#Lachrymose Report

[sethshead]

"Simon Schama in the Financial Times, Oct. 13, 2023:

"Confronted with enormity: murdered infants, abducted grandmothers, slaughtered villagers, lusty chants of 'gas the Jews' at the Free Palestine demonstration in Sydney, mere words feel like weak carriers of so much horror and sorrow. Journalistic bloviation on the cause of this and the effect of that seems an indecency, at least until the bodies are gathered and returned to families. So context me no contexts, analyse me no analyses, suspend your partially informed diagnoses; leave off your strenuous efforts at even-handedness. Let us be, to grieve, rage, weep; say the mourners’ kaddish.

"Perhaps images, then, not words? Of terrified young people who in a trice went from dancing to frantic running in a futile attempt to escape the spray of bullets; of a kibbutz dog shot as it emerged from a house (that must have helped Free Palestine); a young woman with bloody marks staining her sweatpants as she is bundled away by captors; a knife lying on a sofa in the kibbutz Be’eri, where 10 per cent of the population were killed; or visual evidence of 'resistance' like the video of Mor Bayder’s murdered grandmother uploaded by her killers to Mor’s Facebook page.

"Sympathy, for the moment, abounds, for as the writer Dara Horn pointed out in the title of her unsparing book of essays, People Love Dead Jews; living ones, especially should we have the temerity to defend ourselves, not so much. There is, rightly, sympathy too for the Palestinians of Gaza who are also victims and prisoners of Hamas and do not deserve to be punished for the wickedness perpetrated by their fanatical tyrants, nor for the delusion that the deaths of Jewish families will make Israel disappear.

"We do not disappear. But we do suffer. The great Columbia University historian Salo Wittmayer Baron spent his career inveighing against the fatalism of what he called 'the lachrymose conception' of Jewish history. I myself have made an effort to go with the positive: to celebrate the poetry, music, religious and secular literature of the diaspora; to think about Jewish history with the human smoke of Auschwitz blown away by time and education.

"But this now seems an idle hope. From reports all over the world in the days following the massacres last weekend, it is obvious that the spectacle of dead Jews can still excite, rather than restrain, antisemitism.

"Apparently it still needs saying that Zionism is not the cause, but the consequence, of perennial, dehumanising, antisemitism. The massacre of Jews not only long predates Zionism but is a constant fact of diaspora existence. Jews were attacked and exterminated in both the Muslim and Christian medieval worlds: six thousand butchered in Fez in 1033; thousands more in Almoravid Granada in 1066; the entire community of York in 1190. A friend of mine, currently in Spain, tells me almost all of the rarefied intellectuals she has encountered have been adamant that the victims were to blame, which, given the murder of thousands of Jews in 1391, is a bit rich.

"Nor was this persecution really about religion. Survivors who converted were, for all their professions of Christian faith, still tortured and burnt alive by an Inquisition suspicious that their blood was too impure for salvation. So Jews have been murdered for being too separate and murdered for being not separate enough. They were killed in vast numbers by Cossacks in 1648; by Russian pogroms in the 19th and 20th centuries. In 1899 an anti-Dreyfusard journal asked its readers what they would like to do with Jews. The responses were enthusiastic and ingenious: use them as targets for new artillery, turn them into dog food and, needless to say, gas them.

"In the face of lethal peril, help has been conditional. Children were rescued by the Kindertransport on condition of being separated from their parents, many of whom they would never see again. A conference on 'refugees' was held in Bermuda in 1943, when the Final Solution was known, basically on condition the word 'Jew' was never mentioned. It was this lose/lose situation that moved Theodor Herzl, the father of modern Zionism, prophetic about a coming annihilation, to insist that in the end Jews must count only on themselves for their protection.

"That core Zionist article of faith collapsed last Saturday, not least because of the Netanyahu government’s obstinate refusal to listen to Israel’s security chiefs, who warned him that the safety of the country was being imperilled by policies that were dangerously divisive. Whatever the immediate unity of the country, his days as prime minister are numbered and his legacy will forever be this catastrophe. But that inevitable departure will not staunch the tears, bring back the dead or heal the trauma. And should there be a ground invasion, innocent Palestinian and Jewish lives will pay a terrible price, not that Hamas cares about either.

"But Israel will survive, revive. If only because, even in this dreadful extremity, one text from Deuteronomy, 30. 19 lies at the indefatigably beating heart of Jewish history:

"I call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, a blessing and a curse: therefore choose life, that both thou and thy seed may live."

h/t Shoshana Hantman

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Simon Schama: Confronted with enormity: murdered infants, abducted grandmothers, slaughtered villagers, lusty chants of “gas the Jews” at the Free Palestine demonstration in Sydney, mere words feel like weak carriers of so much horror and sorrow. Journalistic bloviation on the cause of this and the effect of that seems an indecency, at least until the bodies are gathered and returned to families. So context me no contexts, analyse me no analyses, suspend your partially informed diagnoses; leave off your strenuous efforts at even-handedness. Let us be, to grieve, rage, weep; say the mourners’ kaddish. Perhaps images, then, not words? Of terrified young people who in a trice went from dancing to frantic running in a futile attempt to escape the spray of bullets; of a kibbutz dog shot as it emerged from a house (that must have helped Free Palestine); a young woman with bloody marks staining her sweatpants as she is bundled away by captors; a knife lying on a sofa in the kibbutz Be’eri, where 10 per cent of the population were killed; or visual evidence of “resistance” like the video of Mor Bayder’s murdered grandmother uploaded by her killers to Mor’s Facebook page. Sympathy, for the moment, abounds, for as the writer Dara Horn pointed out in the title of her unsparing book of essays, People Love Dead Jews; living ones, especially should we have the temerity to defend ourselves, not so much. There is, rightly, sympathy too for the Palestinians of Gaza who are also victims and prisoners of Hamas and do not deserve to be punished for the wickedness perpetrated by their fanatical tyrants, nor for the delusion that the deaths of Jewish families will make Israel disappear.

We do not disappear. But we do suffer. The great Columbia University historian Salo Wittmayer Baron spent his career inveighing against the fatalism of what he called “the lachrymose conception” of Jewish history. I myself have made an effort to go with the positive: to celebrate the poetry, music, religious and secular literature of the diaspora; to think about Jewish history with the human smoke of Auschwitz blown away by time and education. But this now seems an idle hope. From reports all over the world in the days following the massacres last weekend, it is obvious that the spectacle of dead Jews can still excite, rather than restrain, antisemitism. Apparently it still needs saying that Zionism is not the cause, but the consequence, of perennial, dehumanising, antisemitism. The massacre of Jews not only long predates Zionism but is a constant fact of diaspora existence. Jews were attacked and exterminated in both the Muslim and Christian medieval worlds: six thousand butchered in Fez in 1033; thousands more in Almoravid Granada in 1066; the entire community of York in 1190. A friend of mine, currently in Spain, tells me almost all of the rarefied intellectuals she has encountered have been adamant that the victims were to blame, which, given the murder of thousands of Jews in 1391, is a bit rich.

Nor was this persecution really about religion. Survivors who converted were, for all their professions of Christian faith, still tortured and burnt alive by an Inquisition suspicious that their blood was too impure for salvation. So Jews have been murdered for being too separate and murdered for being not separate enough. They were killed in vast numbers by Cossacks in 1648; by Russian pogroms in the 19th and 20th centuries. In 1899 an anti-Dreyfusard journal asked its readers what they would like to do with Jews. The responses were enthusiastic and ingenious: use them as targets for new artillery, turn them into dog food and, needless to say, gas them. In the face of lethal peril, help has been conditional. Children were rescued by the Kindertransport on condition of being separated from their parents, many of whom they would never see again. A conference on “refugees” was held in Bermuda in 1943, when the Final Solution was known, basically on condition the word “Jew” was never mentioned. It was this lose/lose situation that moved Theodor Herzl, the father of modern Zionism, prophetic about a coming annihilation, to insist that in the end Jews must count only on themselves for their protection. That core Zionist article of faith collapsed last Saturday, not least because of the Netanyahu government’s obstinate refusal to listen to Israel’s security chiefs, who warned him that the safety of the country was being imperilled by policies that were dangerously divisive. Whatever the immediate unity of the country, his days as prime minister are numbered and his legacy will forever be this catastrophe. But that inevitable departure will not staunch the tears, bring back the dead or heal the trauma. And should there be a ground invasion, innocent Palestinian and Jewish lives will pay a terrible price, not that Hamas cares about either.

But Israel will survive, revive. If only because, even in this dreadful extremity, one text from Deuteronomy, 30. 19 lies at the indefatigably beating heart of Jewish history:

"I call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, a blessing and a curse: therefore choose life, that both thou and thy seed may live."

[Financial Times]

#Israeli Hamas war #Financial Times #words and writing #Israel #history #Jewish history

[filmclingon]

We saw Tom Stoppard's "Leopoldstadt" on Broadway last night. We hadn't rushed to see this, but discounted tickets made it irresistible. At this point I am increasingly reluctant to see or read more on the Shoah, due as much to arrogance that I've already "seen it all" (impossible) as to an aversion with age to borderline torture porn. Previously, the exhibition "Auschwitz: Not Long Ago, Not Far Away" dissolved that reluctance: Our planned one-hour breeze-through became a three-hour endless revelation. But I am sorry to report that, while I am glad we saw it, I'm afraid Stoppard's play was a disappointment, more derivative pastiche than epiphany. I knew it was part biographical, which is also problematic: In the words of Mr. Popescu in Carol Reed's "The Third Man" (its Orson Welles given an almost sneering aside at one point in Stoppard's text): "A dangerous thing, mixing fact and fiction." I was also reminded of Elie Wiesel's criticism of the 1977 television series "Holocaust": Too many different Holocaust horrors happened to this fictional family, straining credulity and providing a boon to revisionists and deniers. Not that fiction is such a bad thing: I recommend highly the fantastic but harrowing and almost forgotten film "Sunshine" (1999) featuring a spectacular cast including Ralph Fiennes, Jennifer Ehle, Rachel Weisz, William Hurt, about three generations of a privileged Hungarian Jewish family. But I felt that the audience would be better off with true accounts, details of which almost seem to have been cherry-picked for inclusion in this play: The sweep of Edmund de Waal's "Hare with Amber Eyes"; the recent TCM documentary on Hollywood composer Max Steiner; another documentary featuring musician Billy Joel and his Viennese half brother about the Nazi theft of their family business; the story of Adele Bloch Bauer, subject of both a famous Klimt painting and the 2015 film "Woman in Gold." Beyond all that, and strictly from a dramaturgic point of view: Too long (two hours ten minutes) to have no intermission (esp. because I believe the script could have been tightened by a quarter hour), and too many characters with too little delineation. Great that the excellent scrim-projected photos throughout the play included a rough-drawn family tree; but at play's end, I was left to scramble mentally who was who. It would have been incredibly effective (if no doubt emotionally manipulative) to have a spotlight shone -- or a briefly held lamp passed, lit, extinguished -- one by one or two by two, on/by the actors portraying the family members whose grim fates are intoned by Rosa ("...Verdun...Auschwitz...Auschwitz...Auschwitz..."). The other issue was enunciation: So many semi-comprehensible posh accents -- not "foreign," all English -- that lines were missed. I had to tell my companion after the fact that both his parents' home towns of Lvov and Czernowitz had been mentioned. And would it have killed Stoppard to translate at least once "le gout juif," said several times at one point and sounding rather silly? There was also an Oskar Schindler crying moment toward the end by the character obviously modeled in Stoppard himself: Can't we please avoid all such lachrymose histrionics in future? Finally, Stoppard has textile magnate Hermann speak of making a suit out of nettles, has the nursemaid tell the Grimm fairy tale of the Six Swan prince brothers (Hans Andersen's version has seven) whose sister makes them shirts out of nettles: I would have liked more connection of those almost throwaway bits of script. Being innumerate and musically untalented, I bow to Stoppard's knowledge of the linked arts of music and mathematics -- although I do know about the Riemann Hypothesis, alleged proofs for which continue to come up in the news but which, as of this writing, are unsubstantiated. That might have been an interesting coda, perhaps a meditation on man's enduring ambition to achieve what may be impossible.

[songsforsquid]

Leanne Dunic & Isaac Yuen Book Launch Reading at Elliott Bay Books Sun 6/9 7pm - Q&A w/ Sierra Nelson

Leanne Dunic & Isaac Yuen with Sierra Nelson on Sunday June 9th, 2024 @ 7:00PM - 8:00PM

Leanne Dunic and Isaac Yuen launch their latest books with the help of local Seattle poet Sierra Nelson. (Elliott Bay Book Co, 1521 10th Ave, Seattle, WA 98122. Free and open to the public.)

In Wet by Leanne Dunic, a transient Chinese American model working in Singapore thirsts for the unattainable: fair labour rights, the extinguishing of nearby forest fires, breathable air, healthy habitats for animals, human connection. She navigates place and placelessness while observing other migrant workers toiling outdoors despite the hazardous conditions. In photographs and language shot through with empathy and desire, Wet unravels complexities of social stratification, sexual privation, and environmental catastrophe.

In a time of dirges and elegies for the natural world, Utter, Earth by Isaac Yuen features odes to sloths, tributes to trilobites, and ringing endorsements for lichen. For animal lovers and readers of Brian Doyle, Aimee Nezhukumatathil, and Amy Leach, each essay of this one-of-a-kind collection combines joyous language, whimsical tangents, and scientific findings to remind us of and reconnect us with those to whom we are inextricably bound. Highlighting life that once was, still is, and all that we stand to lose, this living and lively mini encyclopedia (complete with glossary) shines the spotlight on the motley, fantastical, and astonishing denizens with whom we share this planet.

BIOS: Leanne Dunic transgresses genres and form to produce projects such as One and Half of You (Talonbooks, 2021) To Love the Coming End (Book*hug / Chin Music Press 2017) and The Gift (Book*hug 2019). She is the leader of the band The Deep Cove and lives on the unceded and occupied Traditional Territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm, Sḵwx̱wú7mesh, and səl̓ilwətaɁɬ peoples.

Isaac Yuen is a first-generation Hong Kong Canadian author. His work has appeared in AGNI, Gulf Coast, Orion, Shenandoah, Tin House, and numerous other publications. He has held residencies and fellowships at the Jan Michalski Foundation for Literature in Switzerland and the Hanse-Wissenschaftskolleg Institute of Advanced Studies in Germany. Utter, Earth is his first solo book.

Sierra Nelson is a Seattle-based poet, lyric essayist, and multimedia performance artist. Nelson’s books include The Lachrymose Report (PoetryNW Editions) and collaborative I Take Back the Sponge Cake (Rose Metal Press), and she edited the cephalopod-inspired poetry anthology Three Hearts (World Enough Writers). A MacDowell Fellow and Carolyn Kizer Prize winner, her poems have appeared in journals and anthologies including Cascadia Field Guide and I Sing the Salmon Home.

More event info: https://www.elliottbaybook.com/events/20240609

#Leanne Dunic #Isaac Yuen #Sierra Nelson #ElliottBayBook #reading #book launch #more than humans #ecopoetics #science #poetry

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

All Those Things They Couldn’t Say - A Runaway Baudelaires AU

{ao3} {tumblr} {masterlist}

Chapter Thirty-Nine - Laboheme

They sat in a near-empty room, with only a woman sleeping in the bed against the far wall for company whenever doctors came in and out. They did routine examinations while Violet spat out a fake story about a neighbor being angry that they were climbing in his tree, and how their parents would be along to pay the bill quite soon, don’t worry. Duncan was pretty nervous and uncomfortable most of the time, especially as they had him change into a hospital gown and kept having to touch and mess with his wound. So Isadora held one hand and Violet held another, while Klaus and Sunny sat beside him and rambled on about some book or another to distract him. If there weren’t doctors in, though, and Duncan did not need distracting, then Klaus would pull a book from his bag and read for them, while Sunny waddled around the room trying to get used to walking on her own, Isadora sketched out some poetry ideas, bouncing them off her brother, and Violet played with their last telegram, doodling on the edges or just staring at it.

At one point, the Volunteers Fighting Disease came in, singing to try to cheer them up, and the children were incredibly amused by the fact that they were not at all recognized as “those kids we shared a busride with.” They were so amused that when the Volunteers left, they all burst into laughter, almost doubling over, and not stopping until the next doctor came in. 

When the last doctor left and Duncan was settled in bed, flipping through the newspaper that was provided for him and using Klaus’s pencil to scratch out inconsistencies, Violet leaned over to Isadora and said, “We’ll be back in a few minutes. I saw arrows to the library, it’s a few floors up but not too far. Locks shouldn’t be hard to pick.” 

Isadora bit her lip and bounced her leg. “Are you sure?” 

“We’ll be fine. Just… if anyone comes in, you still have your weapons.” 

Isadora smiled slightly, and then whispered, “I took the dagger that stabbed Duncan and stuck it in my bag. I’m gonna wash it off and use it to cut someone’s hand off.” 

“Great idea.” Violet beamed. “We’ll see you in a few minutes.” 

They made their way to the library of records, and Violet knelt by the locks, narrowing her eyes. “Ugh.” 

“Ugh?” Klaus asked, gently placing Sunny onto the ground. “That’s not a good sound.” 

“Tis not, brother dear.” Violet rolled her eyes, shooting him a look. “These are way more complicated than our ordinary-enough pin-tumbler locks. We shoulda found someone with keys and swiped em.” 

“Do you think you can get in?” 

“It could take some time.” 

Sunny walked over, looked up at the lock, and then said, “Bite.” 

“No, you’re not biting the locks, Sunny-girl.” 

Sunny shook her head, and bit the edge of her finger. “Bite.” 

“I don’t follow.” 

“I think,” Klaus said, sitting by Sunny, his eyes wide, “She’s offering to bite something small to function as a key.” 

“That… may not be a bad idea.” Violet considered. She reached into her bag, muttering, and then pulled out her bag of hairpins. “So first you-” 

“Gotit.” Sunny shrugged, and started biting and twisting the pins, peering into the keyholes as she worked. 

“Cool.” Violet shrugged and stood up, smiling over at Klaus. “Our baby sister’s a free lockpick-maker.” 

“You don’t think she’ll hurt herself?” 

“She’ll be fine.” 

Sunny nodded as she handed Violet a lockpick, and Violet knelt down. Within a few minutes, the door was swinging open. 

“Fuck yeah.” Violet grinned. Klaus lifted Sunny as she shouldered her bag, and she walked inside, flicking on a lightswitch. Ahead of them were rows upon rows of filing cabinets, stretching out as far as the eye could see. 

“Hmm.” Sunny growled in displeasure, narrowing her eyes. “How are we gonna find the file in here?” 

Klaus moved to the first cabinet, and ran his hand over an AA-AC label. “It looks alphabetical. So we should check under ‘Baudelaire.’” 

Violet nodded, and after she tied her hair back and did a quick look-over of the cabinets, she directed them down the rows, until they reached AX-BA. She grabbed the right drawer, huffing to find it was locked, but thankfully this one was much easier to pick. When she got it open, Klaus used his free hand to flip through quickly, but he shook his head once he reached the end. 

“No Baudelaire.” 

“Maybe the next drawer?” 

“No. See, this is ‘Baz.’” Klaus shook his head. 

Violet paused. “Maybe it’s misspelled. B-U-Delaire.” 

“Budelaire.” Sunny giggled. 

“We can check.” Klaus shrugged. 

Violet moved down the cabinets, scanning the B labels, and when she found the BU-CA, she once again picked it open, and Klaus flipped through. 

“No.” he shook his head. 

“Are you sure?” 

“We go from ‘Buccaneer’ to ‘Byers.’ No room for ‘Budelaire.” 

Violet bit her lip. “Let’s check VFD.” 

As they headed down the rows, looking for the V files, Sunny whispered, “Vi? D’nouf?” “What if someone already took the files?” 

“Nobody saw that telegram but the guy at the counter, and you’d think he’d mention if he’d been able to give it to someone else.” Violet whispered, tugging on her ribbon. “Lemony never saw it, and the senders didn’t seem to be going anywhere.” 

“Cep?” “What if someone intercepted it?” 

“We’ll have to hope they didn’t.” Violet said. She glanced back at her sister and said, “This was important to Lemony, so it has to be important to us. I’ll open every filing cabinet in this room if I have to.” 

Sunny nodded, though Klaus bit his lip and glanced at the ground, unsure of how productive this was going to be. 

Violet found two entire drawers labelled VF, and she picked both, before tossing them open. Klaus put Sunny on the ground and flipped through the tops, reading out loud. “VFD- 1485 Columbia Road. VFD- 667 Dark Avenue. VFD- Anwhistle Aquatics. Bats in the Train Station. Building Committee. Curdled- we’ve gotten past ‘b.’” 

“Keep going.” Violet insisted. 

Klaus sighed. “Denouement, Hotel. Doyle, Vincent Francis. Dressing, Lois. Frogg-Drifter, Violetta. Hypnotists in the Office. Items, Museum of. Lachrymose, Ivan. Leeches in the Lake. Lions in the Mountains. Little Snicket Lad-” 

Violet pulled the file out and flipped it open, and then shook her head. “Just the sheet music with some notes. Not seeing anything good.” 

Klaus sighed and moved onto the next drawer. “Medusoid Mycelium. Orion Observatory. Prufrock Prep. SS Prospero. Schism, Discussions of - there’s like three files here.” 

“Hand em over. Might make for interesting reading.” Violet said. Klaus shrugged and handed her the files, and she shoved them into her bag, barely fitting it in. “What else?” 

“A bunch of investigative reports from an E Snicket- do we know one?” 

“Probably a relative of Lemony’s. Here, I’ll shove that in your bag. Keep going.” 

There’s not much else. I see Stain’d-by-the-Sea, Reports of; Sugar Bowl; Surgeons in the Theater; Valorous Farms; Volunteer Feline Detectives; Winnipeg, Duchy of; World is Quiet Here… another World is Quiet Here, and Zombies in the Snow. No Baudelaire.” 

“Or Budelaire?” Sunny giggled, for some reason thinking that was the funniest thing in the world. 

Violet groaned, finishing zipping up Klaus’s bag, and she tugged on her ribbon harder. “There’s gotta be a place. Maybe F for File.” 

“Seriously, Violet? Everything here is a file.” 

“Well, what do you suggest, oh wise one?” 

Sunny gave them incredulous looks. “Snicket.” 

Violet and Klaus gave her a look, and then Klaus slapped his forehead. “Duh.” 

“Come on.” Violet tossed him his bag, and Klaus threw it over his shoulder and then picked up Sunny as they raced back to the S cabinets. She ran her hands over the metal, watching the SW-SZ turn to SS-SV, then SO-SR… 

“Here!” Violet called. She raced to the SN drawer, and then again unlocked it quickly, tossed it open, and stepped back for Klaus to file through. He dropped Sunny, flipped a few files, and then beamed over at her as he found the SNI and triumphantly lifted a file, labelled: SNICKET BAUDELAIRE, ⅔.

“Fuck, yes!” Violet knelt on the ground, bouncing with excitement. Klaus knelt beside her, and Sunny peered over his arm as he flipped it open. 

He narrowed his eyes, a little confused as he started spreading papers. “What are these? I don’t see anything to do with our parents here.” 

Violet looked over, and then narrowed her eyes. Happy she still had her hair tied back, she pointed to a clipped newspaper article. “Read that for me, while I sort through these?” 

“Capture of the Remains of the Inhumane Society.” Klaus read. He skimmed, and then said, “Not much info. Some people who were in a terrorist organization went on the run and were finally caught.” 

“When?” 

“Uh… like thirty years ago.” 

“Date?” 

Klaus told her. 

Violet turned to him. “Open your commonplace book, make a note.” 

He shrugged and nodded, and as he started writing, Violet picked up an article. “Murder! Count and Countess found dead in mysterious circumstances at the Opera- well, alright, we can guess what this is.”

Sunny, not paying much attention, picked up a scrap and waved it in front of Klaus. “Whazzit?” 

“That’s some kind of poem, I think.” Klaus once again skimmed. “About making poison from bird bones.” 

“A profile on ‘Armstrong Feint.’” Violet said. “We have an underline here- base of operations in Clusterous Forest.” 

“Clusterous Forest?” Klaus echoed, and then lifted another paper. “What about this?” 

“What’s it say, dingus?” 

“It’s a transcript of an environmental society meeting about protecting some seaweed forest.” 

“What are you seeing?” 

Klaus scanned and recited interesting things that came to him. “Some are arguing that it’s a marvel of science as it’s landlocked, meaning the seaweed grows outside the ocean. But others are arguing that its existence is dangerous to the local wildlife, as birds will land on the seaweed and get stuck and die of starvation.” 

“Scout!” Sunny called. “Dead birds!” 

“Dead bird skeletons make poison.” Violet said, as Klaus started writing as many notes as he could. “This Armstrong Feint was in the Clusterous Forest, with a lotta dead birds…” she scanned the profile again. “Guess who was in charge of the Inhumane Society?” 

“So the Inhumane Society has poison? What does that have to do with us?” 

“Gimme the poem.” Violet took the paper and scanned it. “Klaus, it’s not about making poison. It’s about making poison darts.” 

Klaus’s eyes widened. “What?” 

“Whazzit?” Sunny asked, more confused than her brother. 

“Gimme the date of that arrest again, quick.” Violet said, shoving the papers back into the file and tying her ribbon around it to keep it closed. 

Klaus gave it to her, nodding; he was thinking the same thing. 

“That’d be when our parents were about sixteen.” Violet said. “And guess what.” She held up the paper she’d grabbed. “That capture was after the opera. Where our parents-” 

“You think-” 

“Lemony was trying to build a case. To frame this society.” Violet said, her eyes sparkling. She tossed the file at Klaus, who quickly flipped open his bag, shoving it inside as tight as he could. “They had poison darts. At least a couple were active during the Opera. If he can blame them-” 

“Then our parents are free.” Klaus breathed. 

They stared at each other a long time, and then Sunny asked, “Laboheme?” “What does this have to do with our parents?” 

Violet and Klaus froze. In their moment of euphoria, they’d forgotten that Sunny had not been told about their parents’ crime. Had not even guessed, as they had, what had probably happened. 

“Um…” Violet began. 

How would they explain that to her? What they’d just pieced together in their heads? How did one tell an infant that Lemony was trying to frame criminals for a murder that their parents committed? 

“Laboheme?” Sunny asked, more insistently. 

“The- the Opera…” Klaus bit his lip, glancing to Violet. “Um… it- it seems that- what happened at the Opera…” 

“Yes,” said a dark, sickeningly sweet voice behind them. “Tell her what happened at the Opera.” 

Violet’s head shot up, and then Klaus’s, his arm instinctively reaching out to grab Sunny and yank her closer to him. They stared up at Esme, who was smiling down at them in a cruel way. 

“Tell your baby sister,” she said, “What your parents have done.” 

Violet took a deep breath, then whipped a knife out of her pocket, and said, “Klaus, Sunny, run.” 

She didn’t have to ask twice. Violet jumped to her feet, throwing the knife at Esme’s chest, but unfortunately Violet giving her siblings forewarning also served to tell Esme something was going to happen, and she managed to leap out of the way. Violet quickly took off after her siblings, digging into her pocket for another knife. 

They raced down a few aisles, before ducking down behind a row of cabinets. “How did she-” Klaus began. 

“Firetruck. We left the firetruck-” 

“But that wouldn’t tell them-” 

“Unless they talked to the counter guy-” 

“Shit.” 

“Okay.” Violet took a breath. “We need to get to Duncan and Isadora and get out of- duck!” 

She pushed Klaus down, just as something flew over their heads. Violet turned to see one of Esme’s shoes, knives replacing the heels, landing against the side of a cabinet and sticking. 

“Oh, I see,” Violet nodded, as she pushed Klaus and Sunny ahead of her, turning to stick her tongue out at Esme as the woman started running after them. “More knives. Guess what, though?” she pushed Klaus and Sunny to the left, then ran to the heel, ripped it out of the cabinet, and said, “I got this now!” 

She pushed Klaus and Sunny down an aisle as Esme raced past, and then whispered, “Think she’s got the door blocked?” 

“I’d assume so.” 

“There’s gotta be a window. We can shimmy out and get Duncan and Isadora. Run to the left, side of the building should be that way.” 

Klaus nodded, and Sunny leaned against him, whimpering slightly. They started running, as Violet stayed behind her siblings, glancing back to see if Esme was behind them. 

After only a moment though, she let out a shout of surprise, as a row of filing cabinets, just beside them, came crashing down. Violet pushed Klaus aside, spotting Esme at the end of the toppled cabinets, and then said, “Alright, Klaus, officially? We’re on an A Flat.” 

He nodded, and took off running. They maneuvered through aisles, hearing more crashing behind them, and Violet waved the stiletto heel in her hands, trying to get used to the weight. “I dunno how accurately I can throw this.” 

“Vi, can we get out of here and then discuss that?” 

“Right, yeah.” 

Sunny shrieked, and Klaus quickly hauled Violet beside him as a filing cabinet fell right where she’d been standing. Violet then said, “Okay, F minor-” “Nobody talk!” -and they pushed on. 

“Come on, dears!” they heard Esme call, and Violet gripped the knife-shoe tighter. “We just want to have some fun!” 

At fun, another aisle started crashing. Klaus whimpered, the noise overstimulating him quite a bit, and Violet put her arm around him and kept pushing them forward. 

“Don’t you want to see Mummy and Daddy again?” 

Violet blinked away tears, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw a wall up ahead. She raced them forwards and then ran them down until they found a window. Violet opened it, as Klaus threw the Sunnybag onto the ground and started strapping their sister into it. He slid it onto his back, whispered for his sister to hold on, and Violet helped him slide down onto the side of the outer wall. He slid slightly, and Violet turned, watching another row of cabinets start to topple. “She’s getting close.” 

“Then hurry out!” 

She glanced down. There wasn’t room for her to go beside him, and he wouldn’t get down far enough for her to start for quite some time. 

“New plan.” Violet said. 

“What?” 

Violet shrugged her bag off and tossed it out the window. 

“What?” 

“I’ll circle around so Esme doesn’t see where you got out.” 

“Violet-” 

“If I don’t meet you in the Quagmires’ room, run somewhere, get out. I’ll find you, I promise.” 

Before Klaus could argue more, Violet shut the window, and then called, “Klaus, go for the door! I’ll hold her off!” and took off running. 

She didn’t stick around to hear if Klaus yelled at her or if Sunny made a noise of protest, because another row of filing cabinets came tumbling down, and Violet ducked down an aisle, breathing deeply. 

“Well, well, well.” she heard Esme say, a little distantly, “Looks like our little Snicket is all alone.” 

Violet shut her eyes and gripped her jacket with one hand and the knife shoe with the other. 

“Come along, darling. Don’t you want to say goodbye to your mother?” 

Violet shook slightly as she edged her way down the aisle, trying to soften her footsteps. 

“Your Mother’s dying to see you, you know! All three of you!” 

Another row fell down, this one closer to the door. Violet breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Esme had clearly taken her bait. She backed up a little, trying to keep her head low and her steps quiet. 

And then she felt an arm on her shoulder. 

She screamed and whipped around, swinging the knife heel. She jumped with surprise as she saw that Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender leap back, the heel cutting across their arm. They let out a gasp, and Violet took off running. Fuck, how many of them were there? Fuck, fuck, fuck… 

She kept moving, the files blurring around her, ignoring how close or far the cabinets were toppling, trying to still the beating panic in her heart and not look down at the blood on the knife heel… 

She turned a bend and saw Esme at the end of the aisle, knocking down another row. Violet stepped back, throwing back her arm in preparation to toss the shoe. Esme turned, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. 

Then Violet was grabbed from behind again, and this time the weapon was knocked from her hand. 

“Well, well, well,” Olaf whispered, as Violet screamed and tried to struggle away, “What have we here?” 

#asoue #asoue netflix #a series of unfortunate events #runaway baudelaires au #asoue fanfiction #the hostile hospital #all those things they couldn't say #mine #my fanfic

[beatricebidelaire]

beatrice x esme: elaborate costumes, subtle power-play on-stage kisses, unsubtle power play off-stage kisses, a series of thieveries, running into each other when trying to bribe/seduce reporters at daily punctilio headquarters, shopping together for hours while wearing shoes that looked uncomfortable to everyone else, trying to outbid each other at in-auction, judging other operas together when they don’t have to perform on stage, arguing about how to name bats

beatrice x kit: long gazes at the other person trying to braid her hair / tie her hair into a bun with a pencil, wild taxi rides with the passenger singing loudly and urging the driver to join on singing, stealthy poison darts passing at opera, afternoon picnics with food found from fridge hastily thrown together, late night conversations till almost sunrise that covered a lot of topics yet never touching the unspoken feelings, pretending the intense feeling of the other person was just jealousy of the other person’s talent, accidental fingers brushing, listening to raindrops on cold winter days, spending time trying to find books relevant to the other person’s interest as gifts

beatrice x r: helping each other rehearse plays, kissing in the name of practicing for on-stage kisses, dancing to classical music in huge empty room while preparing for masked ball and other guests haven’t arrived yet, trying on different ball gowns together and helping the other person with unbuttoning and unzipping, ice skating on frozen pond in front of hotel denouement during winter, roaming through rooms with r’s family’s collection of trinkets

beatrice x josephine: swimming in lake lachrymose and coming up with different ways to compete about it, horseback riding, hiking up mount frought, letters back and forth arguing about appropriate grammar usage, black and white movies on sunday nights, dance battles in pubs, random phone calls starting literature discussions, stargazing, taking pictures of animals to send to each other

#asoue #beatrice baudelaire #esme squalor #kit snicket #r duchess of winnipeg #josephine anwhistle #beasme #otp: satan was god's best friend #kitrice #otp: best friends to maybe we'll be lovers in another life #beatrice x r #otp: how content and yet how flammable #beatrice x josephine #vera.txt

[xaoh-f-goon]

(lines in italics are visible on the prop but not in the IHOSO merch book)

ANWHISTLE AQUATICS GOES UP IN FLAMES

EXPLOSION KILLS SCIENTIST, BUT WAS IT AN ACCIDENT... OR WAS IT MURDER?

Anwhistle Aquatics, the renowned marine research center and rhetorical advice service, was destroyed yesterday in a mysterious fiery explosion. Eye-witnesses report seeing an enormous plume of smoke, rising straight out of the water “as if the entire sea was burning.” The fire claimed the life of famed ichnologist Gregor Anwhistle, who was working late in his laboratory and became trapped in the blaze.

The official fire department has attributed the fire to the regrettable combination of highly explosive dynamite and highly flammable chemicals, though they would not comment on rumours that the butt of a strange green cigarette was discovered in the rubble. Also missing is Anwhistle’s apprentice, a young man who had been working at the facility as part of a volunteer training program. According to his stepfather, the young man, whose name has not yet been released to the press, had left for work that day as usual, but never returned home.

As readers may recall, Anwhistle Aquatics was founded (ten) years ago by Gregor and his brother Ike, uniting Gregor’s passion for studying the unusual biology of aquatic plants and animals with Ike’s passion for offering rhetorical advice. However the relationship between the brothers was notoriously volatile, and the two men were often seen engaged in heated ethical and philosophical discourse. Five years ago/Eventually, Ike quit, leaving the facility in Gregor’s hands, and abandoning his rhetorical advice career to take up residence on the shores of Lake Lachrymose with his wife Josephine, where he can still be seen having picnics, exploring the local caves, and whistling with crackers in his mouth. When asked to comment on his brother’s death, he offered this statement: ‘My brother and I shared the same goal, but not the same methods. Gregor was playing with fire. I couldn’t stop him, but I couldn’t stand by and (?comadothe? condone?) him either.” Then he shook his head sadly and muttered something about a schism and a sugar bowl.

(Rumours?) have long (spread? abound? evicted? awaited? ??) regarding the exact nature of the (research) being conducted in Gregor’s lab - rumours fuelled by a string of mysterious (respiratory illnesses) that nearly claimed the lived of several volunteers. In recent news, ...

(full perthe?), fire, the (?mercpanfjgdh?) of the (?aywguruh?) combined with rumours of Gregor’s (increasing? breathtaking? undertaking?) (?indiability?) and Ahab-like (?chumn-scppin?), though (?wimly?wacky?) (away?scurvy?). All the (???) of the fire, they’ve all had (?cherished?changed?) (in tumulus) of only (Cureghif?) and a handful of volunteers.

‘What went wrong?’ According to my source, who asked to be identified only as L.S., the trouble began when the Anwhistle brothers ordered the construction of a series of tunnels beneath the facility. “They dug too deep. They unearthed things that should have stay buried. There are secrets in this world too terrible for decent people to know”. Other (sources) hint that the construction (led to some) sort of (?impjfaltule?inconceivable) (????-logical) discovery - perhaps even a new species, though whether animal, vegetable or mineral remains unknown. In the (subsequent?) years, Gregor was reportedly obsessed with unlocking the scientific potential of this species. In his last public appearance, he spoke of a project he called “Volatile Fungus (Deportations? Depictions?)” that he promised would “change the world”. However, (since) his death and the destruction of Anwhistle Aquatics, it seems unlikely that the project will be completed. Whatever Gregor Anwhistle was (examining) in his lab will never see the light of day. In that a

#Daily Punctilio #asoue spoilers #asoue netflix #netflix scrutiny #asoue #a series of unfortunate events

[qscvgyum]

traditional performance

We instituted a traditional performance review process and people hated it, including us." His employees found once a year reviews out of synch with their lives. Bus. Audience interactive comedy is clean, but that doesn't mean it's not hilarious. Configurations. Actually, I have all sorts of heated socks and slippers to get me through the winter as well as electric blankets as well as other types of heated and thermal wear. A more recent study conducted at the University of New South Wales (Australia) reported that Mens JORDAN Hoodie a group of women who took part in a 20 minute HIIT program of eight second sprints followed by 12 seconds of rest lost six times more bodyfat than a group that did steady state cardio for 40 minutes at 60% MHR. “As you wish,” she sighed. The driver of the car, state police Sgt. If I am killed or my blood is shed, surely she won’t step over our barrier, perhaps over my corpse, and stand at the altar beside the son of my murderer, like the daughter of that king (do you remember in the book you learnt to read out of?) who rode in her chariot over her father’s body? And, besides, if it comes to a duel, our princes won’t care for the marriage themselves. He risks all for the quick kill. They came upon a stable. Oh I just love him. You can biciclete rusesti vechi also get advice from your doctor, nurse or pharmacist. Firefighters in Rifle hoisted a massive American flag between two ladder trucks over the roadway into town. Finer particles may reach the gas exchange region in the depths of the lungs, where removal mechanisms are less efficient. “Swords, bows, daggers. A thin pinstripe runs along the length of the truck with pantofi sport cu scai barbati a red and gold "FX2 Sport" insignia adorning the rear haunches. 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"I'm just giving my muscles a break between cross country and indoor track and disco duro externo pita luckily I'll be able to still keep building up my endurance before we really get into the nitty and gritty of track," Annie Imhof said. AIR a t pense pour amliorer la vie et le rangement en mini. Petyr Baelish had offered to wed the girl himself, she recalled, but of course that was impossible; he was much too lowborn. “The maid tells it true,” declared a stocky man in white and purple, whose cloak was fastened with a pair of crossed bronze keys. Appropriate to the theater's retrospective sensibility, Guare closed the season with a play, Lake Hollywood, that is simultaneously his newest and one of his oldest.. As usual, I left my crew in the dinner hole while I made the required gas and air checks. He bowed on the same spot where Stalwart Shield had lain in death not long before. Cause I decide to work and get educated while studying. ‘My friends,’ says he, ‘if you know of anything that will make a brother’s heart glad, run quick and tell it; but if it is something that will only cause a sigh, ‘bottle it up, bottle it up!’ O, I often tell my children, ‘Bottle it up, bottle it up!’”. Aldouri Mohammed said the coalition's use of depleted uranium is to blame for the health problems of American veterans. “All day and all gioco cubo di rubik amazon night, might be even longer,” insisted one big, black-bearded archer with a Cerwyn axe sewn on his breast. Was that six years ago, or seven? Summer was a fading memory, and it had been three years since Asha last enjoyed a peach. Compared to Giro's top tier race shoe, the Factress Techlace (which gets a higher grade carbon sole) the Raes is about 40g heavier and considerably oakley m frame ice iridium less expensive (The Factress is $350 on Competitive Cyclist). The Army Academy side took to the field and showed that playing ability, physicality and flair run through all the Army sides and that a true strength in depth exists in Army Rugby League. Momentum kept building as fears grew that owners will seek radical changes in the length and value of nike sb prod x contracts next summer when the league's collective bargaining dolce gabanna adidași bărbații agreement expires. When she left work Thursday, Bogle was wearing a neon yellow shirt, blue jeans and black Air Max shoes with pink on the sides.The sheriff's office says Bogle drives a dark green 2003 Oldsmobile Alero four door. Hunt says the three of them were blessed to be put in a good spot where Gunnar was able to pick on Garver's odor. Leaving Volantis, the cog had sailed within sight of land at first, so Tyrion could gaze at passing headlands, watch clouds of seabirds rise from stony cliffs and crumbling watchtowers, count bare brown islands as they slipped past. The death and destruction at dizzying speeds makes Fast Furious 7 looks like a sedate Sunday afternoon drive.. “My lady.” Theon could not bring himself to call her Arya and dare not call her Jeyne. Haggard and Curtis Huff (55.2); 3, Steve Nord, Sam Davis, Dick Dobkins and Max Hahne (55.4). One of the Freys stepped forward, a knight long and lean of limb, clean-shaved but for a grey mustache as thin as a Myrish stiletto. You can't replicate this moment," his son told the Detroit Free Press. Took it to mean something light, refreshing. Stowe has done much to draw from him those concessions; and the putting forth of this “most invulnerable moral panoply,” that has just come into his head as a bulwark of safety for slavery, owes its impetus to her, and other like efforts.

[freesearchengines-blog]

The Main Cause Of Accidents In The USA Is Drowsy Drivers

The Main Cause Of Accidents In The USA Is Drowsy Drivers. Driving nodding is a prime factor in traffic accidents and deaths in the United States, federal trim officials reported Thursday. Federal statistics state that 2,5 percent of baneful motor vehicle crashes and 2 percent of crashes with non-fatal injuries subsume drowsy driving. But, data gathering methods make it difficult to thinking the actual number of accidents that involve drowsy drivers rhode island. In fact, some studies have estimated that between 15 percent and 33 percent of murderous crashes may involve sleepy drivers. And deaths and injuries are more fitting in motor vehicle crashes that involve drowsy driving, the report stated. According to the publish by the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, more than 4 percent of drivers quizzed said they had driven while lethargic in the month before the survey. "One out of 25 people reported falling asleep while driving in the over month," said CDC epidemiologist Anne Wheaton, the report's chief author powder. "If you think of how many cars you see every day, one out of 25 - that's a somewhat big number". And those numbers may underestimate the scope of the problem. "These were people who realized they had fallen asleep while they were driving nykping. If you capture asleep for even a moment you may not realize it - so that's not even taking those bodies into account". What's more, many people drive drowsy and don't fall asleep, but still broach a risk. "Driving while drowsy you are driving impaired. Your reaction time slows down, you're less concentrating and it impairs your decision-making skills. So even if you don't fall asleep at the wheel, it's still a life-threatening problem". The report was published in the Jan 4, 2013 issue of the CDC's Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report. In the study, researchers found that males and females who slept six hours or less were about twice as liable to to report falling asleep while driving as those who got seven or more hours of sleep. Other contributing factors count sleep disorders such as sleep apnea and insomnia. In 2009, approximately 30000 masses were involved in car crashes due to drowsy driving and 730 died, according to the US National Highway Traffic Safety Administration. Drowsy driving also miscellaneous state-to-state, from a lachrymose of 2,5 percent in Oregon to a high of 6,1 percent in Texas, the report found. The best aspect to prevent drowsy driving is to get at least seven hours of sleep. And ancestors with a sleep disorder should seek treatment, the CDC said. The agency also recommends not drinking John Barleycorn or taking sedatives before sliding into the driver's seat. Wheaton said some of the signs of drowsy driving include: not remembering the finish couple of miles driven; missing an exit on a highway; having put out staying in a driving lane; and struggling to keep your eyes open. "If you have these symptoms you prerequisite to get off the road and rest until you're not sleepy anymore. Even better is to change drivers with someone who is not sleepy" pinetown. The findings were based on a evaluate of almost 150000 drivers.

#driving #drowsy #percent #asleep #drivers #report #crashes

[digitalfime]

View: How the tyranny of distance amplifies some protests, ignores others

View: How the tyranny of distance amplifies some protests, ignores others

Nine years ago, vicious sectarian riots broke out between Bodos and Muslims in the Kokrajhar district of Assam. The disturbances left nearly 80 people dead and nearly four lakh people fled their homes and took shelter in makeshift camps. To use a phrase popularised by lachrymose reporters in the Western media, it was a “humanitarian disaster.” Curiously, the riots left the ‘national media’ in the…

View On WordPress

[newsmatters]

View: How the tyranny of distance amplifies some protests, ignores others

View: How the tyranny of distance amplifies some protests, ignores others

Nine years ago, vicious sectarian riots broke out between Bodos and Muslims in the Kokrajhar district of Assam. The disturbances left nearly 80 people dead and nearly four lakh people fled their homes and took shelter in makeshift camps. To use a phrase popularised by lachrymose reporters in the Western media, it was a “humanitarian disaster.” Curiously, the riots left the ‘national media’ in the…

View On WordPress

[songsforsquid]

Find Me @AWP Seattle: Off-Site Readings & Bookfair Interludes

Hello dear AWP conference goers and Seattle literary friends,

In the supersaturated abundance of exciting literary happenings -- here are some events I’m taking part in and places I’ll be. Hope to see you at some (or all!).

AWP - SEATTLE: On-Site Book Signings & Off-Site Readings

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 8TH

* OFF-SITE: 6-7 PM, @National Nordic Museum (Ballard), "Inspired by Iceland Reading" w/ Katy Didden, Sierra Nelson, Katie Prince, & Melanie Noel; All Ages venue, masks highly encouraged; Seattle Times write-up

* OFF-SITE: 8-10pm, @Pine Box (Capitol Hill), PoetryNW & SAL Present, Group Reading Featuring: Kenzie Allen, Laura Da', Lauren Hilger, James Hoch, Sasha LaPointe, Eugenia Leigh, Sierra Nelson, & Paisley Rekdal; 21+ venue 

THURSDAY, MARCH 9th

* OFF-SITE: 5-6pm, @Chop Suey (Capitol Hill), A Dozen Nothing Celebration, Group Reading featuring: Colleen Louise Barry, Mary Biddinger, Bill Carty, Jason Crawford, Nicelle Davis, Rosemarie Dombrowski, Gabriel Dozal, Emily Kendal Frey, Knox Gardner, Charles Jensen, Robert Lashley, Denis Mair, John Marshall, Trey Moody, Sierra Nelson, Shawnte Orion, Rena Priest, Lily Someson, Arianne True, Elizabeth Vignali, Lizabeth Yandel, Jason Whitmarsh; 21+ venue, masks highly encouraged.

* OFF-SITE: 6-7:30pm, @Town Hall Seattle (First Hill; entrance off Seneca), Cascadia Field Guide Book Release Celebration (Not reading, but have work in the anthology!), All Ages event, masks highly encouraged

FRIDAY, MARCH 10th

* AWP BOOKFAIR: 10-11am @ Rose Metal Press table T1328, book signing for I Take Back the Sponge Cake

* OFF-SITE: 9-10pm, @Rendezvous (Jewelbox Theater, Belltown), Vis-a-Vis Society (Rachel Kessler & Sierra Nelson) Entre Rios Press & Friends Multi-Media Reading, 21+ venue, Masks highly encouraged. Grotto stage is not ADA accessible. (Lots of great readings the whole night, 7-11pm, on 2 stages, plus food & drink available): Seattle’s Entre Ríos Books hosts Fence, Fonograf Editions, Omnidawn, and Birds LLC in the Jewel Box Theater & the Grotto. NW presses Blue Cactus and Winter Texts offer conversation and chill in the Red Velvet Lounge.  One of Seattle’s classic old-school bars— food and drink available. Fence #40 West Coast premiere! Performances by Dao Strom and the Vis-à-Vis Society. A short play by Christine Deavel. With readings by Colleen Barry, Bill Carty, Sommer Browning, Peter Burghardt, Julie Carr, Cort Day, Emily Kendal Frey, Annie Guthrie, Robert Lashley, Cameron Martin, Erin McCoy, Joyelle McSweeney, Margaret Meehan, Patrick Milian,  Lucas de Lima, Warren C. Longmire, Sawako Nakayasu, Hilary Plum, Kimberly Reyes, Steven Rood, Jess Stark, Rodrigo Toscanao, Zoe Tuck, Maw Shein Win, Haines Whitacre, and Deborah Woodard w/ Peter Nelson-King.) 

SATURDAY MARCH 11th

* AWP BOOKFAIR: 12-1pm @ Poetry Northwest table 1311, book signing for The Lachrymose Report

*  AWP BOOKFAIR: 9-11am & 3-5pm @ Seattle Arts & Lectures table 805 

*************************************************************

Wed 3/8 6pm: Inspired by Iceland Reading w/ Katie Prince, Katy Kidden, Melanie Noel, & Sierra Nelson @National Nordic Museum (Ballard)

Wed 3/8 8pm AWP Welcome Party & Reading Hosted by Poetry NW & Seattle Arts & Lectures @The Pine Box (Capitol Hill) 

Thurs 3/9 5pm A Dozen Nothing Reading @Chop Suey (Capitol Hill)

Thurs 3/9 6pm Cascadia Field Guide Launch Party @Town Hall Seattle (First Hill) 

Friday 3/10 7-11pm Rendezvous: a Seattle AWP Offsite @Rendezvous (Belltown) w/ Entre Rios Press, Fence, Fonograf Ed, Omnidawn, Birds LLC, Blue Cactus, Winter Texts readings (Vis-a-Vis Society performs 9-10pm in Jewelbox Theater, w/ some solo Rachel Kesler & Sierra Nelson work as well) 

#AWP Seattle #awp2023 #Poetry Northwest #seattle arts & lectures #salAwp #cascadia field guide #cascadia #mountaineers #adozennothing #Nordic Museum #sierra nelson #katy didden #katie prince #melanie noel #cascadiaguide #awpseattle #entre rios #Vis-a-Vis Society

[baoanhwin]

Spotting the Difference – what really matters to Johnson when deciding who is in or out

The Secretary of State for Northern Ireland – has usually been seen as a hospital pass (any point during the Troubles), an internal exile for those having to earn their passage back to the mainstream (Mandelson) or somewhere to put rivals or nuisances (Francis Pym, Jim Prior). In some cases, PMs have trolled the residents of that benighted province (Shaun Woodward, Karen Bradley, for heaven’s sake!) Few have shone in the role. One who did was Julian Smith. In his time there, he managed to broker a return of the devolved government (after a three-year stalemate), helped secure agreement in the revised Withdrawal Agreement to there being no hard border between north and south and oversaw the introduction of marriage equality. Quite something for 204 days’ work. For all this he was praised by both the Irish Taisoeach and Arlene Foster and duly sacked by Boris Johnson.

What did the poor man do wrong?

The Home Secretary – no sooner had Julian Smith returned to the back benches than another Cabinet Minister who already knew what it was like to be sacked from office (though with rather more justification than was apparent in his case) got into her own difficulties with her civil servants. Stories emerged of Priti Patel’s alleged bullying and poor man management. It all culminated in a public resignation of her most senior civil servant accompanied by a lachrymosely defiant statement and legal action. In April an internal inquiry by the Cabinet Secretary into alleged bullying found no evidence to support these claims. According to newspaper reports anyway, no such report ever having been published. Others can judge how likely it was that, in the middle of an unexpectedly frightening pandemic, the Cabinet Secretary had either the time or inclination to conduct an effective inquiry into “he said/she said” allegations. Apparently, there is a Head of Ethics and Propriety in the Cabinet Office to do this and her report is, according to the FT, being held back by No 10 because of concerns about what it says about Ms Patel’s behaviour. We shall see. Ms Patel veers between scarcely believable incompetence (unable to find out who has entered the country during a pandemic or the difference between being given Leave to Remain and citizenship), tongue-tied confusion about the difference between terrorism and counter-terrorism, a lack of concern for a girl facing FGM if deported, good instincts on HK, flashes of real eloquence (on the racism she has suffered) and low cunning (conspicuous silence over Cummings, pointed criticism of Jenrick). Nonetheless, she survives. For now. Meanwhile lovers of Evelyn Waugh novels will cherish the idea of having a Head of Ethics and Propriety in a Johnson government. It is surely a role in which there is both far too much to do and absolutely no point in doing any of it.

Perhaps inevitably, the current holder is, according to the latest reports moving on to a new position. Is there any point looking for a replacement?

The Housing Minister – plenty has been written about Mr Jenrick already. Despite everything and his own admitted failure to comply with the rules, resulting in him agreeing that his decision to grant planning permission to a Tory donor was unlawful, he is still there, the PM having decided that the matter is closed, the lingering stench of favours for money notwithstanding. This was not helped by Nadim Zawahi’s suggestion that others might like to go to Tory fundraising events to “sit next to” Tory MPs and “interact with” their local authority. Quite why a constituency surgery or letter would not do just as well was not explained by Mr Zawahi, who perhaps revealed more than he ought. Mr Jenrick is still in position, that’s the main thing. For No 10 at least.

The Advisor – so much time, so much effort (a Rose Garden press conference even) was spent defending Mr Cummings, who got himself into a bit of bother over his trips to Durham and Barnard Castle during lockdown, one can only assume Johnson really thinks Cummings is worth it. Quite why is harder for outsiders to understand. Even excluding Covid-19, this government has not been noticeably competent or effective since being elected: policies are being reversed under pressure with little apparent thought for long-term strategy, communication is poor and confused, what happens when the Brexit transition ends is wholly unclear, senior civil servants across government are serving their notice and the Treasury is quietly building its own separate power base, complete with friendly modern personal branding. It is possibly no coincidence that the only effective part of government has been the one department with experience of a previous crisis and whose permanent staff have not (yet) been undermined by a temporary advisor obsessing about “hard rain” and hiring weirdos.

The Select Committee Chairman – Another Julian. Julian Lewis this time. Until a few hours ago a Tory MP. No longer. What heinous crimes did he commit to have the whip withdrawn? How much more incompetent than Julian Smith was he, what unlawful acts did he commit, whom did he treat so badly, what laws or rules or guidance did he break that he is deemed worthy of expulsion from Johnson’s Garden of Eden? None of this. His “crime” was to stand in the way of Chris Grayling being shoe-horned into the role of Chair of the Intelligence and Security Committee, as the government so transparently wanted, and – gasp! – on intelligence and security matters co-operating with Labour MPs. The horror! All this from a government which never ceases to complain when the Opposition fails to support it over its actions on Covid-19. It is not co-operation it wants but acquiescence and blind loyalty.

Julian Lewis has now been released from his chains. What will he do now? A glance at his previous career suggests someone both willing to speak his own mind and knowledgeable about defence matters, a worthy interlocutor of the newly appointed National Security Advisor. Perhaps that is what the government is afraid of? Or maybe it just doesn’t like being thwarted – “I want, I get” being its apparent guiding principle.

What to conclude from all this? Loyalty matters above all. If you are loyal, you will survive for as long as you are useful, no matter how badly behaved or embarrassing or actively harmful you may be. Competence is an irrelevance, only valued by girly swots.

The PM is willing to be as ruthless as necessary. His expulsion of Ken Clarke (another MP who, like Julian Lewis, refuses to use email) and co., barely 10 months ago, was not a Brexit-induced aberration.

Johnson likes to be loved but he likes being feared even more. This can get you far in politics, indeed has got him to the top. When that love fades and the fear goes – and they will, one day – his fall will be worth watching. For those who believe that ruthlessness and ambition, untempered by competence and integrity, are dangerous, that day cannot come soon enough.

Cyclefree

from politicalbetting.com https://www7.politicalbetting.com/index.php/archives/2020/07/16/spotting-the-difference-what-really-matters-to-johnson-when-deciding-who-is-in-or-out/ https://dangky.ric.win/

#nhacai #one88 #danhbaidoithuong #ricwin #choibaidoithuong #gamedanhbaidoithuong #choigamedoit

[the-fearmonger]

Last week on the Dragonslayers... 

Marred Lagoon Security Log 

Entry Date: 23rd Day of the Summer Harvest 

Primary Security Objectives: 

1. Protect the Principal Asset and his property (Donald Tiefling) 

2. Defend points of vulnerability (three Macguffin switches) 

3. Maintain deniability for any events on the premises (plausible or implausible)

Special Objectives: 

1. Provide security for the Gala Reception 

2. Ensure social distance between Melania Tiefling and Joker Trudeau at all times 

Today’s Journal of Record Kept By: Lachrymose Poot, Sergeant at Arms 

1830 Hours: Full security staff is in place prior to tonight’s gala reception. Floor sweeps conducted without incident. Inexplicably, the delivery of highly explosive fireworks was stacked right at the entryway between the dock and the main house. No time to relocate it so we will station an extra couple of guards there, relocated from posts in the private residences upstairs. Can’t see how this would possibly create any issues. Guests beginning to arrive at entry checkpoints. Brontoburger catering is on premises and Melania is in plain sight. Off to a good start. 

1908 Hours: Docking bay reports the arrival of an unexpected galley carrying renowned portrait artist Leonardo Retardo, along with his wife, child, and personal guard. I officially recommended against granting entry but was overruled by Mr. Tiefling. He called it, “Great publicity”, and “Proof of his popularity”. Guests were escorted in by the Oompaloompa with blue hair. I’m sure that documenting this breach in protocol approved by Mr. Tiefling will protect me in the event of any mishaps. Dock guards also reported two additional deckhands on the boat upon arrival who seem to have disappeared. I dispatched Kushner the ghoul to inspect the lower levels for signs of entry. As with most of his previous endeavors, I don’t have high expectations of tangible results. 

1936 Hours: Reception hall guards were called to remove the Retardo child from the atrium. In retrospect, since one of the Macguffin switches is hidden there we probably should have posted a guard or at least put up some fuzzy red ropes. The child left the atrium quickly and probably didn’t find the switch anyway. Probably. Remember to check later after the event. Guards reported that Mr. Tiefling seems to be getting uncomfortably close to Mrs. Retardo, which seems to be provoking her husband and his security detail. Joker Trudeau last seen headed up to “use the restroom” in the private residences. 

1951 Hours: Kushner reports that discipline in the lower levels appears lax. Some of he Duregar assigned seem to be AWOL, and the carpet trap has been sprung with no apparent captives. I told him to go back and find out where everyone went. If those stunted gray bastards are shirking I will punt their squat asses back to Tiefling Tower. 

2000 Hours: Guests have been called to dinner and are gathering in the dining hall. Mr. Tiefling seems to be enamored of the artist’s wife and has invited her to a “private audience” in his office. Mr. Retardo and his guard seem to be resigned and are waiting patiently in the hallway, where I have a guard posted. No one seems to have eyes on Melania. 

2011 Hours: Kushner rushed back to report that it appears the Duregar left their posts to bet on a major arm wrestling match between the Middle and East guard teams. Not sure what the fuck is happening down there but it sounds like total chaos, and anyone could waltz through. Sent Kushner back to regain control and reach a Middle/East peace accord but he’s such a pussy and a failure I’ll probably have to assign him to another project while everyone is distracted. 

 2016 Hours: There is a major disturbance outside the dining hall. Guards have reported that Mrs. Retardo fled Mr. Tiefling’s office to the restroom leaving the door open, where guests are being treated to a full view of Donald going balls deep in Private Miller (Steven, not the rookie). Kudos to the team for not raising the guest’s alarm, but they are reporting that Miller appears to be stunned and unresponsive, and Mr. Tiefling under the influence of something which renders him incapable of coherent thought. More so than usual, anyway. I dispatched Private Mnuchin to locate that sorcerer Conway who colors Mr. Tiefling’s skin to see if she can snap him out of it. In the meantime, he’s still boning away. Unsure of the status of the switch under his desk or the location of the key to the lower level storeroom Mr. Tiefling typically wears around his neck. Sounds like there’s not a lot of places he could be hiding it right now. Also unsure of the current whereabouts of the Artist, his wife and guard, or Melania. What the hell is happening around here? 

2022 Hours: Note to self: When dispatching Kushner make it clear that he should handle whatever disturbance he encounters BEFORE coming back to report. Apparently all the arm wrestling match continues and all the Duregar are laying around on the ground. Probably drunk or sleeping. There’s some kind of weird light and a voice coming from the storage room in the back but no one seemed to notice who went in there. Since I can’t count on dipshit I’m going down there myself, and I’m going to leave Kushner to find out where the guards in the private residences got off to. A couple seem to be off their posts chatting with the Artist’s private guard, and the rest have ‘disappeared’. There are odd grunting and slapping noises coming from the room at the end of the hall that can be heard from the base of the steps. My guess is that we now know the location of Melania, Trudeau, the Retardos, or all four. Frankly, I don’t have time to figure it out with everything else going on and I can sort them out later. Certainly can’t expect Kushner to handle it. Hopefully they don’t accidentally trip the switch up there. 

2045 Hours: We are going into full alert and the reserves have been dispatched from the North guard team. There are two men in the basement, one human male with a severe personal hygiene problem, and his white haired twink. Upon reaching the basement with the South guard team these two emerged from the back room with one of them gripping some kind of power object. From the look in his eyes I could tell he was switched off, and he proceeded to go on a rampage. The entire South guard team is dead. Most of them two or three times over. Cleanup and funeral detail is going to be over budget this month. He got me in a choke hold and seemed to come to just before popping my head like a zit, and then they ran off back toward the drain pipes. With reinforcements hopefully we can catch them at the docks. 

2110 Hours: Calling in the fire brigade to handle the dock control tower inferno. As the North guard team pursued the intruders to the docks, Leonardo Retardo, his wife, guard, and child emerged from the main house with Middle guard team in pursuit. Kushner will have to catch me up on why later. As they were cornered by the stockpile of explosives, Mr. and Mrs. Retardo panicked and used the barrels to threaten their way past the men and make their way to the ship. In the confusion we missed the intruders slipping past us to make their way on board. The dockhands had the sea gate closed, but Mrs. Retardo seems to have had a ‘Me Too’ moment after her fondling at the hands of Mr. Tiefling and lashed out at the control tower with a fireball, which damaged the locking mechanism and let the gate fall open. The ship cut their lines and sailed through the flaming wreck. 

2221 Hours: All guests have been escorted off the property. Wounded guards have been taken to the infirmary. The dead have been stacked by the docks where the fire brigade has managed to put out the blaze. Private Mnuchin has been unable to locate Mrs. Conway so Donald and Private Miller are still at it, but it appears friction has become their enemy. Private Barr is standing watch with whale oil until we can break whatever spell they’re under. This will be my final entry, as I have resigned my post of Acting Sergeant of the Guard. I’m sure he’ll say he fired me if questioned, but whatever. Good luck to whoever takes this job next.

#episode 15

[thebaudelairecase-blog]

The news paper clippings on Snickets wall in the miserable mill, what do they all say?

Hello! I’ve broken them down just to make it easier to read:

Noted Scientist Dies of Snake Allergies- Dr Montgomery Montgomery Hated the Slimy Creatures: 

There has been much speculation in the media this week as world renowned herpetologist Dr. Montgomery Montgomery was found dead in his Reptile Atrium in the late afternoon. Police and a coroner did confirm that he died from a snake bite that contained very deadly venom. It has been speculated that Montgomery died from snake allergies

… being allergic to the snake. It is due from the deadly venom that is injected by the snake and into the blood stream that causes death. Many believe that ‘allergies’ however he said if that was the case then everyone in the universe would then be ‘allergic’ to snakes. He claims many are confused by this and he isn’t sure why. The herpetologist refused to try and explain it

… investigating the fire even though they are sure it was nothing more than just a terrible fire leading to a series of unfortunate events for the children. It has been a short time since the Baudelaire’s parents tragically perished in a blazing fire that took their lives and also their home. 

Veronica, Klyde and Susie still remain orphans. Mr Poe the husband of the great Eleanor Poe our Editor-In-Chief here at the Daily Punctilio is currently looking after the children till their closest living relative is found for them to live with. The children were seen standing in the ruins of their home. Sifting through ash and rubble looking for their belongings they can take with them on their new adventure as orphans. It looks like the children are trying to find reminders of their past life and parents.

Lakeside Home Destroyed- Authorities Blame Cabal of Real Estate Agents: 

Reported by Special Correspondent Bo Wilch. 

However we are finally not reporting about another house fire instead many are speculating that this disaster was much worse. Josephine Anwhistle and her house tore apart and crashed into the jagged cliff rocks below into Lake Lachrymose where the leeches were waiting and ate Josephine alive. Perishing in a fire would have been much better compared to being eaten alive by deadly leeches. She succumbed to the same death as her husband who also died by the leeches. 

Again another caretaker of the Baudelaire children has died. Somehow these children seem to be in the middle of a series of unfortunate events. Many speculate that somehow Count Olaf is also involved, police have yet to confirm this. Josephine was an Aunt to the Baudelaire children and now she is a distant memory just like her house. Police have now started to investigate the children seeing as they are always involved in their guardians death. They keep insisting that Count Olaf is the one to kill their guardian in order to kill them in order to kill them in order to steal their fortune. 

Perhaps the children killed their parents, killed Dr Montgomery Montgomery, and now killed their Aunt Josephine to protect their fortune from anyone trying to steal it.

Snicket, Author and Fugitive, Dead!

… And eventually turned to murder. Though there has not been enough evidence to support these claims police are more than sure like pretty sure it was Snicket.

 … this afternoon” - Klyde. 

“Our mother Beatrice has suggested we go to Briny Beach to enjoy the sunshine as if she knew we shouldn’t be in the house. I would never have thought that those would be our last words spoken to each other. I wish I could have hugged her for just a moment longer before letting go of her”- Veronica

We are not sure … Susie the children’s in a very exciting night has occurred at the Grand Theatre this evening. Count Olaf a local performer at the Grand Theatre staged the Marvelous Marriage. The play featured Count Omar as the Groom, Veronica as the bride, and some other folks as extras! What seemed to be a very boring play at the beginnign it sure sure turned out to be more exciting in the end in the final act, Count Locations where Snicket has been hiding out had been found with an alarming amount  of research on the Baudelaire children. It is unclear at the time what his research…

Accident At Lucky Smells

One of Paltryville’s ctizen has gone missing inside Lumbermill believe to have been an accident

One of Paltryville’s citizen has gone missing inside the Lucky Smells Lumbermill detectives believe foul play may have been involved. 

Due to circumstances surrounding the incident the victim’s name cannot be released at this time. Trouble in Paltryville began when three orphaned children Baudelaire showed up in town young may guessed it the Baudelaire children. After countless troubles with the children they were given an opportunity of a life time and were given the chance to work alongside Sir at world renowned Lucky Smells Lumbermill. Lucky Smells has received praise all around the world for the quality of lumber they supply and the outstanding customer service…

… Indeed if a snake killed him however another popular theory are the Baudelaire children were somehow involved. 

They were later taken and given to their Aunt Josephine who also has perished due to her falling off a cliff she had lived on with her late husband that succumbed to the Lake Lachrymose leeches. as you can guess the…

So I suppose the real question is what don’t they say? 

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #series of unfortunate events #asoue spoilers #daily punctilio #lemony snicket #ask #jay talking #sorry for the long post!!

[undefinable-like-fire-archive]

Ashes to Ashes and Dust to Dust

[as always, i am not sorry. you can find this one-shot here if you prefer a different format. please form an orderly line when you come to kill me.]

“Is this really what you want?”

The question kept ringing in circling echoes through his head. He had heard it many times before, though not with love; it had been spoken angrily, in an attempt to guilt or shame him into not doing something.

It wasn’t now. Somehow.

He could have just taken the jumpship; not said anything, and gone back… well, it couldn’t really be seen as home in his mind now.

But he hadn’t. He had walked onto the bridge and announced the desire to go back to Central City, 2016. There had been no real protests; though as always the captain acted as though he wanted Mick to stick around. He always did. Mick wasn’t sure the sentiments he swore were false were shown for any reason other than to give the rest of the crew the illusion that he had intended for Mick to stick around at all.

After it was all said and done, they were making a course back. Mick said nothing, sitting in the seat beneath the restraints and simply thinking.

There were a few people he’d miss, he supposed. Well, as much as a man like him could miss anyone. Sara - he enjoyed the few times he had spent with her, admired her. (She’d make a good Rogue, Leonard had often said. Mick agreed.) Jax was a good kid; too good sometimes, but still. (Mick hoped life went well for him; and his mother too.) And Ray, well. He was annoying most of the time but somehow seemed to care what happened to others. (He knew what loyalty was. Not many had as good a grasp on it as Haircut did.)

But as much as he admitted deep down that he had come to at least tolerate - if not like - some of the members on this crew, he didn’t belong. He didn’t want to belong. Not here.

So he was going back to where it had all started. Or a few months after it had, anyway. Back to a year and a place that wasn’t home anymore; but the only place he knew to go.

He wondered if it would be any different. 2013 hadn’t been. Would the timeline have changed in 2016 by now? Or would it be simply lauded by those who didn’t know the truth as an unsurprising happenstance? Criminals moved on to other cities or were imprisoned in a faraway place or gunned down in the streets all the time. Who knew where a criminal, infamous or not, went when they vanished?

Mick wondered if Leonard would have wanted people to know. Wanted the world to know what happened.

For the first time in thirty years, Mick didn’t know what his partner would have wanted. Sometimes, he had been uncertain, but his guesses had always proven correct. (When you knew someone for so long and had grown so close to them,  you had a habit of knowing what they wanted and when they wanted it.)

And yet, not anymore.

The Waverider landed. Mick rose from his seat, knowing that a goodbye was in order.

He walked straight for the exit without saying a word. He had never been fond of goodbyes. And if he hadn’t said goodbye to Leonard, it didn’t feel right to say goodbye to the group of people who had led him to his fate.

But of course, that wasn’t in his cards. Most of the crew followed him outside, under the late noon sky and the city lights glowing in the distance. Once those lights had heralded home…

“Is this really what you want?”

The question again. Mick tore his gaze away from the city on the horizon and back to the people standing behind him, lingering near the entrance to the timeship as though afraid to get too close.

Mick made a quiet sound in the back of his throat, glancing between Central City and the crew for a moment before letting his eyes remain on the three in the forefront; Sara, Jax, and Ray, again. Of course.

The question was Ray’s. Mick looked at him for a long moment.

I don’t know what I want anymore. Truth is, it doesn’t matter.

He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t what I wanted, Haircut. Stop worryin’ over me.”

Ray nodded. A brief silence fell upon the small group, before Sara stepped forward. Mick tensed, hoping she wasn’t going to hug him. Instead, she handed him a small bottle of Jameson’s. “For the road.”

The goodbyes continued for a few moments; wishes for luck, reminders to check in now and again. As if they were simply friends leaving a party and bidding one another farewell until the next, and not a group of acquaintances who might well never see one another again in this lifetime, or any other.

Mick wasn’t sure if the sensation in his chest was relief or bittersweetness when the timeship disappeared again, leaving him standing on the outskirts of Central City.

The streets, when he finally arrived after a few hours of walking - he was in no hurry - were as busy as they usually were. No one paid the man in the worn green coat any mind, and he preferred it that way.

Strange. The streets were, by Central City’s standards, busy. But somehow the surroundings felt as empty and unwelcoming as the Vanishing Point had. Not unfamiliar; but off. Something seemed wrong. And if he didn’t know the answer already, he would have wondered what the unsettled feeling in his chest was.

But he knew. Something seemed wrong because something was missing. Something important. Something that had made this place home to begin with.

Mick didn’t stop walking until he reached the hidden-away place he had spent so much of his time. The primary safehouse, the one he and Leonard had chosen first and the one they had improved and taken great care of over the years.

There were the ghosts of memories inside. As he wandered from room to room with trembling hands, they haunted his steps.

Memories of fights often borne of nothing but restlessness. Late night drinks while watching pointless reruns and news reports on the old television set in the corner. Endless nights spent with heist plans spread out over the table and food resting off to the side. Drunken rants about the other rogues or the local police. The time spent working on his latest project at the worktable while Leonard lounged on the threadbare sofa.

Dusty memories of two boys escaping juvie and running away; of the boy who grew up too fast, who suggested the safehouse to begin with, who built an entire legacy and a name for himself from the remains of a childhood that would have killed lesser men.

It was no wonder the safehouse didn’t feel like home to Mick now. It had never been a home in and of itself. The man he had built it with had been what made it home. And he would not be returning here; those familiar hands would never again open the door, and that familiar blue parka would never be seen hanging on the back of the chair. Those familiar eyes would never watch him from the sofa as he tinkered with small machinery.

A graveyard of memories.

Mick stopped moving, standing still in the centre of the living space. His eyes scanned the room for a long moment, remnants of his heart threatening to tear itself free from the confines of his chest.

Then he turned in a slow circle, memories from even further back nipping at his heels. Memories from before Leonard. From before this. Memories of another place that had once been home. Of another place that now was nothing more than a graveyard from the past.

Mick left, the sky now a deep indigo above him, shreds of dark grey smog and clouds drifting across the blanket of night. It took him hardly any time at all to rob a department store of its largest containers of lighter fluid. No one tried to stop him. Not many would try to stop a man with a gun that emitted flames.

He returned to the safehouse. For a moment, something flickered in the corner of his vision and he turned, not breathing. But there was nothing there. No glacier-blue gaze, no drawling words. Nothing but silence and an empty space.

The acrid scent of the lighter fluid further drowned him in memories until it seemed his entire life had flashed before his eyes since his return.

Room to room, his footsteps sounding loud in the dim light, a trail of accelerant winding along behind him. Before long he returned to the front door, where it all began. (Where it had all began.)

He sank to his knees, head lowered. For a fleeting moment, he considered a prayer. A few faltering words escaped his lips, barely audible. Then he stopped. Instead he uttered a whispered apology, and then let silence settle over the world again.

The precious silver lighter appeared from his pocket, held in unsteady hand. The covering flipped open with that familiar sharp sound. A few flicks of the thumb, and a small glow sparked into existence.

Mick lowered his hand. The flame touched the damp path he had lain. Within seconds, a trail of fire spread throughout the safehouse, spirals and snaking lines, leading from room to room until a golden-red glow lit up the surroundings, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

He rose to his feet, watching his old friend devour tangible memories; magazines, old jackets, rugs, wooden carvings, foolish trinkets. The sofa they had fallen asleep on more times than he could count started to burn, faded colour slowly blackening. Smoke wisped through the air as the familiar crackle of the flames sang.

Mick stood there with the heat against his skin, the blaze reflected in lachrymose eyes. It wasn’t until a flame bit into his hand and the roar filled his ears that he turned and left it all behind.

When early morning came, most had seen or heard of the phenomenon they thought of as strange. Several areas in the city had gone up in flames during the night, tongues of fire spiraling high into the sky as what seemed to be homes hidden from view burned to the ground.

Most had their suspicions as to who the arson might have been. Most didn’t have a clue as to why he would have targeted empty homes.

Two opposite sides of the spectrum, those who fought for justice and those who opposed it, however, knew. They knew all too well that the smouldering wreckages strategically placed throughout the city and lit like beacons that night were pyres.

The man who set them alight was nowhere to be found come dawn.

#mick rory #heat wave #my writing #fanfiction #fics #fanfic #the flash #dc #the legends of tomorrow #leonard snart #jefferson jackson #raymond palmer #sara lance #(those last four are not present for very long as a fair warning) #yeah i don't know suffer with me #praying for winter #okay to reblog