#American Sunbathing Association

[childofflamesandmoonlight]

I would really appreciate some help with interpretation on this deity identification reading! I didn't use a specific spread, but pulled one card from every deck I own - usually this works really well for me, but this time I can't quite put my finger on who this deity is. I have some vague ideas, but I would love to hear your interpretations.

Thank you in advance!

Here are the cards I drew (plus some notes from the imagery and the guidebooks):

Demon of the Day - Camio:

"Be mindful of arguments and disputes. It can feel good to win but not at the cost of a relationship."

Birds, blackbird, trush

Gaelic, Irish or Welsh origin

Dispute, eloquent verbal debate, persuasive argument

Understanding the language of animals and the noise of the water

Angels Among Us - Jesus:

Forgiveness, compassion, love, peace, kindness

Spiritual teacher, spiritual activist, healer

Christian origin

Higher wisdom

Without judgement

Goddesses Among Us - Atargatis:

Mermaids, mer-magic

Transformation, change

Deep diving

Assyrian or Mediterranean origin

Fertility

Protection

Heartbreak, challenge, powerful emotions

Ocean, water, depth

Grieving

Healing

Shadow work

Legendary Ladies - Estsanatlehi:

Transformation

Native American origin

Sky and earth

Linestrider Tarot - Five of Swords:

Conflict

Tension

Disagreements

Inflexibility black-and-white thinking

Compromise

Isolation

Defeat, failure

Interpersonal difficulties

Hollow victory

Selfishness, hurtful behavior

Resentment

Trust issues

Numbers: 5, 59, 14

Associated birthdays: January 20 to January 30

Associated plants: mistletoe, capsicum, calamus root

Pastel Mini Magic Tarot - Ace of Pentacles:

New beginnings

Opportunities

Potential

New financial or career opportunity

Manifestation

Abundance

Wealth

Business

Cat Tarot - Ten of Cups:

Happiness

Togetherness

Home

Family

Divine love

Blissful relationships

Harmony

Alignment

Star Spinner Tarot - The Hermit:

Seeking the truth

Introspection

Retreat

Assessment

Soul-searching

Being alone

Inner guidance

Mondays Tarot - Death:

Change

Ending

Rebirth

Renewal

Transformation

Under the Roses Lenormand - The Snake:

Snake

Deception, lies, tricks

Betrayal

Seduction, temptation

Jealousy

Manipulation

Disappointment

Difficulties

Distraction

Loss

Falseness

Hypocrisy

Indecision

“The other women”

Arcana Lenormand - Lily:

Bees and butterflies

Flowers

Sensuality

Sex

Virtue

Morality

Ethics

Wisdom

Thera-pets - “You don't have to be perfect to be lovable”:

Red panda

Mushroom Spirit - Rosy Bonnet:

Mycena rosea

Poisonous

Pink

Similarities

Details

Looking closely

Not making assumptions

Research

Don't be fooled by appearances

Looks can be deceiving

The Citadel - The Walker:

The Unknown

Journey

Birds

New experiences

Transition, transformation

Finding answers

Moving on

Voice of the Souls - Learning:

Palm reading hand

Evolution

Learning new things, new abilities and skills

Number 13

SOTW Imbolc - Consecrate tools:

"I will claim what is mine, what I see beyond the hidden. Gifted spirit, by tongue my words spill with purpose."

Establishment

Displaying spirit

Claiming ownership

Conscious decisions

Taking what is meant to be yours

Embracing what is before you

No doubts

Fully invested

Permanent fixture

SOTW Beltane - Maiden:

"Demand what is yours and take back what was taken. Reclaim until you've gathered all of you."

Bees and butterflies

Reclaim

Divine manifestation on earth

Powerful, sacred beings

Direct channels to the gods

Embracing your freedom

Power

Inner warrior

Divine feminine

Primal force of creativity

SOTW Litha - Sunbathing:

"The dance of stillness is calling for you to live in its embrace."

Flowers

Spiritual strength

Restoration

Rest

Self-care

Healing

Relaxation

Meditation

Prayer

Spiritual nourishment

SOTW Mabon - Crow:

"Pay close attention to the winds; there's a message making its way."

Crows

Something's coming

Messages

Pay attention

Important signs and clues

Warning

Trust your intuition

SOTW Samhain - Elders:

"Birthed from seed within the belly of the moon, they are the wise felt touches over our hearts and felt deep within the marrow of our spirit."

Wisdom

Experience

Storytellers

Keepers of knowledge

Compassion

Sage advice

Slowing down

SOTW Yule - Father Christmas:

"How did thy get here? Lost perhaps? No worries at all! Gather yourself and clear the frost for the good still lives in you dear."

Naughty or nice?

Kindness

Mindfulness

[fatehbaz]

In the March 1923 issue of National Geographic, a sketch of a tired-looking businessman invites the reader to the Tucson Sunshine-Climate Club. In the accompanying text, Benj. Lowe -- the archetype of the tired, busy, urban, white businessman -- attempts to coax all the other Benj. Lowes out there on the East Coast to recover from their unhealthy lifestyles by spending some time in Tucson, Arizona:

That night, for the first time in his hard-working, rushing life, Lowe came to himself. No vacations for ten years. Heavy responsibilities. Making money? Yes. Now on the verge of breakdown. What was it all worth, anyway? And then his eyes fell on a booklet his worried wife had sent for. It was “Man-Building in the Sunshine-Climate.” …Perhaps you, like Lowe, may find in “Man-Building in the Sunshine-Climate” the clue to robust health.

This form of health tourism began to appear in journal and newspaper advertisements not long after Tucson was originally incorporated as a city, in 1877. A promotional item published in the Arizona Daily Star in 1890 even went so far as to designate Tucson a place to cure serious pulmonary diseases. The rhetoric in these advertisements often framed the Sonoran Desert as “empty,” a place to be “discovered,” as if the Western lands of the continent had remained unoccupied and untouched all along. The process of “Man-Building” advertised by the Sunshine-Climate Club, therefore, carries a double meaning: building oneself and building one’s environment. [...]

With the proliferation of advertisements in magazines such as Ladies Home Journal and Journal of American Medical Association, a large number of [...] tourists [...] arrived to discover what the desert could offer. [...]

Throughout the late-nineteenth and early twentieth century, hospitals, sanatoria, health resorts, and other structures dedicated to medical treatment multiplied throughout the city of Tuscon [...]. These buildings were not in isolation, in the manner of nineteenth-century sanatoria in Europe or New England. Instead, they were open and integrated into the urban fabric [...]. In the late nineteenth century, upstate New York was among the most popular destinations for pulmonary health pilgrimages. With the opening of the Southern Pacific Railroad in 1880, however, towns with dry climates -- whose “pure and dry air … was not subject to severe seasonal changes” -- started bringing in crowds. [...]

Tucson reached its peak as the “health capital” during the 1930s, when the city’s roughly 30,000 residents were joined by about 10,000 health tourists visiting its twenty-one sanatoria, four hospitals, and four luxury hotels during the peak season. [...]

By 1928, Tucson’s planning and zoning commission had developed a new zoning system for such developments. Spatial buffers were instituted for sanatoria to ensure proper ventilation and isolation, dramatically altering the density and porosity of the city. In a residential neighborhood, for example, sanatoria had to be “set back 200 feet from the property line” and could only occupy “20 percent of the lot.” [...]

---

Sanatoria quickly became a refuge only the rich could afford [...].

Tucson’s Desert Sanatorium was a massive complex of eleven buildings built in 1926 spread out over 160 acres. [...] Telescopic devices called radiometers were housed on the roof of the main hospital building, channeling and directing sunlight through small lenses into the treatment rooms and sunbaths below. The sanatorium’s research center, hospital, and nurse’s residences were scattered across the site [...]. Each patient’s room was annexed to a small wooden balcony visible on the façade. Wet spaces were tiled and interiors white-washed, with baseboards curving away from the walls to prevent dust from settling on their surfaces. Window openings or balconies were carved out from the massive, Pueblo-style exterior walls. The Pueblo style also appears in the interior common spaces as Navajo carpets, mural reproductions, and quilts. Patient’s rooms were named after native tribes such as Pima, Papago, and Navajo. [...] The appropriation of indigenous culture and symbols persisted in the visual language of the Desert Sanatorium. One patient handbook came with a postcard featuring an image of a highly cultivated Navajo garden, and a description of the Sanatorium’s services and facilities adorned with sketches of a “teepee,” “rain cloud,” “thunderbird tracks,” “broken arrow,” “mountain range,” and “bear track.” The symbol of eagle feathers is placed alongside the welcome note by the director to denote his status as “chief” of the complex. The last page of the handbook even contains a personal message from the illustrator, in which he wishes that “each little figure brings happiness … and a very quick recovery. May the Great Spirit Bless and Protect you.”

Despite the generous application of native iconography and mythology in the sanatorium’s literature, few measures were taken to actually care for the infected people in local indigenous communities. By the early twentieth century, indigenous communities, along with other poor minority groups in Arizona had the highest rate of tuberculosis in the region. [...] Carlisle Indian School dedicated an issue of [...] [their] magazine to provide news and guidelines to counter the disease. [...] These analyses are accompanied by photographs of the architectural conditions of the buildings. [...] The issue further suggests the American Indians whose lifestyle shifted from the “more sanitary teepee to the one and two-room box house” could not keep up with hygiene. The magazine sought to enable the “medicine man” to cure the sick [...] but not, however, without yielding to an institutional form of governmentality. The narratives [...] yielded to the top-down institutional logic of controlling bodies by prescribing protocols. [...]

---

The disease, then, is not only a medical construct, but is firstly an environmental construct shaped by the climatic imaginaries which, in turn, shapes the urban context. Secondly, it is a social construct that privileges a certain lifestyle and class through its contagion and access to treatment. Lastly, it is a political construct, as it perpetuates the asymmetrical relationship between communities in the eye of the government and institutions. Amid these racial and economic imbrications, architecture is instrumentalized to facilitate institutional agendas. [...] Architecture perpetuates violence against the figure of the other.

---

Text by: Gizem Sivri. “Desert Fever: Harvesting the Sun, Colonizing the Land.” e-flux (Sick Architecture series). December 2020. [Screenshots were edited by me and display only part of the advertisement, which is shown in its entirety in Sivri’s article. Caption is as it appears in Sivri’s article. Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[fionaosmanbutdead]

[cis woman & she/her] Welcome to Aurora Bay, [FIONA OSMAN]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [ASLIHAN MALBORA]. You must be the [TWENTY-THREE] year old [ATTENDANT AT SEA GLASS BOUTIQUE]. Word is you’re [VIVACIOUS] but can also be a bit [IMPRUDENT] and your favorite song is [SHE WAY OUT by THE 1975]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [OCEAN CREST APARTMENTS]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

BASICS.

Full Name: Fiona Osman Nickname(s): Fi Gender: Cis woman (she/her) Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Birthday: September 24 (23) Religion: None Nationality: American Ethnicity: Turkish Hometown: Presque Isle, Maine Current Residence: Ocean Crest Apartments Time in Aurora Bay: 10 years Occupation: Employee at Sea Glass Boutique Education: Associate’s degree, BS at Aurora Bay College (current) Languages: English TL;DR: Moved to Aurora Bay with her family from northern Maine when she was 11, weird relationship with her parents, got her associate’s degree and is currently in school for horticulture, works as an employee at sea glass boutique while she does her degree. Goes for instant gratification over delayed satisfaction and is perpetually fighting her childish streak

PERSONALITY.

Pos. Traits: Energetic, vivacious, risk-taker, gregarious, affectionate, creative Neg. Traits: Flaky, reckless, childish, impulsive, imprudent, insecure Likes: Taking baths, clubbing, Submergence, the TV show Rake, staying in hotels, airports, bike riding, rollercoasters, slutty lingerie, sunbathing, haunted houses, aesthetic lighting, candles, mermaids, the ocean, space, being in the woods, collecting sea glass, being wine drunk, the comments section on Tiktok, talking shit Dislikes: Routine, sports, hot people being fake humble, ASMR videos, superhero movies, cooking, not immediately being good at things, basic fashion, the desert

BACKGROUND.

**trigger warnings for toxic parenting

Born in the town of Presque Isle, one of the northermost cities in Maine, Fiona grew up in the dark and the cold and surrounded by nature

She spent a lot of her time exploring the abundant forests and rivers and ravines of Aroostook County as a kid, both with friends and by herself. She was chronically coming home with scrapes and bruises; it was nearly tradition at her grammar schools that at least once a year Fiona Osman would end up in a cast that everyone signed

She didn’t have bad parents in the way some of her friends had bad parents – in fact, her parents weren’t really bad at all on the surface. Her mom was a third-grade teacher at one of the local elementary schools and her dad was head of HR at [to be added]. They were nice people and, for the most part, chill parents. Her friends always liked coming to her house because no one was yelling at them for making a mess and often her mom or dad, whoever was home, was even willing to do projects with them and take them fun places or out hiking

The problem with Fiona’s parents was that her dad had another side, and it wasn’t a nice one. Usually a pleasant personality to be around (strangers always loved him), when he got in moods the best thing to do was steer clear, which Fiona was pretty good at doing but her older brother was not. She witnessed a million fights between them that she typically tried to stay out of, but it always made her feel sick to see it and to feel, on her end, that their dad was being a dick. One of the worst parts of it was that their mom always, without fail, took their dad’s side – something Fiona thinks in retrospect was because she was afraid of him turning it on her

It created a lot of deep-seated issues. Her older brother began seeing their dad only for his bad side, whereas Fiona started seeing him as two different people: the fun dad who watched movies with her and took her on outings and showed her all his favorite music, and the man with an irrational temper who couldn’t be talked out of his bad moods. Not knowing which of them she would get each day and having that unreliability in a parent she was sometimes scared of gave her some trauma she’s never really explored

At eleven, Fiona’s paternal grandma in Aurora Bay broke her hip and never quite recovered well enough to be able to get back to taking care of her husband, whose dementia had been growing more severe over the last few months. Her dad went out there to help for about a month before the decision was made that the whole family would be uprooting and moving across the country so they could be nearby. This was, of course, the worst possible news to Fiona and her brother, who had friends and a life in Presque Isle

Fiona adjusted okay – she’d always been social and made friends relatively easily, and she understood on a logical level why they had to move, but it didn’t stop it from being hard going to a brand new school on the other side of the country. It was even worse for her brother, who was a senior in high school at that point with not only a close friend group but a girlfriend he was in love with. He held it against their dad, who – with the added stress of his parents’ situation on top of his penchant for taking his anger out on his loved ones – didn’t handle the whole thing very well and was not quite understanding or compassionate about it the way he should have been. In private their mom sometimes sympathized with them, but she never stood up to defend them when Fiona or her brother got into it with their dad

After high school, Fiona did a year at Aurora Bay College as an undeclared major before dropping out and choosing to get her Associate's degree at a nearby community college first, seeing as she had no idea what she wanted to do with her life yet. She lived at home while she finished that and afterwards moved out finally, getting a job at the Sea Glass Boutique to sustain herself while she continued trying to find some direction

It's only within the last year that she's decided she wants to work with plants, and enrolled at Aurora Bay College once again, this time with her major declared in horticulture

As she’s gotten older, Fiona’s grown further from her parents. Her mom is significantly less bright and happy than she used to be when the kids were little and her dad has only gotten worse as he gets older

Her grandpa passed about five years ago and her grandma just last year, but they never moved back to Maine

She had a couple boyfriends in high school and her first girlfriend in college, but she tends to sleep around mostly with no urgent desire to be in a relationship until she finds someone who really gets her excited

HEADCANONS.

She's a huge Submergence stan, they were a major part of her high school years and she still runs a Twitter stan account with thousands of fandom followers

Used to have all her old casts from grammar school that were signed by her classmates but they got lost in the move to Aurora Bay

Needs a lot of external validation and tries to fulfill that by sleeping with people. Depending on the situation, she’s the kind of person who would ditch her friends for someone giving her attention if she was feeling especially insecure

Has a diary she writes in almost every night

Keeps a little box of memories like receipts from first dates, pictures, jewelry, etc

Has a 3-year-old sugar glider named Jenkins

CURRENT CONNECTIONS.

tba

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

a few besties

roomate(s)

people she’s known since high school if they’re around the same age

frenemies

fwb, hookups, exes, etc

apartment neighbors/people she’s annoyed by being loud and coming home late

coworkers

someone who’s just a rly bad person for her to be around bc they fuel each other’s recklessness

someone she’s friends with through stan twitter

[thethirdrose]

Now we must dig a little deeper into the bog of intellectual misconceptions about cities in which orthodox reformers and planners have mired themselves (and the rest of us). Underlying the city planners' deep disrespect for their subject matter, underlying the jejune belief in the "dark and foreboding" irrationality or chaos of cities, lies a long-established misconception about the relationship of cities—and indeed of men—with the rest of nature. Human beings are, of course, a part of nature, as much so as grizzly bears or bees or whales or sorghum cane. The cities of human beings are as natural, being a product of one form of nature, as are the colonies of prairie dogs or the beds of oysters. The botanist Edgar Anderson has written wittily and sensitively in Landscape magazine from time to time about cities as a form of nature. "Over much of the world," he comments, "man has been accepted as a city -loving creature." Nature watching, he points out, "is quite as easy in the city as in the country; all one has to do is accept Man as a part of Nature." [...] Owing to the mediation of cities, it became popularly possible to regard "nature" as benign, ennobling and pure, and by extension to regard "natural man" (take your pick of how "natural") as so too. Opposed to all this fictionalized purity, nobility and beneficence, cities, not being fictions, could be considered as seats of malignancy and—obviously—the enemies of nature. And once people begin looking at nature as if it were a nice big St. Bernard dog for the children, what could be more natural than the desire to bring this sentimental pet into the city too, so the city might get some nobility, purity and beneficence by association? There are dangers in sentimentalizing nature. Most sentimental ideas imply, at bottom, a deep if unacknowledged disrespect. It is no accident that we Americans, probably the world's champion sentimentalizers about nature, are at one and the same time probably the world's most voracious and disrespectful destroyers of wild and rural countryside. It is neither love for nature nor respect for nature that leads to this schizophrenic attitude. Instead, it is a sentimental desire to toy, rather patronizingly, with some insipid, standardized, suburbanized shadow of nature—apparently in sheer disbelief that we and our cities, just by virtue of being, are a legitimate part of nature too, and involved with it in much deeper and more inescapable ways than grass trimming, sunbathing, and contemplative uplift.

- The Death and Life of Great American Cities, Jane Jacobs "Chapter 21 - The kind of problem a city is"

[papillon82fluttersby]

Famous Five Art Nostalgia #LC09

Introductory post

Introduction to ‘Les Cinq’

‘Les Cinq’ Masterpost

📦🛻💎 Les Cinq font de la brocante / Les Cinq et la statue inca – The Famous Five and the Inca God

Original publication date: 1975 (France), 1983 (UK)

(Original cover by Jean Sidobre, 1975)

In this book, the Five discover the joys of antiquing!

~~~~~~

Plot summary:

(Disclaimer: All provided translations are my own.)

George is joined by her cousins for their customary summer holidays at Kirrin Cottage. After a ‘boring’ week spent sunbathing, swimming, picnicking, biking, boating and enjoying Joanna’s delicious cooking, George is lamenting the lack of mystery to solve. In the course of their outings, the children have made a new friend called Bastien, who’s an antique dealer recently installed in the village.

(Happy greetings!)

[TRANSLATION: George: Here they come! Here they come! Timmy: Woof, woof! Julian: Hello, Timmy! George: Hurry up, there’s a nice snack waiting for us!]

(George is booooooored 😩😩😩😩😩😩)

[TRANSLATION: Narrator: That first meeting was followed by many others. Bastien, with his southern gab and cheerfulness, won the children over. But after a week, George was showing signs of impatience. George: The Famous Five are all together and there's not a single mystery on the horizon! Julian: Come on, George, the holidays have barely begun!]

One day, Bastien receives a life-size wooden statue that he assumes was sent by his associate, Alain, despite there not being any message indicating its origin. The statue, which is the effigy of a Bolivian god, is hollow and amplifies the voice of anyone who slips inside it. The children have fun with it and call it Tocotoc*. [*Note: ‘Tocotoc’ is a play-on-words on different levels: it sounds like what children might imagine a pre-Colombian Central American name would be; it’s similar to the written form of the sound someone makes when knocking on wood (‘toc-toc’); and it’s similar sounding to the French phrasing “en toc”, which is used to describe an object that is fake and cheap.]

Despite its ‘wow’ factor, which brings in many customers to Bastien’s shop out of curiosity, the statue is bulky, not particularly valuable, and not very likely to find a buyer. And yet, a couple of days later, a Spanish man offers a large sum to Bastien for the statue. Bastien is a bit taken aback by this offer, and ultimately refuses because the statue is actually useful to him in bringing customers to the shop.

(A strange offer)

[TRANSLATION: Bastien: All things considered, I’d rather not part with Tocotoc just yet. When I get back to Paris after the holidays, I’m sure I’ll find a buyer! Narrator: A few days later... Bastien: I’m not in the mood to be messed with today... George: What happened? Bastien: I had a visit from a stranger. He wanted Tocotoc. I told him it wasn't for sale. I thought the man was going to take it by force!]

A few days later, another man makes a huge offer for the statue, and Bastien refuses again. The Five feel that there is more to the statue than meets the eye. The two men, who are obviously in cahoots, finally find a ruse to get Bastien away from the shop, steal the statue and load it into a van. Fortunately for our protagonists, George had been left at the shop, and she manages to slip into the van undetected. When the thieves stop off at a café, George takes her chance and tries to drive the van away.

(Thinky thoughts outside the café)

[TRANSLATION: George (thinking): What if I went into that café and publicly accused Luis and Antoine? George (second panel): No one would believe me and the two thieves would have plenty of time to get away!...]

But due to her poor driving abilities (she’s 11, and has only ever driven her parents’ car in and out of the garage), she soon loses control of the vehicle and crashes into a tree, fortunately at low speed. The various onlookers think that she has either stolen the van or run away from home and they call the police, who in turn call Bastien and George’s father who both clear up the situation. On the way home, Bastien asks the Kirrins to please keep the statue, fearing that the thieves might come back to the shop for it.

The thieves indeed do not get deterred and make another (failed) attempt to steal the statue at Kirrin Cottage. Intrigued by their persistence, the Five examine the statue more closely and discover that a solid gold disc adorned with precious stones was hidden inside its chest piece.

(Seconds away from discovering the golden disc hidden in the statue)

[TRANSLATION: Narrator: After George's parents have gone to bed, the Five head to the shed. George: Let’s take a closer look at Tocotoc. Anne: Why insist on stealing it? Dick: It's not even made of precious wood. Narrator: To get a better look at the statue, the children decide to lay it on the ground. Suddenly, Tim spots a mouse! … Julian: Look out! Tim!!!]

The thieves try their luck again and finally make away with the statue – not realising that the golden disc is no longer inside.

The Five would like to know where the statue originally came from, but Bastien threw the packaging away long ago. Our investigators are stumped until Bastien receives a new package containing five statuettes from Bolivia. A closer examination reveals that the statuettes are hollow and filled with precious stones. The children conclude that these antiques are used to smuggle gold and jewels from South America to Europe. The address on the box shows that the intended recipient was not Bastien in Kernach (which is the French equivalent to Kirrin village), but another antique shop in Fernach, a small village located 3 km (2 miles) away. Having thus found the thieves’ headquarters, the Five go on a reconnaissance mission to see whom they are facing. They do find the remains of the statue, which has been cut to pieces by the bandits searching for the golden disc. RIP Tocotoc. 😢

Meanwhile, Bastien receives a threatening letter demanding that he bring the golden disc and the five statuettes to a certain location on the beach that night, or else. Bastien agrees to the rendezvous and calls the police, hoping that the bandits will be arrested, but the policemen think that Bastien’s call is a hoax and they don’t come. Furious that Bastien did not bring the golden disc and the jewels, the bandits kidnap him and take him to a yacht anchored in the bay. The Five, who had been waiting nearby, approach the yacht in their own boat and are able to eavesdrop on the bandits. George puts together a plan and sends Julian and Dick swimming to Kirrin Island, instructing them to hide and wait inside the castle.

George then buys time by putting on an act for the bandits, eventually “confessing” to having found the disc and hidden it on the island. She lures two of the villains into the dungeons and, together with Julian and Dick, they lock the bandits inside.

(A daring plan!)

[TRANSLATION: George: We discovered the dungeons at the bottom of this shaft. That's where we buried the golden disc. Thief: Go ahead! George: Mr Kopak should have come with us! Thief: Move along instead of talking!]

Julian, Dick and George then head for the yacht to capture the third bandit (Mr Kopak, the gang leader) and rescue Bastien, Anne and Timmy, but the yacht has disappeared!

On the yacht, Kopak had finally realised that he had been tricked and was planning to go to the shore with Bastien to recover the gold and jewels. As he angrily holds Bastien at gunpoint, Anne gets the jump on him with Timmy’s help and grabs the gun herself. The bandit is tied up. After reuniting with George and the boys, they all go to the police.

As a reward for recovering the stolen jewels, the La Paz museum in Bolivia sends the children a reproduction of Tocotoc, which they set in the garden at Kirrin Cottage.

~~~~~~

Cover art through the ages:

(Disclaimer: This is not an exhaustive list; sometimes the dates are difficult to pinpoint; and I have purposefully not included editions that re-used similar cover art, with differences only in layout and font style.)

(Cover art by Jean Sidobre, Hachette, 1977 – minor layout changes compared to the original 1975 version)

(Paul Gillon, Hachette, 1995 – sneaking onboard the yatch)

(Frédéric Rébéna, Hachette, 2012, with a title change – this statue is A LOT more gilded that I’ve been led to believe from the text 😶)

(Auren, Hachette, 2023 – Tocotoc has turned ferocious, grrrr! 😬)

~~~~~~

Thanks for reading!

[talbottoresnick]

Exhibition Review: "Echoes" by Peter Hujar

Lijing Dai 

“I wanted to be discussed in hushed tones. When people talk about me, I want them to be whispering.” —Peter Hujar 

‘Echoes’, the exhibition of photographs by the renowned American artist and downtown legend Peter Hujar, are currently on display at 125 Newbury Gallery in New York City until Oct 28, 2023. 125 Newbury is a project space helmed by Arne Glimcher, Founder and Chairman of Pace Gallery. It is located at 395 Broadway in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. This exhibition, which is being put on in association with the Peter Hujar Foundation and Archive, contrasts the peculiar classicism of Hujar's treatment of the body with images of the social and architectural spaces of yearning and belonging that grew in Manhattan's West Side piers in the 1970s and 1980s. It consists of approximately 40 photographs spanning 1966 to 1985 in the displayed exhibition. Most of the displayed works are 14 ¾ in.x 14 ¾ in. At the entrance, every visitor is welcomed to take a presentation sheet which is decorated in a newspaper style. It presents every single photograph in the exhibition. The exhibition is organized in two modes of Hujar’s practices: From the left side to the middle, it presents the photographs he made of his close friends, lovers and acquaintances who posed for him inside his East Village loft on 12th street; From the middle to the right side, it displays the images he took while cruising the dilapidated Christopher Street piers on Manhattan’s far West Side. In addition, the exhibition includes the photographs he took in the Capuchin catacombs of Palermo in 1963 on a trip taken with his boyfriend at that time, the artist Paul Thek. 

The one that first appealed to me was the Daniel Schook Sucking Toe (Close-up),1981. It is presented in the pigmented ink print in the square size of 14 ¾ .x 14 ¾ in. For the technical choice, filling the frame is applied in this work. The subject, Daniel Schook, is positioned right at the center of the image, looking directly at Hujar's camera and sucking his left thumb. I can feel the strong and deep attraction between Hujar and his subject. The framing technique successfully captures the facial details and emphasizes Schook’s eyes. When I stood in front of the image for a while, the stare reflected a sense of real intimacy and then vulnerability to me. I believe that is because Hujar knows his subjects very well and then their true natures can be reflected under his camera. Walking along the exhibition, the most touching aspect of Peter Hujar's photography, I think, is his sensitivity in the context of black-and-white images. The contrast between two colors has an incredible tenderness, yet introspective power in his images. The other image that captured my attention is the Christopher Street Pier #2 (Crossed Legs), 1976. Same as the previous image I mentioned, It is also framed in the pigmented ink print with the same square size. With a hazy detail of a cruise in the background, this work captures a man sunbathing on the Hudson River wearing denim shorts and baring his legs unashamedly. His

voyeuristic gaze through the mysterious triangle between the man’s bare legs powerfully suggests the place where he lives, New York City, a utopia for public intimacy and his strong pleasure for exploring the gay liberation movement of the 60s and 80s. In this way, compared to the direct eye contact with the subject, the contrast of different perspectives is quite interesting. 

In a nutshell, I was impressed with his sensibility using his gay perspective to control the expression of emotions in his works. For Peter Hujar, I think, his expression becomes resistance. For the execution of this exhibition, I think, as an audience, it works pretty well. The overall decoration is just kraft paper applied on the background with no extra. The power is presented in such a perfect way, softly leading his audience into his silent world. Each image is placed in a certain distance that leaves some space for the audience to think,connect and then remember. His compelling treatment of being candor and rational to his subject leads the audience to his gay perspective. The emotions he conveys are not unenthusiastic, but instead of the overwhelming expansion of emotions, it is trickling in a silent way. The presentation of Hujar's unique perspectives of his identities made the exhibition a great social value and practice. The installation of the exhibition is wonderful. It creates such a calm and still space for the audience to feel a sudden lag in the air within the surrounding chaotic streets. 

Overall Installation of ‘Echoes’ by 125 Newbury Gallery

Works Cited 

Peter Hujar: Echoes - - Exhibitions - 125 Newbury Gallery. (n.d.). https://www.125newbury.com/exhibitions/peter-hujar-echoes#tab:slideshow

[davidanderson121]

Melanotan Tan EC1A 1HQ - trutan

5 Reasons You Shouldn't Be Too Turned Off By Tanning Injections Tanning injections may sound like a draconian way to get a bronzed glow, but they’re actually one of the most popular beauty treatments in the world. And for good reason: They give you a natural, sun-kissed look that’s perfect for sunny days or summertime outings. But don’t be fooled by the allure of tanning injections: They come with some serious risks. In this blog post, we will outline five reasons you should not be too turned off by tanning injections and decide for yourself if they’re worth it. Melanotan Tan EC1A 1HQ Tanning is a great way to get a bronze or golden tan There are a lot of misconceptions about tanning injections. For example, many people think that they're only for people who are trying to get a fake tan. But tanning injections can also be a great way to get a bronze or golden tan. Tanning injections work by adding UV radiation to your skin, which gives you a gradual tan. This is different from using self-tanner, which will give you an instant tan. Tanning injections are also safe, and you don't have to worry about the harmful side effects that can come with using self-tanner. Tanning injections are less harsh than taking a sunbath If you're hesitant to try tanning injections because you've heard they're less harsh than sunbathing, there are a few reasons to reconsider. First of all, both methods produce UV radiation that can cause skin cancer. In fact, according to the American Cancer Society, tanning injections are just as harmful as taking a sunbath in terms of how much skin damage they can cause. Additionally, both methods may also cause stinging and blistering. If these bother you, then definitely go for the sunbath instead! Tanning injections have fewer risks than using a tanning bed There are a few reasons you might be hesitant to try tanning injections. For one, they may seem more dangerous than using a tanning bed. However, the risks associated with tanning injections are much fewer than those of using a tanning bed. Here are three reasons why: 1. The needles used in tanning injections are smaller and less likely to cause pain than those used in a tanning bed. 2. Tanning injection users tend to use less sunscreen than those who use a tanning bed, which reduces the risk of skin cancer. 3. There is no danger of burning yourself when using tanning injections, because the product is applied directly to the skin rather than through the air as with a sunburned skin Tanning injections can last up to six hours If you're considering tanning injections, be aware that they can last up to six hours. "The longer the injections are in place, the greater the likelihood of a good outcome," says Dr. Jacqueline Singer, chairwoman of dermatology at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. "But even if an injection isn't immediately effective, it's still likely to produce a tan." So if you're looking for a long-lasting bronze look, tanning injections could be your best bet. However, keep in mind that they can be expensive (around $60 per session), and there's always the risk of adverse reactions. So before getting injected, ask your doctor about other options, like sun tanning lotion or self-tanner pens. You can use tanning injections at any time of the day Looking to get a little bit of a tan but don't want the dangerous and often unenlightened effects of sun exposure? Check out tanning injections! These relatively new methods allow you to get an intense bronze or brown skin without all the nasty side effects of UV radiation. Here are four reasons why you should consider using them: 1. They're convenient: Tanning injections can be done at any time of the day, making them perfect for people who work odd hours or who simply don't have time for traditional sunbathing.

[eclipsedpascal]

Making Daddy Proud

Stepdad!Duncan x Female Reader

After moving in with your estranged mother and her new husband, Duncan Shepherd, you started to grow very close to your new stepdad. The two of you had a great relationship and he was doing his best to be a good father figure for you, knowing you missed your dad so much. But there was a problem, you found yourself insanely attracted to him and were starting to notice little things indicating he might feel the same way.

Warnings: very inappropriate relationships, Stepfather/stepdaughter relationship, Cheating is ofc implied, 20+ year age gap, daddy kink, unprotected sex (but I kinda imagined the reader to be on birth control so is okie😌) fingering (female receiving), choking, vaginal sex, oral (male receiving) and face fucking😃

Notes: Okie sooo I know some people will hate this fic and ofc I understand that, but if you do hate it then please don't send me any hate!! just don't read it🖤 anywayss I got dis ask saying "Concept: Stepdad Duncan x naive reader😉" nd omg i LOVE the whole concept of Stepdad!Duncan sm, like if you've been in the fandom for a while you'll probably know the fic "The Hand That Robs the Cradle" by Langdonsrapture nd that fic was my holy grail when it came out!! so you know I just had to go all out here nd get carried away writing it hehe:')

word count: 5.4k

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The opportunity to study political science at American University in Washington DC had been one you simply couldn’t pass up on, but unfortunately it meant moving away from your father to stay closer to campus grounds. You knew it was worth it in the long run, I mean you had been waiting on this chance for years and wanted to make your father proud, but you would miss him.

He was never home too much, always busy working, but he meant the world to you. It had been just the two of you for a long time now. Your mother had moved away once their divorce finalised 7 years ago, impulsively leaving you in his custody as she ran off and gallivanted around the world, meeting all sorts of interesting men she would tell you about.

Luckily for you, she had settled down with one of those interesting men in DC recently, and upon discovering your acceptance into the prestigious university she had offered you a place to stay whilst you studied.

It was a frightening move to make, but staying with your mother in DC had actually been pretty interesting. You hadn’t spent time with her in so long and it had been nice to catch up with her, I mean sure she had been a little distant, but that was expected with having not spent any real time with her in so long.

You were just grateful she had let you stay with her in the first place, thinking she would have probably preferred to be left alone with her new husband, Duncan Shepherd.

They had been married about four months when you moved in and from what you could see, things were going well; especially considering she had sprung the engagement on everyone pretty fast. You were just happy knowing she was happy.

Though you had only met the man in question once before moving in, he really seemed like a perfect partner. He didn’t have a single obvious flaw to him, but see that was the problem. He was completely flawless to you.

You had tried to find things you didn’t like about him, even just tiny things, thinking hating him would be far better than thinking of him the way had been, but no matter what you did, you just couldn’t seem to fault him. And the longer you stayed with them, the worse your little problem became.

You weren’t 100% sure of how old he was. You only knew he was in his early to mid forties. But being at least 20 years your senior, you knew he was definitely old enough to be fulfilling the role he was as your stepfather. It felt strange to have a new stepdad at the age of 20, (almost 21) but it was even stranger with you being so blindly attracted to him.

And it wasn’t even just his looks. Though, yes, they were quite the spectacle, it was more than that. He was confident and cocky, always knowing exactly what to do and say to make the people around him do whatever he wanted them to. He could make you laugh until your stomach was in cramps, and not just through telling dad jokes. Charisma rolled off of him in waves.

He was intuitive and crafty; smart to put in plainly. And his interests appeared to be more intellectually based than anything else, which was quite the opposite of your mother, so it baffled you as to how your mother had managed to snatch him up so easily in the first place.

Now it’s not that you were jealous, really. It was more that you didn’t understand how these two polar opposite personality’s had ended up colliding together in the manner that they had.

Whenever the three of you would sit and have an evening meal together, Duncan always made you feel welcomed in the conversation, which was a great comfort to both you and your mother, being the relationship you had was so strained. Because of this and the fact you both had quite a lot in common when it came to your interests, Duncan and you had become almost good friends in the small time that you had been living there.

It was obvious he was doing his best to be some kind of fatherly figure to you. knowing that you were missing your actual dad, he did his best to help you with the things he knew your dad usually would. Whether it was school work or just having someone to joke with from time to time. He was there.

Sometimes when he was there, though, you felt like maybe, just maybe, he felt something more too. Such as the moments where his stares would linger on your form for just a little too long, or the way he would sometimes fix your hair for you if it had strayed across your face the wrong way. Just small things he did that fatherly figures didn’t typically tend to do with their daughters; especially when his wife, your mother, was right there. Sure, she seemed oblivious to it, but you certainly weren’t.

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Taking your now lukewarm cup of coffee from the breakfast bar counter, you brought it to your lips and gulped the bitter liquid down, fighting viciously to stay alert. It was nearing 3am and you had been writing for hours. Concentrating was no longer your most favourable asset and your half lidded eyes were growing wearer by the minute, but you just had to finish this paper.

It was 17 percent of your grade and due in two weeks. A persuasive essay on propaganda within the current American political climate and you had been slowly working at it for weeks, but you knew if you left it hanging over your head any longer it would drive you insane.

Sitting back in the stool you resided on, you took quick solace in the many noises coming from the ajar kitchen window, listening to a low rumble of thunder, accompanied by the constant pitter patter of rain falling from the gloomy DC sky above. It had been hot and humid all week, eventually cultivating into large clouds that had now given in, spilling out showers for almost the entire day past.

You recalled all the time you’d spent by the pool with your mother and Duncan in the past week, enjoying the current heatwave by sunbathing next to it on one of the many loungers. The house was kind of set up like a hotel that way. With Duncan always needing to be prepared for any events he may have to hold for his company’s business associates or press, he had furnished the home with what was to the three of you, unnecessary seating and tableware; amongst other things.

You stirred, returning your eyes back to the last few lines you had written and attempted to go over them in your head, but quickly realised you couldn't even manage that without stumbling over them or jumbling the words up beyond comprehension.

Abruptly interrupting your confused stream of thought, was the kitchen door groaning open. So with a frown plastered to your face, you shot your head up to recognise the intruder. But your frown was quickly blown away at discovering that it was Duncan who had entered the balmy room, and he was in more glory than you had ever seen him.

You had seen his silhouette whilst he showered before. Having gone into his and your mother’s shared bedroom whilst searching for earrings, you had seen him through the whited out, frosted glass of the on-suit bathroom door. But this was something entirely different. This was him, stood in kitchen doorway with nothing on but his grey Calvin Klein boxers.

“Y/N? I didn’t know you were still up.” He quirked a brow at you, wondering why you were still sat in the kitchen so late at night. You swallowed deeply at the sight of him. Your eyes magnetised to his body, dilating with such a sultry image before them. Pulling your eyes back up to his face, you hoped he hadn’t seen their little detour down to his crotch.

“Uhm.. i’m, uh.. w-working on an essay.” Fuck! He’ll definitely know how nervous you are now. You looked away from him, too embarrassed to face him and cringing at your own attempt to speak. “It’s due in next week and I wanted to get it finished.” Okay that’s better, you thought. Maybe he’ll just think you’re just too tired to have a proper conversation or something.

“Oh, right,” he trailed off, looking you up and down a bit as he walked further into the room. You watched the back of his head as he opened the fringe, holding it open and scanning the contents of it. Deciding on a small bottle of water, he retrieved it from the middle shelf before closing the door and walking over to lean on the opposite side of the counter from you.

He didn’t seem too bothered by the fact he was practically undressed in front of you. Of course, you weren't complaining, but it was interesting. You tried to think of something else you could add to your open word document, wanting to distract yourself from his displayed body. But thinking as hard as you possibly could, your mind still brought you nothing.

You awkwardly pulled at the sleeve of your oversized ‘American University” sweater and hoisted it back up onto your shoulder. It had ridden down your arm whilst you were aggressively fiddling with your fingers - a nervous habit you had developed in your early teens. People would often point it out to you, but it was just one of those things you couldn’t stop doing.

There was a deafening silence stuffed between the two of you. So looking around the room, you tried to focus on anything in your line of vision that wasn’t him. It was just too hard seeing him like; his plump lips wrapped around the bottle’s mouth as he drank, his sleepy un-styled curls falling just above his perfectly manicured brows and wearing nothing but those fucking grey boxers. He was making it unbearably hard not to stare.

Deciding to speak, you cleared your throat. “So did you just wake up? Or could you not sleep?”

“Just couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the most random shit.. and you know how your mom is, she snores a lot.” He chuckled. His eyes never leaving you, beginning to feel as if they were boring holes into your soul as you kept full eye contact with him.

“Yeah, that must get pretty annoying.” You nodded slowly, thinking about how many nights you had spent wide awake when you were younger, all due to her roaring, loud snores passing through the paper thin walls of your childhood home.

“It does.” A smile played on his lips, taking another swig of water before speaking again. “so what’s the essay about?”

“It’s that one I was telling you about a few weeks ago, if you remember. it’s a persuasive on propaganda within the current American political climate.” You reminded him of the conversation you had about it when he dropped you off to class one morning not too long ago. The two of you often carpooled together, with the University campus being so close to his office, it made for an easy drive on the days he was needed in.

You guys would listen to playlists together on the drive and make fun of each others music taste, that was when you weren’t too busy being amazed by how similar they could be.

“Are you struggling with it? I mean, it is getting pretty late now.” He turned to check the clock which hung on the wall behind him, then looked back at you questioningly.

Duncan was good at helping you with this kind of thing. He was extremely well versed in politics, with his family’s background and all. Your mom had told you he used to be very involved with the white house, saying when he was younger he even went to prison for a short time before president underwood had pardoned him.

“I just can’t concentrate, but I really need to get it done or it’ll stress me out.” You lifted your bare feet up onto the stool seat, your knees coming up to your chest so you could rest your chin on them. You were only wearing panties with the sweater, it being too hot to wear anything more.

“Can I come over and check it?” He closed his bottle of water, tightening the lid with his muscular arms as he spoke. You had almost forgot he wasn’t wearing much before he said this, but watching him screw the bottle cap on as he asked to could come round to your side of the counter? It had you weak for him all over again.

“Uh.. yeah, course.” He padded his bare feet over the white, tiled flooring towards you, placing the bottle down on the counter and moving behind you to read the most recent paragraphs you had written. His hand was stretched over to the other side of you, resting on the edge of the breakfast bar as the skin of his arm grazed across your back.

Even with you being sat on such a tall stool, he still managed to tower over you. His hight was usually intimidating as it was, but with the added factor of him being almost completely undressed it was even worse. A small waft of air blew his expensive cologne towards you, creeping past your nostrils and possessing your senses completely before you started to feel his breathe on your upper neck. It wasn’t heavy, but it was enough to make your cunt start pulsating.

You were disgusted by yourself. He’s your mother’s husband! And your Stepdad! What the fuck was wrong with you? You could only imagine what people’s reactions would be if they knew of the truly sinful thoughts you had about him, and you hated yourself for it.

He was your type, yes. A rich, older man who wasn’t actually an asshole, and they were hard to come by, but that wasn’t relevant. You needed to control yourself. No matter how hard that may be.

“What you have so far is really good. Your argument is strong and as always with your work, it’s written well. You’re smart, Y/N. It’s impressive.” He humoured himself with a scoff, his voice interrupting your lewd thoughts.

You blushed at his compliment, hiding your face behind your knees slightly and looking up at him. “Thanks, Duncan.” You knew he was just trying to be a good dad figure to you, but you couldn’t help being attracted to the way he was so caring for you. Maybe it’s fucked up, but it’s not your fault all you need is an older man’s approval to become turned on.

“I mean it.” He looks so sincere as he talks to you. His face would be intimately close to yours if you hadn’t hidden it from him earlier. You notice his eyes flicker down to your lips for a split second, and then back up to your eyes again. His stare no longer felt friendly, but more.. lustful. Were you crazy or was he really doing this?

Suddenly he looks away from you, moving his eyes back to the laptop’s screen. “Maybe you should just get some sleep. I know you said it’ll stress you out, but if you get some rest you’ll be able to get back into it tomorrow with better concentration.” He does his best to steer the conversation back to where is once was, reminding himself that you’re his fucking step daughter and that he has a beautiful wife sleeping just upstairs.

“I know that, its just..” You sighed, blinking up at him. You brought your legs back down you hang over the edge of the seat, but you couldn’t stop thinking about how close he was to you, wanting to do nothing more than to drape your arms behind his neck an-.

“Nope I won’t listen to it. From what I can see it’s an incredibly strong piece of work already, so just go get some sleep and come back to it in the morning, okay sweetheart?” He laughed a little, looking down at you again.

That nickname. Sweetheart. He called you it all the time and yet it always managed to take your breath away. But the thing is, he usually wasn’t this close to you when he did. So when you squeezed your legs together and bite down on your bottom lip, doing your best to ease the overwhelming desire you felt for him in that moment, there was no way he hadn’t seen it.

You were frozen staring at him, his face static and unreadable. You hoped he didn't choose to shout at you for how repulsive your behaviour was, or maybe he would kick you out? Your mind began spiralling, wrapping itself in intricate knots as you held your breath, awaiting a reply from him.

“Do you like that? When I call you sweetheart.” His voice was deep, sultry and dripping with desire. Shock coursed through you. That was definitely not what you had expected him to say. He seemed even larger now, his confidence making you feel small in comparison as your mind scrabbled to find the words you were supposed to use in your current predicament, but it never found any.

"You like it when daddy gives you nicknames?” He moved his hand up and delicately grasped the skin where your neck met your jaw, his eyes half lidded with lust. Your heart was beating so fast now and your breathing had grown shallow. You were so lost for words, only able to whimper out a weak “yes” before looking down to his boxers, trying to avoid his eyes but still wanting him just as much as he now appeared to want you.

He lifted your chin and kissed you roughly, drinking in your lips as if you were the water he had ventured down stairs for all along; and you began to wonder if you perhaps were. Maybe you were what he had been craving, just as you had been craving him.

He pulled the stool closer to him with his spare hand, leading you to wrap your legs around his torso as you tangled your tiny fingers through his sleep rustled hair. It was passionate. His kiss was sloppy, yet perfectly executed as his tongue slipped past your lips to glide over your own. His greying stubble dug into your skin, burning it with pure contact.

You parted to breath; and for just a moment, though it felt like hours, you stared into each others eyes with a ferociously neither of you could nor wanted to tame.

He tuts. “You really shouldn’t drink so much coffee little one, it’s not good for you. And it’s all I can taste.” He couldn’t help but reprimand you for the little habit, he had just gotten so used to doing it over the past three months, and using it to tease you sounded even more appealing.

You opened your mouth to speak, but were cut off when he lunged at you again, kissing you viciously. He began to move his hands all across your body, his fingertips grazing over every inch of you they possibly could as he started to undress you, pulling your oversized sweater above your head and taking handfuls of your breasts. He was kneading them, leaning down to kiss and suck on them whilst he watched you throw your head back, completely enthralled by him.

You were taken aback by how quick things had escalated, your sense of control had deteriorated far too rapidly and was ebbing away even further with each little kiss he left on your skin.

His large hand slid down to your panties, playing with the lacy bow that was centred on the waist band. He hovered his hand over your heat, cupping it and feeling just how sticky you had become for him. You let out a moan, all sense of wrong and right leaving you completely as you uttered a soft “Daddy” and ground your cunt into the palm of his hand.

“That’s right. So desperate for daddy.” He mused, ripping your thin underwear off and dropping it down onto the floor beneath you. Bringing his face to yours again, your noses bumped and leant on each other for some kind of purchase, the both of you watching his hand as he rubbed his fingers through your folds, gathering a fair amount of slick on them before pressing two inside you.

“Ahh!!” You let out a moan, it was louder than you expected and reminded you of what was really going on here. Having been too caught up in the moment, you hadn’t even thought about how being complete fucking naked with your step father between your legs would look if your mother had decided to come downstairs.

“Ah, ah, shh baby. We don’t wanna get now caught do we?” His breathe was hot on your lips, whispering as to not alert anyone. “So tight.”

You whispered back. “I’m sorry daddy, it was an accident- mmph!” You muffled your moan.

“That’s it. Who’s my good girl?” He lay a gentle peck on you lips, only stopping as to allow you to answer his question.

“I am daddy!! I’m your good girl!” You spoke with urgency, but did your best to keep the volume low, which was quite the struggle in between moans. Duncan could see this, so he pressed your lips together. Kissing you into a muffled silence.

You felt his spare hand on your neck, squeezing it just enough for you to still breathe okay when he pulled away from your mouth, moving his lips to the shell of your ear and biting the lobe. He murmured in your ear. “Do you know how hard it was, this week? Having to sit there next to your mom at the poolside and see you just lying there like that?! That fucking bikini. It took everything in me not to cum right there.”

His fingers were moving slowly, going in deep and curling up against your g spot, making you cry out and lean on his shoulder, biting it to keep yourself quiet. he started to rub your clit in hard circles. He was so experienced. It was mind-blowing.

“Would it have served you more pleasure to know, I only wore it for you?” It was true, you had only worn it for him and it had obviously worked. You certainly had his attention now. He growled at this, pulling his fingers out and slapping your cunt.

He yanked your neck closer to him, speaking down to you. “Just for that? Get on your fucking knees.” As soon as he let go of your throat you were climbing off the stool and onto the floor. The heat of the room, and of your acts too, made the marble tiling feel like ice pressed onto your flushed skin. But you didn't care.

You watched him pull his boxers down, cock springing free, adjacent to his stomach. Never having been with anyone of this size before, you had never seen a cock this big. You reached out and touched it, feeling just how hard he was. He hissed at the contact, looking down at you as you watched his facial expressions with wide eyes.

You played with it in your hand, stroking it with one and palming his balls with the other. He stroked his fingers through your hair, giving you a reassuring look as you licked the tip. The salty taste hit your tongue, making you crave his cock even more. So without another second going to waste, you took him into your mouth as far as you could.

“Ahh fuck!” You began bobbing your head, your eyes fixed on him as a groan left his lips. He was watching you intently, threading his fingers through your hair and onto your scalp to get a good grip on your head. You let your jaw go loose, knowing what he was about to do and preparing yourself for it.

He started thrusting his hips into your face, his cock hitting the back of your throat with almost every shove. You had honestly impressed yourself, I mean you knew you gave good head, but taking a cock this big as it fucked into your throat was something to be proud of.

“Mmm that’s it sweetheart.” Your stomach fluttered at his approval. The gagging noises you were making giving him even more pleasure. “You just wanna make daddy proud, don’t you princess?” You mumbled a wet “yes daddy” around his cock, sending sweet vibrations through it as he pushed himself as far as he could into your throat.

You couldn't even fathom how this was happening. You had pictured this moment late at night with a vibe pressed to your clit far too many times to count, so it finally happening was something hard to comprehend. Somehow he looked even more handsome from down on your knees than you had ever imagined he would. His stubble contouring his face perfectly with the ‘o’ his lips were forming.

Suddenly pulling you off of him, you gasped out for oxygen and tried to wipe away some of the saliva dribbling down your chin. It was like a snapshot from one of Duncan’s wet dreams. You looked so incredibly fucked out. He thought it was beautiful.

“Come on little one, stand up. Daddy wants to fuck that tight little pussy of yours.” You moaned as he talked down to you, stroking his calloused thumb over your bottom lip and pulling it down just to watch it bounce back up again.

You stood up, finally wrapping your arms around his shoulders like you had wanted to all this time. He pulled you in for a kiss, one much slower than the rest, communicating something more to you than just pure sexual carnality. His embrace was comforting, making you feel protected and small in his arms.

His hands grabbed at your ass as he picked you up, sitting you back down onto the bar stool and adjusting the hight while his lips stayed connected to yours. Once the seat was low enough for his liking, he picked up your thighs, shelving them onto his hips and laying you back just enough so that you could lean on the backrest.

The room was sweltering, your body hot against his and anticipating having him buried inside you was getting too much to handle. He dragged his cock through your lips, teasing your clit and moving back down to almost enter you, but he never would. Just wanting to get you all worked up and loving the way you would squirm when he did.

“Daddy.. please.” You steadied yourself by holding on to the sides of the seat, hoping he would end his tournament and fuck you already.

He slid the head barely into you. “Hmm… Since you were so polite, suppose daddy should reward you.” He spoke calmly before snarling and stuffing himself into you, pushing as deeply as he physically could. He felt your walls clamp around him as he set his pace. It was a lot. Having never taken a cock this big and the fact he didn’t even let you adjust, you couldn’t help but wail out.

He shot his hand up to cover your mouth, needing to keep you quiet and seeing you clearly couldn’t do it yourself. “Wouldn’t want to wake up mommy now, would you baby?” you attempted to utter a “No daddy”, but his hand kept your lips glued shut.

He fucked you. Like really really fucked you. He was making the stool shuffle underneath you, the powerfulness of his thrusts causing you to slide down in the seat. The only reason you didn’t slip off completely being the barbarian hold he had on your hips.

It actually surprised you how rough he was. A pleasant surprise, of course, but he had been so delicately caring towards you since becoming your step father and now here you were, receiving the best of both worlds.

The closer you grew to your high, the more incoherent your thoughts became. His eyebrows were scrunched together, lips trembling as he picked you up off the seat and held you closer to him. Supporting your ass, his hips ricocheted up and off yours as he tried desperately not to yell out.

His thumb was brought back down to your clit as he pressed you up against him, swiping at it hellishly, trying to hurry up your release upon feeling your legs begin to quiver; and knowing his own was approaching rapidly.

“That’s it sweetheart, come around daddy’s cock… Gonna cum so fucking deep inside your cunt. Would you like that?” You could see a thin line of perspiration cascading down his cheekbone, he was almost breathless and his thrusts were messier now.

“Yes da-AHH!“ you whipped a hand up to your face, holding your mouth shut as you came. You dug the hand you had placed on his shoulder deep into his skin and was quickly reminded of his marriage to your mother. You hoped you hadn't left any nail indents she might see.

You felt his hot seed spurt onto your walls as he rested his head on yours, mouth open wide and letting out a silent groan. His release was long and powerful. The both of you were left panting, the only noise in the room being your own breaths and a small creak from the stool when he softly set you down onto it.

He pulled out, your mixed juices gushing out of you along with the sexual haze you had been overcome with. The severity of what you had just done began to settle in. His head still resting on yours as you started freaking out, contemplating what would happen if your mother was to ever find out what had just occurred.

You wrapped your arms around his back, needing his comfort and squeezing him in an urgent hug, which he returned. his fingers stroked the sweaty skin of your back, trying to ease the thoughts he too had running through his mind. He lifted your chin up, the look he had in his eyes telling you everything would be okay.

Kissing you cautiously, he savoured the feeling of your lips on his and prayed he would get a chance to feel them again. “Are you okay?” He whispered

You didn’t really know if you were. On one hand, that was something you had wanted for a long time and it had been far better than you ever imagined, but on the other you had just helped your stepfather cheat on your mother. “I don’t know. I think so.”

He stood up, grabbing your sweater and panties, handing them to you before putting his boxers back on. “Well, at least that paper won’t seem like such big problem now.” He chuckled, doing his best to find humour in a humourless situation.

You giggled a little, hurrying to throw on your sweater and being reminded of how he had ruined your panties. “True. Now this can hang over my head instead.” You wiped any left over salvia you had on your face onto your sleeve and thought about how you would probably need to shower after this. “At least the sex was worth it, right?”

He sent you a dark smirk, picking up his bottle of water and walking towards the kitchen door. “It was. hopefully it'll be just as good next time too.” You opened your mouth, faking shock at his confidence as you watched him open the door.

“Goodnight Y/N” He gave you one last look as he sauntered through the door, getting ready to close it behind him and leave you alone in the kitchen with no one but your thoughts. The thoughts of your acts. Remembering all the little moments you had just shared together.

In that last moment before he left, you struck eye contact with him, chewing your inner lip and speaking.

“Goodnight, daddy.”

●●●●●●●●

Thank you sm for reading!🥺🖤

Tags: @dark-mei-rose @sojournmichael @ntxoza @blakescoven @ghostangels @jimmason @fernfiction @brattylovee @7-wonders @angelicmichael @melodylangdon @instincts-baby i'm so so sorry if you don't like this kinda fic or it has triggered you in anyway, but just let me know if it has and I won't tag you in this kind of thing ever again! You can also let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list too:)

[mask131]

Creepy Family History: The Addams Family, part 1

The Addams Family is of course where the history of the “creepy family” archetype should start. They are without a doubt the start of it all and the most iconic and well-known incarnation of this archetype, the ones who lead the dance, an international success. You could say almost all of the following “creepy families” were inspired or influenced by the Addams.

  The Addams Family was created by Charles “Chas” Addams, an American cartoonist renowned for his dark humor and macabre jokes. Born in 1912 in the town of Westfield, New Jersey, where he spent the first part of his life. The exact date of the family’s creation is unclear because the family was not originally formed as a unit: each member existed previously in the numerous cartoons, comic strips and drawings of Chas as unrelated characters with several variations. It is commonly agreed that all these characters were ultimately joined together as a family in 1937/1938, and referred to as the “Addams family” in honor of their creator. Something people tend to forget is that Addams did not gave an official name to his characters for a very long time, relying on their iconic looks to identify them – and they were referred to by numerous names, Chas himself calling them “Addams’ Evils”.

What was the Addams family? It was a dark and macabre parody of the ideal nuclear family of 20th century America, and a parody of the average upper-class American, set on the East Coast of the United-States (the Addams Family being found in New-York and New-Jersey like landscapes). They were a family of bizarre, creepy and disturbing characters, ambiguously human and who enjoyed all sorts of activities normal people would find frightening and horrifying, while abhorring what a typical person will like – the Addams will laugh at a sad movie, get angry at a sunny day, punish their children for joining the Scouts or take moon-baths instead of sunbathing. All the elements of the archetypal “perfect” American family are here, though gleefully subverted: the father is here a porcine and ugly dark-skinned man who teaches his children how to build racks and punish his rebellious teen for joining the YMCA ; the mother is a tall and elegant but ghoulish and vampiric woman tending to poisonous plants in her garden and hosting parties on Friday the 13th ; the son has a pet alligator and sells toxic products at a lemonade stand ; the daughter cries when she is the best student of her class and organizes funerals for her dolls ; the cool uncle turns out to be a disturbing and dangerous (possibly cannibal) man who delights in human suffering and gives blood transfusions to his plants ; the kind grandmother is a witch that bakes bat and snakes-shaped cookies ; the big and homely house turns out to be a decaying, cobweb-covered mansion… Everything with the Addams is subverted, typical situations turned over their heads so that they live at the opposite of regular human beings: they think it is a perfect day for going out when there is a hurricane outside ; the mother is shocked when the grandmother DOESN’T cheat at card games ; and if the children are so eager to celebrate Christmas it is because they can burn down Santa Claus in the chimney.

The Addams family is also clearly upper-class and wealthy, if not aristocratic (corresponding to the higher social status associated with the East Coast of the USA, after all New-England is the original land of the Mayflower and the WASPs). Their house is a big and decaying Victorian mansion next to a large cemetery (more specifically a Second Empire Victorian mansion – Victorian was a large term covering numerous styles, from Queen Anne to Colonial Revival, and the typical “creepy Victorian mansion” such as the Bates mansion or the Phantom Manor are Second Empire Victorian mansions) ; the parents are never seen working, the neighbors and the school the kids are sent to are pretty upper-class and they of course have a ghoulish, Frankenstein-monster-like butler. The Addams Family also had a LOT of extended family seen during all sorts of occasional strips, family reunions, and several having their own set of cartoons spread over time – usually much more openly freakish than the Addams themselves (a man with two heads, a werewolf, a man with six arms but no legs, a toad-like man marrying a dwarf woman…). Most of the cartoons of the Addams Family were published in The New Yorker, though several were also published elsewhere, or in special compilations Chas made of his drawings. If you want to know more about this original incarnation of the Addams, I can suggest the excellent book “The Addams Family: An Evilution” which has some flaws (a strong bias against the movies and is missing a lot of Addams Family drawings) but makes up by a thorough analysis, precious information, and by containing very rare sketches you can only find in this book (or in the archives of the Charles Addams Foundation).

  The Addams Family became a huge success. So big that a deal was made to produce a television series based on the sketches. The deal was made in 1963, and in 1964 began “The Addams Family”. This black-and-white sitcom was what first settled the Addams Family in popular culture. It ran for two seasons with a total of sixty-four episodes (each thirty minutes long), and became both a cult classic and a staple in America’s television and popular culture.

The television series is also what cemented the identities, names and characters of the Addams Family members in popular culture. For the creation of the series, Chas Addams wrote a series of profiles describing each family members behavior and personality as he imagined it, and he even gave names to them. These profiles (that you can easily found today) inspired the television series writers, though they did not follow it to the letter (in fact it is interesting to see the differences between Charles Addams’ vision and the television series), and thus were born Gomez Addams (the father), Morticia Addams (the mother), Pugsley Addams (the son), Wednesday Addams (the daughter), Grandma Addams (the grand-mother), Lurch (the butler) and Uncle Fester (the uncle). It also settled the identity of Grandma as Gomez’s mother and of Uncle Fester as Morticia’s uncle.

One thing the movie did was reducing the darkness of the family slightly. The Addams are still lovers of the macabre and the morbid, they have a creepy house and spooky relatives, they feel at ease with ghosts and pet lions, they end up scaring away most of their neighbors. But contrary to the Addams of the original cartoon which had an inherent evilness and danger to them, that enjoyed the suffering of others and were strongly against all things “good and nice”, the Addams of the television series were much more friendly, merry and cheerful, happening to do all sorts of dangerous and strange things that end up hurting others mostly by accidents or mistakes. The television series established a key concept of the Addams, the idea that they consider themselves normal and feel the rest of the Americans are “strange” and “weird”. They cannot understand the way of living of their neighbors, believing beautiful things to be ghastly and regular entertainment to be boring, but they are still open-minded and always try to “adapt” or “help” those around them as best as they can. The family is also much more loving and close to each other than in the cartoon, where traces of abuse and detachment were found. The television series took a lot of inspiration from the situations depicted by Addams cartoons (such as Pugsley deciding to join the Scouts, turned into a whole episode), and also worked with a lot of typical sitcom plots (such as for example Uncle Fester getting sick and a doctor being called in, or the Addams Family deciding to trace their family tree, and other things like that).

The series was such a success, it had a follow-up movie, a “reunion movie” aired on NBC on October 1977. “Halloween with the New Addams Family”, following the Addams parents, now older and grandparents, as their entire family is about to gather for a Halloween party. For watching the movie myself, I have to say it is not a good movie, though not particularly bad, but it is really weird and strangely cheap. Almost all of the original actors return for their roles, you have the typical jokes and humor of the sitcom, but there is something lacking in the editing and making, and the way it was shot evokes cheap homemade movies of the second half of the 20th century (not to say low-budget porn movies).

  The second part of the Addams early success was thanks to the Hannah-Barbera Studios, who got ownership and deals related to the Addams Family and used them a lot – if the sitcom dominated the 60s, the 70s was the Hannah-Barbera era. It all started with an episode of “The New Scooby-Doo Movies”, the third of season 1, aired in 1972, where the Scooby-Doo Gang met up with the Addams Family (the actors of the sitcom were re-used to voice the animated characters, but the design of the characters were picked up from the original cartoons).

This success led to the creation of an entire animated sitcom that began in 1973: “The Addams Family”, sixteen episodes in total. It was a typical Hannah-Barbera series, with its usual style and jokes, and also its strange obsession with cars that changed the entire setting: while the family stayed the same, they were actually depicted as going on a road-trip across the entirety of the United-States in an impossibly big manor-like “Creepy Camper”, and having numerous adventures in each location they stopped or passed by. Again, the original cartoon designs were used and a few actors from the sitcom provided the voices. Interestingly, this animated series set up new family relationships different from the sitcom (but that would later be re-used): notably it depicted Uncle Fester as Gomez’s brother and Grandmama as Morticia’s mother.

  A last element of this “first glory” of the Addams should be mentioned – a piece of lost media.

In 1973, ABC (the ones who produced the original sitcom) decided to create a variety show with musical pieces, skits and dance parties centered around the Addams Family. A black-and-white pilot was shot for this series, and called “The Addams Family Fun-House”. This episode aired in the 1973-1974 televisual season on various stations (that had funded the pilot), but unfortunately was never picked up and the variety show was never made. As a result, the pilot episode fell into obscurity (as no one had recorded or kept it) and it is now considered to be a piece of lost media. Of this lost pilot we only keep today a few black and white pictures, memories and testimonies online and the list of the main cast (notably Pugsley Addams was played by Butch Patrick, the actor of Eddie Munster in “The Munsters”).

 After the 70s, the 80s were an empty decade for the Addams Family, marked only by the sad death of Charles Addams. Chas died in 1988, at the age of 76, from a heart attack, leaving behind ten cartoon and drawings anthologies (more would be published posthumously).

[jentlemahae]

(Ps anon) not Korean, but I'd say I'm well versed in Korean beauty standards, since I've been consuming hallyu content for more than a decade, have Korean friends, and have visited the country. The thing is, beauty standards are not something conscious, they're ingrained into your brain by virtue of the environment you grow up in. So yeah, the features that Koreans consider attractive and actively seek through surgery (like that V-line, for example), might look really weird to people who have grown up outside of Korea, but their brains are wired to see them as attractive, because that's all they've seen and been told throughout their lives. It also works in reverse, for example, where I'm from (an European country), people actively want tan skin. They sunbathe without protection in order to get their skin as dark as possible. It's considered beautiful, and you can't imagine the amount of shit I've gotten throughout my life for not being tan (I have really pale skin and would rather not get skin cancer, thnx). To my Korean friends, that's absolutely insane and utterly unattractive.

Korea is also a country that has developed from nothing into an economic and technological powerhouse in very little time. For the past 3 decades, it's been like the American dream. The country had clawed its way into the first world, so could its people climb the social ladder to richness. Class matters, and the way you look and dress is associated with the class you belong to. Upwards social mobility is well and truly dead in modern day Korea, but that fading of the real possibility to improve your social class has resulted in a completely appearance obsessed society. It's the fake it till you make it attitude. If you look pretty and rich, maybe you'll marry rich, or make rich connections.

Idk, there's a lot of factors at play that have influenced the way Korea approaches beauty and plastic surgery, but they do have it worse than people from other countries, because the system is rigged to value looks above pretty much anything else, and surgery is normalised, accessible and affordable. Plus they produce truly incredible amounts of national media (Korea wouldn't need to import foreign entertainment if it didn't want to, it more than covers its own demand). Idols and actors have been getting procedures forever, and when you grow up seeing that plastic beauty everywhere with no acknowledgement of the fact that it's artificial, not only does it look good to you (you interiorize the standard), it also looks natural and desirable.

Korea also has a problem of not considering beauty as a whole that works in harmony, but rather as a series of particular features. There's this idea that if you get double eyelids and canoplasty to make your eyes bigger, you straighten your nose and raise your bridge, and you shave your jaw and get a smaller face + v line, you'll magically be beautiful. That's not how actual beauty works, it's all about your face working together as a whole. But it's easier to sell ps surgery procedures if you divide the face and promise people that the key to beauty resides in this one feature that you can get fixed, so...

Lmao that got hella long again. Sorry!

oh wowww this was so interesting to read!! and u are so knowledgeable and intelligent :ooo

[mountainmaven]

16, 29 and 53 please.

oooh Thank you!!!

16. Favorite movie? Holy crap - I have so many...The Sound of Music came to mind first.

29. Have you ever been skinny dipping? Oh yes, many times :-)  I actually don’t care for swimming (and don’t do it well) but I love skinny dipping. (also fun fact about me I used to be a card carrying member of the ASA - American Sunbather’s Association - nude sunbathing).

53. Favorite foreign food? hmm toss up between Japanese, and Greek.

Thank you handsome!!

[theemptyquarto]

Abandoned WIP

Warstan (but John got killed off before the story starts) and purely platonic Sherlock & Mary.  Quite AU... John and Mary get together before Sherlock jumped off of Bart’s.  Maybe a little bit of hinted unrequited Johnlock, I honestly can’t remember if I was going there with this fic.  A “Mary is the new Watson” retelling of “The Adventure of the Empty House,” rated T.  This was written before S3 happened and I fell in love with BBC Mary and she actually made me view BBC John as an interesting character in his own right and I rejiggered my alignments.

I’m going to rant here, just briefly, about how ACD’s Mary Morstan is probably one of the most wronged-by-their-author characters that I can think of, which is why I started writing this fic where she takes the lead.

She appears for the first time in the second-ever (authorially, not chronologically) Sherlock Holmes story, “The Sign of the Four,” and is delightful.  Watson falls hard in love right away and acts like a huge dweeb about her, she’s courageous, clever, and kind.  Maybe without all the panache of the later Irene Adler, but a more traditionally Victorian heroine for our more traditionally Victorian junior protagonist.  Her next appearance, “The Adventure of the Crooked Man,” is significantly more tangential, but she sets the action of the story in play and is shown to be a helpful, kind figure.

And then all of a sudden Conan Doyle ships her off to visit her mother (she was established as an orphan), stops using her at all, and finally kills her off.

Not even on the page.  Between books.  And it’s mentioned so tangentially in two lines of “The Adventure of the Empty House” that you can easily miss it if you aren’t looking for it.

(Incidentally this sort of shit is why ACD fandom can’t agree on how many wives Watson had or who the subject  of his “sad bereavement” is.  The number ranges from 1-13.)

Why, Artie?  Why did you do that?  I mean I get if you want to park Watson back at Baker Street you probably do have to off her but you were a fairly good hack and doing it this way made you give up the opportunity to have some sort of emotional payoff in your stories.  Especially since you later introduce another wife character who is in no way distinct from Mary (a niche component of ACD fandom thinks that Mary didn’t die at all and Watson “abandoning (Holmes) for a wife,” was him and Mary reconciling after an estrangement.)

Anyway.  Don’t create cool characters and then kill them for no good reason.  That’s my point.

_____________

The Empty Flat (Mary)

I had been widowed for three months and was rather surprised at how badly I was doing with it. The snug three-bedroom garden flat in Maida Vale had been the perfect size for a not-quite-young couple planning on children.  Now it seemed vast and empty and utterly, utterly silent.  When I slept, which wasn’t all that much, I did it on the sofa.  Our bed still smelled faintly of his aftershave, and I couldn’t stand either to sleep there or to wash the sheets.  Arthur, the blue point Siamese cat who I had bought into the marriage, would curl up on my feet and awaken me with his yowls in the morning.

To some extent I had been able to occupy my mind with work, and the requirements of my job had kept me more or less a functional adult.  But the summer holidays had begun a week previous, and I was thus thrown entirely on my own resources, which were scant. What family I had left were all back in America, and the friends I had made in England seemed to have melted away since John’s death.  Some days, I thought that this was due to the universal impulse to avoid reminders of mortality.  Other days I decided it was more likely due to the fact that I deleted their emails and declined to answer their phone calls.

The truth, as always, was probably somewhere in the middle.  

Whatever the cause, my life was empty.  I ate when I remembered that I was meant to.  I wore pajamas all day.  I left the flat when I ran out of cat food, and at night I would turn on the tv and stare at it without paying attention until I finally sank into oblivion.

Presumably it was on one of those descents into the maelstrom of crap British late-night TV that I first took note of the murder of Ronald Adair.  The dead man was vaguely familiar to me, though I had never watched any of his shows personally.  He was a scion of one of those impoverished but very old-and-noble families that the English keep on out of sentiment. Showing unusual initiative for one of his class, he’d made a success of himself by appearing on a famous reality show, then on the “celebrity” version of that show, and parlaying that into one of those mysterious but apparently quite lucrative careers that consist mostly of having your picture taken.  

And now, he was dead, shot in the back of the head in his own bedroom on Park Lane.

The story struck me, for some reason.  John, when he’d been alive, used to take four daily papers and half a dozen weeklies, and I had not cancelled them yet.  I plucked a week’s worth out of the recycling where I had tossed them, unread, and scanned through them for articles about the murder.

Ronald Adair had been alone in his bedroom, drinking neat whiskey and updating twitter, when he died.  His last tweet (@JustLukeyA, “LOL C U @ Ibiza”) had been sent at 10:11 in the evening. His personal assistant had heard the sound of breaking glass, broken down the locked door that led into the bedroom, seen his body, and dialed 999 by 10:17.  The bullet had been a large caliber hollow point round that had done severe damage to the back of his skull, and he had most likely died almost instantly.

The entire affair was mysterious.  While the police hadn’t released any real statements, the personal assistant had been the only other person in the house at the time of the shooting, and had been released after questioning.  This would suggest the shot had been fired from outside, but the window in Adair’s bedroom, while open, was on the fourth floor.  There was no evidence to suggest anyone had climbed to the window, meaning that the shot had come from somewhere outside.  

This made no sense at all to the gossip rags.  The window faced directly over Hyde Park, and any level shot would have had to come from over a mile away.  And shooting from ground level would have been impossible: the Park was open, reasonably crowded given the warmth of the summer evening, and no one had heard a thing.  The American embassy was less than two hundred yards away, and even its overblown security hadn’t noted any unusual activity.  Essentially, it was impossible that he could have been shot, and yet there he was.

As I read through the papers, I thought how John would have gone through them at the breakfast table to try and figure out what had happened.  Although his professional interest in solving mysteries had died with Sherlock, he never lost his fascination with the more arcane sorts of crime.  He would have loved this one, and I could imagine the crinkles that would form around his eyes as he would describe the possible motives, mechanisms, and solutions.  It was a Sunday, and I suspected that he would have wheedled me into taking our normal long walk in the direction of the crime scene.  I’d have teased him, said he was morbid, but I’d have gone, and he’d have hypothesized happily for a while.

I could so clearly imagine it, and it made me smile, despite myself.  It had been difficult to like Sherlock Holmes, and very difficult to deal with the fact that their association put John into danger on a regular basis.  Yet, now that they were both gone, I found myself forgiving every thoughtless insult and sleepless lonely night the detective ever gave me, since he had made John so happy.  

Wishing to hang on to my happy memory, I decided, abruptly, to take the walk over to Park Lane myself, just as John and I would have done.  It was past time I actually started doing things again.  I would go and see where Ronald Adair had died, and I would try and solve the mystery, and I would remember John.  Quickly, before I could change my mind, I showered, dressed, and left the flat.

July, in London, is one of the few times of the year when it approaches being warm enough, and it was a beautiful day.  I took the long route around Kensington Park, since a straight shot would have taken me directly past St. Mary’s Hospital, where John had worked - and where his body had been taken. The trees were brilliant green, and it seemed everyone in London was sunbathing or playing football or falling in love around me.

Ronald Adair’s flat was adjacent to the Mariott, in one of the converted brick Georgian edifices that infest all of Park Lane.  I had forgotten to take note of the number, but it was easily identifiable by the flowers and stuffed animals heaped up on the low fence that surrounded it. There were a fair number of gawkers, and by asking, I found which window Adair had been shot through.  I was stumped, for the moment, but thinking logically, decided the best route was to see from where I could have made the shot.  The busy street and the shrubbery borders of the park being ruled out, necessarily, I confined my attention to the sidewalks.  I took pictures on my phone, and paced around, and tried to work out the trigonometry involved.  

Then I stopped.  There were half a dozen locations from which the shot could have come.  It would be the hell of a task: the window was small and high, but if it were dark out and the shooter were aiming into a lit room, it would be possible. I had hunted a lot as a kid, and might have been able to make it with a rifle.  John, who had been an excellent marksman, might have been able to do it with a handgun.  But to do it quickly enough to avoid notice in a busy neighborhood, to do it silently?  That was impossible.

All facts that were undoubtedly obvious to the police.  If John had been with me, it would have been a fun little mathematical exercise.  We’d have followed it with a walk home, dinner at the pub on the end of our street, and making tipsy love in the light of a summer sunset in our flat.  But he wasn’t with me, and he never would be again, and the day would end as all days did, alone with the cat and the television and the dark.  The whole thing was a pointless, futile exercise - a little girl’s attempt to play make-believe.

I knew, suddenly, that I was going to cry.  It happened a lot, and it wasn’t an experience I wanted to share with all London, so I spun around to depart and slammed full-force into a souvenir hawker who had been just behind me.  Grace has always eluded me.  The pole she carried, hung with ballcaps and other tat, fell to the ground, and she gave an indignant Cockney squawk of “Oi! Watch it!”  I bent to retrieve her pole and handed it back to her, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” and fled outright into the park, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground.  

Leaving the path, I hurried through the park, not really aware of where I was going as long as it was quieter and emptier.  I reached a dim copse free of children, tourists, and lovers, where I sat down, and let the tears flow.

It’s easy to see why the ancient Egyptians thought that the heart, and not the brain, was the source of love.  True sadness isn’t felt in the head, it’s felt in the chest, and I could feel every choked beat of my heart as I sobbed and gasped and tried to catch my breath for what seemed like ages.  But from a pragmatic point of view, I’m sure I didn’t go for long.  Crying is too tiring to keep up for much time.  Of course, I had come out without any tissues, so I wiped my aching eyes and puffy face on the corner of my cardigan.  

At that moment, the hawker walked into the copse.  

“There you are!” she called out, “Wondered where you’d got to!”

I sighed.  “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about knocking into you.  It was an accident.  If I’ve damaged anything I will be happy to pay-“

“Na, na, love.  Just a load of rubbish.  Can’t hurt it if it isn’t worth anything to start with.  But I saw your face and thought you might be in some trouble.”  The woman was elderly, with a mop of dyed auburn hair and a thick Docklands accent which I would love to render in text, if it didn’t look so silly.  But her blue eyes were kind, and she handed me a miniature water bottle marked with “Souvenir of Hyde Park.”

“I’m – fine.  I just got a little upset.  Thank you.”  The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of plasticizers, but it soothed my irritated throat.

The woman seemed to take this remark as an invitation, and placing her wares on the grass, sat next to me.  I have lived in London since I was twenty-five years old and I could tell what was coming.  There are two main personality types among the English: the type that is intensely uncomfortable with any sort of emotion, and the type that delights in every possible expression of sentiment and wishes to hear all about it.  They’re like New Yorkers in that respect.

Apparently I had found one of the latter variant.

“You get to see a bit of everything, my line of work,” she said, digging a battered packet of Silk Cut out of her pocket, “Care for one?”

I had officially quit smoking years ago, when I finished my doctorate, and stopped even having the occasional one when I started dating John, since he loathed the things.  Just at that moment, though, it sounded like heaven.  “Yes, thank you.”

She shook two out of the packet, and passed one to me before getting out a transparent plastic lighter.  She lit hers, and then handed over the lighter.  A brief breeze kicked up, and I bowed my head over the tiny flame, trying to make the cigarette catch, as she said, quietly, “Now, Mary, you need to remain calm.”

The cigarette caught, and I took that first delicious, poisonous drag, before the fact that this stranger knew my name really filtered into my mind.  

I looked over, and where the woman had been, sat Sherlock Holmes.

  The Sign of Four (Sherlock)

The art of disguise, as I have often remarked, is in context far more than it is in costume.   Truly approximating the appearance of someone else is only possible from a distance: in ordinary situations major alterations to the face appear theatrical and attract more attention than not.  If, instead, you select a character who would be entirely appropriate in the context in which he appears, you need make only minor changes to your own appearance.  The observer’s mind will then do ninety per cent of your work and you will be de facto invisible.  I intend to write a monograph on the topic when I have the time.

Mary Morstan may have had some subconscious understanding of this.  On the occasion of our first meeting, I observed that she was wearing a carefully calibrated disguise, although I doubt she would have referred to it as such.  Very high heels, but an intentionally prim and boxy suit, severe makeup and hairstyle, heavy-framed glasses.  She introduced herself with a flat, middle-American accent, only slightly sharpened by years of living in London.

Just after she arrived, John walked into the flat, his arms filled with carrier bags of groceries, which he set down with great rapidity in order to shake her hand.  

“Mary Morstan, my associate, John Watson.  Miss Morstan,” I said, “Teaches maths at Westminster School.”

She stared at me when I said that.  John, I noted, didn’t let go of her hand when her attention was distracted.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

I sighed, though in truth I always enjoy it when they ask for the reasoning.  

“You’ve obviously come straight from work, meaning that you work Saturday mornings.  Chalk dust on the right cuff, which is worn in a way that you only ever see with people who spend a great deal of time writing on blackboards.  There are traces of red ink on the heel of your hand and a splotch near the tip of your index finger.  Thus, teacher.”  

As I’d expected, she dropped John’s hand to examine her own.

“You took the tube to get here, and in those shoes you probably didn’t walk far before you boarded at Westminster station: there’s construction digging up the street there and the fresh splashes of yellowish mud on your left stocking are quite distinctive.  Half a dozen schools in that area, but your ensemble suggests older students and moneyed parents. Hence, Westminster School.”

The last was a gloss, as her ensemble suggested nothing of the sort.  It said quite plainly “I teach older boys.”  Her skirt was unfashionably long, her blouse was buttoned up to the neck, and her jacket was boxy in order to conceal her rather large breasts.  Having attended an all-boys senior school, I recognized the style, and the motivation behind it.  But since I was undoubtedly going to receive the ”abrasive” and “show-off” lectures after her departure, I saw no reason to add the “inappropriate” one, and simplified the matter.

“And… maths?”

I sighed again, this time sincerely.  The easy ones are never any fun.

“There’s a graphics calculator in the right pocket of your overcoat.”

At that, she laughed.  Giggled, really.  But almost instantly, she caught herself, cleared her throat, and dropped back into the lower vocal register that she had previously affected.  Everything I could ever have wished to know about Mary Morstan’s character was thus revealed in the first five minutes of our interview.  Nature had given her a respectable brain and deposited it in a body that was small, blonde, and rather fluffy.  Her disguise did a reasonable job of concealing this, but she would spend the rest of her life trying to make people take her seriously.

“That’s amazing,” she said, “I read in your blog, Doctor Watson-“

“John, please,” he interrupted.  Oh dear.

“John.  I read about this kind of analysis but it’s remarkable to see it in real life.”

“Can be a bit creepy if you’re not used to it, though,” John replied, which I thought extremely unfair, given that I had been very polite and not mentioned that her teeth demonstrated her adolescent bulimia or that her fingers and eyebrows strongly implied a mild obsessive-compulsive condition.  I maintained my dignity, and said only,

“Thank you, John.  State your case, Miss Morstan.”

“Right.  Well.   I suppose I have to go back to the beginning.  My father, Thomas Morstan, was English.  I was actually born in Sussex, but when I was two my parents divorced and my mother and I moved back to America. I never got to see him much, growing up, but he always kept in touch, by phone and letters, and then by email when that came around.  Sent birthday gifts and that sort of thing.  Ten years ago I finished grad school, and he offered to buy me a ticket to come and meet him in London.  I hadn’t seen him for several years at that point and I didn’t have a job so, obviously, I said yes.”

“Mmm.  Continue.”

“He’d booked us rooms at the Langham, which I thought was much too expensive for him, but he said it was a treat for my graduation.”

“What was his profession, then?”

“He started off in the Army, but he resigned his commission after the first Gulf War and joined the diplomatic service.”

“As?”

“An attaché.  Just an office job, basically.  Visas and helping distressed tourists and so on.”

“And his rank in the army?”

“Ah, he ended as a Lieutenant Colonel, I believe.

“Go on.”

“I flew to London, expecting him to pick me up at Heathrow, but he wasn’t there.  No answer when I tried to call him.  I took a cab to the Langham and asked if he’d checked in, and he had, but there was no answer when they called up to his room.  Eventually they agreed to open the door – he’d had a heart attack a few years before, and I was getting very upset - and all of his things were in there, but no sign of him.  I never saw him again.”

“Interesting.  Did the police investigate?”  John was patting her shoulder, sympathetically, which seemed excessive given that the death (and yes, it was death, almost certainly) was ten years in the past.  She should have been well beyond it by this point.  But upon closer observation, I could see that he was right: a slight swimminess around the eyes and the set of the jawbone indicating gritted teeth.  Oedipal complex.  She replied, calmly enough.

“Yes.  They didn’t find anything.”

“Of course they didn’t.  They never do.  Did your father have any acquaintances in London?”

“Only one that they could find: a Major Sholto.  He had no idea Dad was even in town.”

“Mmm.  I doubt a disappearance ten years ago would incline you to seek the services of a consulting detective today.  What has changed?”

Morstan cleared her throat and opened the battered leather attache case that had been sitting at her feet.  From a manila folder, she removed a broadsheet page of yellowing newsprint, with a quarter-page sized advertisement in the upper right hand corner circled in red ink.  The paper was the Omaha World-Herald, the date was May 4, 2004, and the advertisement simply stated:

“If Mary Morstan, daughter of Captain Thomas Morstan, will contact the address below, it will be to her advantage” followed by an email address.

“Half a dozen of my friends from high school saw this and forwarded it on to me.”

“And what did you do?”

“I sent them an email.  I said I was Thomas Morstan’s daughter, that I’d relocated to London, and asked what they wanted.”

“Any reply?”

“No.  And when I sent on a follow-up a few days later, it bounced.   It was just Hotmail… could have been anyone.  But then a few days after that, I received this in the mail.”

Reaching back into the attaché case, she pulled out a small pouch made of black jeweler’s felt. Loosening the drawstring, she tipped something small and square into her palm, and passed it over to me.

I could hear John inhale sharply through is teeth as I reached for my lens.  Mary said, wryly, “Yes, that’s pretty much how I felt.  It’s a three carat, blue-white, flawless diamond.  Probably dug up in India, if that’s any help.  It’s worth around $150,000, retail.”

“Unusual cut,” I murmured, looking at the magnified lump of crystallized charcoal, “It’s called the-“

“The old mine cut,” interrupted Mary, “Meaning it was most likely faceted sometime between 1700 and 1900.  I know.  After the police gave it back to me, I had it appraised at Sotheby’s.”

“You went to the police again?”

“I did.”

“Any good?”

“Not really.  They hung onto it a while, but nobody reported any similar gems lost or stolen, and then they gave it back.  Apparently it’s “not illegal to be given things.”  So after that I was on my own.  But I still didn’t feel right about it, so I had the appraisal to see if a real professional could find anything more useful.”

“Well done,” said John, heartily.  He was in a fair way to make an idiot of himself over this woman, although she seemed flattered by the compliment.

“Thank you,” Mary replied, “And then, the thing is, Mr. Holmes, that it didn’t stop with this.  Every year since then, on May 14, I get another one of these in my mail.  I’ve changed addresses and it didn’t make a difference.  Perfectly matched, very expensive diamonds.  I left the rest of them in my safe deposit box: even carrying one of them around makes me edgy.  And then, yesterday, there was this.”

She passed over a letter.  Fine, high linen content paper, no watermark, 10-point… Trebuchet font, printed on an HP laserjet printer. It read, “Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre on Saturday, July 9 at seven o'clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.”

There was no signature or address.

“Did you keep the envelope?”

“Yes, here.  And here,” she said, passing over a small heap of padded mailers sealed into plastic zip-topped bags, “Are the envelopes the diamonds came in.”

“Well, you do have the right instincts.  Not much to see here, though… the letter and the last three packages had their labels off the same printer.  The first four were from another.  It stretches credulity to think that there are separate groups doing this so we’ll assume for the moment it was simply a matter of replacing an outdated device.  The mailers can be bought anywhere.  Various London postmarks… thumbprint on this one, Miss Morstan, may I see your right hand please?  Thank you.  Your thumbprint. I’ll put them under the microscope later but I doubt there’ll be that much to learn.”

“And you’ve no idea at all who may have sent these?  No… admirers, things like that?” John asked.

She laughed at that.  “Generally, when men are interested in me they go more for things like asking me to dinner rather than anonymously sending me a million dollars in gems over the course of seven years.  I’m not that unapproachable.”  I rolled my eyes at their stale flirtation, although I don’t believe either of them noticed it.

“But…” she continued, more hesitantly, “Mr. Holmes, do you think that there’s any possibility that these are from my father?”

John was glaring at me, and so instead of saying “Of course not.  He’s been dead for ten years,” replied “I’m afraid it’s very unlikely.”

“I see,” Mary replied, quietly.  She drew a deep breath and continued, “Well, regardless, I had planned to go… unless you can give me a real reason not to.  If whoever it is wants to hurt me it seems like they’ve chosen a really baroque way of going about it.  I mean, they already know where I live so it’s not like there’s much point in avoiding them. And I’m getting sick of this mystery.”

“There are, however, a few points of interest in it.  As you are allowed to bring two friends and John is already planning on accompanying you, I believe I shall join him.”

She darted her gaze back and forth between us, smiling, “Really?  You will?  Both of you?  Oh, thank you, thank you so much! This whole saga has just been so shady and I didn’t know anyone who’d be any help with this kind of thing.  It’s such a weight off my mind. Thank you.”

She was gushing, and her voice had inevitably pitched up again.  I responded calmly with, “Yes, well.  Can you be here by five thirty on Saturday?  And leave us your contact information.”

“Of course!”

And, writing an email address and a phone number on a sheet of scrap paper, she disappeared in a whirl of gratitude.

John rose to escort her to the door.  I remained seated, and began texting.

“That, he said, picking up his carrier bags and taking them into the kitchen, “Was a very attractive woman.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Really.  I knew you were a human adding machine but I never thought you were actually dead.  Sherlock, it’s an objective fact!  She’s got a beautiful smile.”

“Very short.”

“Oh, come on.  She’s an inch or two shorter than I am.”

While this statement would not actually exclude “short” from consideration, I simply raised my eyebrows and replied, “Women have developed this remarkable technology called shoes which they use when they wish to increase their height, John.  She’s no more than five feet tall.”

“Yes, well, shortness is not a handicap, Sherlock.  And she’s clever.”

“She’s adequate.”

“And brave.  She was going to walk by herself into a threatening situation just because she wanted to find out the truth.”

“So are you.  So am I, for that matter.  I fail to see why it’s so much more meritorious when it’s her doing it.”

“I’m a combat-trained military reservist, and you are England’s only consulting detective.  It’s our job.  She’s a very small maths teacher.”

I set down the mobile and glared at him, “Mary Morstan, John, is in no need of your protection.  This affair of the diamonds is a mere personal intrigue.  She’ll meet with the woman and resolve it without the benefit of your attention.”

He paused from putting the potatoes in the bin and inquired, “It’s a woman sending the diamonds?  You’re sure?”

In general, I don’t admit which of my deductions I’m certain of and which are (very good) guesses.  Maintaining a reputation as infallible isn’t a trivial exercise.  But John had repeatedly earned the truth from me, and so I said, “No, I’m not.  I’m reasonably confident, given the font choice, the computer used, and the wording, that it’s a woman, and a rather melodramatic one.  But there’s more – uncertainty in these things than I would like.”

John chuckled.  “I should take a picture of you right now and call it ‘Sherlock Holmes admitting he might be wrong’.  They’d love to have it down at the Yard.  So why take the case if you don’t think there’s any mystery?”

“Oh, there is one, just not the “why is someone sending me expensive gemstones” one she came in with.  Can you log on to the GRO database and look something up for me?  My email address and password will get you in.”

“Sure,” he said, walking back into the sitting room and picking up his laptop, “What?”

“Deaths.  Start by looking for “Sholto” in late April, early May of 2005.  If that doesn’t bring up anything, look for ex-military, older, in London, same time frame.”

“Right.  What are you going to do?”

I held up my mobile.  “I’ve done it.  I’ve sent a text to brother Mycroft.”

“Why?”

“Watson, when a man leaves a high rank role in the army to become a low-end functionary in the diplomatic service, what does that suggest?”

“Er, PTSD?”

“No. It suggests spy.  I want to find out exactly what Thomas Morstan did for a living.”  

A week after that, Mary Morstan arrived punctually back at Baker Street. She’d replaced the dowdy suit with trousers and a blue blouse cut low in the front, left off her glasses, and undone her severe bun to let her hair hang over her shoulders.  She had chosen flat shoes this time, which was a relief, as it showed the target of all this display was John rather than me.

Six hours after that, I saw that the display had been successful.  I had to physically restrain John from going to her as she was handcuffed and loaded into a black maria for the murder of Barbara Sholto.  As typical of Americans, she was explaining loudly and slowly to the arresting officer that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, clearly expecting this to rectify the situation.  

“John, look,” I said, sotto voce, as I pinned him to the wall of the alley, “If you go over there you’ll only be arrested too.  Athelney Jones has already picked up the entire domestic staff and Theresa Sholto and would be only too happy to increase his bag.  The man’s an idiot, even by the standards of the metropolitan police.  We’ll text Lestrade to let him know, and the worst she’ll have is a few uncomfortable hours, but we need to be on our way if we’re going to actually catch the killer which is the only thing that will do her any good.”

Even that early, I suspected that Mary would not be as swiftly forgotten as the rest of the girlfriends.

Three days later, Mary was a free woman again.   The lost crown jewels of the Russian Tsars, of which she had been offered a one-third share, were scattered along six miles of the bottom of the Thames.  She had accepted this development with equanimity.  As she said to John, “Even if they hadn’t been lost, it’s not like I was expecting to keep them.  I’m sure there’s still some Romanovs somewhere who’d like to have them back.  The whole time Teresa was telling me the story of how she got them I kept thinking “Yeah, this kind of stuff doesn’t happen in real life.””

I heard, while they were falling in love, enough of “The Things Mary Says” to gag a cat.  I heard about Mary’s feelings on politics, the arts, and current events.  I heard about Mary’s emotional turmoil on the discovery that her father was an intelligence agent who had taken the pay of so many competing nations and organizations that even now nobody could say who he had really worked for.  And that was apart from his being a jewel thief.  I heard enough recitations of her personal charm, intelligence, and integrity to gag a dog.

  Not being enamored of her, I was able to observe her far more clearly.  I saw that she omitted to mention during the investigation that she was already in receipt of seven perfectly-matched flawless three carat blue-white diamonds, pulled from a coronet made for some forgotten Tsarina.  I saw no reason to bring it up to anyone, if she had overcome her scruples about receiving stolen property.  I would rather the money have gone to John than to anyone else, and it was clear by that point that it would.

Over the next months, Mary incorporated herself into John’s life, and thus, into mine.  I grew accustomed to the scent of her cosmetics in the flat’s shared w.c. (she was a disgustingly early riser and had usually gone before I woke up), and the sounds of their post-sex conversation from the upstairs bedroom (they kept the actual lovemaking quiet, out of politeness, but the after-chat was quite distinct).  I drew the line, however, at allowing her to tidy the place.  She didn’t understand the system and would have made a hash of it.

Ultimately, just over six months after the day she rang the bell at Baker Street, I found myself ordering a round of tequila shots at the bar of the White Lion and slipping chloral hydrate into three of them.  Earlier, Mary had balanced on tiptoe to kiss my cheek and whisper in my ear “Can you please try not to let them get him too drunk?”  I carried the round back to the table where a flushed and grinning but not yet weaving Watson listened as a dozen of his Army and medical school friends speculated on whether Mary would qualify him as “Four-Continents Watson” or if the actual location of the coitus mattered more than the origin of the lady in question.  I passed the shot glasses around, judging that the administration of three Mickey Finns to three particular members of the party would bring the night to a graceful but early end in about an hour.

I judged, as usual, correctly.  After decanting the three dazed ringleaders into a cab, the party broke up, and John and I made it back to Baker Street with only slightly more difficulty than usual. The stairs did give him some trouble, but ultimately I was able to successfully deposit him on the couch.  I shook two aspirin from the bottle and handed them to him along with a glass of water.  He took both uncomplainingly.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.  For whatever you did back there.  I’d hate to be a mess tomorrow.”

“I looked up the duties of the best man and apparently making sure the groom is present and presentable are tops on the list.”

“And you even agreed to wear a tie!”  This non sequitur amused him, and he chuckled at his own joke for a moment, before sobering (comparatively), and staring around the flat.  “I’m going to miss all this.”

“No, you won’t,” I predicted, climbing the stairs to fetch the blankets off his bed.  

“I will!” he insisted, “I’m happy, really happy, about Mary.  She’s wonnerful.  But I’ll miss this life.  And you.”

“It’s not as though I’ll be dead.  You’ll be ten minutes away.  I’ll be sure to call you whenever I need my cases blogged.”

“I love you, mate, you know that?  Even though you are- just such a prick.”

I smiled and pitched the blankets at his head.  “I do.  Tosser.  Now go to sleep.  You have a busy day ahead of you.”

He was out and snoring, wearing everything but his shoes, five minutes later.  I refilled his water glass and left it on the end table.

At noon the next day I (wearing not only a tie but my entire morning suit) stood at John’s left shoulder and watched Mary Morstan walk down the aisle.  I doubt she saw me: her eyes were fixed on John, who was sober, alert, and in full dress uniform, as requested.  The expression of love and joy on her face obliged me to concede that, at the moment, she was in fact a very attractive woman.  

I don’t think I could have given him up to anyone who loved him even a bit less.

At the reception I gave a speech which everyone said was very interesting, and drank one and a half glasses of inferior Prosecco.  I watched them cut the cake, noting that the new Mrs. Watson was far more comfortable with John’s ceremonial saber than he was.  She’d lost the callosities of the dedicated fencer, but the skill remained.  Then, as Molly Hooper was prowling around with an eye towards dancing and my actual duties were complete, I slipped out of the hall and walked back to Baker Street.

I stopped in at the chemists and bought a packet of cigarettes, then let myself into the flat.  There was a peculiar sensory illusion that it was larger and emptier than normal: nonsense, of course.  John was routinely absent when I was there.  The fact that the absence would now be permanent didn’t alter the actual physical size of the place.

There was always work, and heedless of my dress clothes, I went to it.  Three months later, I “died.”  And three years after that, I returned to a London which seemed larger and emptier than I recalled.  Sensory illusion again.  The softer emotions have a very negative impact upon accurate observation, and the world in general doesn’t change at all when a single person drops out of it. On an individual level, though, a single death can rip the bottom out of everything.  Such was the case with Mary Watson, who I encountered on a bright August day in Park Lane.  She’d lost a stone in weight, which was significant at her height, and was wearing an oversized camel-colored cardigan which I recognized with a pang as being one of Watson’s.  She had, in general, the appearance of a child’s toy where the stuffing had been pulled out.  I approached her, unseen, as her attention was on Ronald Adair’s flat.   When she lost her composure and fled, I hesitated.  Then I followed.  There were two reasons for this.  The first, as always, was John.  I couldn’t envision a situation where he would not have come to the aid of a crying woman.  In the particular case of Mary, he’d have sprinted to it.

As for the second, well…  On the occasion of the case of Neville St. Claire, John had said to me that, “People in trouble come to my wife like birds to a light-house.”

And I truly had nowhere else to go.   Chapter 3: The Death of Ronald Adair (Mary)

In general, I am not a fainter, and I didn��t faint then.  But a grey mist swirled in front of my eyes, and when it subsided I noticed I had dropped the cigarette onto the well-clipped Hyde Park grass.  I picked it up with numb, nerveless fingers.  With my other hand I reached out to Sherlock and pushed on the flesh of his bicep.  He was reassuringly solid.

“So I haven’t gone mad.”

“No.”

“Not dead, then?”

“Yes.”

I took a drag from the Silk Cut and asked, “Does anyone else know besides me?”

“Mycroft.”

“Of course.”

“And Molly Hooper.”

“That bitch!” I exclaimed, before I could stop myself.  I wouldn’t quite have called Molly a friend.  We didn’t see much of one another, but her quiet competence had gotten me through the hellscape of the funeral.  I found it startlingly painful to believe that she had been concealing a secret like this- especially from John.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me and said, “You’re harsher on her than on Mycroft?”

“There is nothing that I would put past one of the Holmes boys.”

He sighed, and drew on his own cigarette.  The sun dipped below the treetops and set us into shadows.

“Sherlock,” I asked, eventually, “What do you want?”

“I need a gun.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.  Of course you do.”

“Mary, please-“ and he hesitated.  He and I had never been more than “friendly”, and he certainly had never been inclined to ask any favors of me.  

“You’re still in trouble, aren’t you?” I accused.

He hesitated again.

“Yes.”

“Right,” I said, brushing off my pants and rising, “We’ll talk.  Baker Street, or our place?  My place.”

“Baker Street is being watched.”

“Can we take a cab?”

“Probably.”

It was actually very impressive, how he collapsed his face into that of the Cockney souvenir hawker.  He even seemed to lose several inches in height.  The stage lost an excellent actor when he decided to go into detective work.

We walked in silence back to Park Lane, and took a cab (after he’d dismissed the first one that tried to stop).  He sat next to me in silence, until a horrible thought overtook me, and I said, “Oh, God, has anyone told you?  About-“

“Your… bereavement?  Yes.  I was… very sorry to hear of it.”

It was a relief.  It had already happened several times: some colleague or acquaintance who I hadn’t seen in a while would, in the course of ordinary chit-chat, drop, “Oh, and how’s John doing?” into the conversation.  And then I would have to watch their faces change from polite disinterest to horror and pity as I gave them the news.  I would say it was the worst thing I had to do, but I had developed an entire new suite of worst things in recent months and was somewhat spoiled for choice.

We didn’t speak any further until I let us into the flat.

“Have a seat.  I’ll just go get it.”

John, given that he was occasionally prone to physically violent nightmares, had always kept the Sig Sauer semi-automatic securely locked away in a box in the master bedroom closet.  I retrieved it, and returned to the living room.  Sherlock had installed himself in his old favorite spot on the sofa, and Arthur had climbed onto the arm next to him.  They were watching each other with matching expressions of flat-eyed distaste.

“I don’t know where the key is,” I said, passing the box over.

“It’s fine,” he replied.  And indeed, he materialized a lockpick from somewhere and opened it within ten seconds.

He’d removed his auburn wig, although he still had on an excellent shade of lipstick for his complexion: a glossy transparent berry-stain.  It was almost the only color on his face.  Whatever he’d been up to, it was doing no favors for his health.  I wouldn’t have thought he could have gotten thinner or paler, barring his contracting tuberculosis or vampirism.  And yet, he had managed.  At some point, he’d cut his hair off close to the scalp, and it was faintly peppered with grey.  Sherlock was a year or two younger than I, but at the moment I could see what he would be like as an old man.

“You know that thing’s illegal, right?” I said.

“It’s not something that’s a real concern just at the moment,” he returned, calmly.

“It should probably be cleaned.  It’s not been touched since… well, I’m not sure of the last time John cleaned it.”

“It will be fine.  They’re very simple instruments and Watson was always over-cautious.  I didn’t clean my old one for years and it never had any problems.”

“That’s because John would secretly do it for you every few months.”

One of the small pleasures in life that everyone should get to experience at least once is to watch Sherlock Holmes’ face when he is informed that one of the normals has gotten something past him.  I had to suppress a flicker of a smile at how thunderous he looked.

“Look,” I said, “Give it here and I’ll do it.  The cleaning kit’s on the top shelf above the stove in the kitchen, if you’ll reach it down for me.”

I could hear him rummaging around in the cabinet as I released the clip, disconnected the slide, and popped out the spring.  I laid everything down on the coffee table and accepted the kit when he returned and gave it to me.  When I sighted down the barrel, I could see ample dust, and a fair bit of corrosion from the soggy English atmosphere.  It only made sense, really.  When Sherlock had died, John had lost any professional reason to carry a gun, and gained a strong personal reason to lock it away and leave it to rust.  Dipping the cleaning swab into the wide-mouthed jar of solvent, I began passing it through the barrel.

“’In a self-defense situation, there will be many things you can’t control. The condition of your weapon is not one of them,’” I quoted.

“Did Watson say that?”

“No, though he’d have agreed with the sentiment.  That was my stepfather.  He was the one who taught me about shooting.”

Sherlock blinked at me.  “I didn’t know you had a stepfather.”

“Like everyone else, I do actually have an objective existence apart from the parts you find interesting, Sherlock.”

I sounded bitter, but I didn’t care.  I had been the one to put John back together after Sherlock’s quote-unquote death, and having him sitting calmly on my sofa irked.

“I only meant,” he replied, “That he wasn’t at your wedding.”

“He has congestive heart failure and travel is very difficult for him!” I snapped,

“Sherlock, why the hell did you do this?”

“Well, I had in fact been exposed as a fraud and-“

“Bullshit.  You have been more or less cleared for two years and I’m sure your brother told you that.  D.I. Lestrade had to demonstrate that you weren’t, in general, a criminal, because he wanted to keep his job. Fifty people, including me, by the by, came forward to tell stories of how you had solved cases that you couldn’t possibly have faked.  The only real mystery remaining is this whole affair with Richard Brook, and frankly the best person to justify that would have been you.”

He scrubbed his hands through the bristles of his hair.  “There was more.”

“So tell me.”

Sherlock sighed, and stared off into the space over my left shoulder.  “When the head of an organization is removed, the organization generally remains.  John Kennedy is shot, the United States persists.  The death of Jim Moriarty left a thriving multinational criminal organization with a vacancy at the top for which there were numerous keen candidates.  I have spent the last three years attempting to take advantage of this situation and dismantle its operations entirely.”

Something about the cold way he said “dismantle” made me think I really didn’t want to hear much about this process.  I asked, “And you couldn’t have done that in your own persona?”

“No.  Because- Moriarty was in many ways a remarkable man.”

The tone of this statement was pure admiration, and I rubbed my forehead where I could feel the old familiar “Sherlock” headache coming on. “How’s that?” I asked.

“I don’t want to say he founded a cult of personality, but in his immediate circle were several men who genuinely did admire him and support him in his goals, as opposed to the ordinary hangers-on who simply were in it for the profit.”

“So, his friends.”

“What?”

I sighed.  “Never mind.  Continue.”

[theemperorsfeather]

I’ve read articles on and off for years about this topic, but this is the most convincing one I’ve seen, with so many reasons sunlight exposure is healthy and sunscreen pretty much isn’t.

...vitamin D supplementation has failed spectacularly in clinical trials. Five years ago, researchers were already warning that it showed zero benefit, and the evidence has only grown stronger. In November, one of the largest and most rigorous trials of the vitamin ever conducted—in which 25,871 participants received high doses for five years—found no impact on cancer, heart disease, or stroke.

How did we get it so wrong? How could people with low vitamin D levels clearly suffer higher rates of so many diseases and yet not be helped by supplementation?

As it turns out, a rogue band of researchers has had an explanation all along. And if they’re right, it means that once again we have been epically misled.

These rebels argue that what made the people with high vitamin D levels so healthy was not the vitamin itself. That was just a marker. Their vitamin D levels were high because they were getting plenty of exposure to the thing that was really responsible for their good health—that big orange ball shining down from above.

...

Weller’s doubts began around 2010, when he was researching nitric oxide, a molecule produced in the body that dilates blood vessels and lowers blood pressure. He discovered a previously unknown biological pathway by which the skin uses sunlight to make nitric oxide.

It was already well established that rates of high blood pressure, heart disease, stroke, and overall mortality all rise the farther you get from the sunny equator, and they all rise in the darker months. Weller put two and two together and had what he calls his “eureka moment”: Could exposing skin to sunlight lower blood pressure?

Sure enough, when he exposed volunteers to the equivalent of 30 minutes of summer sunlight without sunscreen, their nitric oxide levels went up and their blood pressure went down. Because of its connection to heart disease and strokes, blood pressure is the leading cause of premature death and disease in the world, and the reduction was of a magnitude large enough to prevent millions of deaths on a global level.

...skin cancer kills surprisingly few people: less than 3 per 100,000 in the U.S. each year. For every person who dies of skin cancer, more than 100 die from cardiovascular diseases.

People don’t realize this because several different diseases are lumped together under the term “skin cancer.” The most common by far are basal-cell carcinomas and squamous-cell carcinomas, which are almost never fatal. In fact, says Weller, “When I diagnose a basal-cell skin cancer in a patient, the first thing I say is congratulations, because you’re walking out of my office with a longer life expectancy than when you walked in.” That’s probably because people who get carcinomas, which are strongly linked to sun exposure, tend to be healthy types that are outside getting plenty of exercise and sunlight.

Melanoma, the deadly type of skin cancer, is much rarer, accounting for only 1 to 3 percent of new skin cancers. And perplexingly, outdoor workers have half the melanoma rate of indoor workers. Tanned people have lower rates in general. “The risk factor for melanoma appears to be intermittent sunshine and sunburn, especially when you’re young,” says Weller. “But there’s evidence that long-term sun exposure associates with less melanoma.”

...

Lindqvist tracked the sunbathing habits of nearly 30,000 women in Sweden over 20 years. Originally, he was studying blood clots, which he found occurred less frequently in women who spent more time in the sun—and less frequently during the summer. Lindqvist looked at diabetes next. Sure enough, the sun worshippers had much lower rates. Melanoma? True, the sun worshippers had a higher incidence of it—but they were eight times less likely to die from it.

So Lindqvist decided to look at overall mortality rates, and the results were shocking. Over the 20 years of the study, sun avoiders were twice as likely to die as sun worshippers.

There are not many daily lifestyle choices that double your risk of dying. In a 2016 study published in the Journal of Internal Medicine, Lindqvist’s team put it in perspective: “Avoidance of sun exposure is a risk factor of a similar magnitude as smoking, in terms of life expectancy.”

...

As humans migrated farther from the tropics and faced months of light shortages each winter, they evolved to produce less melanin when the sun was weak, absorbing all the sun they could possibly get. They also began producing much more of a protein that stores vitamin D for later use. In spring, as the sun strengthened, they’d gradually build up a sun-blocking tan...

People of color rarely get melanoma. The rate is 26 per 100,000 in Caucasians, 5 per 100,000 in Hispanics, and 1 per 100,000 in African Americans. On the rare occasion when African Americans do get melanoma, it’s particularly lethal—but it’s mostly a kind that occurs on the palms, soles, or under the nails and is not caused by sun exposure. 

At the same time, African Americans suffer high rates of diabetes, heart disease, stroke, internal cancers, and other diseases that seem to improve in the presence of sunlight, of which they may well not be getting enough. Because of their genetically higher levels of melanin, they require more sun exposure to produce compounds like vitamin D, and they are less able to store that vitamin for darker days. They have much to gain from the sun and little to fear.

And yet they are being told a very different story, misled into believing that sunscreen can prevent their melanomas, which Weller finds exasperating.

[newstfionline]

Headlines

US braces for more virus deaths; Europe hopes crisis peaking (AP) The U.S. warned of many more coronavirus deaths in the days ahead as the global pandemic muted traditional observances from family grave-cleaning ceremonies in China to Palm Sunday for many Christians. Italy and Spain, the two hardest-hit European nations, expressed hope that the crisis was peaking in their countries, though Italian officials said the emergency is far from over as infections have plateaued but not started to decline. Germany remains an anomaly: With more than 92,000 people infected, the death rate is remarkably low. A chaotic scramble for desperately needed medical equipment and protective gear engulfed the United States, prompting intense squabbling between the states and federal government at a moment the nation is facing one of its gravest emergencies. The number of confirmed infections topped 1.2 million globally, and the death toll neared 65,000, according to a Johns Hopkins University tracker.

Surgeon general says coming week will ‘be the hardest and saddest week of most Americans’ lives’ (Washington Post) Surgeon General Jerome M. Adams said Sunday that the coming week could be a national catastrophe comparable to Pearl Harbor or the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001. “This is going to be the hardest and saddest week of most Americans’ lives, quite frankly,” Adams said in an appearance on Fox News. “This is going to be our Pearl Harbor moment, our 9/11 moment, only it’s not going to be localized. It’s going to be happening all over the country. “ He added that the next 30 days would be critical for slowing the coronavirus’s spread, noting that some early hot spots are actually starting to contain the virus.

Pet fostering takes off as coronavirus keeps Americans home (AP) Across the country, suddenly isolated people are rushing to care for animals, easing a burden on shelters and providing homes--even if just temporarily--for homeless dogs, cats and other pets. Shelters from California to New York have put out the call for people to temporarily foster pets. Thanks to an overwhelming response from people who suddenly found themselves stuck at home, shelters say they have placed record numbers of dogs, cats and other animals. If past trends hold, many of those who agree to temporarily care for a pet will ultimately decide they want the animal to stay for good.

Puerto Rico discovers protective supply cache amid COVID-19 (AP) The suspected mismanagement of essential supplies during Hurricane Maria turned out to be a boon for Puerto Rico as it fights a rise in coronavirus cases. Health Secretary Lorenzo González said Saturday that officials discovered a cache of urgently needed personal protective equipment at a hospital in the nearby island of Vieques that remains closed since the Category 4 storm hit the U.S. territory in September 2017. He said the equipment includes face masks, gloves, gowns and face shields that were in good condition and would be distributed to health institutions.

Journalists threatened and detained as countries on multiple continents restrict coronavirus coverage (Washington Post) Coronavirus is testing the resilience of independent media around the world as governments exploit concerns over coverage of the epidemic to clamp down on press freedoms. From Latin America to Russia, governments have tried to shape coverage so it avoids criticism or information that authorities deem harmful to public order. Questioning of official accounts has drawn fines, police investigations and the expulsion of foreign correspondents. In some countries, the virus has provided a pretext for governments to pass emergency legislation that is likely to curb freedoms long after the contagion has been extinguished.

Britain will tighten coronavirus restrictions if people flout rules (Reuters) Britain will be forced to impose more restrictions on outdoor exercise if people flout lockdown rules designed to curb the spread of the coronavirus, the health minister said on Sunday. Daily exercise, such as walking, running or cycling, is allowed as long as people maintain social distancing. But any other activity such as sunbathing could put others at risk and prolong the lockdown, Health Secretary Matt Hancock said. Health experts said any move towards a ban on outdoor exercise was “deeply worrying”.

British prime minister admitted to hospital (Washington Post) British Prime Minister Boris Johnson has been admitted to the hospital because of “persistent” symptoms of the coronavirus, a spokesman confirmed Sunday. Johnson tested positive for the virus 10 days ago and has been self-isolating at his official residence.

Telemedicine Arrives in the U.K.: ‘10 Years of Change in One Week’ (NYT) In a matter of days, a revolution in telemedicine has arrived at the doorsteps of primary care doctors in Europe and the United States. Virtual visits, at first a matter of safety, are now a centerpiece of family doctors’ plans to treat the everyday illnesses and undetected problems that they warn could end up costing additional lives if people do not receive prompt care. “We’re basically witnessing 10 years of change in one week,” said Dr. Sam Wessely, a general practitioner in London. “It used to be that 95 percent of patient contact was face-to-face: You go to see your doctor, as it has been for decades, centuries. But that has changed completely.”

Ireland’s PM returns to medical practice to help in coronavirus crisis (Reuters/NYT) Ireland’s prime minister Leo Varadkar has re-registered as a medical practitioner and will work one shift a week to help out during the coronavirus crisis, his office said on Sunday. Varadkar, who studied medicine and was a practicing physician for seven years before going into politics, is expected to help conduct screening calls for those who may have been exposed to the novel coronavirus before they visit medical facilities.

Amid coronavirus outbreak, Pope Francis marks Palm Sunday with restricted Mass (Washington Post) Pope Francis marked Palm Sunday Mass in St. Peter’s Basilica on Sunday in a service surrounded by only a few aids and a handful of clergy, after the annual public ceremony in St. Peter’s Square was scrapped as Italy battles one of the world’s worst outbreaks of the coronavirus. In the solitary mass, which was live-streamed around the world, the pope urged the faithful to turn to God “in the tragedy of a pandemic, in the face of the many false securities that have now crumbled, in the face of so many hopes betrayed, in the sense of abandonment that weighs upon our hearts,” according to Reuters.

Work from home, they said. In Japan, it’s not so easy. (Washington Post) When it comes to working from home, Japan simply doesn’t get it. In the midst of a coronavirus epidemic, commuter trains in Tokyo are still pretty packed, and many companies are acting like nothing’s really changed. This is a nation where you still have to show up in person. Work culture demands constant face-to-face interaction, partly to show respect. Employees typically are judged on the hours they put in rather than they output they produce. Managers don’t trust their staff to work from home, and many companies are just not set up for telework. The uniquely rigid work culture has left this country among the least prepared in the developed world to embrace the new remote-working realities of the coronavirus age.

Singapore announces surge of 120 new cases, plans ‘circuit breaker’ lockdown (Washington Post) Singapore on Sunday recorded its highest number of new coronavirus cases in a single day, bringing the total infected in the city-state to 1,309. In a Facebook post, Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong said many of the new cases were linked to two dormitories for foreign workers that are now being placed under isolation. Roughly 20,000 people living in these dormitories have been confined to their rooms for the next 14 days, according to the Strait Times. Singapore, which had initially resisted lockdown orders in favor of extensive contact tracing to catch the infected before they could spread the virus, will enter a government-mandated lockdown on Tuesday. Local officials have called the measure the “circuit breaker.”

‘Complete collapse of economies’ ahead as Africa faces virus (AP) Some of Uganda’s poorest people used to work on the streets of Kampala, as fruit sellers sitting on the pavement or as peddlers of everything from handkerchiefs to roasted peanuts. Now they’re gone and no one knows when they will return, victims of a global economic crisis linked to the coronavirus that could wipe out jobs for millions across the African continent, many who live hand-to-mouth with zero savings. “We’ve been through a lot on the continent. Ebola, yes, African governments took a hit, but we have not seen anything like this before,” Ahunna Eziakonwa, the United Nations Development Program regional director for Africa, told The Associated Press. “The African labor market is driven by imports and exports and with the lockdown everywhere in the world, it means basically that the economy is frozen. And with that, of course, all the jobs are gone.”

[danimosher24-blog]

Health Benefits from the Sun

Is Sunlight Good for one’s Health?

           Sunlight and Health

 Sunlight is one of the worlds gifts that if used properly can better ones physical and emotional health. Putting sunscreen on is a pain and is not something most people enjoy, but would you do it to spend more time outdoors and reduce your risks of cancers, bone diseases and depression? The sun has a reputation to be damaging to someone’s health and while this is true, there are also great benefits that come from sunlight and UV (ultra violet) rays that can outweigh the damage done. Illnesses proven to be caused by sunlight and sun exposure are less severe compared to those that have evidence proving that sunlight reduces their risks. Over the years, science has greatly evolved and one thing that seems to be continuously changing is people’s perspective on the sun and how it affects people’s health or wellbeing. There has been a constant of skin cancer, the inevitable sun induced disease, yet there is a strong influx of new information that sunlight contributes in preventing risks of other cancers as well as the production of vitamin D, an essential vitamin in bone health. The sun is a blessing, but don’t take too much or you will get burned.

Risks Associated with Sunlight

           When thinking about the sun and health it is natural for people in this day and age to think about some of the well-known negatives such as skin cancer or simply the damage that UV rays can cause. There is no hiding the fact that the UV rays of the sun are harmful to skin; they penetrate the skin and “can contribute to skin cancer indirectly via generation of DNA (deoxyribonucleic acid)-damaging molecules.” (Mead, 2008) There is a chemical reaction that occurs when the ultra violet rays from the sun hit your skin and there is potential that it creates what is called hydroxyl and oxygen radicals which are both known causes for skin cancer.  Skin cancer, or Melanoma, is a type of cancer most commonly seen as a growth on areas of the skin that are typically not exposed to the sun. Unfortunately, “1 in 5 Americans will develop skin cancer by the age of 70.” (Skin Cancer Foundation, 2019) When it is detected early it can be treated by removing the growth on the skin and being proactive about looking for other abnormalities seen on the skin. If melanoma is left to develop over time it can easily spread to other areas of the body internally; becoming much more serious and potentially leading to death. Similarly, the simple sunburn is also caused by unprotected exposure to the sun rays over a period of time yet is less severe than skin cancer. This being said, too many sunburns and UV ray damage leads to higher chances of developing skin cancer, “having 5 or more sunburns doubles your risk for melanoma.” (Skin Cancer Foundation, 2019)  While skin is the main concern when it comes to sunlight there are also some other factors that have been studied where UV rays “damage collagen fibers, destroy vitamin A in skin, accelerate aging of the skin”; “An estimated 90 percent of skin aging is caused by the sun.”(Mead, 2008) (Skin Cancer Foundation) Luckily there are ways to protect from UV rays through the simple act of putting on sunscreen.  A“sunscreen that offers both UVA and UVB protection with an SPF (sun protective factor) of 15 or higher” will be sufficient in preventing sun damage. It is important to seek shade and wear clothing over your skin to protect inevitable damage that will come from UVA and UVB rays. While I will not discount this information there is also an abundance of benefits that come from sunlight.

      Physical Benefits of Sunlight      

There are many very important advantages that sunlight provides to people’s health not only physically but emotionally as well. Many people are aware of the positive correlation between sunlight and vitamin D. The “exposure to the ultraviolet-B radiation in the sun’s rays causes a person’s skin to create vitamin D. Vitamin D has multiple different health benefits, “low vitamin D levels have been linked to rickets in children and bone wasting diseases like osteoporosis and osteomalacia.” (Nall, 2018) Additionally, “without sufficient vitamin D, bones will not form properly” limiting the lifestyle of an individual immensely. (Mead, 2008) This being said, recent studies have informed us that vitamin D and sunlight are not just good for bones but aid in preventing some cancers that include “colorectal-, prostate-, breast cancer and non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.” (European Journal of Cancer, 2013) “The evidence that chronic (not intermittent) sun exposure decreases the risk of colorectal-, breast-, prostate cancer and NHL (non-Hodgkins lymphoma) is accumulating and gradually getting stronger.” (European Journal of Cancer, 2013) The prevention from sunlight with colorectal cancer and breast cancer have been particularly positive. The European Journal of Cancer explains that a “lower risk for colorectal cancer was found in women that spent at least one week per year on sunbathing vacations.” In terms of breast cancer, “women who reported less than 30 min outside had significantly higher risks than women who spent more than 2 h outside in daylight.” (European Cancer Journal, 2013)

  Seasonal Affective Disorder   

  Another benefit of sunlight less known by most is the positive ways it affects depression and Seasonal Affective Disorder in particular. Seasonal Affective Disorder is a depression onset by the change of seasons and more specifically the amount of daylight in a 24hour period. Sunlight regulates what is called the circadian rhythm which is essentially a person’s internal alarm clock and tells people when to sleep and when to wake up; a regular circadian rhythm is attributed to keeping people out of depression. When the sun enters your eyes, it sends signals to your brain to stop producing melatonin, a chemical in your brain that tells you to sleep. On the other hand, when indoors for a long period of time your body will begin to produce melatonin without the interaction of sunlight signaling your brain to go to sleep. Along with this is the production of the chemical called serotonin, a mood boosting chemical in your body. Similarly, when UV rays enter your eyes there is a signal sent to your brain to produce serotonin. Low serotonin levels are associated with depression and Seasonal Affective Disorder, therefore the more sunlight and serotonin the happier one will be. Sunlight and time in the sun has various benefits that keep someone healthy.

           Sunlight is Positive

 It is rare to find things in life that are solely positive. There is no discounting the science that proves the damage spending too much time in the sun can have on a person but I believe the benefits of sunlight are substantially larger than the alternative of a lack of sunlight. One may disagree because of the risks skin cancer poses, but this type of cancer is without doubt more preventable than most; “regular daily use of an SPF 15 or higher sunscreen reduces the risk of developing melanoma by 50 percent” and “as a result of increased use of hats, sunscreen, and shade, the incidence of malignant melanoma has begun to plateau in Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and Northern Europe.” (Mead, 2008) (Skin Cancer Foundation, 2019) In addition to this, skin cancers in comparison to the other cancers mentioned, such as colorectal cancer and breast cancer, have a significantly higher survival rate, “the estimated five-year survival rate for patients whose melanoma is detected early is about 98 percent.” (Skin Cancer Foundation, 2019) On the other hand, colorectal is ranked third when it comes to how many people will die from it in a year; severity and chances of survival have to be taken in to consideration.  In the United States alone over one year, approximately 15,000 people will die from skin cancer, 42,260 from breast cancer and 50,260 from colorectal cancer. Three times the amount of people die from breast cancer or colorectal cancer than do from skin cancer.

   Mental Health Benefits of Sunlight       

 Something else to consider when weighing pros and cons of sun exposure would be the benefits seen in mental health and the impact sunlight provides in that area. As mentioned before, sunlight is proven to boost moods and aid people with depression and Seasonal Affective Disorder. Mental illnesses may not be as noticeable on a daily basis but that is not to say depression is not a serious and threatening illness. Every day there are Americans suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder and other forms of depression that commit suicide. Society should be aware that by effortlessly laying in the sun for a reasonable amount of time they can become happier and absorb all the sun has to offer. It is not hard to just put sunscreen on but it is hard to overcome depression or breast cancer.

          Conclusion

 Initially when thinking about the sun and health affects it could be responsible for, I only saw the negative side of the argument and was unaware of the positive impacts available from sunshine. Spending time outside in the sun no longer has to be only worrying about the negative correlations with the sun and ultraviolet rays; put some sunscreen and a hat on and just be smart! Spending time in the sun is good for your health, vitamin D, cancer prevention, happiness, and the enjoyment of being outdoors. The negatives involving the sun and one’s health cannot be ignored but UVA and UVB rays are not all bad, everything in moderation. The best thing about the sun’s benefits are that they do not require any work, whether sitting in your back yard or on a sunny tropical vacation, the sun will do its job. The sun has a wide spread range of benefits for people’s health preventing deadly diseases every day without people even knowing it.

Reflection

1.     The purpose of this project is to convince readers that a stance you have on a particular argument is the right one. More specifically in my paper the purpose is to convince my readers that the sun is good for people’s health.  This project achieves its purpose by acknowledging the other side of the argument but supporting my side more strongly and giving evidence to prove the points I make.

2.     The audience for this project is people whom don’t often read physical prints such as newspapers or magazines but resort primarily to online sources and would rather look at videos, blogs, websites, ect… This being said they are also an educated audience so information in the project has to be verified and backed up by reliable sources. This being said, the medium I used obviously had to be accessible online so that viewers could access it easily and I wanted it to be viewed by many people for the purpose so that is why I chose to do a blog.

3.     I have used this technology prior to this project so I didn’t have many impressions when it came to how I thought about the medium. I did have a few different options I was looking at using but I decided to use this one because it was easy to navigate given the fact that I had already used it and it did not cost me any money.

4.     The challenges I faced with technology were much smaller than the first time I used this medium because I am now more familiar with it. This being said, putting the pictures in the project with the layout I want still proves to be difficult and it take a while to get them where I want. I overcame this by asking my friend if she knew how to put the pictures in and she showed me how to do it. The easiest part of this technology was putting my actual writing in because I just copy pasted my whole text from Word and then was able to put it in.

5.     One thing that I would like the instructor to know about my project is that before this project I ultimately thought that the sunlight was more deteriorating to someone’s health than it was advantageous. I did not know all of the advantages the sun provided for someone’s health and changed my point of view when I learnt about all of the other factors besides skin cancer.

References

“Account Login.” American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, https://www.theovernight.org/?fuseaction=cms.page&id=1034.

House, Lisa A., and Barry Walton. “The Effectiveness of Light Therapy for College Student Depression.” Journal of College Student Psychotherapy, vol. 32, no. 1, Jan. 2018, pp. 42-52. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&AN=EJ116943&site=eds-live&scope=site.

Isguven, Selin. “How Does Sunscreen Protect You?” Yale Scientific Magazine, Yale Scientific Magazine - Http://Www.yalescientific.org, 9 May 2012, http://www.yalescientific.org/2012/05/how-does-sunscreen-protect-you/.

Liew, Michelle, et al. “The Role of Melatonin and Serotonin in Sleep and How to Increase Them Naturally.” Life Advancer, 4 May 2019, https://www.lifeadvancer.com/melatonin-and-serotonin-sleep/.

          McIntosh, James. “Serotonin: Facts, Uses, SSRIs, and Sources.” Medical News Today, MediLexicon International, 2 Feb. 2018, https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/kc/serotonin-facts-232248.

         Melrose, Sherri. “Seasonal Affective Disorder: An Overview of Assessment and Treatment Approaches.” Depression Research and Treatment, Hindawi Publishing Corporation, 2015, https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4673349/.

Mead, M Nathaniel. “Benefits of Sunlight: a Bright Spot for Human Health.” Environmental Health Perspectives, National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences, Apr. 2008, https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2290997/.

Miller, Michael Craig. “Seasonal Affective Disorder: Bring on the Light.” Harvard Health Blog, 30 Oct. 2015, https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/seasonal-affective-disorder-bring-on-the-light-201212215663

         Peters, Brandon. “Using a Light Box for Phototherapy to Treat Sleep and Depression.” Verywell Health, Verywell Health, 27 July 2019, https://www.verywellhealth.com/light-box-use-for-phototherapy-3015210.

Rhee, Han van der, et al. “Is Prevention of Cancer by Sun Exposure More than Just the Effect of Vitamin D? A Systematic Review of Epidemiological Studies.” European Journal of Cancer, Pergamon, 10 Dec. 2012, https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0959804912008854?via=ihub.

“Seasonal Affective Disorder.” Norman Rosenthal, MD - Author of Super Mind I Transcendental Meditation, https://www.normanrosenthal.com/about/research/seasonal-affective-disorder/.

“Skin Cancer Facts & Statistics.” The Skin Cancer Foundation, https://skincancer.org/skin-cancer-information/skin-cancer-facts/.

Taylor, Julie. “Does Weather Affect Your Mood?” WebMD, WebMD, https://www.webmd.com/balance/features/can-rainy-days-really-get-you-down#1.

         “Unraveling the Sun's Role in Depression.” WebMD, WebMD, 5 Dec. 2002, https://www.webmd.com/mental-health/news/20021205/unraveling-suns-role-in-depression.

[jena19810230-blog]

2 Others Hurt In San Francisco

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If you look at Morocco's team, barely any of them were born in Morocco. There, you've got a handful of newsmakers, influencers, and media persons who are tied together in their various "filter bubbles" aka "echo chambers", who can end up with a skewed view of what the world is like.. I were the family I would sue the dispatcher for emotional distress, and the department for the training that led to this fiasco, another said, while another added: Uncaring?? Criminal is more like it. Childhood obesity and standards for the "normal" body have evolved throughout American history and have had significant social effects. Then I saw displays for new vintage style Nike running shoes. As well as understanding how the device works, the knowledge of how to maneuver around your media program is also of great importance. Coconut Grove has several dog friendly parks; the Beach has some nice locations; there's a spot on Virginia Key where dogs can swim and sunbathe; but of all the canine treats in my Miami, the mac daddy of all dog parks is in Aventura.