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anthonybialy · 11 months

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Liberated Fort

Braxton Bragg had nothing to brag about. His tactics were as disagreeable as his choice of team. Consistent ignominy from someone who was less than a historical footnote shouldn’t come to mind frequently. Thanks to removing his name from a rather prominent fort, we can remember to forget someone who hated America so much that he quit it.

The biggest objection to naming one of America’s biggest military installations Fort Liberty is the lack of a new honoree. Find a deserving person instead of a concept. They couldn’t think of someone to commemorate? That’s unless it’s named for Jeff Liberty, in which case I apologize to his spirit and ancestors. I hope the Army is more inspired in strategy than they are in titling headquarters. The new name is generically unimaginative even if I’d like to go on the record as being pro-liberty.

Fans of the civilization that’s led to comforts such as air conditioning and voluntary exchange are understandably defensive. Anyone appreciative for freedoms available in the one country founded on the notion they exist is long past sick of monuments literally being torn down. At the same time, handing out participation trophies isn’t a new phenomenon. A second place finish in a war with two entrants is one of several reasons Bragg’s side failed to inspire.

You’d think open rebellion would be something the military would not want to celebrate, and you’d finally be correct. At least don’t suck at it if you’re going to reject your nation. Bragg embodied losing on behalf of the cause of owning others. Leave his name behind with his thought process.

That was just the person to not honor or emulate. Some corrections actually get it right, which feels odd in a very enlightened era where noting genders gets one banished. Internal kvetchers freak out about our beloved autonomous nation, which is merely a side benefit. Fans of the winning side remain thankful that the Confederacy relied on thick-skulled nitwits whose limited frontal lobes only allowed them to envision frontal assaults. Bragg made the case against white supremacy.

But entire decades are now being condemned, including the current one. Figuring everyone in the past is as racist as we are in the present is what leftists do instead of learning a trade. An ironically reactionary habit destroys worthwhile memories. The only thing worse than, say, condemning Teddy Roosevelt because his statue is misinterpreted by pinko lunatics is the way they’ve been granted final say.

Fretting that every name change means history’s deletion is an understandable but imprecise reflex. Contemporary struggle sessions have conditioned those suspicious of woke maneuvers to figure every new moniker is designed to appease political correctness. But the Trumpian impulse of thinking anything your foes oppose must be awesome is fraught with peril even if the guess is correct most of the time. Declining to honor Civil War silver medalists should create common ground.

Blanket statements only seem to cover everything. The technique of outright condemnation is preferred by America’s loathers. Painting with the broadest brush Home Depot stocks is yet one more tiresome tendency from those who think everything everywhere is racist. Make sure to not emulate social justice warriors. Use that absolute certainty to ironically scrutinize on case-by-case basis, which is one courtesy they never reciprocate.

Some rebrands emphasize righteousness. Renaming the USS Chancellorsville for American hero Robert Smalls celebrates a badass who escaped slavery by using signals he had learned while manning a Confederate ship to dupe his captors. Fooling CSA military members by dressing as one of their captains is as brave as it is hilarious.

Nobody deserves a ship featuring his name more than a guy who stole one from the people who fought to keep him enslaved. The only way to improve the designation is if his replaces a Union loss, which it thankfully does.

History’s more complex than the simpleminded claim. Condemning or lauding everything is suspiciously easy. It’s worth the effort required to discern the difference between acknowledging events and honoring certain players. Noting having an installation bear one’s name is a tribute and not a mere acknowledgment of previous existence does not constitute a revisionist rewrite.

The chance to mock is the reward inadvertently provided by ingrates. It’s an obligation to scoff at sanctimonious lunatics trying to recast America as a diabolical entity created to perpetuate racism. Notice they never leave the most oppressive place they could have been born despite their protestations regarding the alleged resemblance the naughtiest version of Germany.

But not every new sign on an old facility is a surrender to aspiring autocrats using 1984 as an instruction manual. We’re free to not laud twits, jerks, or jerky twits just because they happened to be born before us. Presuming previous generations got every naming correct is as foolish as wholesale rejection of great humans whose sacrifices brought us much good. Use the fort’s new namesake judiciously.

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searchingforacircuitbreaker · 3 years

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Joe Eugene Mann, Private First Class, United States Army, Company H, 502d Parachute Infantry, 101st Airborne Division.

Mann died during World War II, at 22, in a trench in Best, Holland. Mann’s arms were bandaged to his body due to bullet wounds suffered the day before. When a grenade landed in the trench, Mann yelled “I’m taking this one!” and fell upon it. The blast killed him but saved many others.

Mann received, posthumously, the Medal of Honor, Bronze Star, four Purple Hearts and other honors.

His Medal of Honor citation reads “He distinguished himself by conspicuous gallantry above and beyond the call of duty. On 18 September 1944, in the vicinity of Best, Holland, his platoon, attempting to seize the bridge across the Wilhelmina Canal, was surrounded and isolated by an enemy force greatly superior in personnel and firepower. Acting as lead scout, Pfc. Mann boldly crept to within rocket-launcher range of an enemy artillery position and, in the face of heavy enemy fire, destroyed an 88mm. gun and an ammunition dump. Completely disregarding the great danger involved, he remained in his exposed position, and, with his M-1 rifle, killed the enemy one by one until he was wounded 4 times. Taken to a covered position, he insisted on returning to a forward position to stand guard during the night. On the following morning the enemy launched a concerted attack and advanced to within a few yards of the position, throwing hand grenades as they approached. One of these landed within a few feet of Pfc. Mann. Unable to raise his arms, which were bandaged to his body, he yelled "grenade” and threw his body over the grenade, and as it exploded, died. His outstanding gallantry above and beyond the call of duty and his magnificent conduct were an everlasting inspiration to his comrades for whom he gave his life.“

#wwii #ww2 #medal of honor #101st airborne division #joe eugene mann #war heroes #such a brave soul #no one talks about him #he should have statues and monuments honoring him everywhere #mypost

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fuchsiagrasshopper · 3 years

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Contending the Flame VI

Author’s Note: Happy Holiday season everyone! Hopefully you are having a better time than I am currently with work and new lockdown restrictions where I live. I already have the next two chapters written, so I plan to upload each within a week of one another. Thanks as always for being awesome!

Vikings Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 2234

Warnings: Servant dynamic, language.

The coming weeks had slowed as the provisions for the Heathen army continued to dwindle. As the weather closed in around them, so too did the Saxons. Their plight to negotiate for land had gone unheeded by Ivar. Well, it was Ubbe's plan but Hvitserk had gone along with it. Lately, it seemed he was being pulled back and forth between his brothers, his only use being the mediator. He wasn't sure which brother to follow, preferring it better when they all worked in tandem. Right now it was best for him to stay out of their way.

Ivar had returned to how he had been before, after the misfortune with Margrethe. He was terse with the thralls, and he shunned any prolonged company with women. There were moments, either when he was sitting at a table or alone in a corner, a strange look would pass over his face. Hvitserk was sure he was the only one to notice, but he didn't let on about it.

If Ivar wondered about the nun, he never said as such, and Audhild had reported that he hadn't come around inquiring about you. On the surface, it seemed whatever had started between you was over, but Hvitserk didn't think so. You were two boats passing in the night, waiting for the other's signal.

Hvitserk had taken it upon himself to keep watch of the nun. He had told Ubbe from the start not to get involved, but now he had thrown himself in headfirst. You no longer seemed to be a danger to yourself, and Audhild had said that you thrived as a healer, though you spoke very few words. It got Hvitserk curious, and he set out to find you.

Until the battle against the Saxons would start, the healers were not so occupied. Audhild had told him where you could be found. It was a courtyard that was led in by an archway, with bushes of purple flowers. At its heart was a statue of a man who Hvitserk wondered about. Christians had these carved monuments of people everywhere. What great deeds had they accomplished that granted them the honor of being captured in stone?

He quit his thoughts as he spotted the nun hunched over by a bed of flowers. It struck him then that he didn't know your name, and the few words he picked up in English would not get him far

"Mary...erm Sister," He called, trying to recall what you had said when you were first claimed by Ivar.

You stood with abruptness from being startled, your guard up as you recognized him. Your sheared hair was now covered in a sage green scarf, twisted and wrapped not unlike the Sami people. Hvitserk could see a black and blue bruise around your left eye, about the size of a fist. "Sister Mary Catharine, and you don't have to call me that."

He was glad you had answered in his language. Though some of your pronunciation was wrong, they would get by well enough on the gist of things. "Why not?"

"I don't think I am a nun anymore, not in the eyes of God. Just Catharine will do."

As Hvitserk took a step forward, you shifted back. The mistrust hung heavy between you both, and he realized he'd have to go slow in order to gain your favor. He stood firm where he was. "What happened there?"

You gingerly touched the mark on your face he had indicated to, a sad smile forming. "I'm not the discarded whore of the crippled bastard, even if some of your men think so. When one took out his cock and tried to relieve himself on me, I fought back."

Hvitserk was disappointed to hear what had happened, though such behavior was unsurprising. His heart sunk for his brother as well. Some of the men still only thought of Ivar as the lesser son of Ragnar, even after he had proven to be a sharp mind with a fierce heart.

"Do you know who he was?"

The nun shook her head. "No, and I have not seen him again. At least I still have the Lord's mercy."

You made a crossing gesture over your heart that Hvitserk did not understand. He spotted the cloth bandage on your wrist as well. "How's that healing?"

"It's fine," You said as you folded your arms behind your back. "Why does it matter? He didn't send you here, did he?"

The white look of terror on your face was hard to miss. You looked like a hare caught up in a trap. Hvitserk tried to think about the best way to ask his questions in order to get the answers he needed. "My little brother doesn't command me. I just wanted to know why you did it."

"I wanted to spare myself from a worse fate," You said, turning your back to him while you felt at the petals of the flowers. "I didn't want to suffer like the priest."

Hvitserk recalled what an imposing figure Ivar had cut hovering above the Christian man as he poured molten gold down his gullet. "Ivar told you about that?"

"No." You gazed over your shoulder a moment before your eyes flickered down. "I knew he had done something horrible, but it was another slave who told me. She said I should be careful, and that your brother hates all Christians."

Hvitserk took a step towards you without thinking and grabbed you by the shoulders. "What slave?"

"I don't know," You gasped while breaking out of his hold. "She came to clean the room one day. It was the first time I had spoken to anyone else besides Ivar."

"Why would she need to tend to his room when he had you?"

You frowned, seeming to forget your previous grievances for his closeness as you leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

Hvitserk knew from an early age that he was not exceptional. Ubbe is a strong swordsman and scout, Sigurd was musically inclined, and Ivar is a cunning strategist. At best he could survive raids and follow a battle plan, achievements that any of his brothers could do better. But none of them had his gut instincts, and his stomach was wrought with the feeling that a trickster had snuck their way into the camp.

"It's nothing," He said eventually, though not with enough conviction for the nun's liking.

"I don't believe you."

The earnest look on your face would have annoyed him more if not for how undisguised your naivete was. Maybe that was what drew Ivar in.

Hvitserk prepared to say more but was interrupted by a voice calling over his shoulder.

"Brother," Ivar called, followed by the indistinguishable sound of metal steps plodding the ground.

Hvitserk turned, bracing for whatever force Ivar would throw at him. If he was surprised to see the nun, he didn't let on, instead, his face sat stoically as he maneuvered forward with assurance. He was too young to look so miserable.

Ubbe was with him, peering at the girl who had taken refuge from prying eyes behind Hvitserk's back. His was a face easier to read, both tense and curious at the discovery. Hvitserk knew he would be answering questions later.

"She won't sleep with you brother," Ivar inserted with a cold chuckle. "She's chaste."

Hvitserk scowled at Ivar's attempt to maim with petty insults. "That's not what this is. Audhild sent Catherine to tend to an old injury I sustained from my raid with Bjorn," He lied.

"Catherine," Ubbe said. "Is that her name?"

"No, her name is Ólaug," Ivar interrupted before Hvitserk could speak. "Isn't it, Bride of Christ?"

You refused to rise to his idle taunts. You were as still as the Saxon statue, and your eyes never left Hvitserk's back.

"I don't know if it's really her name, but it's as she told me. Now what do you want, Ivar?"

"We are leading this army together, yes?" Though it didn't sound as if he meant that. "The Saxons prepare to attack at dawn, and we need you before going over our plan of countermeasures."

"Right," Hvitserk mumbled, turning back to the nun while nearly knocking you back because of how close you stood beside him. "Audhild will be expecting your return. You should go."

Your eyes grew wide with gratitude and you gave a curt nod. You made certain to keep an arm's breadth away from Ivar as you passed, taking the route around Ubbe instead. Ivar watched you leave over his shoulder, his face filling with scorn as his attention snapped back to Hvitserk.

"What happened to her face?"

"She's a thrall, Ivar. When they disobey, they are punished." His blunt remark had the desired response, as he noticed Ivar's jaw stiffen and grind back and forth. "Forget that for a moment, I think we have a worse problem. There's a spy in our camp working against you little brother."

"What are you talking about?" Ivar sneered, adjusting his stance as his crutch struck the ground.

"I know why she tried to end her life. Another slave told her about what you did to that priest. She didn't let on about it, but I think it was implied to her that she would suffer the same fate, or worse by your hand."

"But I would not have done anything to her," Ivar tried to defend, his face falling into guilt.

"It's not like she would know that, though," said Ubbe. "She's a nun, and sees us as little more than rapists and murderers."

"I was kind to her," Ivar huffed, struggling away from them towards the same flower bush the nun had been eyeing. He pulled on a branch, bringing the blooms close enough to smell.

Hvitserk shared a discreet look with Ubbe, communicating the shared thought of Ivar's favor for his former thrall. "Whoever spoke to her probably knew that, and was trying to get her away from you."

"They probably wanted to catch you alone," Ubbe added. "Your life could be in danger."

Ivar scoffed, releasing the branch back with a snap. He pivoted towards them, his movements were aggressive. "I don't have time to worry about one spy. The Gods would never let me die without honor, alone and asleep without renown. Tomorrow we fight the Saxons, and face victory."

Turning back towards the archway of the garden, he began down the same path the nun had departed prior. His stance was rigid, and his grip tight on the crutches. Hvitserk still held his breath on habit, afraid to watch Ivar stumble knowing that he couldn't offer to help him back up.

"Where are you going, Ivar?" Ubbe called.

"To address the army, and I expect you both to join me," He said, never stopping on his way out to even look at them.

When they were alone, Hvitserk could feel Ubbe eyeing him before even turning his way. "What?"

Ubbe chuckled, "You told me not to get involved, yet here you are jumping in headfirst."

"I'm worried. Ivar has been distracted since giving her away to Audhild, and we need him thinking straight if we're going to beat the Saxons together."

"We should have known Ivar would fall in love with the first woman to show him kindness," said Ubbe, looking pensive at the statue that had transfixed Hvitserk earlier.

"You think he loves her?" Hvitserk exclaimed in surprise.

"Well, he's at least fond of her, but with Ivar, it's difficult to tell." Ubbe ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away the stress he was feeling. “What really happened to her face?”

“One of our men was not kind to her. Ivar still does not hold the favor of every warrior in the army, and she is at risk as a result of that. I’ll tell Audhild to keep a closer eye from here on out.”

Ubbe nodded in agreement. “We’ll continue to try when we can as well, but I don’t know what will happen once we finish here. I don’t think Ivar has plans on remaining in York much longer.”

“I know,” Hvitserk said, feeling resentment towards Ivar for all of the misery he was constantly dragging them into. Even if they were to return to Kattegat next, Hvitserk knew it would be to war with Lagertha and Bjorn. He loved Ivar and would follow him to the four corners of the world, but not at the cost of their family and their father’s legacy.

It felt like they were using you as a buffer for their little brother’s madness, but in the days that Ivar had kept you, he had been more agreeable and even happy. Hvitserk held respect for you even if he hated your Christian God, but if it was your freedom measured against the success of their army, then he would have no trouble giving you back to Ivar in chains. Peace in the time of the sons of Ragnar was more important than one nun.

"I hope you know what you're doing, getting involved, brother," said Ubbe, disrupting his train of thought.

Hvitserk approached his older brother and gave him a clap on the shoulder. "Of course I don't, that's why I have you. Now come, let's go speak to our army before Ivar gets any more ideas about leading without us."

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#vikings #ivar x reader #ivar x you #ivar ragnarsson #ivar the boneless x reader #vikings ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar imagine #history vikings #vikings imagine

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cruzrogue · 5 years

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Perfect Party

#Fictober19 @fictober-event

————————————————————————

for fanfiction:

Prompt number: 15 “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Fandom (AU if applicable): #arrow fanfiction #olicity

Rating:PG13

Warnings/Tags: AngstyFluff

Summary: Continuation from prompt 14 College kids: Oliver and Megan (Felicity) become a couple and this is when he finds out her real first name as he tells his kids the story.

Notes:(This became a monster… there was supposed be no angsty conversation but it happened anyway. I wrote to make another fluff piece but… Ah! Anyways here it is…)

~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~sp@ce~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~

Perfect Party on A03

Cracking open another book to read. Oliver just gazes at where his tutor is sitting reading her own book. She’s plopped down using a sofa as a backrest as her slender legs are over an interior designer’s weird conversational piece. Her heavy long kneed boots are off to the side. She’s reading her least favorite subject of U.S. history as he is taking side notes as he’s reading his textbook of macro-economics. They are both bored out of their minds but they’re under a timer. These minutes belong to these textbooks and they have been both honoring this kind of system of studying.

Oliver won’t argue that since he first took in seriously studying with the help of the Goth girl he met in South Boston by a sidewalk in the late evening hour his grades have steadily improved. To this day she still adheres that she saved him from that lame party. He’ll never know if it was truly lame but he deeply doesn’t care. It’s the party that brought them together thus to him he has no qualms of ever knowing.

The little ding in the background goes off and he lets out a content sigh. He can’t help but watch Megan stretch out like a cat and he inwardly groans because they’re not at that stage of their relationship. She looks so damn sexy all the time and he’s learned that cold showers don’t always work because she’s now always on his mind.

“I’m hungry!”

He’s learned that she has a very vast appetite. As long as tree nuts are not on the menu she can have it all. “What are you hungry for?”

She shrugs but says anyways, “You pick, I chose last time.”

“Greasy or no?”

“Does it matter? You have full control of the pick. Even that rabbit food you’ve successfully added to my diet.”

“Okay, okay! So, I feel like a cheeseburger and some fries.”

He can see the moment that her excitement for meat comes to the forefront as she does this cute gesture of raising her hand in a fist bump.

“That’s what I’m talking about!”

He just chuckles and it has her cozying up to him as her lips finds his. Mmm… this part of their relationship is gotta be the best. Every kiss they share is full of sizzling potential and they’ve never crossed any lines. For now, they are taking everything slow. She has this thing about slow burn and her explaining it to him was a doozy. Her words cycle around his mind as she’s making herself comfortable on his lap as the phrase refers to stories featuring characters who gradually and naturally fall in love or lust before beginning a romantic or sexual relationship. He won’t suggest to her again that their already in some sort of romantic relationship because it led to her thinking things through the first time and it landed him cursing himself as he lost out on more intimate moments. Yep, he shot his foot off with that mistake he learned not to do it again.

He holds her closer to him enjoying that her chest bumps against his and he knows she can feel how excited he is but she just doesn’t mention it ever. This is girl is becoming a staple in his world and the thought of him now graduating next year while she’ll still be working for her double major has made its presence in his psyche. She just too incredible and they’ve been together for over two semesters now.

The fact that he doesn’t even notice other females has been brought to his attention several times by his male buddies. Using his studies as an excuse he’s keeping more to himself and interacting on a down low with any college partying frat boys. Being honest with himself has been hard. It’s one of the things that has made his growth possible. It would put a lot of stress on his relationship with Megan if she were the sole reason for the changes. Because she doesn’t want to be his savior but he knows her well enough that she believes more in equality. Sharing burdens and stuff. Things he has learned about her through conversations over long noir films, studying moments, and these wonderful make out sessions.

Her perfect weight on his lap not only does things to him but feeling her beside him all the emotions he has deep inside have a way of coming out slowly and after all these long weeks together he wants to tell her that he’s in love with her. He thought about being cheesy a few times but she’d be so disappointed if he went that route. Not on the declaration of love but using time tested romcom samples that are overboard. He finds she has big tastes on technology but doesn’t fancy jewelry given by really anyone.

He landed up giving her signed poster of music groups she loves or that one actress she adores from her favorite show they watch. Buying her a convention ticket to see these people she can recite story lines was like he got down on one knee and proposed. It was amazing how excited she was.

One thing they’re both of aware of is their different social-economics and he is careful to not overwhelm her with family’s status. It would spook her away. It took a bit from him when she found he comes from a wealthy family not to lose her back then. Just lucky they share a close connection.

“Megan, you are such a nerd.”

“I am not apologizing for liking meat.”

He chuckles. “I meant the fist bump. That is such a geeky thing to do.”

She shrugs her shoulder she’s done a lot of other nerdy things she won’t apologize even if he’s just teasing. She shrugs her shoulders she’s done a lot of other nerdy things she won’t apologize even if he’s just teasing. “But you like the thought of me liking meat?” For the first time in their relationship she grinds against him and his eyes become so wide as he is flabbergasted at her forwardness.

“I… I”

“Is Mr. sexy pants mute?”

He nods still wondering what his temptress is doing. Her fingers softly messaging his scalp through the light cropped hair she seems to like. Gosh he’s even sporting scruff that has her kissing his neck since she told him to cut off the beard deep in December after he grew out his facial hair for no shave November. Keeping it trim to this day many months later. Anything that he notices or she out right tells him how much she likes or hates something has him keep to a beauty regimen. Not that he hasn’t had some little says in her own little routines. Like a certain fragrance he admiringly associates with her.

“We are on a break; I’m going to eat a juicy burger and what isn’t there to love?”

“Megan? That isn’t the reason I’m surprised.”

“Hmm… I need to confess something to you and I need you not to get upset.”

Just as quickly as he is aroused, he becomes paranoid that something is going to break this perfection that they have going on.

“As much as I love how you say Megan…”

“Baby I love your name.”

“It’s actually my middle name.” The frozen look on his face has her worried that he may think she’s lied about many other important things. “There is nothing else I’ve kept from you, I just liked using Megan and the way you’d say Meg or Maggie or any other variations just was so perfect but…”

He isn’t totally convinced. He doesn’t understand how she kept something as monumental from him. Everywhere they went he introduced her as Megan his girlfriend. She has yet to meet his parents but the name Megan has fallen from hips a million times conversing with family and friends.

“I mean in reality Megan is still my name.”

He pushes her off slightly and she moves so he can get up. “No!” He just walks to a window in his apartment. They always hang out here because she lives in a dorm. “To think some of your friends having to go along with this farce when they call you by your real name.”

“Oliver? That isn’t the case. I introduce myself to a lot of people as Megan.”

“Really? And how many of these people think about you? Truly care about you? Even dream of you? Simply as what your middle name is?”

She makes a joke of it, “My mother calls me by my whole name either when she’s really happy or annoyed with me.”

“That is supposed to make me feel better?” He is now really agitated. “You don’t get to make this into a joke. Here I am opening myself to you and I don’t even know your name.” He looks away from her. Not allowing her sorrow to change how angry he is becoming.

She knows she in deep trouble he is right and she played the whole name thing lightly not seeing it through his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I would have continued calling you Megan if you have this horrendous name you didn’t want to share at first. Though whatever it is I would love it. Just because it’s a part of you.”

“Wow! I guess I’m a stupid fool I never put much stock into it but I should have and I am really sorry.”

He finally slowly turns to look at his girlfriend and it strikes him he doesn’t even know her name. She can see the realization in his face as he just stares at her blankly.

“It’s Felicity, Felicity Megan Smoak.”

If she thought the frozen look on his face before was concerning whatever is going through her mind is really a shocker.

~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~sp@ce~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~

When Oliver pauses it has his kids on edge. He’s telling the story in a cleaner version of how he learned his wife’s first name. It seems telling his kids this as they wait for their mother to come home may have not been the wisest idea.

“Dad what happened?”

“Yes daddy, did you break up?”

The youngest being so innocent and not truly understanding relationships asks if they ever made up.

Oliver checks his phone and a text by Felicity telling him she’s running late. She finishing up from another conference meeting so he continues on with the story. She’ll be home soon.

~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~sp@ce~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~

“Felicity… Fe-li-ci-ty.” He just says her name one more time, “Felicity! I don’t get it. It’s actually a very beautiful name.”

“It’s a cheesy name. It means happiness, I’m a Goth girl.”

Oliver sighs he really doesn’t get it. She has been making him happy all these months. The name is perfect. Now that he knows the truth. As much as she’s been Megan from now on, he’ll always think of her has Felicity. What is the most important matter to him is how long he will get to know Felicity? It seems that maybe he had more emotional attachment to her than she has had of him. Maybe her tutoring him and having him mastering his academia is a thrill for her. She’s one of a kind who is he to really know what goes through that mind of hers? Only that he’d be devastated because along the way he gave her his heart even if he hasn’t said so its implied.

“I know your mad, I guess I really screwed up and I’m sorry.”

“It makes me wonder if I’m just an experiment. A fixer upper that you…”

Felicity looks horrified as she cuts him off, “Oh no. No! You’ve been nothing but the perfect dream. I’m always worried I’d wake up and you’d be over me. Falling in love with you was so easy.” She catches what she just said and her hand goes to her mouth. He is about to break up with her and she’s telling him she loves him. She can be such a fool.

“I couldn’t be over you even if I wanted to.” He doesn’t mention the whole falling in love that could just be faux pas said in haste.

Felicity aches now knowing that he doesn’t even think her declaration of falling for him is seen real to him. That stings. “I should go.”

“That is probably for the best.” Yet neither move. The air is thick with unsaid words as their emotions are crumbling with angst.

Felicity is a smart girl she knows if she walks out there won’t be a them any longer. The them that has been crafted over time. She sucks in a breath; she created this mess and she needs to fix it. “I can’t apologize enough for how my careless way of thinking of things in simplest of facts.” She won’t go without at least telling him how much she loves him. “It being a name.” She sighs as she glances at him and watching that he is listening gives her some hope. “I didn’t take to account the emotional side of all this.” Taking a small pause, “You mean the world to me. Oliver, I love you so much…” She tearing up. “That love is from all of me. Felicity Megan Smoak the daughter of Donna and also a father named Noah who I haven’t seen since I was seven.”

Talking about her parents is like pulling teeth. He knows it hard for her so this acknowledgement means something. She really is trying to amend the situation. It really is just a name. It’s not like he doesn’t know how clinical she can be in her thinking process.

“Noah is a fool of a man letting go of such a bright amazing girl.” He moves up to her just like when they met.

“Maybe I just wasn’t…”

“Shh.” He’s looking down to her, “His failure isn’t your own.” He wipes a few stray tears she has let go. “You mean the world to me too.”

“I do?”

“I love you.” He cups her face and finally kisses the one who has his heart.

Still having his hands on her face, she inquires, “Does that mean you forgive me?”

With a sigh his eyes searching hers, “Of course I’d forgive you. We’ll always see some things differently and there will always be fights that are bound to happen.”

“I don’t like fighting.”

He leans in to kiss her as he tells her the same thing.

She’s a little forward in rubbing her hands just under his shirt. “I heard making up is supposed to be…”

He stops her. They haven’t crossed that line yet and he’ll be damn if their first time is happening this way. “I love you Meg…” He closes his eyes this is going to take some getting used to. “Felicity Smoak but I’m still processing this whole name thing and when we take the next step it won’t be after an argument.”

She nods in agreement.

“So, what about some burgers?”

Felicity stops him from leaving her space as she now holds him to her as she raises on her tiptoes to kiss him.

~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~sp@ce~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~

As the door in the back where it leads to the mudroom opens and Oliver takes a pause as his kids are listening to a very clean version of when he found out Megan was indeed Felicity’s middle name. He looks to the newest addition sitting in the high chair just happily gnawing on a teeth ring. Oblivious to his siblings’ excitement until he hears his mother’s voice and all of a sudden his son a babbling genius. A pang of jealousy hit Oliver as his little munchkin doesn’t show him that kind of welcome.

“Mom’s home.”

Felicity welcomes her two youngest with open arms and gives them kisses than she hugs her eldest as she slowly walks into her husband’s embrace. It doesn’t take long for their youngest to disapprove and want his mother’s sole attention.

“Sorry, hi there handsome.” She’s kissing the baby as the other kids settle back down. She looks at the expecting faces and makes sure to look at her husband as she asks, “Did I miss something?”

“I was just telling them about when I learned Felicity was your first name.” She gives him a weary look. “Don’t worry it was the PG version.”

“Did mommy come off as a clown?” She regrets saying those words as her kids start to asking about clowns. She just meant if she came off sounding awful but now she’s denying any clowns were a part of the story their father told them. Oliver is just off to the side observing his wife having to explain herself ah yes those memories fill his mind as he has his lips puckered up. She sure can dig a hole for herself. As he recalls the true lustful events of that study session.

~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~sp@ce~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~

“So, what about some burgers?”

“Oliver? I am hungry!” She doesn’t wait for him to truly understand as she already hopping onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist as her lips find that particular spot that has him growl and that’s the purr of his she needs. He catches on quick as he has to keep them from falling as his girl is doing things to him. He unfailingly finds the perfect spot a few steps away to allow her to continue doing this most erogenous thing to his body as she certainly rubs herself on him.

He’s losing the ability to think because just a moment ago he was against this scenario and now his body pretty much told his mind to shut up. He sinking down deeper onto the sofa she used as a backrest earlier.

There is lips and teeth and the occasion tongue and oh those moans that have both of them panting as they seem to be so lost in each other. Succulent skin that deserves the devotion as hands seem to roam and sweet nips upon each other’s skin only raises the stakes to needing more. Sweet words spilled as some gasps of warm sweet air spurs stimuli onto their hair follicles making for the most enticing shivers.

Felicity has been ready for this for a while, the thought of Oliver’s palms caressing her without barriers of any kind. Even pondering wet dreams of the friction she mostly thirsts for that only he can quench.

At first she teased him. Their relationship wasn’t formed the bonds they have now wasn’t there and it was easy to promise things like promiscuity. Fortunately for them It didn’t work like that because they found that it wasn’t just an attraction that kept them coming to each other’s orbit. They truly sought one another just to discourse what was actually happening in their lives. Until they couldn’t fathom not having the intertwined lives they were leading. Good and bad shared, memories of past conversations, voices becoming lullabies at night and waking thoughts of the other person in mundane tasks. They were falling in love.

It took a stomach rumble which neither could tell if it was theirs but they pulled away laughing. They were good. Though they pulled away from the other knowing that it really wasn’t the right time to go further. There is no hurry.

~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~sp@ce~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~

“Come to find out your mommy was very hungry.” Oliver chuckles as his wife actually accidentally demonstrates his point. She is hungry.

The kids try to follow their parents story but there are so many vague points they have no idea what actually happened. They just know that their dad found out what their mom’s name was and that was the end. There was kissing. More kissing. As they watch their dad pull their mom into another hug they know another kiss will happen.

#fictober19 #olicity #oliver queen #felicity smoak #arrow

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spartanguard · 6 years

Text

a different kind of catch

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, @word-bug!!!!!!!! I’d hoped to have this up on your actual bday, but hope it was absolutely amazing and as wonderful and sweet as you are!!! This little CS ficlet was inspired by our mutual continuing love of Pokémon Go; hope you like it! Love you!!! | 1.9k, rated PG

Emma wasn’t going to let this one go, not this time; she’d come way too close to give up now. She hurried to the spot where her phone told her she’d find her mark, constantly glancing down at the screen to make sure she wasn’t too late.

Everything seemed fine, but she picked up her pace to a jog, impatient to get there as she ran past people on the streets of Boston.

She was almost there—to the Starbucks on the corner—and so close to her prize that she could almost taste it (though that might also have just been the scent of coffee in the air).

Until she collided with something warm and solid just feet from her goal. “Oof—what the hell?”

“Uuh; bloody hell!” the other body shouted out as they both hit the pavement, phones clattering from their hands. Shit, her screen better not be cracked.

“Watch where you’re going, buddy!” she yelled, not looking at the man who ran into her as she scrambled to standing and grabbed her phone. Thank God, not broken—and better yet, there it was!

“Where I’m going?” he protested; she vaguely noticed he had an accent but was too caught up to really care. “Maybe get your head out of your damned phone and you wouldn’t knock over unsuspecting civilians!”

She just waved him off; she had to focus. She’d already missed on her first try, so she threw a berry this time and tried again. It caught...but it broke out. It didn’t run, though.

“Oh, is that the Lapras?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s the Lapras!” she hissed back, not taking her attention off her screen. “I’ve been waiting to catch one of these since the damn game started!” She didn’t have to defend her playing of Pokémon Go as a full-grown adult to some random asshole—not she was finally going to catch one of her favorite Pokémon.

“No, me too; good luck,” he told her, then went silent.

That kind of surprised her, but not enough to distract her from choosing an Ultra Ball. “You too,” she muttered as she wound up a curve ball.

She let go, and the message on the screen said “Great!” as the animation of the ball clasping around the Lapras played. Then she held her breath, waiting—one...two...three!

“Freaking finally!” she shouted; it may have taken two years, but she’d finally got it! (And it was high CP, too!)

“There it is, yes!” the guy echoed moments later. Caught up in the high of the catch, she turned around to give him a high five in celebration of their shared victory.

Without thinking, their hands slapped together, and then she got a look at him—and, woah, he was a catch, too: dark, disheveled hair hung over his forehead, just above his bright blue eyes, sparkling with happiness; a grin was playing at his lips and his sharp jaw was dusted with gingery scruff; and he may as well have been dressed like a modern Pokémon trainer because who honestly wore waistcoats anymore? (Though she didn’t recall anyone from the anime with that much chest hair...not that she was complaining.)

He seemed just as taken aback as she was, and their hands kind of hung in the air after their high five until they realized what they were doing and dropped them, both suddenly aware of how awkward they were being—not that it really mattered when they were celebrating a video game based on a television show that was originally targeted at children.

“Congratulations, love,” he offered, nodding toward her phone. “Is it a good one?”

“Yeah,” she answered, kind of shyly. “Yours?”

“Pretty good.” They stood there for another moment, unsure what to do; she should probably keep walking, considering she had an egg close to hatching, but then he spoke up again. “I do apologize for the collision; I believe I was just as focused as you were on catching that. Let me buy you a drink to make up for it?” he said, tilting his head at the Starbucks. “Maybe a Pokémon Go frappuccino?” he suggested, winking poorly.

She just scrunched her nose and giggled; she’d had that once and it was way too sweet for her. “Nah, that’s too much,” she replied. “But I guess I could go for a hot chocolate?”

“Sounds perfect.” He gestured toward the door, but then raced ahead to open it before she got to it.

“So now you’re a gentleman?” she teased.

“I’m always a gentleman,” he answered smoothly.

She shivered a bit; damn, this guy had an effect on her, and that almost never happened. But most guys weren’t as unashamed about Pokémon Go as he was. “Does the gentleman have a name?” she enquired.

“Killian.”

“Emma.”

They got in line and both busied themselves with their phones while waiting to place their orders. “You know,” she started. “That’s probably a good name for a Lapras.”

“What is?” he wondered.

“Killian.” She liked saying his name; it was unique, and her Lapras was male, after all.

He grinned—a real one this time, and brilliant. “I suppose I could say that Emma is, too.” Oh, and she liked how he said her name, too.

“Seems like a pretty good way to honor the moment,” she decided.

“Aye,” he agreed, and they placed their drink order.

While they were waiting for their beverages at the other end of the counter, she couldn’t help but glance over as he scrolled through his collection. “Damn, how’d you get all those Mr. Mimes?” He had a ton, whereas she would likely never even get one—stupid geo-locked Pokémon!

“I just moved here from the UK,” he explained. “They’re everywhere over there. But I’ve yet to see any Tauros now that I’m here.”

“Yeah, you don’t see too many in the city; but out of town—tons. Actually, I have a couple strong ones, if you wanna trade?” Technically she’d been saving those for her brother—one of the only other people she knew who played and was amassing a Tauros army, for some reason—but she could totally spare one to a good, mutually beneficial cause.

“I'd love that!” he gushed. Their drinks were up, so they grabbed them and found a little table in the corner. “Pardon the awful line,” he started after they sat, “but what’s your number?”

She snorted, but it was probably the first time in ages she was happy to give someone her “number”. “It’s 1022 0206 0620.”

He typed it in and then proclaimed “sent! To SwanGirl83.”

“That’s me,” she confirmed, and she got the notification on her end a few seconds later. “xJollyxRogerx24?”

“Aye,” he replied. She took a moment to observe his avatar; it was a pretty close representation, though dressed as close as possible to being a pirate, complete with eye patch. “I take it you’re a Captain Hook fan?” she quipped.

“Ha, yeah,” he laughed. “It’s not quite a hook, but same idea,” he added, holding up his left hand—which she suddenly realized wasn’t a hand, but rather a gloved prosthesis that matched the ones his avatar wore.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—I didn’t even see…” she stammered; of course she’d put her foot in her mouth with the hottest player she’d ever come across; she could feel a Golem-like rock forming in her stomach.

To her surprise, though, he just waved her off. “No, no—you’re fine, lass; I’m the one making fun of it in the first place,” he assured her. Then his eyes bounced between her and his screen for a second, before stating, “I hope this isn’t too forward of me, but I daresay I prefer the actual Emma. Though that’s quite the fetching romper.”

She blushed a little, both at the compliment and the fact that she hadn’t changed her avatar’s outfit since the game started. There was just something so...Pokémon about that one-piece and leggings. “What can I say? I like to be comfy.”

“That implies you actually own a romper, then.”

“Ha, I wish!”

He replied with an almost goofy leer, eyebrow arched in amusement; she just shook her head, laughed, and promptly hid her embarrassment at walking into that by hiding in her hot chocolate.

“So, Pikachu as your companion?” he continued, apparently studying her via whatever symbolism could be found by her choices within the game.

“Yeah,” she said after she swallowed. “Can’t go wrong with a classic. And I like yellow.”

“I can see that, with you being yellow team and all.” He had her there.

“I’m guessing you like red, then, being Team Valor and with that shiny Gyarados there?” she guessed.

“Oy, he’s badass!” he protested, but then relented. “But yes, that’s part of it.”

They processed the trade, both finally adding another to their almost-completed Pokédexes, and then she sent him the most Boston gift she had on hand: Fenway Park. And he apparently sent her the most London one he still had: Big Ben. They shared giggles over that, and continued to chat—a bit about the game, comparing each others’ current stashes of Pokémon, but then it went onto work, family, friends, all that normal stuff, though it turned out neither of them really had much in that department.

Usually, she avoided romance altogether; she’d only found heartbreak there, and something told her Killian had, too. But what were the odds that she’d literally run into someone who shared so much with her, in addition to one of her favorite hobbies? For the first time in ages, she actually allowed herself to hope for something like that; hopefully he couldn’t see the Luvdiscs swimming in her eyes.

“Hey, there’s a raid a block over; I need to beat one for a research task.” His voice pulled her from her daydreaming. “Would you care to join me?”

She glanced at her screen; it was just a Ninetails, but she could always use another one. “Sure!”

They left the Starbucks—both hitting the Poké Stop there one more time for good measure, as well as a couple more on the way—and found the “gym” (actually just an ugly statue; it never ceased to amaze her the sorts of things that were considered “monuments” in this game). To the casual passerby, it probably looked like they were just two strangers immersed in their phones, but partnering up with Killian to takedown a foe was actually bringing them closer; seeing that red Gyarados in action was incredible, even if she was focused on what her Vaporeon was doing, too.

In no time at all, they’d knocked out the Ninetails and had both caught it. “I apologize if this is forward, Swan,” Killian said, “but we make quite the team.”

She couldn’t refute it. “Yeah, we do.”

Battling in raids together became a regular thing, and he was the first person she reached Best Friends level with (much to David’s chagrin). She jokingly bought him an eye patch for Christmas; he seriously bought her a romper.

And then, a couple years later, he proposed to her with a diamond ring nestled inside a Poké ball. People could rag on the game all they wanted; for Emma and Killian, it had been the best thing ever.

Hope you liked it and that maybe you got a birthday Lapras! also tagging a few others who I think still play/like it: @initiala @killian-morelike-killingme @distant-rose @queen-mabs-revenge @forestiyari @kat2609 @optomisticgirl @xpumpkindumplingx @wingedlioness @biancaros3

#cs ff #cs modern au #pokémon go #ouat x pokemon

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helplessly-burning-blog · 7 years

Text

Meet me on the battlefield

Pairing: Marquis de Lafayette x Reader

Summary: You are a good soldier; diligent, brave, smart, and one of the closest to General Henry Clinton. A few months ago he had started referring to you as his right-hand man and your rank and status had heightened swiftly after that. There are only two problems: the first one is you are a woman disguised as a man. The second is a certain encounter with a Frenchman in a blue coat.

Word count: 2,436

Time period: Hamiltime (This starts in 1778)

Warnings: Slowly build relationship, probably more than 3 parts. War, blood, guns, violence, cursing. This chapter is pretty soft so there are just mentions of those things. Warnings might change in the future depending on the chapter.

(Y/LN) is your last name

Note: I wrote this like 3 years ago (or more, I don’t remember) and it originally was for my literature class. Obviously, it wasn’t with Hamilton characters but I found it again and it suits pretty well so I said Why not? I really investigated to write this but even so, there will maybe be a few historical inaccuracies. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! ♡ (Requests are still OPEN guys!)

{2nd part}

____________________________

There is something very beautiful and very perverse in knowing the person who changed your life on what once was a battlefield. You were there; alive, with blood on your clothes and in your file. Many bodies had been removed, and possibly were being buried. "A pity that the living cannot be forced to rest in peace" you reflected, dead tired. You kept walking in the area for a while, looking for one of your companions without much hope.

In nights like this, you couldn’t help but think of home. You wondered how much London had changed since the last time you were in it. If there was a chance that it was even more magnificent than before. You closed your eyes for a second and imagined the Thames, the Church of St Margaret and the Tower of London. The gentlemen with their elegant coats and hats, and the ladies in their silk dresses and corsets… just like the ones you used to wear and you missed so much.

Those thoughts didn’t last long, however, because you were forced to return to reality and open your eyes to the sound of a branch breaking. You quickly raised your musket and aimed to the possible enemy, or at least in the direction you thought it could be.

“Show yourself!” you demanded in a violent tone.

Truth be told, you felt panic for the first time since you came to America. This time you were alone, lost in the darkness of the night and the foliage, surrounded by nothing but silence and trees. If you were to die here and now it would be for nothing, not in a real battle, not doing something brave or heroic, just like a scared mouse… and you definitely wouldn’t let that happen. You stood still, motionless as a monument, sharpening your senses as much as you could and tried to spot the shadow.

Suddenly there were steps. Fast steps. Where they came from? They were everywhere.

“Put the gun down now or you will not get mercy” a voice with a thick French accent threatened.

The voice seemed to come from far away, but in fact, it came out of the mouth you had a few centimeters away from your nape. A mouth that belonged to the man holding a dagger under your jaw and gripping your hair with his other hand, leaving you with no choice but to look up at the starry sky. You slowly lost the grip on the musket and let it fall to the ground.

"Any move and my dagger will be faster. Get on your knees” the voice demanded.

It was over. You were going to die. And you’d have a death without honor; disarmed and kneeling before your enemy. You almost laugh at how pathetic it was, but the knife in your throat would have made it impossible even if you had tried, so you just obeyed reluctantly.

When your knees touched the ground the grip on your hair became stronger, making you hiss in pain. And now you had a face in your field of vision. Dark and deep eyes, curly hair bound up in a ponytail and a stubble beard.

The man who had taken your life and now held it in his hands was placed in front of you, and with the grip on your hair forced you to lower your head to his level. He kept you at his mercy and even so you looked him in the eye with all the hate and rage you had, letting him know you weren’t afraid of him.

The next thing that happened, you doubted whether it was real or not: your enemy shifted his penetrating gaze to a softer one, and milliseconds later the dagger moved.

Your head didn’t roll, but you lost a few strands of hair. It was as if the hand of your attacker had had a fit of anger. The hair was on the floor and the French man had disappeared.

... ... ... ... ... ...

Everybody seemed to be minding their own business when you finally arrived at the camp; a group of men was sitting around a wood fire drinking from their hip flask, others were in the infirmary tent, and other many were collecting the weaponry and the horses, but the man you were looking for wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“(Y/LN)!” Someone called behind you, making you turn around to find the tall figure of Richard Pitt making his way to you “Lieutenant-General Sir Henry Clinton is searching for you”

“And I assume you’re here to escort me to his tent?” you didn’t wait for his response; the two of you were walking already.

“I just want to remark three things,” he said apparently enjoying himself a little too much “First: It was utterly stupid of you thinking going back on your own was a good idea. Second: Nice haircut. Third: General Clinton thought you were dead and almost went bonkers. He sent twelve of us to find you”

“Good to know none of you were intelligent or brave enough to search in the most obvious place” you retorted clearly irritated with his stupidities. “Especially you, since you somehow already know I went back to the battlefield even though I haven't mentioned anything about it”

Surprisingly that didn’t shut him up but made him smile even wider.

“Smith is not here, so the possibilities were pretty much predictable. Or the two of you were dead or one of you was injured and the other one went to their aid. But now that you had returned alone, I think it was a little of the two, hmm?”

You'd never been happier to arrive a tent in your whole life. And if there would’ve been a door, you definitely would have slammed it in the face of that rotter bastard.

... ... ... ... ... ...

As expected, opportunities and death are just around the corner. Or in this case, several distances from the fortification in which you should be.

The wind caressed your hair - disdainful and irregular, thanks to the dagger of the Shadow - your eyelashes, your hands, your clothes. It creaked in your ears, creating the most sublime music that could ever have been devoted to you. You closed your eyes and let yourself be, resting your head on the grass.

After your reunion with the General the night before everything had gone back to place. He was beyond happy to see you in one piece. So much you even had a small celebration just for the pleasure and blessing of being alive; lots of rum, tobacco, stories and jokes were exchanged. Even Pitt got drunk mumbling nonsenses about “how much he wanted to punch that pretty face of yours”. That wasn’t something new, he tended to say it even sober, and you perfectly knew his reasons: You were a good soldier; diligent, brave, smart, and one of the closest to General Henry Clinton. A few months ago he had started referring to you as his right-hand man and your rank and status had heightened swiftly after that, giving you everything that Richard Pitts had always wanted since he was eighteen. Usually, you would ignore him or make quick comebacks, but last night you didn’t mind hearing him, not after you saw your dearest friend Elliot Smith walking out of the infirmary with a smile on his face.

You could have been thinking about the previous night for much longer, but suddenly the birds stopped their chirp and a cold sensation traveled down your body, making you uncomfortable.

When you opened your eyes you found your newest and best-personified nightmare; there was the man who ripped your hair and preserved your life. The same dark eyes and the stubble beard. This time he didn’t have the intimidating gaze he carried yesterday but an impassive and calculating expression. He was riding on his horse, wearing his impeccable blue uniform and being apparently weaponless.

It definitely wasn't the moment to think about stupid things such as vanity but even so, you were embarrassed by being dressed in casual clothing instead of your own red coat and white uniform. The fact that your hair was a mess and couldn’t fit properly in a ponytail anymore didn’t help either.

You didn't know how long you both stayed like that, just staring at each other. But God, it was terrifying and stressful at the same time.

“I have no idea who you are but you are terrible at keeping your guard up,” He said suddenly, apparently trying to break the ice.

You stood up slowly, with your chin up and your eyes stuck to him.

“And you are a lousy barber” you accused, crossing your arms over your chest “… Who speaks horrible broken English”

Okay that last part was a childish lie but you couldn't help yourself, the rivalry between Britain and France was something that seemed to be endless for people in both countries no matter which was the circumstance.

“Well, it’s one of the most unpleasant languages I ever had to learn,” he said giving you a half-smile.

"Yet here you are, pronouncing the r’s in a disagreeable way”

"I'd like to see you trying to speak French in a minimally respectable way"

“Don’t count on it” you blurted out. It was not going to happen, not even if your life depended on it.

The man laughed. It was a simple sound that made everything lighter. You two were criticizing your mother languages and it was strangely funny. You also felt the smile on your face.

But after that little joy, the two of you stared at each other again, becoming more and more serious.

“Why are you here?” you asked again with your cold expression.

"I could ask you the same thing” he pointed out “But let me clarify that I’m not doing it”

“Why not?”

“I have other inquiries” he answered simply.

Your brows drew together at his words “What kind of inquiries?”

“What were you doing last night all by yourself on the battlefield?”

“I think that is pretty much the same question that you’re ‘not doing’ but in past tense”

“So you’re not answering?”

You pondered about it for a moment but finally decided to answer. If you were going to speak about last night then so be it.

“I was searching for someone” you surely as hell wouldn't go in depth about it, so you spoke again to prevent him from asking anything else “Why didn't you kill me?”

“Was it a mistake?”

“Not for me. But for you, it must have been”

“It wasn’t”

“Why not?”

Silence. Steps in one direction. Helmets that were distancing towards another.

... ... ... ... ... ...

The meeting repeated itself again and again in your head for the next few days. It wasn’t normal for someone to prowl casually into the woods, much less without a gun, a sword or even a knife. That’s why you were so surprised to meet the Frenchman in the middle of nowhere basically doing nothing. He could be a spy, a madman, a murderer, a romantic or God knows what else. The same might be said of you, but you actually had a reason of why you liked that spot so much: it was the only place where you could speak with your real voice –even if you were only to speak with the squirrels or yourself- and loose up the bandages in your chest. The mere fact that you had decided not to do it that time was luck, luck that you wouldn’t dare to tempt.

But if the man was indeed a spy you needed to inform the General, so you kept your eye in your not-to-secret-anymore place. In the evenings, always at the same time, with bandaged chest and a little dagger in your pocket, you strolled through those calm and uninhabited lands, looking for the presence of the Frenchie.

In less than a week, he appeared again. Riding his horse and wearing simpler clothes instead of his blue uniform.

“You never have anything better to do?” you asked just like if you haven’t been coming to this exact spot for the last five days like it was your favorite hobby.

“Truth be told, yes I do, but that and me wanting to do it are two different stories” he answered with a smile “How about you?”

“I did all my duties already” that was half-truth, half- fallacy but he didn’t need to know “So I can disperse”

"We're like dogs that they let out for a while, but we'll always go back to where they feed us"

“We?” you wrinkled your nose at the word. It sounded awfully awkward to use plural nouns with the enemy.

“Yes, we” But said enemy didn’t seem to mind.

And you were confused for a second wondering if he had said “yes” two times or just said “We” again.

“You can speak for yourself; I’ve never seen the fort as something to which I should return” It’s not an obligation, is a privilege, you thought. But of course, you couldn’t say that out loud. No men would ever understand.

“Alright, a stray dog then. Who has temporary homes in which families as unhappy as him accept him. Would you mind to share the name of the fort?” He finished quickly with a charming smile on his lips.

“Very funny” you retorted sarcastically.

“It was worth a try” he shrugged.

So… assuming he was a spy –an incredibly stupid spy to uncover himself so easily with such an obvious question – he was looking for the place where you were established, but putting that aside you didn’t have any proof. You still couldn’t inform General Clinton about it.

“Do not fool yourself,” you said reducing the distance between you and the man on the horse “You don’t have any chance of winning, not with me”

“You want to bet?” he asked searching in one of his pockets to finally reveal a deck of cards with a playful smirk.

You raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. Really, this man was an enigma.

“It depends on the magnitude of the victory we are talking about” you answered finally.

Calm witnessed how the two of you seated on the ground, making your plays without a word while the Frenchman’s horse grazed quietly around you.

You two gambled mundane things: cigarettes, some gold coins, dry leaves that you found on the floor. Then, without consulting, you played without betting. Just for the pleasure of beating the other until you lost the account of who carried the glory.

#hamilton x reader #lafayette x reader #hamilton imagine #hamilton imagines #marquis de lafayette x reader #reader insert #Marquis de Lafayette #hamilton fanfic #helplessly-burning writing

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amidalogicdive · 7 years

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Implexum - Part Two: Truth

To say that he was distracted was an understatement as he walked the halls towards his destination, the words Regis spoke still echoing in his head. It was much like the siren’s call luring passing vessels closer, only to watch as the ships were dashed against the rocks as men called out for mercy. So was this supposed treaty, a call for a peace that many were drawn towards, but Ignis could only see the looming rocks that were waiting to destroy all that Insomnia stood for. If the King was correct, then destiny was indeed a cruel mistress, but the course had been set and there was no turning back.

A cough pulled him from his thoughts, one of the many palace guards standing beside him. “Sir, are you alright?”

Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he nodded, seeing the worry fade away. “It seems that I became too caught up in my own thoughts. All is well, I thank you for your concern.” He seemed satisfied by the answer, returning to his post a short distance away. Glancing at his watch, Ignis frowned in realization that he'd somehow lost 10 minutes simply standing there.

It was with slight frustration that he continued on towards the Prince's chambers, knowing full well that he would be sleeping. They had come here to see his father, but it had been for naught. Regis had been busy, and Noctis, well he couldn't be bothered to return to his apartment; choosing to stay in his room at the palace. Hurried steps slowed as he reached his destination, looking to his right, aqua eyes observed the monument positioned at the entrance to Noctis’ room.

Considering where he lived and who he served, there was nothing unusual about it, and many were spread out in the living quarters of the royal family. A bust of the grim reaper stood upon a large dais, its scythe resting within the crook of his arm as two skeletal hands held a black lacquer frame close to its body. Within the frame, a woman dressed in garments of blue and grey, her pale skin looking as any mortal would upon their passing.

She was Etro, the patron Goddess of Lucis. Ignis had come to know her as well as one might know themselves. So ingrained was the image, he swore at times he could see her standing before the unseen gates, guiding the souls of the dead into her keeping. The very gates that Noctis had been denied entrance years ago, yet a part of him knew that she had never strayed far from his side. Part of him still cursed her silently for what had become of the prince after his coma, but the blame was not all hers. No, he was certain that Niflheim had done their part as well.

Making his way past the statue, he nodded lightly at the lone guard before entering the small hall and the chambers beyond. Closing the door with a loud click, his hand paused for a moment, eyes adjusting as he was bathed in darkness. As thought, there was only silence to greet him and he couldn’t help the sigh that left him as he released the handle. If Ignis hadn’t learned the layout of the room so well he might have found himself in a very precarious position. Instead, he placed the documents he held on the table and made his way over to the dark curtains without hesitation, drawing the closest one open as light flooded the room.

“Noctis, it is past noon.” Highly doubting that the prince was even conscious of his actions, Ignis simply continued on, opening a few of the balcony doors to let the cooling air in. “Noct?” Making his way towards the bed, he took a seat and watching him for a moment, his disturbance hadn’t even registered as the heir continued to sleep. A slight smile tugged at his lips, his fingers carding through messy dark tresses, moving down a moment later to caress one pale cheek.

As if knowing he was there, Noctis curled closer to the warmth of Ignis’ body. He’d learned long ago there was no point in denying this man anything, and all these years later he was still much like the child he’d befriended that cold winter morning his Uncle had brought him to Insomnia. Ignis had lost count, all the times that he’d come to his bed for comfort and to escape from the dreams that plagued him nightly. At first Ignis had watched over him out of duty, later it had been out of love. Yet for all he’d done, there was a sorrow within his heart that would not cease. Ignis could not fight the nightly cycles of restlessness; he could do nothing to stop the visions that Noctis saw when closing his eyes.

Even now, Ignis could see the evidence of restless sleep in the blankets that had been kicked towards the bottom of the bed; falling off into an unceremonious pile on the floor. Without thinking, his fingers buried back into dark hair as his thumb caressed his temple as he leaned over to gently kiss the other's forehead. Part of him knew he should wake Noctis, and he would have in any other instance but there was a peace in his sleep that Ignis rarely saw and he couldn’t bring himself to disturb it. Instead he fell into his own thoughts, his hand still caressing the man as he slept.

The Sleeping Prince, or so some called him.

All of Insomnia knew of the young prince’s brush with death all those years ago, and though some found amusement in the man’s tendency to nod off at inopportune moments, it only kept the pain that he and the King had felt that day fresh in their minds. Admittedly, Ignis had been young when the incident had occurred, only arriving in Insomnia a few months prior. Yet, in that short time he’d come to respect the Prince, the position that he’d been given close at the younger man’s side. Even now, though the memories had faded over the years, he could see the panic in those around him when the Prince had been brought into the palace. How lifeless he’d looked, his skin cold and features beyond pale. He hadn’t been able to comprehend the severity of what had happened, how close Noctis had come to death that night, only that his friend had been hurt.

The attack, the daemon, the death that had followed. He rarely thought on these things, not because he was an uncaring man, but he’d not be there and couldn’t imagine the terror that had happened in those few short minutes. No, what stood out in his memory was the blood; it had been everywhere as Regis had carefully carried his son into the palace. He’d always thought that black would wash away all color, but the smell had dominated his senses and in his memory, he could clearly see the staining of crimson. Everything that he’d been taught during his short time at the palace had left him that night.

He'd cursed Etro.

Noctis had told him of her first, that she was the Goddess that watched over his family and protected them, that now she would protect him as well. He’d given him the necklace that he still wore, the small skull and crossbones made of dark metal, and Ignis had felt accepted. But where had she been that night, why hadn’t she protected the one person that he never wanted to see harmed? As others rushed past him in hopes of saving the Prince, Ignis stood at the end of the hall, aqua eyes gazing up at the painting as he fought back tears and his balled-up fists shook in anger. He had been taught to worship her, to give her the honor and faithfulness that she deserved. But that night he stood before her and silently cursed her, as he dared not say such words out loud, lest he be heard. He cursed her name, and begged her to spare his future king, his prince, his dearest friend.

And for some reason, she had listened.

The prince had slept; it was a sleep of death and it had lasted for weeks. But one day, and he remembered it has been a beautiful clear day, those electric blue eyes had opened. Etro be praised, or so he had thought at the time. It became obvious, soon after, that something had changed his young friend. He was no longer the energetic youth that he’d first met, Noctis had become quiet, taking too long bouts of sleep. That was when he’d first learned of the night terrors that soon drove the young prince to seek him out at night. Ignis had complied, he would have done anything for him, anything that would help him return to the boy he knew. He’d laid there, stroking the soft black hair, holding his hands and whispering stories into the night hoping they would fight back against the dreams and his friend had simply laid there.

It was soon after that the King, Regis, had taken him to Tenebrae for healing. He had stayed behind to continue his schooling, his pain eating away at his silently. It stung, to see the young heir in such a state and at the time Ignis could only find blame in himself. He’d been the one to curse Etro that night, perhaps this was his punishment, too lose the one soul that meant the most to him.

But Tenebrae had been good for the prince; despite the assassination attempt and the loss of his dear friend, Lunafreya. Noctis spoke more, and when he smiled Ignis could see the friend he’d once known in those eyes. Pulling him aside one day, Noctis told him of the secret whisperings that he and Luna had spoken of during his time there.

To crown the King of Light is the calling of a Crystal, only the true king, anointed by the Crystal can purge our star of its scourge.

And I’m the Chosen?

Yes.

I guess I can do it, I won’t let you down.

I know you won’t.

At first, he’d thought it had been a silly game between the two of them, and how he wished that had been true. There were unseen forces at work, one’s that would not be denied and could not be stopped. It was as if the very world around them had shifted, as if the barrier over Insomnia were protecting those without instead of within. He could see it, yet those around him did not dare to acknowledge it… as if doing so would destroy the illusion that had been created around them. In doing so, they had simply given this unknown power the strength to continue on as it willed. Ignis had wondered, could the world be so unkind to those who did not warrant such cruelty? As many said, simple and to the point, fate was a bitch.

It had come to a head one night as the Prince once again curled against him, his form shaking from a nightmare that had made him flee from his own room. Ignis held him, whispering words of comfort as Noctis clutched his shirt, too scared to close his eyes, fearful that whatever he had seen would return. He stroked the dark locks as he always did, telling him some pointless story of the cooks in the kitchen and what they had made for the following day. How they had let him assist them and that he would learn to cook those treats Noctis has told him of from Tenebrae. As he spoke the Prince had looked up at him, tears streaking down his cheeks as he tried to move closer to his friend’s body. Any words Ignis had fell silent as his friend final spoke.

“Ignis…” He could remember fear had colored his words as he spoke, as if they would be his last. “There are things I just know, and I have no idea how.”

In that moment, he knew that these were not mere nightmares that plagued the boy beside him.

Wishing to know the truth that seemed to be hidden to him, the words that Noctis had told him had bit deep and would not release their hold. He thought to turn to the King for answers. Regis was wise; he would know what to do but before the words could even take form he could see the look in his eyes. How he watched his son, he was not a king at that moment, but simply a father who could not know how much time he would have with his son.

So, the words died… the thoughts of light and crystals, of chosen kings and a fucked-up fate were locked away. When he thought of them now, it was more so like a dream he’d once had, and brushed aside as quickly as it had come to surface. Despite that, it was always in the back of his mind that one day he would have to follow his prince, no matter the calling. He gladly accepted this, his heart to entwined with the man before him. Ignis would follow his prince to the ends of the world, and until then he took peace in the normality of it all.

#ffxv #ffxv fanfiction #ffxv fanfic #ffxv Implexum

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lvaartebella · 6 years

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Feature: The Reactionary Dynamic In Public Art

This article is an updated version of material originally published by Arts-Louisville.com in August 2017. Used with permission.

“The word ‘deface’ derives from ancient Rome,” explains sculptor Matt Weir, “where the public would smash away the faces on images of leaders after they had been disgraced. Emperors would have statues of themselves everywhere, and if they were overthrown they were erased.”

In the aftermath of the events in Charlottesville, Virginia, Louisville joined other American communities in the struggle over public monuments honoring Confederate leaders when the statue of General John Breckinridge Castleman near the Cherokee Triangle was vandalized with bright orange paint. Within days Showing Up For Racial Justice organized a passionate but peaceful public demonstration at the location, and Louisville Mayor Greg Fischer issued a statement directing the Commission on Public Art (COPA) to conduct a review of all public statues in the Metro area to determine what issues need to be addressed.

It seems a worthwhile and important response to community outcry, but in all of the press generated, there has been very little written about how artists feel about all of this, especially sculptors of public art who are today creating such monuments.

Matt Weir is working to complete a commission for a historical statue in Oldham County that will commemorate Colonel William Oldham, a Revolutionary war figure for whom the county is named. The statue, which will be approximately seven feet tall, is to be installed in front of the LaGrange Library by July 2018. The uniformed figure is captured in a humble posture, rifle resting on his shoulder, and the horse’s bit and bridle dangling from his right hand is a nod to the tradition, missing here by deliberate choice, of showing military figures atop a stallion.

The weary, home-from-the-front attitude is a contrast to the heroic Castleman on horseback but reflects the common, everyman quality of the history. Weir states that Oldham has no significant military accomplishments of note, and he was killed in his early 30’s at The Battle of the Wabash, in which his unit was decimated by Native Americans onto whose land they had entered as part of a troop movement north. “There is a sense that he would have likely served as a public official if he had lived,” Weir says. “It’s unclear exactly how they came to name the county after him, but there is really no public sculpture in Oldham County, and Judge David Vogel (who commissioned the statue) wanted to change that, and this seemed like a good place to start.”

When asked about his feelings on the issue, and the Castleman statue in particular, Weir speaks in thoughtful terms that reflect his conflicted feelings: “Some of these pieces that are coming down in Baltimore and Durham, to my eye, looked like beautiful work; examples of important sculptural techniques, and, as an artist, I do feel sad they are disappearing. The Castleman statue is, I think, the only horse and rider statue in Louisville, and it’s a landmark that the neighborhood has used for a long time in its branding.” Weir shows me a cup from the Cherokee Triangle Art Fair showing the event logo that incorporates an image of the statue.

Ed Hamilton has made his reputation as a sculptor of memorial statues, primarily recognizing African American History, and he echoes these thoughts in his own observations: “As an artist, we need to look at work, and I had studied the Castleman statue over the years because it is a gracious, artistically rendered piece. I didn’t even realize for a long time that it was a Confederate officer because he is not wearing a designated uniform. But now I need to rethink the underlying meaning of that statue.” Hamilton’s most recent work, a bust of Underground Railroad conductor George DeBaptiste, was for Madison, Indiana. Among his other monuments are The Spirit of Freedom, a memorial to black Civil War veterans that stands in Washington, DC, as well as monuments dedicated to Booker T. Washington, Joe Louis, York (William Clark’s manservant on the Lewis and Clark Expedition), and the slaves who revolted on the Amistad.

Hamilton was previously a member of COPA, and he says that the commission expected to follow the process that they took in making a recommendation on the statue at the University of Louisville that was relocated to Brandenburg Kentucky. A series of public meetings were scheduled and the first meeting was held in September, but soon Metro Government and COPA decided to develop a different approach, one which will attempt to establish a contextual foundation for approaching public art and the winds of change.

Sarah Lindgren, Public Art Administrator for Metro Government explained the shift in perspective: "We are working on our plans for a community conversation about race and the history of slavery—and how it impacts our world today. The topic of public art and monuments is just one component of a larger plan that Mayor Fischer will be discussing in the near future. The Commission on Public Art began a process of reviewing artwork and monuments in public spaces during a public meeting in September, and that process will continue along with the community conversation."

COPA has set up a link for the public to provide comments here.

These kinds of public sculptures demand substantial research, often as a part of a proposal the artist submits before they even know if they have the job. “It is a job,” Weir tells me. ”I do personal work which reflects my particular aesthetic, and that that is very different from this sort of commission, but my name is on that statue forever, so I want to feel good about it. We don’t know exactly how long bronze lasts, but the oldest surviving bronze statue is thought to be 6000 years old.”

But would he take a commission for a statue honoring a Confederate figure? “For me, personally, no, I wouldn’t do it.”

Historically bronze statues are almost always tributes to individuals of power and influence. The cost of such projects means they are often driven by wealth and privilege, and the innumerable Confederate statues throughout the United States are inextricably tied to a campaign to reinforce Jim Crow laws across the American South in the years between 1890 and 1920, a period often referred to as “the nadir of race relations in America” by historians, so there should be no mystery about their original intention. More were erected in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s as a response to the Civil Rights Movement. “What’s happening now is reactionary,” claims Weir. “Just as the statues themselves were reactionary. Idolatry through figurative art has always been reactionary – always driven by the new regime.”

When I ask him how he feels about the Durham statue being pulled down in the dark of night, he offers: “As a sculptor, that really hit home – what if that were MY work? I would rather see these changes occur through public dialogue. It’s an opportunity to heighten awareness of public art and the issues surrounding these Confederate monuments.”

“Whatever happens,” observes Weir, ”it seems like there is no win here.”

#confederate statues #Ed Hamilton #Matt Weir #General Castleman statue #Showing Up For Racial Justice #Commission on Public Art #Cherokee Triangle

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almostordinarymary · 6 years

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Heritage of Today

Mary Kirby

The world has always had controversy and always will. Right now the spotlight is on the removal of the Confederate statues. Civil rights have always been an issue for America, the Civil War did not just overnight fix all the wrongs white people forced onto African Americans. Even 156 years later we still struggle to make amends, people still stay closed minded. Since this has been a current issue there are many articles arguing the right and wrongs. Is the removal necessary? What will it help? Two Articles one by Roger Cohen, the other by Clay Risen, both contain similar arguments. They don’t believe the statues should remain standing, but still have differing ways to get to their opinions. Clay’s takes a more personal approach as he talks about his life, and growing up in the South around all the statues. Cohen is opinion based on the accumulation of knowledge and different news stories and information from the past and the present. He talks about the civil war, and the issues of modern times and the opinions of our President.

Clay Risen takes a personal side to this conflict. He discusses growing up in the South. He would ride his bike past the Confederate statues and think nothing of their looming presences, because for him they were just there. (Risen) This is natural though, because once a person exposes themselves to something enough it’s simple to forget how horrid the situation may be. This is important information to add to set up the theme of his article. It is all about just going past the statues and not thinking about what they stand for.Risen says in the article, “removing the legacy of the Confederacy is harder than toppling a few statues” (Risen). Right there in that single line speaks volumes. The strong rooted Heritage of the Confederacy still stand out in the South today. He talks about the different colleges named for Confederate soldiers Washington and Lee Specifically. Removing the statues yes, they will help get rid of the everyday reminder of the black’s oppression, but it will noget rid of it with the snap of a finger. It is here, and it takes more than just removing states to help the racism, as it is deeply rooted in Southern Heritage. He realizes that people are proud of their history, but sometimes history is nasty business. Adding this also expresses his thoughts knowing that even though the statues can be removed the ideals which are rooted in the minds of people are difficult to remove. That's why the removal of the statues are the easy part.

That isn’t the only reason it is difficult, it is not easy changing the thought process of people's narrow-minded ways of thinking due to the removal of some concrete and other materials, in the shape of Confederate leaders? He speaks as if they are just there, some people are proud, some just like the thought of them being their heritage others just think nothing of them (Risen). While he talks about this he talks about himself doing the same thing. They were just there when he was a child. This is difficult for him to cope with realizing how he didn’t think about what those statues actually represents. Adding this is helpful for him to create a voice and personality. He is not the immune author he has made mistakes which he isn’t proud of. It also shows us our immunity to the past, the saying the past of the past truly lets people live in blissful ignorance, it’s as if we say hey they’re not slaves anymore they have their equal rights so, all is well. But it isn’t. African Americans still fight for their rights every day.

When Clay Risen was growing up like everyone he knew people who were racists, and let’s be honest don’t we all? His grandmother was, along with his golfing partner as a child and he just went with it. He regrets this, but that is what people do (Risen). When he writes about his regrets he does it to prove he isn't writing this to be hypocritical. He has also made the mistake of just letting things go on that shouldn’t. He is writing the piece to right some wrongs and bring into the light his experiences and his regrets. They just live with things and sometimes do not confront issues so they wont create problems. It’s difficult to speak up against wrongs (Risen). Especially when wrongs are everywhere around you, it’s difficult to be a single person with one idea and speak out it's why people have followers, and movements maybe led by one person, but they are thousands maybe millions strong.

In the second article Roger Cohen writes about the war, and recent events that have struck home causing this new uprising. He talks about the Civil War quoting the vice president of the confederacy, Alexander Stephens. “That the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery — subordination to the superior race — is his natural and normal condition” (Cohen). Adding this sets up a scene of the past. He is saying the Civil war was pro slavery, so the Statutes must be too. Bringing the past into this shows us background on the statues and that specific quote is perfect to use because one it is from the Confederacy’s Vice President, but it is a prime example of their thoughts on African Americans. This was the overall feeling towards African Americans during that time, and it was one of the very main reasons of the Civil War, so yes, the monuments do stand for the oppression of African Americans. The argument that it was not, just slaves when comes to the Civil War may be true but it still is a main cause and on which is still felt today. It’s a ridiculous argument, to even try to say, oh the Civil War was to totally about slavery of course not war is caused by many reason but is not like the war wasn’t fought over slavery it was there it was a reason.

Then Roger Cohen begins to speak of recent events including the death of a 32-year-old woman during the Charlottesville protests. But he speaks of the reaction more so than the protest particularly of our President Donald Trump. Who tweeted that “Both sides are to blame” He put this after he mentioned to death of a 32--year-old woman (Cohen). He did this to show his dislike for Donald Trump. At first you don’t know where he is going but when he says again about Donald Trump saying the white supremacists had “very fine people” in it (Cohen). It is a blow to the president as it shows whose side he is on. This part also comes right after the historical reference, so it brings right back to the now. To where we can relate and on topics we have more knowledge on from the many media outlets talking about it.

Right after he also writes about a novel by Ta- Nehisi Coates who wrote about enslavement. Ta-Nehisi Coates is a national correspondent for The Atlantic. Roger used a quote from Coates novel Between the World and Me. “In America, it is traditional to destroy the black body — it is heritage.”Roger Cohen's opinion on that is simple, the statutes should be removed so not to honor the men who fought to continue using human beings as animals for their greater good (Cohen). No one should be used in such a way ever. It is simple as that. Bringing an outside source form an empowering writer like Ta- Nehisi Coates brings another opinion to the table, but it also adds a source for which people to go to understand his opinion on the treatment of African Americans.

Cohen also has one line which speaks volumes. “Memory is emotion” (Cohen). It is. When a person remembers the past weather is be good or bad there are always feelings associated with it. So, if every day you are walking past a statue which is of a person who fought to keep African Americans enslaved and as goods, and you remember it. The whips, the stories, the vulgar language and the horror. It may not bring specific memories of that time, maybe something that has happened to them. Because the world knows racism is not dead. The Klu Klux Klan still meets, white supremacists exist. So, it can bring up your own unpleasant memories and when you remember that deep pitiful sorrow in your gut, it ruins your day, maybe a week or a month. But if you saw these every day, every day could be ruined just by some concrete. Roger Cohen wants us to reach into our memories. This in here makes us think of our past and the past in general for us to create a connection. Without an emotional connection there would be no reason for us to concern ourselves with his piece.

Roger Cohen also sought for a solution for the Confederate Statues. He thought it would be a good idea to put them in a museum, so they would still exist, because destroying history is never something people want, but they shouldn’t be there any longer. He quoted the director of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History Lonnie Bunch III who said, “I loathe to erase history” (Cohen). If history isn’t remembered then it will be repeated it's simple, we have to remember all the wrongs that were once done.Putting this in his article proves he doesn't approve of eradicating the statues. He thinks they should be looked on in a museum and not as outside public display. It is not wrong to keep them to remember the horrors of history, but people shouldn't have to be reminded everyday of them.

Both articles argued their opinions well with evidence. Risen’s article though was based more on personal experience, this is helpful to create a sense of bond with readers who may have gone through the same things. Maybe they themselves ride their bikes past the statues during their childhood and thought nothing of it and now are seeing the wrong. It’s not an easy thing to do to admit living life in the dark, but people do, when issues especially controversial racial issues come up it is nice to see someone with their own experiences, may they be similar to yours or not. Because no matter what people say opinions do matter. Cohen used more factual information and news events to back up his opinion. But both agreed the Confederate statues need to come down. It is the best way to help bring us closer to the solution, though it may seem very far away. One step at a time progress will occur.

Work Cited

Cohen, Roger. “Confederate Statues and American Memory.” The New York Times. 6 Sept.

2017.Web.18 Oct.2017

Risen, Clay. “Confederate Statues are the Easy Part.” The New York Times. 18 Aug.

2017. Web. 18 Oct. 2017.

#civil rights #heritage #confederate statues #confederate #solution #attention

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thoughtfullycrispygoatee · 6 years

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http://goo.gl/plM6ud Super Elle! As I write this, I look down at my feet, and there’s an 85 lb ball of velvety love - deep asleep, snoring in a syncopated rhythm, as his brindle colored chest rises and falls like a peaceful song. And that’s where he always is. At my feet. Looking after my heart, and waiting for the next big adventure. Or just being content alongside me while I type away on the keyboard, just like I’m doing right now. From the moment he entered my life, he has shared more love, kindness and loyalty with me than I ever knew existed. He barreled into my world and filled it up with endless color and light - showing me things I never knew I could see. Teaching me lessons I never knew I needed to learn. And he has forever changed me. The ‘he’ who I’m talking about?… He is Joshua, my very own heart and soul dog. And he is a Pit Bull. One day, I was looking into Joshua’s warm, chocolate brown eyes and something hit me. His love humbles me in a way I find hard to describe. And I feel that in exchange for being lucky enough to receive this kind of love from as creature as selfless and kind as Joshua, I owe it to him to do something in return. For Joshua. And for all the dogs across the world that are shaped just like him. The ones who are misjudged and misrepresented, the ones who are forgotten, abandoned and left behind. I need to tell his story, and the story of others like him. I need to bring you the other side of the headlines, the ones that you don’t hear as often as you should. I need to bring you the true story of ‘Pit Bull’. And that was the moment my photo series to shine a light on hero Pit Bulls was born: IncrediBULLS. If you’ve been following along on my journey these past few years, you know I’ve been scouring North America for the most brilliant, most incredible Pit Bulls - and traveling far and wide to capture their enormous spirits in the best way I know how: through photography. I’ve searched out some indescribably special Pit Bulls. Pit Bulls who have stood up to be the voice for a voiceless, misunderstood breed. Pit Bulls who are speaking, as loud as they possibly can, for all their blocky headed friends who wait by the tens of thousands behind the bars of their shelter cages across America. Pit Bulls who are not only defying stereotypes — but smashing them to bits - to unabashedly show us the true potential of Pit Bulls everywhere. In short?: I have been searching for heroes. The moment I discovered Elle - she almost seemed too magical to be real. A Pit Bull who was single handedly changing the world around her — leaving a trail of love and kindness in her wake at every turn - painting the world with selflessness and light. I just knew I had to meet her. It is my greatest honor to introduce you to Elle. The 3rd Pit Bull in the IncrediBULLS series. A dog that I am profoundly blessed to have crossed paths with. Here is a dog who is not defined by the shape of her ears or the size of her head. She is the very best parts of Pit Bull, all wrapped up into one satin grey body. And my gosh, is she ever absolutely breathtaking to behold. She has eyes of amber and sunstone, warmed from the inside by the light in her heart, and glittering outwards toward the world with the kind of unmatched purity that only canine can so masterfully bring. But more than her outward appearance - Elle is an indescribable kind of beautiful on the inside as well: because Elle is a Hero. Elle has spent her entire life giving back to her community, and pouring her heart out to those around her. A proud resident of Roanoke Rapids, NC - Elle is both a certified AKC Canine Good Citizen and an AKC Therapy Dog. She visits her local elementary and middle schools where she and her brilliant Mom started ‘Tail Waggin’ Tales’ - a book buddy program that helps children improve their confidence and reading skills. She’s formed powerful friendships with countless children, and has made a tangible difference in their young lives with her eager, appreciative listening and unwavering support. Elle even proudly appears in the Vaughn Elementary School year book with her favorite 3rd grade class and was honored with a PAW medal from the students who loved reading to her. Elle makes regular visits to bring comfort and joy to her friends at a local retirement home. She is a friend to the friendless, family to those who may have no family of their own. Elle promotes responsible pet ownership, safety and proper interaction with dogs in her PAWS ED program through the Roanoke Rapids Police Department where she even has her very own badge! Elle is the mascot of the Roanoke Rapids Fire Department, where she teaches children about fire safety and helpfully demonstrates stop, drop, and roll! (I mean c’mon, that’s gotta be the cutest ‘stop, drop and roll’ on the planet!) Elle is even an honorary member of the Roanoke Valley Chamber of Commerce and was recently named ‘Hometown Hero’, If that wasn’t enough - Elle was destined to transcend her local hero status by going full-on national. :) Elle story of positivity and kindness was heard by hundreds of thousands of Americans when she won the American Humane Association’s Hero Dog of the Year award in 2013. She was flown out to Hollywood for the awards ceremony, where she beat out over 141 other hero dog nominees, and accepted her award live on the Hallmark Channel. To top off the night, Elle even got a kiss (complete with juicy lipstick marks and all!) from Betty White herself! Elle is State Farm Insurance’s National Ambassador for dog bite prevention, where she has teamed up with celebrity dog trainer Victoria Stillwell in their ‘Kindness is Powerful’ campaign, that aims to teach children how to be responsible around dogs. She recently accepted The Positive Pit Bull’s ‘Best Breed Amabassador Award’ and was named 1st place winner ‘Pit Bull Superhero’ by American Dog Magazine. You can see more of Elle in Rebecca Asher-Walsh and National Geographic’s ‘Loyal’, an inspiring book rife with tales about heroism and bravery in dogs, and National Geographic Kids’ book-a-zine ‘125 Pet Rescues’. Whew, I think I need a moment to take a breath (and maybe re-evaluate my own resume. :P) I look back up at this towering body of the text above where I type, and my eyes are brimming with tears. To think - all of these words — all of these lovely nouns and adjectives flowing across the page- just to attempt to begin to describe the monumental accomplishments of one single canine… One single canine who happens to be a ‘Pit Bull’. It’s more than my heart can bear. Because Elle is so much more than what society defines her to be. She defies every stereotype and every misjudgment with the grace of an angel. So the next time see you a little blocky headed dog with sticky-up ears and brightly colored almond eyes - try to remember the magic that’s hiding inside. Try to remember that we are not defined by the shapes of our bodies, or the size of our physical traits. And that love always deserves a chance to shine. When I met Elle on a golden Fall afternoon with the absolute privilege ahead of me of capturing her endless legacy in a photograph - I knew it had to special. I knew this would be my chance to take all the things that Elle has done for Pit Bulls - for dogs like Joshua, and all the others who have been left behind - and sum them up in one single moment. I wanted to bring as much color and light and magic into her portrait as possible. And so she stood there, as regal and perfect as you would imagine her to be, as we brought her fairytale to life among the glittering autumn leaves. A million thank you’s to Elle and her team who helped us make this image a reality. An extra special thank you to Leah - Elle’s Mom - who has been the keystone of every one of Elle’s efforts and the driving force behind every smile Elle has been able to bring. A rare human being with a heart so big and so endless that the moment I met her and melted into her hug, I knew, without a sliver of a doubt, that she was one of ‘my people’. Leah and Elle, you are two of my favorite reasons that remind me everyday that good will always exist in this world and that kindness always wins. by dogbreathphotography

#autumn #leaves #dog #fall #cape #pitbull #pit #superhero #rescue #dog photography #pit bull #adopt #pit bull ter

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