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blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years ago

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The Great Drive: James Hunt and Niki Lauda at Fuji, 1976

I feel really sorry for Niki. I feel sorry for everybody that the race had to be run in such ridiculous circumstances because the conditions were dangerous and I fully appreciate Niki’s decision. After an accident like he had, what else could he do? Quite honestly, I wanted to win the championship and I felt I deserved it. But I also felt Niki deserved to win the championship – and I just wish we could have shared it.

- James Hunt on winning the Japanese Grand Prix 1976 to become F1 World Champion

James Hunt’s epic title battle with Niki Lauda, during what many see as the definitive F1 season, was topped off by a thrilling race in the land of the rising sun. It became an instant classic, one of F1’s Great Drives.

With everything to lose, in treacherous conditions, and with late drama, James Hunt's drive in the 1976 Japanese Grand Prix was one of the greatest of all time.

James Hunt delivered his greatest drive in spite of himself. It wasn’t just the peak moment of his career, but also a defining drive for F1.

The British gentleman racer conquering the world’s best in far away lands – Hunt embodied it.

Despite this, the Brit’s landmark drive came in the midst of late night escapades, mechanical disasters, psychological warfare and F1 politics.

As the ‘76 season approached its climax in North America and Asia, it seemed all might be lost for the McLaren team and its lead driver. Hunt had been duelling with Ferrari’s Niki Lauda throughout the year, but losing his British Grand Prix win to disqualification (announced by the FIA at Round 14 in Canada) seemed to have derailed his season for good.

McLaren team manager at the time Alastair Caldwell describes the state of affairs as they approached the North American leg of the season: “We abandoned the idea of winning the world championship. I let him misbehave in Canada and in Watkins Glen. On both occasions we were pissed on race eve, both of us in a bar after midnight getting rotten – me on alcohol and him on women, because he was always very successful with women.

“James met a girl – the leader of the band at the motel in Montreal – and so he came to the race dishevelled, in the same clothes as he’d been wearing the previous night – and he won the race!

“Even then we still thought we were out of it. Then we won Watkins Glen too! So suddenly we became serious again.”

Lauda had scored 4 points to Hunt’s 18 in this period. With the championship fight back on, the rejuvenated team and driver looked at the season finale in a new light. The championship fight was back on, and as a result, McLaren prepared for the Japanese GP with renewed vigour.

James Hunt had been in Japan a fortnight, ostensibly to test at a circuit new to him. Delays at customs, car problems and bad weather had severely restricted his running, but at least now he was totally orientated and, in his inimitable fashion, ‘relaxed’. That meant when he wasn’t strutting his stuff on the hotel’s squash court, he was billing and cooing with its latest migratory flock of pretty air stewardesses to bed. It beat jogging.

Lauda arrived later, low-key and at a low ebb. The spirit that held the demons at bay during his remarkable Monza comeback had evaporated in Canada and America. Now running on empty, he was full of doubts. While Ferrari team manager Daniele Audetto attempted to whip up retro oppo to McLaren’s ‘illegal’ testing, his star driver looked the other way and wished it over: Lauda was sick of Enzo and his minions, of a season in its 10th month and of press intrusion.

McLaren’s earlier preparations were in sharp contrast to the rest of the field who arrived just for the race weekend itself. According to Caldwell, “The others all turned up on the Thursday, including Niki, you can see them all get off the plane knackered and then trying to find where this new racetrack was.”

It wasn’t just through testing and acclimatisation that Hunt and McLaren stole a march. Caldwell thought he might use interactions with the press to his advantage: “Just for a laugh we spread a rumour. A journalist said to me ‘what’s the track like?’ I said ‘It’s is good but it’s got a lot of loose gravel on it.’”

Enjoying the effect the track surface story had on the rest of the field’s preparations, Caldwell thought he’d develop the rumour into a full-blown design feature.

“Because we were bored and had nothing else to do, the mechanics made mesh covers for all the air intakes on the car, to “protect” the brake ducts and air intake.

“Then Niki (Lauda) came down to our garage, which he always did – he spent more time in our garage then Ferrari’s. He would joke with us and do mechanic’s repartee.

“Psychologically we had them on the back foot right from the start.”

“Niki had come to see what we’d done with the cars as he was also a spy. So I told the mechanics, ‘just by mistake’, to take the covers off the cars so you could see the mesh covers on all the intakes. They did this and then they put it back on in a hurry while I ‘looked displeased’.

“And so then Niki broke off the conversation, trotted back to Ferrari and said ‘f**king hell, McLaren have put vents near these grilles over everything in the car, we got to do the same.’

“The whole Ferrari organisation went out to find these grilles, find where they came from and make them for their three cars. Then we put our three cars in the pit road and took all the grilles off the T-Car. Niki came down and said ‘You f**king bastards!’ They came down the pitroad and Ferrari had this shit all over their car – these grilles all over the radiators.

“He had to tear back and tell them to take them all off. Psychologically we had them on the back foot right from the start, there’s all this psychological warfare.”

Niki was plastered across front pages because of his near-death experience on the track; James was on them because of the life he led off it. Their battle and clashing personalities, though they were good friends, had made the world championship a global news shit-fight. Hunt, outgoing but often lonely in a crowd, pretended to be okay with it. Lauda didn’t.

Friday’s practice sessions provided blessed relief, therefore, even though both men suffered understeer on the stickier Goodyears made available to its faster teams because of the rare presence of Bridgestone and Dunlop on one-off Japanese entries. The title rivals finished the day one-hundredth apart on a provisional third row.

Each improved on Saturday – Hunt to second, Lauda to third – and James, a notoriously slow starter who, by his own estimation, needed to win the race in order to become world champion, was in a much-improved mood. Niki’s never budged.

Then it rained. And rained. And rained some more.

The storm that swept in from China a day later than forecast was the last thing Lauda needed: another element beyond his control. Mist shrouded the snow cone of Mount Fuji, which supposedly bestowed good fortune – when visible – and Niki felt hemmed in by circumstance.

The mind-games might well have been in vain, for the monsoon weather which rolled in on Sunday looked like putting the race in jeopardy. If the Grand Prix was cancelled, Lauda would be handed the World Championship.

Not that Hunt was enamoured with the situation. He spoke privately with Lauda and agreed an attempt to have the race postponed – albeit not before he stressed that he would take the start if necessary and race as hard as Niki forced him to.

The Grand Prix Drivers Association had been formed to have some influence on such matters, to stop the interests of teams, the governing body and sponsors taking precedence over drivers’ well being. Hunt and Lauda were both members and convened prior to the race start in an effort to have it stopped.

“They were adamant the race wasn’t going to be held. Bernie (Ecclestone, Brabham team boss) and I were in the race control tower trying to convince them to hold the race.” says Caldwell “And James kept on saying ‘No no, we’re not going to race’. I tried to explain to him that no race meant no World Championship. He replied “No, no, no, it’s totally unsuitable, we can’t race”.

Alistair Caldwell, McLaren Team boss, resorted to more imaginative tactics to swing the mood towards starting the race.

“I was going down (to the pits) getting my car mechanics to start the engines every half an hour, which would make all the other teams start doing it – they didn’t know why. The engines were making this noise ‘woop, woop, woop’”.

The engineer then turned his attention to activating the spectators.

“I was trying to get some enthusiasm from the passive Japanese crowd, they’d been there for hours doing nothing. They weren’t even talking, just sitting in the rain – miserable.

“I said to our tyre man Lance Gibbs ‘Do you think you could get the crowd going?’ So he got up on the pitwall with his ACME Thunderer whistle, which had been given to the boys to use as a horn, for when they pushed the race cars around the paddock.

“He went ‘beep beep’ and hundreds of spectators did the same – got them doing a concert. We then did the business of slow clapping, when it gets to the end, people can’t keep up, they lose co-ordination and you get a huge noise.

“I went back to the tower and the geriatric Japanese officials and said, ‘Look, you’ve got a riot on your hands’ Bernie was there and he said ‘Yeah, you’ve gotta hold the race. Otherwise you’ll have trouble’. So they said ‘Ok we’ll have the race.’”

With the decision made, the cars finally lined up to start at 4pm. The deliberations had been going on so long that the light was now beginning to fade, reducing the limited visibility even further.

Hunt, nervously retching and hacking more than ever, was so distracted that he took a leak in full view of the spectators. Cue polite applause. Ominously, he then walked a plank laid across a puddle and stepped aboard his McLaren M23. He tipped his helmet back against its roll-hoop and closed his eyes in contemplation. Lauda, crushed by all that had gone before, hunched forward in his 312 T2’s cockpit. Both knew that fate was about to be sorely tempted.

Hunt made a blinding start and held a huge lead by the end of the opening lap. As the rest pecked hesitantly in his rooster-tails, he was out of sight, both physically and metaphorically.

Meanwhile, Lauda, unable to blink because of his burn injuries, was drowning in the pack and questioning his sanity. He formulated an answer by lap two. The Ferrari – “a paper boat in a storm” – rolled into the pitlane and drew up at its garage. Measured. The team descended while designer Mauro Forghieri craned into its cockpit to ascertain the problem.

After just 1 lap, Lauda had seen enough. Deeming the conditions too dangerous, and having already nearly lost his life at Nürburgring that year, the Austrian decided it simply wasn’t worth carrying on. He pulled his Ferrari into the pits and walked away from the 1976 World Championship. Lauda, the reigning world champion, had the skill but not the will to continue. It was “murder” out there – and life was for living.

Hunt, as drivers without a world title feel compelled to, pressed on and kept his date with destiny. Hunt being Hunt, of course, he almost missed it. Not until his post-race red mist lifted could he be persuaded that he hadn’t.

With Lauda out the race, Hunt’s task was now a little more straightforward. He simply had to finish third, and the title was his.

The McLaren driver pressed on and by lap 10 his lead had doubled to over 8sec. Meanwhile, interesting movements were afoot further back in the pack.

Local hero Kazuyoshi Hoshino, driving a privately-entered Tyrrell 007, had made his up to third, from 21st on the grid!

More worrying for Hunt was that March’s Vittorio Brambilla had overtaken Andretti and was beginning to hunt him down. By lap 20, Brambilla had closed right up behind the Hunt.

On the next lap, the March driver decided to go for it. Brambilla, known for an erratic driving style, conformed to type on this occasion by inadvertently out-braking himself as he dived down the inside of the McLaren.

Hunt had been wary of Brambilla and was monitoring the situation constantly. In a moment of brilliant anticipation, he allowed the March to spin in front of him, performing the cutback and before carrying on as if almost nothing had happened.

Brambilla dropped to fourth, the danger to Hunt being over for now. Andretti at this point was gradually dropping back through the pack. It was Hunt’s team-mate Jochen Mass who was behind him now, with a McLaren 1-2 now looking very much on the cards.

Seeking to control the race from here on in, the team’s new concern was the drying line which was now appearing on the track. Caldwell put out a pit board sign telling his drivers to cool their wet weather tyres – this was done by searching for wet sections of the track, the water preventing the rubber from overheating.

To his team manager’s frustration, Hunt didn’t appear to be heeding the warnings: “As soon as Mass saw the sign, he pulled over in the water right in front of us. Then on the next lap he came down the right hand side of the track, splashing through the puddles, which cools the tires down, (while) James didn’t react.

“The next lap we gave it to Hunt again, the next lap again, he still didn’t do it. So we took away the pitboard, just gave him the ‘cool tyres’ sign and he still didn’t react. So then everyone in the team started pointing at it (the sign). Everybody in the team pointed, Teddy (Mayer, McLaren Managing Director) and everyone else and he still did nothing.”

Hunt carried on down the dry line, running his tyres way above their recommended temperature, seemingly oblivious to the warnings.

If Hunt wasn’t going to heed the warnings, then Andretti was: “Because we were emphasising this so much, Andretti saw it and started to cool his tyres. So he started running through the puddles. He didn’t have to stop (as a result).

“But James just resolutely drove down the middle of the dry track, and we could never bring him in, because he was never that far ahead. It was never possible to tactically stop him because there’s a big long pitroad at Fuji.”

Jochen Mass, benefitting from his team’s tyre advice, now began to reel in his team-mate. If he got past, he would have no trouble driving off into the distance to take the win.

However, the German’s diligence came to naught, as he spun off and out of contention on lap 36. This would have a huge bearing on the race later.

For now, Hunt was again in the clear. Another challenger, Shadow’s Tom Pryce, moved into second, but he too retired as his Cosworth engine expired on lap 46.

As the grand prix wore on, Hunt remained in a seemingly trance-like state as he stuck to his line, the situation became critical.

Whilst yet another to danger to Hunt had abated, the McLaren driver was now deciding whether to play the percentages. He could either pit to replace his worn tyres – and lose track position – or try and stick it out at the risk of losing so much grip he would be overtaken anyway.

Hunt took the second option. He could afford to drop to third, and this is indeed what happened. On lap 61, he was overtaken not only by Tyrrell’s Patrick Depailler, but also the resurgent Lotus of Andretti.

If Hunt managed to hold position, he would be world champion. For the next 7 laps, the plan appeared to be working. Then, on lap 68, disaster struck.

The McLaren driver suffered not one, but two deflated tyres – both on the left-hand side of the car. They were, as Caldwell puts it, “worn down to the air”. Hunt managed to drag his car round for half a lap before scraping into the pits.

F1 jacks at the time were not designed to lift a car with puncture at the front and rear of the car. While the jack was used to lift the rear of the car, TV shots show Caldwell and other team members lifting the other end of the car themselves to replace the front-left tyre.

It was a long pitstop, and once out, Hunt found himself back in fifth place. There were four laps left and Hunt was two places down on where he needed to be.

Two more laps passed and the Englishman was no further up the order. It looked as if he may have lost his championship chance.

Then, with two laps left of the race to go, Hunt started the fight back. At the exit of T1 he managed to get past the Surtees of Alan Jones. One more place and the championship was his.

Next up was the Ferrari of Clay Regazzoni. It turned out there were some Scuderia politics at play which would work to Hunt’s advantage.

Caldwell filled in the back story: “Ferrari’s reaction to Niki’s crash was to sack Regazzoni (for 1977). He had already been sacked (by Fuji).

“So he was pissed off at Ferrari. When James came charging along, he just stepped out of the way and let him by.”

After benefitting from Regazzoni’s apparent generosity, Hunt was suddenly back in the golden position, the third place he needed to clinch the championship.

The McLaren man just had to keep it on the road for two more laps and he’d take the title. The tension mounted, both in the team pit and back in the UK, where his family were watching the live television feed at 3am.

Despite two nerve-wracking final laps, the Englishman duly brought his McLaren home in third place. He was the new F1 World Champion.

Photographs show Hunt angrily remonstrating with his team as he climbed from the car. He hadn’t realised he’d got the job done.

Caldwell himself had mixed emotions about the whole affair, “He didn’t look at the board and when he came into the pits he started shouting at us, because he didn’t know what happened. He was incredibly annoying on the day. He did drive magnificently, he kept it on the road – that’s one point of view. From my point of view it was the most frustrating day – I could’ve hit him with a baseball bat! He could have won the race, just strolled the world championship. All he had to do was read this pitboard and drive in the water, which is what Andretti did, so he didn’t wear the tyres out and could paddle across the line with the same ones.”

In spite of Hunt seemingly making a championship-losing decision, he had still managed to pull it off.

However, such was Caldwell’s consternation, the two didn’t discuss afterwards.

I was so angry about it. We flew back to England and I wasn’t talking to him on the plane. He was pissed as a newt anyway – we were all pissed as a newt and totally exhausted. He just went to sleep.”

The two never discussed the reasons behind the events, but it didn’t change the result. Three years after making his F1 debut, Hunt was the world champion.

Ten weeks later Hunt arrived in Argentina to begin his title defence feeling underwhelmed and under-prepared. A few celebratory cigs and tins with his friend Britain’s newly crowned 500cc motorcycle world champion, Barry Sheene, at Fuji and a riotous return flight had been followed by a disorientating whirl of meetings, interviews and engagements. The race-by-race title chase had been thrilling: a sequence of one-day stands. Making it official had cooled the relationship. The love affair was over.

Though both men would retire summarily during the 1979 season, Hunt did so because he felt frightened and disillusioned, whereas Lauda did so because he felt nothing, which frightened him.

Niki, though, had a system – plus a plan to run his own airline – and ultimately would return to the F1 cockpit and be successful. James, whose theories were sometimes somewhat scrambled, would not. He bred budgies instead. You do what you have to do.

Lauda’s decision to stop at Fuji ensured that he would be able to continue. Hunt’s decision to continue ensured that he would have to stop sooner rather than later. One racing mind wiped clean, the other cluttered – and racing.

In spite of his career’s decline, Hunt’s endeavours had captured the imagination of the wider world in a way no racing driver had done before.Hunt knew that life was for living, too. Tragically, however, he had just discovered how best to when fate too soon snatched it from him.

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maybewren · 3 years ago

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War! - Zach Callison

Silver. Silver like the thick guitar strings for the lower notes and their very specific texture of grooves. Running through the prairie fields, the feeling of insects against your skin. Standing on rotten planks randomly left in the woods. A dark worn path alone. Horseback riding, taking the higher jumps at faster speeds. The smell of the stables. Running your fingers on rough edges. Jamming on the bus, both earbuds in and volume on max. Doing dumb shit on top of the school desks, graffitiing shit. Willingly jogging down a path or sidewalk until your feet hurt.

Similar songs I can think of include Jacket Over Hoodie Over Shirt by Marco Aziel, montgomery forever by The Front Bottoms, Morning In America by Jon Bellion, Natalie Portman 2002 by Jason is, Papillion by The Narcissist Cookbook, and Why Can't I Be You? by The Cure.

#i was actually big into that albulmn a year or so ago #my reccommendations are all over the place rn #maybe asks #maybe music

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scribbling-stiks · 4 years ago

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Retrievers - V - Bloodbath

Russia finds himself counting water bottles, trying to distract himself from his churning emotions. He mutters the strange English numbers under his breath, and though he couldn't hear how loud he is, he gets no complaints.

Thuds against the door to the hideout pull him violently from his daydreams of kisses and heroism.

Russia stands and walks briskly up to the door. He listens and hears the gurgling from earlier. He stiffens.

'S***.'

Russia readies himself to fend off whatever it is and he steps back. He holds out his hand and herds the states and providences back.

"Shhh!" Russia demands.

The group falls quiet.

America pushes his way to the front and takes a place next to Russia. America wipes his face on last time with the back of his hand before his expression stiffens into a harsh glare directed at the door.

America summons his scythe, and Massachusetts, Connecticut, Arizona, and a few others summon their respective weapons, ready for a fight.

Russia snarls.

'I am not letting whatever that thing is to get near any of them.'

Russia bares his teeth and listens to whatever it was wrestling with the door. It gurgles and gasps from behind the metal plate.

Then it begins to sound like human hands scratching at the door. Russia's heart sinks into his stomach.

Even with Dixie fighting against it, the thing yanks the door out of the wall.

It screams victoriously.

America charges at it before Russia fully registered what had happened, with Russia and Texas on his tail. Russia fights to push its tentacles away from the entrance.

The monster is several meters tall and looks like it came from a sailor's tale of misfortune.

It crawls on its tentacles and thrashes about, gnashing its beak at them.

Around it are dozens of huge insects that skitter around, each one as big as Russia's face. The bugs look like armed, slimy beetles. Their shells shine with distorted reflections of the lights above.

Russia's attention rockets to the kids screaming in fear from what used to be the safe room. Countries race out and begin trying to kick and throw the bugs aside. Canada sends them flying with a hockey stick, though where he got it, Russia will never know.

The thing screeches as America swings at it, cutting open its face. America back peddles and hacks at the larger groups of the swarm.

Russia tries to keep an eye on the squid while Finland and Egypt fight it back, but he loses track of it while beating back the beetles from the entrance, trying to block any of them from getting to the states and providences.

Russia turns around for a split second to dispose of a larger group when it strikes.

A hiss. And a woosh of quick movement.

Russia knows he couldn't turn around fast enough to block it, but he also knows he has to try.

Russia spins around and gets ready to take a hit to the chest, onto to see America being snatched up right in front of him.

Russia feels his heart stop.

"AMERICA!" Russia screams, reaching out fruitlessly into thin air.

The monster screeches and dangles a screaming America up by its beak. Then it slams America into the ground hard enough to leave a crater.

America goes silent.

The monster whips America around before flinging him into a wall.

America flies back and lands with a sickening crack and thump, but nothing more, not even a whimper.

Children and teens shriek in horror.

Russia stares in terror.

He's stuck, and the sounds around him blend together. Colors mix and he stares at the only thing clear in his vision, a broken America, whose body is splayed out, unnatural and broken, against broken wooden planks.

Fear turns to grief.

And grief turns to anger.

Red hot flames roar within him.

They lick away at his patience and self-control, eating them away in moments.

Russia's vision turns blood red.

Russia whips around, snarling like a rabid animal.

He opens his mouth in a wordless scream that rings through the air before he charges.

Russia slams into the creature with his shoulder and knocks it off balance. He wrangles up its limbs and scratches it as deeply as his hands can manage, staining his fingers dark red with its blood.

Russia swings it up and hurls it into the floor.

Touching its skin makes his hands and arms burn, but Russia finds that he doesn't care at all.

'Must. DESTROY,' his mind roars.

He zeros in on the smaller monsters racing toward the kids.

Russia bounds off the wall and lands in between them and the screaming states.

He snatches the smaller creatures and tosses them like styrofoam models.

They splatter onto the walls like dark brown jello.

Then, his attention returns to the largest of the group and he charges it again.

Rage coats his throat in rust.

Russia screams, his hands curled into fists. He swings, breaking the beak of the monstrosity in front of him.

The squid creature roars in pain before lashing out at him, using its tentacles to gouge deep wounds into Russia's legs.

Russia finds he can't feel a thing.

Russia grabs a tentacle. With one quick yank, he rips it off the creature's body.

Dark red coats the hallway and ceiling.

Russia lets out a guttural growl. His teeth are stained with the creature's blood.

The thing shrieks and tries to retreat.

"No," Russia snarls, grabbing it and slinging it into the wall.

It scrambles away from him. Russia stares it down and it flees far too quickly for Russia to catch it.

Russia runs after it, following the bloody, gore-filled trail it leaves behind.

The only reason he lets it get away into the trees is a shriek from behind him. Russia spins around at the noise and races back inside.

Russia's clothes are dripping with dark red blood. It seeps into his skin, but the sensation has nothing on the anger boiling beneath his eyes.

He wordlessly crushes the beetles, cracking their shells, and his feet sink into their organs.

The red begins to fade a little, and he blinks a few times.

Russia looks around at the carnage. He looks like he'd exploded a butcher's shop, he notes. It smells like rotten fish.

Russia takes his breaths in shallow gasps, his chest heaving. The foul taste in his mouth finally registers, and he nearly vomits.

The paint on the walls is no longer visible, and the wood floors have been splintered apart in some places, though Russia finds that he can't remember the original color of the wood.

'Where is America?'

Russia spins around, searching. He spots America limp against a back wall.

Russia runs over, leaping over the holes in the floor, and ignoring the burning coating him. He slides to a stop in front of him, but can't get too close with the states surrounding him. He towers over them, and nausea hits him again.

America lays, lifeless, against the bloody wall. Blood pouring from wounds that cover him, bruises, and gaping holes.

California and New York work with Texas to reset America's leg and put it into a splint. It cracks back into place, and America doesn't even flinch.

Russia stands frozen, thoughts swirling violently in his mind. The color fades from his face.

'I pushed him away. He apologized, and I dismissed it.'

'That should've been me.'

The world starts to spin and Russia stumbles into the wall, his eyes like saucers.

"We should get that stuff off of you," Tenessee comments.

She and Georgia start to pull him away.

"No! Wait! Please!" Russia begs, trying to pull away.

The rest of the states surround America, blocking Russia's view of anything that was going on. The dizziness, nausea, and pain render him too weak to fully fight back anymore. They take him outside and Georgia blasts him with cold water from the hose.

Russia doesn't flinch.

'To think he didn't care at all.'

'I'm out here, and I don't even know if he's okay.'

The mud under his feet turns red, and Russia stares into it, wishing things had been different, but knowing he might not get the chance.

Tears and tap water rinse his face.

Table of Contents

#rusame #ch russia #ch america #statehumans #countryhumans

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yconic · 6 years ago

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I don't think you understand how much I love the concept of single dad Tony being protected by his kids, because, quite frankly, they don't think anyone is good enough for him. And the list of possibilities on how he becomes a single parent is infinite, but I personally prefer the one where he adopts on his own, be it because the kids were left on his doorstep or because he picks them up from an orphanage.

That being said, I loved this concept so much I came up with an AU for it! It's kinda like this:

A nonpowered AU where Tony always loved baking because he always used to do it with people that he loved. Maria and Jarvis used to bake all the time when he was a kid and he'd always stay in the kitchen to help them and have some bonding time together since Maria used to be busy working and baking hours were almost the only times she was free.

So you best believe Tony opens a bakery as soon as he graduates! Ever since he was a little kid he'd save up for it and kept it up in adulthood because he wanted to build something with his own money since Howard always used to say he couldn't do anything on his own. So he buys a busted up building, and makes it into his dream.

Everything goes smoothly for a year or so. The business prospers, Tony's got himself an apartment, finally moved out of Rhodey's basement. ("You know I don't mind if you stay for a day or two more.") ("Awww, admit it, you love having me around!") ("I changed my mind, have your bags ready to go by morning you fucking menace.") ("I love you too, Platypus.") He's doing pretty good financially. It all goes great!

Until it doesn't.

One day, two kids walk in. They can't be older than nine, their clothes are obviously hand-me-downs, and they're ogling the pastries like they're some kind of never seen treasure. They're siblings, Tony can tell that much. He doesn't want to be an asshole and assume they're here to do what he thinks .

He can count on one hand the number of times he walked into a store and the manager or the stuff followed his every move with their unkind eyes, subtly (not so) trying to make it seem like they're busy in the area he was at. But it was obvious they expected him to snatch something and dash out of the store. Their behavior made Tony feel helpless, unwelcomed and inferior, like someone like him had no place in a place like that.

He didn't want to act like those assholes, so he welcomed the kids with a smile, deciding to give them the benefit of the doubt.

They snatched some pies and dashed out the door in a blink.

He chases after them of course, not with the intention of dragging them to the police or give slapping them a new one like Howard would've done. Not for something as simple as pies. But he well knows he wouldn't have taken if they stole money, either.

Tony is convinced that if his father was alive, he would've called him weak, soft, a disappointment, for just wanting to pull them aside and ask them why they did it, ask if they needed help, as Tony planned on doing. It was clear they were in a desperate situation, otherwise the thievery wouldn't have been done.

After an hour or so of chasing, where Tony had to stop two times because damn the kid with silver hair was fast, they barge into an old orphanage. It was obvious the building's seen better days, if the paint peeling off the cracked walls and broken windows covered with rotten planks was anything to go by.

He explains the incident to the woman who runs the place as he looks around, bottom of his shoes sticking to the dirty floors and the overwhelming smell of mold invaded his nostrils, making his stomach clench in disgust. The children in there look like they haven't seen a bath and warm meal in weeks, some in their lives.

It's unbearably infuriating how the staff acts like everything is normal, ignoring how the kids were obviously unhappy and in need of care, as they lead him to the room where Pietro and Wanda were.

He learned their names when they were practically spat by the director, and that they were Sokovian refugees, sent to America by parents who didn't want their children to bask in the violence and bloodshed of war. The room the twins lived was small, two bunk beds and a single closet.

The duo was on the floor, scarfing down the pie they grabbed with two other kids, younger than them, Tony noted. The twins noticed he was there, but their eyes were downcasted on the ground, refusing to look at him.

With his mind made up, Tony turns to the director, no trace of hesitation in his voice "I want to adopt them." He wants to yell when she practically hands them over like a pair of unwanted, old jeans, barely even letting the ink dry on the adoption papers.

The first two months are tough on them all. It's hard for them to accommodate to a normal home after spending so much time in a house full of neglect, hostility, and constant state of unsafety. The fact that they got three meals a day bewildered them, that Tony didn't yell, or hit them confused them, and Tony's heart broke every time.

The situation improved as time passed, with gentleness and patience, with love and acceptance of differences and difficult pasts, leaving them behind and looking forward, they build a small but united family. And unknown to them, it will extend with a new member on the night of December 24th.

It's Christmas and Pietro's was on the couch, playing video games with his head on Wanda's lap as she was reading a book, waiting for Tony to come back from work, when the doorbell rang so insistently Wanda smacked him on the back of his head, ordering him to open the door.

"Uh, " Pietro dragged the sound out, eyes glued to the crib on the doormat, where a pair of big, brown eyes stared back at him, just as puzzled as he was "Hey, Wanda?! There's a baby on our doorstep! I'm bringing him inside to adopt him so I can take his allowance!"

"That's nice, Pi," Wanda replied, absentmindedly flipping the page of her novel, "you better share it with me, shithead," but immediately her eyes winded in realization, standing up in a hurry "WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"

"I FOUND A BABY ON OUR DOORSTEP!'' Pietro yelled, emphasizing his point by literally shoving the baby in her face, who immediately began to cry at the loud noise.

"DON'T YELL AT ME! YOU MADE HIM CRY!''

"YOU YELLED AT ME FIRST! "

Right then, Tony entered the apartment holding grocery bags which he desperately fought for against Susan, the annoying neighbor from above, only to be welcomed by a shouting match "What's all this yelling?! I can hear you guys from across the, --" he dropped the bags the minute he saw Pietro holding a baby. A human baby. A breathing, human baby.

"What's, " He started after a moment of silence, pointing at the crying babe in his son's arm "that?"

"Um, 'that' is a he, and his name is Peter! Can we keep him, dad? I want to steal his allowance and birthday presents. And stick his dirty diapers in Wanda's mouth when she's sleeping."

"Do that, and it'll be the last thing you do."

"What's it doing in my house? " Tony asked, taking the fragile baby in his arms, and the cries immediately stopped. The little hands hooked on his shirt tightly, having no intention of letting go. Heart melting, he smiled down at the baby boy, steading him in his arms "you said his name was Peter?"

"Yep! It was written on the note attached to the crib. We found him on our doorstep. We're keeping him, right?"

"Please, dad?" Wanda chimed in "he's so cute! And I might finally have the servant Pietro was supposed to be!"

"Hey, fuck you, alright? But yeah dad, let's keep him! I always wanted a brother! Please? I said please, so you know how much I want this."

"Oh, kids, I don't know, " Tony whispered, eyes warm as he looked at Peter who was playing with his index finger, trying to bite into it with his squishy gums. Looking at the twins, he wasn't surprised to find a set of begging puppy eyes staring at him. There was no changing their minds.

Sighing, he smiled "Hope you guys like smelly diapers and midnight wake up calls." Susan complained about the noise of their cheer and the thud after the kids tackled him in a hug. Tony couldn't bring himself to give a fuck, though.

Two years later, standing in his bakery, laughing with Pietro and Wanda while they told him about their day at school, between bickering with each other, of course, preparing cakes with a happy two year old Peter in his arms, Tony couldn't be happier with his decision.

He had a family. A happy family, nonetheless. After so many years, Tony can say he's nothing like Howard, he can say his kids are content, he can say they're safe and comfortable, and happy with him. Tony made sure to give them everything Howard didn't give him. It couldn't get any better than that.

"Dad, don't look now, but that blonde over there has been checking you out for the past hour or so, " Wanda whispered to him with a smile on her face, gesturing to a blonde man drawing in a corner. Their eyes met for a brief second before he moved his eyes away in a flash, red dusting his cheeks and neck.

The baker snorted, passing Peter to a glaring Pietro, who pinned the man down with a stony gaze before 'hmph' ing. Tony raised an eyebrow, but didn't question him, instead hurrying to serve the apple pie and hot chocolate to the artist (?). Giving the other man a friendly smile, he set the order on the table.

"Apple pie and hot chocolate, right? Interesting combo, If I do say so myself, " Tony commented with a small chuckle. The blue-eyed man finally looked up. Tony could get lost in the sea of his eyes, as cliche as that sounds.

He chuckled, thought it was a tad nervous, and played with the circles that held his sketchbook together, blush still flaming on his porcelain fair skin. "You've never prepared weird orders before?"

"Weird isn't the word I'd use, but I had. One time, a guy told me to shred some cheddar cheese on his chocolate muffin. I still want to puke everything I think about it." Tony laughed at the memory, Pepper's deranged face appearing in his mind.

The other man laughed "Oh, that's not good, " he extended his hand, giving Tony a smile that made him weak in the knees "I'm Steve. Wanna sit down and tell me horror stories about disgusting food orders?"

Turning to his kids to see what they thought about it, he got a thumbs up from Wanda and some clapping from Peter. In the meantime, Pietro shrugged, not taking his piercing eyes off Steve, but he softened, shrugging his shoulders.

His eyes fell back on his Steve, the corners of his mouth lifting as he sat down "I'd love to!"

#stony #single dad tony au #pietro maximoff #quicksilver #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #mcu #marvel #steve rogers #captain america #iron man #tony stark #peter parker #spiderman #superfamily #my writing #au tag #pining #otp

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musicallisto · 6 years ago

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i’ve been shipped before, so I hope it’s okay that I’m asking for something else? ^^ can I get a marvel ship Drabble please? lyric prompt #23! I’m Jenna, bi 5’9 girl w curly brown hair and hazel eyes. I’m introverted, sarcastic, childish, antisocial, gryffindor, kind hearted, over emotional, easily flustered, and I have a dirty sense of humor. I like archery, piano, cooking, animals(mostly dogs), and singing. I’m easily jealous, hate pda, and I’m v independent and can’t stand clingy people. TY!!

⚖ Count On Me (Clint Barton x Jenna)

author notes: hope you like this! as soon as I read you like archery and you’re a Gryffindor, I immediately started getting ideas about Clint & you, I think you’d be adorable and a great match! this is more platonic tbh but it has a great deal of flirty banter and implied crush so I hope it’s okay!warnings: training (somewhat fighting?)your song: bruno mars - count on meword count: 1273 words

requests are closed

One hit, two hits, three hits… all your arrows flawlessly hit the mental aims you drew in your head. In any other situation, you would’ve had a hard time refraining a triumphant grin from showing on your face as the heads of your weapons pierced the trembling, wooden planks like blades, each exactly where you had planned them, but you were forced to go into hiding in a dark, repellent building abandoned for decades in the outskirts of a rotten city, shutting yourself away like a rat in fear of being gunned down by who you had always considered family, so nothing really could’ve made you smile like before.

You remained hidden in the shadows because according to Steve, putting yourselves out there would have been too dangerous in the explosive conflict the world was in, and you were slowly feeling like you were burning up in this poor excuse for a hideaway, in the middle of dust and rodents. At least, if your allegiance to Steve and his ideals had taken away all your liberty, it hadn’t prevented you from training twice as hard as usual. Officially, you were bored and didn’t want to lose your touch at archery. In reality, it distracted you from the clusterfuck of a civil war that was building up outside those gray walls.

Teeth gritted, you reaffirmed your grip on your bow until your knuckles demanded mercy, and, blocking your mind to any oppressive thought that would linger in the dark corners of your head, you shot two more arrows that crashed right in the middle of the platforms made of timber, mangled by the midnight wind coming through the broken windows. You couldn’t believe anyone would think you were monsters, that you were threats when you had given your life to protect the needy. Those accords felt like the most disgusting display of hypocrisy you had ever seen, and your choice of rejecting them and going on the run with half of the Avengers hadn’t been a difficult one for you to make.

Even if you’d have to fight the other ones who had agreed with the terms of the contract sooner or later, but you didn’t want to worry about that already.

A sudden rustle in your back startled you, and you immediately turned to face the source of the sound, the string of your bow loose, but your fingers steady on the weapon in case you needed to defend yourself. Your arrow danced absent-mindedly between your fingers as you took careful steps towards the exit of your concreted hideaway. Steve knew better than to disturb you at night, especially when you were training; meaning it wasn’t him, and if your ears hadn’t betrayed you, then something - or someone - was lurking in the shadows, ready to strike behind your back.

“Show yourself,” you hissed sternly.

You didn’t know if there was an intruder or if it was nothing but you said better safe than sorry, especially in the tense situation Captain America’s team was plunged in.

Your steps brought you closer to the tear in the wall that was supposed to host a door… closer and closer… you were certain you had seen a shadow lurking just by the wide gate, and the coward didn’t dare to show yourself… your tensed muscles were prepared to level your bow at the intruder; shooting from a range too short would be problematic for inflicting enough damage to the intruder, but you hoped the element of surprise would be on your side and would allow you to take the upper hand.

Just a little further… you were almost the-

“Woah, don’t shoot! It’s just me! I’m on your side!” a familiar voice shakily exclaimed in a terrified attempt at saving itself.

In stunned silence, you took a few steps back as Clint’s broad figure entered your precarious training room. He looked the same as the last time you had seen him, his own bow hanging from his back, but his eyes seemed more tired than ever. He grunted something along the lines of “dammit, she really was going to shoot” while rubbing his face as though he had just woken up from an agitated slumber. You crossed your arms in disbelief, your feet fiercely on the ground, not quite understanding what your closest friend was doing here, especially since you weren’t on good terms the last time you had seen him. You, as selfish as it sounded, were quite reluctant to his departure and had accused him of running away from his problems instead of facing them. Needless to say, you had felt miserable as soon as he had decided to leave for good, and you had wanted to put your goddamn pride aside and apologize more than once. Yet you didn’t want this discussion to go on without an explanation from him.

“What are you doing here? Last thing I remember, you had retired.”

“Cap called me back,” he assured matter-of-factly, taking a few steps towards you - which you answered with more steps backwards, not wanting to give in just yet to your best friend, and long-time crush, may you add.

“And you came back?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“After what happened to that kid…” he admitted, lowering his gaze to the ground, and you felt a sudden rush of sympathy overpower you.

“You mean Quicksilver?”

“Yeah. After what happened to him… I felt like I owed it to him at least. He died for me, Jenna,” he added after a hesitation. “I couldn’t live with it.”

“So you’re here to help?” you asked, a despicable hopefulness in your voice. You didn’t want to seem desperate, but you had to admit you had really missed Clint and hoped he was there to stay.

“Yes. And… is it too soon to say that I missed you?” he admitted sheepishly, turning his gaze toward you with one of those goofy smiles of his that you had grown to love terribly.

You sighed, trying to prevent a slight smile from creeping its way on your lips. You couldn’t give Clint the satisfaction of knowing he was slowly breaking your defences.

“I missed you too, Legolas. But I thought you didn’t want to help us anymore… that you had seen too much.”

He offered you a slight smile, and that was the moment when you saw the incredible tiredness in his eyes. Suddenly, you felt a rush of affection course in your body and a swift wish to embrace him like you always did before threatened to overpower you. However, you remained calm and steady in your position.

“I’ve gone through a lot of shit because of… this,” he admitted with a vague gesture enveloping all his surroundings. “But we all have. And in the end… for you, I’d do it all again. I think you’re my best friend. And you don’t how much I’ve missed my best friend.”

You couldn’t contain your relief anymore. Seeing your best friend in one piece and ready to fight for what you had always believed in, ready to fight by your side, was all you had silently hoped for without admitting it to yourself. You smiled fondly and reduced the distance between the two of you, wrapping your arms around him and hugging him tightly against your chest.

“Uh… Jenna? Are you okay? You’ve just willingly induced physical contact…”

“Shut up,” you laughed, gently hitting him in the shoulder as you stepped back. “I’m just… glad to have my best friend back.”

#ships #ship requests #ship drabbles #drabble #marvel #mcu #clint barton #clint barton x reader #clint barton imagine #avengers #mywriting

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antoine-roquentin · 7 years ago

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Pity the conservative film critic. Suffering through so many juvenile, raunchy flicks and mindless blockbusters. Why even the great films are marred. No matter how extraordinary the film, something comes along to spoil it. Something…politically correct.

Maybe it’s the villain, an evil giant multinational corporation dumping oceans of toxins into the local river, which also happens to be the town’s water supply.

Maybe it’s Mr. Potter’s bank threatening to foreclose on the old homestead.

Typical liberal pablum, snarls the conservative critic. All corporations are evil. Banks are foreclosing on everybody’s sick grandma’s farm.

It hardly matters that socially conscious films like A Civil Action, North Country, Norma Rae, Silkwood and Erin Brockovich are extraordinarily entertaining films with Oscar-level direction and performances. What matters to the conservative film critic is that they are mere whored-up vehicles for socialist propaganda. And only he (and it’s always a he) is wise enough to see it.

Whatever would American film audiences have done without the conservative film critic to enlighten them as to the “awfulness” of Jordan Peele’s Get Out? The film boasted a perfect 100 score from critics on the movie review aggregator Rotten Tomatoes. That is until National Review’s Armond White reviewed the film. Where other critics saw the “satirical horror movie we’ve been waiting for, a mash-up of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? and The Stepford Wives that’s more fun than either and more illuminating, too,” Armand, who is African American, saw a film—which he dubbed “Get Whitey”—that was “tailored to please the liberal status quo.”

The Chicago Reader’s J.R. Jones must have been watching another horror-comedy called Get Out, because he saw a brilliant film “that sticks closely to genre convention even as its ribbing of white liberals hardens into a social point.”

Selma was another film with a 99 percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes whose perfect score was spoiled by a critic from a conservative publication, this time Nigel Andrews of the Financial Times. Andrews, unlike every other reviewer, panned Selma as “a dead-as-a-plank re-enactment of a pietised ‘then’: a 50-year-old battle of ideals between Good Guys (MLK, LBJ in civil rights reform mode) and Bad Guys (Governor Wallace, keeping the Alabama hate fires burning) that seems exactly that: 50 years.”

Unsurprisingly, National Review’s White similarly hated the film (though he loved that jingoistic homage to endless war American Sniper). White called Selma “a mediocre and disingenuous film” and criticized the movie for “rubbing soft spots” and “sore spots” (i.e., depicting the murders of black children and white allies) instead of “making meaning.” (“Soft spot” is certainly a strange way to describe the murder of four black girls by a white supremacist.)

Until recently there was a paucity of films starring, written by or directed by African Americans. Blacks largely played the role of thugs or servants. As the role of blacks in Hollywood has slowly begun to broaden it has presented a unique problem for conservative magazines. How to criticize socially conscious African American films without sounding blatantly racist?

National Review seems to have hit on a successful solution when it hired Armond White. As an African American, White can freely trash socially conscious, historical “black films” like Selma and Twelve Years a Slave with little fear of a racial backlash. White can say things that white conservative critics are thinking, that they would have easily spouted twenty years ago, but dare not say in public today. And he says a lot of such things. For instance: “Who can forget the throwback image of British director Steve McQueen jumping Jim Crow at this year’s Oscars?”

Then there was White’s depiction of the 1963 Birmingham church bombing that killed four African American girls as “one of The Movement’s Greatest Hits.”

Not to mention his constant dog whistles that Hollywood Jews control the media’s image of black people.

When Twelve Years a Slave (Academy Award: Best Picture) came out National Review cautiously asked scholar Thomas Hibbs to review the film. Hibbs turned in a thoughtful piece which lauded the film. The editors tried again. In the print edition, conservative New York Times’ columnist Ross Douthat reviewed the film. Again, a positive review.

Soon after that, National Review hired White. He had dismissed Twelve Years a Slave in CityArts writing that it “belongs to the torture porn genre with ‘Hostel,’ ‘The Human Centipede’ and the ‘Saw’ franchise.”

Wrote White:

These tortures might satisfy the resentment some Black people feel about slave stories (“It makes me angry”), further aggravating their sense of helplessness, grievance–and martyrdom. It’s the flipside of the aberrant warmth some Blacks claim in response to the superficial uplift of ‘The Help’ and ‘The Butler.’ And the perversion continues among those whites and non-Blacks who need a shock fest like ‘12 Years a Slave’ to rouse them from complacency with American racism and American history. But, as with ‘The Exorcist,’ there is no victory in filmmaking this merciless. The fact that McQueen’s harshness was trending among Festivalgoers (in Toronto, Telluride and New York) suggests that denial still obscures the history of slavery: Northup’s travail merely make it possible for some viewers to feel good about feeling bad (as wags complained about Spielberg’s ‘Schindler’s List’ as an ‘official’ Holocaust movie–which very few people went to see twice). McQueen’s fraudulence further accustoms moviegoers to violence and brutality.

Just the thing National Review was looking for. A black reviewer who could spout highfaluting hokum for its racist white audience.

White was immediately given a chance to write about the film. He went profoundly negative calling the film “decidedly unpleasant (and unpopular).” It was “awarded (Best Picture) purely to make the Academy feel good about itself as a defense against Hollywood’s standard segregated practices.” It “distorted the history of slavery while encouraging and continuing Hollywood’s malign neglect of slavery’s contemporary impact.”

Conservative film criticism is so easy any conservative can do it. Simply choose a film with a social justice theme (say, family farmers versus the bank), then ignore everything else about the film. National Review critic Kevin Williamson carried this off spectacularly when he was tasked with reviewing Hell and High Water. Again, the film garnered overwhelmingly glowing reviews, including a 96 top critics score on Rotten Tomatoes.

Hell and High Water, which pitted two rural everymen versus The Bank, seemed to resonate with everyone: snobby film critics and conservatism’s base in the boonies. One might think that in this day and age when conservatism’s base is rabidly anti-Wall Street, a conservative film critic would go ga-ga over Hell and High Water.

Wrong.

“[M]an, is this movie stupid,” wrote Williamson. Who then spends 700 words nitpicking ways other than bank robbery that the heroes could have raised enough money to save the family homestead. Like asking for a loan.

Conservative critics often seem unable to comprehend the basics of theme or characterization. One tried-and-true theme is that of the underdog battling some powerful entity–for example, the family farmers in Places of the Heart taking on The Bank, or the spunky legal assistant battling the giant chemical corporation poisoning a small town in Erin Brockovich. Conservatives would have us turn these themes on their head, so that we would root for the poor beleaguered chemical company that was only trying to maximize shareholder value like any true blue American company is expected to do.

Williamson offers an alternative movie pitch: Two brothers walk into a financial institution with an oil-lease document and say, “Hello, there, Mr. Banker! I’m about to have a passive income of $600,000 a year and would like a $40,000 loan to pay off the lien on my property until that first monthly check comes in. Would you like to be my banker?”

Perhaps this is why there are few conservative screenwriters in Hollywood. They think a man with a line of equity walking into a bank and getting a loan would make riveting drama.

This is not say conservative film critics hate every film. They love most Clint Eastwood movies. They love the Left Behind series. Not long ago National Review put out its own list of “greatest conservative films.” Among them, the amateurish B-movie Red Dawn, about the Soviet Union invading the US. Many of the films on the list have nothing to do with conservatism. A Simple Plan? It is hard to see what conservatives like about a greedy guy getting away with countless murders–unless they simply have a hard on for greedy guys. Braveheart? Why because of Mel “fucking Jews” Gibson? Team America: World Police. Conservatives don’t seem to realize this film was satire. Ghostbusters? Groundhog Day? Okay, fun films, but they are about as conservative as Bernie Sanders and far from the greatest anything.

It’s not all doom and gloom for the conservative film critic. Clint Eastwood still has a few movies left in him before he shuffles muttering and drooling into the sunset. As does Mel Gibson. And now that Steven Bannon has vacated the West Wing we will likely be treated to more documentaries about Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin. But in the end it’s more fun to pan a great film than to praise a mediocre one. Besides, the base doesn’t tune into FOX News and Rush Limbaugh for good news or good reviews. It tunes in to feel angry. That’s why it reads conservative film reviews that begin “Man, is this movie stupid.”

They get off on it.

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eenefangirlanalysis · 7 years ago

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So, I'm new here - and I'm just now reading through some of your posts. I believe I read something where you said you thought all of the other parents besides Eddys parents were either separated or divorced or something to that effect? What makes you think that?

Okay, so this turned out longer then expected. Thank you for the question!

I always enjoy analyzing the relationship between the other kids relationships with their parents. Their parents are invisible because they believe they can handle their own problems.

- I’ll start with Ed and Sarah.

We all know how Ed’s mom favors Ed over Sarah. Ed lives in the basement away from family activity while Sarah has a grand room and is spoiled rotten. Ed always makes comments about his mother berating him. It’s implied that she verbally abuses him. There are times when she is motherly such as when Ed is forbidden to associate himself with people are violent.

Although Sarah is spoiled there are signs that she fears her mother. Her mother teaches her to be the dominant one. Their mother always gets her way such as telling Sarah to go downstairs and punish Ed for her.

And then there is Ed’s Dad who is heavily suggested to be a couch potato and does nothing to help with situations. He goes to work and then comes home to immediately be terrorized with stories of the day.

The way Ed acts around Edd and Eddy fighting throughout the movie makes me think that his parents relationship has gotten much worse and they want to divorce.

- Edd

Edd communicates with his parents through sticky notes.

Sticky Notes.

Edd’s parents are always gone and their appears to be a lack of any physical communication. Edd is basically their maid forcing him to do pointless chores such as triangulating the towels and washing the phone.

This observation could have another meaning entirely, but Edd’s parents don’t sleep in the same bed. We don’t know what their relationship is like.

Ed’s parents relationship is suggested to be constant bickering and disagreeing while Edd’s parents are always gone. They’re not just at work. They’re avoiding something. Whether they wanted to have a child or not, the dodge ball incident really messed everything up.

Edd is at wits end with the lack of communication with his parents as seen in the movie. “”EXCUSE MY SINCERITY FOR THINKING I HAD LOST THE ONLY TWO PEOPLE I HAVE LEFT IN THIS WORLD.”

- Kevin and Nazz

I’d make Kevin and Nazz separate, but I head canon that both their parents are divorced.

Kevin’s mom left while Nazz’s father left.

Kevin and Nazz have a close relationship.

Each have only mentioned one parent in passing.

Kevin only mentioned has father and that was in Mission Ed Possible, the report card episode. And he also mentions how his father has a job at the new jawbreaker factory.

Nazz has a conversation with her mother on the phone in This Won’t Hurt an Ed. And there is a very important scene in Cleanliness is Next to Edness when Nazz lets Edd use her shower. The shower is covered with bras and panties. You’d think Nazz and her mother would take better care of the bathroom if a male figure was living with them.

Kevin is rather emotionally distant. There are a few moments within the series that show Kevin has anxiety. He doesn’t know how to voice his issues.

And Nazz never got the screen time she deserved as a character. From what I have analyzed about her character she is a tom boy, represses anger, and was once fat. Being fat may have nothing to do with anything, but she may have had a closer relationship with her Dad. She stress ate for some time.

Kevin and Nazz are close because they see the adult figure they’re missing in their lives.

- Rolf

Rolf comes from a big family who believes in tradition. He comes from a different culture where they have different family traditions.

Next time you watch Knock, Knock Who’s Ed listen to his story about his family’s move to America. His Grandfather died along with way and it was his duty to take care of him.

Rolf is seen doing all the chores around the house. He voices his complaints every now then wondering why it has to be him who does everything.

There’s this one line Rolf states that he’ll ‘need a new tuckus’ after his father sees his report card.

Always having to follow tradition gets to Rolf. He grew up in America while his parents are still living the way they lived in the old country. In a way they have different perspectives on life as Rolf gets used to America even using slang terms.

Rolf and his parents don’t see eye to eye, but I believe they still get along.

- Jimmy

We don’t know much about Jimmy’s parents.

Jimmy’s father was only mentioned as a ruse in If it Smells like an Ed.

And the only time Jimmy’s mother is mentioned is Big Picture Show where he states how annoyed she is in having to buy a mattress cover for Jimmy’s bed because he has accidents during the night.

Jimmy always calls for Sarah to help him. He’s emotionally dependent on her.

I don’t have enough evidence to go talk about Jimmy’s parents relationship. Mainly head canons about who they could be. Jimmy always depends on someone else to handle his problems. Whether his parents are emotionally distant or work a lot, Jimmy becomes more independent as the series goes. And it’s mainly because he spent time with the Ed’s getting the guy time he needed.

- Jonny

Okay, Jonny is constantly walking around with a hunk of wood. Jonny is also never at his own home except when he is going to be. He spends a lot of time alone.

There is also the Christmas special where Jonny says it’s a family tradition to cover the whole house in ice. does that mean it’s Jonny and Plank’s or his parents go along with the tradition too?

Jonny never mentions his parents except for the time where he asked Ed if his mother also shrunk his clothes in the wash.

I think Jonny’s parents are neglectful considering he’s suffering a mental breakdown in the movie. Nobody will help him. He’s completely lost it in his own mind believing that Plank is real. He’s never encouraged to go out and play with the kids. Although Jonny is seen hanging with the kids the only reason he’s with them is because the kids are trying to make the Ed’s jealous.

Again, we don’t know anything about their relationship. Maybe they’re just distant from their son and purposely don’t help him.

- The Kanker Sisters

The Kanker’s are implied to have had multiple fathers. They’re now living with their mother in a trailer park. They only have contact with one of the fathers as seen in a background moment from Jingle Jingle Jangle.

Unlike how Edd’s parents are always gone, the Kanker’s mother has to work a lot in order to make a living. Other then that the girls still have a good relationship with their mother. They go through tough times, but in the end family is family.

Eddy

Now, I will end with Eddy.

Eddy’s parents had Bro in their teens due to the big age difference between the brothers. They stayed together through thick and thin as Bro turned into a wild child/sociopath. Bro caused much stress on the family because he scammed people, abused Eddy, and may have done a crime or two.

It’s better that they disowned Bro in order to give Eddy a healthier life.

Eddy’s parents are married and actually love one another, they’ll have their arguments but in the end it’s love. They always look out for their son trying to steer him in the right direction. Eddy doesn’t care to have a relationship with them believing it’s their fault that Bro is no longer around. They knew about the abusive relationship which is why they smudge out Bro’s address whenever he sends mail.

Eddy’s parents give Eddy the rightful love, attention, respect, space, and a healthy parent/offspring relationship.

#Ed Edd n Eddy #eene #Ed #Edd #Eddy #eene parents

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wyndelinewriter · 7 years ago

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Harry Potter in America - Part 2

Part 1

FirefliesThe door to the shack on the end of the dock slammed open, startling the whole assembly. A dark-haired man in blue overalls and a straw hat rushed out, his bare feet slapping against the planks.

“Arrête-toi, Lucille.” The man’s bare feet slapped against the rotten timbers as he ran to where Neville had gone in.

The man slid to his knees and brought his fist down on top of the alligator’s open snout, snapping it closed. He grabbed it with his left hand, clamping it shut while he shook his right index finger in its face.

Harry helped Ronald pull Neville out of the murkier water onto the dock. He coughed up some green water but appeared to be alright.

“Mais non, boo.” He said giving the reptile’s snout another shake. “Dey’s pas la bouffe. Dey’s Maman Magdaline’s.” He stood up and dusted off the patched knees of his overalls.

“What’s he saying?” Ronald asked Harry, giving Neville’s back another solid hit with his fist.

“It’s French, I think,” Heather said, her tone a touch smug.

The newcomer pulled a wand from his back pocket. It looked like a thick twisted root from some swamp tree. He tapped the brim of his straw hat with it and whistled.

A soft yellow light grew from the end of the twisted wand. It shone brightly for a few seconds then faded. A moment later it brightened again.

Out over the water, in the dark branches of the cypress and tupelo trees, dots of yellow light began to blink on. The lighted faded in and out in time with the wand as the dots floated down and flew across the green coated water. More dots spilled out of the tree tops, from under the eaves of the tiny shack and the bushes deeper in the swamp.

“Fireflies!” someone said, laughing.

A cloud of light swirled around their heads, casting a yellow glow over everything. Where the swamp had been heavy with fearsome sounds, it was now bright with dancing phosphorescent lights.

The man wasn’t wearing a shirt under his overalls. His arms and shoulders were covered in thick curls of black hair.

Ronald elbowed Harry in the ribs. “Bet he’s a werewolf.” Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Heather was helping Neville to stand back up when she noticed the man wasn’t wearing a shirt. Her face turned crimson and she looked down, letting Neville fall back to the dock.

“Merci, lightning bugs. Now, y’all stand back.” The man raised his wand. “Soufflez-,” he said, making a flicking motion with his wand toward Neville.

A blast of hot air picked Neville off the dock. His eyes bulged out as the wind whipped pond scum, leaves, and a twig or two off of him. His cloak broke loose from his neck and then wrung itself out over the water. Then it wrapped around Neville and the broach neatly fastened the cloak around him.

The wind died down and Neville came to rest on his feet, bone dry, if not a little uncomfortable in the heat with his cloak wrapped around him.

“Der you go, son. Lucille just saying ‘ello.”

“It almost ate me, sir. And I’ve lost my frog.”

“Go to bed! Dat give her a mighty stomach ache if she ate you.” He smiled and pinched Neville’s cheek.

“Thank you for saving him,” Heather said, still averting her eyes, “uh Professor?”

He slapped his knee and laughed. “I ain’t no professor. Mon nom est Beauregard Cormier, but y’all call me Beau.”

“Ravi de vous rencontrer,” Heather raised her eyes towards Beau, “je m'appelle Heather.”

“Go-lee,” Beau swept off his hat and bowed. A large fat frog perched on top of his thick curls. “You talk better than Maman Maggi.”

“Trevor!” Neville opened up his arms. The frog ribbited and leaped into his arms.

“How about you keep a better hold of him this time?” Ronald said, pulling his robes away from his chest to let a little air in to cool him.

“I bet y’all are powerful hungered. I got an anvhee for some of Maman’s boudin. Come on.”

In the light of the fireflies, ten flat bottom boats could be seen just under the edge of the dock. They rode high in the water, looking almost like sleds that would glide over the scum like winter snow.

Ron, Harry, and Heather made their way down to the end of the dock and piled in. Harry made sure Hedwig wouldn’t go over and become alligator food.

Beau walked up, his feet flapping against the timbers. Neville stayed close to him, Trevor firmly grasped with both hands. They both got in the boats.

The boat rocked back and forth as they got on, but Beau stood in the center unmoved. His lips moved as he counted the number of students.

“Looks like we all here.” He clasped his hands to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. It seemed to make the algae ripple away from them through the heavy damp air.

More dark shapes emerged from the depths of the swamp. Harry lost count at thirty.

Three of them nosed into their boat and pushed it away from the dock. The boats hadn’t been tied up. Cries of concern rose up into the swarms of fireflies that had broken off into ten groups, one over each boat.

“Don’t you worry, children. Jus’ keep your hands out of the water and y’all be safe as houses.”

“I don’t want to get eaten by a crocodile,” one of the freshmen said, beginning to cry.

“Actually,” Heather said, with a huff, “they’re alligators. Crocodiles aren’t endemic to North America.”

“You ain’t even been to school yet and you already learned.” Beau pushed his hat back on his head and whistled. Heather blushed again and looked down to the bottom of the boat.

Once the boats were away from the docks, the alligators moved to the back and began pushing them deeper into the dark swamp. The fireflies cast eerie shadows on the tangles of foliage around them.

Harry swallowed and tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that there were three gators behind them. How much worse could it possibly get?

“Mr. Beau?” he said, turning toward the young man in the back, “Would the alligators really eat someone’s hand if they stuck it in the water.”

“Bless your heart no, but dem leeches shore would.”

Harry regretted his question and pulled Hedwig’s cage closer to him as the little flotilla silently split through the sweltering swamp into the darkness.

Part 3 - Coming Soon

#harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #fireflies #bayou

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96thdayofrage · 7 years ago

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In the past year, I have been asked many times to reflect and comment and commiserate on the state of our country. Each time, as I recount my own experience, I try to stress how important it is that when we doubt or disagree with our leaders we are not governed by them. We are governed by laws. When those we elect seek to subvert norms of behavior, we have rights and laws to fall back on. And, when elected officials seek to subvert the rights and laws of this country, we have lawyers, judges, and courts to fall back on. That has been our history and our journey as a nation, and it has been my journey as well.

At times like these, we need to be reminded of that journey, because, though so much of what we are experiencing today is “not normal,” it is also not new. Our situation may feel unprecedented and our course may feel uncharted, but we have been here before. I am reminded of my earliest exposure to American politics, growing up in Atlanta. In the early 1940s, there was a gubernatorial race in Georgia, where Eugene Talmadge, the governor at the time, was running for reëlection. I recall sitting in our apartment in the first public-housing project built for black people in America, and Governor Talmadge coming on WSB radio, describing the two planks of his platform, which, as I recall them, were “niggers” and “roads.” As I recall, he was against the first and for the second.

This is essentially what President Trump is saying now—except that his two planks are immigrants and jobs. He’s against the first, and claims to be for the second. The words may change, but the policy remains the same. We have been here before. When executive orders bar people from our shores based on what they look like or how they worship, it is hard not to hear echoes of Strom Thurmond on the campaign trail in 1948, insisting that even the Army could not force integration, or the cry of George Wallace in 1963, declaring, “Segregation today, segregation tomorrow, and segregation forever.” When we hear the President talk about “law and order,” or the Attorney General exaggerate urban crime rates or talk about “filth,” it is hard not to hear the growl of Richard Nixon, who used those same dog whistles. Some may call this a regression. But it may also be called the most overt recent iteration of the oppression we have long endured.

Indeed, because we have been here before we know that we will endure. When our ancestors were taken from their homes and shipped across the sea, bought and sold and bound with the chains of slavery, we endured. When the framers of the Constitution decided we were each three-fifths of a person, we endured. When the Dred Scott decision stated that a black man had no rights that a white man was bound to respect, we endured. And after the Civil War, after the Union was broken and put back together, after slavery dissolved and victory declared, when so many thought that the war’s conclusion meant the battle’s end, we endured. We endured the “black codes” of Reconstruction. We endured when the Supreme Court said, in Plessy v. Ferguson, that segregation was legal, that “separate” was fine as long as it was “equal.” We endured poll taxes at the voting booth and burned crosses in the churchyard. We endured dogs and fire hoses as we marched in Birmingham. And our history of endurance should give us faith that we shall once again endure.

But our journey also teaches us that endurance is not enough. We do not sing “We shall endure.” We sing “We shall overcome.” I am of the belief that in order to change a nation you must of course change hearts and minds, but you must also change the laws. And to change the laws you need good lawyers. Or, to put it in more lawyerly terms, “Yes, the meek may inherit the earth, but you’re going to need a lawyer to probate the will.” Lawyers were the backbone of the civil-rights movement—starting with the dean of Howard University Law School, Charles Hamilton Houston. When I was a student at Howard University Law School, I sat in the moot-court room and watched in awe as he and other giants of the movement—legends like Constance Baker Motley, William Bryant, Robert Carter, Julius Chambers, William T. Coleman, Jack Greenberg, Oliver Hill, Elaine Jones, Thurgood Marshall, Robert Ming, and James Nabrit—prepared their arguments for the Supreme Court. At breaks during their dry runs, as they huddled together, my classmates and I would stand close by, just to hear what they were saying. Standing in proximity to them was part of our education and my inspiration.

Lawyers across the country—like Wiley Branton in Arkansas, Chambers in North Carolina, Vernon Crawford in Alabama, Don Hollowell in Georgia, and Avon Williams in Tennessee—all contributed to the movement. Just eight weeks after my graduation from Howard Law School, I travelled with Hollowell to a small town in rural Georgia called Reidsville. We were there representing an eighteen-year-old black man who had been arrested, arraigned, indicted, tried, convicted, and sentenced to die in the electric chair, all in the space of forty-eight hours. The proceedings were held in the segregated courthouse of Tatnall County. Hollowell, C. B. King, and I slept in the nearest colored motel, thirty miles away. Every day, we would appear in court and plead our client’s case. Every day at lunch, the white lawyers and court officials—everyone but us—would go across the square to the whites-only café. And the three black lawyers would go to the local grocery store for sliced baloney, a loaf of bread, a jar of mustard, and a Coca-Cola, which we would eat in our car, parked in the courthouse square.

On the third day of the trial, a black woman sitting in the “colored” section, upstairs, dropped a book to get my attention. She beckoned me to the lobby, and when I met her there she whispered, “We been watching you lawyers eat baloney sandwiches for two days now. Don’t eat today. After court, come to my home for lunch.” She gave me directions. When we arrived, we saw a table set for royalty: her best silver, china, and crystal, a lace tablecloth, beautifully folded white-cloth napkins, and the most exquisite Southern cuisine I had ever eaten. Some ten black women and their husbands joined hands with us for grace. I shall never forget one sentence in that prayer: “Lord, way down here in Tatnall county, we can’t join the N.A.A.C.P., but thanks to your bountiful blessings, we can feed the N.A.A.C.P. lawyers.”

The laws that defined and circumscribed life in the Jim Crow South were warped, but it was also the law—farsighted, fair-minded jurisprudence—that gave us the tools to dismantle segregation, piece by rotten piece. And it has been lawyers who have bent that arc of the universe toward justice. The law continues to hold this extraordinary power to remake itself—to correct injustice and further justice. It is clear that, in our current fight, lawyers must continue to lead the charge. The nineteenth-century English reformer Lord Brougham spoke of the law in terms that have relevance to our day and our time. “It was the boast of Augustus,” he said, “that he found Rome of brick and left it marble; a praise not unworthy a great prince. . . . But how much nobler will be our sovereign’s boast when he shall have it to say, that he found law dear, and left it cheap; found it a sealed book—left it a living letter; found it the patrimony of the rich—left it the inheritance of the poor; found it the two-edged sword of craft and oppression—left it the staff of honesty and the shield of innocence.”

Adapted from the author’s remarks upon receiving the the Harvard Law School Center on the Legal Profession’s Award for Global Leadership at its third annual awards dinner, A Celebration of the History of Black Lawyers, held at the National Museum of African-American History and Culture on June 5th.

Vernon E. Jordan, Jr., is a civil-rights activist and a senior managing director of Lazard Frères & Co. LLC in New York.

#law

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hardynwa · 10 months ago

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Afowiri Fondzenyuy: The man running Tokyo Marathon to build bridges in Cameroon

Cameroon born Marathoner Afowiri Kizito Fondzenyuy said that running in Tokyo Japan will be a special experience for him. Afowiri who is also known as the Toghu Marathoner will mark his 17th marathon in Japan, having previously covered 673 kilometers in marathons across Europe, America and Australia. “Tokyo is special”, he said, adding that “It will be my sixth world major marathon and I'll be earning six-star major marathoner badge afterwards” “The badge is important, but the main goal is to help build the Tsenmah and Ndzenkov bridges in Ngondzen Community in Cameroon” The two bridges Afowiri is running to raise money for are made of planks that are almost rotten and according to the village head, Shu Fai Lun the bridges have almost collapsed with the community cut off from others because both cars and motorcycles cannot run on them. Shu Fai Lun said that during the rainy season, children miss school because it is too risky to cross the bridges and farmers find it difficult to visit their farms resulting in losses. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8Di4XxoVFc He called on people of goodwill around the world to support the Toghu Marathoner as he runs to help them build new bridges. During his other 16 marathons, Afowiri Fondzenyuy has raised money for various causes ranging from education, autism research, aid for Ebola victims, construction of school blocks, amongst others. Afowiri said that it is okay for him to be the one running the 42.2 kilometers of the Tokyo marathon as long as the children and women of Ngondzen can end up passing through a well constructed bridge afterwards. “This is my thing and I want to keep running as long as my legs can carry me” “I want to run on all continents and I want to also experience running a marathon in Antarctica”, he said. The Tokyo Marathon, which is one of the world's six majors, will be held on Sunday March 3, 2024. The other five are Berlin, London, Athens, Chicago and Boston marathons, which Afowiri had previously completed. He earned the title of the Toghu Marathoner for running marathons wearing Toghu, a native attire of people of the North West region of Cameroon. Tokyo will be his fifth marathon in Toghu with the first being in London followed by Athens, Boston and Sydney. Read the full article

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deathtouch · 8 years ago

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⋆ femfeb day 5 // my femfeb masterpost ⋆ xposted to ao3 ⋆ mei/symmetra // 3k // general audience ⋆ adventure, holding hands, kissing ⋆ mei and satya scale a cliffside to retrieve some valuable data (thanks to @5idestuff for the suggestion!!)

To The Top

“It’s a little scary.” Mei said softly. “Like a ghost story.”

Lena burst into a sharp fit of laughter. “Mei-Ling! That’s not a ghost story!”

Satya was glad they were facing each other and speaking to one another. She was a few seats down from them at the table and from her vantage point she could listen to the conversation unfold perfectly without necessarily needing to be part of it. She liked listening to Mei speak. Her voice was gentle and sweet.

Though Mei often spoke about her work, it wasn’t a constant stream of climatology. Some other teammates could use a lesson in diverse topics of conversation. It was nice when Mei brought up the things she was passionate about, though. The timbre of her voice changed. It was like a little buzz of excitement running through her. Satya could sense it when it happened. It was charming to see her get lost in the intricacies of her profession.

“A little!” She insisted, not backing down in the face of Lena’s laughter. “Think of all the research that could be sitting up there, just waiting for someone to find it. The work site might be abandoned, but the work itself shouldn’t be lost.”

Mei had regaled them with the tale of a nearby research facility located on one of the many islands that dotted Ilios’ shores. Apparently years back there had been a team of researchers busily collecting weather pattern data when a tsunami crashed through. Boats were wrecked, lives were lost, and a great rock structure that had been standing on the little island for years had crumbled away in the relentless waves. Now the half wrecked research site sat atop a lonely peak with no path up.

Mei had gone out for a long walk along the harbor just last night to look for the island in the distance. It was clear how badly she wanted to go. From Satya’s understanding there really was no way to scale the rocky hillside that the research facility was located on. Even if Mei was an experienced mountain climber, which she wasn't, it was still dangerous terrain. It’s not like there was a magic set of stairs that could take her straight to the top… not yet, at least.

“You’re right.” Satya spoke up.

Mei and Lena both glanced at her. They had probably forgotten she was there at all with how quiet she’d been until now.

“I would be happy to accompany you in order to retrieve the data.” She added, straightening her back a little as she spoke.

Mei blinked at her for a second before smiling sadly. “There’s no way up the hillside.” She said.

Satya offered up her open palm. The tech of her arm whirred as she created a perfect model of a staircase in glowing blue hard-light. It was tiny in comparison to what they would need to climb an island peak, but it was a clear indication of what she had in mind. In truth a set of stairs might not even work, and she would have to build something else to help create a path up to the research facility. It was worth it to try, though. Wasn’t it?

Mei gasped. “Satya!” She rose from her chair and bounded towards Satya in big strides. At once her arms were around Satya’s slender shoulders, pulling her in for a hug. “You’re brilliant!” +++

Satya regretted her decision not to bring sunglasses. The mid-morning sun was sparkling over the cool blue ocean. Everywhere she looked bright light glinted up at her. Even Mei herself was a glitter of light, in a completely different way. She didn’t have much in the way of warm weather clothing. She looked a little silly in her blue pants and pale tank top. Satya herself had opted for athletic leggings and a nice tunic, a switch up from her usual sari. They certainly didn’t look like two women about to scale a dangerous island cliff but that was precisely what they intended to do.

Their team knew where they were headed. Lena offered to follow them to the shore and watch for them across the water. Mei and Satya decided against it. They didn’t know how long it would take to reach the summit and it was unnecessary to keep someone waiting for them. If they needed help they would contact the base. Angela packed up a medkit for them, just in case of an accident, and sent them off with plenty of warnings about being safe.

A fisherman down at the harbor offered to take them over to the island in his boat. He didn’t even ask for anything in return. He had nets to check in that area and he was happy to ferry them along. It took some of circling of the small island before he found a good place to dock the boat. There were some craggy rocks to navigate in the water but eventually they found a flat topped rock that the fisherman could pull up to. Satya held Mei’s hand and helped her step atop the rock. It was just big enough for the two of them and when Mei had her footing she helped Satya up as well. They waved the fisherman off with their thanks and both turned to stare at the rising peak. It wasn’t so tall, maybe six or seven stories at its highest. The island itself was about as big around as a soccer pitch or two. Up at the very top a precarious looking building, no bigger than a one room house, sat among the ridged peaks of rock.

It was easy to see which parts of island had been knocked away by the tsunami. Satya could imagine a slope with natural footholds to climb, making it a pleasure hike up to the top building and then back down to the sea. It must have been easy to come and go to the research center. Now it would be a challenge. A challenge she was happy to face. She took in the entire shape of the rising landmass with a critical eye, looking for the best places to ascend.

The very first thing she did was create a footbridge with a wave of her fingers. It connected the flat topped rock they stood on to the base of the island. It was a simple, glowing blue plank. She could have finessed something architecturally beautiful, a miniature version of the Golden Gate or Sydney Harbor bridge. She didn’t bother. It would take a little longer, require more effort, and needed more concentration. Getting to the top was their goal, not creating art.

Satya held Mei’s hand and they walked across together, helping one another to balance. The hard-light tech was sturdy and stable under their feet. If they fell here, it would only mean a dip in the water. Not pleasant, no, but not fatal. It was when they started climbing up high that they would need to be especially careful. At the end of the bridge Satya squinted around, trying to find the next place to step. If they could find a stable rock with a good platform surface, she wouldn’t even need to create a foothold for them. It not, she would improvise.

“This way.” Mei said happily, cherry picking her steps as she found a path among the rocks. +++

Mei didn’t seem particularly athletic. She was a scientist after all. Not to mention she had a thick layer of adorable fat that likely kept her warm in all the frozen places she used to travel to for research. That being said, she held her own. In battle she could keep step with even the fastest member of Overwatch. She never lagged behind or held anyone up. She often used ice walls to elevate herself to dangerous rooftops and she never seemed to have trouble navigating those. Satya knew she wasn’t weak or inept. Seeing her fearlessly lead the way up a mountain side was incredible though. Mei was always surprising her in little ways.

Satya actually enjoyed the work of it herself. It was a fantastic mental exercise. It reminded her of some of the harder training she’d been put through back at Vishkar. None of the simulated tests or civil engineering she’d done under the watchful eyes of her instructors were quite as complicated or complex as this. It was hard, but rewarding. Every time she looked back and saw how high they were climbing, Satya felt even more proud of herself. Blue chunks of hard light dotted the cliff side. Some parts were bluer than others. They often found natural stepping places which made their patchwork path all the more interesting.

The sun was hot overhead but neither of them minded. Their minds were busy elsewhere. Mei’s dark bangs were sticking to her forehead but she didn’t seem to notice. If Satya wasn’t using her hands to create a new bridge or platform to walk on, she was holding onto Mei. They had no illusions about their safety. They took their time, slowly making their way, careful not to miss a step or fall.

They were close to reaching their goal. The building was more near than ever. The terrain actually seemed a little more stable up near the top of the peak. There were still sharp spires of rock that jutted towards the sky but there was also plenty of flat surface at the top of the ridge too. Enough flat surface for a building to be built up here, and enough for Mei and Satya to walk with a little ease.

Even with the ground steady they held on to one another, hand in hand. +++

The little research building was made of wood. It reminded Satya of the squat life guard offices she had seen built on wooden stilts that dotted the shorelines in America. There was no wooden stilt frame here, but the texture of the wood was the same. The outer walls had been battered by wind and rain and maybe even lapped at by especially large waves. The paint had chipped away. This place certainly was abandoned.

Sun bleached tech sat on the flat roof of the structure. Little satellite dishes pointed in different directions, a massive circular Doppler radar, other things Satya couldn't properly recognize. Some of the tech seemed to be holding up better than others.

Mei went for the front door. It was locked, but the wood frame was rotten and moldering. All it took was a good push and the frame splintered open. There were no windows to the structure and so when the door fell open, it showed a single room of darkness.

'It's a little scary,' Mei had said at the table the other night. 'Like a ghost story'. Well, she was right. Either she wasn't afraid of ghosts or she really wanted that data because she entered fearlessly. Satya followed.

Being out of the sun provided an instant coolness. It took a long moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light of the room. It was musty and stank of rotting wood inside but it bearable. The one room building was surprisingly cramped inside, packed full to the brim with different computers and monitoring equipment. All of it was decades old, it would be a miracle if any of it still worked.

"All this stuff." Mei said sadly. "Just left behind."

She went to a nearby computer and tried to switch it on. It didn't work. Her disappointment was so palpable it made Satya's heart ache.

Satya glanced around in the darkened room. She spotted a generator in a back corner on the bottom rung for a sturdy metal shelving unit. She went over to it and knelt down curiously. It took a moment for her to make sense of the controls but she found out how to turn it on easily enough. As soon as she did the room came to life, computers turning on, screens lighting up, different monitoring equipment whirring.

Mei lit up. "Ah! Satya! Thank you!" Her glasses began to glow with the light of the screen in front of her. She made an excited noise and began clacking away at the keyboard as soon as the computer had finished booting up.

Satya went to stand by her side. She too peered at the screen. The operating system was foreign ancient to her. Mei seemed to be in the same boat. She clicked around somewhat cluelessly. She didn't seem to know what she was doing or what she was looking for.

It was only a lucky guess but Satya pointed to a curious looking icon on the screen. "Try this." She suggested.

Mei clicked on it.

Different windows began to populate, one after the other after the other. They were marked with dates and times in the upper corner. The rest of the information was a mess to Satya. Mei, however, cried out with delight.

"It's here!" She said happily. "It's all here!"

Before she could stop herself she turned to Satya and grabbed her by the cheeks. Mei pulled her in close and planted a kiss right on her mouth. It was full of excitement and gratefulness. A congratulations and a thank you at the same time. Mei didn't even seem to notice what she'd done. She went right back to the computer, clicking through the unearthed data. She babbled on about how long the equipment had gone on recording after the tsunami, how long the generator must have lasted before kicking it, how much information they had.

Satya blinked slow, the words washing over her. She still could taste Mei's lips, rich and delicious like cherries. She couldn't believe that had just happened. Her heart was thudding happily her chest. She wished they were still outside because then she could blame the hot sun for the way her face flushed.

Satya watched as Mei stuck a trusty thumb drive into the port and began copying the information she wanted. She was buzzing with excitement, a glitter of energy in the dark of the room. She was so beautiful when it came to the thing she was most passionate about. +++

The trip down the hillside was a little quicker than going up. They didn't need to carve of create a path out of the rocks, they need only retrace their footsteps. This was a little easier said than done. In the places where there were no hard-light bridges or footholds they had to refind natural stepping places.

Mei was a bundle of energy. She had checked every computer and every device for any information they could find before leaving. They probably spent more time in that stuffy little room than they had climbing to get up there. Satya wasn't complaining, though. It had been nice to retire from the hot sun for a little while.

Their fisherman friend had seen them making their way back down the side of the island peak. He had sailed over to meet them when they finally reached sea level. His little boat was filled with his catch for the day. Satya tried not to be too obvious about holding her nose but the smell wasn't particularly nice. Mei beamed and regaled the fisherman with the heroic story of their ascent. She talked about starting up the computer like it was uncovering a treasure chest. It made the short trip to the harbor bearable to hear her happy speaking voice.

Back at the base she scurried off to find Winston. She had hopes that he could help parse through the raw data she had found. Satya wished her good luck before departing to find a shower.

It was almost three days until she saw Mei again. By then the entire team had heard the fantastic story of their adventure. It probably sounded much more exciting than it actually had been. Mei had a way of talking about these things and becoming utterly captivating with her storytelling. Either that, or Satya was just easily captivated by Mei. It was hard to tell.

Everyone around the base was talking about it. Mei had managed to sweep them up in the whirlwind of her excitement. Everyone was curious about what the uncovered data could mean and how it would help working scientists today. It was all anyone seemed to be thinking about. Everyone except for Satya. She was curious too, no doubt, but there was one part of a Mei's story she had left out; their kiss. Satya couldn't stop thinking about it; those warm hands on her cheek, the taste of cherries, over before it began. She wondered if Mei even remembered doing it.

They ran into each other again in the hallway. Mei was clearly on her way back from Winston's unofficial office, where she had been squirreled away working tirelessly. She didn't look tired though. She was still buzzing with excitement.

"Satya!" Mei stopped in her tracks. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you."

Satya stopped too, standing in front of Mei. She tucked a long strand of her hair behind her ear, not quite sure what to say.

"I, uh-" a slight blush crossed Mei's face. "I wanted to tell you; I don't know what I would have done without your assistance. Not only did you help me reach the research facility but you knew to turn on the generator and where to click for information."

"Oh." Satya considered for a moment. "It was nothing."

"No!" Mei insisted. "It wasn't nothing. You've done so much for me. I don't know how to thank you."

Satya didn't know either. She didn't feel like she needed any thanks. Making Mei happy, seeing her beam with pride and buzz with excitement was enough. She couldn't think of anything more she wanted. Well, except... maybe...

"How about another kiss?" Satya suggested innocently.

Mei looked up at her, the blush on her face burning brighter.

"If you'd like, that is." Satya quickly added.

Mei's words seem to stick in her throat. Instead she nodded her head gently up and down. Excitement blossomed in Satya's chest. She waited a beat before leaning in and gently pressing their lips together. Mei stood up on the tips of her toes to kiss back. Her lips were just as soft as before, and they still tasted sweet like cherries. There was no urgency now. No underlying messages or themes. Just a kiss, simple and sweet and gentle.

When Satya pulled away her heart was beating faster. Mei's eyes fluttered open and she smiled. "I've been thinking of kissing you ever since it last happened." She admitted sheepishly. "Would you allow me to take you to dinner too? As a thank you?"

Satya smiled and shook her head. "No. But you can take me out to dinner as a date."

That was a much better idea.

#overwatch #overwatch femslash #fanfic #symmetra #mei #femfeb #femfeb 2017

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thewebofslime · 6 years ago

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Trump campaign strategist Steve Bannon called for another Church Commission to investigate the intelligence community on Sunday's edition of ABC's 'This Week' In 1975, Democratic Sen. Frank Church led a committee to investigate "Governmental Operations with Respect to Intelligence Activities" that, along with the Rockefeller, Pike, and Watergate investigations, uncovered major abuses by the CIA, FBI, NSA, and IRS during the 1950s, 60s, and 70s. One result of the committee's recommendations was the establishment of the Permanent Select Committees on Intelligence in the House and Senate. Bannon said the Justice Department IG report "is just a sliver" "That was their government phones!" he said. To those attacking Trump, he quoted the Bible: "Don't go after the splinter in somebody's eye when you're missing the plank [in your own eye], OK?" "This city's institutions are rotten to the core and they must be investigated. And that's why Donald Trump came to the city," he said. BANNON: The credibility, look at the institution of the FBI. You know what ought to happen right now? We ought to have another church commission like they had in the '70s. By the way, I'm a right winger. And I'm saying we should have a church commission, we ought to have a bipartisan commission in the Senate -- KARL: Go after the intel community? BANNON: And the FBI. By the way, you have to, not to go after them. But right now, you need the dry rot in our institutions. Why do people point at Donald Trump for some of the stuff he says? We have the institutions in this city -- (CROSSTALK) BANNON: -- are rotted at core. And we know it. That IG report, which is just a sliver, remember when the thing on the IG and about this thing right here? That was their government phones. We haven't even gotten to their personal communications. You want something on Michael Cohen? Michael Cohen they took 16 of his Blackberrys, his computers, his kids' computers, OK? In the IG report they just went to the government phones. You wait until the special prosecutor that will be appointed. You want to see the dry rot... KARL: Let me nail down... BANNON: No, don't go after the splinter in somebody's eye when you're missing the plank, OK? This city's institutions are rotten to the core and they must be investigated. And that's why Donald Trump came to the city and said, hey, I'm not kicking the can down the road anymore. I'm not going to pass on to the successor to come, regardless of political party, the situation we have in China, the situation we have in Korea, the crisis we have in the southern border. This is what leadership is all about. They say he is a disrupter. This is a guy that is saying, you want to talk about the Trump doctrine? The Trump doctrine is "not on my watch." When my watch is over, I will help sort these things out and won't kick the can down so that the next president of the United States, regardless of the political party. We'll have to deal with the crisis on the southern border. And we will finally have our situation with China worked out. On August 17, 1975 Senator Frank Church appeared on NBC's Meet the Press, and discussed the NSA, without mentioning it by name: SEN. FRANK CHURCH (1975): In the need to develop a capacity to know what potential enemies are doing, the United States government has perfected a technological capability that enables us to monitor the messages that go through the air. (...) Now, that is necessary and important to the United States as we look abroad at enemies or potential enemies. We must know, at the same time, that capability at any time could be turned around on the American people, and no American would have any privacy left: such is the capability to monitor everything—telephone conversations, telegrams, it doesn't matter. There would be no place to hide. If this government ever became a tyranny, if a dictator ever took charge in this country, the technological capacity that the intelligence community has given the government could enable it to impose total tyranny, and there would be no way to fight back because the most careful effort to combine together in resistance to the government, no matter how privately it was done, is within the reach of the government to know. Such is the capability of this technology. (...) I don't want to see this country ever go across the bridge. I know the capacity that is there to make tyranny total in America, and we must see to it that this agency and all agencies that possess this technology operate within the law and under proper supervision so that we never cross over that abyss. That is the abyss from which there is no return.

#TheWebOfSlime

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danithebookaholic-blog · 6 years ago

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COMING SOON!

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Magic Harvest

By Mary Karlik

Published by: Ink Monster LLC Publication date: September 18th 2018 Genres: Fantasy, Young Adult

Synopsis:

Young fae girls are disappearing.

Layla has never belonged to the fairy realm – at least, half of her hasn’t. She’s never known anyone with human blood, not even her father. When she was three, the dragon Fauth attacked the fairy festival, murdering her fae mum & stepfather. Frankly, some fairies think she should’ve been eaten too.

As she grew, despite being called names like “fuman” for being a half-blood, she’s discovered that being half-human isn’t terrible. She may lack magic, but she is immune to iron sickness, and she can wield a sword with elven skill.

Magic in the human world is disastrous.

Sixteen years later, when Layla’s half-sister is kidnapped and taken through a portal to the forbidden human realm, Layla rushes to the rescue. She’s older and stronger, and she’s not about to let her last living family member be taken from her without a fight.

Only someone who belongs to both worlds can find the truth.

The portal spits her out in the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, but neither her sister or the kidnapper are anywhere to be found. Stuck in a world she only knows from school books, Layla forges unlikely alliances to find her sister. As she becomes tangled in the dark world of fairy trafficking, magic harvesting, and murder, Layla will have to find the strength within if she is to survive and save her sister.

Goodreads

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Excerpt:

Chapter One

It was early morning, but already the sun had filtered through the leaves to warm the fairy cottage nestled between the twisted roots of the cottonwood tree. A cloud drifted away from the sun, allowing a single ray of light to make its way through the window and on to the wooden planks of the tabletop.

Layla poured tea and slid a cup through the sunbeam to rest in front of her sister’s empty chair. “You’re not going to the fête. The dragons would like nothing more than to make a fine afternoon snack out of unsuspecting fey.”

“Dragons. Seriously? There haven’t been dragons for years.” Ignoring the tea, Esme stood behind her chair and continued her plea. “It’s the biggest celebration of the year. I’m sixteen. Well old enough to go without you or your permission.” She unfurled her wings adding an extra flip at the tips as if to prove the point.

Layla choked the cup cradled in her hands—better that than her sister’s neck. Aye, Esme was old enough to go alone and had been for three years, but had never pushed it before. Just the thought of her sister’s going brought a variety of bone-chilling, breath-stealing, heart-stopping scenarios to mind. But clearly, telling Esme she couldn’t go wasn’t going to stop her.

No. To keep her sister home and safe, she’d have to stay calm and try reason. “The whole thing is madness. Year after year, fairies too drunk and distracted to see danger coming. It should have been stopped after the massacre.”

Esme jutted her jaw. “Are you really my sister? Because you sound more like a grandmother. Aye, there’s drink and dancing because we’re celebrating the harvest. It’s not meant to be a dirge.” She placed the heels of her hands on the table, dropped her wings low on her back, and bent at the waist until she was eye to eye with Layla. “The rest of the clan has moved beyond the past. Why can’t you?”

Moved beyond the past? A searing streak of anger flashed through Layla and exploded in a double-fisted pound on the table, rattling the cups in their saucers. “This isn’t a piece of history that should be forgotten!” She hit the table again and tea dripped like a fountain from cup to saucer to tabletop. “How can you dance upon the ground where so many fey died? Where our parents died?”

Filigreed shadows splashed across the floor as Esme straightened and popped her wings wide. “Because I don’t remember that day or our parents, and especially not their deaths. To me it’s no more than a legend.” The words blasted straight into Layla’s heart.

“No more than a legend?” Layla’s hands flew to her chest as if they could protect her from the stabbing cold reality that her sister didn’t care. “The mass murders of our people, of our parents, no more than a half-forgotten legend?”

“Why are you so affected by this? You weren’t even there.” Esme’s voice strained with the drive behind the words.

How could Esme not understand? Layla wanted to shout, to beat the table again and again, to throw dishes against the wall and revel in the sound of porcelain shattering into shards.

Instead, she forced quiet into her voice. “Aye. I was. I was there. I was with Mum and Dad.”

Esme’s wings stiffened as she gripped the top rung of the chair back. “What do you mean? Everyone’s always said you were with Kenna and me.”

“You were too young to remember. I think Auntie Maeve hoped I was too, or maybe she tried to create a memory for me.”

The cràdh—the ethereal entity that lived within Layla to feast upon pain, criticisms, and doubt—surfaced in her chest. Anguish poured from it, squeezing her heart until she struggled to breathe. Tingles started behind and beneath her eyes and marched to her nose and mouth. And she knew that as soon as she spoke, tears would fall and sobs would follow. But it was a story that had to be told. “But I was there. And I remember.”

Layla stared at the dust suspended in the beam of light that washed over the spilled tea as visions of the massacre played in her mind. “It was my first fête. I was so excited. The smell of the food, the sound of the music, laughter, and Mum and Dad on either side of me holding my hands. It was magical. And then it all changed. We heard shouts as a shadow flew over the crowd.”

“Fauth.” The word croaked from Esme’s throat.

“Aye. Mum dumped out a citrus crate, shoved me inside, and told me to stay hidden. I lay there among the straw and the smell of rotten fruit with my hands over my ears to block the sound.” She ran trembling fingers across her lips. “But it didn’t block the cries. And, I smelled dragon and blood and death.”

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Purchase:

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Author Bio:

Mary Karlik has always been a dreamer. When she was a teen, she read The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, and then sat in every wardrobe in her Nanna’s home, trying to open the door to Narnia. She didn’t find it, but she did discover her voice as an author: one filled with her young adult self, and grounded in her roots as a Texan and her Scottish heritage, nourished by obscure Scottish folklore.

You can find her Texas roots in her YA contemporary romance Hickville series , which has been described as “100% solid storytelling,” and begins with Welcome to Hickville High, a “lovely story about growing up.” She digs deep into her Scottish roots – there is magic there, she just knows it – for the forthcoming YA epic fantasy Fairy Trafficking series, beginning with Magic Harvest. She makes her home in the beautiful Sangre de Cristo mountains of Northern New Mexico where she is a certified professional ski instructor, but she also loves visiting Scotland where she is currently studying Scottish Gaelic at the University of Highlands and Islands in Skye. Mary also earned her MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University, has a B.S. degree from Texas A&M University, and is a Registered Nurse. Mary currently serves as the President of the Young Adult Chapter of Romance Writers of America and looks forward to raising a glass or two of gin and tonic with her fellow writers every year at RWA’s national convention.

Website / Facebook / Twitter / Goodreads

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From one bookaholic to another, I hope I’ve helped you find your next fix. —Dani

Have a book you’d like to suggest or one you’d like me to review? Please feel free to leave your comments down below.

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