#Annex wheels

[hirocimacruiser]

Autobacs, Alpina, Annex and Audire wheels line up from 1988

[moleshow]

being on the bus is about looking out the window and seeing 3/4 of the drivers just fully on their phones eyes not even remotely close to the road

[blueiscoool]

A 7th Century BC Tomb with Two Chariots Discovered in Corinaldo, Italy

Following the discovery of the so-called ‘Prince of Corinaldo’ in 2018, archaeologists from the University of Bologna have discovered a new princely tomb dating to the 7th century BC at the Corinaldo Necropolis in the Italian province of Ancona.

The Piceni people lived in Italy during the early Iron Age. They were primarily concentrated in Novilara in the north and Belmonte in the south. There is proof that they were wealthy people and that they traded with the Greeks as early as the 7th century BC. According to researchers, their population was warlike and they possessed very little artistic ability. In the end, in 268 BC, Rome annexed their territory.

A recent discovery led by Dr. Cecilia Carlorosi and Ilaria Venanzoni consists of a princely tomb of notable magnitude. The excavation revealed a square pit approximately 3.80 meters by 2.20 meters, located within a large circular ditch originally with a diameter of 30 meters.

Objects recovered from a high-status grave of the Piceni people discovered in Corinaldo, in the central Italian region of Le Marche, this tomb contained more than 150 artifacts, among which a two-wheeled chariot and a prestigious set of bronze objects stand out. Among these objects are a helmet, a cauldron, and numerous finely decorated containers, indicative of the aristocratic lifestyle of the time. While numerous other objects, probably from his home, were connected to the sacred ritual of farewell.

The archeological evidence points to a relationship between the Picene nobility and the Etruscan culture, with which they had interactions and exchanges throughout history.

The artifacts discovered, which include food and drink containers and utensils for banquets, provide an intriguing look into the daily routines and habits of prominent members of the ancient Picene society.

This discovery is part of the ArcheoNevola Project, directed by the University of Bologna in collaboration with the Municipality of Corinaldo and the Soprintendenza Archeologia Belle Arti e Paesaggio for the provinces of Ancona and Pesaro Urbino.

By Oguz Buyukyildirim.

[whencyclopedia]

Ancient Indian Warfare

War was the chief means by which territory was annexed or rulers defeated in ancient India, which was divided into multiple kingdoms, republics and empires. Often one empire predominated or different empires co-existed. The Vedic literature (1500 – 1000 BCE), the two epics Ramayana and the Mahabharata (1000 - 600 BCE), Kautilya's Arthashastra (c. 4th century BCE) and Banabhatta's Harshacharita (c. 7th century CE), all key texts regarding warfare in ancient India, testify to this. Troops were recruited, trained and equipped by the state (maula). There were many communities and forest tribes (atavika) that were known for their military skills and prized as such. Such people lived by the profession of arms (ayudhjivi). Villages providing soldiers were called ayudhiya. Mercenaries (bhrita) also existed in large numbers as did corporate guilds of soldiers (shreni) and they were recruited whenever required.

Attitudes to Warfare

The king or emperor was supposed to be a great warrior, capable of vanquishing enemies on the battlefield and subduing their kingdoms. The idea of digvijaya (Sanskrit: “victorious campaign in all directions”) so that a ruler could become a chakravarti samrat (Sanskrit: “emperor whose chariot wheel rolls unobstructed”) was always emphasized. Religiously, the Hindus favoured war as a means of furthering royal ambition and even advocated the concept of dharma yuddha or “just war” to avenge injustices or claim one's justified right to the throne. Buddhism and Jainism, despite their advocacy of non-violence, also understood the role of war and warfare in the prevailing political system and especially for the defence of one's kingdom against invaders embarked on a digvijaya. The Buddha himself advised the minister of Magadha's king Ajatashatru (492 - 460 BCE) on how difficult it would be to conquer Vaishali. Alongside all his humanitarian work, the Mauryan emperor Ashoka (272-232 BCE) also did not disband his army but continued to maintain efficient means for the security of his people, which he considered as part of his duty as a Buddhist ruler looking after the welfare of his subjects. Throughout the ancient period, many of the most notable emperors, kings, warriors and even individual soldiers continued to be devout Jains.

Continue reading...

[meli-writes]

L'État, C'est Mecanisée

The Sun Empress wakes, left cheek scraping on tile, shackled to a blue-bloodied, automatic operating table — crown jewel of the mechanised annex of her Grand Inventor. Alchemical flames lick distant and resplendent at the royal apartments, follies of blue and gold dance on the mirrored masks of its half-clockwork chevaliers, broken on the marble courtyard.

“It would be foolish to hurt me, the XIVth Legion will soon surround this palace. You might still join me, I assure you — the pain is soon forgotten,” she says, with gentle arrogance.

The light is eclipsed by an approaching revolutionary. A red ribbon hair-tie falls limply past shadows that shift without due cause, yet refuse to part from her face; the Empress can see only an uncertain glint in her eyes, of a since-passed storm, and, in her hands, the glass-covered hemisphere of a mechanical mind — the Empress’ own crown jewel.

“No— you can’t mean this,” she says, recoiling, “this— mockery, of enlightenment, of progress: our nation’s destiny. The ruin of a precious mind, to make me the last of them?”

“You wouldn’t be the last,” Red Ribbon says, a disarming mainspring of melancholy.

“Of course— I see. You think you’ll make me a puppet, that I’ll wind-up my legions on words you place on the platter of my tongue.” It would be a mistake, a meek and distant voice says, the legions will never outnumber the uprisings she needs now converts them from. Every mask that slips, each half-recognised face, births another revolutionary.

“I’ll bleed to death on this table,” she retorts, “you’ll never hope to achieve what I’ve done.”

Red Ribbon doesn’t speak; she fractures the silence when the mournfully-clutched hemi-brain slips to the floor, spilling ten-thousand brass wheels, springs, and pinions across the floor. Rune-clad glass shards fall into a drain, fizzling with dying light.

She kneels and takes the Empress’ hands, her own trembling, and even this close, the Empress cannot see her sympathy. Does she mean to surrender? To beg the diplomatic method, that preserves her mind and the subtle features of untouched flesh.

Another revolutionary holds tightly the wrist of a forcefully-invited Duchess, unsure if she is rescued or captured, whom the Grand Inventor intended to work this upon personally.

“What? You wish my blessing, to despoil me? There is no artificer amongst you, I’ll—”

“Your Eminence,” Red Ribbon says. The Empress blinks in shock, and there is an audible ticking in the room. How did such respect purpose itself, from a black-guarded traitress?

“Do you recall who first introduced it to you, the clockwork?”

“Introduced? Invented,” she says breathlessly, “I am their creator!" The Empress was an upset heir, presaged into power upon the sudden Arcane Virulence of 1674; the unblemished royal survivor, then executor of the Imperial Retaliation of 1675 against an accused aggressor who provided bountiful material for the creation of IInd, IIIrd, and IVth Legions.

Red Ribbon gives a painful sigh, and holds a soft, warm hand to the Empress’ right cheek till she stops pulling away. “Okay, so when did you invent it?”

“1673,” the Empress says, curt and suspicious, but indulging in the delaying action. The Empress had been a quiet child, then, and lonely. She was artistic, and not bookish, and shared it with nearly no one — nearly. “One day I knew; I was simply destined for more.”

“Do you remember that day, anyone who might have — witnessed your achievement?” she asks, “Perhaps you woke up to someone — not the handmaid, she was— not there.”

“You had a frequent guest, if you recall; of the mechanists’ guild. Where might he be now?”

The Empress’ gaze flicks from broken clockwork, to Red Ribbon’s skirt — tattered, stained with human blood, alchemised spirit, and clockwork grease — to that only in her mind’s eye; a figure, its face obscured, but a cogwheel sigil-rune at its neck. It was— it was— gone.

“I understand if it’s difficult to remember, your Eminence. It was— a long time ago,” Red Ribbon says, running her other hand through the Empress’ hair. It is barely felt, smooth and unnaturally cold, even though Red Ribbon is sweating in the alchemical heat.

She gestures to someone behind her, and is given a silk tissue with a black mark.

“And this, please— do you remember this?”

The Empress looks, truly intentful. She sees it all around them, in the annex, before she cannot help but blink, heavily, as it disforms. It is— nothing, gunpowder or soot. Some few words gather on her lips, and she tries to speak— tries to speak— tries to— to— to—

Her head is jittering, with a lone eye pinned and screwed to her reflection in a discarded, mirrored mask, elegantly engraved and with red ribbon ties. Whenever it becomes clear she feels her mind whirring slower. And she hears it, the ticking, more wretched each time.

Everyone else can hear it too.

Red Ribbon withdraws, slowly, only letting go when the Empress’ shivering hands are too far away to hold. The clockworks should not understand that anything is different, the little that remains of them subsumed with the dual-power of arcane mechanisms.

Everyone else can see it too.

Where newly bloody and machine-marred glass meets bone and long-scarred flesh, where the left-side of the Empress’ face has been torn, and a half-skull that is gone, replaced with a clicking clockwork mind, a glimmering sigil-rune on its side; the prototypical maker’s mark.

Red Ribbon cannot hear her own sobbing over the ticking, and tries to ask one last question as springs pull and gears lock in a vergingly unbearable tightness.

“And me— do you remember me, Marie?”

The Empress tries to—

---

(Masterpost)

originally written 19/02/2024, in response to Make Up A Criminal's prompt:

Rebel who would give you a taste of your own medicine, if you weren't already addicted

for additional context, this was also my own prompt account. where i posted a mix of thief, assassin, bounty hunter, smugger, spy, rebel, pirate, fixer, fencer, and mob boss prompts. i might resurrect it here too, to see how people use my old prompts anew <3

i'm also not really an ES writer, but draw a lot of inspo & love their work as well as have a LOT of doll influences in my work.

[pervasivethrenody]

Thank y'all so much for commenting/liking/reblogging. My sacred mission is to fill the Thanuri tag with (hopefully) pretty pictures, so I'm happy when you like something I share.

That mission got derailed when I dropped off the earth for a month or so. So, uh, it turns out I didn't sit on my leg the wrong way! After my last post, it just got weaker and weaker until I needed to be wheeled into urgent care. I went to a follow-up, and a very alarmed orthopedist sent me to have an MRI done at the nearby ER because it's faster to get one that way. Hours later, I'm in an ambulance. Over five days the doctors did a spinal tap, 5 or so more CTs/MRIs, and an X-ray, and ordered about 20 vials of blood, and finally told us it was neuroinvasive West Nile Virus.

Uh, did you know it could attack your brain or give you partial limb paralysis? Or it could unalive you or someone you care about?

I sure as fuck wish I had!!!

Consider this a dire warning that may save your ass. Protect yourself.

For the last month I have been exhausted. Everything takes more time and effort to do, hobbling back and forth with a useless leg. Will it get better? They don't even know. I have had zero creative energy, much less life energy.

But I tried.

To wit: a feeble offering. I got to the end and just kind of...it was nothing close to what I wanted, but I didn't have the will to change it.

God, I was so, so tired.

I decided they're on their way back to their room at the Annex. It's late at night. There's been a scrap of some kind. Thancred's fine. Urianger worries. They don't quite make it back before he has to make sure Thancred's okay.

After:

And that's...it. All that work for so little. That's life. It's not fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all.

Time to sleep, if my body will let me.

Oh, and fuck mosquitoes.

[onwesterlywinds]

PROMPT #1: Steer

Livvy Ahtynwyb had sometimes contemplated, long before learning how to sail, what she might name her boat if she were ever to have one of her own. The decision had seemed monumental, as pivotal to her reputation as a Sea Wolf as the naming of a paladin's sword: such names were often writ large in legends, as much as the names of the sailors they carried.

To her misfortune, the Garlean Empire had already taken all of the best references to Ivalician myth for their biggest and most powerful airships.

A few too many teary rounds of drinks at the meyhane (after a few too many fogweed cookies at the Baldesion Annex) had left her emotionally and mentally settled on the name Starbird, with blue trim and perhaps blue sails for good measure. This had lasted only until she'd floated the concept around Sharlayan's docks and Erenville had replied, as dryly as ever, "Larboard of Starbird."

So it was that Allegoria - a former racing sloop converted into its previous owner's liveaboard - made her inaugural sail from Limsa Lominsa's docks on a voyage to Tural.

They'd had a rough go of it with the storm. Ahtyn had counted down the bells for the rain to break - then the minutes, then the seconds. All the while, she had kept both her hands on the wheel, the better to attempt heaving to after the line on their sea anchor had frayed and snapped, whispering shanties and prayers and fae charms that had availed her hardly at all.

When the downpour at last slowed to a drizzle and the gusts calmed to a light breeze, she could not summon the energy to unclip herself from the stanchions.

The bright blue mainsail, Ahtyn's sole vanity throughout all Allegoria's outfitting, had taken the most damage: the winds had carved a slice clean through its middle, even after several reefs to limit its surface area. Despite all the buffeting they'd endured, they were lucky to have lost only a small portion of their provisions during the storm, in the form of a few of the larger bottles of wine that the Riot-Marbrands had left in the cockpit.

The others emerged slowly from below deck, whether due to seasickness or some other trepidation. A'zaela Linh's ears were so flat against her head that Ahtyn first expected them to be stuck that way; then she went over, unfastened Ahtyn's lifelines, and unzipped her foul weather cloak.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

Her back was sore, she realized - not from maintaining her posture over the wheel, but from her pixie wings being blown about in the gale. Ahtyn rolled out her shoulders and the wings gave a gentle flutter. "I think I'm okay."

"You look like you just sailed us straight through the Hell of Water," Sihtric commented as he exited the companionway, before seeming to remember the magnitude of the feat. "Thanks, Ahtyn. Knew we were in good hands."

"Only one problem," she said. "I think my fucking compass went overboard."

A'zaela and Sihtric merely stared at her, then out to the becalmed waves.

"We could try-" Sihtric began, then, "Never mind."

"What about-" A'zaela chimed in, but did not elaborate. Neither of them suggested waking Ashe or Edge for their suggestions.

"We're still connected to the Sandsea's communication network, though, aren't we?" Ahtyn asked. "If nothing else, they'll know where we are. Even if we don't know where we are."

"Unless we got blown into another reflection," said Sihtric helpfully. "In which case, we probably won't know it until we make landfall."

"Thanks for that."

"Anytime."

They would have to bring down the torn main and replace it with the spare. They would have to reassess the condition of the sheets and rigging and other lines. They had any number of tasks that would be essential for their safety regardless of whether or not they knew their course, and yet the sheer dread of how close they had come to death before even reaching Tural held Ahtyn in a stunned silence, rendering her unable or unwilling to mobilize her would-be crew into action. She followed her friends' gazes out to the sea beyond, as far as they could possibly be from assistance.

"Well," Ahtyn said at last. "Worst-case scenario… we wait for dusk, and hope for clear skies tonight. We can follow the stars west, even if it means we end up somewhere other than Tuliyollal." She paused as another thought struck her. "Unless…"

Ahtyn looked down at the wheel, toward where a certain engineer of the Ironworks and his interdimensional friend had performed modifications of their own: a panel only a few ilms wide, bearing the words "CAPTAIN'S USE ONLY: LIFT IN CASE OF EMERGENCY."

She lifted the panel with a single finger, and it flipped upward with a small clatter. Beneath it was another panel of identical shape and size, bearing two words: "LARBOARD" on the left, and "STARBOARD" on the right.

"Real helpful," she said, though Alpha and Omega would have no hope of hearing her and would likely offer no more than their respective head-tilts if they did.

But something else lay beneath the second panel. As Ahtyn revealed it, a black screen sparked to life - and within moments, their coordinates, heading, and speed shone across its surface in beautiful crystalline blue.

[thereader-radhika]

Malayadhwaja Pandyan in Mahabharata

Pandya, who dwelt on the coast-land near the sea, came accompanied by troops of various kinds to Yudhishthira.

This Pandya king is addressed by two names in the epic - Malayadhwaja and Sarangadhwaja. 'Malaya' and 'Saranga' both mean "sandalwood" and the name is derived from the Tripuranthaka aspect of Shiva, who made Malaya mountains (named for the Sandal trees that grow on it) his yoke during the burning of the triple cities. He is a very fascinating character.

During Yuddhishtira's Rajasuya, Pandya and Chola monarchs brought gifts which were accepted, but they were not allowed inside.

And the Kings of Chola and Pandya, though they brought numberless jars of gold filled with fragrant sandal juice from the hills of Malaya, and loads of sandal and aloe wood from the Dardduras hills, and many gems of great brilliancy and fine cloths inlaid with gold, did not obtain permission (to enter).

Discrimination! Discrimination!

His country was annexed by Vrishnis at some point and his father was killed by Sri Krishna himself.

It was he [Krishna] that slew King Pandya by striking his breast against his . . .

He yearned for vengeance and trained under the renowned teachers of that era for that purpose. Even if he couldn't have killed Krishna, he was capable of causing great damage, as we can see later. But he listened to good counsel and gave up his revenge fantasies for the greater good. Very admirable indeed.

The mighty Sarangadhvaja . . . his country having been invaded and his kinsmen having fled, his father had been slain by Krishna in battle. Obtaining weapons then from Bhishma and Drona, Rama and Kripa, prince Sarangadhvaja became, in weapons, the equal of Rukmi and Karna and Arjuna and Achyuta. He then desired to destroy the city of Dvaraka and subjugate the whole world. Wise friends, however, from desire of doing him good, counselled him against that course. Giving up all thoughts of revenge, he is now ruling his own dominions.

One can even say that Malayadhwajan became a karmayogi before Krishna advised Gita to Arjunan, by not chasing personal glory and fighting selflessly for the people who were consistently bad to his clan.

Praised as "hardly inferior to Indra on the field of battle" and "followed when he fights by numberless warriors of great courage", Malayadhwajan led one of the 7 akshauhinis of the Pandava faction and fought valiantly until the 16th day of the battle. I don't understand what was he doing with those Pandavas who wouldn't let him or his father (I not sure about the timeline) enter the Rajasuya yajnasala.

On the 16th day, as he was destroying Karna's army which "began to turn round like the potter's wheel", Ashwatthama challenged him to one-to-one combat. When he fought Ashwatthama, Karna destroyed the army that surrounded him and Ashwatthama destroyed his chariot, as his arrows were unable to pierce the King himself. The epic says that Ashwatthama was quite excited by this fight and didn't slay Pandyan when he got an opening because he wanted to fight for some more time. Malayadhwajan climbed a stray elephant and threw lances at Ashwatthama who narrowly escaped with his beautiful crown shattered. This infuriated him and he killed the king, his elephant and the final six warriors that followed their Lord.

At this, Ashvatthama blazed up with exceeding rage . . . and took up four and ten shafts capable of inflicting great pain upon foes. . . with three the two arms and the head of the king, and with six he slew the six mighty car-warriors, endued with great effulgence, that followed king Pandya . . .

@celestesinsight @willkatfanfromasia @sambaridli @harinishivaa @sakhiiii @whippersnappersbookworm @favcolourrvibgior @sampigehoovu @ambidextrousarcher

[samueldays]

A little story for the "youth rights" people on here:

My dad taught me to drive a car before I was 12. It may have started as early as age 9 or 10 -- my childhood memories get a little fuzzy -- but I know it was before 12 because of a milestone in my life that year.

Dad would first let me sit on his lap in the driver's seat, and he'd hold his hands over mine on the steering wheel so I got used to gripping and turning it. This training started while driving at low speeds through a national park's open plain, without even fences on the roadside, so if I swerved wrong the car went from dirt road to dirt grass and there was nothing to crash into.

Over time he let me hold the steering wheel on my own, then taught me accelerator and brake, me changing gears while he held the clutch, then using the clutch on my own, and eventually letting me sit in the driver's seat and drive the car while he rode shotgun. He was still cautious enough that he sat ready to reach over and grab the wheel if there was a problem.

This was illegal by government standards. My dad was committing a crime to let me, a youth, do things that the government would prevent me from doing. He expanded my youth rights.

Government-run stats on youth are structurally incapable of capturing the benefit of this. First, of course, my dad wouldn't tell the government. I learned to drive on dirt roads, far away from traffic cops and census workers. But second, if the government did find out, there's a "heads I win - tails you lose" bias at work in government methodology for counting such things:

When parents are more restrictive than government, the government can count that as a suppression of the rights of the child, and enter it into the 'parental abuse' stats

When parents are less restrictive than government, as in my case, the government can count that as child endangerment and also enter it into the 'parental abuse' stats.

See the problem here?

Then there's 'neglect' and similar charges which are often levied against good parents who encourage children to grow and become independent.

("cannot", sheesh, I know I can because I did walk to school alone while under 12. I understand the colloquialism of "cannot" for "must not" here, but I don't like it. Thinking that way is a bad habit.)

I expect that a movement for youth rights would be some flavor of anarchist or libertarian, calling for the repeal and disregard of a great many laws governing child-raising; and would have a strong contempt for law enforcement, which includes Child Protective Services. CPS are a type of cops. Anyone who says ACAB must say CPS are bastards.

But a lot of the people calling themselves “youth rights” that I see on Tumblr seem to take government methodology for granted when posting, and they talk as though rights are merely what the government says they are, so the government is structurally incapable of violating rights. Such people cheer for more CPS and more regulation and 'abolish the family' with the power of the state. They don't want youth rights, they want state power that's labeled “youth rights” and annexes all youth to the state.

[myveryownfanfiction]

Part 1

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery, @eclecticwildflowers, @onedirectionlovers2014

warnings: swearing, reader starts crying

It took a few months to try to find the door on my own. Until I did, Jenkins always waited for me right outside, even if he usually opted for going out for dinner or back to my place after a while. And it took me even longer to realize that we had developed feelings for each other. When we started dating all the LiTs started collecting bets. It was fairly sobering to realize everyone knew before we did.

Today though I had managed to sneak into the library and had grabbed some of the books that had been left out from jakes last reading session. Grabbing a cart, I wheeled them over to the section and started to put them away in their usual spots. I zoned out while I continued to shelf and the library brought more and more books to my cart.

”(Y/N)?” I looked up at the sound of Jenkins voice. My eyebrows went up as he stared at me confused. “Why are you shelving?” I looked over at the cart and then back at Jenkins.

“stress relief?” I muttered out. Jenkins nodded slowly. “I honestly didn’t realize I was doing it. I was just cleaning up after jake…” Jenkins nodded again as he came over to gently take the book from me, the other hand on my arm.

“the library does this on its own.” Jenkins said softly. “There is no need for anyone to shelve.” There was a slight flickering of the lights and Jenkins looked up.

“I think the library is disagreeing with you.” I said softly.

“I think the library likes you more than it likes me.” Jenkins teased as he handed me back the book. I chuckled and turned back to the shelf in front of me. “Are you alright? You have been shelving for a while now.” I shrugged.

“how long you been watching me?” I asked. Slotting another book into the shelf. Jenkins gently drew me to him. I looked over at him and frowned.

“a while.” He admitted. “You were zoned out and on autopilot. It was a little strange to watch honestly.” Jenkins rubbed my arm as he leaned forward to kiss my forehead. “I’ve never seen you like that before.”

“I…” I looked at Jenkins and bit my lip. “My job…” Jenkins slid his hand down to hold mine and squeezed. “I don’t have a job anymore. There was a meeting. They told me I was voluntarily resigning and I…I refused. I kept asking if I was being terminated or fired and…” I shook my head as my eyes welled up with tears. Jenkins cupped my cheek and quickly wiped my eyes before the tears could fall. “They told me to get my things and leave.” Jenkins drew me close and kissed me softly. I wrapped my arms around his waist and held tightly to his suspenders. “I didn’t sign anything. Agree to anything. Just threw my name tag on the table and grabbed my bag and left.” Jenkins rested his head against mine. “My boss sat in his car when I was having a panic attack in mine.” My voice dropped and Jenkins hugged me tightly.

“oh (Y/N)…” he sighed out as he gently rocked us. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“it’s ok. It’s honestly a little funny.” I chuckled.

“Still hurts though doesn’t it?” I nodded against his shoulder. “I’m here for you. I hope you know that.” I nodded again. “Want to read while I sort through some stuff in the annex?”

“I know that.” I kissed his cheek as I pulled away. “It’s ok. I’ll just shelve some more. Sorry to distract you from whatever it was you were doing.” Jenkins kissed my forehead again.

“no it’s alright.” He said with a small smile. “Let me help. We can get through all this quicker and then I can take you somewhere. Wherever you want to go.” I nodded as I pulled the cart between us.

“That sounds nice.” I admitted. Jenkins smiled and I leaned over the cart. Cupping his cheek, I kissed him softly. “Thank you Jenkins. I don’t deserve you.” I smiled at him. Jenkins opened his mouth to say something but nodded with a smile instead when he understood what I meant.

“I love you.” He whispered. I smiled, blushing as I rubbed my thumb over his cheek.

“I love you too.” I whispered back. “First time for that.” Jenkins nodded.

“Good timing?” He asked. I nodded.

“perfect timing.” I confirmed as I kissed his again.

[courseyoulovemeyoudontknowme]

The Lady Vanishes (1938, Alfred Hitchcock)

27/01/2024

The Lady Vanishes is a 1938 film directed by Alfred Hitchcock.

The story is based on the novel The Wheel Spins by Ethel Lina White.

A remake was made in 1979 entitled The Lady Vanishes, directed by Anthony Page, with Angela Lansbury in the role of Miss Froy.

A train is running from the Balkans towards London when an avalanche stops it in a remote village. In the hotel where they are forced to stay overnight, they meet some English citizens: Iris Henderson, the young heiress of a rich jam producer, returning from a holiday with two friends and headed to London to get married to a nobleman; Miss Froy, amiable old lady in a tweed suit, housekeeper and music teacher for six years in that country and about to return to her homeland; Caldicott and Charters, cricket fans, very upset about the forced interruption of their trip which risks making them miss the final phase of a test match in Manchester; Gilbert, a musician with a passion for folklore who records folk songs with a little too much noise, resulting in a lively confrontation with Iris; a couple of lovers whose greatest concern is not to be recognized.

Miss Froy tries to escape into the woods, after leaving a coded message contained in the musical notes of a melody that Gilbert must learn by heart and take to the British Foreign Office in case she fails to save herself.

As promised Iris and Gilbert go to the Foreign Office in Whitehall to report the coded message.

The expiration of the contract that Gainsboroug (subsidiary of Gaumont-British) had taken over from Gaumont and Hitchcock had to complete the second film (the first was Young and Innocent) foreseen by the agreement with Edward Black.

In May 1936 Frank had proposed to Gainsboroug to buy the rights to White's novel, he had worked on the screenplay together with Sidney Gilliat but Roy William Neill, the director who had been entrust with the direction, din not complete the film.

The role of the lovable old spy was entrusted to Dame May Whutty, who would later be cast in a minor role in Suspicion.

In the role of the rich young bourgeois the director used Margaret Lockwood, under contract to the production company; in the role of the penniless musician Hitchcock would have liked Robert Donat, the protagonist of The 39 Steps, who had to give it up for health reasons; Michael Redgrave was the chosen, already famous as a young theater actor in John Gielgud's company, here at his first film test: the director liked him for his detached and casula style.

In the fundamental interview given by Alfred Hitchcock to François Truffaut, published for the first time in 1966, the director said about this film of his: "It was shot in 1938 in the small studio in Islington, on a thirty meter platform and with a wagon on top."

In addition to all his dearest themes (the incredibleity of the truth and the game of appearances, spies, travel, the relationship between a couple and love, humor) there is a strong political connotation, influenced by international current affairs: 1938 is the year of the Munich Agreement, evoked by the white handkerchief waved by the lawyer, an unpleasant neutralist who, regardless of his lover and the other Englishmen, hands himself over to the spies and gets himself killed. Finally, the main enemy of the film, Doctor Hart, alludes to Germany both his surname and in his origin ( in that same year Czechoslovakia also begins to "disappear", with the annexation of the Sudetenland to Germany, a prologue of what will happen in the following year). Hitchcock declares anti-Nazi sentiments expressed on other occasions in his films (The Man Who Knew Too Much, The 39 Steps, Secret Agent, Foreign Correspondent, Saboteur, Lifeboat, Notorious).

[noblebs]

find the word

tagged by the illustrious @fortunatetragedy, thank you <3

Rules: You guys know what's up: ctrl+f your wip for the word, post a snippet, pick new words and tag other people.

My words: mouth, pace, pit, cell

tagging @thelittlestspider @revenantlore @coarsely to find these words: discovery, home, pink, quiet

here's a fun fact: of the ~23k words of my current draft so far there's 26 instances of "mouth." that's more than one mouth per a thousand words. it is a story about mouths, after all. anyway this one is from chapter 6:

"You mean when he was here before? Twenty-something years ago?" "Has it been that long?" Adeline shrugs, striking a match to light the stove. "Yes, he came to help Madrigal when she was in dire straits, poor dear. She's doing so much better now. It's a shame they missed each other; I'm sure she'd enjoy seeing him again." Orion forces another bite into her mouth before she can voice her derision. If this is Madrigal doing better, she can't imagine what she was up to at her worst. What kind of body count has she left in her wake because Devilant protected her and covered up her very existence? Orion swallows. "Where did she go?"

pace, from chapter 3:

"Whoa!" Devilant raises his hands open-palmed in surrender, joviality bubbling beneath his tone. "Easy, kid. Didn't mean nothing by it. Most of the folks they send my way aren't so spirited." One corner of his mouth twists like he made a private little joke for himself, and he sticks out one hand. "Truce?" Orion frowns steadily at him. She doesn't need to deal with this; she's received no guarantee that any information he might have will be useful or even relevant. The job could go a dozen different ways, and she's had to adapt to working on the fly with little or no research beforehand. Then again, having anything at all to start from could be a nice change of pace. Orion wouldn't dare to hope for an easy investigation, but she could be content with well-informed.

pit, from chapter 6:

"Every hell," is all he says, his tone longsuffering. Orion redirects them slightly to the left at random, keeping her attention on her feet to prevent herself from noticing possible landmarks. "Are you saying that's what you would have done?" Orion hesitates to weigh her response, then decides, "Only if it wasn't you. I've been to your house, I know you don't have anything worth blackmailing for." "You understand I have a pension, right?" "Oh." She grimaces. "Then maybe, but money is the most boring reason for blackmail." The vibration of his chuckle through the air warms the pit of her stomach, and she wishes her body would stop responding to the bass of his voice. "Of course it is."

I couldn't find any cells :( nor anything related to a biological cell, so I tried looking for synonyms like prison and this is? sort of related? it's the closest I can think of anyway lol. warrant, from chapter 5:

He is also drenched in Madrigal's blood. It stains his neck and chest, a thick streak of it down his torso and splattered like constellations on his arms and face. It cakes in the grooves between his fangs to limn them in a brownish red. In spite of how little it matters by comparison, his now-useless habits spin wheels in the back of his mind, and he thinks about being found unconscious like this and the easy connections that would be made—no wounds on his own body, the splatter thickest around the sharp and guileful grin of his throat. Devilant has cleaned up after enough monsters in his time to recognize the depth of the mess he's discovered, to know he's looking at an Annex case file not yet opened. Thirteen hours is a long time. Plenty of it to make a call to the Iowa office, for a case number assigned and an employment contract terminated, for an arrest warrant to be reinstated.

[quotesfrommyreading]

For Ruslan, a career soldier, this war started in 2014 when Russia invaded and illegally annexed Crimea. But he says the Ukrainian army used the time well, its battlefield treatment has improved greatly and is now at Western standards.

But they lack something that Western military views as essential - medevac helicopters. Instead, the man is put into an old UK ambulance, which the unit bought for $7500 (£6,378). They installed a new engine and began using it to transport their patients to the nearest main hospital 25km (16 miles) away. Getting the wounded there in time is the hardest part of the job, says Ruslan.

He and Olia accompany the injured soldier in the ambulance, Olia cradling his head as the vehicle bumps over unlit and potholed country roads, while flashes of artillery landed in the distance. Ruslan holds the man's hand, pressing for responses while he watches his vital signs.

Roman is behind the wheel. Earlier in the day the ambulance driver been hunting pheasant for the dinner table - the birds' numbers have multiplied since people fled the area. He says he has lost count of the number of times he has made the run to the main hospital. "Every trip is dangerous," he explains. "We don't know where the Russian occupiers will be firing. Our work is such that it must be done. Doesn't matter if they are firing or not."

  —  Ukraine's secret weapon - the medics in the line of fire

[stevenbasic]

Growing into the Job, Post 386: Shipping Notice

Agent FHMA003 aka Subject F0000013a-KK aka Program 0920/2.33xx aka Kathe Klix aka “Kathy” was at her desk. She had a precious few moments alone in the accounting office and without the nattering of the Wade girl or even the chatter of Agents 012 and 013. Kathe liked it quiet. She had spent the last nine weeks as Accounting Office Lead at Far Horizons Medical Associates and - though a far cry from the more daunting responsibilities of her previous assignments in Berlin, Bonn and Frankfurt - she understood that this mission was a key one. That’s why they’d left it to her, a type of Leutnant here. 

The assignment location here was once a small but generally thriving Geriatrics Practice in the Midwestern states of the USA. She’d been given its history before being embedded and told that her training and experience in weaponized finance would make her a useful player. It had been her responsibility to help transform it, with the blessing of its majority owner, the blonde American attorney, into a shell for another of her company’s new clinical arms. 

In her short time in the position she had - quietly and systematically - dismantled any and all economic independence the practice once enjoyed, drained its accounts and reorganized its finances, all under the nose of its head physician. It was now absolutely dependent on Evolution Pharmaceuticals (and thus the mother company) and a steady supply of grants to maintain its week-to-week solvency.

Like so many other businesses, Far Horizon Medical Associates had become like a zeck, a tick on the fleshy flank of KOLECTV, sucking on the Movement for nourishment. Kathe had done this all without raising as much as a word of concern from the male, who could have been a nuisance but was too caught up in his new affair with Subject MM1-A, too geprägt by her charms to even notice - or at least complain. Not her concern, either way. The practice was soon to be reborn in a new vision, the wheels had already been set irrevocably into motion: “Far Horizons” was to become much more than a small, specialty medical practice, or even just the expanded facility that would open its doors next week. Soon it would be a brand known across the USA, and then worldwide, transformed into an instrument bringing the mother company’s programs to the new world order. It was now partly her job to help prepare for it.  Speaking of, the email alert on her secret phone had just sang out in a <ping>….

Agent FHMA003 and her HR team would be responsible for the new payrolls, tax forms, and otherwise helping to get these New Women set up in their lives here. She also needed to finalize and secure funds for new construction in the recently purchased local annex buildings and interstate satellite kliniken, as well as the upcoming media events. Plus I need ein dress for this party on freitagabend. She’d be expected to go.  She put away the phone and allowed herself a rare, little smile. It was strange. As a previous recipient of a Program variant, years ago, Kathe was mostly immune to the psychological influence of Subject MM1-A. Like the other Program agents embedded here, she hadn’t been drawn as strongly into the social group that had formed, partly by design. She didn’t go to their house parties, she didn’t go out to the bars. She was not only nearly twenty years older than most of them, but she had known she should try not to get too attached. But she couldn’t help but admit that she had developed an affinity for the girl, for the hive, and - admittedly - for the male. Well, haha, maybe more than mere affinity. The visions had started as dreams, as  fantasien, and the urges began soon after she started here, but always involved him…

<<image removed, tumblr guidelines. Kathe tending to him. See Patreon :) >>

...But she knew she could not allow her urges to keep her from her tasks, at least for now. She was beginning to get an idea what this bienenstock could become, and the heights to which they were all about to arise. This weekend's festivities would be a celebration of that, but just the beginning. 

And, plus, the new busengröße will look nice in a little black dress.

=============================================

[inherstars]

Whatever the Fuck This Is

Chugging along with this. Previous chapter here.

Fred galloped ahead of them into the barn, wiggling through the door gap before Levi could even get it wide enough to pass inside.  Despite the ventilating gaps in the exterior walls, the air was softly swollen with heat, thick and musky with the sent of hay and drowsing sheep.

Maggie’s head turned, drinking in the high, raftered ceiling and the geometric arrangement of troughed, sty-like pens crowded with wooled bodies.  The walls were lined with the unfamiliar tools of his trade, the floor rutted for draining and scattered loosely with hay spilled out from the pens.  She knew some of the sheep were intended for slaughter, but was glad to see nothing here that suggested such a grisly end.

Levi stood back, as he always did, fingers tucked down into his front pockets, letting her wander and investigate as she liked.

“It smells… interesting,” she said, nose wrinkling.  He snorted.

“Yeah, they stink.  Now you know why I don’t sit down to dinner straight-away at quitting time.”

“Well, thank you for that.”  She drifted along the pens, reaching out to pass her fingers over the oily, clotted-cream texture of their wool.  She rubbed her fingers together, experimental, sniffing them curiously.

“We harvest the lanolin from the wool after we shear ‘em,” Levi said.  That’s that greasy stuff.”

She glanced over. “You do that yourself?”

“Uh--the shearing, yes.  The scouring, no.  I got a guy on the other side of Lander that does all that. He’s got a big centrifuge, it’s a whole operation.  He sells everything, takes a cut, and I get the rest.”

Her tongue clicked in disappointment.

“And here I was all ready to picture you like Cinderella at a spinning wheel.”

Levi’s head dipped again, hiding his grin.  “Don’t know if I’m ready for a career change, but if you want to take up spinning, I’ll make sure to get some clean wool back for you.  I’ll even make you a wheel.”

She returned to him, whispering her palms together, smearing them with the lanolin like moisturizer.

“You do woodworking too, do you?”  

“Yeah, you’ll find out eventually.”  His head tilted, encouraging her to follow.  “Come on.  Visiting hour.”

Adjacent to the main barn, Levi led her into a smaller and more structured annex reserved for new and expectant mothers.  At the end of the long row of pens he opened a swing gate, ushering her into the little stall that held her lamb.

“This can’t be the same one!” she cried.

She tried immediately to get to her knees, and just as immediately remembered she no longer possessed such coordination.  Levi panicked, catching her hand and arm as he helped her down.

“Jesus--easy now.  The very one.”

The newborn was still stained yellow, but he’d taken care to wipe it down as best he could, leaving it with a blanket and heating pad under the layer of fresh yellow straw.  Maggie accepted the lamb’s wobbling, knock-kneed approach with open hands as Fred, ever helpful, wiggled in to lick it enthusiastically.

“You aren’t lying to me, are you?”  She couldn’t believe the difference.  “She was so cold before, so weak.  I was so afraid she was--”

“I know.  Told you to trust me. Might have done this a time or two.”  His knuckles rapped the edge of the pen.  “Stay with her a minute--Fred, for God’s sake, give it a rest--I’m gonna go warm up a bottle.”

After a few minutes away he brought her a modified baby bottle, lowering cross-legged to the straw beside her and guiding her through the initially awkward process of both encouraging the lamb to nurse, and relocating a still-attentive Fred from the equation.  Maggie was too timid, terrified of hurting it, but Levi’s hands were far more adept, manipulating the rubber nipple into its mouth and massaging its throat until it took to it with abrupt, inspired eagerness.

“There she goes,” he said, voice husky with approval.  “She’s gettin’ the hang of it now.  Here…”  He tried to transfer the bottle to her, but Maggie demurred with a smile.

“No, you go on.”  She reached out to caress the velvet-soft ears instead, scratching under its chin.   I like watching you do it.”

There was a deep appeal to seeing a man so clearly calmly in his element, unbothered by the bits of straw stuck in his hair or clinging to his jeans, the occasional rivulet of milk curling around his finger where it escaped the lamb’s inept latch on the bottle.

“You have a nurturing side,” she said.  He looked at her briefly, self-conscious but smiling.

“Yeah, maybe.  Helps sometimes, for sure.  You probably wouldn’t appreciate the rest of what it’ll take to get this little one paired up with another Mom, though.”

“Oh no.  You make that sound ominous.”

“Well.”

“Are you gonna tell me?”

“Uhh…”

“Come on.”  Her elbow dug into him lightly.  “I’m not far off from pushing an entire human being out of my body, I’m pretty sure I can handle it.”

He cleared his throat, adjusting his one-armed lean.

“Fortunately or unfortunately, we have a ewe that just lost her baby.  They don’t always take to strange lambs, so we have to, uh… well, you… you skin their old one, you see--”

“You skin the lamb--”

“Well, it’s already dead, I mean, but yeah.  And then you… kind of put the skin on the new lamb.  Like a little coat.  Makes it smell like the one that died.  Sheep ain’t too bright, and it helps them bond until the orphan gets enough milk through them that the ewe can’t tell the difference anymore.”

Maggie fondled the lamb’s ears with one hand.

“Levi,” she said.

“Yes’m?”

“If the worst should happen to me when this baby comes?  Please do everyone a favor and just leave it on somebody’s doorstep.”

They dissolved into ugly, snotting laughter, enough to rouse Fred to an overstimulated frenzy of barking outside the pen.  Levi corralled his composure as best he could, wristing his eyes with his free hand and calling the dog’s name until he finally fell quiet.

Maggie pulled herself together, gesturing for the bottle.

“Here.  I know it’s not the same thing, but… gimme. I ought to get used to this.”

He passed it over to her, fixing the position of her elbow and wrist, then leaned back comfortably against the pen wall.

“There you go,” he said after a minute, arms folding.  “You’re a natural.”

“Oh yeah, I’m gonna win all the awards.”

Levi regarded her quietly, admiring. Slowly his gaze dropped, smile tiredly relaxing.

“Hey listen. Can I, uh… kinda’ confess something to you?”

“Are you finally fixing to murder me? Cause I’ve been waiting.”

“You seem to think I have all the time and energy in the world to go cuttin’ people into pieces.”

She laughed.  “Did you not just tell me you were going to make a lamb jacket out of an actual lamb?”

But his chin was down, this time with an uncomfortable smile, the side of one hand nervously itching his temple.  Maggie felt that wave of melancholy wash over him again, the sense of a sad breath he’d grown tired of holding.  She gentled her voice, nodding him on.

“Alright, well go ahead.  What is it?”

Continued here

[transpondster]

A meme bounced around Brooklyn last summer: ‘What if we kissed at the Tom Verlaine book sale?’ Verlaine, who formed and fronted the band Television, died on 28 January 2023. Over the years he had acquired fifty thousand books – twenty tons or more – on any number of subjects: art, acoustics, astrological signs, UFOs. The sale of those books – a two-day affair in August, run out of adjacent garages in Brooklyn – was a serious draw. Arto Lindsay, the avant-pop musician, walked by. Tony Oursler made a short video and posted it on Instagram. Old friends, some of whom looked as if they hadn’t seen daylight in decades, found each other in the long line. Verlaine had split his enormous collection between storage units: one a short walk from his Chelsea one-bedroom, four more across the river in Red Hook, near the foot of the Gowanus Canal. Verlaine didn’t use Uber. To get to the Brooklyn facility he’d take a rickety grocery cart on the F train, ride it out to Smith and Ninth Street, the highest Subway station in the city, and walk the rest of the way. In a crowd, Verlaine stood out. He was tall, thin, fine-featured. (‘Tom Verlaine has the most beautiful neck in rock and roll,’ Patti Smith wrote in 1974. ‘Real swan like.’) He had never quit smoking and wore a car coat, like a character out of film noir. But there he had been, bumping his cart down several sets of stairs and escalators and wheeling it, under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, across seven lanes of traffic, to Red Hook. The books had to go somewhere.

Alex Abramovich | At the Tom Verlaine Book Sale

You can still buy Verlaine’s books from Better Read than Dead and Capitol Hill’s websites. His record collection will go on sale, one of these days, at the Academy Record annexes in Greenpoint and the East Village. They’re a reminder of different days in a different city, where the bookstores and record stores stayed open late, and you could poke around in them even after a night out at CBGB, and the stuff that you’d get there was cheap, and the space that you needed to store them was cheap, and, even if you worked in a bookstore, you could afford an offset press and start your own poetry imprint, or find a loft space in SoHo and start your own band.