ancients took him down #But I'll talk more abt that if I ever get around to finishing that GZ culture/history/evolution post thing I had planned lmao!!!! #Either way I Love Eldritch Danny sm and writing this was so so fun!!! #Part two will be from Danny's perspective!!! #I might colour those drawings and stuff at some point but for now I like them as they are!!! #Also before I forget I Am still thinking about that pizza delivery guy pt. 2 I just got stuck a bit!!! It'll hopefully appear at some point #dp au #danny phantom au #dpxdc #john constantine #danny phantom fanart #dp fanart #danny phantom #Bongo's Aus!!! #Bongo's Writing!!! #Bongo's Art!!! #tw body horror #peacock au

[thepastisalreadywritten]

PART 1

Never-before-seen photo of four royal mothers, including Queen Elizabeth and Princess Margaret with their newborn babies, as a personal token to doctor who delivered them to go on display at Buckingham Palace

By Rebecca English, Royal Editor and Mark Duell

16 May 2024

—

It is a remarkable and never seen before snapshot of royal motherhood.

The image, taken by Lord Snowdon, shows Queen Elizabeth II, Princess Margaret, Princess Alexandra, and the Duchess of Kent holding their newborn babies in 1964.

It was captured by Princess Margaret's celebrated photographer husband as a personal token of thanks for Sir John Peel, the royal obstetrician who delivered all four babies within two months — Prince Edward, Lady Sarah Chatto, James Ogilvy, and Lady Helen Windsor.

And it will be one of the highlights of a new exhibition Royal Portraits: A Century of Photography, opening tomorrow at The King's Gallery, Buckingham Palace.

The charming picture will be displayed along with a handwritten letter from Princess Margaret to her sister, asking her 'Darling Lilibet' to sign a print 'as a souvenir of an extraordinary two months of delivery.'

The new exhibition — the first to be held at the The King's Gallery since it was renamed following the death of Queen Elizabeth — will also include The Queen Mother's personal copy of her daughter's Coronation portrait and the earliest surviving colour photographic print of a member of the Royal Family.

It charts the evolution of royal portrait photography from the 1920s to the present day through more than 150 items from the Royal Collection and Royal Archives.

The photographs presented in the exhibition are vintage prints – the original works produced by the photographer – most of which are on display for the first time.

Alessandro Nasini, curator of Royal Portraits: A Century of Photography, said: 'The Royal Collection holds some of the most enduring photographs ever taken of the Royal Family, captured by the most celebrated portrait photographers of the past hundred years – from Dorothy Wilding and Cecil Beaton to Annie Leibovitz, David Bailey, and Rankin.

Alongside these beautiful vintage prints, which cannot be on permanent display for conservation reasons, we are excited to share archival correspondence and never-before-seen proofs that will give visitors a behind-the-scenes insight into the process of creating such unforgettable royal portraits.'

'Royal Portraits: A Century of Photography' is at The King's Gallery, Buckingham Palace, from tomorrow (May 17) until October 6, 2024.

#Queen Elizabeth II #Prince Philip #Princess Margaret #King George VI #Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother #Princess Alexandra #Duchess of Kent #Princess Alice #Duchess of Gloucester #Cecil Beaton #Lord Snowdon #Madame Yevonde #Royal Portraits: A Century of Photography #Alessandro Nasini #Annie Leibovitz #David Bailey #Rankin #royal portraits #royal motherhood #royal babies #British Royal Family #The King's Gallery #Buckingham Palace #vintage photos #royal photos

[sig-nifier]

The cobblestone floor was melded around his left ankle, pinning him to the ground. He reaches back, tries to peel the stone away with his fingernails, but it’s like trying to pry up the Earth itself; a futile waste of time. Footsteps approach. Gale slowly, slowly, looks up. Above him, Egan is panting. He’s sweating, curly hair starting to stick to his forehead, and there’s an infuriating, amused smile on his pretty face. Gale looks up into that enchantress grin and hates him immensely. “Stuck, are we?” The witch quips lightly, and Gale grinds his teeth. He braces his hands against his thigh, begins to push himself up to standing, but as he gets half-way an unseen power forces him back to his knees. “Let me go,” Gale says through clenched teeth, all the calm of a sandstorm. Egan preens. “Say please.” I am going to tear you apart, Gale thinks. He says: “coward.” It does nothing to wipe the smile from Egan’s face. He crouches down, balances on the balls of his feet in front of him, and tips his head, regarding. “I find you witch hunters much more agreeable on your knees.” - The one where Witch Hunter Gale Cleven is tasked with pursuing John Egan, a dangerous Sorcerer.

is this anything??? i guess we'll find out!

#clegan #masters of the air #bucky x buck #mota #masters of the air fic #mota fic #buck x bucky #buck cleven #bucky egan #john egan #john bucky egan #gale cleven #gale buck cleven #a magic touch #witch x witch finder au #witch x witch finder #fantasy au

[johannestevans]

Rated E, Frenchie/Izzy, 45k+. WIP.

ACT II

It’s three months after their parting that providence works in their favour – in the midst of a raging storm, lightning strikes the Queen Anne, and in the ensuing fire they lose one mast entirely and another set of sails.

Ed’s not been well, has been spiralling between good days and bad days, and Izzy’s not really equipped to deal with it anymore, not that he ever was. He doesn’t know how it happens, exactly. Maybe Ed pushes him, maybe Ed grabs him by the throat and throws him overboard – maybe he shot at him, and Izzy fell backward to get away from the shot.

Maybe he jumped. Maybe he walked straight off the side and into the drink, and let it take him.

He doesn’t know.

What he does know is that after six days at sea, gripping tight to a barrel, it’s not Ivan and the lads on the Revenge that pick him up, and it’s not another set of merchant sailors or a naval vessel or pirates, neither – it’s Stede Bonnet and his crew of madmen, naturally.

It’s just what makes the most narrative sense, isn’t it?

“Jesus Christ,” Wee John says as he carries Izzy into the shadows of below decks, and Izzy almost sobs with relief at just how cold it is inside, at the relief of the shadows instead of the sun beating down on his back. “He’s peeling like fucking paint.”

“Get him here,” Izzy hears Roach say, and he grunts as scissors slide under his trouser leg, cutting away the fabric clinging to him – his shirt is already mostly torn away although he’d tried desperately to cling onto his vest, and the pants are a lost cause regardless.

Izzy loses the ability to parse out what’s being said over top of him as Roach starts applying medical treatment – some sort of balm for his burnt and torn-up arms and shoulders, his face, his fucked-up feet where fish have been nibbling at him, and there’s a jellyfish sting, too.

He clings onto consciousness until he sees Frenchie in the doorway looking as if he’s about to cry – Frenchie, alive, healthy, still wearing his black boots and jacket but back in colour underneath it – and then he lets the world go dark.

#musings #our flag means death #izzy hands #frenchizzy #ouizzy

[dulltoned]

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven

It's been a few weeks now since they've settled down in Troll Village after the disaster that was Mount Rageous. John could admit to himself, and only himself, that he's been neatly knocked down a few pegs by his brothers since then. Branch has been especially ruthless but he supposes he hadn't really known where the baseline was before they'd had time to relax around each other these last couple weeks. Branch wasn't as receptive to John Dory's playful bickering as he initially expected and it turns out that the anger that was directed towards him in retaliation was genuine more often than not. Good to know. Maybe it's only fair. Branch has made it clear that they weren't close enough to taunt and tease like that anymore.

Ever since Branch had snapped at him over his throwaway comment to Bruce John has been spending his nights tucked away in Rhonda. He was painfully aware that the relationship between him and his brothers was strained and while he didn't give that much thought during the day it lingered in the back of his mind when he was alone.

He's shuffling around the kitchenette while Rhonda snoozes away, her gentle snores humming through the floor and acting as a firm reminder that he wasn't alone. He doesn't know exactly what he's looking for as he rummages through the cabinets and peels open the fridge but he's peckish and needs something to do with his hands to keep the more unsavory thoughts at bay. Finding a snack just so happened to solve both of those problems so he throws himself into it.

He's humming the hook to one of Branch's songs-- because of course his brother was so amazingly talented, obviously-- and he grins in triumph when he finds a box of pasta in one of the cupboards. He mumbles the chorus, the words escaping him at the moment, and goes about collecting the rest of what he'd need to make himself some dinner. It's as he's filling the pot in the sink, singing fading out as his focus narrows in on his task, that his darker thoughts bubble up to taunt him. He thinks back to what Branch said a couple of days ago. He scoffs, rolling his eyes while he swings around and settles the pot on top of the small stove. He hadn't given Bruce an eating disorder. That's ridiculous, right? Any issues that Bruce had back then were his own, it was immature to push that onto him, and Branch was just a little baby back then! What did he know?

Here, alone in his home with only Rhonda's familiar rumble and the sounds of the night to keep him company, John Dory allows the guilt to creep in. He looks back on those days and just how pushy he'd been with Bruce about his figure and can easily connect the dots. He doesn't know how it never occurred to him before but he was no stranger to willful ignorance. He figures he'd pushed those thoughts away subconsciously, keeping himself free from the responsibility before the idea ever could have crossed his mind. He knows he hadn't been the best brother after BroZone initially took off. He knows that the pressure of the fame and the fans had gotten to his head and he'd become strict with his family, turning something that had been a passion and a hobby into an obligation.

He had been relieved when Clay and Bruce had brought up leaving after the incident. He'd been so wrapped up in the idea of perfection that anything else made him feel sick and he'd taken that and directed it outward. Clay couldn't be serious. Bruce had to keep his figure. Floyd had to showcase his sensitivity for the world to see. Branch, their baby brother, couldn't possibly be nervous to go out on stage in front of hundreds of people. It would've ruined everything.

No. He knew well just what had ruined everything. He's had two decades to ruminate on it, after all.

He jumped at the chance to get out when the opportunity presented itself and in turn their family split apart. He had pitifully believed that nothing terrible happened. That it was just a disagreement and if-- why had it always been if? Why had he never planned for when?-- they came together again it would all be in the past. He hadn't known at first that they'd all left after he'd gone. He didn't know that Grandma Rosiepuff got eaten. He didn't know that Branch grew up completely alone. He didn't know. But he knew whose fault that was too. Huh. Willful ignorance.

Poppy had broken through that excuse with ease on their trip to Mount Rageous. She was right then and it applied now. He didn't ask. He never followed up. He was always his first priority, even when he felt like he had four younger brothers to raise despite the fact that Grandma Rosiepuff had been there to shoulder most of that burden and do so proudly. It felt like the world had been on his shoulders and rather than communicate that and break the untouchable, perfect persona that he'd built he let that turmoil simmer inside of him until it inevitably boiled over. Looking at all of his brothers now he thinks that maybe he hasn't grown at all.

A knock on the door startles him from his spiraling thoughts and he spares a quick glance at the steaming pot before he goes to see who's outside. It's late, he wasn't expecting to see anyone else until the next day, but a part of him is hopeful that maybe they might need him for something.

He pushes open the door and blinks down in surprise. His youngest brother is illuminated in the cone of light stretching out from the open door, standing awkwardly with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. It's only been a little while but John Dory thought he was learning how to read the different expressions of his siblings. This scowl wasn't angry. It was uncomfortable and hesitant. Trying in vain to cover up the more vulnerable feelings. John Dory leans against the door frame and plasters on an easygoing smile, "Hey, Bitty B!" He greets brightly, "What do I owe the pleasure? Everything alright?"

Branch rolls his eyes, already annoyed, but his expression softens into something much less apprehensive and John considers that a win. "Everything's fine," He assures easily, tapping his fingers anxiously against his arms. It's that little motion that clues John Dory into the fact that this is something serious. At least something serious to Branch. Branch was a wary person by nature, honed by years of isolation and paranoia if the tales that Poppy told in a far-too-bubbly tone were anything to go by, but still he was usually very steadfast and confident in what he did. When he hesitated it was something personal. John wanted to take that seriously, especially now that he's seen how his negligence could affect his family. "I just… wanted to talk."  

Oh. That was daunting. John absentmindedly tugs at his jacket, a self-soothing gesture that he hopes looks as mindless as he tries to make it. "Yeah, of course." He steps back, leaving the door open in a clear invitation. He doesn't bother to linger and instead heads back over to the stove to drop the noodles into the now boiling water. He hears Branch follow him in, those telltale near-silent footsteps trailing slowly after him. He doesn't hear the door close but he has the awareness not to mention it. He figures Branch would feel more comfortable having an easy exit and he was trying really hard to be more conscious of what his brothers are feeling. The silence stretches for a few long minutes before John Dory realizes that Branch isn't going to start on his own. "So," he drawls, propping himself up against and counter and smiling over at Branch, "What's going on in that little head of yours, buddy?"

Branch grimaces but visibly steels himself, steepling his paws together and taking a bracing breath. "I'm sorry," He forces it out in a clear attempt to push past the emotions holding him back. John Dory is stunned by the apology, and he honestly doesn't know what it is that Branch is apologizing for, but Branch takes his silence as something else and rushes to continue. "I shouldn't have blown up at you the other day. There had to be a more civil way to bring it up and I don't want you to feel like you have to avoid everyone just because I lost my temper,"

"Oh," John Dory can't seem to figure out how best to articulate that he didn't think Branch had to apologize. Or rather, he didn't want Branch to apologize. Despite how humiliating he found the whole ordeal he thinks that he needed to have some sense knocked into him and that couldn't have happened if Branch had broached the topic with kindness like Floyd would have. It was humbling even if that made him uncomfortable. A necessary evil he was grateful for even if it made his skin crawl.

Branch barrels on, gesticulating more and more the longer John Dory remains unresponsive. "It's fine, if you don't feel like being in the bunker right now, but I just wanted to make sure you knew I wasn't kicking you out and that I know I should have handled it better, you know--"

"Woah, woah, Branch," John Dory cuts in swiftly, pushing away from the counter and waving his hands soothingly as he gets his wits about him. "We're cool, you just caught me off guard there." He chuckles lightly, noticing the wild look in Branch's eyes fade a bit at the reassurance. It makes him feel lighter knowing that if nothing else he could still soothe his baby brother. "You don't need to apologize," He starts, holding up a paw when Branch immediately moves to protest. He takes a long, fortifying breath. He needs to start communicating, he needs to start expressing his needs or else the cycle is just going to keep repeating and repeating and John has seen how change has benefited his brothers. He needs to open himself up. He's never been the closest to Branch but his youngest brother has done nothing but try to accommodate them and express a genuine desire to tentatively patch their family back up. John Dory figures that if he's going to start trying that Branch isn't a bad person to test the waters with.

"I'm sorry, too," John Dory starts. Branch doesn't even hide the shock on his face and John can't even find it in him to be offended. He had never liked apologizing. He doesn't now either. The only thing that's changed is now he understands that sometimes sorry is necessary and an apology is not a flaw. "I know I can be a bit self-centered but I didn't realize how much I hurt you. Any of you. I needed that call out, bro." He tries to get it out evenly, keeping his sentences measured so they don't come rushing out of him. He falters, watching Branch carefully, but he loses his nerve and turns around to stir his pasta instead. He laughs awkwardly, shrugging his shoulders, "It's really not a big deal, we're all good."

"You've put a lot of pressure on yourself, huh?" Branch asks softly. John Dory tenses up before the words even fully register and he mentally curses how obvious that must look.

He forces his muscles to uncoil and scoffs, "Well, I was single-handedly putting together a rescue mission just a few weeks ago," He jokes stiltedly, trying to push the conversation to a lighter note. One that he felt like he could handle. Branch, sadly, wasn't one to beat around the bush. Not when he had his sights set on a goal and someone else to unravel.

"No, before that," Branch states it now with such confidence. Like it's so obvious. That tears at John's walls and shreds through them. He knows his carefree expression is wavering so he keeps his back to his brother despite just how transparent that must be. John Dory missed his oblivious little brother who would look at all of them with wide eyes filled with wonder and amazement, willing to believe every word that came out of their mouths. "That perfection you wanted for everything, that was yours. You needed it for you, didn't you?"

John Dory doesn't respond. He doesn't need to. The clue board should have clued him in, he supposes. Branch was a smart one. Observant and meticulous. There's no doubt in John's mind that he'd be able to figure out anything if he really put his mind to it. He just wishes that attention had never been directed at him and his carefully covered faults.

Those near-silent footsteps head back towards the open door and John Dory's stomach drops. What was it that made Branch feel the need to flee? He thought that opening up was a step in the right direction but maybe he'd misjudged the moment. John glances over his shoulder to see Branch hovering by the open door, weight shifting from foot to foot while he considers his next words, "You don't have to be perfect for us to love you," he finally says. He doesn't look back to meet John's eyes but his expression is still firm. John feels like he can't breathe, air trapped in his lungs while he waits for whatever comes next. "You're our brother. We want to know you for who you are, not as the person you think you have to be." With that, Branch leaves. The door shuts behind him with a finality that John isn't sure he appreciates and it leaves him alone in the quiet with nothing but a boiling pot of plain noodles and the soft and noisy grumbles of a waking R.V.

His appetite is gone, shriveled and killed by the twisting in his gut, so he rinses the pasta and leaves the bus to feed the noodles to an excited Rhonda. He gently runs his paw across her cheek and smiles softly when she trills lovingly at him. His stomach is in knots and he doesn't know whether or not it was a good thing he'd tried to put his feelings out there. It made his skin crawl and the vulnerability had quickly put him on the defensive but he feels like he'd made progress with Branch that he hadn't been able to before. He goes back to his room in the bunker that night.

#| Game Plans | #{ isolationist } #{ the leader } #trolls band together #trolls branch #trolls john dory #trolls rhonda #angst #hurt/comfort #trolls fanfic #trolls dreamworks

[shoshiwrites]

The lovely @mercurygray is running Blind Dates again this year — now with a blog @blind-dates-fest! — and I wanted to make it four for four!

My sincerest apologies to Esther Bubley, whose photo stories for the Office of War Information I borrowed for this piece (and header), more specifically the six-week bus trip she took in 1943 to document the country's travels during wartime.

Her photos are amazing and can be found in multiple books on the Internet Archive and on the Library of Congress website. Her OWI peers included Jack Delano, Marion Post Wolcott, Gordon Parks, and John Vachon, and I should probably put together a second post instead of taking up all the space in this one!

Without further ado, meet Paulette!

so many miles and so long since i've met you

It’s 5:00 AM, and she’s hungry. 

She’d gone for a boxed lunch at the last station, scarfing it down at a corner bench with her camera on her lap, her jacket flung over it for protection. The taste of salmon salad lingers in her mouth, her fingertips still smelling of orange peel even though she’d waited in line to reach the ladies’ room, politely elbowed her way between fellow passengers reapplying lipstick and dabbing their makeup to scrub her hands clean at the small sink.

I could go for a Coca-Cola right about now. 

If nothing else, it would keep her awake to keep shooting, capture the people waiting who look as tired as she feels, as tired as she knows she looks by now. She’d gotten some good pictures at the machine shop back in Indianapolis, the garage where the mechanics worked and the drivers wrote out trip reports. 

Maybe she’s predisposed, her comfort in these places. Her papa’s a mechanic too; she knows the chambray shirts with their pockets, stained with oil and stuffed with pens, wrenches hanging on the wall, the smell of new tires and grease.

She tries not to yawn, and fails, into the back of her wrist. Sleep finds a way here — she sees it in heavy shoulders, click, the flyaway curls, click, the man walking through with a stack of used pillows off an incoming bus, click. The children dozing on their father’s arm, little brown shoes barely touching the floor, the stuffed bunny in the little one’s arms. Click, click, click. The woman behind her has taken up a whole bench, her pumps kicked off besides. Click. Her camera is small, comparatively, and even still, they all sleep so soundly that the noise doesn’t wake a single person. 

Good shots of the garage in Indianapolis, and better ones of the women who washed the bus windows, the baggage clerks hustling with their caps and cigarettes. They let her roam, with the permissions she’s got, all stamped and tucked in her bag. Behind the driver’s seat, the front, the middle, the back. Her bus out of D. C. was segregated; it depends which bus, which city. Everyone looks at her funny until they forget she’s there.

Paulette has plans for a short stay in the next city, photographing a driver and his family. A real bed and supper at a table, marking the halfway point of this East-Coast-Midwest criss-cross. She thinks of sending a few postcards home — there’s hardly time, but Maman always likes to hear from her, and Paulette knows she’ll catch hell if Charlie and Dot don’t have anything to tape up. 

Is it better to send the same postcard, or different ones, she wonders. Sometimes the twins like to match, and sometimes there’s nothing worse. Just as long as she calls Charlie Charles — makes him feel like a grownup, like Pa’s official correspondence, and her sister Dot or Sis. Marie-Dorothée makes her sound like their grandmother, Dot says. Paulette, ten years older, out of sight and on the road with her knowing smile, does as she’s told.

“Miss?”

Her eyes fly open to the asker, the soldier in front of her as tired as the rest. It pulls at his frame, still upright with the force of hard training. His voice is a little hoarse, that sleepiness, like it’s not a question. “Mind if I sit here?”

Here is the space between her and the end of the carved bench, not much. But here, it’s all at a premium. She nods.

He slumps in next to her, his bag on his lap, and they touch at too many points to count, warm hip warm thigh warm calf. He’s close enough that she can see freckles under the artificial light. If she got up, she could make a photo. Give him some space. 

She feels like she’s missed her chance, the part where she introduces herself and asks for permission. There’s no one here to distract him, no friends or pretty girls to let her fade into the background. Something tells her to get up and walk around. Her bus will be here in an hour anyway, it’d do her good to get the blood in her legs moving. And there’s no such thing as enough pictures, of course. She taps her finger against the flattened lever on the side of her camera. 

“Neat gadget,” says the soldier. 

Paulette’s had the Rolleiflex just under a year, and she’s just now getting less jumpy about it. Photographers have to get used to expensive pieces of equipment. Mr. Linehan back at the office had no patience for it, squeamishness. Trust yourself, a colleague told her. George Gordon, always wore an old leather jacket and signed his letters G. G. He’s somewhere in Maryland now, or Massachusetts.

She’d saved and saved. Gotten a good deal, too. Did some free photos in exchange for the balance. Probably put the corner store out of business from all the Mounds bars she didn’t buy. She’d kill for one of those now, too. 

“Thank you,” she says, even though that’s not the thing to say. 

“My sister’s got one of those little Brownie cameras.”

“Has she? I’ve still got mine at home.”

“Where’s that?”

Maybe she has to give him credit for that. Don’t I ask the questions, she wants to say. “Cincinnati.” There’s a small bruise at his jaw, and maybe she wouldn’t even call it that, it’s still reddish-pink. Training accident, she guesses. “Where are you headed, soldier?”

“Ain’t that confidential?” He smiles, and she can see the slight overlap of one of his front teeth. Boyish. That’s the word. She doesn’t quite feel girlish, here in her tired slacks and her curls that haven’t seen a bottle of hairspray in weeks. “South. Georgia.” Paulette nods. “You?”

“Far as the next bus takes me.”

“Taking pictures?”

“Taking pictures.” Where d’you wish you were headed? she wants to ask. Maybe that’s too much. Maybe that’s something she doesn’t allow herself here, doesn’t want to, usually. Doesn’t have the time. You don’t fill a portfolio getting distracted. You don’t get taken seriously, either.

She doesn’t know him, anyhow. 

“You take a lot?”

“Too many.” Her finger hurts from it. She lets the air out of her nose, something like a smile. “On my last frame, actually. On this roll.” She know she’d better load the next one before the bus rolls up. “You wanna see how I change ‘em?”

He’s twisted in his seat already to talk to her. Nods, watches her hands fiddle with the body, pull the film taut. She’s suddenly self-conscious, but he stays silent. His head is bowed, the scent of his hair and his sweat and the remnants of aftershave in her nose. He points a finger, slowly following her movements, her steps. The scent of orange. His lunch, or hers?

“Gotta take one now, dontcha?” he says quietly, that little bit of brassy shine to his voice.

She smiles. “Would you oblige the lady?” The words run together, in her accent, in her tiredness.

Paulette can’t think about where he’s headed. His easy calm, the flecks in his eyes. The little twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Thought you’d never ask.”

She does get up, gets him turning in profile, thumb curving at his bottom lip as he looks off. The light glints off his boots. A little posed, for her usual. And it never feels like this, like a photo might be just for her. She takes two, just in case. She doesn’t pull out her notebook. 

“S’pose my mother wants a copy-” he starts.

Silly. “Oh, of course!” The notebook, the tiny pencil. He writes down the address. Kokomo. Not so far from Cincinnati. “And- and your name?”

“Floyd. Floyd Talbert.” Does she stick out her hand? He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, before she can say anything. “S’pose I ask if- if I can write you?” 

It’s not the first time. She’s lost count, actually. She’s never given it, the road forgiving her with warning bells and train whistles, timetables. There are freckles on the bridge of his nose. 

She tears a scrap of paper off the metal rings. Paulette Schafer. Her home address. Her mother hosts servicemen for Sunday dinner, shoos them out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon. “You can call me Pauli.”

“I hope so.” He smiles. “When’s your bus?”

Her watch — the thing she hasn’t looked at for the last hour — tells her twenty minutes. “Soon. I’m headed west.”

“Cryin’ shame.”

“You know, I can’t spend all my film on you.”

He leans back against the wall. “You’d like to though, huh?”

Floyd Talbert, how many times has a girl wanted to keep a photo of you in her pocket? “You’re a compelling subject.”

He smirks, and something in her stomach flutters. 

“You say that to all the handsome soldiers.”

“‘Course.”

She’d better head out now if she wants to get some good quotes out of the driver, a few shots of the baggage clerks, if she doesn’t want to get stuck in the jump seat if it’s a full house. 

“It’s been a pleasure, Floyd,” she says, and sticks out her hand.

A voice intones over the PA, 6:00 AM to Kansas City- “All mine, Pauli Schafer.” A beat passes, and he’s looking at her with an expression she can’t name. “Can I walk you out?”

She knows he’ll let her do what she needs to, stay quiet by her side. 6:00 AM to Kansas City- She wishes they had time for a cup of coffee. She’ll take a moment though, get one more picture of him walking out in the morning light. “You may.” 

#blind dates 24 #blind dates oc fest #further apologies to vashti bunyan #shoshi writes #work: so many miles and so long since i've met you #paulette's tag

[petermorwood]

Hey, since cloning technology is good enough for them to create mammoth meatballs but not the entire mammoth yet, which prehistoric animal do you feel like taking a bite of?

Given where I was born, and where @dduane and I currently live, I think some Giant Irish Elk venison would be about right.

Enough for the entire clan with plenty of leftovers and a Handy Thing To Hang Stuff From.

*****

Which leads via Memory Lane to a funny by John M. Ford, who used to post such things - along with witticisms, wise observations and poetry - on Making Light.

He produced these in the same way a bonfire produces sparks: random, unexpected, brilliant and without apparent effort - though like the graceful swan on the river, I bet there was a lot of work going on out of sight. Or maybe not. Mike was that good.

For instance, he wrote THIS just to comment on another post...

I saved everything I could find offline because You Can Never Tell about online stuff, and also because there was, for a time, doubt - happily, It Got Better - that ANY of his writing would ever be seen again.

(Dammit, just like Terry Pratchett I HATE having to refer to Mike in past tense...)

And now, the funny (original archived Here). I've been assured that This Recipe Will Work, though the assurance also came with a strong suggestion about reducing the ingredient quantities More Than Somewhat.

*****

Hot Gingered Pygmy Mammoth & Jumbo Shrimp Salad

Feeds your whole tribe.

1 pygmy mammoth, boned and cubed (about 1 ton) 1 ton jumbo shrimp, peeled and deveined (many many ordinary shrimps, or one Ebirah claw) 10 buckets sesame seeds 60 pounds bean thread noodles if you are an Eastern tribe, whatever your tribe uses for noodles otherwise. If you have not yet invented the noodle, this might be a good time to do so. 1 bucket vegetable oil 1 bucket sesame oil Salt 10 buckets minced fresh ginger 6 buckets minced garlic 15 buckets dry Sherry 15 buckets rice wine vinegar 60 pounds sugar 60 buckets diced fresh mangoes 15 buckets chopped green onions Big Snorgul's helmet full of red pepper flakes 10 buckets chopped fresh cilantro, plus 5 Big Snorgul's helmets fresh cilantro, garnish 1000 large heads lettuce, cored and leaves separated (a raid on the People Who Grow Stuff may be necessary) 30 buckets thinly sliced, peeled, seeded, drained cucumbers, or just chop up the damn cucumbers and say "Fie to thee!" a lot All the chives you got

Preheat a giant turtle shell over a fumarole. A big giant turtle. Put some oil in there. Make sure no other giant turtles are around to see you do this.

On a flat rock, stirring with your Stick of the Dining God, dry cook the sesame seeds over medium heat until they are brown and smell good. Remove from the heat. Add the noodles to the turtle shell and fry fast until puffy and the color of sunrise. Remove from the oil and drain on non-itchy leaves. Throw salt. Set aside.

Sear the mammoth meat on the flat rock. Salt but don't overdo it, you remember what happened to the Chest-Clutching Tribe of the Plains. Drain.

Get a less giant turtle shell. Okay, think of this as a celebration dish for a good turtle hunt and shrimp catch. Make the vegetable oil and most of the sesame oil dance. Add the shrimp, mammoth, ginger, and garlic, and cook fast, stirring, until the shrimp are just pink and firm. Doom of Ten Thousand Wretched Canapés awaits those who overcook shrimp. Remove from the shell with pole weapons. Add the sherry and vinegar, and sing the Song of Deglazing over medium heat. Add the sugar and stir until it is one with the sauce. Cook until half the fluid is gone. Feed anybody who thinks this is waste to the giant turtles. Add the rest of the sesame oil, mangoes, green onions, and pepper flakes, and stir to warm through and wilt. No, this wilt is good. Tell the people it is the wilt of the Wilt God. You need all the mojo you can get. Remove from the heat and add the shrimp and ginger, and the cilantro. Stir to warm through and do the Highly Dramatic Ritual of Adjusting the Seasoning to Taste.

Now your tribal status is on the thin edge of the cleaver. Have everybody bring what they eat off of. You know your tribe. Put lettuce on whatever they hold out and spread the hot stuff on it. Those who have no eating platters should be used to the drill by now. Arrange cucumber slices on top in whatever symbolic pattern seems propitious to you and sprinkle with the toasted sesame seeds. If you have a really tough tribe, yell "Bam!" until they get a groove going. Add fried noodles, cilantro sprigs, and chives, and watch for any signs of people keeling over that can't be blamed on strong drink.

#prehistoric animals #edible archaeology #irish elk #pygmy mammoth #john m. ford #gnu terry pratchett #recipes

[lucienballard]

Bob George in the ARC NYC stacks. Photograph: unknown/ARC NYC ...

‘No one else is saving it’: the fight to protect a historic music collection ...

It all started in a loft in Tribeca, New York, long before it was a trendy neighbourhood. “I had 47,000 records and nobody wanted them,” recalls Bob George, who had just published a discography of punk and new wave music. “That led a lot of people coming to me and saying you have to save this stuff; no one else is saving it. That got the ball rolling in my loft in what is now fashionable Tribeca, which was an incredibly unfashionable war zone in 1974 when I was first there.”

George turned his record collection into the ARChive of Contemporary Music (Arc) in 1985 with co-founder David Wheeler. The non-profit music library and research centre now contains more than 3m sound recordings or over 90m songs, making it one of the biggest popular music collections in the world. Donors and board members have included David Bowie, Jonathan Demme, Lou Reed, Martin Scorsese and Paul Simon.

The Arc is not open to the public but has been a vital resource for film-makers, writers and researchers ranging from Ken Burns looking for a song for his series Baseball to the new Grammy Hall of Fame and Museum in Los Angeles needing cover art for its inducted recordings. Now, however, this unique treasure trove is under existential threat.

The Arc cannot remain at its current Hudson Valley premises indefinitely and is in need of a new and bigger home. “We have to move and we don’t know when we’ll have to move and the collection is really at risk because it’s all on pallets,” says George, who dreams of a patron like James Smithson, the British scientist who left his estate to the US to found the Smithsonian Institution. “We’re looking for someone to help us buy a very wonderful property or for us to build a new building on vacant land in upstate New York.”

After growing up in Youngstown, Ohio, George moved to New York in 1974 as a visual arts student and started collecting records as a DJ. In 1981 he released Laurie Anderson’s first single, O Superman, which sold nearly a million copies worldwide and made it to number on the UK singles chart. He was a guest on John Peel’s beloved BBC radio show, sneaking in little-known records from New York, and took music to European broadcasters too. People kept giving him records that other collections turned down.

Some of the 18,000 recordings in the Keith Richards Blues Collection. Photograph: Arc NYC

“I was doing the book and then doing Peel shows and it accidentally became this large collection that nobody wanted. They kept saying, oh, we collect classical, we collect Broadway, we collect ethnic music. I said, well, I have funk, reggae, African and hip-hop and they said, oh, no, we don’t collect any of that. Forty years later, I say, you put all those together and that’s what music has become.”

The simple goal of the archive, which has always had a peripatetic existence, is preservation. “We have no interest in quality,” George cheerfully admits. “It started that way from the very beginning because there’s no way to tell what’s valuable in the future. Everybody brings their own criteria and tastes to things in their own time. But the future is quite different, as we hope.”

The archive has never received aid from any city, state or federal organisation but its scale gives the Library of Congress a run for its money. It has absorbed major collections from musicians and fans and is home to most of Rolling Stone Keith Richards’ extensive blues inventory.

George dispatched two semi-trailers to a condemned house in Boston sinking under the weight of Jeep Holland’s set of more than 125,000 recordings and over 2,500 signed albums from the likes of the Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Bob Marley and the Sex Pistols. “Going towards the bathroom, he has a gas stove, the pilot light is on, there are records in the oven. It was just a storage space ... His car had become so full of records that he abandoned it and rented a car.”

George has made repeat trips to countries such as Brazil, Cambodia, Colombia, Cuba, Japan, Jordan, Laos and Thailand. The Arc contains Demme’s personal collection of Haitian albums. More than 150,000 pieces of world music have been catalogued; there are plenty more to do. “We’ve tried to get as much of that material as possible so that collection is just fabulous.”

The Arc preserves copies of every recording in all known formats. It has electronically catalogued more than 400,000 sound recordings and digitised 200,000 with the Internet Archive – more than any other public university or private library in America. It also contains more than 3m pieces of material including photos, videos, DVDs, books, magazines, press kits, sheet music, ephemera and memorabilia.

The late Andy Rourke of the Smiths at Arc looking at Smiths records he had never seen. Photograph: Arc NYC

George says: “We catalogued 105,000 singles just recently; we have another 200,000 or 300,000 to go. This is the first way a band at one time got their feet in the water. They put out one or two or three singles. If they did hits, they got the chance to do an album and so much of this material does not exist on LP or CD. Little by little more of it might be streaming because of YouTube, as people can get away with murder on YouTube, which is great, but YouTube will disappear. Everything commercial will disappear.”

Among those who have turned to the archive is the Oscar-winning director Ang Lee, who wanted records by the singer Bert Sommer for his film Taking Woodstock. “The archive is amazing because we don’t know what we have until somebody needs it. We’ve been into the stacks and we found five LPs by Bert Sommer. For me, it’s like I have no idea who this guy is and what he did; he’s sort of a folkie. For Quincy Jones, we just sent him a list of the 8,000 things that he’s either produced or on.

“Research was how we basically stayed alive along with the largesse of the rock stars or celebrities that we had hooked up with. The idea was never to open to the public but that’s what we want to do now. I don’t think it’s untrue that we’re one of the largest in the world and that we want to make that available. We’ve tried to save two copies so there will always be a listening copy and then that would then become a listening library.”

George hopes the new archive will be open to students, educators, historians, musicians, authors, journalists and the general public. An anonymous donor has come forward with a million dollars to help realise that dream but more money is urgently needed. One possible new home is an abandoned IBM campus spanning 34 acres, although that would cost $8-10m. George is considering partnering with an upstate university and has plans to offer residencies for scholars.

“People could come in and produce a work, and that would go out into the world. It could be a blog, essay, tape, compilation, new recording, whatever. We’re really quite un-academic. I’m against it somewhat and I’d like people to have ideas and bring those ideas and put them back into the world as opposed to making it an interactive experience for everybody. I don’t want to be Disney World. It’s nice to have seminars. It’s nice to have listening parties. It’s nice to have dances.”

source

#vinyl records #Bob George

[mariacallous]

In the vaunted annals of America’s founding, Boston has long been held up as an exemplary “city upon a hill” and the “cradle of liberty” for an independent United States. Wresting this iconic urban center from these misleading, tired clichés, The City-State of Boston highlights Boston’s overlooked past as an autonomous city-state, and in doing so, offers a pathbreaking and brilliant new history of early America. Following Boston’s development over three centuries, Mark Peterson discusses how this self-governing Atlantic trading center began as a refuge from Britain’s Stuart monarchs and how—through its bargain with the slave trade and ratification of the Constitution—it would tragically lose integrity and autonomy as it became incorporated into the greater United States.

Drawing from vast archives, and featuring unfamiliar figures alongside well-known ones, such as John Winthrop, Cotton Mather, and John Adams, Peterson explores Boston’s origins in sixteenth-century utopian ideals, its founding and expansion into the hinterland of New England, and the growth of its distinctive political economy, with ties to the West Indies and southern Europe. By the 1700s, Boston was at full strength, with wide Atlantic trading circuits and cultural ties, both within and beyond Britain’s empire. After the cataclysmic Revolutionary War, “Bostoners” aimed to negotiate a relationship with the American confederation, but through the next century, the new United States unraveled Boston’s regional reign. The fateful decision to ratify the Constitution undercut its power, as Southern planters and slave owners dominated national politics and corroded the city-state’s vision of a common good for all.

Peeling away the layers of myth surrounding a revered city, The City-State of Boston offers a startlingly fresh understanding of America’s history.

[popculturelib]

Oh Hell Yams

[Inspired by Stone Cold Steve Austin]

These are great piping hot from the oven, but hold aside some extra to keep Stone Cold in the fridge for a stunning salad.

Ingredients

Yield: 4 to 6 servings

3 tablespoons brown sugar

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

1/2 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon dry mustard

1/2 teaspoon black pepper

1 teaspoon kosher salt

3 tablespoons olive oil

4 large yams or sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed

Directions

Preheat the over to 400°F. Line a sheet pan with aluminum foil.

In a large bowl, combine the brown sugar, cayenne pepper, oregano, cumin, dry mustard, black pepper, and salt, and mix well. Then mix in the olive oil.

Add the yams or sweet potatoes and toss well until completely coated, then spread out on the sheet pan.

Bake for 25 minutes, then gently flip with a spatula and cook for another 20 to 25 minutes, until brown and tender.

from WW, the Official Cookbook (2019) by Allison Robicelli, photography by John Dean

This holiday season, we're bringing to you a variety of recipes from the cookbooks in our collection so that you can delight and/or horrify your loved ones at meal time. We bear no responsibility for the quality of the recipes chosen, so proceed at your own risk. Check out our recipes tag for more ideas, and let us know if you try any!

The Browne Popular Culture Library (BPCL), founded in 1969, is the most comprehensive archive of its kind in the United States.  Our focus and mission is to acquire and preserve research materials on American Popular Culture (post 1876) for curricular and research use. Visit our website at https://www.bgsu.edu/library/pcl.html.

#bgsu #libraries on tumblr #recipes #wwe #wrestling #stone cold steve austin #yams #oh hell yams

[theboywithburninghands]

SCP Anthology in 10 Words or Less

It’s been a while since I made a post about SCP, I know. But the recent Halloween event for the ABC’s of Death was so cool I just had to come out of cryogenic sleep to post about it. Do yourself a favor and go read these for yourself, you can find the link below, but read along with my silly comments if you like. All credit to the original incredibly talented authors, loved just about all of these, and T/W for mild horror elements and spoilers.

A is for Annihilation: The true doomer religion. “Existence is evil, man…”

Æ is for Ærials: This is just what Chicago traffic feels like.

B is for Bloodborne: Don’t seek immortality. You’ll just get all moldy.

C is for Closers: This one’s a fixer-upper, sink is haunted, wallpaper’s peeling…

D is for Dermatology: GET EM OFF GET EM OFF GET EM OFF GET-

E is for Eternity: Heaven gets REALLY boring after awhile.

F is for Fallout: The GOC screwed the radioactive pooch on this one…

G is for Grease: The true source of the Junji Ito greasepocalypse… BORGIR.

З is for Зesundheit: John Carpenter’s The Thing but with dust allergies.

H is for Health: American doctors are always looking to drain your savings…

I is for Incision: Someone kill the entire Fire Suppression Department for GOD’S SAKE!

J is for Jetsam: The remains of a nasty spaceship crash. Don’t speed, rocketeers!

K is for Keystone: Three different lords of this dimension, and they’re ALL assholes.

L is for Lamentations: Who’d have thunk, children make for shitty bioweapons.

M is for Moonlight: Awkward college professor spaghettifies himself for the moon

N is for Neon: Bright pink neon anglerfish will eat you for public drinking.

O is for Organs: “Dude, what if like, our buttholes were connected?” “Aw, sick!”

Ø is for Ørkesløs: You shouldn’t have updated SCP-079 to Windows 11, brah.

P is for Pluto Previously, Presently Primrose: The cathartic origin story of a sweet, demonic transwoman.

Q is for Questions: Slamhounds? Teeth? Blue hands? I definitely have questions… also lesbians!

R is for Reshape: Remember, don’t push your kids too hard, or else F̴̡̛͙͈̖̺̺̤͍̜̩̲͆̆̍̾͊͘͝L̴̛̬͈̮̦̭̪̮̫̋̈́̀̑̃͘E̷̡̺͍͕̭̺̠̺̯̬̼̳͈͐̏͜͝ͅS̴̛͖̖̪̓̅̊͗̈́̉̉̐́̾͂̆͛̕Ḥ̷̡̛͚̰̱͚͎̎̌͑̓̈͌̓̀̀̏̅̚̚͝!

S is for Saintly: “Honey, meet my loony religious hive mind dad!”

T is for Transmission: Nanobots: Causing trouble for human survivors since Jason X.

Ð is for Ðirteen: Happy Birthday! This year you get screaming death!

U is for Unstrung: Pinocchio but if the Blue Fairy was an eldritch horror.

V is for Violence: “Ha! Look at this snowflake! Empathizing with his fellow man!”

W is for Walls: Given current events, head-stealing spiders ain’t that bad…

X is for XXX: Sentient transphobic revenge porno theatre. Burn it all down.

X is for Xenobiotic: A creepy monster that wants to SEX UP YOUR EYEBALLS.

X is for Xenotransplantation: Sheesh, for a scientist, Dr. Marletov is kinda stupid, huh?

X is for Xing: This one is pretty funny- OH GOD MONKEYS!

Y is for Youth: Yeah lemme get them appliances 🅱️oneless.

Z is for Ziggurat: Or, why Mekhanites and Sarkites SHOULDN’T team up.

#scp foundation #scp anthology #scp 7027 #scp 7034 #scp 7091 #scp 7113 #scp 7160 #scp 7179 #scp 7219 #scp 7234 #scp 7291 #scp 7303 #scp 7340 #scp 7396 #scp 7432 #scp 7450 #scp 7470 #scp 7533 #scp 7559 #scp 7579 #scp 7603 #scp 7660 #scp 7686 #scp 7725 #scp 7759 #scp 7795 #scp 7840 #scp 7841 #scp 7898 #scp 7930

[mywifeleftme]

222: Metal Urbain // Les hommes mort sont dangereux

Les hommes mort sont dangereux Metal Urbain 1981, Celluloid

This past summer I listened to a bunch of archived John Peel radio show broadcasts from 1978. Aside from the considerable pleasures of soaking in Peel’s dry, sardonic point of view, there was something voyeuristically thrilling about hearing how familiar punk anthems first hit the airwaves. Whether it be listening to Peel enjoy the Undertones’ “Teenage Kicks” so much he’s compelled to play it twice in a row; hearing the introduction of Los Angeles’s X to UK audiences; or even realizing that in the heart of the punk era he was still playing Van Der Graaf Generator and the Albion Band right alongside the new wavers, the exercise offered a context to the songs and era that experiencing the tracks as discrete works lacks.

It was also a reminder of just how fertile the scene was, the programmes studied with (mostly) forgotten bands who disappeared after making a handful of miraculous seven-inches. So, let’s Remember Some Guys.

Remembering Some Guys: John Peel Discoveries Edition

Llygod Ffyrnig: An incredible Welsh punk band (trans. The Ferocious Mice) with one three-track single that everyone should hear this instant: “N.C.B.”

Radio Stars: English New Wave band by one of the other guys in Sparks. They made a song about Baffin Island (called “Baffin Island”)!

pragVEC: Cool London post-punk band with synth contributions from Jim Thirlwell: “Nervous”

La Peste: Boston punk band and authors of one ink black perfect single called “Better Off Dead”

Snakefinger: Okay, the Residents aren’t a discovery, but the Snakefinger solo track “The Spot” sure was to me! It’s so good!

Tyla Gang: Pub rock that kicks the unsuspected crotch that joins Johnny Thunders with the J. Geils Band, they have at least one track that I could carve on my heart: “No Roses”

Automatics: “When the Tanks Roll Over Poland Again” was a new wave number one track in 1978! I ain’t never had heard of it neither. C’est parfait.

Fabulous Poodles: Probably should’ve found them sooner! The Who/Kinks-y rock, let’s hear “Mirror Star” again why don’t we?

Strangeways: “Show Her You Care” is pure shake & pop heaven, feels so giddy it might shake itself and you to pieces.

The Desperate Bicycles: DIY never had a truer troupe of champions and were it not for their refusal to reissue their material in any form, they might be known as punk’s Beat Happening. Try “Smokescreen”!

Skids: Art punks from Dunfermline, Scotland, they’re heavy enough to be a NWOBHM band, but with all sorts a weird skittering going on. Six times? “Six Times”!

Metal Urbain, about which more below.

Metal Urbain were one of France’s first punk bands and a Peel fav that skipped right over a few stages of evolution and hatched fully formed with 1977’s “Paris Maquis” (a reference to the WWII French Resistance) single as a “synth punk” band in the same year the Damned and the Pistols were just getting off the blocks. (The same year, incidentally, that Suicide’s first LP dropped on the other side of the Atlanic.) Employing a cheapo drum machine in place of a human percussionist, Metal Urbain were nasty, snarling anti-everything punks with a laudable hatred for fascists and some rather less laudable hatred toward women (the grotesque shocker “Crève Salope,” or “Die Bitch”). The drum machine gives their simple songs a jerking, pitiless momentum, and if most of their songs sound pretty samey, at least they’re all playing the same pretty great punk song. Singer Eric Débris sounds kinda like a harsher Joe Strummer (plus that sort of wet, venomous quality French speakers get when they snarl), and they consistently find riffs that feel like exposed switchblades.

Still, they do have a hair more range than most retrospectives grant them. The skulking “Snuff Movie” finds them traipsing onto Suicide’s streets, while “Pop Poubelle” (“Pop Trash”) pulls the archetypal punk move of dolling out a super catchy surf-inspired lick on the song about how catchy pop music sucks and is bad. 1981’s Les hommes morts song dangereux (Dead Men Are Dangerous) compilation rounds up nearly everything they did during their original run, and makes for a convincing statement: every punk fan should hear the likes of “Futurama,” “Panik,” and “Hystérie connective”—so what’s stopping ya?

222/365 

#metal urbain #remember some guys #guy remembering #'70s music #'80s music #punk #synth punk #french punk #defector #deadspin #music review #vinyl record

[un-naturalworld]

i have found some great music the past month or so man. i would like to share some of it.

To Rococo Rot [Indietronica/Glitch]

The John Peel Sessions (archival)

The Amateur View (1999)

Hidenobu Ito [Glitch/Nu Jazz]

First Love (2002)

agyt [Lo-Fi Ambient/Drone]

we know we're right (2023)

Lia Kohl [Ambient/Sound Collage]

The Ceiling Reposes (2023)

Cathode [IDM/Glitch]

Special Measures (2004)

The Boats [Folktronica/Ambient]

Our Small Ideas (2008)

Blithe Field [Folktronica/Ambient]

Face Always Toward the Sun (2016)

#it's been a very good few weeks for music discovery #i've been recommended a lot of great music too #this is just what i've stumbled onto #audio

[dulltoned]

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven

Living with his brothers is strange after all these years. They hadn't seen each other since they were kids and now suddenly they were all under the same roof again. Bruce didn't mind the quiet. Over these past few decades he'd gotten used to the loud hustle and bustle of work and the chaos of a home full of kids. It's been nice getting to wind down and it felt good knowing that Brandy was fully behind him in his decision to stick around for a bit longer. He had to admit that he missed his kids and he longed for his loving wife every day but there's a different kind of happiness nestled deep in his very bones when he watches his little brothers laugh around the dining table.

Getting along with John Dory has been a bit more of a challenge but not impossible. Even now they clashed like they did when they were kids, old resentments sparked back to life and their vastly different priorities making it difficult to find common ground sometimes. Still, even then, it was really nice to see him again too.

They're gathered now in Branch's small kitchen, awkwardly trying to stay out of their youngest brother's way while he goes about making lunch while all being equally unwilling to leave. Branch grumbles as he easily twists and steps around them but makes no move to tell them to get out. It makes Bruce smile and Branch very blatantly ignores him. Branch sighs for the umpteenth time as he grabs a pan from a low cabinet and spins around Clay to get to the stove. It was nothing fancy, just a few sandwiches to keep them running until dinner, and Bruce was proud to see that it wasn't the sweets he's sure Queen Poppy would've offered.

Branch grabs the butter dish from his counter and drops a dollop into the heating pan before bending over to open another cabinet. He curses under his breath and swiftly curses again. "Damn it," Branch huffs, eyes flitting around the small space one more time before he lets the doors fall shut with a heavy thud.

"What's up?" Clay prods, curiously looking between Branch and the disappointing cabinet like he could piece together the issue off that alone.

"I thought I'd restocked," Branch sighs, running a stressed hand over his hair absentmindedly. He crosses his arms and frowns, tapping his foot while he thinks in a way that Bruce finds adorable but would never dare say out loud. Or rather, not until it was the right moment. "Hey, Bruce, you know where the carrots are?"

Bruce startles when he's singled out but nods quickly, offering a thumbs up and a lazy smile, "Yep! Want me to go grab some for you?" He guesses, already peeling himself away from the table to head off towards the towering shelves lined up on the lower floor.

Branch sags a bit with gratitude and returns the smile hesitantly, "That'd be great, thank you." It's interesting, Bruce thinks, the war that appears to constantly be waging inside of his grown baby brother. He's far from the little bundle of nervous, excited energy he'd been back when he was a baby but there still seems to be some kind of uncertainty that never leaves him. Branch always looks like he's caught between throwing himself back into the family and keeping them all at a safe distance. Admittedly, ashamedly, Bruce thinks that had he reunited with his brothers only a few years ago he'd have been bitter about it. One of his kids, Brandon, was an anxious kid. Even though his siblings had always been welcoming and encouraging he was still hesitant to ask for what he needed or say no when his siblings pushed a boundary he hadn't communicated yet. Brandon had taught Bruce a lot about how fundamentally different people could be and that some were introverted and wary even around people they loved. He can't begin to imagine what was going on in Branch's head after all these years, experiencing who knows what on top of Grandma's death and the apparent Rock Apocalypse. Bruce was more than happy to offer up a little patience in return. The last thing he wanted now after everything was to push Branch away.

"You got it, little bro!" Bruce beams, stretching an arm around Clay to ruffle Branch's hair just to see his brother's face scrunch up in annoyance as he bats his hand away. He doesn't stick around to face Branch's wrath, whether that be in the form of a disgruntled glare or a few sharp words, and instead spins on his heel and makes for the hall.

"Don't eat all the rations!" John Dory calls teasingly just as Bruce slides into the hallway and slips out of sight. Bruce freezes. He knows it's a joke. None of his brothers had been anything but kind after seeing that he'd lost his iconic figure and John sounded nothing but fond. On top of that, Bruce has never been happier since he's given up on those strict diets and workout routines! Still, despite that, there's a spike of anxiety that shoots through his chest hearing those words. John Dory has said similar things to him plenty of times when they were younger, pushing Bruce to keep up the grueling work lest he disappoint the fans. Disappointing the fans always meant disappointing his brother and when he was a boy that had been crushing. Anything to keep that perfect image. It had tainted Bruce's love for fitness and twisted it into something that could break him. If he didn't do enough sit-ups would the band lose its fame? If he ate too much would they lose popularity? Would his family resent him?

It's been a long, long time since Bruce had felt any sort of discomfort about his body. Nearly fifteen years now since he'd shed those insecurities and found love and acceptance in Brandy who'd helped him more than he could ever hope to express to her. He loves who he is now and the man he's become. Yet somehow he still feels that telltale hurt stir up inside of him. He feels more resentment towards those feelings themselves than he does John Dory. He wishes it didn't bother him at all.  

He has half a mind to storm back in there and tell John Dory off but he reminds himself that starting a fight while he's angry would never go well, especially when it came to his older brother. A skill that parenting has given him is an almost unnatural level of patience and calm combined with a self-awareness that lets him know that he should cool down before he does something he'd regret. He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, letting the tension bleed from his body as he raises his head up high. He takes a few more steps down the hall towards the elevator but he's once again stopped in his place. This time by Branch.

"What the hell was that?" Branch hisses, seething with a simmering fire that Bruce was starting to associate him with.

"What was what?" John Dory asks, sounding genuinely confused and instinctively on the defensive.

"That was kind of uncool, man," Clay pipes up. He's wary. Rightfully so, Bruce thinks. Both Branch and John Dory were forces to be reckoned with and stepping between the two was dangerous. Bruce thinks Branch has snapped at all of them at least once since they've moved in and it wasn't at all what he had ever imagined his sweet little brother would grow up to be. He figures that was what happened when you had to raise yourself though. It only serves to highlight his regrets when he thinks about it.

"What?" John scoffs, his defensive tone overtaking his initial confusion. Bruce can sense a fight brewing but he still can't seem to unglue himself from that spot. He wants to know where this will go.

"You already gave him one eating disorder, you want to give him another one?" Branch snarls. He sounds more like he's facing a threat than talking to his brother and the tone itself is enough to send chills down Bruce's spine. It takes a few seconds for the words themselves to register but when they do Bruce's whole body tenses right back up. What? 

"..what?" John Dory echoes Bruce's thoughts. He's starting to sound like a broken record but his voice is something weak and shocked now. The mask John had been raising was knocked aside with ease. Had he really not known? Had little Branch, maybe only four at the time, really seen something that John Dory hadn't? Had their eldest brother really been so blind?

"What? You think nagging someone every damn day about their body wouldn't make them hyperaware of it? I was the one who would sit in the dining room waiting for Bruce to finish eating, you know. Sometimes it took hours." Branch snaps, entirely unimpressed by John Dory's sudden meekness. Bruce remembers those days too. There had been times, way back when he was a teenager, when he'd been stuck at the dinner table pushing his food around trying to convince himself to clear the plate. Grandma had always had a rule about not leaving their seats until they'd finished their dinner and for a few years Bruce had greatly struggled to do so. He hadn't known that little Branch had lingered so often because he was waiting on Bruce. He had been so focused on trying to get the courage to just put the food into his mouth that he'd thought maybe Branch had just wanted to stick around. Kids could be weird. He thought it was just one of Branch's little quirks that he'd be able to tease him about when they were older. You were always just sitting around in the kitchen, he would say, you were so weird. He'd never known it had been for him. "Maybe, instead of being an ass, you could just-- oh, shit--" The smell of something burning reached Bruce's nose and he took that as his sign to make a break for it. He finally makes it to the elevator in time to hear the loud clangs of the pan being thrown into the sink.

He doesn't know what he'd expected. His brows furrow and his hand feels heavy where it pushes down the lever. He doesn't know why he just assumed that his other brothers would've brushed off John Dory's comment or even laughed along with him. He thinks, maybe, that he had some residual insecurity lingering in his head somewhere that he never had a reason to address before. The idea doesn't weigh on him. Instead he feels lighter than he had when he'd left. They stood up for him. Branch had gotten angry on his behalf and told John Dory off without hesitation and Clay had backed him up without much thought. He could even perfectly picture the disapproving expression that might have crossed Floyd's features.

The elevator rumbles to a stop on the lowest floor and he swiftly steps off and makes a beeline for the shelves holding most of Branch's food storage. He didn't want to take too much longer if he could avoid it, he doesn't know what he'd say if anyone asked him why he took so long. He knows they probably knew he stayed back, especially since the elevator itself wasn't exactly silent, but he wanted to have plausible deniability at least.

It doesn't take him too long to find the crates of carrots tucked away and he quickly hefts one into his arms before someone clears their throat. He admittedly startles at the sudden sound, nearly dropping the crate before he barely manages to regain his grip. He whips around to see Branch leaning up against the wall, arms crossed, and watching him carefully. Branch must've taken the stairs down but damn was he fast. Bruce didn't think he had lingered too long but maybe he'd been a bit more lost in his head than he thought.

"What's up?" Bruce asks after a few beats of silence when Branch makes it clear that he isn't going to start. "Was I taking too long for you?" He jokes, wiggling the crate still held in his arms to prove he'd completed his task.

Branch's eyes narrow just so and he hums noncommittally. He clearly finds whatever it is he's looking for because he pushes off the wall and strides up to Bruce, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, and says "You don't need to change yourself for us." Warmth thrums through Bruce's veins, amazed by Branch's kindness despite his prickly exterior. Branch seems to hesitate for a brief moment, a blink-and-you-miss-it sort of thing, before he visibly steels himself. "We love you." He assures. A dopey smile spreads across Bruce's face.

Branch is scurrying off before Bruce can really get a word in but that doesn't stop him from brightly calling after him, "I love you too!" and he takes a sick pleasure in seeing the tips of Branch's ears turn a dark blue before he disappears around a corner.

Bruce still carries the carrots up to the empty kitchen and places them into the cabinet that Branch had been looking for them in earlier. He sees the pan still in the sink, a few drips of butter turned black pooled at the lip, and grimaces. They end up going out for lunch suspiciously devoid of Branch. John Dory pays for their meals.

#| Game Plans | #{ isolationist } #{ the heartthrob } #{ the leader } #{ the fun boy } #trolls band together #trolls fanfic #trolls branch #dreamworks trolls #trolls spruce #trolls bruce #trolls john dory #trolls clay #hurt/comfort #angst #eating disorder #// eating disorder

[madam-melon-meow]

The Good, The Bad, and The Alternative: a homestuck fanfiction. Chapter 17, an excerpt:

“Jonathan, it's time for us to finish my spell.” The clack of heels and the stilted, overly-enunciated declaration signaled Rose’s mom approaching. Dad stood, hastily straightening his tie and brushing off the front of his slacks. He smiled, outstretching his hand for her to shake. John also stood.

“The name is Jonathan Egbert, Senior. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” he stated.

She delicately peeled off her latex gloves, tossing them in a nearby trash bin before stepping close, both hands reaching to grasp his. John could only watch with shocked surprise as the woman leaned down, pressing her pale pink lips to his Dad’s hand, leaving a cartoonishly-perfect lipstick kiss on Dad’s skin. John’s jaw dropped.

“Enchanté.” She squeezed Dad’s hand gently before unfurling herself back to a standing position. “The name is Doctor Roxanne Lalonde, and the pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” She smiled, and suddenly John realized that all of her preceding smiles that morning had been… fake. He hadn’t realized before, but once he compared the previous stiffness to the way her whole face looked alive and animated, the difference was stark. She had been cordial with everyone else. She was being flirtatious with Dad.

What!

The!

Fuck!!!

Want to find out what happens next? Read on:

#john egbert #egbert #jegbert #john egbert fanfic #dad egbert #mom lalonde #homestuck #hom3stuck #home22tuck #homestuck fanfic #the good the bad and the alternative

[bluejayblueskies]

ao3 year in review 2022

happy new year!! 🎉 with 2022 done and gone, i wanted to take a quick moment to look back on the fic i wrote last year 💜

Top Fandom: Malevolent (15 works, including anonymous fics and fics on my separate nsfw account)

Date of First Fic Posted: January 2, 2022 (it's my party and i'll cry if i want to, Encanto, 5.6k words)

Top Multi-Chapter Fic: ten thousand flowers in spring, The Magnus Archives, 47.5k words

I finished this one just a few days ago and I had such a good time writing it! It also may very well be my last major TMA work (unless the TMA muse returns to me at some point) and I'm happy with it being the capstone on my multi-chapter TMA experience 💜

Top One-Shot: The Cube Rule of Food Identification, The Magnus Archives, 1.6k words

This fic surpassed 1.5k kudos recently and I never expected it to 😂 it's the silliest fic I think I've ever written, given that I usually trend towards angst and whump, and I'm glad that people enjoyed it!

(more under the cut!)

Fic I’m Most Proud Of: whisky old fashioned sour, Malevolent, 58.5k words

I love whisky 💜 this fic is my baby at the moment, ngl, and I'm so excited to wrap it up in the next month or two (depending on how fast I write). People have made some truly spectacular art for it that continues to blow me away every time I see it, and the community has been so wonderful and encouraging over this AU that I thought nobody would really find interesting other than me 💕

Fic I Wish Had Gotten More Attention: cicatrix, Malevolent, 4.7k words

I get why this one didn't get a lot of attention--it's a niche AU (a daemon AU) that's rather whumpy, and I posted it at a weird time. Still, it was (and still is) a concept that really excited me, and I still wish it had gotten a bit more attention. Oh well! That happens sometimes. I like to think that I've gotten more resilient about writing weird niche things that will get like 5 comments and 20 kudos max XD

Fic That Challenged Me The Most: Fata Morgana, The Magnus Archives, 41.7k words

I wouldn't necessarily say that any of the things I wrote this year were particularly challenging (unless you count the HTML stuff in whisky 😂). However, I did have a super rough time starting this fic. It really did not want to get off the ground for whatever reason, and it fought me hard for the first couple of chapters. It was pretty smooth sailing after that though, and I'm proud of the final product!

Favorite Quote/Passage: I always struggle with this question because I forget what I've written beyond what I wrote like. Yesterday lol. So I think I'll just pick a selection of lines I enjoy!

from whisky old fashioned sour:

This close, John can count every single one of Arthur’s freckles—or he could if he had the time, which he immediately adds to his to-do list. Does Arthur have freckles on his shoulders as well? His back? The inside of his thighs? John has never needed to know something so badly, so desperately.

from pov you're an arkham taxi driver:

The last glimpse you catch of him is in the bright white of a lightning strike, high above in the clouds. He looks … taller, somehow. Like his shadow has peeled away from the ground and now looms ominously above, an unholy specter of darkness that winds around him like it’s trying to consume him utterly.

from merry and bright:

There was a choir somewhere else in the festival, and the faint sound of Christmas carols mingled with the jingling of bells and the crackling of fire and the ever-present crunch of snow underfoot. The sounds, along with John’s descriptions, painted a brightly-colored picture: vendors adorned with reds and greens and silvers, children with one hand clasped in a parent’s and the other clinging to hand-carved wooden toys or big round lollipops, people with handcarts peddling candied orange peel and apple cider and warm roasted chestnuts.

from do the stars gaze back?:

Then, Jon reaches out a hand and traces a finger along the curve of Martin’s cheek. “You have constellations within you as well,” they say softly, mapping out the spaces between Martin’s freckles and leaving a warm, tingling sensation in their wake. Their finger reaches the bow of Martin’s upper lip, and they hesitate before shifting and cupping Martin’s cheek in their palm. “They’re lovely.”

from live wire:

They’re beautiful, Jon thinks. In the same way that poison dart frogs are beautiful and belladonna is beautiful and a knife is beautiful right before it buries itself in your lungs.

Total Words Posted: 253,945 words

I suppose I did write two full multi-chapter works and one almost-full multi-chapter work this year, but wow that's still more words than I expected! I'm super happy with the progress I made last year, and I plan to continue writing and posting in 2023 🎉 Thank you SO much to everyone who has commented, kudosed, reblogged, chatted with me in DMs or discord servers, and otherwise supported my writing--I appreciate all of you 💜

Some things to look forward to from me this coming year 👀

Malevolent

The last few chapters of whisky 🥃

Episode 20 time loop fic with themes of whump and heavy angst

Some assorted oneshots, including a Christmas PWP I really meant to have done last year and an exchange fic!

More selkie AU 🦭

TMA

Some assorted oneshots via the bunnies in the archives event that I'm participating in

A oneshot where Tim and Jon quit the Institute together in season 4 that I'm planning on finishing and posting!

A magic AU featuring magician Martin who may or may not have accidentally summoned a Jon by writing sad poetry. Featuring hurt/comfort, sickfic vibes, and a happy ending 💜

#i only had 10 tma fics this year so malevolent surpassed it! #i suppose i have been listening to malevolent since july 😳 it's been so long! #malevolent ate my brain so there will likely be more malevolent stuff than tma stuff in the future #but i'm not dropping tma altogether! i still have plenty of ideas :3 #ao3 year in review #my writing #my fic