#Blanche Cornwall

[randomrichards]

FALLING LEAVES (1912):

Girl tries to save sis

Who may die of consumption

If the last leaf falls

[lyledebeast]

Power, Coercion, and Seduction

One of the most bizarre popular interpretations of The Patriot for me is the idea that Colonel Tavington forces Benjamin Martin to become involved in the Patriot war effort when he targets his family. This reading presents Martin's violence as merely a reaction to Tavington's choices. What it overlooks is not only that Martin has agency, but he has more than anyone else in the story. That agency should come with some responsibility; instead, all responsibility for Martin's violence within the narrative falls on the shoulders of a man who has to ask his general for permission to terrorize civilians in the film's third act. For all the pearl-clutching over Tavington killing surrendering soldiers first, he is also the only officer in the film to take prisoners, which only happens because General Cornwallis ordered him to give quarter. Do we not think he would have been torturing civilians for information about The Ghost before the militia was even trained if Cornwallis had allowed it?

People often use Tavington's desire for power to contrast him unfavorably with Martin, but Martin has no lack of power to produce a craving. Colonel Harry Burwell gives him orders when he puts him in charge of the militia, but he follows or does not follow them based on his whims. He allows his men to murder surrendering soldiers until his son and subordinate calls out his hypocrisy. His orders are to target supply trains, but he uses his force to rescue his own children and attempts to do the same for his friend, John Billings' family. When they fail, he gives his men a week's furlough and marries off his son, all while the Continental Army is planning a major engagement with the enemy. Either Martin has extremely poor communication with the Army, which the film never addresses, or he is simply a law unto himself. While Tavington languishes in impotence because his general will not allow him the brutal tactics that ultimately prove so effective, Martin is riding around doing exactly as he pleases, the Ron Swanson of the American Revolution.

He even makes plans to leave on the eve of battle after Gabriel's death, and all Burwell can do is plead with him in the words of his late wife to "stay the course," that his men need him and . . .

That's desertion, Harold. If one of your Regular officers tried that, you'd court martial him. Clearly, no one can make Martin do anything he does not want to do, least of all Tavington.

Since Tavington actually is subject to the authority of his superior officers, he is reliant on seduction and manipulation to get what he wants. In the case of Cornwallis, he offers the general glory free from consequence, a tall order that he definitely cannot fill . He gets what he wants from Captain Wilkins, who is under his orders, not by threatening him but by appealing to his desire to save face. Wilkins said those who stood against England deserved to die traitors' deaths; Tavington frames himself as giving him the opportunity to prove it, and it works. Burning the Patriot civilians in Pembroke Church is Wilkins' choice like granting Tavington carte blanche is Cornwallis's choice.

Coercion compels a person to do something against their desires; seduction gives a person permission to act on desires already present. When Tavington murders Thomas, he does not transform Martin from a pacifist to a man for whom violence is the only option in that moment. Martin already has a stockpile of weapons in waiting. He knows exactly where to find his French and Indian War buddies, and he has better battle plans than any of the Continental generals. When it comes to violence, Benjamin Martin stays ready.

I would argue that killing Martin's sons is an act of seduction as well as an incitement to violence, but as is the case with the other two men, these acts have only as much power as Martin gives them. The face-off in which Martin tells Tavington "Before the war is over I am going to kill you" and Tavington replies "why wait?" represents another attempt on Tavington's part to seduce Martin into violence, but this time he fails. In a later scene, cut from the theatrical release, he tries and fails to seduce Cornwallis into assuring his reward, and the two scenes share striking visual similarities. Both feature over the shoulder shots that position the two men far closer than they need to be for the purpose of conversation. The scene with Cornwallis is more on the nose. Tavington's shirt is open, his hair is loose, the orderly leaves without bidding as the two draw closer, almost as though similar scenes have played out between them recently that had very different endings to this one. But there is no lack of heat between Martin and Tavington at the gate of Fort Carolina, particularly compared to the single seduction scene that actually precipitates sex, between Ben and Charlotte. Yikes.

Neither Martin nor Cornwallis gives in to Tavington's seduction in these scenes, which should reinforce that they are in charge of their own behavior and thus culpable for their choices. And to the extent that blame for the British defeat falls on anyone but Tavington, it falls on Cornwallis. That seems fair enough; he is the general of the British Army in the southern colonies. But when the blame for Martin's poor choices somehow also falls on Tavington . . . the story loses me. But I suppose that is part of the fantasy for the film's intended audience. Martin gets the benefit of both ultimate authority over his actions and complete immunity to their consequences. Perhaps he should have run against George Washington given that these are the very qualities some Americans seem to look for in a president.

[twola]

Devil’s Backbone : Diablo Ridge IV

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Diablo Ridge IV: Camhanaich

Above the banks of the Dakota, amongst this band of outlaws, Ruth slowly ingratiates herself. For better or worse, things finally come to a head.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

“Y’know, Missus Shaw -hic- the Lord will bring -hic- comfort to those who m-mourn -hic.”

The man stumbles, very nearly falling to the ground, and catches himself on a tree trunk several steps away from you.

You blanch, hitching your skirt and rushing toward him, placing your hand on his back to try and keep him upright. His breath reeks of alcohol, even this early in the morning, when the sparrows haven’t stopped their singing. His graying hair, splotched in its original red color, is completely disheveled. The collar of his ordainment hangs open, a sad testament to the depths the man had fallen.

“R-Reverend-”

You had returned to what had become your escape, the spot high on the ridge where you could see the Dakota meandering below. Unable to sleep, you had crept up there with your shawl wrapped tightly around your shoulders, breathing into your cupped hands against the dawn’s chill.

It was quiet, this place, a good ten-minute walk outside of the camp. The solitude here gave you the permission to think, to be alone with your thoughts, as damning and destructive as they were.

“Reckon I don’t deserve to be called - hic - that no more…”

Somehow, Orville Swanson had stumbled upon your sanctuary, ironic at the core. You had seen him around the camp, passed out at all hours of the day, drinking at all hours of the night. The girls would gaze upon him with looks of pity before turning back to their work. 

Fortunately enough for him, his wobbling gait had not taken him off the cliff that he had found his precarious way to. He leans against the tree, about to tumble forward again, and you quickly grab his arm and throw it over your shoulder, pulling him to lean against you, “Alright now, let’s get back to camp.”

The walk down the hill took twice as long as it should have, especially with a stop you had to make as the disgraced preacher retched bile onto the ground, and himself. By some providence, your clothes and shoes were spared.

As you reach the camp, the drunken man leaning on you seems to fall into unconsciousness, and you yelp as you start to tumble trying to hold the both of you up.

“Oh! Mercy…”

Susan Grimshaw hurries toward you, her usually stern face softening slightly as she takes Swanson’s other arm around her shoulders and helps to drag him to the open tent where his bedroom lay.

“Let’s get him back over ‘ere, Missus Shaw.”

Between the two of you, you're able to maneuver the deadweight of the preacher to lie on a bedroll under a large awning. He moans slightly, his eyes fluttering and closing again as he fades back into sleep.

Grimshaw sighs; stooping down on her knees and taking the unconscious man’s dirty shirt off. Swanson’s eyes have rolled to the back of his head. She balls up the shirt and leaves him in his union suit, pressing on her knees to stand back up again.

You watch in something akin to amazement, the stern and overbearing matriarch of the gang seems...gentle. She notices your trepidation and motions over toward the laundry for you to follow her.

“The Reverend, he suffers. Years ago he saved Dutch’s life. I don’t even know how, but Dutch, he’s not one to forget somethin’ like that.”  Susan says as she throws the vomit-covered shirt into a washtub.

She places her hands on her hips. “Reckon plenty of people want to get rid of him, but we look out for him. We try to keep him out of trouble.”

You look back at the man, who passed out drunk before the morning coffee was even ready. Your mouth draws in a firm line as you feel a rush of pity come over you. You shrug the shawl over your shoulders, wrapping it around you again.

“Come, Ruth. There’s work to be done today. Thank you for your help with the Reverend.”

The call to work you’ve heard from her numerous times. But this morning, it doesn’t have its usual bite. It’s hours later that you realize that Susan Grimshaw actually used your first name.

-

“Y’gonna do something with the boy or just stand there like a dumbass?”

“I don’t know what the hell you want outta me, Abigail.”

“Be a goddamn father to your son, John Marston.”

The two young parents were mercifully outside the center of camp for this row, but that didn’t mean that their argument couldn’t be heard faintly in the distance.

The aforementioned child sits on the ground in front of a small tent, fiddling with a small wooden horse figurine between his fingers. He frowns, as one of the wooden legs has fallen off of the toy. The boy frustratingly tries to reattach the leg but is unable to. 

“Jack.”

Jack looks up from his broken toy, forlorn and frustrated,  “Uncle Arthur… it’s broken.”  His voice cracks in a childlike sadness, trying to keep himself from crying, but teetering on losing that battle.

“C’mere. Give it here.”

Jack pushes himself up from the ground and teeters over to Arthur, who sits in a chair next to the campfire. He gives the toy to the gunslinger, who takes the pieces in his large hand and inspects them.

“Here we go. Just gotta pop this…” Arthur pushes the leg back against the horse’s body, and with a bit of pressure, the wood slides back into place, “…right here.”

Jack’s face lights up as he sees the end result.

Arthur hands back the toy horse to the child, who holds it up to inspect the man’s handiwork.

“Thanks, Uncle Arthur!” Jack smiles brightly as he looks over the wooden toy, now back in working order.

Arthur musses the boy’s hair affectionately, a smile creeping across his face in return as the boy looks up at him with nothing but admiration.

“Sure thing, kid. You bring it to me if it breaks again. I’ll always fix it.”

Jack gleefully takes the toy and runs over to his previous spot, nearly throwing himself on the ground again to push the horse along in the dirt.

You’ve watched this all with piqued interest from your vantage place, elbows deep in the laundry tub, halfheartedly scrubbing stains of unknown origin from a union suit that you are afraid belongs to Uncle.  Maybe that’s what Lenny meant about Arthur being pleasant from time to time. Thus far, you’d seen nothing but the piss and vinegar that the young man had mentioned.

“I swear, that man is the most useless sack of shit on this earth.”

Your view is immediately filled with a steaming Abigail, who gets down on her knees to shove her hands into the laundry tub as well, muttering to no one in particular. She vigorously scrubs a shirt against the washboard, cursing under her breath.

After a few choice words, she sighs, slightly deflating, as she wrings the shirt out between her fingers. 

“I guess… I guess I just picked wrong.” Abigail mumbles lowly, to keep the conversation between the two of you.

“Men are exceedingly stupid… not just him. My husband…” You trail off a bit before swallowing your nerves, “He had his moments. Even after ten years of marriage.”

“ ‘M sorry. I shouldn’t be whinin’ about John when you’ve just lost your husband.” Abigail grabs another piece of laundry, submerging it in the murky, graying water of the tub.

“It’s alright.”

A silence falls between the two of you, awkward as it is heavy. You decide to break it, a grin making its way to your face.

“Though…John does seem to be exceedingly stupid.”

Abigail looks up, and at the side of her mouth, a sly smile begins. Not that you know that the man is stupid; you’ve barely spoken to him, but you recognize that he does little with the young boy that is his namesake, no matter how much Abigail gets on him for it.

“Let me tell you ‘bout how the time that man…”

Abigail begins her story, and through the next hours, you listen, nodding and murmuring answers to her rhetorical questions. The afternoon passes. Through the time she’s able to recount to you her tumultuous relationship with John, you realize she’s getting less frustrated. You get a feeling Abigail Roberts didn’t have many people who would listen to her and her plight.

That’s fine. You could do that. You could listen.

-

“There’s not enough money in the box for that right now, Mister Pearson. You’re gonna have to make due ‘til there’s enough money or until someone can steal a wagon.”

Pearson swears under his breath as he stalks away from Dutch’s tent back to the butcher’s table where you are preparing the kettle for the morning’s coffee. You yawn, scooping grounds into the beaten metal kettle before placing it on the grill above the fire.

“Missus Shaw.”

“Yes-” you yawn again in the early morning light, “Mister Pearson?”

“You got a wagon in those skirts of yours?” He grumbles, taking his large knife and dramatically slamming it into the table.

That woke you up.

“Excuse me?”

Pearson blanches, a blush rushing over his face as you flared at him, obviously unable to retort back as he loses his nerves. 

“Need a- need a new wagon.” He mumbles, looking at the table, not meeting your eyes.

“No, I don’t have a wagon under my skirt, Mister Pearson.” You say pointedly, leaving the kettle on the fire. 

Though you weren’t hopping mad, or even that aggravated, you would certainly take advantage of the situation to get out of further chores this morning.

You move to sit on the cut stump of a tree that has been utilized as one of the makeshift seats around another campfire. Placing your chin against your fist, you absentmindedly stare into the flames. Pearson still grumbles about a wagon across the way as he prepares breakfast.

The camp is slowly coming alive with the morning sun. 

It strikes you, as the flames spit and pop with the newly added wood. The wagon left behind the old homestead. It was small, sure, but it was better than nothing. 

There was a chance it was still there.

Also, as the piercing weight settles in your chest, you know it would give you the chance to go to him. Visit where he lay… 

“Good morning, Güera.”

You are interrupted from your thoughts as Javier steps next to you, leaning over to hand you a cup of coffee. The pot must have finished as you were lost in your thoughts. Javier takes his seat on the ground a few feet away from you with his own cup of coffee.

You take your first drink of the bracing liquid and your gaze flits to the revolver in Javier’s belt.

“Javier…"

He sips, “Mm?”

“Can I ask you…a favor?”

“Sure, what do you need?” He replies after taking another drink from his cup.

You take another sip of coffee to steel your nerves, "You know how Pearson has been needing a new wagon for supply runs?”

“Yeah, don’t know how I wouldn’t with how much he’s complaining about it,” A smirk crosses his face as he brushes random long hairs of his hair out of his line of sight.

"I think I know where a wagon may be.” You lean toward him, lowering your voice so that only he can hear.

He laughs, placing his coffee down. “Look at you, Güera. Bruise has barely healed on your face and you’re wanting to get back out there? Makin’ an outlaw out of you yet.”

You blush, looking down at your coffee mug, "It’s not… well if it’s where I think it is, there won’t be any stealing to do.”

"Oh?"

“The wagon was mine. I was run off my homestead near the state line when my husband died… I left the wagon, it may still be there. Maybe a few other things in the cabin left if bandits haven’t gotten to it yet…” You trail off, unsure that you were making a good enough argument to have him take you out there.

“Sure.” He responds before you can go any further, “Let me see who else is free and we can head out there. I want another gun in case we run into trouble.” The dark-haired man looks around the camp, thinking as he takes note of who is awake at the early hour, “You go get ready, meet me over by Boaz in a few minutes. You said out by the state line, right?”

You nod. Javier takes a long drink of his coffee, “Then we should head out, have a long day ahead of us.”

You’ve gone back to your tent and grabbed your shawl again, throwing it over your shoulders as you pull your hair back into a low bun. Throwing some water on your face to wake yourself up a bit, you inhale slowly as you spy a reflection of yourself in a dirty mirror belonging to Mary Beth.

It does not do to dwell. You look a little rougher, your long hair frazzled and cheeks reddened from the sun. Releasing the breath you realize you were holding, you pull your gaze away from the glass and move toward the horses, where Javier is waiting.

“Ready to go, Güera?”Javier leans against the hitching post as you arrive. As you nod, he waves you toward his horse, and lifts you onto the rump of the American Paint, and swings himself up into the saddle in front of you.

“Charles is going to meet us out in front of the logging camp. Then we head out west.”

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you give a small noise of agreement as he spurs Boaz away from the outlaw camp that has become your home.

-

Charles isn’t much of a talker. You haven’t spent much time around him, but he remains fairly quiet along the road, up and down through rocky valleys, and dense forests. Through the pines of Tall Trees and over the waters of the Upper Montana.  The road gives way to ponderosas, their sweet scent wafting through the air. You used to like that smell - but now, it seems too sweet, choking, the smell reminiscent of funeral parlors and smothering the stench of death under flowers and candles.

“Just over this knoll.” You point over Javier’s shoulder, more than an hour after the group passed Manzanita, a small logging outpost in the middle of Tall Trees. He nods, kicking his spurs, and Boaz picks up the pace as your hand returns to hold onto his waist. Charles follows up the path, his horse whinnying as she also breaks into a canter from the trot she was in.

As the horses reach the top of the knoll, and the clearing with the cabin just peaks into view, Javier pulls the reins tight, and Boaz skids to a stop. He swings himself down from the saddle before placing a hand on your knee, his other hand coming up in front of his mouth, motioning for you to stay put and quiet. Charles gets down from his horse as well, and both men unholster revolvers as they quietly pace toward the small cabin. 

Over the next several minutes, you fiddle with your shirttail as they creep around the area, until Javier’s voice, calling out his nickname for you, cuts through the silence, and you slide off of Boaz’s rump and grab the reins, leading the horse, along with Charles’s mount, Taima, to the clearing where the homestead stood.

Your eyes immediately fly over to the lonesome pine across the clearing, where the disturbed earth was only noticeable to someone who knew to look.

“Güera, there’s the wagon out back, at the very least. Think there is anything inside?”

“I don’t know…maybe there’s something left.”

Javier nods, “I’ll go look.” He rejoins Charles, who kicks in the door with ease. They move around the cabin as your gaze drifts back to the ponderosa. You slowly walk toward that solitary tree, as the two men work to gather anything worthwhile in the house.

The steps feel endless as if you’re moving through quicksand. As the forest around you blurs with the unshed tears welling up in your eyes, you finally reach the unmarked grave.

You sink to your knees at the dirt and press your hand to it, and allow yourself the grace to shed tears. Your husband, your loving and energetic and wise and wonderful Frederick, lay dead underneath this earth, where grass begins to sprout, life moving on.

After several minutes, you hear heavy footsteps behind you, but do not turn to acknowledge them.

“Your husband?” Charles asks, his voice low and even and gentle.

“Yes.”

A large hand lands softly on your shoulder. Comforting in its grip, but not overwhelming.

“I do not pretend to know what it’s like to bury half of your heart. But from what I know of loss, I know it is a wound that will not heal.”

You stare at the ground, the dirt in which the culmination of Frederick’s life lay. All of the miles and work and dreams and love, it all ended here. A sob cracks from your throat as your eyes water over again, and you bring one hand over your eyes, trying to hide your tears. You don’t know why you do this, as you were far past the point of hiding it anyway.

Charles stoops down on one knee next to you, his hand still on your shoulder. He remains silent, but his hold is steadfast as you take the leave to sob aloud.

Minutes pass before you can gather your composure, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“ ‘M sorry,” you hiccup, a blush settling on your cheeks, “Shouldn’t be burdening you with…”

“You’re not a burden, Ruth,” Charles replies, in the even, soothing baritone of his voice.

You turn to him with a skeptical look, because for the past month, you’ve felt like nothing more than a burden - to Thaddeus, to Doctor Smith and Rosalia, to the ragtag gang feeding you.

Charles removes his hand from your shoulder and pushes himself off his knee to stand. He offers you his hand, which you take and he pulls you up.

“Uncle is a burden. The man doesn’t do anything other than drink whiskey and eat food. You do plenty around the camp, I’ve seen you.”

You close your eyes and nod, remaining silent.

“We should head back to camp. Javier’s got Boaz hitched up on the wagon. We were able to grab a few things from the house - but the wagon is in good shape and will be helpful.”

The large man takes several steps back toward the cabin.

“Charles.”

He looks back at you, as your gaze is upon the earth where your husband lies. You take a deep breath, and turn toward him and the horses, knowing that your only way of living was moving forward.

“Thank you.”

-

You sit in the back of the wagon as it rolls down the trail. The irony is not lost on you that you’d done something similar many weeks ago. Javier has hitched Boaz to the wagon and sits in its single seat, while Charles trots alongside the wagon as it rumbles, atop his Appaloosa. The horse snorts as you lay your chin on your forearm along the railing of the wagon. There wasn’t much left inside the cabin in the way of supplies, but what was left was tossed into the wagon with you - a few blankets, random cans of food, not much else.

It’s much slower returning, the sun has long set by the time the three of you return to camp. Javier brings Boaz to a stop and jumps down from the seat, untying his horse from the yolk, which it seems quite happy to shed.

“Oh! Look at this! Javier, Charles - this is wonderful!”

Pearson rumbles toward the wagon, raising his arm in a celebratory manner as he inspects it. Charles swings himself down from his saddle and frowns.

“Actually, it was Ruth that got this. She just brought us there.”

Pearson’s eyebrows raise as he regards you from your seat in the wagon bed. You cannot help but to smirk at the cook as you push yourself to stand. Hosea, smiling as always, moves to help you step out of the back of the wagon. As you take his hand and jump down, he says a soft thank you into your ear and gives you a wink. You turn and hand him a heap of blankets, which he takes 

“Where the hell have you been?”

A deep, agitated voice snarls from across the camp. You turn and see Arthur stalking toward Javier, obviously annoyed.

“Calm down, we were out by the state line gettin’ this wagon and a few other things.” Javier retorts, unfazed by Arthur’s agitation, “Ruth was able to set us up with some things from her old homestead.” He waves off the annoyance, taking Boaz by the reins, and leads him toward where the other horses are hitched.

Arthur’s glare lands on you.

“We don’t have the time to be goin’ on little field trips for you to get trinkets from your house across the state. They have better things to do - like gettin’ ready for this huge job they’re pullin’...”

Something breaks. It cracks. That something has been burning, festering, for months now, it’s bubbled its way to the surface. All of the pain, the loss, the anguish that has piled and piled and piled on you - it bursts free from a pit of rage.

“Y’shouldn’t be wastin’-”

Your hand flies at his face and connects before he has the time to react. The loud sound of skin meeting skin echoes all through the camp. His head turns on a swivel at the force of your blow. The black gambler hat that was perched on his head lands in a patch of grass at his feet.

With this burning anger in your blood, you don’t give a second thought to the fact that you’ve just smacked a man that you’ve seen kill people in front of you.

It takes a moment, but Arthur slowly cranes his neck to face you again, his eyes incredulous for a moment as he works his jaw. He opens his mouth to retort something at you but you cut him off, your fists clenched and teeth grit tightly as everything that has happened to you flows out in waves of anger.

“I have done nothing, nothing,” you stick your pointer finger against his chest, fearless in your rage, “-to provoke any type of ire in you, Mister Morgan. I don’t know what in god’s name is up your ass, but you need to stop taking it out on me.”

Arthur’s brow furrows, and a hardness sets in his eyes.  You don’t let him respond, turning on your heel and marching away. You’re quite aware of the silence of the camp, the stares of other people.

You’re far too gone to be worried about the consequences of your actions at this point. You go straight to your bedroll, ripping your boots off, throwing them to the side. Gritting your teeth, you get down into your bedroll, furious and fuming. Pulling a blanket tightly over yourself, you breathe out heavily.

These fucking people. You’ve had enough. Tomorrow, you’re going to Hosea and telling him to take you back to Blackwater. You’re going to Saint Denis -so you can leave this stupid chapter of your life behind.

The campfire you just left remained silent. Arthur scowls while watching the flames. Hosea looks between him and the women’s tent as he comes back to the wagon.  The older man eyes the red blooming along Arthur’s cheek, just under the scruff of his day-old beard.

“I have no idea what you said to that poor woman, but I know she ain’t done nothing for you to be so sour to her.” Hosea narrows his eyes at Arthur as if the six-foot gunslinger was a child again.

“You’re gonna apologize to her.”

“But-“

“Apologize.” Hosea reiterates, his voice low and firm, with all the sternness of a disappointed father. He glares at Arthur for another moment before taking his leave.

Arthur peers over toward the women’s tent, where you have covered yourself with a blanket on the ground. He grits his teeth and breathes out heavily through his nose, turning away and back to the campfire.

-

The ponderosa pines wave in the warm breeze, the sweet vanilla wafting through your nose as the clearing opens before you.

The cabin stands quiet across the way. Far quieter than when you left.

The door was left open.

Aethon isn’t hitched up, but the wagon is still next to the cabin.

The door was left open.

With unsteady steps, you slowly reach for the doorframe, looking down when your boots make a muted squelch on the wooden floorboards of the porch.

The door was left open.

Blood runs in wretched rivulets from the inside of the cabin, out the threshold, and into the world.

You step into the cabin, and upon the ground, his body is contorted into a death throe, his eyes wide open and blood running from the hole in his forehead.

As if you were caught in molasses, you move slowly toward the body, reaching out toward your dead husband who seems to be just out of reach. Finally, finally, when you reach him, you touch his cold form, hands on his shoulders, slowly coating your arms with his blood.

Your Frederick, dead on the floor. You weep into his shoulder, loudly wailing the mourning dirge.

A loud noise from outside draws your attention, and you turn to see a large shadowed figure in the door.  A lantern is thrown into the cabin by the figure, bursting into flames on the wooden floor.

The flames lick at the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. There is no escape, not this time. You close your eyes, resigning yourself to your fate, as you lay over Frederick’s body. 

The fire burns.

-

You jolt awake, breath heaving as you clutch at your chest, your heart racing. A throb of pain shoots through your shoulder, and you wince as you sit up in your bedroll.

The hour is late, or far too early, as your eyes get accustomed to the darkness. Campfires have burned down to embers, and quiet, punctuated by the occasional snore, sits heavy throughout the camp. You look down the line of sleeping women next to you - Karen, Tilly, Mary Beth. They all lie still, dead asleep. You rub at your eyes, knowing you were up for the day after a dream like that.

Grabbing your shawl, hanging from the wagon overhead, you pull it around your shoulders to stave off the chill. You sit up, silently reaching for your boots as you crawl from the bedrolls. Standing up, you’re able to shove your feet into your shoes and quietly pad toward the tree line, knowing your way by heart to your destination.

The inky blackness of the sky shows the slightest sign of fading as you move up your worn path to the top of the ridge, relying on the muted light from the stars to guide you through the pine trees.

By the time you reach the fallen tree at the familiar cliffside, the sky is beginning to bleed red-purple light from the east.

Heavy footsteps make their way up the ridge behind you. You don’t bother to turn and look who it is until a large frame stops next to you, looking out over the cliffs. The scent of a lit cigarette wafts toward you.

“Mister Morgan.”

“Missus Shaw.”

Silence falls between the two of you. It’s obvious that Arthur is not going to apologize. You are not going to apologize either. He deserved that blow as far as you are concerned. After moments, you finally break down and end the silence.

“It’s the camhanaich.”

“ ‘scuse me?”

“It’s a word to describe the half-light of the dawn,” you point out at the east, where colors are changing as the sun’s rise becomes imminent, “The hope one gets at the birth of a new day. It’s an old Gaelic word.”

Arthur remains quiet, his hands falling to rest on his gun belt, slung low on his hips. His cigarette remains between his lips.

“Been seeing it a lot recently,” Your voice gets low, “I keep thinking I’ll get that hope… but reality isn’t much different than the nightmares that keep me awake anyway.”

Your gaze remains rooted to the eastern horizon, where the red-purple haze of the impending sunrise begins to creep into view. 

Arthur drops his cigarette to the ground and smothers it with his boot, "Best to ignore them bad dreams. Dwellin’ on ‘em ain’t gonna do anythin’ but cause y’ more pain.”

“You say that as if you’ve had them.”

He remains silent. You take this silence as admission, but do not press any further. Arthur takes his leave to go, turning on his heel without looking at you. He makes it three steps before stopping shortly.

“Missus Shaw.”

An unstated truce falls between the two of you. You do not turn to acknowledge him, nor does he.

“Mister Morgan.”

The sun rises on the mountainside.

[gingertomcat]

While I 100% agree with these posts, yknow what's caused this?

They took the fucking headphone jack!

It used to be you'd buy a phone and it'd have a headphone jack and it'd come with a pair of wired headphones. (Honestly, the headphones that came with my iPod touch when I was a kid are the best thing that apple ever made because they're solid quality and still work)

Now, if you want headphones that are even half decent you have to pay minimum £30 for some wireless ones that you have to make an effort not to lose or break immediately.

It's bullshit.

That being said, if you can't afford headphones it doesn't give you carte blanch to make me have to listen to the fucking "do badobedobado badobedobadododo" tiktok audio 14 FUCKING TIMES ON AN OTHERWISE QUIET TRAIN I SWEAR TO GOD IM TRAVELLING ALL THE WAY TO FUCKING CORNWALL I DO NOT NEED YOU DOING THAT THE ENTIRE WAY THERE ARE QUIET THINGS YOU CAN DO ON YOUR PHONE YOU IMPOLITE SOD.

Anyway, they killed my boy the headphone jack and have made society and train journeys infinitely worse as a result.

i'm literally begging people to relearn how to use earbuds and headphones. i don't wanna hear your fucking tiktok while im waiting for my flight.

[silvestromedia]

SAINTS OCTOBER 18 "There is only one tragedy in this life, not to have been a saint."- Leon Bloy

ST. LUKE, EVANGELIST, PHYSICIAN, PATRON OF ARTISTS Of the four Evangelists, St Luke is the best at drawing descriptions of individual personalities. He probably owes his reputation as an artist to this characteristic. St. Luke, the writer of the Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles, has been identified with St. Paul's "Luke, the beloved physician. https://www.vaticannews.va/en/saints/10/18/st--luke--evangelist--physician---patron-of--artists.html

St. Justus of Beauvais, Roman Catholic Martyr. Justus was reported to the authorities to be a Christian magician, and soldiers were sent to arrest him. When confronted at Beauvais, Justus, who was nine years old, confessed that he was a Christian, and he was immediately beheaded Feast day is October 18th.

St. Gwen, 5th century. Widowed martyr sometimes called Blanche, Wenn, or Candida. She was the daughter of a Chieftain, Brychan or Brecknock. Saxon pagans martyred Gwen at Talgrarth.

St. Keyna, 5th century. Welsh virgin, also called Keyne or Ceinwen. She is possibly one of the twentyfour children of the chieftain Brychan of Brecknock, Wales. Keyna supposedly became a hermitess on the banks of the Severn River in Somerset, England St. Cadoc, her nephew, convinced her to return to Wales. She founded churches in southern Wales and in Cornwall, England, and possibly in Somerset.

St. Monon, 645 A.D. Scottish pilgrim who moved to Ardennes, France, to become a hermit in that area. Monon was murdered at Nassogne, in Luxembourg, by a group of unrepentant sinners.

St. Peter of Alcantara, Roman Catholic Fransican Priest. Feast day is October 18th.

[seewetter]

Mythic Creatures by Culture & Region

Part 6: Medieval Europe

Global list & overview here.

This list still needs revising, because I didn't distinguish French, German, Italian and Spanish folklore (Catalan folklore is independent, because I support Catalonian independence haha). Some European folklore has already been listed in part 3 and 4 and 5 or will be listed in future in connection with religious culture.

Here are some links to websites with European creatures that I didn't all list: https://bestiary.ca/beasts/beastalphashort.htm

Medieval Europe Fish: http://www.godecookery.com/ffissh/ffissh.htm

Medieval Europe Plants: http://www.godecookery.com/mythical/mythical.htm

Abyzou; Aegipan in medieval bestiaries, based on Pliny the Elder; Aitvaras from Lithuania; Alberich in Thidrekssaga written in 1250 in Norway, possibly based on a Plattdeutsch original (also appears in German Nibelungenlied from 1200 in Passau, Bavaria and Ortnit from 1230s Germany, Strassburg; Alerion only 1 pair of these birds exists at a time, bestiaries and heraldry; Alp German; Alphyn; Amadís de Gaula made some time before 1508, contains the giant Endriago, a monster born of incest who exhales a poisonous gas and whose body is covered in scales and Urganda the Unknown: Sorceress who protects Amadís; Amphiptere, word is Greek, found on French coats of arms between 1300 and French Revolution. Possibly found in medieval bestiaries as an African animal (anhinga)? Winged snakes of Arthurian legend. Terrible Wikipedia page.; Anguane Italy; Anjana Spain; Antichthones; Arquetu; Askafroa German "Eschenfrau"; Aspidochelone referenced as Jasconius; Atlantes (sorcerer); Aufhocker; Augenbrand;

Badalisc; Bahkauv Aachen; Balaur Romanian, multi-headed dragon; Baldanders; Baphomet; Barabao; Barnacle Goose; Barstuk; Basilisk; Beast of Gévaudan; Beerwolf; Befana; Belsnickel; Bergmanli; Bergmönch; Bicorn; Bieresel; Big Ghoul (dragon); Biscione; Bishop Fish 2 visits, 1 in 1531; Bisterne Dragon; Black Dog; Black Panther; Blemmyes; Blue Ben; Blue Lady of Verdala Palace; Bonnacon (Pliny the Elder); Borda; Bragmanni; Brazen Head; Broxa; Bucentaur; Buckriders North Belgian and South Dutch; Buschgrossmutter; Buschweibchen; Butatsch Cun Ilgs; Butzemann;

Caballucos del Diablu; Caelia; Caladrius; Careto; Cerastes; Cheval Gauvin; Cheval Mallet; Chichevache; Chromandi; Cinnamologus; Coco; Cocollona; Cola Pesce; Crocotta; Cuegle; Cuélebre; Cynocephali;

Dahu; Dahut; Dames Blanches; Dames Vertes; Death; Demoiselles Blanches; Dipsa; Dolphin; Doñas de fuera; Drac; Draconcopedes; Dragon; Dragon of Beowulf; Dragon of Mordiford; Dragons of St. Leonard's forest; Drake; Drapé; Drude; Duende; Dwarf ; Dwarfs, Dwarves;

Easter Bunny; Ekke Nekkepenn; Elegast; Elemental; Elwetritsch; Emmet Giant Ant; Enchanted Moura; Enfield; Erchitu; Erdhenne; Erdluitle; Erlking; Ewiger Jäger;

Fáfnir; Familiar; Fänggen; Farfadet ; Farfadets; Fasolt; Fates; Father Frost; Fées; Feldgeister; Ferragut; Feuermann; Fish-man of Lierganes; Follet; Folletti; Frau Holle; Frau Holunder; French Mythic Creatures and Saints; Freybug;

Gabija; Galehaut; Galgemännlein; Ganna; Gargoyle; Gatipedro; Gayant; Gegenees; Giane; Glatisant; Gnome; Goblin ; Goblins; Golden Goose; Goldenhorn; Gorgades; Graoully; Guajona; Gudrun; Guivre; Gütel;

Hans von Trotha; Haymon (giant); Headless Horseman; Heimchen; Heinrich von Winkelried; Heinzelmännchen; Hercinia; Hey-Hey Men; Hinzelmann; Hircocervus also Greek & Roman; Hödekin; Homunculus ; Homunculi; Houles fairies;

Ichneumon; Irrwurz;

Jaculus; Jean de l'Ours;

Karnabo; Ķekatnieki Latvian mask processions; King Goldemar; King Laurin; Klabautermann; Klagmuhme; Knecht Ruprecht; Knight of the Swan; Knights of Ålleberg; Kobold; Kornbock; Korred Iberia, Britanny, Cornwall; Krampus; Kurents (Slovene mask processions);

La Encantada; Laima; Lampetho possibly based on Roman accounts of Lampedo; Lauma; Laúru; Legendary Horses in the Jura; Legendary Horses of Pas-de-Calais; Leontophone; Lepus cornutus; Lietuvēns; Lindwurm; Loch Ness Monster; Lou Carcolh; Lucius Tiberies (vs King Arthur); Lutin; Lutins Noirs; Lutzelfrau; Lycaon; Lyncetti;

Machlyes; Mahound; Mandragora; Manticore; Marabbecca; Mare; Massarioli; Muscaliet; Musimon; Myrmecoleon; Nachtkrapp; Nachzehrer; Naimon; Matagot; Mazapégul; Melusine; Monaciello ; Monacielli; Monopod; Moss People; Mouros;

Nimue; Nixen aka Nixie ; Nixies; Norggen;

Ojáncanu; Oksoko (3 headed eagle in heraldry & 3 headed bird in alchemical texts); Ork; Orphan Bird; Ortnit; Ouroubou;

Pamarindo; Pandi; Pantheon_the_creature; Panther; Pard; Peluda; Perchta; Père Fouettard; Petermännchen; Phoenix; Picolaton; Púca;

Quiet Folk; Quinotaur;

Ramidreju; Rasselbock; Revenant; Reynard; River Women; Rougarou; Rüdiger von Bechelaren; Rumpelstiltskin;

Salamander; Salvanel ; Salvanelli; Salvani; Sandman; Santa Compaña; Satyrus; Schrat also Slavic; Sciritae; Scitalis; Sea-Griffin; Sea-Lion; Sebile; Selige Fräulein; Serván; Sheela na Gig; Skrat; Straw Bear; Strix; Struthopodes; Swan Maiden; Syrbotae;

Tarand; Tarasque; Tatzelwurm; Termagant; The Devil Whale broad category, includes modern accounts and Sindbad; The Imp Prince; The Legend of Ero of Armenteira; The Nixie of the Mill-Pond; The Prince Who Wanted to See the World; The Swan Queen; Theow; Thyrsus (giant); Tooth Fairy; Trasgo; Tree Elves; Trenti; Türst; Tyger;

Uhaml;

Vegetable Lamb of Tartary; Venediger Männlein; Ventolín;

Weiße Frauen; Werewolf; White Lady ; White Ladies (fae); Wichtel; Wiedergänger; Wight; Wild Hunt; Wild Man, Wild Woman ; Wild Men, Wild Women; Wind Folletti; Witege; Witte Wiver; Wolpertinger; Wolves in heraldry (search wiki page for word calopus);

Xana;

Yale; Ypotryll;

Žaltys Lithuanian;

allegedly medieval

Lorelei; Rompo; Squasc

Belgium

Druon Antigoon; Lange Wapper; Zitiron

Brittany

Amadís de Gaula (Gaula, the fictional part of Brittany); Ankou; Bugul Noz; Fions; Groac'h; Iannic-ann-ôd; Jetins; Korred; Korrigan ; Korrigans; Les Lavandières; Malo (saint); Margot the fairy; Morgen; Morvarc'h; Tréo-Fall; Yan-gant-y-tan

Byzantium

Abyzou; Gello

Catalan

Aloja; Banyoles monster; Catalan Creatures; Comte Arnau; Dip; Home dels nassos; La Guita Xica; Marraco; Minairó; Muladona; Negret; Nitus; Pesanta

Celtic mainland

Dusios Gaul (known through Greek, Roman and medieval sources); Les Lavandières; Púca; Sovereignty goddess also Irish; Swan Maiden; Trasgo; Werewolf

Dutch

Alven; Ellert and Brammert (giants); Kabouter; Swan Maiden; Witte Wieven

Estonia

Akka, also Finland and Sami; Dragon of the North; Ebajalg; Estonian Creatures; Kalevipoeg; Kratt ; Kratid; Maa-alused; Skrat; Toell the Great; Vanapagan

Finland

Aino; Ajatar; Akka, also Sami and Estonian; Antero Vipunen; Etiäinen; Firefox; Haltija; Heikki Lunta; Hiisi; Iku-Turso; Lemminkäinen; Lempo; Maanväki; Menninkäinen; Nine Diseases; Nuuttipukki; Otso; Paasselkä devils; Piru; Soul Components_Finnic Paganism; Swan Maiden; Syöjätär; Tapio; Vellamo

Germanic

Albruna Germanic seeress attested by Tacitus; Cimbrian seeresses mentioned by Strabo; Gambara; Ganna; Hooded Spirits; Idis; Matres and Matronae; Plusso Wendish = Slavs of North Germany; Swan Maiden; The Woman of the Chatti; Thiota; Veleda; Waluburg; Wurm

Roma

Mullo; Ursitory; Vampire pumpkins and watermelons

Sami

Akka also Finland and Estonia; Ruohtta; Stallo; The Elf Maiden;

Venice

Winged Lion (St. Mark), Venediger Männlein (allegedly from Venice, not on Wikipedia)

Renaissance

Allocamelus in Edward Topsell and among English companies; Hippogriff; Hircocervus in Edward Topsell, based on earlier sources; Ipotane first attested with John de Mandeville; Irrwurz; Jenny Haniver; Lampago maybe medieval not renaissance???; Lepus cornutus; Lizard Fairy; Mephistopheles; Oberon; Orgoglio; Pier Gerlofs Donia; Pyewacket (familiar spirit); Queen Mab; Satyress; Sea Monk; Succarath; Sylph; Teutobochus; Three Witches; Titania; Undine ; Undines; Vegetable Lamb of Tartary; Werewolf; Wild Man, Wild Woman ; Wild Men, Wild Women

Enlightenment

Jacques St. Germain; Terrible Monster maybe real??? Romanticism; Lorelei; Warlock

Notify me please if there are mistakes or if these beings should have a disclaimer not to be used in art or fiction writing.

[millingroundireland]

Who are the Spindles anyway? [Part 6]

continued in part 6

Furthermore, Edward is clearly the son of Hollis and Blanche, as evidenced by the 1900 (when two Ellises are living in the household), 1910, and 1920 censuses. [9] The 1910 and 1920 censuses also prove that Ida is the daughter of Hollis and Blanche as well. However, there's still the question of Elizabeth Chalmers, whom apparently was Elizabeth Mortimer but became wife of Kenneth Chalmers. How is she connected? As it turns out, there is an 1940 census entry for a Coloradan man Kenneth Chalmers in Fort Collins City, Larimer, Colorado, married to an Elizabeth. Then there's a 1930 census entry to the same effect, showing them living in Hartsel, Park, Colorado. [10] This is clearly our Elizabeth. That being determined, what is her maiden name and when was  she married? Well, we know that Elizabeth's full name is Elizabeth Muriel Mortimer and that she married Kenneth Wadley Chalmers on November 21,1925 in Colorado Springs. We also know that Kenneth, born in 1899, died in 1962 while Elizabeth, born in 1904, died in 1986. We only have one  source for Elizabeth prior to marriage listed on Family Search: a 1920 census listing her as the daughter of Stella L. Mortimer. Perhaps this is the Stella Mills whom was said to be Hollis's sister. [11] After all, this census lists  her as born in 1881, pretty close to the estimated 1880 I saw on Family Search.

Since her Family Search profile is inadequate, I looked further. The 1930 and 1940 censuses list her as married to an English-born man, John H. Mortimer, who was born in 1871, with the 1910 census also listing Elizabeth as her daughter. [12] However, the 1900  and 1910 censuses say she was born in 1880, while the 1930 and 1940 censuses say  she was born in 1881. The 1910 and 1920 censuses lists John's immigration date as 1894. This means he is the individual listed in varied records as born in Cornwall, England. [13] As another clue, the 1900 census shows John and Elizabeth living right next to Edward E. Mills and Edna Russell in Sanborn Precinct, Lincoln County, Colorado:

This census seems to say that Stella and John were married in 1900. But what about the Stella Mills claim? Let's go back to that Family Search profile. Basically the "source" just cites the 1900 census as evidence! This isn't good.

So far, I haven't found anything, even looking in the 1880 census specifically, to support that Stella is the sister of Hollis, and by extension, the daughter of Edward E. and Edna. Perhaps the evidence is out there, but I haven't found it yet. I did find the obituary of Kenneth, who was a Colorado state conservationist, which noted that at his death his wife Elizabeth and his half-sister Belle Wadley were surviving. I couldn't find much in Colorado Historical Newspapers Collection either, unfortunately.

So, this is a good first attempt! Until next time.

This post was originally published on WordPress in February 2019.

© 2019-2023 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

Notes

[9] "United States Census, 1900," database with images, FamilySearch, Edward Mills in household of Hollis Mills, Precincts 3-4, 10-11, 14 Rockt Ford, Olney, Ordway, Hallrook Rocky Ford, Ordway & Sugar City t, Otero, Colorado, United States; citing enumeration district (ED) 81, sheet 57B, family 1130, NARA microfilm publication T623 (Washington, D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 1972.); FHL microfilm 1,240,127; "United States Census, 1910," database with images, FamilySearch ( : accessed 20 June 2018), Edward E Mills in household of Hollis R Mills, Precinct 50, El Paso, Colorado, United States; citing enumeration district (ED) ED 23, sheet 11A, family 38, NARA microfilm publication T624 (Washington D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 1982), roll 118; FHL microfilm 1,374,131; "United States Census, 1920," database with images, FamilySearch, Edward E Mills in household of Hallis R Mills, Hartsel, Park, Colorado, United States; citing ED 179, sheet 4A, line 15, family 67, NARA microfilm publication T625 (Washington D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 1992), roll 168; FHL microfilm 1,820,168.There's also the claim on Edward's Family Search profile that he married a woman named Helen Mildred Robbins and had a child named Edward Ellis Mills, but this seems like an unfounded connection as he was clearly married to Marie S. Mills, otherwise known as Marie Steward as evidenced in the 1940 census, two years after this Edward was born. On the page for this, a family search user writes that "Helen had three sons and later divorced Ray Sanches and left the sons with him, went on to marry and have a son with Edward E. Mills, left him and married many more times after wards never had any more children that we know of. Have since found my father Alberts have brother and his children."

[10] "United States Census, 1940," database with images, FamilySearch, Kenneth Chalmers, Ward C, Fort Collins, Fort Collins City, Larimer, Colorado, United States; citing enumeration district (ED) 35-48, sheet 4A, line 22, family 95, Sixteenth Census of the United States, 1940, NARA digital publication T627. Records of the Bureau of the Census, 1790 - 2007, RG 29. Washington, D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 2012, roll 467; "United States Census, 1930," database with images, FamilySearch, Kenneth W Chalmers, Hartsel, Park, Colorado, United States; citing enumeration district (ED) ED 13, sheet 1A, line 24, family 8, NARA microfilm publication T626 (Washington D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 2002), roll 248; FHL microfilm 2,339,983; "United States Census, 1900," database with images, FamilySearch, Kenneth W Chalmers in household of Harold Chalmers, Precincts 7-12, 17-18 Lake George, West Four Mile, Freshwater, Martsel, Garo, Salt Works, Howb, Park, Colorado, United States; citing enumeration district (ED) 188, sheet 3B, family 53, NARA microfilm publication T623 (Washington, D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 1972.); FHL microfilm 1,240,127; "Colorado Statewide Marriage Index, 1853-2006," database with images, FamilySearch ( : 10 December 2017), Kenneth Wadley Chalmers and Muriel Elizabeth Mortimer, 21 Nov 1925, Colorado Springs, El Paso, Colorado, United States; citing no. 15254, State Archives, Denver; FHL microfilm 1,690,061.

[11] "United States Census, 1920," database with images, FamilySearch, Muriel E Mortimer in household of Stella L Mortimer, Colorado Springs, El Paso, Colorado, United States; citing ED 78, sheet 2A, line 17, family 36, NARA microfilm publication T625 (Washington D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 1992), roll 163; FHL microfilm 1,820,163.

[12] "United States Census, 1940," database with images, FamilySearch, Stella L Mortimer in household of John H Mortimer, Colorado Springs, Election Precinct 20, El Paso, Colorado, United States; citing enumeration district (ED) 21-22, sheet 9B, line 41, family 218, Sixteenth Census of the United States, 1940, NARA digital publication T627. Records of the Bureau of the Census, 1790 - 2007, RG 29. Washington, D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 2012, roll 461; "United States Census, 1930," database with images, FamilySearch, Stella L Mortimer in household of John H Mortimer, Colorado Springs, El Paso, Colorado, United States; citing enumeration district (ED) ED 20, sheet 7A, line 46, family 164, NARA microfilm publication T626 (Washington D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 2002), roll 241; FHL microfilm 2,339,976; "United States Census, 1910," database with images, FamilySearch, Stella Mortimer in household of John H Mortimer, Colorado Springs Ward 3, El Paso, Colorado, United States; citing enumeration district (ED) ED 41, sheet 1A, family 20, NARA microfilm publication T624 (Washington D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 1982), roll 119; FHL microfilm 1,374,132; "United States Census, 1900," database with images, FamilySearch, Stella L Mortimer in household of John H Mortimer, Precinct 1-7, 9 Hugo, Arriba, Bovina, Limon, Rush Creek, Sanbom, Urbana, Walks Camp, Lincoln, Colorado, United States; citing enumeration district (ED) 181, sheet 11B, family 189, NARA microfilm publication T623 (Washington, D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, 1972.); FHL microfilm 1,240,126.

[13] "England and Wales Census, 1891," database with images, FamilySearch, John H Mortimer in household of Frank James, Ledbury, Herefordshire, England; from "1891 England, Scotland and Wales census," database and images, findmypast (http://www.findmypast.com : n.d.); citing PRO RG 12, Herefordshire county, subdistrict, The National Archives of the UK, Kew, Surrey; "England and Wales Census, 1881," database with images, FamilySearch, John H Mortimer in household of John Mortimer, Easington, Yorkshire,Yorkshire North Riding, England; from "1881 England, Scotland and Wales Census," database and images, findmypast (http://www.findmypast.com : n.d.); citing p. 9, Piece/Folio 4839/38, The National Archives, Kew, Surrey; FHL microfilm 101,775,347.

[everydayshalloween]

Henry III of England: BLANCHE, GET OFF OF ME-

Blanche of Castile, Queen of France, sitting on his back: Make me, motherfucker.

Isabella of England, Holy Roman Empress: Should we do something?

Richard of Cornwall: Nah, this is quality entertainment.

Henry III: RICHARD, YOU ASSHOLE, I CAN HEAR YOU-

[criteriondiary]

「アームチェアの少女」The Girl in the Armchair Directed by Alice Guy Blaché • 1912 • United States Starring Blanche Cornwall, Mace Greenleaf

７０点

裕福な家の息子が、ギャンブルにハマり、父親の金を盗み返済するが、少女に諭され、改心する物語

起　実家に帰る。少女に出会う。

承　悪友にギャンブルに誘われる。

転　ギャンブルにハマり、ユダヤ人に金を借り返済できなくなり

父親の金庫から金を盗む。それをアームチェアの中で見ていた彼女は置き手紙をして家をでていく。

結　少女の手紙を見た父親に問い詰められ、息子は全てを懺悔し、

少女と結婚する

23.3.17

[news24fr]

UNprès 47 apparitions, le Festival international du mime de Londres tire sa révérence finale comme une extravagance à grande échelle et multi-sites. Désormais, des productions théâtrales physiques et visuelles sous son égide apparaîtront dans des salles du Royaume-Uni tout au long de l'année. Pourquoi le changement ? Aucune raison n'a été donnée. Les directeurs actuels du festival, Helen Lannaghan et Joseph Seelig, disent simplement que les plans futurs seront annoncés sur le site « en temps voulu ».Le fidèle festivalier David Glass et son ensemble incarnent, à certains égards, l'esprit de l'événement : international, inclusif, innovant. Cette année, en collaboration avec la société italienne Topi Dalmatesdirigé par Margherita Fusi et Silvia Bruni, il présente Les mariées.Pendant plus de 70 minutes, sept mariées en robes blanches sont rassemblées autour de la scène par une créature ressemblant à une duègne vêtue d'une jupe cerclée noire et d'un long voile noir (François Testory). Une bande-son oscille entre une variété de numéros pop et classiques. La narration, généralement un aspect fort du travail de Glass, est ici faible. Les mariées fonctionnent principalement en formation de chœur, frappant des attitudes qui évoquent la statuaire classique, ou rebondissant avec un abandon animal, en grognant.Le festival a été le catalyseur d'une grande partie de ce qui est passionnant et stimulant dans le théâtre britannique d'aujourd'huiÀ un moment donné, ils montent à tour de rôle sur une chaise et miment avoir des relations sexuelles, du moins semble-t-il; ailleurs, ils se battent et s'arrachent les cheveux (de la tête et du pubis). Ces épisodes exagérés et trop longs menacent d'étouffer les moments d'esprit et d'humour (l'utilisation habile d'un cadre photo comme s'il s'agissait d'une caméra enfermant des scènes mélodramatiques à la Hitchcock en est une).Le programme nous dit que "supervisé par l'épouse de la mort [Testory]" ils traversent " le printemps, l'été, l'automne et l'hiver de leur vie [and] attendre un marié, qui ne viendra peut-être jamais ». L'impression que ces « mariées » ont besoin d'une figure masculine pour parvenir à l'achèvement est communiquée trop puissamment, brisant l'objectif déclaré de Glass « d'autonomiser et de soutenir les voix féminines ».À ses débuts en 1977, le festival international du mime de Londres se voulait une vitrine unique pour le théâtre non textuel. Catalyseur d'une grande partie de ce qui est passionnant et stimulant dans le théâtre britannique d'aujourd'hui, il a placé la diversité et l'innovation au cœur de ses préoccupations dès le départ, avec des compagnies britanniques telles que Three Women, Black Mime Theatre et le British National Theatre of the Deaf apparaissant aux côtés de compagnies. de Bulgarie, de Tchécoslovaquie (comme c'était le cas), d'Inde, du Japon, de Suisse et plus encore. Complicité (alors Théâtre de Complicité) a présenté son premier spectacle, Mettez-le sur votre têteréau festival en 1984, tandis qu'en 1987, Kneehigh est venu de Cornwall pour faire ses débuts à Londres avec Paradis de fou.Les ateliers ont été une autre composante importante du programme du festival, réunissant le public et les artistes pour explorer les formes présentées sur scène et apprendre de certains des plus grands noms du théâtre physique (Jacques Lecoq parmi eux). Lorsque le travail est fragmenté et diffusé, ce grand mélange et mélange et partage d'idées sera perdu. C'est une perte pour nous tous. Les mariées est à Jacksons Lane, Londres, jusqu'au 29 janvier Le festival international du mime de Londres 2023 se poursuit jusqu'au 5 février

[classicmoviesarchive]

Falling Leaves (1912) / Silent short film / Mace Greenleaf, Blanche Cornwall, Marian Swayne

[randomrichards]

THE GIRL IN THE ARM-CHAIR:

Gambling addict

Hurts his beloved girlfriend

When he starts stealing

[adscinema]

Falling Leaves - Alice Guy (1912)

Short

[maxwelltait]

Falling Leaves (Guy, 1912)

[theshadowstage]

Blanche Cornwall in The Motion Picture Story Magazine, September 1912. Internet Archive.

[silvestromedia]

SAINTS OCTOBER 18

St. Luke, the writer of the Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles, has been identified with St. Paul's "Luke, the beloved physician. Feast day is October 18th. https://www.vaticannews.va/en/saints/10/18/st--luke--evangelist--physician---patron-of--artists.html

St. Justus of Beauvais, Roman Catholic Martyr. Justus was reported to the authorities to be a Christian magician, and soldiers were sent to arrest him. When confronted at Beauvais, Justus, who was nine years old, confessed that he was a Christian, and he was immediately beheaded Feast day is October 18th.

St. Gwen, 5th century. Widowed martyr sometimes called Blanche, Wenn, or Candida. She was the daughter of a Chieftain, Brychan or Brecknock. Saxon pagans martyred Gwen at Talgrarth.

St. Keyna, 5th century. Welsh virgin, also called Keyne or Ceinwen. She is possibly one of the twentyfour children of the chieftain Brychan of Brecknock, Wales. Keyna supposedly became a hermitess on the banks of the Severn River in Somerset, England St. Cadoc, her nephew, convinced her to return to Wales. She founded churches in southern Wales and in Cornwall, England, and possibly in Somerset.

St. Monon, 645 A.D. Scottish pilgrim who moved to Ardennes, France, to become a hermit in that area. Monon was murdered at Nassogne, in Luxembourg, by a group of unrepentant sinners.

St. Peter of Alcantara, Roman Catholic Fransican Priest. Feast day is October 18th.