#and no matter what form it takes wwi is just a really good setting for fantasy hence the above post

[ultramagicalternate]

Heinrik Rofocale

Relevant Posts: Ellen, Lucifuge, Abezithibod, Elaine, Vladislav, Desislav

Master Post

- - - - - 

- - Childhood - -

    As we all know by now, Heinrik is the child of Lucifuge Rofocale and Ellen the Wayward. And of course, Lucifuge took responsibility for Heinrik while Ellen was off doing her thing. Raising the young demon was not easy for Lucifuge given his duties to the governing bodies of Hell. Heinrik was a rowdy tornado of a child that loved to mess with everyone, especially his father. Pranks, rearranging stuff, refusing to go to bed, loud music... the usual. Lucifuge had his own ways of dealing with Heinrik: Time outs, threatening not to get certain toys for him, and even asking him to perform his talents and hobbies in front of his co-workers. Of course when all else failed, Lucifuge would call Ellen and have her show up. This worked no matter what as Heinrik feared his mother... he still loves her to no end though. And speaking of which, Heinrik does love and respect his father at the end of the day. Heinrik would go and give his father a hug when he felt bad or saw that his father was stressed out.

    School was relatively normal... barring the fact that others students picked on him for his rather short tail and stone hands. This combined with his rowdy nature lead him to skip frequently. School was just way too boring and he did not like being picked on. One day while he was skipping, he went wandering in the woods near his school. He eventually stumbled across a well dressed woman named Gabriella. The noteworthy Unlight explorer was back in Hell on break, albeit she had not announced this. Heinrik saw her practicing her magic and thought that was pretty cool... and then he gave it away that he was there. Gabriella did not mind, but quickly picked up on the fact that he was skipping. After talking with him for a bit, Gabriella realized Heinrik needed special schooling. She then had the idea to see what her mother was up to...

    Going forward, Heinrik would be taught privately by Valentina Pari. Lucifuge was... okay with this, for the most part. He really wanted the boy to go to normal school, but Gabriella put forth a pretty convincing argument. Heinrik would start creating his signature black flame ability and went on to be good friends with Gabriella.

- - Teen years - -

    So reading about Rome and Atlantis was probably the last thing Heinrik should have done during his teen years... He quickly gained dreams of being a proud warrior, with glory and honor to his name. After taking on a human form, he set out for Earth... during the 20th century. The great war was in full swing and he was not sure which side to join given how complicated the conflict was to him. Fortunately a handy reality walker by the name of Infinity just so happened to be in the neighborhood and suggested he join the Americans. In WWII, Heinrik was less about slaying his enemies and more about protecting the civilians. WWI had kind of messed with him and his perception of being a mighty warrior...

    Naturally Heinrik ran into his mother while out on the battlefields of Europe... She was not pleased about this. Heinrik was definitely grounded when he finally returned to Hell, but she also recognized that her son wanted to be a hero... a questionable era to be a hero in, for sure. Having an extra hand in the TOG 3 definitely helped though. This part of Heinrik's life allowed him to meet Abezithibod, who he would come to idolize in addition to Gabriella. Heinrik would participate in every war up until the 90s. At this point he was starting to get fed up with modern war. It was grueling, there was no glory to be had, and seeing his comrades die in front of him had finally killed his drive. Despite this upset, Heinrik does not regret the lives he saved and helped. He also still has his M1 Garand to this day. 

- - The 2000s and onwards - -

    Heinrik finally returned to Hell and spent a month at his home. He was grounded. Once his grounding was finished, he found himself invited to an annual ceremony. His father had been keeping track of his escapades and Hell's veteran council had all sorts of awards to give him. Despite war being a nightmare, it warmed his heart to know that his peers viewed him as a true soldier and hero who went above and beyond. Heinrik did not really think what he did was that big of a deal until his father put his accomplishments into perspective. He was also commended by other demons who had taken to Earth in the past, just like he had done. Suffice to say that Heinrik was feeling pretty good for once.

    At this point, Heinrik wanted to travel. He was not sure what to do with himself, so why not see the sights of Hell? Fortunately Abezithibod was in town, so he sought him out. Abe could see that Heinrik was aimless, so he happily took him with him and on his travels. Abe liked having Heinrik around as he was kind of lonely when Ellen was not around. Plus he did legitimately want to mentor the young demon given his recent past. Amidst all the clubs, bars, pizza joints, malls, and arcades, Abe would tell Heinrik his stories and imparted his wisdom onto him. And of course he had to hear Heinrik's stories.

    At some point around 2012 in our time, Heinrik would hear someone strange calling out for help. It was a Slavic man by the name of Vladislav Faust. Heinrik was truly intrigued by the strange individual, as Vladislav was not exactly human. He also saw that the man had had a troubled life and could empathize with him. So after presenting the idea of becoming a necromancer to him, Heinrik became Vladislav's partner. He would stay close to him and keep him safe to the best of his ability.

- - In regards to Heinrik - -

    A lot has already been stated about Heinrik's personality. He started life as a rowdy fireball with boundless energy. He was friendly, albeit a bit too enthusiastic. This led to him not having many friends throughout his childhood. He never took too well to people telling him what to do nor being picked on. Heinrik had a hard time focusing in school. He was not really into being lectured, he was more of a hands-on learner, something Valentina and Gabriella picked up on. Moving on to his teenage years, obviously he had fantasies of grandeur and fame. Even demons are not immune to growing up and the pains that come with it. Heinrik got pretty headstrong and brash during these years, something his years of service tempered. Something that remained constant was his inner fire and pride. Even if his adventures dampened it, it was always there no matter what. Going into proper adulthood, he had become more refined and courteous... for the most part. He is more than happy to tussle with anyone that messes with him. Lastly, he will stand up for his friends and family no matter what the situation is. His bonds are something he cherishes the most.

    It would be a lie to say his past does not haunt him, however. There are nights where he will wake up in a cold sweat. It could be him having a vivid nightmare, thinking he's still on the battlefield still, or having an idea that could have led to a different outcome in battles long since past.

    In regards to his abilities, Heinrik is a unique one. Naturally he has the standard array of demon abilities, but of note is his stone hands. They are an organic stone that seem to be furnaces of some kind. They are the source of his signature Black Flame. These furnaces definitely caught the attention of his parents and teachers. Valentina was able to learn how these worked and then taught Heinrik how to use them. Black Flame is best described as demonic fire that burns whatever it touches. Iron, glass, concrete and other non flammable materials would burn like they were flammable. It is a handy ability, if one knows how to use it effectively. Another benefit of this is the stone fists themselves. They can deliver the mightiest of punches, defeating an enemy without even having to use the Black Flames. Heinrik does have to remind himself to be careful though. His fellow demons can shrug off his punches and flames, but humans cannot. 

    Anyone who invokes him can make use of the Black Flames and potentially turn their hands into his. Vladislav has definitely made use of this.

- - - - -

Further Reading:

- - - - - 

Here's a character I was alluding to for a while on DA. More experimenting and trying new things at the time. I wanted to take Hellboy's stone hand and double that. Personally I like how this turned out. Definitely a character I need to practice drawing, however.

#chaotictempleknight #ultramagic alternate #sciencefictionfantasy #sciencefiction #fantasy #art #character profile #character art #original character #character lore #lore #oc lore #male demon #demon #red skin #white hair #yellow eyes #horns #tail #black #red #Stone hands #jeans #Scars #Beard #male character #male

[the-irish-mayhem]

It’s been a minute since I’ve done one of these but...

I saw WW84.

Spoiler-free reaction:

Spoiler reaction under the cut.

+ positives, +/- mixed reaction, -negatives

+We’re all in agreement that Barbara and Diana were 1000% on a date, right? They were on a date.

+I bought the HELL out of Pedro Pascal’s descent into madness.

+STEVE’S MAKEOVER MONTAGE TO MATCH DIANA’S

+Steve discovering the modern world with Diana! Peak adorable! I loved the role reversal.

+the soft, soft, soft, soft, soft, soft, SOFT wondertrev

+Max Lord, imo, ended up becoming a huge critique of capitalism. He quite literally went insane with his quest for more, and more, and more, and MORE, and you realize at the end that no matter how much more he got, A) he’s still empty and B) it makes you ask at what point do you stop saying more? The continual quest for more is utter madness.

+the invisible jet! they did it!!! It felt a little more like an earned extension of Diana’s power rather than something shoehorned. The pressure of the moment and Diana saying that she’d only made a coffee cup disappear once made the stakes high so that when she accomplished it, you actually felt relief and excitement.

+THE LYNDA CARTER CAMEO WAS PERFECT.

+I didn’t know how much I needed a bleeding Diana in my life until now. It really highlighted just how good she is that she’s still willing to sacrifice her body and life to save people and do the right thing.

+Gal Gadot was still great. I still wish she was beefier, but it drove home again that they really did cast Diana pretty dang well. Chris Pine, also fabulous! Kristin Wiig, really awesome! I questioned her casting a lot but I enjoyed her portrayal of Barbara. PEDRO PASCAL WAS AMAZING!

+Diana saving Barbara from the creep and literally THROWING HIM ACROSS THE ROAD AND SAYING ‘oh it’s just about using his momentum against him, super easy, I’ll teach you’

+/- the expansion of Diana’s powers. She was already flying in the last movie in her face off with Ares, but in this movie, they treated it as though she was just learning how to do it. Expanding the lasso’s powers seemed dicey because the climax of the movie ended up depending on a magical MacGuffin to make people see ‘the truth.’ It also made the last face off with Barbara and Max a little wonky because you didn’t really have a fully formed idea of what Diana could do. I love an OP!Diana, but I didn’t even know what crazy powers to get excited about.

+/- Identifying Steve Trevor only as a pilot when in the first movie his identity was almost exclusively as a spy. It seems like a little bit of an idealization of him as a person and ignores some of the morally questionable things he definitely did as a spy during the war. I love Pilot Steve and I love emphasizing his piloting skills, but it seemed just a little disingenuous to talk about him as just being a pilot when the truth was a lot more complex.

+/- Speaking of Barbara and Diana absolutely being on a date, they won’t ever confirm a WLW relationship in the Wonder Woman cinematic universe. (There’s no DC cinematic universe. It’s the WWCU as far as I’m concerned.) So as much as I enjoyed their date, it also made me kind of angry because it’s yet another tantalizing morsel of ‘maybe she’s queer but we won’t confirm it ever.’

+/- The Golden Eagle armor. I wish she would’ve donned it sooner, and I wish that finding it had been a bigger plot point that just Steve noticing it in Diana’s office.

+/- The craziness of the movie partnered with Magical MacGuffins and more plot holes than I care to think about made it feel a lot like the chaos that has dogged other modern DC superhero movies. It did have some more coherent focus and character moments compared to, say, the Justice League movie, and a lot of more hopeful and nice moments, but it was still... chaotic. Hence the spoiler-free gif being the whiplash between crazy and nice.

+/- I don’t entirely understand the fate of the villains. Are they getting off scot free? Did Barbara’s powers get taken away after Max renounced his wish?

+/- Alastair gave Max some nice character motivation, but that is the ONLY reason that kid existed. To make Max more human and to look cute.

-yo, what was the point of setting the movie in the 80s and having that POPPIN song in the trailer and proceed to NOT have Diana beat guys up while a sick 80s beat goes off in the background

-that being said, the music in this movie was not nearly as on point as it was in the first WW. I was thirsting for the original Wonder Woman’s Theme but only got some brief, remixed versions of it.

-I felt that Diana didn’t really have much of a defined character arc in this one compared to the last. In the first movie, we see her grow from naive and idealistic, to realizing humankind’s downfalls, to her choosing to still be an optimist and fight for the world in spite of it all. In this one she..... is an optimist still and is willing to fight no matter what? It felt like we didn’t really learn anything new about her.

-The world around Diana was really lackluster compared to the first WW. In the first movie, you had a whole assemblage of side characters who made the world feel very real and expansive. In WW84, the character web is extremely insular and limited. It really made the story feel quite strange, because this was supposedly a worldwide crisis, but we truly only see it affecting a handful of people.

-the number of plot holes was just... crazy.

-As much as it pains me to acknowledge them, DC does still consider the Superman movies, Justice League, etc. all canon at this point... in those, Diana is painted as a ghost, someone who’s very difficult to find/track, and some of the only hard evidence of her existence is the old photo from WWI. Yet in WW84, Diana is literally fighting in the White House with nary a care for who sees her. She’s running through the streets in her full Wonder Woman regalia. She’s storming through a shopping mall where literally anyone can see her. Sure, she takes out the surveillance cameras, but there are hundreds of people in that mall. Not all of them are going to keep that secret. It makes for a bit of a mess considering what she’s supposed to be like in the future movies.

-also.... how does Barbara even find them at the White House?

-Speaking of Barbara.... how does she not die when Diana electrocutes her? That whole last fight between the two of them took some LIBERTIES. I do wonder what the reaction would’ve been if Diana had actually killed her. Would it be a rehash of the Man of Steel debate, or could it have revealed some interesting stuff about Diana compared to Clark? I guess we’ll never know.

-The last showdown with all the villains was kinda just pure chaos. I barely followed what was going down, and Diana’s speech was lovely, but pretty corny. The resolution was also just a little too tidy if you ask me.

-I do wish they’d addressed some of the really creepy implications of Steve stepping into another guy’s body and life, but they never do. They could’ve very easily used Magical MacGuffin #1 to bring him back in a much less weird fashion, but instead, they CHOSE to have Steve ride around in another guy’s skin for the duration of the movie without addressing it AT ALL.

-THERE SHOULD’VE BEEN MORE SICK 80S BEATS DURING THE FIGHT SCENES I’M STILL SALTY OK

-SICK 80S BEATS THAT EVENTUALLY MELTED INTO THE OG WONDER WOMAN THEME IN THE LAST FIGHT. That is all.

#ww84 #ww84 spoilers #wonder woman spoilers #wonder woman 1984 spoilers #spoilers #wonder woman #dc #molly reviews

[thefactsofthematter]

angst request: two lovers have been fighting to reunite for years. when they finally make it to each other, one is dying.

ohhhhhh boy. this request just spoke to me and oh my GOD this had me in genuine tears at the end and i’m the one writing it so,,, watch out y’all

post-canon, wwi era; javid; 2k; warning: gunshot wound, medical talk + hospital setting, major character death

-

When Davey sees Jack again for the first time in years, he doesn't even recognize him.

It's hard to believe it's been a whole ten years since Davey moved to Boston for school, and since Jack finally hopped on a train to Santa Fe. They went their separate ways, as even the best of friends or closest of lovers tend to eventually do. They meant to keep in touch— they really did— but none of the letters Davey wrote ever made it to Jack, or even to the mailbox for that matter.

He told himself it was because he didn't know Jack's new address, but maybe he was simply too heartbroken to bother reaching out.

"I'll be home every summer, and it's just for four years. If you think about it, that's not even very long."

Jack had just sighed and stared down at the train ticket in his hands. It had been hard enough, Davey doing his undergraduate's degree, here in New York. They never seemed to have any time for each other, and it was getting harder and harder to keep their relationship a secret. Now, with Davey headed all the way to Boston to go to medical school, things were bound to be even worse.

"So if you wanna go away and live your dream, it's fine, but when I wanna do it, I'm the bad guy?" The note of bitterness in Jack's voice had seemed insincere, as if he couldn't bring himself to actually be mad. "Maybe I'll only go for four years, then. We'll both come back to New York and find each other. If we write enough letters, maybe it'll be like we were never even apart."

Davey had just forced himself to laugh softly, while leaning into Jack's side to try and revel in every moment, as surely it'll be the last time they hold each other like this.

"Yeah, you're right." A lie. "We'll see each other again, I'm sure." Another lie. "I’ll love you forever, darling." Nothing but the truth.

The last place Davey expects to run into Jack is in a military hospital in France, in the midst of the Great War.

They hadn’t thought the war was going to be this long. When Davey had volunteered to go overseas as an army doctor, fairly early on in the war, the general consensus was that it surely wouldn’t last more than a few months. Now it’s 1917– Davey hasn’t seen his family in two years and the fighting just keeps barreling on. Every day, there’s a constant stream of young soldiers being carted in from the front lines with horrific injuries, and every day Davey has to put on a brave face and try to save their lives.

Jack isn’t the first of the newsies to come in— Davey has seen a handful of old friends and it’s bittersweet every time. The reunion is sometimes pleasant, but always difficult nonetheless: Albert had been missing an arm, Finch had been in agony from mustard gas burns, and the worst of it… Davey had been the one to call Elmer’s time of death. It was horrible and he hopes to never see another familiar face within these walls.

He’s jerked out of his thoughts by the wail of an ambulance drawing near outside— his two-minute coffee break is over and it’s time to jump back into action. He has mere moments to collect himself before the doors are slamming open and his world is back to chaos.

“Shot in the abdomen, already infected,” says one of the travelling field nurses, as they roll the patient in and Davey hurries to match their stride. She’s got a strong French accent and he struggles to make sense of what she says next— something about a fever and gangrene and septic shock, which makes Davey incredibly nervous.

“He’s in good hands,” is all he can think to reply with, as the resident hospital nurses take over and the field nurses head back out. He’s still fumbling to get his gloves on as they enter the operating room and he’s suddenly the one in charge.

Debridement, antisepsis, pack the wound. The three steps of trauma surgery are on a loop in Davey’s head as he takes in the situation.

“General anesthesia,” he orders. He can’t tell if the young man is actually conscious or not until a nurse’s hand gets too close to the bloody mess in the middle of his abdomen and there’s a quiet a groan of pain. “Start cutting his clothing away and cleaning around the wound.”

A fever. The field nurse had mentioned a fever, so he presses the back of his hand to the soldier’s forehead and winces at the heat that radiates from it. Shit.

That means the infection must be spreading, and she was probably right about sepsis, meaning as hard as they try, they might not be able to save him and—

He doesn’t even notice the patient’s eyes snapping open and staring up at him.

“Davey…?”

It’s hardly above a whisper and Davey almost doesn’t hear it. There’s a nurse about to put a mask over the soldier’s nose and mouth to put him under, but Davey quickly raises a hand, telling her to wait.

He watches the soldier’s face for a long moment, and then everything falls into place.

“Jack…” he whispers. “Oh god…”

Everyone has paused to watch them— his assistant and the two nurses— but Davey can’t stop himself from reaching out to carefully touch Jack’s face.

He’s changed— of course he has. They were hardly even adults yet when they last saw each other, and now they’re in their thirties. Jack had always liked his hair a bit long and messy on the top of his head, but he’s now got a close-cropped army cut, already greying just a little at the temples. His face is dirty and worn, but Davey can’t help but notice the smile-line wrinkles starting to form. At least that means he’s been happy in their decade apart.

This can’t be real. It can’t. There’s no way his first (and only) love is lying here on his goddamn operating table, dying of an infected bullet wound. Ten years apart and this is how they reunite… it isn’t fair.

“Remember when I told you I was gonna be a doctor someday?” he finally says, because it’s all he can do to keep from crying. Jack looks entirely disoriented, but he manages to crack a confused almost-smile at that. “You’re gonna be okay, Jackie. I’ve got you.”

And then he nods to the nurse, that she can go ahead and put Jack under, and he shoots a stern look to his assistant, a young doctor-in-training, telling him to keep working on the initial sterilization of the area around the bullet hole.

He’s gonna save Jack Kelly’s life, god damn it.

-

The surgery, miraculously, is a success.

The infection was somewhat milder than it had initially seemed, and Davey had managed to cut away minimal amounts of tissue and leave Jack relatively intact. Sure, he’s got a gaping wound packed with antiseptic-soaked gauze, but he’s alive and breathing with working organs, so Davey supposes he did his job.

It’s now a matter of hoping that Jack’s body can fight off what remains of the infection without going into shock— there’s nothing any doctor can do for him now.

It takes a couple of days before Davey has a free moment long enough to figure out where Jack’s bed is and actually have time for a visit. His shifts are back-to-back-to-back and he hardly gets a wink of sleep, but he finally manages to set aside some time in the afternoon for personal matters.

Jack is sleeping when Davey arrives. He’s in a room full of patients but his bed is tucked away in a corner, which at least affords them an illusion of privacy. Davey can’t help but check him for a fever, and his heart sinks a little when he realizes that Jack is burning up even worse than when he’d come in and sweating buckets. He carefully checks his pulse and winces at just how quick it is.

“Jack?” he whispers, trying to shake Jack awake as gently as possible. Slowly, his eyes peel open. “Hey… how are you feeling?”

Jack blinks several times and frowns in confusion, staring up at Davey. He seems out of it, as one might expect with being this sick and all. Davey can only hope he’ll at least be recognized.

“Dave…” Jack finally mumbles. “Am I dead? Are you… are you an angel?”

Davey can’t help but laugh softly as he takes a knee to get down closer to Jack’s level.

“No, no, it’s really me. You’re in the hospital— you got hurt pretty bad out there. Not really the best place to run into each other after all this time, is it?”

Jack sort of laughs, but doesn’t seem to have the energy for it. He smiles, at least, and Davey feels just as smitten as he did when he was seventeen.

“I’ve missed you,” sighs Jack, reaching weakly for Davey’s hand. He speaks slowly and somewhat slurred, but at least he’s conscious. “You… you said you were gonna be a doctor. Look at you— smart fella, I always knew it.”

There’s a lump in Davey’s throat as he takes Jack’s hand— it’s cold, another sign that his body isn’t handling the infection well.

“Look at you,” replies Davey, trying to keep things light. “A captain in the army. I suppose it can’t be that different from leading a band of newsboys, can it?”

Another almost-laugh from Jack. He can barely keep his eyes open and it makes Davey want to break down crying.

This isn’t fair. For ten years, he’d imagined all the ways that he and Jack might find each other again someday. None of them involved Jack dying. This isn’t how it was meant to go. They were supposed to be happy.

“Are you sad?” asks Jack, after a moment. He squeezes Davey’s hand gently. “Just ‘cause it ain’t how we pictured it… ‘least we still found each other. I knew we would.”

Davey can’t stop himself from crying.

“I love you,” he whispers, so low it’s barely audible. “Forever, Jackie. I’m always yours.”

Jack’s eyes are falling closed now, but he hums a little and nods as he rubs his thumb over the back of Davey’s hand.

“Love you,” he finally replies, before giving in and letting himself settle back into sleep.

This has to be it— Davey figures he made it just in time. If he’d delayed his visit even an hour, he probably wouldn’t have been able to see him.

He can’t watch it happen, so he pushes himself back up to his feet and wipes the tears from his eyes. He does a round of checking in with and making conversation with all the other patients in the room. He might be crying on the inside, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t have the best bedside manner of any doctor he knows.

Sure enough, when he circles back to Jack, he has to take his pocket watch out and bring a nurse over as a witness so he can call time.

When he met Jack, all those years ago, he never imagined he’d be the one signing his death certificate, but life has a funny way of kicking you in the ass, doesn’t it?

Well… like Jack said, at least they found each other. He always knew they would.

#newsies #david jacobs #jack kelly #javid #my writing #tw war #tw guns #tw injury #if its not clear he died of sepsis :( #tw death

[tanoraqui]

please write more for that au its SO CRAZY GOOD i need more... youre such a brilliant write

no knowing what this was about. Please enjoy character sketches of six generations of Watsons + a couple Holmeses, courtesy of this bit of technically-original-fic-because-of-public-domain. Still not sure what I’m going to do with all these people!! 

Mycroft Holmes, 1830 - 1901

Original incarnator and namer of Sherlock Holmes

Basically to see if he could. Incarnator and academic studier of spirits. Spark, and good at it.

(Death spirits aren’t very stable bc they tend to. Um. Kill the host. Only so much you can do to restrain the nature.

Mycroft concluded that that’s bc it’s always polluted by the fear of death - pure death would be more directable

He was right? Also, I guess mildly suicidal? And did a lot of trial and error in brief experiments in hospices, even a war zone or two, over a decade or so. Personality developed based on Mycroft’s, ofc, cool-emotioned but ever-curious, and an ego the size of imperial India

So Holmes was substantial enough to manifest more or less as we know him when Watson had a panicked moment on that battlefield

John Watson, 1867 - 1891

Bearer of Sherlock Holmes, 1886 - 1891

Dutiful, mom friend, selfless, kinda all or nothing, quick decisions - good in medical emergency, sometimes impulsive/reckless, mediocre shot except at snooker, reads for fun - especially once he picks up a bookwormy demon

Trained incarnator-physician

Summoned him in a terrible moment in the war in Afghanistan(?) in 1886

The field hospital was under attack, evacuation having been interrupted by unexpected enemy maneuvers, and Dr. Watson was torn between shooting on the enemy and trying desperately to tend to patients, but there was no way out and nothing but death all around. Nothing at hand but death.

So he figured “what the hell” and summoned a spirit out of that, bound to his own body ofc, and had him kill all the enemy. Holmes offered to take some of the death out of the British wounded as he did. A friendship began.

“Listen here, Watson - war is no place for pure death!” -some discomfitted superior officer, dismissing him from the service

John didn’t fully disagree, the easiness felt wrong - but it all felt wrong. And the medical applications…

But no hospital would hire him, with a death demon and the way he flinched at sudden noises still, hands that still shook 

Holmes scented a recent death, they interrupted a police investigation, impressed them with medical knowhow + death sense (passed off as medical knowhow for the moment?)

And That’s How We Ended Up A Consulting Detective 

Died in 1891 in the course of dispelling Moriarty, a life demon and criminal mastermind - fell off a cliff, on top of him, to injure the body so bad Moriarty had to vacate

Mary Watson née Morstan, 1876 - 1929

Bearer of Sherlock Holmes, 1891 - 1914

Sensible, dutiful, decisive (good in crisis, sometimes bad choices, esp. in anger), more aware of her own faults than John but also must work harder to overcome internalized prejudices

Took up Holmes after John’s death, to (vengefully but well-intentionedly) scour any trace of Moriarty from Earth.

Often did so with Young John on her hip, bc what else are you gonna do. Could’ve gotten a nanny but didn’t have too much money and (along with Holmes) was more worried about him out of her sight than chasing murderers with them

In the early 20th centuries, she started getting overtures from the British government re: taking Holmes to war and just, you know, fucking shit up. When WWI started, she and Young John quickly devised a Plan™

Young John Watson, 1891 - 1939

Bearer of Sherlock Holmes, 1914 - 1939

Eminently practical but secretly romantic, nay, Romantic™, drinks hella respect women juice, quick-thinking

His mother started calling him “Johnny” instead of “Young John” when he was 2, but Holmes never picked it up - to Johnny’s annoyance, bc he wanted to, you know, not just be his father. They had a full argument about it, Holmes refused the juvenile nickname, but did his best to use “John” for like a week before reverting. It grew on him a little, though.

The Plan™:

Basically, the govt had slowly come around to the idea that a weak and feeble woman was in possession (ha) of one of the strongest demons in England. They (she and Young John) were sure she’d be summoned once war broke out - indeed, perhaps she was, but it was more like sounding her out and she put them off. Can’t draft a woman after all.

But clearly they’d escalate, so…fortunately, John had fallen thoroughly and mutually in love with a young American woman, who didn’t mind taking him home at all - they’d probably beaten it around the bush a little, hypotheticals, and then this…there was a bit of a tizzy tbh. John nearly fucked it up, emphasizing that he was immigrating for Holmes and not for her, no pressure on her whatsoever. Possibly they didn’t sort it out until they arrived in New York - though this did have the boat ride to do it.

But yeah: Mary released Holmes, John took him up and left the country with the govt none the wiser, Mary continues putting off the govt until the passports were thoroughly stamped…

And then America stayed out of the war long enough, and idk if “conscientious objector” was a thing but I’m sure he found some way to put it off. 

Holmes did well during the Great Influenza, at least.

Buuut they ended up consulting detecting anyway lbr. 

Shot in 1939, possibly by sniper in crowded area or at least by gunmen in unexpected attack, on a case set up by Moriarty…

Gave Holmes his death, final order to get Jillian out of here alive. 

Amelia Hunter, 1896 - 1966

Moderately wealthy New York family

Visited her second cousin in London in 1913-1914, as well as the English suffragette movement (herself a part of the American movement)

Met and fell quite in love with Johnny Watson, with a cheerful dose of “your mother is so cool.” Cheerfully helped him and his mother con the British government out of a death demon, married him once they both got their heads a little straight

Jillian Watson, 1920 - 2019

Bearer of Sherlock Holmes, 1939 - 2019

I’m not saying she swore vengeance on not just Moriarty but the entirety of Nazi Germany whom he was supporting (for fun a profit, per usual), after they killed her father in front of her - for almost certainly the express purpose of keeping Holmes out of the incipient war - but I’m also not…not saying that

Nor am I saying that she was part of the inspiration for Captain America in this ‘verse, or at least for Peggy, but I’m not not saying that either

Slightly rogue incredible combat fighter who volunteers to go fight Nazis before it’s even cool? Yeah. Yeah. Some Peggy art just straight-up looks like her, once Kirby&Lee somehow met her

Jillian Watson. How do I begin to describe Jillian Watson

Jillian Watson is a superhero. Jillian Watson is a spy. After WWII, once someone in the army decided it was better to work with her than against her, she ended up in…whatever proto-CIA they were forming at the time

Also, got married and had a kid while still on semi-desk duty

Jillian Watson is known as “Angel of Death” in 40 languages in 95 countries. Jillian Watson liberated at least one Jewish concentration camp. Jillian Watson stopped the Cold War from getting Hot at least twice - and neither time involved Cuba. She was on vacation that month.

And Holmes, obviously. They had a very solid hot/cold balance - only one was ever emotional at once

Jillian Watson has kissed a KGB agent, killed a king, and met nearly every US President from Truman through Reagan. She liked Eisenhower best. Carter downright annoyed her, and she nearly had a shouted argument with LBJ, though they also exchanged a handful of letters

Jillian Watson probably helped bring down the government in Iran in the 70s

Jillian Watson was probably not a great mother. She was too busy chasing adrenaline and maybe glory. 

They liaised with the FBI, too, as it grew, and shifted to their Spiritual Crimes Division completely in the late 60s/early 70s, when age was starting to really catch up with her - a death spirit can keep away infections and viruses, but not the simple wear and tear of age and adventure

When the AIDS crisis hit, Marcus put them in contact with people and Jillian Watson once more became known as the Angel of Death, this time for bringing mercy

Retired age 80 (2000), under duress. Still did some consulting. 

Liz was an option, but she was already getting on, and maybe irritated not to have gotten Holmes before (and/or maybe growing out of that desire anyway?) Manuel was a candidate, but Holmes needed a lot of talking around - and it didn’t matter yet, bc neither of them wanted to be parted. Neither could quite forget losing her father (or hte original John Watson) and Holmes meant to stick it out, and Jillian had no intention of retiring that much

Eventually got some quite contacts - nay, friends! - among elderly in her area to engage in consensual euthenasia now and then. Supplemented by hanging out in morgues and cemeteries and buying and killing a TON of plants, and sometimes mice.

Went on a lot of protest marches in retirement

Marcus Watson, 1920 - 2005

Twin of Jillian

Gay

Settled down with a lovely partner (Henry White) sometime in the 50s in NYC, where they lived for the rest of their lives

Not particularly interested in the life of a consulting detective/incarnator. Didn’t mind, but got squeamish, and just…didn’t enjoy being in danger. John took him on a couple cases but Jillian was the one who wanted to go, to know, even when they were kids, and he was happy to let her. Born to be a house husband.

He and his Henry were fully exclusive, neither got AIDS - but they lost a lot of friends. Practically, he turned Jillian and Holmes on to the crisis, connected her with people who knew people

Jeremiah Fletcher, 1918 - 2000

Married Jillian Watson in 1946

Fell in love when she broke him out of a German prison in 1942

African-American

Elizabeth “Liz” Watson, 1949 - 2009

Free spirit, adventurous, thought her mother (+ Holmes) was the coolest person ever, wanted to be the same. 

Legitimately badass in her own right. Joined…same service probably? They didn’t want another woman but someone intelligent resigned themselves to at least having a Watson in reserve, in case they couldn’t convince the demon to accept another host

Though, why “convince” when you can bind?

And if there’s no alternative, maybe he’ll be happy with a proper agent…

Or there was one person hiring who wasn’t a total ass, eventually

Though possibly by that time she’d decided “fuck it” and set out on her own

Basically a mercenary. Expected to inherit Holmes when her mother retired. There were some awesome mother-daughter expeditions

Got having children out of the way early - one child, at least, via a random French man in the summer of 1970. Donna from Mamma Mia energy. Jacques SomethingFrench

Tension with her mother (and Holmes) grew as Jillian continued to not retire and Holmes…tried to look after them both tbh. Liz hated being cosetted

Heart attack age 60, slightly adrenaline-induced but relatively tame - hiking or something; maybe surfing. Died quickly in hospital

Therese Marquéz née Watson, 1971 - present

Resented being left behind with her grandfather (Jeremiah) or great-uncle or just nannies while he mother gallivanted around the globe, but nor did she personally enjoy gallivanting

All but refuses to carnate even a light or luck spirit

Ran away several times, permanently at age 18

Met a nice young man in police training, (him), married him quickly, had twins, happy for a while…until she got furious at him for working long hours, risking his life, not giving her the domestic bliss and picket fence life she’d imagined 

Also, he got along with her family, which she couldn’t stand

Didn’t even wait for him to come home, just left the twins with Manuel’s sister’s family and left

Has come to see them a couple times, called on birthdays usually, but in general is a mediocre person

Manuel Marquéz, 1970 - 2012

Husband of Therese

A Good Man

V aware of how the world is shitty but wanted to make it better anyway

Whirlwind romance with a beautiful but mysterious girl while he was in police training, had twins, thought he was achieving the American Dream until it turned out his wife was bristling with resentment and straight-up left one night while he was on shift

Prior to that, Jillian and Holmes randomly showed up at least once to see the twins, having heard from Marcus that they existed (the only family member Therese told; the only one she stayed in much contact with)

They got along great - he took her snappishness in stride, they shared a slightly cynical sense of humor and desire to do good nonetheless. Got talking about police investigations and procedure, he wanted to invite her back except Therese couldn’t STAND it, so they didn’t

But when he lost Therese, he reached out - because fuck you, but also, so the kids could know that side of their family, and by then Jillian had also settled down in southern CA probably? 

Dog person

Shot on the job when his kids were a year into college

David Marquéz, 1991 - present

Twin of Vanessa. Normal. Down-to-earth, B or B+ student, liked some sports, had friends, went to state college - Jillian offered to help pay for both twins, Manuel accepted bc that shit’s tough, especially two at once

Amiably disinterested in spiritual stuff - doesn’t mind, is more or less blasé about the whole Death Spirit thing - acts blase, at least; is actually kind of uncomfortable. But doesn’t want to be his mother, and so habitually doesn’t make a big deal of it, or of anything. Mediator.

Met a nice Jewish girl in college (Hannah Steinbeck) (himself tentatively, idly Catholic from the Marquéz side), dated her all through, followed her back to Boston to get a job…idk, something on computers. Coder?

Loudly insists (technically factually) that he’s the older brother, but to his credit has solid energy for it: responsible, stolid, reliable, Will fight if given cause. 

But also, DID cheerfully leave his sister to be primary local caretaker to their elderly great-grandmother and her death spirit, not long after their father’s death. Will put his hands over his ears and talk loudly while walking away from stressful situations

Strong-ish but apathetic carnator

Vanessa “Vinnie” Marquéz/Watson, 1991 - present

Bearer of Sherlock Holmes, 2019 ongoing

BSN from idk

Thinks SHE’S the responsible one, particularly after David moved to Boston

Got along well with her father; he always supported her desire to go into medicine to help people. Really looked up to him, considered that career - but he urged her to be more actively helping life than just stopping death/crime (wanted better for his kids)

Always fully aware that good cops like her dad are rare; kind of illogically despises the whole institution since his death

(WAS that, too, arranged by Moriarty? Question for another day)

Likes Great British Bake-Off but CANNOT bake; likes Project Runway and other fashion shows and does, actually, have good fashion sense (just insufficient money to fulfill it). Sews well. Talks to cloth like it’s a patient

Lesbian! 

Roommate is Darby, also a nurse, they/them. Together they’ll totally be like, *Leslie Knope voice* “Tragically, we are romantically incompatible*

First case happens literally in the apartment 3 stories down

I’m not saying she’s gonna kiss that FBI agent before it’s over but i’m sure as hell saying she’ll THINK about it

Also will get ⅔ of the way to telling Holmes to kill her and get the civilians out before backup arrives

#sherlock holmes #original fic #my fic #john watson

[indomitablemegnolia]

It was edging onto the noon hour, eleven-thirty-six am to be exact, but you couldn’t tell by the light of the sun; Gods, it was as if Fenrir the wolf had jumped out of a Norse legend into the sky to swallow the sun; I had already been at the airport for five and a half hours; my red eye was cancelled, and I had been bounced from gate to gate to gate, to wait to wait to wait, only to be told nothing was happening; they always stressed the word yet, but what they really meant was, ever. It was really not a huge surprise, I had watched the weather report while listening to my neighbor get lucky; the animal noises and obvious gymnastics required to make such a ruckus would have left me exhausted for weeks, but here they go again, well, at least someone is getting some. I was surprised there wasn’t cracks and holes in which to watch in that shoddy, tiny, airport motel room, just barely a step above an S.R.O., but it was a bed and damn I was tired this was a trip doomed from the word go, giving me little glimpses of the movie ‘Fight Club’ after the first hour of meetings, suddenly I was Jack’s complete lack of surprise.  My agenda, my plan… my hope, now dead, dead as dreams, it began full of such potential; that was zapped away within seconds, so why should it end any easier, really? What did I expect traveling to a place called Port Chester, New York? God, it sounds like the setting for a soap opera, but truly, in retrospect more like an episode of supernatural, including a vengeful spirit.

Speaking of vengeful spirits, the dark icy clouds encased the airport in a swaddle of gloom, like the foreboding storm from poltergeist; anyone who can read the sky could see that the weather was only going to get worse. Those dark clouds only served as an ominous warning, a foreboding that should have come as a warning, or possibly in the form of a question. getting blacker, rain already turning to solid ice as it fell from the heavens; Shangri-La this was not, it had congealed into a complete and total ice storm.  Usually, storms brought a certain sort of odd comfort to me, though today, not so much; most likely due to the fact I was so far from my home; as if cued perfectly on time the song ‘Can’t find my way home’ played in my ears. I choked on my snarky laugh as I trudged to my next expected gate, lamenting the fact that I felt nine hundred and ninety years old today. No matter what direction I looked I saw that long dark sky had the look of hard wet sleeting ice in the nearness of the future. I wish I was home with a tall cuppa joe and a nice big book on my lap, with some good soft music cuddling me under a heavy blanket. Turning the corner that I wish could have been to my kitchen with its pretty little red potholders. I stop short, before me sat the largest conglomeration of unhappy people I ever remember encountering, all of them choosing seats at or near the ticket agents booth; the far wall and its bank of windows showing a clear view of a very Poe dark and dreary as well as the show inside, was beautifully vacant. I walk amongst the revelers, noticing the complete discontent on every face I passed.

Oh, the universe had such a sense of humour, didn’t it? I shake my head, suddenly I felt I needed a drink; nah, maybe I just needed a lot of life insurance; god, I knew I needed a vacation; or maybe I needed a home in the country; or more than likely a full once over by a qualified psychiatrist; though mostly I needed to figure out where this Phillip Marlow-esque monologue was coming from, but on second thought that drink sounded lovely. I snickered to myself, the morning I was leaving Mom and I sat at the kitchen table, enjoying our morning coffee, or so I had thought; as with all morning rituals there was a vast amount of time allotted for silent contemplation staring into that vast unknown.

“What’s wrong?” Mom had asked, worry evident on her face.

Taken aback, I snickered, possibly the coldest most patronizing snicker I had ever snickered; as if the woes of the world and the things that weighed on my mind could be delineated down to utterable words, instead of answering I shrugged, “nothing really, why?” I tried to sound light and unbothered.

Mom huffed, “I don’t know, you look like something is bothering you,” she took a huffing breath, “actually you look like you are seriously contemplating smoking or becoming an alcoholic.”

Damn, she just dropped that in my lap, I laughed a real laugh, “It’s not that it hasn’t crossed my mind,” I took a drag, “To tell you, yes, of late I have partaken of much more libation than I ever have before, but you know exactly how limp my lungs are, too limp for smoking and I don’t quite have the intestinal fortitude to become a full-fledged alcoholic, I think you actually need a stomach to tie a good one on. So, no worries mom, it is just the world today and the way it’s working that just bugs the hell out of me.” Good god, am I that easy to read? Good times, right?  “I am just tired of the feeling of a nine thousand gorilla standing on my neck.”

She reached over patting my hand… Ah, mom she always had the ability to knock me sideways, but then make it all ok.  I pulled my fakieciggy out, (an e-cigarette that had long since been empty of all nicotine, but still had the light flavour of vanilla; hell, it lights up; the motion alone was as satisfying in form and function. Taking the time to sigh, reset my Qi, was enough, really, just an idiosyncratic mnemonic device.) put it to my lips and took a long drag; “Freaking bat country.” I mumbled under my breath, batting at the invisible bats, wishing to hell I had my flask, but there was no way I was going to try to take that through TSA, hell they were already way too frisky for my tastes. Really, I am a two-date minimum to get to second base kind of girl; who the hell was I kidding, my threshold was much wider for the whole idea of bases, I really was tempted to yell, RAPE! So, I had to make due with what I had. What I had was a coat, a hat, and a gun; oh, god I wish; what I really had was a headache, my huge black messenger bag, my oversized dark purple purse that served as a computer bag, my WWI aviator cap, a Pea coat and my knee-length waterproof leather boots. I saw a seat near the window, with a perfect reflection of the passersby, so, I pulled my sweater sleeves up over my elbow and went out to stake my claim, sadly sober as a judge.

Taking a people watching post, sitting in the fourth seat in, perching on the edge of the chair, I push my messenger bag and purse under my chair, lay my coat across my lap, leaning my shoulder into the back of the chair, I watch.  I watched the rapacious soul eating mob move and ebb and flow as they would. Rock Hudson and Doris Day style husbands and wives in deep serious whispered fights, staring daggers at each other; a Calvin and Hobbes, pair of college students mumbling amongst themselves whether or not they had asked anyone to feed their bong water fish, which I highly doubted that the fish was ever alive; Mothers with children looking like the perfect advertisement for birth control, faces bleak, eyes sallow, looking at the world with a ‘someone kill me now’ appeal, my heart ached for them. Then like a ray of light a tiny toddling head went past, not screaming, not crying, he toddled on, chasing a large red and white ball. His tresses shorn close on the sides, the middle left long, his tiny Native American feet trotting to a mix of a babies walk and a fancy dance in his borrowed handmade mucklucks, like a Sherman Alexie character brought to life; he chased that ball, hunkering in the fashion that only a beautiful child can, accidentally nudging the ball, chasing and hunkering again.  His simple, beautiful, innocence was unmistakable, I wish I could capture that image to hold on to forever, but like anything and everything miraculous, possibly once in a life time, it could only be seen, witnessed, never captured for reproduction, no picture can be taken, no beckoning for others to see.  I watched him play, until mom noticed how far he had traveled, she motioned for him to come back, with a shriek of a laugh he finally captured the ball, it balanced awkward in his tiny hands as he scampered back to mom, I reveled in his beauty for as long as I could.

A shadow passed, a series of people walked into my vision, I watched a very rich woman, head to toe designer gear; from diamonds to Manolo’s, the cheapest thing on her could have been the down payment on a home, basically Marie Antionette circa 2017. I don’t know why, but I liked her, she was blonde; in fact, she was a blonde, to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window, you know the type, beautiful, petite with a touch of sad, the kind you know any of fifty men would commit a felony for, start a war for, but she was not the kind that could eat people alive, her money was new and she wore it like a crown. Sadly, there she was trying almost desperately to gain the attention of her Louis XIV, his must be very new money, there is a comfort that comes from old money that he utterly lacks, with old money there is nothing really to prove; this man wore his wealth, including his wife, as if it were a status symbol requirement, his BMW keyring dangling from his Burberry coat pocket, his hands soft, totally without callouses, nails perfectly manicured, his hair coiffed with gallons of product; by all counts he was a useless man. Despite Marie’s attempts for his attention, it was focused like a laser on his newest game, he chased a bedazzlingly big busted, slim-fit skirt, again you know the type all tits and flash. I saw Drusilla, Louis’s game, meet his chase; she was also blonde, not nearly as pretty; she reeked of five thousand an ounce perfume, cheap sex in a motel room, and cigarettes, it all came along with a none too subtle ‘I would suck your dick just to kill time’ look about her, but her attitude left way too much to be desired. She must have felt my eyes watching them, she gave me a look which ought to have stuck at least four inches out of my back.  I watched the movements of these people, friends worse than enemies; lovers as adversaries; families at war and at peace; and lonesome strangers all lost in this Dante’s inferno morass, helpless, stuck, stranded.  In this place, full of people there was only about a handful of humans.  Poor Marie, she doesn’t know that down mean streets, on these streets a person must travel; a human who is not themselves mean, but can be; who must be neither tarnished nor afraid; they must be the hero in this story. She must have been looking for a man whose lips tasted of faerie tales, and mistook the frog for the prince.  Oh, but she is a peach, there may yet be hope for her, they walked on.  Then as ships pass in the distance my eyes moved from them to another.

This other; this long, tall, dark cloud drifted past stealing my vision; he was head and shoulders taller than Louis; he walked to the agent desk, handing the agent his ticket, there was something about him that usurped every atom of air around me. His dark licorice coloured, supple leather jacket hugged him tightly, dark wash jeans detailed the rest, tight enough to highlight the merchandise, but loose enough to leave bits and pieces for the imagination; Goddamn, taking in the entirety of his goliath frame was breathtaking, my god, he was lovely. The desk agent said something and motioned for him to find a seat; he spun deliciously on his heel, with ceremonious attitude reserved for royalty; he walked away, sliding his sunglasses down to rest on his nose.  He moved like water, luscious, cool, delicious water flowing over smooth stones; I literally leaned foreword and watched that walk, it was magnificent. God, he was about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake; no reverse that he was the angel wings on devil’s food; he was like a prowling lone wolf looking… for what? I am not sure, but the way he moved over the crowd, not through it, it was almost enrapturing. I mean, look at me, I was amongst these adders, trying to make my presence small, wanting literally to disappear, but I felt their lies and hate sticking to me like hot molasses, but him, he, seemed to be coated with a repellent, a Teflon, not a thing stuck to him.

He was as honest as you can expect a man to be in this world where it was going fast out of style. Not only did he move above them and through them without a spot of tarnish, he walked with that sultry panache. He was a complete man, very complete, my eyes slid to the lightly bagging rear pockets; they showed enough definition, but not the detail; good god I can’t believe my mind went there; he was a common man, although, there was not a thing common about him, he was as unusual a man as could ever be found. He, to use a rather weathered phrase, an unutterable phrase, was a man of honor. Possibly, by a natural instinct, look at those shoulders he could support the world; maybe by inevitability, by the sheer thought that someone had to be so he was more than happy to pick up the mantle, without thought of it, and certainly without ever saying it; or maybe he wasn’t, I was none too sure about my instincts these days. Oh, but the delicious stride of his foot sure and while in his gaze no man faltered, even Louis straightened his head when this wolf was on prowl. He seemed a man whose story was a manly adventure in search of a hidden truth, oh and goddam by the looks of him he was fit for adventure; oh, to be part of that adventure. Christ, my mind and oddly enough my body reacted to the idea of what kinds of adventure he would be up for.  It would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure, and I have had enough of those not fit for adventure. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in… he was the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world; he would be something of a marvel in every world. No, no, he probably wasn’t, look at me running wild with a though; he was probably just a man who dressed a part, stuck in an airport, with a walk… I let him slowly move from my sight, he was already driving me to distraction.

I look out on the desolate grey landscape, the ice creeping up the window panes; maybe it was Marie, maybe it was that godly walk, maybe I was in mourning for the loss of his visage or just the self-destructive nature of the human condition, but it was something that not even those chubby little hands clutching at that giant rubble ball could chase away; I don’t know what or why, and frankly I don’t really care, it just was; I suddenly feel ages, years heaping onto my shoulders. To lean heavily of Dickens, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, mostly it was just times; really it always does seem like we are on the edge of evolutions end; though always like on the TV shows the countdown stops at 1, although this time is feels to be on negative numbers. I remember not too long ago, it seemed we were in an age of wisdom of invention and growth; now it is an age of foolishness, it is the epoch of disbelief, it is the epoch of incredulity; I miss the season of Light, for this is a damn season of Darkness, from which it seems there will never again be a spring, no hope, it is a winter of discontent, of despair. I remember the last day when we still had everything before us, though now in retrospect we really had nothing before us, we thought we were all going directly to heaven or maybe we were already there, we are all actually in a freefall directly the other way. I look at my world and succumb to the dark, dreary letting the weary days soak my soul. The world floods my brain, once upon a time not actually all that long ago.  

Oh, it was the leanest of times, those times where those I love sat before my eyes and macabrely joke about which of us will be the first we all should eat; obviously my brother as his meat would be soft and sweet and succulent; you know, those jokes that bring a forced laugh, for fear that if we didn’t laugh we would have to run in terror from the reality of these thoughts; in those horror times we were packing, cleaning, locking away the remnants of a fantasy, a dream that we held in our hands while it died a cold and horrible death.  An ancient card from the times when we were convinced it couldn’t be worse than that but we knew that if we just hang on one more day… the card fell from our hands and fell open; springing from this card comes the vivacious voice of one Gloria Gaynor;  Our hips lost the battle of staying locked, tears began to fall as our lungs let free a laugh that was not at all forced; that was the moment that pedantic break up song from the bygone disco era became our salvation and a battle cry to send Schrodinger back into the shadows.  From there light began to shine and there was air to breathe, but again Fate slammed that door.  DAMN HER AND HOPE

There no such thing as beauty anymore, all colours fade from vivid to dead gray.  It really is an amazing thing when you think you have reached that horrible craggy earthen bottom, Hope, the vicious bitch that she is, shows you exactly how wrong you can be.  For a second I reach back in memory to long ago, remembering giggles and birthdays and handmade cakes with half the necessary fixings.  I let myself float, a few weeks ago, in that warm pool of possibility, red wines flavour haunting my taste buds. Gods, she showed me a brief glimpse of lovely, of that haven, I actually, almost felt that sun on my face. I still almost feel that smile on my face, doused in tears.  Ice cracked in my chest at the memory of that instant my heart had defrosted.  I knew better, I fought, I tried to resist, I didn’t believe, but then I wanted to, I needed to, then I did… We drove for hours, maybe it was days, time begins to lose its continuity when the radio is playing great music really loud, sunglasses fitting just perfectly and the speedometer reads 85 mph steady and true. There is something about it that made my heartbeat strong and true. We laughed and sang along, and it was the first time since I can’t really remember when that mom smiled, she laughed, without letting that haunted look come back to her eyes.

We would stop for burgers and laugh about something from eons ago. Then we’d hop right back into the car and drive; my foot getting heavier as we went. I don’t know what we were running from, or maybe running to, or maybe just it was the idea of the freedom that neither of us thought about a damn thing… yeah. All I really knew it was no stop until… it felt right. So, we drove and we drove, miles ticking off the rented odometer; states flying by, for once we weren’t simply standing in one place, trying to make traction on a treadmill, for years we were running at full bore and never getting anywhere, literally, figuratively, however the hell you want to say. Philosophers and scientists like speaking of continuity, but those who are stuck in the spin cycle, too close to the damn agitator, pieces of life, of spirit, of heart, of dreams, of happiness, being mangled, breaking off falling to the ground. Then one day I stopped, I just stopped running; my soul too tired to continue, I stopped.  I stopped trying to make everything fine, everyone happy I understood finally that I was on a fool’s errand. I took mom’s hand in mine and she stopped running too, we stooped to pick up the broken scattered pieces, but fate showed us that it was like trying to grab on to Jell-O with your hands and hold tight. So, we let them drop, leaving them to wait for the chalk outline of their tragic death.

The Pacific came into view over the rural cattle covered hills, the radio suddenly silenced. My eyes misted over and I turned on the wipers as the chill October rain drizzled from the heavens. I take that right and head north on HWY 1 knowing where we were going. Childhood memories haunted behind unshed tears, living has taken on a new definition in the dozen years since last, I smelled that organic salty home. I would stop and relive bowls of chowder and giggling splashing icy surf on naked tender feet, but now, it showed in stark relief to what living now meant, those laughing giggles echoing in our hearts. My hand dropped from the gear shift and mom laced her fingers through mine, we took a moment to mourn this breathing cadaver we had become. I pull over and park, it took a hot second before I grabbed my small bag from the back seat, I clamber out, walking around I helped mom from the car.  Walking as quickly as tear filled eyes and our beleaguered bodies would allow us, we made our way to the beach; and we sit listening to the surf, dropping my bag off my shoulder and we walk down to an old drift log. I made sure mom was comfortable, stepping out of my sneakers and socks using only my feet I walked to the rushing surf. I stooped pulling my pant legs up as the waves began licking at my toes. The oceans icy tongue sliding softly over my skin. I wanted to keep walking, walking till It was over my head, but I stood still when the waves kissed up my legs to behind my knees. I breathe letting my eyes roll closed, the wind ran its fingers through my hair as it kissed my face. Mom is suddenly there, holding my hand, both of us knee deep in the surf, we giggle and smile at each other as if we were children with a secret, oh and that secret…

I turn from the wind’s loving kisses, mom’s hand snaking into mine; we stood LIVING, for these seconds we lived; we walk hand in hand back to that driftwood stump, mom sits, I pull out the bottle of red wine from my bag, pulled the cork and took a long drink. Passing the bottle to mom; I noticed that those unshed tears were no longer abiding behind their dam. I don’t know when they had started sliding down my face, but I look a damn state now. Mom passes the bottle back and I take a long drink, looking up at that dark gray cloudy sky. I know it should have looked sad, foreboding even dower, but to me, it looked like a hug from an old friend. The crash roared so loud I couldn’t hear my own breath. It was perfect, the screaming person who has been occupying my mind suddenly shut up and I could breathe.

At its most benevolent this life has, one sweet single unattended moment, set aside for each of us. One single moment in and out of time. We took this moment, this little heaven inside this Dante’s nightmare we have called living, we take our little moment out of time and we take a shelter in it. Stealing away from all the shocks are horrors that this too long, far, far, too long life is heir to. This definition of living and its toll that it has taken on our souls. Our distraction fit, and I watch as we both take a deep breath and bury our toes in the cool sand like an oyster taking shelter. We close our eyes, breathe deep, we became high on this freedom, away we float. Beauty like lost dust moat in a shaft of sunlight, wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning in the snow, or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply so intense that it is not heard at all, that fabulous unsound, but while that glorious music lasts.

Oh, and while it lasts.

One by one I watched those sorrows, the angst and pain the uncertainty melt from our shoulders, the time to hesitate is through, and sometimes the best fight is not fighting at all. I look to mom and pass the bottle, and we speak in silent words, we always knew that the possibility of an impossible fight would come, though yet I would glove up and take my hits, but it would be a heartless battle; all of my hits soulless. There is a freedom in acceptance; as a song says, freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose; the knowledge that losing a bout isn’t everything, but we both knew we were going to lose this one would take everything from both of us. There was a release; we both felt it, we collapsed into it, death would come and we would fall into his arms. Her eyes lead me, in their depths in a moment of ecstatic joy, with no expectations, not from THIS ONE MOMENT. A beautiful, simple moment of being.

No wants, no needs no worries. God, mom had always made broken look beautiful, strong look invincible; She walked with the gorgeous universe on her shoulders. When she shrugged that heaped heaven gracefully, making that pain and strife look like wings. In this moment of communion between us. That toll was gone, peace found us as we held hands like always. mother and daughter and we wanted nothing more than this peace.  We took it, we loved it. Yes, we both knew this was just our moment and the treatments and pain would return and lost, lonely, broken, we would have to drive back home… eventually. Though, in that long stretched moment, we were infinite… Mom corked the bottle and we walked carefully back to the car, we got in again and I drove for more and more hours finally finding a beautiful hidden paradise amongst the redwood trees.

The bed, it was comfortable, lovely and clean, luxurious and the room had an eighth story window seat that still didn’t look down on those trees. We sat in the early morning feeling the air, smelling of earthy redwoods, kiss our skin and our lips with warm, delicious, coffee. The water from the tap tasted sweet and fresh, like a childhood memory poured from a second or even third-hand crystal pitcher. Late morning, the bathtub was large and deep. This was a paradise, this heaven was perfect, as if god understood that I had just acquiesced to his summons and decided to send me an extended heaven, or possibly on that curving mountain road I had missed a turn and we had both passed those pearly gates… In this paradise, there was a grand restaurant that required reservations. We ordered three rounds of drinks called the golden eagle, that tasted like buttered sunshine with a citrus hint and a float of Chambord. I ordered the lobster and she the steak, sharing the asparagus and potatoes…everything was perfect. We laughed and walked the long way around and danced and smiled at the smell of the beautiful trees. We walked among the ancients and there is something to be said for being less than drunk, more than lucid and still infinite among the kings of the Earth.

A tiny pearl of a treasure I tuck into that little box lined with black velvet that I keep all my most precious things of beautiful in.  Stupidly I believed, stupidly I let the want the will pull my hand out…  Ages told me that it was a mistake, that hope would be the thing that kills me, but I let my hand reach out, I almost touched it, but then there was nothing; now I lay bleeding out.  Nothing, but air that my fingers slid through and I fell, I fell a million miles.  One shining second in horror years, I trusted that idea of hope, the bitch, and now one eon wiser I woke this morning my eyes rioting at the idea of waking to this world, my brain screaming its recalcitrance at the idea of still dragging air into my lungs and begrudging the world for letting the sun to continue shining.  I will never again trust to hope, I can never lift my eyes from the motion of my feet in this broken trudge, all marching to that horrible monotone beat because the living will never come to any good.

A buzzing distracts my mind from this drudgery and I look at my stupid phone. A text from my momma: “Happy Birthday Angel, text me when you are on your way or if you will be on your way.  I hope you are wearing your smile and your lipstick, you never know who will fall in love with you today.”  An ironic chuckle escaped my throat and a wry smile pulled the corners of my lips.  In 37 years, no one had ever fallen in love with my damn lipstick or smile for that matter, I doubted today was any different today from any other day. Although, yes, I had put on my lipstick before departing for the airport today…  dumb ass.  Suddenly, the landscape was replaced by the rushing crowds passing behind me, superimposed, reflected on the glass in vivid colour.  Oh, and the din of the people began to enter and drive away my own private hell; I let the relief wash over me.  There was an odd surety to the idea that life goes on, it goes on whether or not one would wants it to; I started watching the people, along with the storm raging outside the windows, but the activity made my mind move from that cold place.  I felt like an idiot to let myself bask in that much self-pity.

A gust of air hit me as someone sits a few seats down, I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t take the time to look, I would be leaving this section soon anyways, as soon as they tell us all that there will be no motion. It is the real human smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, grows brave by reflection. My brain reeled, shook from my own morass by a simple stupid misquote. Jesus, apparently, this birthday is getting to me; I know so many try to convince that it is not the aging that bothers them, but for me it is truth; oh, the passing of time, when I start counting is like a pall on my soul, but to just despise it would be terribly ungrateful, to hate adding to the tally of years lived when one is already well and past expectations.  I don’t care what number of years I have lived, I really don’t mind the few hairs on my head that have transitioned from this dullard nondescript brown to a tinsel silver, the crinkles next to my eyes are every one of my laughs counted out for me. I do mind, however, is that so much time keeps passing, days mark themselves in memory and unwanted thoughts surface, I mind marking how much I haven’t done. I do mind is that not once has this journey been anything other than an upward climb, fingers gripping, bleeding, over the roughest terrain.  I decided, enough pain…  I was never one to just revel in misery, I am not the kind of woman who breaks into pieces under the blows of abandonment and absence, I am not the one who goes mad, who dies; though I know I will, possibly quite soon. Unlike Marie, I know I am the hero of this story, it is my responsibility to make it good. Surveying myself I saw that the few fragments that had splintered off were pieces that always are supposed to be sloughed due to living and learning. For the rest, I was… well, I was, just me. I was whole, whole I would remain. Thusly being stuck in an airport for a birthday is just one of those things that just happen, and yes, mostly to me.

Their reflections, with the gales of wind blowing ice and snow pelting the large bank of windows. Ah, its time to face the truth, nothing will be flying in this mess; hell, the smart people stayed home and didn’t even bother. I sigh, I never could have been accused of being one of the smart people, I watch the strangers pass behind me, all of them seemingly stressed and kinetic, like little white rats in a closed maze; frantic to get to where they were going, none willing to admit that no one was going anywhere anytime soon.  I scanned all he miserable faces, yes, we are all in a way trapped, foreword motion was impossible, but always there is someone who seems to take it so much worse than everyone else, making that small claustrophobic feeling a teensy bit worse.  Most just accept that, yes, in this world not much seems to go the way we all plan, there is always that one total jerk who thinks that god and all that’s holy and unholy alike should bow to his will.  With that thought my mind decided to switch to the politics network; I literally shuddered, became nauseous and pulled it back front and center.

This jerk yelled and bellowed as I watched apparently, the Scandinavian Bruce Willis had decided that handing a helpless gate agent her own head on a platter was the best use of his time.  He was demanding everything under the sun.  From the loud whining and bluster, I gathered that he was supposed to be traveling to Maui, but he wasn’t going to be there in time and would lose the large deposit he placed on his room, most likely a common hazard for travel like that.  As if that was anything the gate agent could do anything about, it was really his own stupid gullibility. Yes, I would much rather be in Maui too, in fact I think the ticket agent wishes she was in Maui with a Chi-Chi in hand, but its not where we are, nor where I was traveling to. Finally, the mans blustering hit a fevered pitch, his face turned purple, I thought he was about to stroke out, but his wife finally stepped in.  I had already lost interest in the whole show about half a tirade ago, he was an overgrown child with the stupid notion that the world owed him something.

I shake my head softly and roll my eyes, a soft, rolling, deep chuckle moves through my ears, and movement catches my eye.  I let my eyes be pulled expecting to see disapproval in the reflected face.  I all saw was a man; my breath shuddered, not just a man, but that man, the wolf with the godly walk, that gust of air was him sitting, that man. Well, honestly simply man is an insufficient term, but one I would use for the long-legged monolith a few chairs to my right.  He seemed to be elsewhere, with more than a single dose of “I don’t give a shit” attitude, all I could see was crossed arms and Ray Bans, so I let my eyes peruse. He was long, tall, his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, those legs alone reached at least 5 foot from the edge of the chair. He was thick; legs like tree trunks, but his shoulders alone took the space of two seats. I pitied the person who was seated next to him, hopefully, he wasn’t the middle seat, talk about crowding.  He wore a thin, white tee shirt, dark washed jeans.  I let the smile pull the edge of my lips, apparently, he didn’t look at the weather before heading out today, poor fool.  He sat trying to tuck his thick licorice coloured leather around himself tighter.

His opaque dark Ray-bans hid most of his face, ear buds tucked into his ears. His thick brows curved gracefully over the rims, his lips beautifully arched with a light pout to his bottom lip, a set of the most beautifully kissable lips to possibly exist. A day’s growth of scruff along his gorgeously chiseled jaw, god he was a beautiful man.  He couldn’t have been reacting to my derision, maybe he was chuckling at something on his earbuds. So, I swallowed my ruffled feathers and I just enjoyed the view of the reflection. His dark brown hair, blonde and ginger highlights deliciously sparkled, in what was once a deliciously close cut style, now grown out two months too long; the length silky enough to run soft fingers through, letting the long ends curl around fingertips.

I settle back, catching little glimpses, filing his form away for something fun in one of my writing exercises, I watched the ice creep along the glass of the window and the passing of the people while listening to my own ear buds, hitting repeat on some riotous punk. Social Distortion peps me up, I feel the beautiful sweeping warmth of eyes on me, I look up all I can see is the dyspeptic travelers and the airline ticket agents looking as if people had taken bats to them, circulating handing out food and hotel vouchers to make up for the surprise ice storm.  Curiosity draws my eyes back to his mostly obscured face, I wonder what colour his eyes are; statistically, they were most likely brown, but something told me they were some beautiful exotic colour. Seriously, look at the man, he is something made of myth and mists, he could never actually be real, like a unicorn or the truth. As with everything, the gods compensate, a man that graceful, that beautiful, with that luscious of a walk, there really must be something maybe just some single thing wrong with him, somewhere. Maybe he has a temper or maybe he is just stupid. A loud cacophony of uproarious yelling, uh oh, the natives are getting restless.  

God, how the hell do they expect airlines to circumvent nature and still get them to their destination safely, you know they would be the first filing suit in the case of an accident, and seriously how the hell an ICE storm can be so surprising, but low and behold, here we all are stuck. I tuck my vouchers in my book and keep watching the people reflected in the window, like an interactive ultra-widescreen TV. A Latin woman reminding me heavily of Anne Bancroft goes huffing by consigning herself with a beautiful grace to the fate we all in the airport now share, a night at the on a crummy airport motel mattress and airport food.  Again, that warm pass of eyes, perusing the faces, I assume it’s just another people watcher or a passerby.  A move in my peripheral vision drew my eye back to him; dammit girl, the cardinal rule of people watching is NO STARING, I chided myself.

@pedeka @writernotwaiting @iamhisgloriouspurpose

@keeper0fthestars @sweetfairy1

@fromthedeskoftheraven @shikin83 @bilbo-baggins-middle-finger

[armandosmith456-blog]

Flyer Printing - The Ultimate Guide to Flyers & Print Advertising

Print out advertisements, such as color flyers, continue to generate cash flow in addition to develop new revenue streams for virtually every industry. Each and every business that has developed into an industry leader over the last several years, did so by utilizing key concepts in advertising that have started out very humble beginnings. Not all advertising works, so it is extremely important to comprehend how ads work, why some succeed while others fall short, and what your ads should consist of to generate the increase ROI. The Birth of Modern Advertising: Although there were usually market vendors from the early days of 'civilization' who would wait in the marketplace 'crying' their wares, it wasn't until the creation of the printing press that printed advertising as we know that today came into being. In the very beginning, advertising was nothing more than just one line of copy in the newspaper that perhaps listed the item, the price and a very simple description. Among scholars, it is kept that this form of printed advertising first appeared somewhere inside the latter part of the 17th century. As time went on, and as often the technology of printing progressed, color was added with some point simple graphics evolved into photographic pictures. For the next almost 200 years printed advertising remained basically the same. A single line of copy or perhaps a small block involving text was all that consumers were likely to see within their local papers. That is until Thomas Barratt, who wedded into the family of the famous Pears Soap Empire, decided to release an aggressive advertising campaign to promote their product to the increasing middle class who finally had buying power. At first, Pears Soap had been marketed to a small portion of the population, the exact elite who could afford an expensive, handcrafted scented cleaning soap that was suitable for their ivory complexions. Now that the working center class was a viable market, and knowing that he had in order to 'reach' them in order to keep his family business afloat, Barratt set about formulating a marketing strategy that would reach the people. They revamped their production lines in order to make Pears Cleaning soap affordable to the average consumer and set about developing a good aggressive marketing campaign to reach that demographic. Thomas Barratt is known for his cherubic children in the Pears Soap advertisements, a lot of which we still recognize to this very day. Due to his aggressive marketing strategies and innovative use of print, he could be often considered to be the "Father of Modern Advertising. " Throughout WWI, to offset the rising costs of marketing, the philosophy of creating a need was introduced to the world. Companies begain creating "perceived needs. " For the first time, all the strategies which are now tried and tested advertising methodologies, were melded together and distributed to consumers. The rest is historical past. The 3 key elements of print advertising are: 1 . Achieve the maximum amount of potential customers at the lowest cost possible 2 . Style aesthetically pleasing or response-driving artwork 3. Create a requirement for your product/service while offering "irresistable" benefits to consumers This flyer printing and advertising still focuses on these crucial strategies, which have been proven to work using decades worth connected with statistics. Technologies, products, and services change over time, but human needs and response criteria remain largely exactly the same over time. Let's put history to work to visualize the achievement of the 3 Keys. For example , consider Burger King plus McDonald's. They dominate the fast-food market for their market and they got there by reaching a huge market along with advertising that was eye-catching and created a need. During the second option half of the 20th century commerce was booming and the typical family was living life in the fast lane. Both companies capitalized on this fast-paced environment by employing ads that were attractive to the eye, while also playing on the need that they have been creating. The message is simple, "you are important. " Quite simply, "you deserve to do things for yourself and take time from your busy lifestyle. " McDonald's still uses the very 'Golden Arches' whicht symbolize a place where life is stunning and a far cry from the hectic life that people have to endure to make ends meet. "You deserve some slack today at McDonald's. We do it all for you. " Their own impressive advertising strategy planted a seed in the minds of consumers that they deserve to take a break and let someone dominate at least one of their daily tasks - cooking. The same hold's true with the marketing strategy employed by Burger King. "Have the idea your way! " The message being, you answer to any boss, you answer to your family and you are bogged straight down with responsibilities, so now it is time to do what you want for a change. A person deserve to have it 'your way, ' and, of course , because you should be treated like a king/queen, there is a subliminal message from the famous BK crown. All 3 Key strategies were being employed by both mega-corporations early on, and as you can see, literally introduced them to the very top of the fast-food market. They launched nationwide advertising campaigns (Key #1) with pleasing advertisement designs (Key #2) to create a need (Key #3) in the lives with mass consumers. Avoid Common Misconceptions in Flyer Publishing by Researching Demographics One of the most common misconceptions that company owners have when creating flyers is to think that designing a flyer based on the '3 Keys to Success' is all there is into it. There are actually other 'steps' that should be taken prior to creating your own campaign. It is a huge mistake to believe that an 'eye-catching' hazard that reaches a 'maximum number of people' and produces a 'need' is all there is to it. One of the factors that should be regarded as is researching the demographics in a specific market location before launching your campaign or non-e of those 3 keys will fit the lock! In other words, targeted advertising is the "true" key to success. Understand your market demographics to help make the 3 keys work for you! Look at this research which paid off with regard to McDonald's and Burger King - big time. At the time of their particular rise to fame, market analysis was simple and supplied basic insight into the lifestyles of the consumers they were attempting to reach. It is apparent that their advertising campaigns focused on the significant middle class who were overwhelmed with work at relatively lower wages. There were definite psychological tactics employed that more than likely have been effective if their ads didn't reach the right individuals with the right message. You can't create a need where there is no gap to fill. It is as simple as that. Take a great long look at the product or service you are selling, find a demographic which has a void that you can fill, and target them with amazing ads. Create and distribute your flyer printing campaign to achieve as many targeted customers as possible, make it appealing so it attracts their eye, and then set about filling the void you might have discovered by creating or emphasizing a need. If you don't have the time to do the research in your market area, there is an age-old trick that permits you to 'borrow' research that has already proven to be effective. It can so obvious that it is easy to miss, it's called "analyzing what your competitors use. " Take a look at the two burger autorité to see just how effective it is to 'borrow' what is doing work for your competition! It doesn't really matter which corporation did the particular market analysis first, the point is that one of them found some sort of void, filled it by creating a need, and presented an all out advertising campaign that could fill that need/void. After that, as history has it, the war was on. Even though area of that 'void' those two corporations addressed were starting to some degree different, they both identified the void and even created a need based on something missing in the lives of shoppers. Remember, that was the time of the "Me Generation" so when buyers felt like they were losing control of their lives because of the need to care for others, both corporations pounced on which and ran with it. One company promised that shoppers could have it their way while the other provided an escape from the reality of losing the sense of personal that was so vital at that time. You can do the same thing in your market spot by expanding on what is effectively working for your competitors. Certainly they have found a way to create a need in order to sell their very own products/services. Whatever they are utilizing is working because it is developing the business. Take the time to analyze their marketing strategies. Try to identify the main demographics they are reaching out to. What forms of advertising are the competitors using and how are they distributing it? Competitive analysis is precisely what highly successful businesses like Burger King together with McDonald's do. They analyze the competition and then try to stay 1 step ahead of them. Once you have the concept of your advertising developed, it's time to get down to the practical aspect of publishing and distribution.

[emjenenla]

Something in the air's not right today [A Raven Cycle Fanfic]

Part One | Part Two

Gansey is not having a good day. Set somewhere in the vicinity of BLLB and TRK.

Trigger warnings for panic attacks and a brief mention of child abuse.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Raven Cycle. Title from “Papercut” by Linkin Park.

Gansey woke up to Ronan kicking the frame of his bed. He rolled over and squinted at the other boy who was nothing more than a blur of color. “What, Ronan? If you’re waking me to tell me that you’ve dreamed up five million baby crows, I swear-”

“Actually,” the Ronan-shaped blob said. “I was going to ask if we’re skipping out of class today.”

“What?” Gansey squinted at him, trying to get Ronan’s face to come into focus. It didn’t work, and he fumbled across the bed for his glasses. “Why would we be skipping--oh-” He trailed off as he finally got his glasses on and saw the clock. Classes started in twenty minutes; he’d slept through his alarm.

He had also fallen asleep maybe two hours before after hours spent working on the Henrietta model and even more hours of tossing and turning on his bed. He was exhausted and the fragile feeling that had been chasing him for weeks had taken up full-time residence in his chest. Before Aglionby, this would have been the kind of day he would have just called quits on before it even began. At his previous boarding schools, spread out across the world wherever his search took him, he gave himself a day or two a month where he could simply call in sick if he hadn’t been able to sleep or felt like he’d have a panic attack if something brushed up against him in the hallway.

It was different now. At those other schools he’d been well-liked but hadn’t had any real friends. He had never stuck around in one place long enough to form connections with anyone, so there had been no one to notice whether Gansey went to class or stayed home and curled up in his bed. That couldn’t happen now. There were people looking at him now. Ronan already declared his intentions to never attend school again at least once a day. If Gansey skipped out even once he’d lose all the leverage he had to keep Ronan going. It didn’t matter that Gansey’s deal with Child meant that Ronan could never set foot in Aglionby again and still receive a diploma, Gansey fully intended to make sure Ronan learned something in his senior year, even if it was just so Gansey felt a little less like a horrible person for bribing his headmaster.

And then there was Adam. He and Adam weren’t fighting, and Gansey was so incredibly thankful for it, but he also knew that just because they weren’t fighting right now didn’t mean they wouldn’t start again. Things hadn’t really changed; Gansey still didn’t understand why half the things he’d ever done or said were bad. If--when? --they started fighting again, it would be Gansey’s fault. Gansey was trying to forestall the re-opening of hostilities by not doing anything that might make Adam angry, which was really difficult when Gansey didn’t understand why half the things he’d done upset Adam.

Regardless of his confusion, he knew that he shouldn’t be skipping out of school when Adam Parrish might find out about it. Adam would go to school while burning up with a fever--Gansey had seen it happen multiple times--so he would no doubt object to Gansey skipping out of school when there was nothing technically wrong with him. If a hospital-level fever wasn’t a valid excuse to miss school, then practically no sleep and the very real possibility that you were going to freak out and not be able to breathe at some point during the day weren’t either.

So long story short, he was definitely going to school today, even if his eyes were scratchy, his head hurt, and he already felt just a little panicky for no reason at all. He missed those days when it hadn’t mattered to anyone what he did, when he hadn’t been the one who cared for everyone with nothing in return. It was lonely to take care of yourself when no one else did, but at least he hadn’t had to feel guilty about doing it.

“Gansey?” Ronan asked. “Have you finally decided to do something that’s actually fun?”

“Of course not,” Gansey said realizing a second too late what he’d just agreed to. His stomach twisted. That would just be more ammunition for the next time he started worrying that Ronan secretly hated him.

Gansey swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up. “I’ll be ready to go in five minutes,” he said, gathering up a clean uniform and heading for the kitchen/bathroom.

There would be no time for a shower. The thought unsettled Gansey more than he wanted to admit. He’d showered every morning before school since he was twelve and it felt wrong not to do it now, like he was finally allowing his mask to slip, and that couldn’t happen. The flawless mask of Richard Campbell Gansey III was the only thing protecting the fragile, strung-out real Gansey; the seventeen-year-old boy who knew he was going to be dead by the end of April but couldn’t tell anyone.

Gansey ran a brush through his dirty hair and tried to calm himself down. So what if he didn’t get a shower this morning? It wasn’t a big deal. People probably wouldn’t even notice; he’d showered yesterday, after all. Plus, he’d read once that it was actually healthier not to wash your hair every day, and some people’s hair got so unruly when they washed it that they had to wait until the next day to go anywhere important.

It wasn’t something to be upset about, but Gansey couldn’t stop worrying about it. He put in his contacts, brushed his teeth and tried to make his hair and uniform look even more perfect than usual before bolting out of the kitchen/bathroom to collect his backpack and Ronan.

~~~~

They arrived at Aglionby just as the five minute bell was ringing. Gansey hurried across campus with his head down. He felt like everyone was looking at him, like everyone could tell he’d woken up twenty minutes ago and hadn’t had time to shower. He knew that was ridiculous--everyone else was on the verge of being late too--but he couldn’t shake the feeling. By the time he got to his first period class, his chest was tight, and his hands were shaking.

No, no, no. He told himself. This couldn’t happen. He was here so now he had to make it through the day. He had a quiz in Chemistry which was going to require all his focus because he had never been good in science. There was also a debate on who was to blame for the start of WWI in history and he would be expected to participate with the same enthusiasm he had when talking about Glendower and ancient Welsh history even though he’d tried to explain that he didn’t like modern history multiple times.

Gansey took a deep, slow breath fighting against the tension in his chest as the teacher came in. All he had to do was get through the day, then he could go back to Monmouth Manufacturing and sleep. Everything would be fine. It had to be.

~~~~

Everything was fine until fourth period, right before lunch. It was history class, right in the middle of the debate. One of the students on the opposite side had pulled out the old, tired elementary school explanation of blaming the Archduke of Austria for starting the whole war. The other boy obviously hadn’t prepared because he’d called the Archduke “that one duke guy who got offed.”

Even though Gansey had little interest in who had started WWI, he would not allow that simplistic view to stand. “Actually,” he said. “That’s not quite accurate.” He wanted to go on any explain how the Archduke hadn’t actually been as important as he’d been made out to be and that his death had been used mostly as an excuse to start fighting, but suddenly he couldn’t remember the man’s name either. He’d known it a moment before, he could still feel is poking at the edges of his consciousness, but he couldn’t pull it out into the open.

The hard pressure which had been threatening him all day closed in around him and he couldn’t breathe. Everyone else who had prepared for class knew what that duke’s name was. Gansey looked like an idiot for not knowing, even more so for attempting to rebuff the other boy when he didn’t know the information himself. Mr. Morris probably thought Gansey hadn’t prepared either, if Gansey looked his direction, the teacher would probably be looking at him with disappointment.

Gansey tried to calm himself down. He’d barely slept last night, and memory problems were a symptom of sleep deprivation; there was nothing to freak out about. He tried to page through his notes to find the name, but his hands were shaking too much. He could barely think.

“Mr. Gansey?” Mr. Morris’s voice cut through his rising panic. “Is everything alright?”

“May I be excused?” Gansey gasped, refusing to acknowledge the concern in Mr. Morris’s voice. Everyone was staring at him, wondering what was wrong. Any minute now someone was going to realize that he hadn’t slept and hadn’t showered and was freaking out about forgetting a fact that didn’t even matter to him. Any minute someone was going to realize that Gansey was falling apart and that couldn’t happen because once someone did then Gansey couldn’t pretend he wasn’t anymore, and he couldn’t fall apart because if he did what would happen to Ronan and AdamandBlueandNoah?

He didn’t even really wait for Mr. Morris’s response because he didn’t think he’d be able to hear it. He simply gathered his books and fled before anything worse could happen.

~~~~

Gansey was a master of finding places to breakdown where no one would find him. Today’s spot was behind the Humanities building, next to a perfectly sculpted bush which hid him from anyone walking by on the path which lead to the Science building.

He sat cross-legged on the grass, hands clenched in his hair, trying to breathe. He wanted to berate himself for panicking over something so stupid, but he knew forgetting that name was just the straw that broke the camel’s back so to speak. This was always going to happen from the instant he’d decided to come to school today, it had only been a matter of what set it off.

What he berated himself over was that this was happening at all. He was Richard Gansey III, everything in his life had been privileged and he had never wanted for anything. There was absolutely no reason for this to happen to him; nothing really horrible had ever happened to him. His father hadn’t been murdered like Ronan’s. He wasn’t trapped in the place he’d been born by money like Blue was. His parents hadn’t beaten him like Adam’s father had. He wasn’t dead like Noah. Gansey was just snot nosed rich kid who had been stung to death by a couple hundred bees and then came back to life; that was nothing compared to what the others had suffered. So what if he was going to really die in a couple months? At least he knew it was coming so he could get things in order and make sure he didn’t leave things on a bad note with anyone; most people didn’t get that chance. It was terribly privileged of Gansey to think he deserved more leniency than he’d already received.

He sat on the grass as fourth period came to an end and lunch period began. Slowly, very slowly, he regained his ability to breathe. He didn’t move until the bell announcing lunch was ending in five minutes rang. He hadn’t eaten at all today, and he probably should have gone to lunch, but he did not want to walk into the commons and face everyone else. Instead he picked himself up and went to a bathroom to fix his hair and clothes before heading for his sixth period class.

~~~~

He made it through the rest of the day in a sleep deprived, slightly panicky haze. After classes ended, Ronan left with Adam and Gansey went to take care of a couple meetings. When those were done he was halfway to the Pig before he realized that he probably should go apologize to Mr. Morris.

The history teacher was just locking the door to his office when Gansey climbed the stairs to the office floor of the Humanities building. He turned at the sound of Gansey’s shoes on the creaky wood floor. “Oh, hello, Mr. Gansey,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Morris,” Gansey said. “I just wanted to apologize for the scene I made in fourth period. I didn’t mean to disrupt class.”

Mr. Morris gave him an odd look like he couldn’t believe Gansey came all the way up just to apologize. Gansey felt the same tension he did when he messed up around Adam. Of course, he came to apologize, he wasn’t so destroyed by his family’s money that he hadn’t learned when it was polite to apologize. He’d interrupted the debate and probably made Mr. Morris look like a bad teacher, since Gansey had a reputation for being the best history student in the school.

“Also,” Gansey went on, wondering if maybe this was why Mr. Morris was looking at him like this. “I do know that the Archduke of Austria who was assassinated on June 28, 1914 was named Franz Ferdinand. What I was going to tell Kensington was that-”

“Richard,” Mr. Morris interrupted, and Gansey froze. Mr. Morris never called him by his first name.

“Yes?” he asked, trying to ignore the way his throat was threatening to close up.

“Why are you apologizing?” Mr. Morris asked sounding genuinely confused.

“I interrupted your class,” Gansey said trying desperately to figure out where he’d gone wrong in this conversation. He’d thought he was doing it right. “I shouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t have anything intelligent to say; that’s your number one rule in debates. And then I just walked out of class and didn’t come back.”

“Richard,” Mr. Morris repeated. He sounded so unbearably sad that Gansey sort of wanted to run. He wasn’t sure what was going on anymore. “I don’t care about the debate. Are you okay? You seemed pretty upset.”

Gansey was only getting more tense, not less so. He could have handled continued confusion about what he was doing wrong, but he wasn’t sure how long he could stand up to someone outright asking him if he was okay when he knew for certain that he wasn’t. “I’m fine,” he said.

Mr. Morris didn’t look like he believed him. “You know, Richard, I don’t care if you forgot Franz Ferdinand’s name. We all have brain farts sometimes and you contributed a lot of other important insights to the debate. You’ll get full credit for it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“But I should have known,” Gansey said. “I did know; I just couldn’t remember.” Okay, maybe he was a little more upset about the actual history debate incident than he’d thought he was. Realizing that only made him want to escape even more.

“Then I don’t see what there is to be upset about,” Mr. Morris said. His voice was so gentle and soothing it was sickening. Gansey wanted to say that Ronan or Adam deserved this so much more than Gansey did.

“There was no reason,” Gansey admitted, hoping that he’d finally be allowed to escape.

“Alright,” Mr. Morris said and for a second Gansey thought the conversation was over, but then Mr. Morris said, “Then is there something else bothering you?”

Yes, I’m going to be dead by April 24th. Gansey thought, but he couldn’t just say that, no matter how much he wanted to. That was his struggle and he needed to bear it alone. It would help no one if Gansey used his swiftly ending life as an excuse to dump his problems onto others.

“There’s nothing else wrong,” Gansey said with all the finality he’d learned from the numerous politicians in his family. “I just wanted to apologize for causing a fuss.”

Then he turned and fled, ignoring Mr. Morris calling after him.

~~~~

The Pig started the first time Gansey turned the key, which made him pathetically grateful. He pulled out of the parking lot, refusing to admit that he’d probably have burst into tears if the car hadn’t started. The car had started so there was no reason to think about what might have happened if it hadn’t.

There was also no reason to think about his conversation with Mr. Morris. He couldn’t let himself think about what might have happened if he’d told the teacher the truth. He knew the most people only indulged the more fantastical aspects of his quest for Glendower. Gansey and Mr. Morris had discussed the Welsh King on numerous occasions since Gansey had begun attending Aglionby, and Gansey knew that while the history teacher found the depth of Gansey’s knowledge impressive, he didn’t really believe Gansey would find Glendower around Henrietta. Mr. Morris definitely wouldn’t believe Gansey if he tried to explain about souls on St. Mark’s Eve. It was better than he hadn’t tried to speak.

In that way, Gansey pointedly did not think about everything that had gone wrong today for the entire drive back to Monmouth. He also didn’t think about how not thinking about something required so much mental energy it was basically the same as thinking about the thing. Instead he tried to think about how Ronan and Adam would probably be off doing who knows what until Adam had to work, how Blue would be walking dogs and how Noah was rarely around anymore. Monmouth would be empty for a couple hours until Ronan found his way back. Gansey should not have felt thankful for that, but all he could think about was how he’d have a couple hours to sleep and hopefully put himself back together before he had to interact with people again.

He was so looking forward to his soft bed and sleep that it took him a couple minutes to realize that Adam’s Hondayota was parked next to Ronan’s BMW in front of Monmouth. His stomach sinking, Gansey parked the Pig next to the other two cars and just sat, gripping the wheel for a few minutes trying to gather himself. They weren’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be able to snatch a couple hours of sleep and feel better. This day wasn’t supposed to keep dragging on.

He thought about simply putting the Pig into gear, driving away, finding a shady park and trying to sleep in the Camaro, but they’d no doubt already seen and heard him pull up. If he left now he’d have to explain why he had and he didn’t think he could come up with a lie good enough for that. With a heavy sigh, he turned the Camaro off, gathered his bag and headed slowly up the steps into the factory.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he realized there were more voices than just Adam and Ronan’s. He pushed the door open to see that Blue was there and so was Noah, corporeal for the first time in at least a week. They all looked up when Gansey came in, big smiles on their faces. “Hi, Gansey!” Noah said with a wave. “We’re going to have a movie night! Well, movie afternoon as the case may be, but whatever.”

Gansey stared at them, trying to bury his disappointment and pull up one of his masks from somewhere. He needed to act normal, it would be so much simpler to just go along with this than to try to whine about how he was tired.

It took him too long to respond. “Gansey?” Adam asked.

Gansey opened his mouth intending to say something that would diffuse the tension building up in the room, but what came out was, “Why aren’t you at work?”

Adam jerked back, eyes widening in surprise. “I don’t work until late tonight,” he said, eyes darting around like he was trying to find out what was going on. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“No, no, there’s not,” Gansey said, horribly aware that his tone of voice was too sharp, completely wrong for the words he was saying. He threw his bag onto the bed with more force than strictly necessary. His school things spilled across the bed and all he could think about was how that was another thing he was going to have to deal with. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” he went on in that horrible, wrong voice. “It’s not like you could have told me you had plans, but I guess my life revolves around you people anyway, so what does it matter.”

Noah’s eyes got huge for one moment before he melted away into nothingness, fleeing the situation. Ronan’s face twisted. “Now, what the-” he began but Blue held up a hand to stop him and shockingly he actually listened.

“We didn’t mean it like that, Gansey,” she said. “But you seem kind of upset. Did something happen today?”

“No!” Gansey shot back. “Nothing happened today! Everything’s splendid, thank you very much!”

Blue opened her mouth to respond, but Gansey turned away, talking over her. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, fighting to stay calm. “You all can carry on with whatever you were doing.” He snatched up some clothes and stalked into the kitchen/bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

He’d been standing under the warm water for five minutes when he finally began to calm down enough to realize what he’d just done. He hadn’t gotten truly angry at one of his friends since his argument with Adam outside the hospital and look how that had turned out.

His chest tightened again. He’d just snapped at all his friends for something that there was no reason to get angry about. They’d all stopped by numerous times without telling him and it had never bothered him. Now he’d made Noah disappear when Noah had been around so infrequently recently, and he’d yelled at Blue and Adam.

He’d yelled at Adam.

Panic overwhelmed him. He’d always known he’d eventually mess up his fragile peace treaty with Adam, but he hadn’t thought he would happen this way. He’d thought it would happen during a casual conversation and he’d be left spending the next six months trying to figure out what exactly he’d said that had been so wrong. He hadn’t expected that he’d ruin it by forgetting the thin edge he was walking on and simply yelling at Adam. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid.

He crumpled to the floor of the shower stall, curled into a ball, water pounding down onto his back and neck, and gave into his second panic attack of the day. He’d ruined it. He’d so loved Adam not always being angry at him, and now he’d gone and ruined it. He’d hoped to have more time to enjoy it before it all fell apart again.

He huddled in the shower choking out gasp-sobs until he was the hot water ran out and he was too exhausted to panic anymore. He was so tired he wanted to just lie down on the floor of the shower and sleep. Instead he hauled himself up and got out. He dressed slowly and prepared to face the damage he’d done. He pointedly did not look in the mirror; he did not want to know what he looked like.

Ronan, Blue and Adam were all still there, which Gansey was a little surprised by; he’d expected at least Adam to have marched out in a fit of rage. They were watching what looked like a kid’s movie which Blue paused when she heard the kitchen/bathroom door open.

All four of them looked at each other for a couple minutes until Gansey couldn’t take it anymore and dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry about before,” he said quietly. “I have no excuse.”

Actually, there were numerous excuses, but trying to use one would probably only make Adam angrier. Gansey just wanted to do whatever he needed to do to get through the worst of Adam’s anger as quickly as possible.

There was another long pause, then someone got up and walked over. Gansey didn’t look up and was therefore surprised when a stack of clothes was forced into his arms. “Take your contacts out and put these on,” Adam said gently. “You look really tired.”

Slowly, almost afraid to see, Gansey lifted his head. Adam was looking at him not with rage or disgust but with open concern. It was as confusing as his conversation with Mr. Morris had been, but this time, Gansey knew better than to try to figure out what was going on. He looked back down at the clothes. There was a pair of his pajama pants and his favorite yellow sweater. He was touched; he didn’t realize that his friends stopped mocking his clothes long enough to notice that he even had a favorite sweater, let alone to figure out which one it was.

“Okay,” he said, in a near whisper, because he had no idea what was going on and he was too tired to figure out. He went back into the kitchen/bathroom, stripped out of the after-school clothes he’d just put on and changed into the soft, comfortable things that Adam had given him. Then he took out his contacts, which felt amazing because his eyes were irritated from the shower water and crying. He slid his glasses on and headed back out into the main room.

Blue smiled at him from the couch. Adam and Ronan were sitting on the floor in front of her. Bizarrely, she had one foot planted securely on the side of Ronan’s face and she was holding him a leg’s-length away. Gansey decided he didn’t want to know.

“Come sit down, Gansey,” Blue said, patting the couch next to her. Gansey wondered if they should be sharing a couch when they still didn’t know what Adam would think of them being together, but he was too tired to think of a logical excuse not to. He crossed the room and dropped down next to her.

“I really am sorry for snapping at you,” he said. “And for scaring Noah away. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“Gansey, it’s fine,” Blue said patting his leg. “You’re allowed to be frustrated every now and then; we’re not going to hate you forever because of it. And Noah will turn up again; he’s not going to vanish into the ether just because you had a bad day.”

Gansey wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but thankfully he didn’t have to because Ronan used that moment to bat Blue’s foot away from his face and snatch the remote from her. He pointed it at the TV like it was a weapon. “Alright, now that that’s all take care of, let’s get back to this movie.”

The movie was a good one, but one Gansey had watched a million times as a kid. Slowly he listed to the side until he collapsed against the couch’s armrest, mostly on his side. Blue hauled his legs onto the couch, so his feet were pressing against her thigh and then he was really lying down. Gansey’s eyes sank closed and someone took his glasses off, so they wouldn’t be crushed. Someone else dumped the comforter from his bed onto him and then he was warm and comfortable and safe. He felt himself start to drift off.

Blue rubbed his foot gently. “Go to sleep, Gansey,” she said. “We’re going to order pizza soon; we’ll wake you when it gets here.”

Gansey hummed in acknowledgment and finally, finally fell asleep.

--

Hopefully, you enjoyed. I may write a sequel in the Gangsey’s POVs if people like this and if I feel like writing it.

Emjen

#The Raven Boys #the raven cycle #blue lily lily blue #the raven king #richard gansey iii #gansey #blue sargent #adam parrish #ronan lynch #Gansey has a bad day #Someone needs to tell Gansey he doesn't need to feel guilty for not being okay #Adam is a reasonable human being #gansey x blue #adam x ronan #but really is barely shippy at all #literally all the romance is squint-or-you'll miss it #You know you're writing a story involving a fancy prep school when you Google pretentious sounding last names #tw: panic attack #emjenenla #Emjen writes #fanfiction #fanfic

[notperfectbutitsmine]

Wonder Woman (2017)

Tony Stark v. Bruce Wayne. Thor v. Superman. DC and Marvel are constantly being compared against one another and, in terms of films, audiences tend to gravitate towards one over the other. I am definitely guilty of opting for Marvel every time and keeping my expectations low when it comes to the latest DC release. And, to be honest, the likes of “Suicide Squad” and “Batman v. Superman” have done little to change that.

I recently decided to give “Wonder Woman” a go and, although it’s not perfect, it’s a vast improvement on its predecessors. My outlook on the franchise may be about to become more positive.

When their hidden island paradise comes into contact with the chaos raging in the human world, a tribe of Amazon warrior women are faced with a dilemma – should the secret they’ve been trying to keep hidden for centuries now be revealed? Princess Diana (Gal Gadot), convinced that by defeating the Greek God Ares she will end WWI and restore peace, leaves the island for the first time with an American spy (Chris Pine). Fighting alongside the men, she discovers the truth about her powers and the nature of humanity.

“Wonder Woman” presents a positive female role model in a genre dominated by male leads. She’s smart, confident, a strong leader and, most importantly, her actions aren’t determined solely by the men around her. Whilst Steve Trevor arguably makes her follow him on his mission, she chooses to do what she thinks is right and diverge from him many times. Although references are made to the suffragette movement, these are very brief and in some way insignificant. So, the message of female empowerment rests almost entirely on Diana and her impressions of the opposite sex. Initially demonised by the Amazons, men are considered the source of all the world’s problems and only useful for procreation, which plays on that initial reaction many have when asked what feminism is about. Through the relationships formed with Steve and his friends, Diana’s perceptions are altered and therefore the film’s approach to a strong female lead is too. It begins to reinforce that equality and cooperation between the sexes matters more than preconceived notions of which is superior.  Overall, DC portrays this female superhero in a generally positive way, yet how she is received differs amongst audience members. And it’s easy to see where each side is coming from. The film does make strides towards empowering women but, at the same time, some of Hollywood’s old habits are hard to break… 

The film has other good qualities, from its casting to the production value, but again only to a certain extent. As origin stories go, “Wonder Woman” feels relatively unique. The film starts in such a way that, until you reach the final scenes, it doesn’t seem like your typical superhero blockbuster. However, the film maybe falls into the usual trap of relying on big budget action to draw in audiences. It was almost as if the people behind the film felt that it needed to conform to everything that had come before. That’s not to say that the production value is not to be appreciated. There are some great sequences that are well-choreographed and have plenty of CGI to grab your attention. One iconic moment is when Diana ventures into No Man’s Land. The costume reveal and theme playing combined with the reality of the setting isn’t just about the visuals, but it’s certainly impressive to watch.

Casting in films like this is incredibly important. The comics already have a substantial following and everyone will have their own thoughts on what a character should be like. It’s a challenge any adaptation faces. For me, the casting was one of the highlights. Gal Gadot excelled as Diana/Wonder Woman and Chris Pine complimented her performance rather than taking anything away. There are also a few British actors who make an appearance and some were more pleasing than others. Ewen Bremner (“Trainspotting”) was a great addition to represent the impact of war on men at the time. His reluctance to shoot and need to find calm and comfort through music was indicative of those who returned home suffering from “shell shock” or PTSD. It didn’t just assume that everyone would walk away from events perfectly fine. Another familiar face worth mentioning is David Thewlis (a.k.a. Professor Lupin), a great actor who was perhaps let down a bit by the character he was portraying.

Indeed, something that the film really lacked was a credible antagonist. From the outset, we know that Diana is determined to stop Ares, the God of War, and Steve’s main aim is to prevent the German army from releasing a poisonous gas that could change the outcome of the First World War. So, audiences are initially secure in terms of knowing who the antagonists are. The film alternates between our heroes and the enemies, General Ludendorff and Doctor Manu, establishing them as the two sides of the war. Ares remains an unknown entity mentioned every so often to remind us that he exists or suggest that he doesn’t. The grand reveal of Ares’ identity was very anti-climactic and the established “baddies” were reduced to an afterthought. It didn’t really make much sense. Two possibilities are given – that Ludendorff is Ares or the war is the result of humanity, not a God – and these are both thrown aside. The idea that Thewlis’ character is really a God in disguise isn’t really eluded to at all as he has very little interaction with the protagonists. Honestly, I was a little disappointed. A good villain needs to be developed or at least mean something to the heroes in order to have an impact. Otherwise they might as well have chosen anyone. The time taken to present the doctor and her poisons as an important part of the story seemed almost redundant. Efforts could have instead been redirected to make the reveal more feasible. I mean, funding the first few days of the mission and then basically disappearing for the rest of the film isn’t nearly enough.

While we’re still waiting for a female-led Marvel film (e.g. Black Widow), DC has managed to somewhat successfully introduce Wonder Woman to audiences. The film as a whole is good, a few flaws can be found here and there but it’s still enjoyable. Marvel remains my favourite of the two universes, although now I feel more willing to watch “Justice League” and future DC films with an open mind. Hopefully this means that DC can only improve and not take a step backwards.

Jess x

#notperfectbutitsmine #blog #film #review #film review #movie #dc #dc films #dc universe #wonder woman #female superhero #superhero #greek god #gal gadot #chris pine #ewen bremner #david thewlis #empire magazine #magazine covers #sexism #feminism #equality

[recalculatingthegenderwar]

Woman Women feminist shitstorm begins: theater bars men from screening of Wonder Woman movie because "girl power"

The upcoming Wonder Woman movie premieres June 2. The movie actually looks like it may be okay. The problem is that Wonder Woman, as perhaps the most widely known superheroine (especially by people who don't read comics), has always been a lightning rod for gender politics. Case in point, Alamo Drafthouse in Austin, Texas has decided to host a "women's only" screening of the film because "girl power":

"Apologies, gentlemen, but we’re embracing our girl power and saying “No Guys Allowed” for one special night at the Alamo Ritz. And when we say “People Who Identify As Women Only,” we mean it. Everyone working at this screening -- venue staff, projectionist, and culinary team -- will be female."

I'm still trying to figure out if this is illegal. I would be one thing if this was a private event for a organization that just happened to be all women. However, its quite another thing to have a public event that specifically bars a specific people group. I see little difference between having a "women's only" showing and a "whites' only" showing.

Not only is the theater discriminating against customers based on gender, but possibly also employees. If they told any male employees they couldn't work during the screening, those employees would have legal grounds for a employment discrimination complaint under Texas labor laws.

I also want to say its a stupid business decision to bar half your potential customers for no reason, but the tickets seemed to have sold out! There is even talk of setting up more women's only screenings. Plus they are getting a load of free publicity.

Drafthouse's Response

Alamo Drafthouse has responded to very credible allegations of sexism with mostly with either dismissive or outright snarky social media comments.

This isn't a matter of opinion. This is subjective gender discrimination. The only possible argument you can make is this is some how okay gender discrimination.

I don't want the Drafthouse to burn in hellfire (unintentional Marvel comic reference there). In current American society, sadly few people recognize that sexism against men is even possible. I could imagine the Alamo Drafthouse unwittingly walked into this. However, they lose my sympathy when they double-down when they should be apologizing.

I also simply don't understand what the draw is for women here. I don't necessarily agree with women's only gyms or "ladies night" discounts, but at least there is some sort of argument there. What's the attraction here? See a movie without having to suffer the presence of men? Is the spectre of "ra-ra" sisterhood so intoxicating, no matter how ridiculous and unnecessary its form?

I think what really frustrates me about the whole thing is that is just seems to be sexism for sexism's sake and women are paying a premium for it!

Women's Women is a lightning rod for gender politics and SJW crap

Wonder Woman frustrates me because she is a mainstay of the DC Comics universe, but I think she has always been held back by both gender politics and bad writing. I think the writing has actually been getting a little better for her. While DC fans generally hated the New 52 reboot, it played up some complexities in Wonder Woman that made her more own character and less Superman with tits. Brian Azzarello's New 52 Wonder Woman run, while not perfect, was probably the most interesting take on the character I've seen for awhile. It also occasionally poked fun at the gender politics of the series and a few times out-right slapped them across the face.

However, you also have Grant Marrison's ridiculous Wonder Woman: Earth One, which includes unnecessary references to both body shaming and racism (along with some of the weird BDSM stuff found in very early versions of Wonder Woman). We have an issue of Sensation Comics, where Wonder Woman explains even her magical Lasso of Truth "can't stop mansplaining".

Wonder Woman has become a feminist icon simply because she is the most recognizable female superhero. Gloria Steinmen famously complained about a story arc where Wonder Woman lost her powers. But how much Wonder Woman do you think Steinmen actually read? Do you think she knew any other female superheroes? As the recent SJW incursion into comics has made it clear, SJWs care more about the political statements they can make with comics, rather than the medium itself. I have a feeling that feminists would rather Wonder Woman be a good feminist billboard, then a good (much less financially viable) character.

Wonder Woman is actually a confusing choice for a feminist heroine if you bother to dip below the surface of the character. For one thing, Wonder Woman was created by a man. A man who appears to have wanted to use her to promote BDSM.

Sure, feminists will likely drool at a super-powered warrior princess from an all-female island paradise battling evil (which they may easily reinterpret as "patriarchy"). However, I doubt that many consider that the "Paradise Island" (aka Themyscira) Wonder Woman hails from is a highly militaristic, isolationist, xenophobic, theocratic, misandric, dictatorship (technically a monarchy, but the queen is immortal). It might even be outright authoritarian. Women aren't generally allowed to leave the island. Men are generally forbidden from setting foot on the island (sometimes on penalty of death).

Furthermore, while feminist dogma sometimes gets pasted on to Wonder Woman, Wonder Woman is very often the force pushing for greater understanding and contact with "man's world", occasionally even bringing male heroes (often in violation of the island's laws) to Paradise Island. Wonder Woman is the bridge between our "man's world" (which actually isn't just man's world) and her island, which is why Alamo Drafthouse barring men is particularly ironic. It's probably the most un-Wonder Woman thing you could do.

Frankly, feminist don't even know what to think about Wonder Woman. The U.N. adopted Wonder Woman as a mascot late last October. When Wonder Woman became a U.N. mascot last year (I suspect as a face-saving measure when they failed to elect a female U.N. Sectary General), many feminists were outraged. A petition with 44,983 signatures was submitted to remove Wonder Woman. One of their complaints was that a real women should have been used, but I think they were mostly upset that Wonder Woman was "an overtly sexualized image" at time of supposed rampant "objectification of women and girls".

"Although the original creators may have intended Wonder Woman to represent a strong and independent “warrior” woman with a feminist message, the reality is that the character’s current iteration is that of a large breasted, white woman of impossible proportions, scantily clad in a shimmery, thigh-baring body suit with an American flag motif and knee high boots –the epitome of a “pin-up” girl."

Ultimately, the U.N. dropped Wonder Woman after just 2 months.

This hasn't stopped Gal Got from telling us that Wonder Woman is totally a feminist movie, mostly because Gal Got has no idea what feminism actually is.

"GLAMOUR: [..] Does portraying one of the most iconic feminist figures change your own personal feelings on feminism? GG: There are such misconceptions as to what a feminist is. Feminism is about equality. I want all people to have the same opportunities and to get the same salaries for the same jobs. I realize I'm doing what I want to do because of the women before me who laid the groundwork. Without them I wouldn't be an educated working mother who is following her dreams; I wouldn't be here."

It's Got who is has misconceptions about feminism, which is definitely not about gender equality, but actively promotes inequality.

Get ready for a feminist deluge

I'm holding out hope the Wonder Woman movie will actually be mostly good (probably not great, but good). Although the WWI setting makes me think we'll probably get a reference to the Suffragettes, which would be strange since women can't vote on Paradise Island either. I doubt the movie will comment on the Suffragette's largely forgotten racism or acts of domestic terrorism (or note how many men couldn't vote at the time either). I would love to see someone try to explain the White Feather Campaign to WWI era Wonder Woman.

However, we are definitely going to get a deluge of feminist commentary on the movie. Three months from the movie's release Wonder Woman's arm pit hair was already a point of controversy! Hundreds of feminist blogs will use the movie as a springboard to talk about feminism. Feminists act like the fictional movie some how proves feminist doctrine. Feminists will complain about other feminists commentary because Wonder Woman is white, able-bodied, and attractive. Feminists will analyze the ticket sales. Feminists will make seeing the movie a political act and not seeing an act of misogyny.

On the other hand, if Wonder Woman was even mildly anti-feminist, it could be one of the greatest anti-feminist trolls of all time.

More Stuff

MundaneMatt: Male fans upset at (possibly illegal) female-only WONDER WOMAN screening

Diversity in Comics: WONDER WOMAN will play in gender-segregated theaters

#wonder woman #antifeminism #feminism

[incursionofthedamnedrpg]

Julian Calloway (Charlie Hunnam FC) Accepted! Please send in your account within 24 hours, with the ask and submit on, and welcome to the roleplay!

Name: Ro

Age: 22

Timezone: PST

State an account where we can message you: this one

How active you’re going to be: 6/7 throughout the week, more on weekends

How did you find out about this roleplay? Annieee

Why do you want to play this character? Feels! Development for him and for other characters he can interact with!

Anything else you would like to tell us? I was going to do an IC sample para but the bio wiped me out because I wrote an excessive amount so I sent one I already had I hope that’s okay! Also if there’s something not okay with the bio just let me know ill change whatever it is.

IC:

Preferred Ships:

Julian/Chemistry

Sample para:

RFP.

Name: Julian Calloway

Birthday: May 10th (24/197)

Species: Vampire

Lookalike: Charlie Hunnam

Availability: Taken

Personality

The phrase, time is a healer is so ironic when heard through the ears of a vampire. Time was no healer, no in Julian’s eyes. All time was, was an empty space as immortal as he was. Detached, growing close to others isn’t his forte since he sees it as an opportunity for others to use. Sarcasm oozed out of him and his tongue was sharp. At least, depending on the time of day you catch him. Despite this, Julian was patient, but only if it was beneficial for him, otherwise you will find he can blow like a ticking bomb. Genuinely wanting to help people with nothing in return isn’t in his nature, not unless he considers you a friend. Though, if there was something to gain from it, Julian kept his word when he made deals, as long as there was something in it for him then you could bet he would do right by it.  An observer would be a good way to describe him, tactical and sly in a way that made it easier for him to be smarter than his company. Self involved? He wouldn’t say so, but perhaps that’s sometimes how he comes across. Julian isn’t know for his humanity, he bares no weakness - at least, he doesn’t show it, if he does. In the end though, all he really seeks out is a way to entertain himself, ruin whatever form it may come in and you earn yourself a spot on his radar.

Past

Born in 1822, Julian’s parents were all about status and how they looked in the eyes of others, something he learned from a young age. His life wasn’t his own, he was simply a piece on the chess board while his father made all the moves with his mother whispering in his ear. Though the name had the respect of others and women’s eyes lit up when they recognized it, there was nothing grand about being a Calloway in Julian’s eyes. He did as he was told, acted the way he was expected to, going through his life as if every single motion was planned out because it felt it was. Marriage was inevitable and love had nothing to do with the plans his father had for him. It was strategic and a way to grow from what they already had, draining out any possible chance for love to be apart of the equation and Julian accepted it without hesitating. It was all he knew, until he met a woman by the name of Natasha Ingram, appearing out of thin air but quickly making a reputation for herself. Any man that came across her wanted her and every woman felt threatened by her. Julian wasn’t any better, falling under her spell and taking her to bed. It wasn’t long after that Julian was declaring his love for her to which she responded to mutually.

For the first time in his life he felt like the chains that had been keeping him locked in place were being undone. He was going after what he wanted, stating his opinions even when contrary to his father, all because of Natasha. When his parents realized how far and serious it was becoming between the two of them they put their foot down. They tried talking sense into him, telling him of the whispers that surrounded Natasha painting her in a bad light but Julian refused to hear or believe any of it. Demanding Julian to stop whatever he had going on with her and forbidding him to see her ever again, they thought they were giving no choice on the matter when they gave him the ultimatum of what he would inherit or Natasha, but he chose her and the thought of having a life he actually wanted over one that would leave him feeling empty and alone. If only he had chose differently then his life would’ve played out much differently than it had.

Julian grabbed all he could and found Natasha, asking her to leave with him, begging her to. She looked at him as though he had gone mad and that’s when her true colors were shown. She had never loved him she had just wanted to use him for reasons she never let known, since he had become a waste to her now. There was a blur of moments after that her eyes going dark, telling him she’d leave him with a parting gift, then his whole world went black. He woke up in transition, something he didn’t know back then, going through with it hours later unknowingly. He felt like a monster, he was a monster, and he knew he had only one person to blame for that. He couldn’t go back to his former life anymore, not that he wanted to, so he set his eyes on a new adventure one that sought revenge.

The first three years were the harder ones of his vampire life, he had very little knowledge of what he was going through and all the supernatural elements of the world. He didn’t have a day light ring so he moved in the night which in the long run became beneficial to the way Julian worked. The man that once thought there was hope had been erased entirely and he embraced the monster within him. He learned things over time, opening his eyes and mind up to all there was lurking in the shadows of this world. Eventually he ran into a witch by the name of Gisele who he made a proposal he couldn’t deny. He took out a problem for her, while she made a daylight ring for him a bonus being that she had information on Natasha’s whereabouts. He held up his end of the deal and so did she, parting ways with her once all was said and done. It took another two years after that for Julian to finally find himself in the same place as the woman who turned him and by then he had adjusted to the life as a vampire knowing he had to get the better of her which he did all by tricks and treachery like she had done with him. He drove a stake through her heart and the last bit of his former self died along with her in that moment.

Once he had gotten his revenge he realized his life was entirely his now. No plans, no action to be taken, he was free to do whatever he wished which meant even more now that he was a vampire. So for the next eighty years Julian did exactly whatever he wanted, he didn’t wreck havoc but he did cause trouble sometimes for the right reasons and sometimes just to pass the time. He went through his life alone but this time it was how he liked it, moving from one place to another enjoying himself until he chose to up and leave without so much as a goodbye to the company he made in the time there since most of the time he used different aliases, making up different stories as his life. Then there was the war, something that could’ve been seen as gallant for him enlisting but it was purely selfish. What better way to feed and kill people without any questions asked? That was where he met Marcel and a friendship was born between the two of them. Even though they parted ways after the war, a couple years later Julian found himself in the city that Marcel made his own. He stuck around for many years after that but with the years of comfort under his belt Julian eventually found he needed something new. He departed from the city once again facing the world on his own, adapting to every change with the times.

Present

Every now and then he’d find his way back to New Orleans to check in on all those he considered a little more than acquaintances. When he decided to return once again he realized Marcel was no longer there, inquiring for his whereabouts it led him to the town of Mystic Falls and for such a small town with what he found lingering within the borders of it Julian couldn’t pass up the entertainment he thought it would bring him. He’s not looking to call it home, but since he had been looking for a change of pace what better place to make it happen?

Connections

Marcel Gerard

Met in WWI, the only person that Julian will use the word friend for and since he has a lot of respect for Marcel he has no problem following his lead if need be.

Aria Hale

Introduced by Marcel, Julian watched the evolution that is Aria and although he won’t admit it, he considers her somewhat of a friend.

Couldn’t think of a third connection!

#accepted

[monabela]

after I had picked songs and thought of stories for them, I noticed that everything with Ukraine had turned out to be rather sad. but I think this one didn't turn out as sad as it could've been even though it's set during WWI. it isn’t a very romantic story but Listen there is only so much I can put in 2000 words okay. I’m not good at writing short things :’D

what it seems

part II of the femslash Sonata Arctica AUs

Nothing's what it seems to be I'm a replica, I'm a replica An empty shell inside of me I'm a replica of me

- Replica

characters/pairings: Hungary (Erzsébet)/Ukraine (Iryna), mentioned past Austria/Hungary

word count: 2422 summary: Erzsébet is just trying to keep herself together, but Iryna teaches her that maybe she doesn't have to. Maybe it's okay to be sad.

There is so much to do.

Erzsébet sighs as she closes her front door behind herself, putting her meager groceries down and wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Now that that’s over with, she just needs to feed the animals, provided that the rooster hasn’t run away again, of course… Maybe she can mend the fence while she’s at it, so at least that problem will be solved.

But it’s dusk by the time she’s found the stupid bird and managed to coax it down from old woman Chernenkova’s shed, and now her mood is completely ruined, because she still has to make dinner with the sparse ingredients the rations allow for.

“Miss Héderváry?” calls an unfamiliar voice from the old woman’s house, and Erzsébet sighs again, shaking her unruly hair out of her eyes.

“Yes?” she shouts back. The rooster is trying to struggle his way out of her arms. She scowls at him ineffectively while a woman steps out of Mrs Chernenkova’s house and walks over to her. Erzsébet doesn’t think she’s seen her before, and in this village, that’s quite a feat. People pass through often, but none ever stay, and certainly none learn her name.

“Hello,” the woman says. “My aunt said to tell you that she needs your help tomorrow, with her—” she ducks away when the rooster tries to grab her sleeve— “vegetables.”

“Sorry,” Erzsébet says, wrapping her arms tighter around the angry bundle of feathers. The woman smiles a little, tucking some fine blonde hair back into one of her braids. “Your aunt?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. I’m Iryna Chernenkova. I’m staying with my aunt for a while. At home, it’s not…” She bites her lip, light eyes cast down. “Whatever the case. Nice to meet you, Miss Héderváry. My aunt speaks highly of you.”

Her Hungarian has the same lilts as Mrs Chernenkova’s has, but much more pronounced, as though she isn’t used to speaking the language. She must have been living in Russia, Erzsébet guesses. There have been more Ukrainians coming this way, passing through to distant parts of Austria-Hungary or even farther away in an attempt to escape having to fight their own people.

Erzsébet also severely doubts Mrs Chernenkova speaks highly of her, but she’ll leave that alone.

“Please call me Erzsébet, and tell your aunt I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good.” Iryna smiles again. “I will probably see you around then.”

“Yes, you—” The rooster makes and angry noise and tries to bite her fingers. “I should get this one home.”

“Of course. Sorry to keep you.”

Erzsébet gives Iryna a tired smile and trudges up the path to her own house, which is large and so, so empty.

The following day dawns sunny and warm, but Erzsébet hasn’t felt the warmth in the villagers since she came here. Everything seems bleak when they know there is a war raging so close by, when there are so few men left, their absence reminding everyone of the situation, as if they could forget for a minute.

Still, old woman Chernenkova’s vegetables need to be harvested, war or no war, and Erzsébet does think it would be nice to have some new company in the form of Iryna. She mends the fence in the morning, pulling a childish triumphant face at the rooster as she leaves.

Mrs Chernenkova is bossy as always, but it’s good work, in the garden, and Iryna more than makes up for her aunt’s personality. She has a light voice, skilled fingers and a sadness in her eyes that Erzsébet is familiar with, because she sees it in the mirror whenever she can will herself to look into it, which isn’t very often these days. Iryna’s skirt is mended in several places and snatches on a wayward strawberry bush late in the afternoon, causing another rip.

She just sighs and wipes her forehead with her arm, getting dry earth stuck in her hair. The braids are pinned around her head today; Erzsébet thinks it looks very artful and curiously asks how it is done. Iryna tries to explain but ends up with leaves in her hair and her aunt shouting at both of them from her chair in the shade.

“I’ll show you another time,” she promises instead. Erzsébet tells her she looks forward to it. To her surprise, she really does.

And she does hold Iryna to it, inviting her over for dinner later that week and cooking something with the bit of her aunt’s vegetables she was allowed to take.

They only talk about trivial things. Not the war. Never the war. It’s all anyone seems to talk about these days, and it’s easy to see that they’re both so tired of it. Iryna talks about her childhood instead, and Erzsébet is pleased to learn that she was right, that she is indeed from the Ukraine, where she grew up on her family’s farm. She seems happy to remember, and Erzsébet is happy to watch her talk.

It’s always nice to meet new people, especially these days when everyone seems to be bearing so much history on their shoulders, and she already knows everyone from the village by now.

The evening is comfortable enough that they forget about the hair-braiding question, but that’s a good excuse to spend more time together the next week and over the rest of the summer.

Sometimes, it’s difficult. There are things either of them doesn’t want to talk about, and they have grown up with opposing views about some issues, but none of those little hardships matter much when the baker gets a message that her son has died in battle and more Ukrainians pass by the village almost daily.

“I should count myself lucky, I suppose,” Iryna says one day, as she and Erzsébet sit and clean Mrs Chernenkova’s clothes for her.

“Why?”

“I have my aunt here. So many people are just traveling into the unknown.”

Erzsébet bites her lip. “In that way, you might be right. But you came here all by yourself.”

This is one of those things they don’t talk about; how they both ended up here, Erzsébet from the German part of Austria-Hungary and Iryna from Russian Ukraine. Erzsébet is a curious person, but she knows when to stop asking.

To her surprise, Iryna sighs, pushes her hair away with a wet hand, and speaks in a low voice.

“I left my younger brother and sister behind, at home. My brother is probably fighting…”

“And your sister?” Erzsébet asks breathlessly, Mrs Chernenkova’s socks forgotten in the tub.

“I don’t know. She was supposed to go to a safe place too, but I…” Her voice cracks, and she covers the side of her face with her hand. “I’m sorry. I miss them.”

“I understand,” Erzsébet whispers, staring straight ahead at the dusky red sky, fingers absentmindedly grasping the familiar weight of the necklace resting against her breastbone.

“You do?”

When Erzsébet looks up at Iryna, her shining eyes are flicking from her face to the hand at her throat. She swallows, and tugs the necklace out of her shirt. Iryna’s lips part in surprise at the ring dangling from the thin band.

“I was engaged,” Erzsébet explains. “He was called to war, and never came back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Iryna says quietly. Slowly, she reaches out to Erzsébet, curling her long, callused fingers around her wrist, stroking circles into the frail skin there with her thumb.

“I’m glad I met you, though.”

Iryna is looking down at her aunt’s socks, but the flush on her cheeks is clearly visible even through the damp tear tracks marring the pale skin. Erzsébet smiles.

“I feel the same.”

And really, everything is a bit more bearable with Iryna around. Erzsébet has been keeping herself as busy as possible, if only to prevent herself from thinking about her fiancé, imagining what they would be doing, how they would be living now, if it weren’t for the war.

Iryna isn’t like that, she learns after that evening. She likes to sit and talk about her siblings whenever she can. She tries to do so with her aunt, but Mrs Chernenkova evidently doesn’t feel much like talking about anything most of the time. Erzsébet, on the other hand, is more than willing to listen, if not talk in return.

At least, not for a while.

As winter approaches and the end of the war seems further away than ever, she thinks that maybe Iryna always seems happier when she remembers Ivan and Natalya, and maybe… Just maybe, she herself shouldn’t let Roderich’s memory be sullied by the war.

“He always did want to live forever,” she tells Iryna in the forest, where they are gathering firewood for themselves and old woman Chernenkova, who is already complaining about cold feet despite it hardly being October yet.

“Really? In what way?”

Erzsébet smiles to herself, then realizes it is the first time in a while she has allowed the happy memories in like that, let them overrule her sadness about the fact that he’s gone.

“Music,” she answers. “He loved music. I’m certain he wanted to be the next Beethoven or something like that.”

“That’s amazing,” Iryna says. And then, as if she understands that that is all Erzsébet will say about it today, “Have I told you that I used to be in a choir?”

Erzsébet listens to her sing softly while they walk back to the village.

News from outside is sparse, apart from the occasional inevitable message no one wants to hear, but it is hard to miss even here that there is a lot going on across the border in Russia. Now, it is Erzsébet’s turn to take Iryna’s mind off things, which she does most effectively by talking more about what life was like before the war, without ever voicing the clear hope that it will be like that again someday.

It’s a futile hope, whatever happens. Their world has been irrevocably changed. Maybe the entire world. Everyone understands that, here and elsewhere, but Iryna and Erzsébet are their own little island, sharing their feelings with each other and trying to make sense of them against all odds. It becomes easier as time passes. The hurt never goes away, but it’s easier to place, without ever, as Erzsébet feared, forgetting what it stems from.

Erzsébet realizes it has been quite some time since she trusted anyone, really. With everything. In fact, it was probably her fiancé. The thought throws her for a loop until she tells Iryna, who says that it’s in no way a betrayal of his memory to trust her. Erzsébet hadn’t even recognized that that was her issue with it, but understands now.

It all comes down to letting things go or choosing to hang on to them, even if either may hurt as much as the other.

When yet another year rolls around, 1917 melting seamlessly into 1918, Erzsébet and Iryna sit in front of the small fire in Erzsébet’s living room, close together in an effort to get warm. Iryna is knitting. After watching her for a while – she can’t knit herself, despite her mother’s best efforts – Erzsébet is now just trying to warm her feet. The soles of her shoes are paper thin, nearly walked off, but it isn’t easy to get new ones these days.

Some part of her wishes sometimes that the fighting would come closer. That it would become obvious why everything is like this. Why her fiancé is gone. It’s stupid and selfish, and she hates herself for thinking it.

“Iryna?” she whispers, almost afraid to break the, if not peaceful, then at least restful, silence.

“Yes?” The knitting needles tick against one another without pause, a steady rhythm over the weak crackling of flames.

“Will you sing something?”

The ticking stops, and Iryna looks up, light blue eyes shadowed but clear. She pushes one of her braids over her shoulder.

“Of course. What?”

Erzsébet shrugs. She knows that there is a song she’s been wanting to hear, but she’s used to hearing it played on piano, and has no idea if Iryna would even know it.

Iryna keeps looking at her while she puts her knitting project away. The fire paints hues of red in her hair; it strikes Erzsébet not for the first time how beautiful she is despite the hardships life has wrought on her.

“I… I know a song,” she says, voice low. “I don’t know if you do.”

“Tell me.”

Erzsébet does, and Iryna does. She sings slowly and clearly, voice as low as Erzsébet’s. Some words are different in her version, but that doesn’t matter to Erzsébet, whose eyes well up with tears not because of the past, but because of the unsure future, because of this quiet moment amid a world of chaos. She wants to hold onto it for as long as she can.

Wants to hold on to Iryna, who is reaching out to her, wiping her cheeks dry with callused thumbs while she keeps singing.

When the song does end, she opens her mouth as if to say something, but Erzsébet shakes her head, then leans forward to wrap her arms around her shoulders. She pushes her nose against Iryna’s neck. Iryna embraces her too.

“Thank you,” Erzsébet whispers. “That was beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Iryna returns. Her hands are warm on Erzsébet’s back, warmer than the fire could ever hope to be. Everything feels slightly unreal in this moment, feels like the both of them are suspended like tightrope walkers between a Before and After, and it isn’t the war for once.

“Erzsi?” Iryna asks.

“Don’t… Don’t say anything for a while?” Erzsébet asks.

She hums in response, arms tightening. And keeps humming. The melody is unfamiliar to Erzsébet, but sounds as if it should be a lullaby. Both of them, she supposes, have memories locked in music.

She can’t tell how long they have sat there when she finally pulls back enough to look at Iryna, eyes tracing the fan of pale eyelashes over a wet cheekbone and the thin lips tugged into a tired, but genuine smile. She swallows. Iryna’s fingers card through her loose hair where it falls over her back.

“Don’t leave me,” Erzsébet whispers. Iryna tugs her closer again, pushes their foreheads together.

“I won’t,” she promises. “We will see it through together.”

And for the first time in years, Erzsébet looks forward to what the future may hold.

#hunukr #aph yuri #Hetalia #aph hungary #aph ukraine #I have a weird fascination with the endings of songs and this is a very strong one #fssa #fin #w: 2500 #ugh the video I linked isn't the best one but I wanted the 2014 version because I think the ending is stronger in that one #and the ending is my favorite part of the song #u: historical #u: human

[melbournelawfirm-blog]

Eagle Forum Hosts Illegal Immigration Experts At Meeting

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[clubofinfo]

Expert: This is going to be an exercise in redefining fascism after meeting with socialists on the hundredth anniversary of the great revolution. In the early 1900s, the Italians who invented the term Fascism also described it as estato corporativo, meaning: the corporate state. Fascism should more properly be called corporatism, since it is the merger of state and corporate power. — Benito Mussolini Then you have that great liberal, giver over of social goods from the rich, Franklin D. Roosevelt, who once described fascism as The liberty of a democracy is not safe if the people tolerate the growth of private power to a point where it becomes stronger than their democratic state itself. That, in its essence, is fascism — ownership of government by … a group, or any controlling private power. Or, I could use the old dictionary as a standard bearer for the concept: Webster’s — 1. Often capitalized: a political philosophy, movement, or regime (such as that of the Fascisti) that exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression of opposition 2. a tendency toward or actual exercise of strong autocratic or dictatorial control Heading Out Into Portland, Now Known as Resistance City Numero Tres It seemed like fun, going to Portland’s International Socialist Organization’s meeting at Portland State University on a blustery Northern Oregon Saturday. You know, the 100th anniversary of the Russian Revolution, and the Trotsky lovers packed into a small space at the state university. . . . Mostly young people, about 60 in all, in a basement at the student union. The glorious PSU farmer’s market was in high swing just outside with all those ethically-raised kale stalks, free-range lamb chops, trauma-informed cared for llama chunks of feta, and pole-caught tuna ripe for the taking. Bourgeoise, professors from the halls of academia, couples young and old able to afford the high cost of apartments, condos and homes in the area, looking for local stuff for chow that night. One of my former clients – Shawn – came up to me from the burgeoning crowd and asked how I was and stated how it was great to see me. He’s homeless, again, living in alleys, but looking fine, job ready, that is. “You were right,” he said. “Those social workers did nothing for me. Put me in jobs that start at 10 pm and finished at 4 am. Two-hour one-way trips, man, and no public transportation to get to them.” Fascism is Globalization of Cultures, Crimes of Capitalism, Thought The ebb and flow of Capitalism, when a guy like Shawn – 40 – is mingling with the bourgeoisie, and his hopelessness is the very foundation of capitalism and the fascism of the financial institutions riding roughshod over all corners of the globe. Yeah, I’d say that banks and even investment companies are part of the cabal of fascists now running the world – why in hell do the neo-fascists of the world need storm-troopers at home (they have them, though, don’t they, in the form of a drone-ridden, militarized and digitized surveillance state) marching up and down main street USA looking for radicals, Communists, labor unionists, etc.? The morning at PSU was one where speakers and audience responders all tried to force the word fascist into the box of old history, of those stormtroopers and Nazis and Gestapo and smoldering gas chambers. It was sickening, really, to hear some of the rationalizations, how today’s America isn’t even close to fascism, when, in fact, it is a fascist system, tied directly to the above definition of corporations calling the shots in and out of government. Here, more sickness, which is the monopoly control and structural violence and murder these perps carry out with their $2000 jackets and $500 pairs of shoes. This is the new face of fascism, or at least the face of the corporation is much much more powerful than in old Adolph’s or Benito’s time. From the Intercept: Goldman Sachs paid Hillary Clinton $675,000 for three speeches, but an even bigger Wall Street player stands ready to mold and enact her economic and financial policy if she becomes president. BlackRock is far from a household name, but it is the largest asset management firm in the world, controlling $4.6 trillion in investor funds — about a trillion dollars more than the annual federal budget, and five times the assets of Goldman Sachs. And Larry Fink, BlackRock’s CEO, has assembled a veritable shadow government full of former Treasury Department officials at his company. Fink has made clear his desire to become treasury secretary someday. The Obama administration had him on the short list to replace Timothy Geithner. When that didn’t materialize, he pulled several members of prior Treasury Departments into high-level positions at the firm, which may improve the prospects of realizing his dream in a future Clinton administration. Fink has also promoted the privatization of Social Security, while mocking the idea of retiring at 65, which is easy for a business executive who sits at a desk all day to say, rather than working on an assembly line or as a waiter. Fink owes his initial backing at BlackRock to Pete Peterson, the former commerce secretary who has been at the forefront of the campaign to cut or privatize Social Security. He sat on the steering committee of the Campaign to Fix the Debt, a stalking horse for Peterson’s ideas. Fink also opposes efforts to reinstitute the Glass-Steagall firewall between investment and commercial banks, as does Clinton. Again, one hundred years later. Recalling the past:  Lenin and Trotsky didn’t view the Russian Revolution as the beginning of “socialism in one country” given the country’s low level of economic development. It was the opening fissure of calling for a world revolution. Western capitalism was facing collapse due to the disastrous effects of World War I. Two years later, the Bolsheviks launched the Communist International (Comintern) in 1919 to bring together millions of workers and young people rallying to support the Russian Revolution and rejecting the social democratic parties who had betrayed the working class by supporting WWI. In the United States, the Socialist Party came out in support of the Comintern and went on to create the Communist Party. more here, 1917 Revolution! 2017 marks the centenary of this world-historic event. This site is initiated by the Committee for a Workers’ International (CWI) to celebrate the October revolution and the transformation that it heralded – politically, economically, culturally, concerning questions of gender and sexual equality and in many other aspects of working class life. We defend the October revolution against the class hostility, distortions and outright lies perpetrated by the ruling class, the capitalist media, right wing politicians and parts of academia. In particular, this site aims help introduce the new generations moving into struggle and looking at left and socialist ideas to the crucial lessons of October. The 2017 Pacific Northwest socialists were in the lower depths of the old university building, readying for an all-day conference. And a few from Seattle, and plenty of “comrade this” and “comrade that.” Colonized Minds, Not a Pretty Thing, No Matter the Political Stripe I’m not here as a conduit of constant bashing or criticism, that’s for sure; however, in this exceptionalist society, where the revolution (in their minds) is won on Facebook and with a turn-out of people at the plaza protesting Trump and Hillary, I’ve got a different eye for things as a 60-year-old. I never thought forty years ago, or twenty, that I’d be pulling out the old and wizened and retirement age (I never will retire) card. In fact, I am not really old in my thinking, but the six decades and few borders crossed might put me in just a different mind space than those younger people who have gone nowhere physically and who have been colonized. Colonized and set up by the controlled opposition, many, even radicals, with good intentions, are galvanized by a very deep state, deep intelligence insurgency/apparatus, deep psychological discombobulation set around the power of transnationals and globalists to control every move, every financial transaction, every blink positioned at the screens they’ve forced many of us onto in order to be, that is, be informed (sic) and be connected (sic). It’s not even funny being in groups of people who are smart and know their “Russian Revolution History” (sort of) but still lash out on fools like me who deride Facebook or Bill and Melinda Gates or Amazon. Little things are microcosms of the state of things in my mind. Two fellows from Seattle figured prominently in the eyes of my own discontent with these people occupied by the huge cabal of transnationals globalizing control of us. While the ‘Globalizers’ may adopt a few progressive phrases to demonstrate they have good intentions, their fundamental goals are not challenged. And what this “civil society mingling” does is to reinforce the clutch of the corporate establishment while weakening and dividing the protest movement. An understanding of this process of co-optation is important, because tens of thousands of the most principled young people in Seattle, Prague and Quebec City [1999-2001] are involved in the anti-globalization protests because they reject the notion that money is everything, because they reject the impoverishment of millions and the destruction of fragile Earth so that a few may get richer. This rank and file and some of their leaders as well, are to be applauded. But we need to go further. We need to challenge the right of the ‘Globalizers’ to rule. This requires that we rethink the strategy of protest. Can we move to a higher plane, by launching mass movements in our respective countries, movements that bring the message of what globalization is doing, to ordinary people? For they are the force that must be mobilized to challenge those who plunder the Globe.”  (Michel Chossudovsky, The Quebec Wall, April 2001) Don’t get me wrong:  I’d rather have a bunch of socialists in a basement pontificating about the petite bourgeois and the ramifications of the lesser evilism of American duopoly politics than being with a bunch of hoarders of Buffalo wings in a hoppy watering hole arguing about the targeting call on the defender for the Oklahoma Sooners against the OSU Cowboys. I know the average Joe and Jane/Julio y Juanita, in this country, is so-so tied to the crass commercialization of their lives, and their every waking thought seems to be tied to some retail transaction, or fear generated by the fake media and Holly-porn. When I am around people who at least reject that, who are at least trying to strip away the political psychosis and consumer addiction, I feel a sense of ebbing calm. The alternative to this is mind warping: The stuff I hear daily on the MAX or on buses, well, it’s definitely the Fight Club all over and over again: God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables, slaves with white collars, advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of the history man, no purpose or place, we have no Great war, no Great depression, our great war is a spiritual war, our great depression is our lives, we’ve been all raised by television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires and movie gods and rock stars, but we won’t and we’re slowly learning that fact. and we’re very very pissed off.” — Tyler Durden, The Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk Yeah, so I am down with getting it on intellectually with young and old arguing and debating the next way to push ahead with a unified front. The idea of young and old thinking hard about an alternative to this madness of capitalism is rather compelling. In the context of this hyper-militarized society (pre-Trump) and a culture that holds tightly to its exceptionalist and white supremacist pedigrees (pre-Trump) and has been lobotomized by the culture of celebrity and the allure of money (pre-Trump). I believe, though, the biggest issue I would take away from this all-day event was the ad nauseum of speakers attempting to define fascism tied to a very narrow time in history, tied only to the likes of Hitler or Mussolini. One history professor, a socialist who writes for the various publications of the socialist order, sort of went on and on about fascism, sticking to the Hitler script, sticking to the limited genocide script, and as always failing on several accounts to talk to younger people about  just how and why this country was created, or why capitalism was created – on the labor of slaves, and on the elimination of the Native Americans. This fellow – a self-described Jew — just could not accept the reality of America, before Trump, already was setting the stage for all the right conditions for a new fascism, and this fascism, for sure, is not of the same character of that of past forms of fascism, where the brown-shirts and  storm troopers and gulags and concentration camps were front and center part of some regime run by a single charismatic character. Systems Control: The Controllers Act Anti-Fascist None of us deep thinkers believe for a moment that Trump is Hitler or Pence is Mussolini. We know that the systems in place controlling entire ecosystems, countries, the poor, those systems are the neo-fascistic elements of population control, eugenics and mind pollution. This professor just could not get past the fascism of 1930s Germany and Italy as his linchpin for defining true fascism. As a lot of revolutionaries teaching with tenure, he caved, fearing tying the Jewish and Zionist project in Israel to any form of internal and exported fascism and global control. It’s unpalatable how Zionists and Israel get a pass every single time. Or in the case of self-identified Jews, the Holocaust industry has colonized them to not give Israel and Zionists abroad (in the USA) one iota of discredit, or credit for this quickening globalist and financial-media-military control of the other – outside their own stolen lands borders. Of course, in the context of the conference, tied to the 1917 Revolution, the professor’s repetitive connotation of fascism and the conditions to meet it seemed so irrelevant. Again, a thing to behold, really, the revolution 100 years ago. I know for a fact few, if any, persons outside the activist-socialist frame even knows about the centennial of the revolution or what the revolution signified and literally encompassed. Additionally, I give it to the young people in Portland Saturday talking about revolution and next steps forward in this media and political battle around the alt-right racists and fascists is a hell of a lot better than hearing educated (sic) men and women go on and on about the sex-rape-harassment-assault stories coming out of Holly-Rape. Here, Phil Gasper from the current International Socialist Review: The Russian Revolution in October 1917, led by the Bolshevik Party of Vladimir Lenin, is the most important event in history for revolutionary socialists. For the first time, a revolution led by the working class won power in an entire country and began attempting to construct a socialist society based on the ideas of workers’ control and real democracy. For a brief period there was a glimpse of what such a society might look like, before the experiment was destroyed by civil war, foreign intervention, economic devastation, and—above all—the failure of revolutions to spread successfully to more economically advanced countries. This led by the late 1920s to the entrenchment of a bureaucratic dictatorship in the infant Soviet Union. A decade after the revolution’s initial amazing success, the dreams on which it had been based had been destroyed. ….. There are numerous eyewitness accounts of the revolution, but pride of place must go to Ten Days That Shook the World, originally published in 1919, by the radical American journalist and socialist activist John Reed. Reed was present in Petrograd during the October Revolution and gives a vivid blow-by-blow account of what took place in the days preceding and following the seizure of power. Stalin hated the book because it barely mentions him and correctly portrays Lenin and Trotsky as the revolution’s key leaders, but Lenin wrote a short introduction in which he unreservedly recommended the book “to the workers of the world” and praised it for providing “a truthful and most vivid exposition” of key events. But back to modern fascism. I talked about the conditions set forth around a neo-fascism. Naomi Wolf, who was on my radio show, also set forth the conditions in her book, The End of America: Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot. That book came out 10 years ago, and I had her on my radio show for an hour, prefacing her visit to Spokane for a literary event, Get Lit! She has been lambasted, denigrated and vilified for even positing how under Cheney-Bush, our country vis-à-vis US Patriot Act, illegal wars, presidential powers, media control, and the complete blending of private mercenaries and war profiteers into USA government. Here, her conditions for fascism’s germination: * Invoke a terrifying internal and external enemy * Create a gulag * Develop a thug caste * Set up an internal surveillance system * Harass citizens’ groups * Engage in arbitrary detention and release * Target key individuals * Control the press * Dissent equals treason * Suspend the rule of law And this is it, really, at the ISO conference, speaking to people who think fascism is only with one strong-arm moving a society into knee-jerk, xenophobic dictatorial, mass incarceration, disappearances, and one minute of hate. Amazon, The CIA, Every Retail Transaction in America, The Post I brought up Jeff Bezos, Amazon, my work in Seattle protesting his libertarian fascism, his dominating the globe in retail transactions, despicable treatment of warehouse workers, his project to run everything through an artificial intelligence and robotics lens, tax evasion. I talked about his media ownership of the Washington Post, his monopoly on book sales (and what gets read). The concept of this fellow being the richest guy in America and his company’s tax dodging. This fellow is a wizard, master fascist. If the United States derived its might primarily from its economic power, the Washington Post would enjoy the same degree of international influence as, say, the Xinhua newspaper of Beijing. The two countries have roughly comparable outputs, with China’s GDP being about 80 percent the size of the US economy when adjusted for purchasing power, according to the IMF. But a large part of what makes the United States a unique superpower is its role as the world’s military hegemon, reflected in part by its roughly 1,000 overseas bases. (China has none.) It is this added power emanating from the Pentagon that helps confer an outsize authority to the opinion pages of the capital’s major paper. The Post’s status as a weathervane for the political winds of official Washington makes its views—unlike those of any other paper serving a city of a mere 630,000—virtually required reading for much of the world. Amazon’s Jeff Bezos paid $250 million for the Washington Post—but Amazon is being paid more than twice that by the CIA. When Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos purchased the Post in August 2013 for $250 million, his acquisition provoked concerns that the paper’s reactionary posture would only harden further. The Post’s dim view of whistleblowing accorded well with Amazon’s, for example. Under Bezos’ directorship, Amazon had stopped hosting WikiLeaks on its web servers hours after receiving a request from the office of then-Senate chair of Homeland Security, Joe Lieberman, in the wake of the news outlet’s publication of State Department cables. “So at the height of public interest in what WikiLeaks was publishing, readers were unable to access the WikiLeaks website,” wrote FAIR’s Peter Hart (FAIR Blog, 8/6/13). Even more troublingly, Amazon had recently secured a contract to host secret data for the Central Intelligence Agency—a deal valued at over twice what Bezos paid for the Post (Huffington Post, 1/8/14). So one month after the editorial board urged a halt to Snowden’s leaks on US spying efforts (including, presumably, to the Post), the newspaper announced that a financial beneficiary of US spying was to become its owner. As media scholar Robert McChesney (IPA, 12/18/13) analogized: If some official enemy of the United States had a comparable situation—say the owner of the dominant newspaper in Caracas was getting $600 million in secretive contracts from the Maduro government—the Post itself would lead the howling chorus impaling that newspaper and that government for making a mockery of a free press. Billionaire Internet mogul Jeff Bezos seemed to understand this when he made his first foray into the industry by acquiring the Post, the go-to newspaper for Beltway policymakers, and not, for example, the Los Angeles Times, which boasts greater daily circulation. And therein lies one under-acknowledged key to understanding the Washington Post editorial board’s foreign-policy stances: As beneficiaries of the prestige and reach that come with worldwide US dominance, board members would just as soon advocate for policies that run counter to US power as they would trade places with their counterparts at, say, the Denver Post. And yet this bipartisan support for Washington’s supremacy, which the Post mirrors, runs counter to the public will. A Washington Postblog post titled “Team America No Longer Wants to Be the World’s Police” (9/13/13) highlighted two polls showing that by a 2-to-1 margin, the US public disapproves of its government taking “the leading role among all other countries in the world in trying to solve international conflicts,” and disagrees that the US “should be ready and willing to use military force around the world.” So naturally, the editorial board must ignore the general population (not to mention its majority-minority hometown) as it cleaves to elite opinion. The board’s unwavering allegiance to US leaders’ belligerent Middle East policies and the surveillance state’s unchecked power prompts it to deprecate the Post’s own investigative journalism and undermine its ethical standards. Bezos’ recent takeover as owner threatens to only solidify this trend. I didn’t have time to cite these passages or the article from FAIR. The idea of disrupting a meeting at a university of young and old discounting militancy, defense, and offensive maneuvers to fight the enemy, well, I have been there many times. There were the typical anti-Black Block theses and those against Antifa. This crop of revolutionaries never mentioned the Cuban Revolution, and that Revolution was about taking out the fascist armies of the Baptista Despot, a figure only in name for the mafia, both legit and underground, running Cuba. Nothing about the 50th Anniversary of Che’s murder by Murder Incorporated. What happened during this socialist meeting was one fellow stood up in his bright Seattle Plaid Fall Colors and hipster eyeglasses, and then he patronized me. By first  stating he works for Amazon in Seattle, for more than a decade. “Sure, 60 year old radical (me), Amazon has many problems of controlling way too much of the market, and the owner, Jeff Bezos, does have problems with paying his fulfillment center people fair wages, and sure he has a lot of clout in Seattle, but he is just a plain Jane capitalist, not a fascist.” Really? Then the speaker presenting the talk about “what to do next to rally against Trump and this new regime,”  Chris, also from Seattle, likened Jeff Bezos’ views and ideology to innocuous capitalist philosophy, akin to most mainstream  democrats, like Hillary, and his concepts of how a city (Seattle or wherever he takes his next campus crap) should be planned and organized are parallel to his own, Chris’ that is. This is the smoke and mirrors and the con game these very powerful and insidious folk like Bezos deploy, on a global scale. They colonize minds. Imagine, a so-called radical, 10 years working as a slave for Amazon and this other socialist defending him. This fellow, the first one, is a worker, a coder/engineers for Amazon, was defensive. And he should be – many people do not work for Amazon or use his insidious services. Some never have or never will, yet, ten years at Amazon, and he has only passing criticism of Bezos, and for what? Being just a plain old capitalist with liberal ideas, so therefore how can he be a fascist? Hell, the entire cabal of movers and shakers in Seattle wrote a letter of apology to Bezos begging him to come back.  Luckily some council members did not sign this letter:  Seattle City Council member Kshama Sawant called the letter “disingenuous and craven.” Sawant said she was stunned to see some of her colleagues suggest that “Amazon’s billionaires, including Jeff Bezos, are feeling unwelcome” in the city. Instead, Sawant said, it’s “ordinary working people, even the middle class, that is quickly getting pushed out of the city” due to skyrocketing housing costs. Fascism Wrapped Up in A Swoosh and Amazon Smile  This is what Sinclair Lewis wrote in 1935: “When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag, carrying a cross.” (It Can’t Happen Here). And this is what Huey Long said, “Fascism will come to America in the name of anti-fascism.” The “cross” is the marketing swoops of Nike, Amazon, Intel, Boeing, Microsoft, Google. This “wrapped in a flag” metaphor is really the lives of millions, dead, wrapped in the paper (debts) of predatory capitalism, inside the Inside Job, the hacks, the Trojan Horses of an Obama working the midnight hours for Goldman Fucking Sachs, et al. The “anti-fascism” is the anti-Trump regime, the liberals and neocons and neoliberals fighting economic and military wars against China, Russia, Cuba, Iran and any other country coloring outside the lines of the United Fruit Company on steroids. It’s as if these socialists do not understand the concepts of US Murder Inc., Hit Man Extraordinaire, and the Death of the Liberal Class. They hearken back to Hitler and the despots, these warring and grinding monsters supported by the capitalists, Christians and Zionists. These socialists forget that blacks were not allowed to join unions, that women were treated like dirt and that this country and their own measly successes in America were stacked on the backs of slaves, of the expropriation of cultures, lands, peoples, the natural world. It’s good to see Wolf, fifty-five, still out swinging, in 2017, looking at what happened during that big sleep under Obama, how all those leftists and liberals were unconscious, happy to see the multiracial part of their cultural wars won, with Obama and his extra-articulate policies that added to Bush Junior’s setting up of a fascist country, a state of constant war. This is a new fascism, bred by the likes of the Marketing Moguls, by the CIA, by the multinationals working to destroy democracies around the world. This is a world that is humming with the trillions in money only a few have, and the power and corridors of military-science-education-media they control. No – I was mad at my own leftwing tribe. All of January, people on the left would confront me with dazed, grief-stricken expressions, as if they had just emerged from a multi-car pileup on a foggy highway. “How could this have happened? What will we do?” I couldn’t even bear to participate in those conversations. Finally I started explaining my rage to my closest friends. I had been screaming about the possibility of this very moment for eight years, since I published a piece in the Guardian titled “Fascist America in 10 Easy Steps” and wrote a book based on it, called The End of America (2007). Under George Bush Jr, the left had been very receptive to the book’s message about how democracies are undermined by the classic tactics of would-be authoritarians. But once Obama was elected – “one of ours” – I had to spend the next eight years yelling like a haunted Cassandra, to a room the left had abandoned. I had yelled myself hoarse for eight years under Obama about what it would mean for us to sit still while Obama sent drones in to take out US citizens in extrajudicial killings; what it would mean for us to sit still while he passed the 2012 National Defense Authorization Act that let any president hold citizens forever without charge or trial; what it would mean for us to sit still while he allowed NSA surveillance, allowed Guantánamo to stay open, and allowed hyped terrorism stories to hijack the constitution and turn the US into what finally even Robert F Kennedy Jr was calling a national security surveillance state. At least near the end of my participation of the event, an older guy talked about the golden era when pickets, strikes, walk-outs, slow downs, boycotts, blockades and the like were weapons to take on the bosses, like Bezos and any of them, fighting us, the worker, from collective bargaining and collective action. That era in America is gone in the security state, in a place that hobbles young and old with debts, threats of debtor’s prison, fears of bad credit and never reaching up to the mainstream media’s depiction of Keeping Up with the Joneses. When a word like fascism is reserved for outright thugs like Benito and Adolph, we know that nuance and deep critical analysis is what the new socialists want, instead the age old calling a spade a spade. Really, Gil Scott-Heron, lives on: The Revolution Will Not Be Facebooked (Televised) You will not be able to stay home, brother. You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out. You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip out for beer during commercials, Because the revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox In 4 parts without commercial interruptions. The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be brought to you by the Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia. The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal. The revolution will not get rid of the nubs. The revolution will not make you look five pounds thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother. There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run, or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance. NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8: 32 or report from 29 districts. The revolution will not be televised. There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers in the instant replay. There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers in the instant replay. There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process. There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving For just the proper occasion. Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and women will not care if Dick finally gets down with Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people will be in the street looking for a brighter day. The revolution will not be televised. There will be no highlights on the eleven o’clock news and no pictures of hairy armed women liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose. The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb, Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be right back after a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people. You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl. The revolution will not go better with Coke. The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath. The revolution will put you in the driver’s seat. The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised, will not be televised, will not be televised. The revolution will be no re-run, brothers; The revolution will be live. The Fascists Taking Over Won’t Be Televised! http://clubof.info/