#Contemplating self-publishing it now

[the-dragon-hearted]

I have once again spontaneously decided that this update shall include two chapters.

What can I say I wanted to kill off both of Makarov's parents in the same weekend :D

[neil-gaiman]

Hello, Neil - I just wanted to thank you (and Terry, who is dearly missed) for saving my life. I was 12 years old, my dad had died two months before after a long struggle with cancer. I hated everyone and everything, and was in a bad place contemplating self harm. And - on a whim - I picked up Good Omens at the library. Reading that book was the first time I'd laughed in several months. It helped me find humor again - and something in life worth living for. I'm now 29 years old, in the final years of finishing my doctorate, I've spoken at conferences showcasing my research, and my first book was published just a little over a year ago. I owe my life - and all my successes since - to finding a little more humor in the world at the darkest time in my life.

I'm dearly looking forward to Season 2, and wish you and everyone involved all success in the world.

Well done. I'm proud of you. I wish I could show this to Terry.

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 8)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

GIF: Originally posted by @darklinsblog

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Nightmares. Violence. Dub/non con. Kissing. Nudity. AFAB + AMAB penetrative sex. Unprotected sex. Plot related cigarette use. Language.

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: Hello there! I wasn't intending on posting this chapter until I had the others finished but I guess Tumblr took that decision away from me and published instead of saving! Oh well, guess I'll roll with it. As always, I hope you enjoy and would be very happy to hear your thoughts. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

---------------------------------------------

The combination of the darkened clouds and the even more desaturated décor is making the room despairingly claustrophobic.

Sporadic breaths rattle up and down your trachea; a remnant of the fear that had been created by the tail end of that conversation. You are struggling to make sense of the direction it had taken; the barrelling downward spiral whereby you discovered your newfound status.

No longer do you hold the lone title of soulmate. You are a captive.

At least that's what Morpheus made it sound like. The word is shudder inducing and a fresh trickle of bile spills into your mouth.

The door he left through, the one blocking your freedom, you are standing close enough to it that you can see every grain and groove of the ebony wood - and the curious absence of a handle or lock. With a flattened hand you gingerly press against the varnished surface, upping the pressure when you don't appear to have tripped any alarms. There's no movement no matter how hard you push, not that you really anticipated any. Morpheus said locked in for a reason. Regardless, you feel that you needed to try just in case he had changed his mind. Again, an eventuality that you do not expect.

You get the sense that Morpheus' grasp of stubbornness would rival that belonging to a group of at least 100,000 people; he is a ruler, and a centuries-old one at that. Accustomed to being in control, well versed in the art of exerting it.

He's chilling too. That nightmare quality really won out just now. You have seen darkness in his eyes before, (brought on by intense moments including sexual desire) and the effects he can have on the environments surrounding him, but this was a whole new breed.

The deflection. The disdain. The remorselessness. How the shadows had danced around him like crude oil twisting in water, a cloak of obscurity and energy to drive you away and leave you isolated.

And your relentlessness was the catalyst for it being unleashed. You're unsure as to why you brought up the theoretical consequences of refusing to be his soulmate. It had just slipped out. There were numerous other ways in which you could have handled the situation yet that was the conversational path you took.

You shudder again, wrapping your arms around your middle in an attempt to self-soothe. It provides a measure of relief but also draws attention to the fact that he should be doing this. Morpheus should be holding you. Talking this through with you.

Instead he left you standing on the marble floor, the intrinsically endothermic nature of the material causing iciness to seep up your legs via your bare feet.

Seeking warmth, you move back to the bed and dejectedly lie down.

The usual covered plate of food has appeared on the bedside table; your expression is so obviously rattled that you can see every detail despite the metal's distortion. You roll over, not wanting to contemplate eating for even a second.

Your entire body is tense, with epicentres in your tight chest and thought-clogged brain, the latter of which is showing signs of inducing a migraine. You breathe with steady intent, a review of the encounter relentlessly replaying.

One question keeps rising to the surface, getting louder and more insistent with each iteration:

Why was he doing this?

He had said it was to protect you. That it was dangerous outside. Was the dream world suddenly that different now that you had free will? Surely he would have led with that if it were true. Found a way to make it safe...

He's been unfalteringly devoted to you in every other way thus far. The aftercare looked to be proof enough of his character. The reassurance, and explanations during the soul-tying. Holding you. Staying beside you while you slept, even though he did not require the rest himself.

But then there is the distinct lack of sharing, both of his internal and external worlds, and of course the 'it is not your place to do so' comment.

That one really stings. You had been convinced that you were his equal. Yet the way the words fell so easily from his mouth, without hesitation nor any sign of an underpinning emotion - it sounded like a response that was not uttered in the heat of the moment.

How were you to know though?

You've not known him for that long and it's not like you can tell from the bond between you, even now after days of longing to and trying to pick up on something, anything that would inform you of his heart. The one thing you can attempt to read into is the state of the ceiling sky; you are getting a sense that it is linked directly to his moods. Its sudden deterioration the moment you had voiced your concerns couldn't have been a coincidence, could it?

The more you grapple for meaning, the harder you are finding it to reconcile the evidence before you, so conflicted on your opinion of him, of the situation. Yet no amount of speculation and reframing could take away from the few facts you have:

The Fates had told you of an unfathomably long imprisonment that Morpheus had endured and suffered in.

So why was he putting you in a parallel of that?

How can someone who is supposed to be your soulmate be so unreadable to you, and so inexplicably cruel?

You curl into a ball, groaning out loud in frustration.

You ponder if there is something defective within you, if he can see something that you are too human to perceive. Maybe you deserve this on some level because you are not quite enough for him.

"No," you say out loud, firmly casting that contemptuous thought out of your mind.

You will not go in for self-loathing or self-pity. You are strong and capable and compassionate. Morpheus is still your soulmate. You can fix this. Once he's back, you will talk about this.

The resolution seems to lessen the lingering despair enough that you unwittingly fall asleep.

-----------------------------

There's an anticipatory undercurrent to the chatter being passed back and forth across the circular tables spaced evenly across the function room.

You're sat at one such table, the hands folded in your lap occasionally brushing against the heavy dark blue velvet draped over the wood, the feel of the material's sumptuous pile triggering pleasant goosebumps.

Ice laden water jugs and bowls of savoury snacks occupy the middle of the table, and each seat is designated by a placeholder. Your name is displayed in a bold font across the folded piece of stiff card in front of you and the names of all your colleagues have been typed out on matching markers.

The lighting could be described as ambient, moody even - a strange choice for such a celebratory event. The strongest source of light is directed towards a projection screen, where the order of events are being presented.

You thumb the lock screen button on the right hand side of your phone to check the time. 20:28. The scheduled break is due to end soon. You take a sip of water from the tumbler stamped with your lipstick and wait.

The microphone on the podium clicks and crackles as it is brought back to life and all heads turn in unison towards the man standing there. A spotlight provided by the professional lighting rig suspended above is ignited, the light from it so bright that it obscures every feature on his face.

His tone is light as he reels off a few formalities, making a joke about the speed of which some individuals had headed to the bar come the start of the interval, eliciting a sequence of throaty laughs from the crowd. He then jumps back into the award giving.

"This person, I know for a fact has really been putting in the effort with developing the traits required to truly embody this accolade and everything it stands for. Taking gullible to the next level, allowing themself to be debased and shutting down all logical reasoning. A veritable inspiration of inconsequentiality; therefore, it comes as no surprise that the award for most worthless human goes to -"

He pauses for effect, and the entire room watches on with baited breath.

Condensation beads slip down the outside of the jug closest to you, mirroring a perspiration bead that has begun to slide from your nape. You look away from the stage, feeling an impending sense of doom slink into your stomach with the nausea that suddenly washes over you. Your intuition is well-founded.

The microphone wheezes as the man inhales the breath needed to deliver the announcement.

He says your name.

The applause that follows is rapturous; a chorus of hollers and whistles punctuating the clapping. It's like you're at a rock concert.

None of it aligns with the damning description of the award name. Under no circumstance do you want to go and accept it; doing so would show that you agree with the committee.

You sneak a glance over your shoulder, wincing at the harsh fluorescents spilling in from the foyer through the set of double doors - that is where you quietly need to get to.

You're pushing your chair back slowly and carefully, about to attempt this surreptitious exit when a spotlight hits you. The hand going for your bag freezes mid-reach.

It's as if a tractor beam has been activated. You cannot stop yourself from standing, cannot stop yourself from walking on the scuffed wooden floor, made that way from years of dancing.

The journey to the stage on your shaky legs is long, given your distance from it, intensified even further by the stares of your peers. You go up the steps at the side of the stage, jelly legs adding risk with the slight elevation. You grip the handrail in a white-knuckled fist.

The award waits on the podium: an oversized key on a black plinth, the golden colour of the metal glints temptingly. With your gaze turned downwards, the man shakes your hand with the pressure of a constrictor, praising you with words that you can't hear above the continued applause.

You force your mouth into a smile and ready yourself to take the award, telling yourself that being gracious is the best approach you can take.

Unfortunately, in your moment of acceptance, someone decides to take advantage.

There's a blow to the back of your knee caps.

You cry out from shock and pain; the sound doesn't last long for as soon as your knees make impact with the boards, a gag is forced into your mouth.

The situation and the gag make it hard to breathe in any way other than frantically, pulse just as agitated in your tight-feeling chest.

The crowd's clapping doesn't stop even as intricate restraints are added at your wrists, even as burning tears and sticky snot stream down your face.

The agony intensifies when you are hauled up by your hair and then herded by several pairs of hands towards the wings of the stage. Your eyes fall on the opaque box that stands just out of view of the crowd.

Its purpose is clear. It is to be your cage.

You're now screaming despite the gag, thrashing as you're dragged towards your doom. Not even allowing yourself to be a dead weight can save you; the cloying fingers are too numerous, too zealous.

The door to the cage opens and the presence of the oppressive void within ekes out towards you like a disturbing fog. Whatever is in there, you can sense it will smother you. Obliterate you slowly. And the people in this room seem to believe you are worthy of such a fate.

The hands anchored on your body begin their last pushes. You whip your head around, making a last attempt to search for an escape when you see a figure out the corner of your eye.

There's no questioning who it is; the person who has been on the periphery of so many dreams these past weeks, you would know him anywhere.

You see a glimpse of movement. Perhaps the raising of a hand. A ripple of power courses through the scene - you feel it vibrate in your chest. Everything freezes, and in that sudden silence you hear Morpheus' solemn and decisive words:

"This dream is over."

You startle, a shriek echoing about the sunless space as you are ripped from the dream. The sheets have you wrapped up like a python; you try with desperation to get free, half-convinced that those relentless hands are still trying to ferry you into that cage.

Floundering, you work and work against the fabric, crying out again when your progress is minimal.

"Soulmate."

Morpheus' deep voice sounds, speaking your name next in such an intimate and gentle way that you instantly halt in your struggle.

He is beside you.

All the attributes of concern are in his facial expression and body language, eyes glistening with an emotion you can't quite place.

"It is over now," he confirms, dissolving the sheet into nothing.

He comes closer, stroking your face with one hand, the other atop your chest with the palm centred on your soul. It's a welcome feeling, his attentions and being free from the tangle of sheets, but you are too far gone for it to stop the fear that the nightmare has set in motion.

"When you said that it was not my place to accompany you, is it because you think I'm less than you?" You ask in a cracking, pitiful voice.

Morpheus stills for a heartbeat, before bending his head to look you straight in the eyes. "No," he breathes. "My soulmate, I could never think that."

He kisses you softly.

It's not what you expected but nevertheless your hands cling to him on instinct, kissing him back and then he's suddenly straddling you. Covering your body with his own to give you a feeling of safety and it's exactly what you require.

You're on the verge of tears from it all, touching the back of his neck, gripping his shoulders to keep him close.

"Morpheus," you call.

"I am here. I am not going anywhere."

He kisses you deeper this time as if to corroborate his statement. It incrementally lessens your doubts and anxieties but there's a call for communication too.

"We need to talk about what happened," you say with quiet assertion.

For a moment, you wonder if he has even heard you for he claims your mouth again.

"I do not wish to talk," he eventually replies, immediately diving back in for yet another kiss. "I wish to take away your anguish."

"But -"

He hushes you, a soothing shut down that would be infuriating if not for the lingering unease of the nightmare clogging your emotions. "Let us forget what was said. Let us instead indulge in the pleasure of each other's bodies."

You blink, slowly processing his explicit inference, taken aback by the very obvious physical reactions they inspire. You force yourself to adopt a professional expression as your arousal begins to leak onto your gown.

"I want to talk to you."

He's smiling smugly as he tilts his head to the side. "Your emotions betray you dearest, as does your body. I know exactly what you want and it is not conversation."

Shame rises but is quickly blotted out by Morpheus' next action.

You feel bare skin against yours; he's used his power to disrobe you as well as him. A protest forms - he stifles it with his mouth. Your eyes are wide as you take it, as he shifts his weight ever so slightly to align your hips.

His own eyes stare you down after he pulls back, unblinking like an apex predator who has caught sight of its favourite prey.

Easy prey.

That's what you are.

He arranges you as such too; grasping your legs and moving your knees to your chest to bend you in half. Pinning you underneath him.

Neither of you last long with the tightness of the angle once you allow him to enter you.

To say you are dazed afterwards would be an understatement. The events of the past few hours have been persistently erratic. If Morpheus feels the same then it isn't apparent. The colour of his eyes are as clear and stable as the weather above, hand warming his favoured spot on your chest.

Your own hands wander up and down his body, running smoothly over his enticing skin.

"You have not touched your food," he comments quietly.

One of your palms moves absentmindedly to trail lazily across your abdomen. "If I'm being honest, I've been struggling to eat since I got here. For some reason I have no appetite or thirst."

"That would be a result of the immortality."

Your hands freeze up, brain doing the opposite as it spins out in a hundred directions.

"W-what did you say?" You stammer, praying you have misheard him.

"The immortality," he clarifies. "My power is within you and with it, comes certain endurances."

You sit up and put some space between you both. This was a serious matter. Despite your empty stomach you feel like you are going to vomit.

"How long have you known that?"

"It does not matter."

Red rag to a bull doesn't come close to covering what his dismissive reply makes you feel. The set of your jaw is so tight that a section on the left side begins to feather. You talk through gritted teeth, levelling a furious glare at him - making it transparent that you are not going to tolerate his evasiveness any longer:

"Tell me how long."

He makes the smart decision to pause to select his reply, though you decipher from the suddenly overcast sky that it is not going to be one that you will like.

"Since our souls joined."

Your hand flies to your chest, to your soul as tears start to brew.

"That was days ago!"

Morpheus simply looks at you.

"Did you not think that I had a right to know about something as life changing as that?"

He opens his mouth to respond but you cut him off before he can issue a syllable.

"Please can you give me some time alone?"

Morpheus' intense stare - the one that had gone from intimidating to exhilarating - has now become distressing and you need to get out from under it.

To his credit, he does what you asked and the moment the door is closed, the tears you have been holding back start to flow freely. The ceiling sky is so crowded with dark clouds that you are convinced that it's going to do the same as your eyes.

You feel like you've been tricked. You didn't ask for this, nor were you consulted.

The gilding has fully tarnished now, revealing that things were too good to be true. And had been from the very beginning. You had been swept up in the haze of sexual satisfaction, too blinded by the soul bond to see clearly. The nightmare had spelled it out flawlessly: gullible, debased and without logical reasoning.

The previous success in derailing your self-loathing falls short now. You are bolting down the path of internal admonishment.

How could you have been so naïve?

The answer is your hubris. It had felt good to be finally wanted, chosen to be a part of something bigger than yourself by making a difference to the Dreaming. Unless you had misunderstood.

No, the Fates had told you it in no uncertain terms. What they hadn't done however was provide a time frame. You had stupidly assumed it would be effective immediately. Instead you could be looking at decades, centuries even with this newfound information.

Even with the promise of eventual fulfilment, there was little chance that you would last for years in this room with your sanity intact.

You need distraction from the demoralising thought so you bluster through your bathroom routine like a whirlwind, slamming containers down where possible and huffing out exasperated sounds.

While the gown has re-materialised on the hook by the shower, you are dead set against putting it back on. You go to the bedside table and dive into the drawers to find your clothes from the night of the award ceremony, uncovering the cigarettes and lighter you forgot had been hidden there.

You don't even think before lighting one up, hoping that the nicotine will take the edge off your despair. You are quick to finish it and the clarity it brings encourages you to have a second. And then a third.

From the combination of your reclined position on the sheets and the dainty way you hold each cigarette, you can't help but feel like a 1940s starlet. It injects a bit of delirious humour, and also gumption into the mix.

"You are not at fault here," you whisper out loud. "He is the one who has an understanding of how soulmates work. He withheld that. You are allowed to be pissed off with him and you should let him see it."

-----------------------------

By the time Morpheus returns, you are in full possession of your wits and sit perched at the foot of the bed. You regard each other; he appears a touch drawn out, eyes subdued and a small line marking the space between his eyebrows.

"You have been smoking," he states flatly.

Buoyed by the confidence gifted to you by said activity, you inhale the scent of the lingering bluish fog, flashing a sardonic smile as you audibly breathe out, labouring the point with the pleasurable sigh.

"What else was I supposed to do while I waited for you to come back?" You cross your legs and smooth out a non-existent wrinkle in the bedclothes you meticulously rearranged.

The effects of your sarcasm are immediate; the air is becoming ominously dense, threatening to unleash a storm of epic proportions. Morpheus' fists clench and the pressure is dampened a fraction.

"Give them to me," he asks in a monotone.

"No."

Your connection is so devoid of dissonance at this point. Morpheus is stone carved. The kind of impenetrable that would shred and destroy finger nails; there is no point in trying to claw your way to the being beneath. The apathy sends your anger to new heights, compelling that shamefully vindictive part of you into lashing out. You want to hurt him just as he has hurt you.

"They're the only thing I have left from my real life."

A lethal quality seeps into his reply, "That life ended the moment you stepped out onto that street."

"Well then I should have run from you that night," you provoke further, tone biting as glacial ice on exposed skin.

The same shadows from before are crowding about his person, settling in his eyes - a tell that you have unleashed the nightmare form. You have to actively remind yourself to breathe at an even pace. All things you had queued up to say to him are long gone as you gaze upon his dark majesty.

"Even if you had been able to evade me, hide your physical body, I would have found you the moment you fell asleep."

The tether on his control slips as a single bolt of lightning turns the room to a white-out. The thunder never comes, instead the rumble of his voice.

"Do not think that I had not anticipated a refusal. I was more than prepared to use force to get what I wanted. What I was promised. I will not share you with anyone. You are mine. My soulmate. You -"

He stops unexpectedly and head snapping to look at the door.

You roll your eyes. "Let me guess, something requires your attention."

He takes in a deep breath. "I will return shortly."

You watch sullenly as he leaves you behind yet again, about to resume smoking when you feel an urge to re-examine the door. It is as pointless as before; no handle nor locks. Your fists hit the mahogany once, then twice before your composure fully deteriorates and you begin to hammer on it. Not because you are hoping to snag someone's awareness, for you heard it from Morpheus that no one could find this place. Sadly, you do it because you are losing hope.

Dejection momentarily quelled, you resort to staring at the door with such concentration that you fear it may trigger another headache.

"How the fuck do you work?" You ask it.

If there is no tangible way of holding it then that left the metaphysical as its locking mechanism. Metaphysical power that came from him - that now resided in you.

Maybe you could use it to break out...

You huff out a laugh at your optimism. There is no harm in trying.

Decision made, you make a quick trip to the bathroom to get the ruby ring you put by the sink. There's no chance you're escaping and leaving a beloved family heirloom behind.

You walk confidently to the door and plant yourself a forearm's length from it. The gold of the ring glimmers on your right hand as your press your palm to the glossy wood.

You do not want to be the person you were in the nightmare; forced into a box-encased void and cut off from the universe. You want to learn, to experience, to love. You want to have dreams and you're willing to make them with or without their master.

You are going to get out of here.

-----------------------------

Tag list: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt @littleblackcatinwonderland @1950schick @lollipopsandlandmines

"I'm walking down the line that divides me somewhere in my mind. On the borderline of the edge, and where I walk alone."

[ddgraywrites]

WIP: Fictional Flame

You've Got Mail meets Beauty Shop when Paige Dela Cruz, a hairstylist aspiring to open the first Filipino-owned hair salon in the heart of little Winnipeg, falls head over heels for Christian Sato, or so she thought.

Paige Dela Cruz is a hairstylist who falls head over heels for the charming and sexy Christian Sato, or so she thought. She's actually talking to Eddy Silva, Christian's cousin.

While Paige and Eddy's messages become more intimate with each passing text, Eddy finds himself wanting to let go of his facade and show Paige the person he truly is.

As if her love life wasn't complicated enough, Paige faces another threat to her well-being. Her boss, Michael Coward. He takes everything from her - her clients, her tips, and her time. As Paige endures the constant nonsensical wrath of her boss, she begins to doubt if she'll ever be able to open the salon of her dreams.

_______________

I've contemplated whether or not I should post this because the more I think about my WIP, the more embarrassed I get which is so bizarre cause I'm over here trying to make it as a romance author. The self-sabotage and imposter syndrome are really sinking in right now which is exactly why I decided to finally share the details of my WIP.

Why did I write this book?

I was a hairstylist for 5 years and met the most amazing (and awful) people in the industry and I wanted to tell a more dramatized version of what happens in this cut-throat world that is hairstyling.

As a Filipino-Canadian living in little Winnipeg, I also wanted to share glimpses of what it's like being raised by immigrants, the food, and the covert racism I've encountered throughout the years.

Lastly, I just wanted to write my own romance because I love love. I love reading and watching love stories. I've always been a hopeless romantic. After my dad died in 2021, I needed some sort of outlet. I started writing a fantasy about a young girl who also lost her dad but then I reached a point where I couldn’t move on cause fantasy was too big for my brain to fathom lol. So I decided to stick to a genre I knew I could do well, and that was romance.

_______________

I feel incredibly vulnerable right now while I type this because I'm BRACING for the criticism and the eye rolls. Not that anyone has ever done that, it's just the aNxIeTy talking. But again, thank you for following me on this journey to become a traditionally published author (crossing my fingers SO hard) and if you're also a romance author and need a critique partner/beta reader, please DM me so we can do a little swap-aroo (I just lost you there, didn't I?)

Here's the sign-up form if you're interested in beta-reading Fictional Flame: https://docs.google.com/

I'm not sure how to end this so in true Canadian fashion, thank you again and sorry for saying thank you so many times. ❤️

[dustdeepsea]

Writer Interview

Tagged by @my-favourite-zhent nearly 3 weeks ago and I've entirely missed the wave.

I've enjoyed reading so many interesting ones by my mutuals! Tagging (only if you're keen) @graysparrowao3 @coreene @say-lene @luvwich @grossestjay —and if I've missed your interview somehow, tag me in the comments!

Q&A after the cut—

When did you start writing?

I wrote my first fanwork at age 12. It was self-insert fanfiction with me and 2 of my friends in the Slayers anime universe, which meant it was several comedic sketches strung together with with lots of actions denoted by asterisks and emoticons. You know the ones ^_^ ^____^ @_@ T_T *slaps you gently with a trout*

We printed it out on someone's home printer and bound copies in plastic school folders with a two-hole punch. I've lost the original file ages ago, but I would love to read it again.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

When I was younger, I actively sought out "difficult stories" because I wanted to experience things beyond my day to day life. I read Nabokov at 16 because everyone kept saying Lolita was a dangerous book. I also read a lot of Chuck Palahniuk and Bret Easton Ellis without really understanding them.

My pretentiousness definitely peaked in my university days. My dating profile at the time listed: Herman Hesse, Kazuo Ishiguro and Mikhail Bulgakov.

Now that I'm older, I read and write stories primarily to make myself happy.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

I'm not remotely at the level where I get compared to any published writers.

My favourite contemporary writer is David Mitchell (of Cloud Atlas fame), and my favourite book by him is The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

My favourite "classic" novel is The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I type at my desk, in a study shared with my partner. Sometimes if the scene is particularly spicy or they are gaming too loudly, I take the laptop to the living room.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Bouncing plot bunnies off others on Discord, talking a walk or a long train ride, playing an immersive video game and rotating characters in my head for hours afterwards.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

According to my lovely readers:

"Romantic and sweaty"; "two silly sausages frying in a pan" (thanks to my long time beta-reader @littleplasticrat)

"Purity, temperance, glimpse of [the] ability for real love / real forgiveness" (thank you @tellmeallaboutit!)

These did surprise me a bit when they were first pointed out but it makes sense—I've been accidentally writing Regency romances and repressed idiots in love without setting out to do so explicitly.

What is your reason for writing?

I put aside hobbies for many years because of my work (no matter what advertisers want you to believe—doomscrolling is not a hobby). Started doing more creative things during my sabbatical last year, and writing was one of the things that saved my broken corpo soul.

Nowadays I'm really into bread making and cooking in general. I'm trying to balance work and creative pursuits and I'm much happier overall.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Any and all comments are received with love <3 <3 <3 I really enjoy it when people let me know what lines really resonated with them or point out motifs I'd snuck in.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Friendly and approachable! Not entirely hyperfixated on That One NPC from a Video Game with Five Lines (that one might be harder now...!)

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

A fairly broad vocabulary, including anachronisms, which is useful for fantasy story settings. Writing characters who are actively lying to themselves (thinking one thing and saying/doing another).

My writing tends to be on the more contemplative side and a bit sadder and slower paced, so if you enjoy A Great Deal of Yearning along with your smut, then it would appeal to you :)

How do you feel about your own writing?

I'm pretty happy with it! I write very, very slowly, with constant edits as I go, and would probably starve if I ever had to rely on my fiction writing to be paid. Luckily, I get to do this as a hobby.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

I write for myself, but I am also super blessed to have a very small but vocal audience that I can interact with directly. I guess my best advice is: Write for yourself and your 10 friends who want to read your hand-bound home-printed self-insert fanfic <3

[thatndginger]

y'all my ego is running unchecked right now. not only have I been contemplating trying to get Into the Storm and maybe The Runaway published (a thing I never considered until this year) but I'm reading back through some of the earlier chapters for Continuity and damn I'm good

like they are still very much in the rough draft stage but I'm a pretty fucking good writer it turns out

Anyway I don't know what to do with this level of self-aggrandizement and Cryptid will only tell me I'm right and stoke my ego further, so I'm saying this to the void that is tumblr instead

[valley0fstorms]

Misery Loves Company

A little thing I wrote in 2022 about Faust, published here on ao3. I still like it so I hope you enjoy it! TW: Mentions of Self Harm and Suicide

A man sat alone in his room, his body scared. The ones from battle he had known well, and the ones that were self inflicted he knew even better. It had been centuries since the revolution in the Central Country. Centuries had passed since he had let so many people down and led them to their deaths.

He had contemplated suicide before, he craved an end befit of a murderer, but he never went through with it. Dying was a coward's way out. Living was a much more painful punishment. When the world deemed him fit to die, he would.

He hated the thought of it. The thought of him living on when so many of the young wizards under him had been slain weighed on him. He had once believed it to have been for a noble cause, that their sacrifices would mean something, but when he was raised onto that pyre, he realized he had been wrong. He realized that the humans his comrades had fought and died for thought nothing more of them than as weapons. 

He was over 400 years old now; the Central Kingdom had thrived after the revolution under the Granvelle rule. After being saved by his friend and former servant, he ran. He didn't want to have to see or be near the humans. He didn't want to be anywhere near the country he had helped to build. 

He ran east, deep into the wild where no human would want to go. A place perfect for him. He built a new life deep within it. A house by a river deep within a cursed valley. The only disturbances he had were those of nature, but he didn't mind. 

He had planted seeds in the area around his new home. Plants bloomed, drawing creatures near. The birds would nest in the trees nearby, the fish of the river would splash and swim, and the creatures would run and play outside. The sights made him happy. It numbed the scars that weighed on him, even if only for a moment. Even if he believed he didn't deserve solace, the land around him gave it. 

He had made a new life for himself. He made sure that no one, unless desperate, would even want to disturb his peace. He painted his image as a curseworker so that humans wouldn't disturb his quiet life of regret and atonement, else he risk doing more damage to himself. 

It's been a few decades since he became a Sage's Wizard, a task he found bothersome. Before now, he simply needed to wait on the cursed day to arrive. After the last confrontation, however, his normal life changed. His comrades had died once more. The entirety of the Southern Wizards, half of the Western Wizards, half of the Central Wizards, and half of his own Eastern Wizards. The only one who survived under him had been the heir of Blanchett.

He, too, had almost died. He'd almost been turned to stone and his miserable, regret-filled life would have ended… but the other surviving Wizards managed to summon a new sage. 

He was saved by a human from another world.

Since then, he had begrudgingly agreed to stay at the Sage's manor. It felt like more trouble than it was worth, however, as the sage had to summon more wizards to replace their fallen comrades. Among those ten summoned wizards, there were three he wished to avoid. 

A teacher, a friend, and a traitor.

The teacher had taught him magic. There was a time when he looked up to him, but the teacher had turned tail. The friend had protected him throughout the revolution. They worked well together, and his devotion was unwavering, but he did not want the friend to die as the rest of his comrades did. The traitor was not a traitor, he was the descendant of one. The descendant was the spitting image of a Granvelle, of the one who put him upon the pyre.

He had never expected to see them. He didn’t want to see them. They were all fragments of his past who came back to haunt him. There was another among them, as well. A boy from the Central Kingdom who reminded him of his foolish past self. A boy dedicated to his faith and his role to help humans. The man felt a sense of pity for him, but minded his business. If the boy wished to go down his current path, he could.

He was aware of his standing in the Central Kingdom. He was aware of his status as a savior and saint. He hated it. He hated how the traitor allowed for his actions against him to be dismissed and instead worshiped him as a hero. He was never a hero. If he was anything, he was a murderer. 

In a way, his solitude was a constant punishment and reminder of his failure to act. He preferred it this way. The change in pace brought about by the new sage, however, gave him a chance to connect to others in ways he hadn’t since the revolution. He had his doubts, but he went along to see where it got him, and so far, it seemed to be going well.

A knock came from the door, the familiar voice of a human coming from the other side.

“Faust! Nero finished breakfast, come down when you’re ready!”

Faust smiled at the voice. 

The first human he had trusted since Alec. 

[sitp-recs]

HP Rec Fest, Day 28

I’ve been reccing underrated fics since this blog was created and so I thought “there’s no easier @hprecfest prompt than this one” lol famous last words, this post took me ages to prepare 😂 I was initially overwhelmed by the amount of fics that came to mind, and going through my bookmarks and old recs only made it worse. How was I supposed to shortlist?? In the end I gave up and decided to rec 2 Drarry fics + 2 rare pairs. I could have included so many more but I really didn’t want this to become a tl;dr post and these rec blurbs are already going out of control, so here we go!

Day 28) an under-rated fic:

Drarry

In Dreams by @moonflower-rose (E, 38k)

Harry wasn't expecting to ever see Draco Malfoy again. He also wasn't expecting to walk into a political conspiracy that morning either, but apparently that's exactly what the day has in store for him.

I’ve screamed quite a few times about this fic (see my rec here) and every time I do it’s in the hopes that more folks will stop whatever they’re doing and go feast on this. not only a delicious and intriguing case fic with Rosie’s trademark epic dialogue and superb sense of humour, this also wins the award of best fic opening I have ever read. the way I gasped at chapter one and am forever haunted by its utterly devastating ending oh my god!!! my heart belongs to this gritty Harry, and the slow burn is masterfully crafted within the urgency of their teamwork to solve the mystery combining comfort, grief and hope in a thrilling, poignant and perfectly paced adventure. plus, the emotional payoff is chef’s kiss, honestly I cannot recommend this enough!

Survival of the Species by @romaine2424 (E, 47k)

Draco approaches Harry on the 9 ¾ platform, after their sons have boarded the Hogwarts Express, and invites him over for tea. The discussion they have leads them on an adventure that neither could have expected. There be dragons! HPDH compliant but before any other canon info had been released.

considering this masterpiece was published back in 2007 I think I���m allowed to say this is definitely a formative story when it comes to the creature genre, more specifically Veela fic. I first read this a couple years ago and my jaw legit dropped at the amount of world-building and carefully researched lore that went into this. so detailed and intricate and different from everything I’ve seen before or since, I was truly fascinated and couldn’t stop reading. kudos to the amazing slow burn covering years of their struggles stuck together in a dragon cave and having to rely on each other to survive. I loved seeing the hardships and how they genuinely came to care for each other, definitely one of the most moving and convincing Veela love stories I’ve read in the fandom.

Rare pair

With a Look by earlybloomingparentheses (Ginny + Deamus, E, 5k)

Now, twenty years old and done with boys and looking forward very much to putting her hand down some lucky girl’s shirt later this evening, Ginny looks at Dean Thomas’s gold-painted fingernails and feels heat pool between her legs.

I think about this fic every now and then - such a sensitive, thought-provoking and beautiful homage to the 🏳️‍🌈 community. the visceral and contemplative tone takes it beyond your regular PWP, and I’ve rarely seen gender and queerness explored quite like this. seeing Ginny figuring out and owning her identify is mesmerizing. her voice is powerful, sexy, earnest and articulates so many complex and layered feelings - I was particularly moved by the inner turmoil of not looking “queer enough”. I’m sure this fic will be eye-opening and comforting to so many people out there, and that’s why I never cease to rec it. an intimate character study, a sinfully hot and self-indulgent threesome but above anything, a poignant love letter to the queer community.

Passion, Patents, and Pen Pals at the Ministry by @violetclarity and @yrfrndfrnkly, art by @anaxandria-writes and @veelawings (Hermione/Pansy, T, 32k)

After an extremely ill-timed lovers'-tiff-turned-food-fight at the Ministry leaves her less one boyfriend and suspended without pay for six months, Hermione pleads for some position–anything–to fill her days until her suspension is up. The good news is, her temporary position in the Magical Games & Sports's Ludicrous Patents office is just down the corridor from Harry's office in General Inquiries. The bad news is Harry's officemate is Pansy Parkinson, the Ministry's operations are shockingly outdated, and every altercation between Hermione and Pansy winds up a headline in MoM's internal rogue gossip zine, Hot Goss.

rivals to secret pen pals to lovers yes please?? this hilarious Pansmione is a ship triumph and yet criminally underrated. I had a blast getting into the world of Ministry gossip & politics, and immediately fell in love with all the characters, l especially with this lovely meddling Harry. it’s SO MUCH FUN to watch poor him (and Blaise omg what a duo) in the middle of a ladies’ tug of war. I’m impressed by the amount of world-building especially around their workplace, not to mention all the side interactions and the fun, organic slow burn. I love this take on identity porn with tons of banter and Pansy and Mione connecting through their shared worldview and feminist principles, such a power couple ✊🏼 the mix of semi-epistolary, witty dialogue, dorky meddling friends and mild angst make for peak entertaining, I laughed non-stop and cheered so bad for them. femslash ftw!!!

[ausetkmt]

A Real Django Unchained: The Ballad Of Robert Charles & The New Orleans Race Riot Of 1900

MOB RULE IN NEW ORLEANS:

ROBERT CHARLES AND HIS FIGHT TO DEATH, THE STORY OF HIS LIFE, BURNING HUMAN BEINGS ALIVE, OTHER LYNCHING STATISTICS

BY

IDA B. WELLS-BARNETT

1900

[Transcriber's Note: This pamphlet was first published in 1900 but was subsequently reprinted. It's not apparent if the curiosities in spelling date back to the original or were introduced later; they have been retained as found, and the reader is left to decide. Please verify with another source before quoting this material. Of special note are the names Cantrell/Cantrelle, Porteous/Porteus, and Ziegel/Zeigel.]

INTRODUCTION

Immediately after the awful barbarism which disgraced the State of Georgia in April of last year, during which time more than a dozen colored people were put to death with unspeakable barbarity, I published a full report showing that Sam Hose, who was burned to death during that time, never committed a criminal assault, and that he killed his employer in self-defense.

Since that time I have been engaged on a work not yet finished, which I interrupt now to tell the story of the mob in New Orleans, which, despising all law, roamed the streets day and night, searching for colored men and women, whom they beat, shot and killed at will.

In the account of the New Orleans mob I have used freely the graphic reports of the New Orleans Times-Democrat and the New Orleans Picayune. Both papers gave the most minute details of the week's disorder. In their editorial comment they were at all times most urgent in their defense of law and in the strongest terms they condemned the infamous work of the mob.

It is no doubt owing to the determined stand for law and order taken by these great dailies and the courageous action taken by the best citizens of New Orleans, who rallied to the support of the civic authorities, that prevented a massacre of colored people awful to contemplate.

For the accounts and illustrations taken from the above-named journals, sincere thanks are hereby expressed.

The publisher hereof does not attempt to moralize over the deplorable condition of affairs shown in this publication, but simply presents the facts in a plain, unvarnished, connected way, so that he who runs may read. We do not believe that the American people who have encouraged such scenes by their indifference will read unmoved these accounts of brutality, injustice and oppression. We do not believe that the moral conscience of the nation—that which is highest and best among us—will always remain silent in face of such outrages, for God is not dead, and His Spirit is not entirely driven from men's hearts.

When this conscience wakes and speaks out in thunder tones, as it must, it will need facts to use as a weapon against injustice, barbarism and wrong. It is for this reason that I carefully compile, print and send forth these facts. If the reader can do no more, he can pass this pamphlet on to another, or send to the bureau addresses of those to whom he can order copies mailed.

Besides the New Orleans case, a history of burnings in this country is given, together with a table of lynchings for the past eighteen years. Those who would like to assist in the work of disseminating these facts, can do so by ordering copies, which are furnished at greatly reduced rates for gratuitous distribution. The bureau has no funds and is entirely dependent upon contributions from friends and members in carrying on the work.

Ida B. Wells-Barnett Chicago, Sept. 1, 1900

MOB RULE IN NEW ORLEANS

SHOT AN OFFICER

The bloodiest week which New Orleans has known since the massacre of the Italians in 1892 was ushered in Monday, July 24, by the inexcusable and unprovoked assault upon two colored men by police officers of New Orleans. Fortified by the assurance born of long experience in the New Orleans service, three policemen, Sergeant Aucoin, Officer Mora and Officer Cantrelle, observing two colored men sitting on doorsteps on Dryades street, between Washington Avenue and 6th Streets, determined, without a shadow of authority, to arrest them. One of the colored men was named Robert Charles, the other was a lad of nineteen named Leonard Pierce. The colored men had left their homes, a few blocks distant, about an hour prior, and had been sitting upon the doorsteps for a short time talking together. They had not broken the peace in any way whatever, no warrant was in the policemen's hands justifying their arrest, and no crime had been committed of which they were the suspects. The policemen, however, secure in the firm belief that they could do anything to a Negro that they wished, approached the two men, and in less than three minutes from the time they accosted them attempted to put both colored men under arrest. The younger of the two men, Pierce, submitted to arrest, for the officer, Cantrelle, who accosted him, put his gun in the young man's face ready to blow his brains out if he moved. The other colored man, Charles, was made the victim of a savage attack by Officer Mora, who used a billet and then drew a gun and tried to kill Charles. Charles drew his gun nearly as quickly as the policeman, and began a duel in the street, in which both participants were shot. The policeman got the worst of the duel, and fell helpless to the sidewalk. Charles made his escape. Cantrelle took Pierce, his captive, to the police station, to which place Mora, the wounded officer, was also taken, and a man hunt at once instituted for Charles, the wounded fugitive.

In any law-abiding community Charles would have been justified in delivering himself up immediately to the properly constituted authorities and asking a trial by a jury of his peers. He could have been certain that in resisting an unwarranted arrest he had a right to defend his life, even to the point of taking one in that defense, but Charles knew that his arrest in New Orleans, even for defending his life, meant nothing short of a long term in the penitentiary, and still more probable death by lynching at the hands of a cowardly mob. He very bravely determined to protect his life as long as he had breath in his body and strength to draw a hair trigger on his would-be murderers. How well he was justified in that belief is well shown by the newspaper accounts which were given of this transaction. Without a single line of evidence to justify the assertion, the New Orleans daily papers at once declared that both Pierce and Charles were desperadoes, that they were contemplating a burglary and that they began the assault upon the policemen. It is interesting to note how the two leading papers of New Orleans, the Picayune and the Times-Democrat, exert themselves to justify the policemen in the absolutely unprovoked attack upon the two colored men. As these two papers did all in their power to give an excuse for the action of the policemen, it is interesting to note their versions. The Times-Democrat of Tuesday morning, the twenty-fifth, says:

Two blacks, who are desperate men, and no doubt will be proven burglars,  made it interesting and dangerous for three bluecoats on Dryades street,  between Washington Avenue and Sixth Street, the Negroes using pistols  first and dropping Patrolman Mora. But the desperate darkies did not go  free, for the taller of the two, Robinson, is badly wounded and under  cover, while Leonard Pierce is in jail.

 For a long time that particular neighborhood has been troubled with bad  Negroes, and the neighbors were complaining to the Sixth Precinct police  about them. But of late Pierce and Robinson had been camping on a door  step on the street, and the people regarded their actions as suspicious.  It got to such a point that some of the residents were afraid to go to  bed, and last night this was told Sergeant Aucoin, who was rounding up  his men. He had just picked up Officers Mora and Cantrell, on Washington  Avenue and Dryades Street, and catching a glimpse of the blacks on the  steps, he said he would go over and warn the men to get away from the  street. So the patrolmen followed, and Sergeant Aucoin asked the smaller  fellow, Pierce, if he lived there. The answer was short and impertinent,  the black saying he did not, and with that both Pierce and Robinson drew  up to their full height.

 For the moment the sergeant did not think that the Negroes meant fight,  and he was on the point of ordering them away when Robinson slipped his  pistol from his pocket. Pierce had his revolver out, too, and he fired  twice, point blank at the sergeant, and just then Robinson began  shooting at the patrolmen. In a second or so the policemen and blacks  were fighting with their revolvers, the sergeant having a duel with  Pierce, while Cantrell and Mora drew their line of fire on Robinson, who  was working his revolver for all he was worth. One of his shots took  Mora in the right hip, another caught his index finger on the right  hand, and a third struck the small finger of the left hand. Poor Mora  was done for; he could not fight any more, but Cantrell kept up his  fire, being answered by the big black. Pierce's revolver broke down, the  cartridges snapping, and he threw up his hands, begging for quarter.

 The sergeant lowered his pistol and some citizens ran over to where the  shooting was going on. One of the bullets that went at Robinson caught  him in the breast and he began running, turning out Sixth Street, with  Cantrell behind him, shooting every few steps. He was loading his  revolver again, but did not use it after the start he took, and in a  little while Officer Cantrell lost the man in the darkness.

 Pierce was made a prisoner and hurried to the Sixth Precinct police  station, where he was charged with shooting and wounding. The sergeant  sent for an ambulance, and Mora was taken to the hospital, the wound in  the hip being serious.

 A search was made for Robinson, but he could not be found, and even at 2  o'clock this morning Captain Day, with Sergeant Aucoin and Corporals  Perrier and Trenchard, with a good squad of men, were beating the weeds  for the black.

The New Orleans Picayune of the same date described the occurrence, and from its account one would think it was an entirely different affair. Both of the two accounts cannot be true, and the unquestioned fact is that neither of them sets out the facts as they occurred. Both accounts attempt to fix the beginning of hostilities upon the colored men, but both were compelled to admit that the colored men were sitting on the doorsteps quietly conversing with one another when the three policemen went up and accosted them. The Times-Democrat unguardedly states that one of the two colored men tried to run away; that Mora seized him and then drew his billy and struck him on the head; that Charles broke away from him and started to run, after which the shooting began. The Picayune, however, declares that Pierce began the firing and that his two shots point blank at Aucoin were the first shots of the fight. As a matter of fact, Pierce never fired a single shot before he was covered by Aucoin's revolver. Charles and the officers did all the shooting. The Picayune's account is as follows:

Patrolman Mora was shot in the right hip and dangerously wounded last  night at 11:30 o'clock in Dryades Street, between Washington and Sixth,  by two Negroes, who were sitting on a door step in the neighborhood.

 The shooting of Patrolman Mora brings to memory the fact that he was one  of the partners of Patrolman Trimp, who was shot by a Negro soldier of  the United States government during the progress of the Spanish-American  war. The shooting of Mora by the Negro last night is a very simple  story. At the hour mentioned, three Negro women noticed two suspicious  men sitting on a door step in the above locality. The women saw the two  men making an apparent inspection of the building. As they told the  story, they saw the men look over the fence and examine the window  blinds, and they paid particular attention to the make-up of the  building, which was a two-story affair. About that time Sergeant J.C.  Aucoin and Officers Mora and J.D. Cantrell hove in sight. The women  hailed them and described to them the suspicious actions of the two  Negroes, who were still sitting on the step. The trio of bluecoats, on  hearing the facts, at once crossed the street and accosted the men. The  latter answered that they were waiting for a friend whom they were  expecting. Not satisfied with this answer, the sergeant asked them where  they lived, and they replied "down town," but could not designate the  locality. To other questions put by the officers the larger of the two  Negroes replied that they had been in town just three days.

 As this reply was made, the larger man sprang to his feet, and Patrolman  Mora, seeing that he was about to run away, seized him. The Negro took a  firm hold on the officer, and a scuffle ensued. Mora, noting that he was  not being assisted by his brother officers, drew his billy and struck  the Negro on the head. The blow had but little effect upon the man, for  he broke away and started down the street. When about ten feet away, the  Negro drew his revolver and opened fire on the officer, firing three or  four shots. The third shot struck Mora in the right hip, and was  subsequently found to have taken an upward course. Although badly  wounded, Mora drew his pistol and returned the fire. At his third shot  the Negro was noticed to stagger, but he did not fall. He continued his  flight. At this moment Sergeant Aucoin seized the other Negro, who  proved to be a youth, Leon Pierce. As soon as Officer Mora was shot he  sank to the sidewalk, and the other officer ran to the nearest  telephone, and sent in a call for the ambulance. Upon its arrival the  wounded officer was placed in it and conveyed to the hospital. An  examination by the house surgeon revealed the fact that the bullet had  taken an upward course. In the opinion of the surgeon the wound was a  dangerous one.

But the best proof of the fact that the officers accosted the two colored men and without any warrant or other justification attempted to arrest them, and did actually seize and begin to club one of them, is shown by Officer Mora's own statement. The officer was wounded and had every reason in the world to make his side of the story as good as possible. His statement was made to a Picayune reporter and the same was published on the twenty-fifth inst., and is as follows:

I was in the neighborhood of Dryades and Washington Streets, with  Sergeant Aucoin and Officer Cantrell, when three Negro women came up and  told us that there were two suspicious-looking Negroes sitting on a step  on Dryades Street, between Washington and Sixth. We went to the place  indicated and found two Negroes. We interrogated them as to who they  were, what they were doing and how long they had been here. They replied  that they were working for some one and had been in town three days. At  about this stage the larger of the two Negroes got up and I grabbed him.  The Negro pulled, but I held fast, and he finally pulled me into the  street. Here I began using my billet, and the Negro jerked from my grasp  and ran. He then pulled a gun and fired. I pulled my gun and returned  the fire, each of us firing about three shots. I saw the Negro stumble  several times, and I thought I had shot him, but he ran away and I don't  know whether any of my shots took effect. Sergeant Aucoin in the  meantime held the other man fast. The man was about ten feet from me  when he fired, and the three Negresses who told us about the men stood  away about twenty-five feet from the shooting.

Thus far in the proceeding the Monday night episode results in Officer Mora lying in the station wounded in the hip; Leonard Pierce, one of the colored men, locked up in the station, and Robert Charles, the other colored man, a fugitive, wounded in the leg and sought for by the entire police force of New Orleans. Not sought for, however, to be placed under arrest and given a fair trial and punished if found guilty according to the law of the land, but sought for by a host of enraged, vindictive and fearless officers, who were coolly ordered to kill him on sight. This order is shown by the Picayune of the twenty-sixth inst., in which the following statement appears:

In talking to the sergeant about the case, the captain asked about the  Negro's fighting ability, and the sergeant answered that Charles, though  he called him Robinson then, was a desperate man, and it would be best  to shoot him before he was given a chance to draw his pistol upon any of  the officers.

This instruction was given before anybody had been killed, and the only evidence that Charles was a desperate man lay in the fact that he had refused to be beaten over the head by Officer Mora for sitting on a step quietly conversing with a friend. Charles resisted an absolutely unlawful attack, and a gun fight followed. Both Mora and Charles were shot, but because Mora was white and Charles was black, Charles was at once declared to be a desperado, made an outlaw, and subsequently a price put upon his head and the mob authorized to shoot him like a dog, on sight.

The New Orleans Picayune of Wednesday morning said:

But he has gone, perhaps to the swamps, and the disappointment of the  bluecoats in not getting the murderer is expressed in their curses, each  man swearing that the signal to halt that will be offered Charles will  be a shot.

In that same column of the Picayune it was said:

Hundreds of policemen were about; each corner was guarded by a squad,  commanded either by a sergeant or a corporal, and every man had the word  to shoot the Negro as soon as he was sighted. He was a desperate black  and would be given no chance to take more life.

Legal sanction was given to the mob or any man of the mob to kill Charles at sight by the Mayor of New Orleans, who publicly proclaimed a reward of two hundred and fifty dollars, not for the arrest of Charles, not at all, but the reward was offered for Charles's body, "dead or alive." The advertisement was as follows:

$250 REWARD

 Under the authority vested in me by law, I hereby offer, in the name of  the city of New Orleans, $250 reward for the capture and delivery, dead  or alive, to the authorities of the city, the body of the Negro  murderer,

 ROBERT CHARLES,

 who, on Tuesday morning, July 24, shot and killed

 Police Captain John T. Day and Patrolman Peter J. Lamb, and wounded

 Patrolman August T. Mora.

 PAUL CAPDEVIELLE, Mayor

This authority, given by the sergeant to kill Charles on sight, would have been no news to Charles, nor to any colored man in New Orleans, who, for any purpose whatever, even to save his life, raised his hand against a white man. It is now, even as it was in the days of slavery, an unpardonable sin for a Negro to resist a white man, no matter how unjust or unprovoked the white man's attack may be. Charles knew this, and knowing to be captured meant to be killed, he resolved to sell his life as dearly as possible.

The next step in the terrible tragedy occurred between 2:30 and 5 o'clock Tuesday morning, about four hours after the affair on Dryades Street. The man hunt, which had been inaugurated soon after Officer Mora had been carried to the station, succeeded in running down Robert Charles, the wounded fugitive, and located him at 2023 4th Street. It was nearly 2 o'clock in the morning when a large detail of police surrounded the block with the intent to kill Charles on sight. Capt. Day had charge of the squad of police. Charles, the wounded man, was in his house when the police arrived, fully prepared, as results afterward showed, to die in his own home. Capt. Day started for Charles's room. As soon as Charles got sight of him there was a flash, a report, and Day fell dead in his tracks. In another instant Charles was standing in the door, and seeing Patrolman Peter J. Lamb, he drew his gun, and Lamb fell dead. Two other officers, Sergeant Aucoin and Officer Trenchard, who were in the squad, seeing their comrades, Day and Lamb, fall dead, concluded to raise the siege, and both disappeared into an adjoining house, where they blew out their lights so that their cowardly carcasses could be safe from Charles's deadly aim. The calibre of their courage is well shown by the fact that they concluded to save themselves from any harm by remaining prisoners in that dark room until daybreak, out of reach of Charles's deadly rifle. Sergeant Aucoin, who had been so brave a few hours before when seeing the two colored men sitting on the steps, talking together on Dryades Street, and supposing that neither was armed, now showed his true calibre. Now he knew that Charles had a gun and was brave enough to use it, so he hid himself in a room two hours while Charles deliberately walked out of his room and into the street after killing both Lamb and Day. It is also shown, as further evidence of the bravery of some of New Orleans' "finest," that one of them, seeing Capt. Day fall, ran seven blocks before he stopped, afterwards giving the excuse that he was hunting for a patrol box.

At daybreak the officers felt safe to renew the attack upon Charles, so they broke into his room, only to find that—what they probably very well knew—he had gone. It appears that he made his escape by crawling through a hole in the ceiling to a little attic in his house. Here he found that he could not escape except by a window which led into an alley, which had no opening on 4th Street. He scaled the fence and was soon out of reach.

It was now 5 o'clock Tuesday morning, and a general alarm was given. Sergeant Aucoin and Corporal Trenchard, having received a new supply of courage by returning daylight, renewed their effort to capture the man that they had allowed to escape in the darkness. Citizens were called upon to participate in the man hunt and New Orleans was soon the scene of terrible excitement. Officers were present everywhere, and colored men were arrested on all sides upon the pretext that they were impertinent and "game niggers." An instance is mentioned in the Times-Democrat of the twenty-fifth and shows the treatment which unoffending colored men received at the hands of some of the officers. This instance shows Corporal Trenchard, who displayed such remarkable bravery on Monday night in dodging Charles's revolver, in his true light. It shows how brave a white man is when he has a gun attacking a Negro who is a helpless prisoner. The account is as follows:

The police made some arrests in the neighborhood of the killing of the  two officers. Mobs of young darkies gathered everywhere. These Negroes  talked and joked about the affair, and many of them were for starting a  race war on the spot. It was not until several of these little gangs  amalgamated and started demonstrations that the police commenced to  act. Nearly a dozen arrests were made within an hour, and everybody in  the vicinity was in a tremor of excitement.

 It was about 1 o'clock that the Negroes on Fourth Street became very  noisy, and George Meyers, who lives on Sixth Street, near Rampart,  appeared to be one of the prime movers in a little riot that was rapidly  developing. Policeman Exnicios and Sheridan placed him under arrest, and  owing to the fact that the patrol wagon had just left with a number of  prisoners, they walked him toward St. Charles Avenue in order to get a  conveyance to take him to the Sixth Precinct station.

 A huge crowd of Negroes followed the officers and their prisoners.  Between Dryades and Baronne, on Sixth, Corporal Trenchard met the trio.  He had his pistol in his hand and he came on them running. The Negroes  in the wake of the officers, and prisoner took to flight immediately.  Some disappeared through gates and some over fences and into yards, for  Trenchard, visibly excited, was waving his revolver in the air and was  threatening to shoot. He joined the officers in their walk toward St.  Charles Street, and the way he acted led the white people who were  witnessing the affair to believe that his prisoner was the wanted Negro.  At every step he would punch him or hit him with the barrel of his  pistol, and the onlookers cried, "Lynch him!" "Kill him!" and other  expressions until the spectators were thoroughly wrought up. At St.  Charles Street Trenchard desisted, and, calling an empty ice wagon,  threw the Negro into the body of the vehicle and ordered Officer  Exnicios to take him to the Sixth Precinct station.

 The ride to the station was a wild one. Exnicios had all he could do to  watch his prisoner. A gang climbed into the wagon and administered a  terrible thrashing to the black en route. It took a half hour to reach  the police station, for the mule that was drawing the wagon was not  overly fast. When the station was reached a mob of nearly 200 howling  white youths was awaiting it. The noise they made was something  terrible. Meyers was howling for mercy before he reached the ground. The  mob dragged him from the wagon, the officer with him. Then began a  torrent of abuse for the unfortunate prisoner.

 The station door was but thirty feet away, but it took Exnicios nearly  five minutes to fight his way through the mob to the door. There were no  other officers present, and the station seemed to be deserted. Neither  the doorman nor the clerk paid any attention to the noise on the  outside. As the result, the maddened crowd wrought their vengeance on  the Negro. He was punched, kicked, bruised and torn. The clothes were  ripped from his back, while his face after that few minutes was  unrecognizable.

This was the treatment accorded and permitted to a helpless prisoner because he was black. All day Wednesday the man hunt continued. The excitement caused by the deaths of Day and Lamb became intense. The officers of the law knew they were trailing a man whose aim was deadly and whose courage they had never seen surpassed. Commenting upon the marksmanship of the man which the paper styled a fiend, the Times-Democrat of Wednesday said:

One of the extraordinary features of the tragedy was the marksmanship  displayed by the Negro desperado. His aim was deadly and his coolness  must have been something phenomenal. The two shots that killed Captain  Day and Patrolman Lamb struck their victims in the head, a circumstance  remarkable enough in itself, considering the suddenness and fury of the  onslaught and the darkness that reigned in the alley way.

 Later on Charles fired at Corporal Perrier, who was standing at least  seventy-five yards away. The murderer appeared at the gate, took  lightning aim along the side of the house, and sent a bullet whizzing  past the officer's ear. It was a close shave, and a few inches'  deflection would no doubt have added a fourth victim to the list.

 At the time of the affray there is good reason to believe that Charles  was seriously wounded, and at any event he had lost quantities of blood.  His situation was as critical as it is possible to imagine, yet he shot  like an expert in a target range. The circumstance shows the desperate  character of the fiend, and his terrible dexterity with weapons makes  him one of the most formidable monsters that has ever been loose upon  the community.

Wednesday New Orleans was in the hands of a mob. Charles, still sought for and still defending himself, had killed four policemen, and everybody knew that he intended to die fighting. Unable to vent its vindictiveness and bloodthirsty vengeance upon Charles, the mob turned its attention to other colored men who happened to get in the path of its fury. Even colored women, as has happened many times before, were assaulted and beaten and killed by the brutal hoodlums who thronged the streets. The reign of absolute lawlessness began about 8 o'clock Wednesday night. The mob gathered near the Lee statue and was soon making its way to the place where the officers had been shot by Charles. Describing the mob, the Times-Democrat of Thursday morning says:

The gathering in the square, which numbered about 700, eventually became  in a measure quiet, and a large, lean individual, in poor attire and  with unshaven face, leaped upon a box that had been brought for the  purpose, and in a voice that under no circumstances could be heard at a  very great distance, shouted: "Gentlemen, I am the Mayor of Kenner." He  did not get a chance for some minutes to further declare himself, for  the voice of the rabble swung over his like a huge wave over a sinking  craft. He stood there, however, wildly waving his arms and demanded a  hearing, which was given him when the uneasiness of the mob was quieted  for a moment or so.

 "I am from Kenner, gentlemen, and I have come down to New Orleans  tonight to assist you in teaching the blacks a lesson. I have killed a  Negro before, and in revenge of the wrong wrought upon you and yours, I  am willing to kill again. The only way that you can teach these Niggers  a lesson and put them in their place is to go out and lynch a few of  them as an object lesson. String up a few of them, and the others will  trouble you no more. That is the only thing to do—kill them, string  them up, lynch them! I will lead you, if you will but follow. On to the  Parish Prison and lynch Pierce!"

 They bore down on the Parish Prison like an avalanche, but the avalanche  split harmlessly on the blank walls of the jail, and Remy Klock sent out  a brief message: "You can't have Pierce, and you can't get in." Up to  that time the mob had had no opposition, but Klock's answer chilled them  considerably. There was no deep-seated desperation in the crowd after  all, only, that wild lawlessness which leads to deeds of cruelty, but  not to stubborn battle. Around the corner from the prison is a row of  pawn and second-hand shops, and to these the mob took like the ducks to  the proverbial mill-pond, and the devastation they wrought upon Mr.  Fink's establishment was beautiful in its line.

 Everything from breast pins to horse pistols went into the pockets of  the crowd, and in the melee a man was shot down, while just around the  corner somebody planted a long knife in the body of a little newsboy for  no reason as yet shown. Every now and then a Negro would be flushed  somewhere in the outskirts of the crowd and left beaten to a pulp. Just  how many were roughly handled will never be known, but the unlucky  thirteen had been severely beaten and maltreated up to a late hour, a  number of those being in the Charity Hospital under the bandages and  courtplaster of the doctors.

The first colored man to meet death at the hands of the mob was a passenger on a street car. The mob had broken itself into fragments after its disappointment at the jail, each fragment looking for a Negro to kill. The bloodthirsty cruelty of one crowd is thus described by the Times-Democrat:

"We will get a Nigger down here, you bet!" was the yelling boast that  went up from a thousand throats, and for the first time the march of the  mob was directed toward the downtown sections. The words of the rioters  were prophetic, for just as Canal Street was reached a car on the  Villere line came along.

 "Stop that car!" cried half a hundred men. The advance guard, heeding  the injunction, rushed up to the slowly moving car, and several, seizing  the trolley, jerked it down.

 "Here's a Nigro!" said half a dozen men who sprang upon the car.

 The car was full of passengers at the time, among them several women.  When the trolley was pulled down and the car thrown in total darkness,  the latter began to scream, and for a moment or so it looked as if the  life of every person in the car was in peril, for some of the crowd with  demoniacal yells of "There he goes!" began to fire their weapons  indiscriminately. The passengers in the car hastily jumped to the ground  and joined the crowd, as it was evidently the safest place to be.

 "Where's that Nigger?" was the query passed along the line, and with  that the search began in earnest. The Negro, after jumping off the car,  lost himself for a few moments in the crowd, but after a brief search he  was again located. The slight delay seemed, if possible, only to whet  the desire of the bloodthirsty crowd, for the reappearance of the Negro  was the signal for a chorus of screams and pistol shots directed at the  fugitive. With the speed of a deer, the man ran straight from the corner  of Canal and Villere to Customhouse Street. The pursuers, closely  following, kept up a running fire, but notwithstanding the fact that  they were right at the Negro's heels their aim was poor and their  bullets went wide of the mark.

 The Negro, on reaching Customhouse Street, darted from the sidewalk out  into the middle of the street. This was the worst maneuver that he could  have made, as it brought him directly under the light from an arc lamp,  located on a nearby corner. When the Negro came plainly in view of the  foremost of the closely following mob they directed a volley at him.  Half a dozen pistols flashed simultaneously, and one of the bullets  evidently found its mark, for the Negro stopped short, threw up his  hands, wavered for a moment, and then started to run again. This stop,  slight as it was, proved fatal to the Negro's chances, for he had not  gotten twenty steps farther when several of the men in advance of the  others reached his side. A burly fellow, grabbing him with one hand,  dealt him a terrible blow on the head with the other. The wounded man  sank to the ground. The crowd pressed around him and began to beat him  and stamp him. The men in the rear pressed forward and those beating the  man were shoved forward. The half-dead Negro, when he was freed from his  assailants, crawled over to the gutter. The men behind, however, stopped  pushing when those in front yelled, "We've got him," and then it was  that the attack on the bleeding Negro was resumed. A vicious kick  directed at the Negro's head sent him into the gutter, and for a moment  the body sank from view beneath the muddy, slimy water. "Pull him out;  don't let him drown," was the cry, and instantly several of the men  around the half-drowned Negro bent down and drew the body out. Twisting  the body around they drew the head and shoulders up on the street, while  from the waist down the Negro's body remained under the water. As soon  as the crowd saw that the Negro was still alive they again began to beat  and kick him. Every few moments they would stop and striking matches  look into the man's face to see if he still lived. To better see if he  was dead they would stick lighted matches to his eyes. Finally,  believing he was dead they left him and started out to look for other  Negroes. Just about this time some one yelled, "He ain't dead," and the  men came back and renewed the attack. While the men were beating and  pounding the prostrate form with stones and sticks a man in the crowd  ran up, and crying, "I'll fix the d—- Negro," poked the muzzle of a  pistol almost against the body and fired. This shot must have ended the  man's life, for he lay like a stone, and realizing that they were  wasting energy in further attacks, the men left their victim lying in  the street.

The same paper, on the same day, July 26, describes the brutal butchery of an aged colored man early in the morning:

Baptiste Philo, a Negro, seventy-five years of age, was a victim of mob  violence at Kerlerec and North Peters Streets about 2:30 o'clock this  morning. The old man is employed about the French Market, and was on his  way there when he was met by a crowd and desperately shot. The old man  found his way to the Third Precinct police station, where it was found  that he had received a ghastly wound in the abdomen. The ambulance was  summoned and he was conveyed to the Charity Hospital. The students  pronounced the wound fatal after a superficial examination.

Mob rule continued Thursday, its violence increasing every hour, until 2 p.m., when the climax seemed to be reached. The fact that colored men and women had been made the victims of brutal mobs, chased through the streets, killed upon the highways and butchered in their homes, did not call the best element in New Orleans to active exertion in behalf of law and order. The killing of a few Negroes more or less by irresponsible mobs does not cut much figure in Louisiana. But when the reign of mob law exerts a depressing influence upon the stock market and city securities begin to show unsteady standing in money centers, then the strong arm of the good white people of the South asserts itself and order is quickly brought out of chaos.

It was so with New Orleans on that Thursday. The better element of the white citizens began to realize that New Orleans in the hands of a mob would not prove a promising investment for Eastern capital, so the better element began to stir itself, not for the purpose of punishing the brutality against the Negroes who had been beaten, or bringing to justice the murderers of those who had been killed, but for the purpose of saving the city's credit. The Times-Democrat, upon this phase of the situation on Friday morning says:

When it became known later in the day that State bonds had depreciated  from a point to a point and a half on the New York market a new phase of  seriousness was manifest to the business community. Thinking men  realized that a continuance of unchecked disorder would strike a body  blow to the credit of the city and in all probability would complicate  the negotiation of the forthcoming improvement bonds. The bare thought  that such a disaster might be brought about by a few irresponsible boys,  tramps and ruffians, inflamed popular indignation to fever pitch. It was  all that was needed to bring to the aid of the authorities the active  personal cooperation of the entire better element.

With the financial credit of the city at stake, the good citizens rushed to the rescue, and soon the Mayor was able to mobilize a posse of 1,000 willing men to assist the police in maintaining order, but rioting still continued in different sections of the city. Colored men and women were beaten, chased and shot whenever they made their appearance upon the street. Late in the night a most despicable piece of villainy occurred on Rousseau Street, where an aged colored woman was killed by the mob. The Times-Democrat thus describes, the murder:

Hannah Mabry, an old Negress, was shot and desperately wounded shortly  after midnight this morning while sleeping in her home at No. 1929  Rousseau Street. It was the work of a mob, and was evidently well  planned so far as escape was concerned, for the place was reached by  police officers, and a squad of the volunteer police within a very short  time after the reports of the shots, but not a prisoner was secured. The  square was surrounded, but the mob had scattered in several directions,  and, the darkness of the neighborhood aiding them, not one was taken.

 At the time the mob made the attack on the little house there were also  in it David Mabry, the sixty-two-year-old husband of the wounded woman;  her son, Harry Mabry; his wife, Fannie, and an infant child. The young  couple with their babe could not be found after the whole affair was  over, and they either escaped or were hustled off by the mob. A careful  search of the whole neighborhood was made, but no trace of them could be  found.

 The little place occupied by the Mabry family is an old cottage on the  swamp side of Rousseau Street. It is furnished with slat shutters to  both doors and windows. These shutters had been pulled off by the mob  and the volleys fired through the glass doors. The younger Mabrys,  father, mother and child, were asleep in the first room at the time.  Hannah Mabry and her old husband were sleeping in the next room. The old  couple occupied the same bed, and it is miraculous that the old man did  not share the fate of his spouse.

 Officer Bitterwolf, who was one of the first on the scene, said that he  was about a block and a half away with Officers Fordyce and Sweeney.  There were about twenty shots fired, and the trio raced to the cottage.  They saw twenty or thirty men running down Rousseau Street. Chase was  given and the crowd turned toward the river and scattered into several  vacant lots in the neighborhood.

 The volunteer police stationed at the Sixth Precinct had about five  blocks to run before they arrived. They also moved on the reports of the  firing, and in a remarkably short time the square was surrounded, but no  one could be taken. As they ran to the scene they were assailed on every  hand with vile epithets and the accusation of "Nigger lovers."

 Rousseau Street, where the cottage is situated, is a particularly dark  spot, and no doubt the members of the mob were well acquainted with the  neighborhood, for the officers said that they seemed to sink into the  earth, so completely and quickly did they disappear after they had  completed their work, which was complete with the firing of the volley.

 Hannah Mabry was taken to the Charity Hospital in the ambulance, where  it was found on examination that she had been shot through the right  lung, and that the wound was a particularly serious one.

 Her old husband was found in the little wrecked home well nigh  distracted with fear and grief. It was he who informed the police that  at the time of the assault the younger Mabrys occupied the front room.  As he ran about the little home as well as his feeble condition would  permit he severely lacerated his feet on the glass broken from the  windows and door. He was escorted to the Sixth Precinct station, where  he was properly cared for. He could not realize why his little family  had been so murderously attacked, and was inconsolable when his wife was  driven off in the ambulance piteously moaning in her pain.

 The search for the perpetrators of the outrage was thorough, but both  police and armed force of citizens had only their own efforts to rely  on. The residents of the neighborhood were aroused by the firing, but  they would give no help in the search and did not appear in the least  concerned over the affair. Groups were on almost every doorstep, and  some of them even jeered in a quiet way at the men who were voluntarily  attempting to capture the members of the mob. Absolutely no information  could be had from any of them, and the whole affair had the appearance  of being the work of roughs who either lived in the vicinity, or their  friends.

DEATH OF CHARLES

Friday witnessed the final act in the bloody drama begun by the three police officers, Aucoin, Mora and Cantrelle. Betrayed into the hands of the police, Charles, who had already sent two of his would-be murderers to their death, made a last stand in a small building, 1210 Saratoga Street, and, still defying his pursuers, fought a mob of twenty thousand people, single-handed and alone, killing three more men, mortally wounding two more and seriously wounding nine others. Unable to get to him in his stronghold, the besiegers set fire to his house of refuge. While the building was burning Charles was shooting, and every crack of his death-dealing rifle added another victim to the price which he had placed upon his own life. Finally, when fire and smoke became too much for flesh and blood to stand, the long sought for fugitive appeared in the door, rifle in hand, to charge the countless guns that were drawn upon him. With a courage which was indescribable, he raised his gun to fire again, but this time it failed, for a hundred shots riddled his body, and he fell dead face fronting to the mob. This last scene in the terrible drama is thus described in the Times-Democrat of July 26:

Early yesterday afternoon, at 3 o'clock or thereabouts, Police Sergeant  Gabriel Porteus was instructed by Chief Gaster to go to a house at No.  1210 Saratoga Street, and search it for the fugitive murderer, Robert  Charles. A private "tip" had been received at the headquarters that the  fiend was hiding somewhere on the premises.

 Sergeant Porteus took with him Corporal John R. Lally and Officers  Zeigel and Essey. The house to which they were directed is a small,  double frame cottage, standing flush with Saratoga Street, near the  corner of Clio. It has two street entrances and two rooms on each side,  one in front and one in the rear. It belongs to the type of cheap little  dwellings commonly tenanted by Negroes.

 Sergeant Porteus left Ziegel and Essey to guard the outside and went  with Corporal Lally to the rear house, where he found Jackson and his  wife in the large room on the left. What immediately ensued is only  known by the Negroes. They say the sergeant began to question them about  their lodgers and finally asked them whether they knew anything about  Robert Charles. They strenuously denied all knowledge of his  whereabouts.

 The Negroes lied. At that very moment the hunted and desperate murderer  lay concealed not a dozen feet away. Near the rear, left-hand corner of  the room is a closet or pantry, about three feet deep, and perhaps eight  feet long. The door was open and Charles was crouching, Winchester in  hand, in the dark further end.

 Near the closet door was a bucket of water, and Jackson says that  Sergeant Porteous walked toward it to get a drink. At the next moment a  shot rang out and the brave officer fell dead. Lally was shot directly  afterward. Exactly how and where will never be known, but the  probabilities are that the black fiend sent a bullet into him before he  recovered from his surprise at the sudden onslaught. Then the murderer  dashed out of the back door and disappeared.

 The neighborhood was already agog with the tragic events of the two  preceding days, and the sound of the shots was a signal for wild and  instant excitement. In a few moments a crowd had gathered and people  were pouring in by the hundred from every point of the compass. Jackson  and his wife had fled and at first nobody knew what had happened, but  the surmise that Charles had recommenced his bloody work was on every  tongue and soon some of the bolder found their way to the house in the  rear. There the bleeding forms of the two policemen told the story.

 Lally was still breathing, and a priest was sent for to administer the  last rites. Father Fitzgerald responded, and while he was bending over  the dying man the outside throng was rushing wildly through the  surrounding yards and passageways searching for the murderer. "Where is  he?" "What has become of him?" were the questions on every lip.

 Suddenly the answer came in a shot from the room directly overhead. It  was fired through a window facing Saratoga Street, and the bullet struck  down a young man named Alfred J. Bloomfield, who was standing in the  narrow passage-way between the two houses. He fell on his knees and a  second bullet stretched him dead.

 When he fled from the closet Charles took refuge in the upper story of  the house. There are four windows on that floor, two facing toward  Saratoga Street and two toward Rampart. The murderer kicked several  breaches in the frail central partition, so he could rush from side to  side, and like a trapped beast, prepared to make his last stand.

 Nobody had dreamed that he was still in the house, and when Bloomfield  was shot there was a headlong stampede. It was some minutes before the  exact situation was understood. Then rifles and pistols began to speak,  and a hail of bullets poured against the blind frontage of the old  house. Every one hunted some coign of vantage, and many climbed to  adjacent roofs. Soon the glass of the four upper windows was shattered  by flying lead. The fusillade sounded like a battle, and the excitement  upon the streets was indescribable.

 Throughout all this hideous uproar Charles seems to have retained a  certain diabolical coolness. He kept himself mostly out of sight, but  now and then he thrust the gleaming barrel of his rifle through one of  the shattered window panes and fired at his besiegers. He worked the  weapon with incredible rapidity, discharging from three to five  cartridges each time before leaping back to a place of safety. These  replies came from all four windows indiscriminately, and showed that he  was keeping a close watch in every direction. His wonderful marksmanship  never failed him for a moment, and when he missed it was always by the  narrowest margin only.

 On the Rampart Street side of the house there are several sheds,  commanding an excellent range of the upper story. Detective Littleton,  Andrew Van Kuren of the Workhouse force and several others climbed upon  one of these and opened fire on the upper windows, shooting whenever  they could catch a glimpse of the assassin. Charles responded with his  rifle, and presently Van Kuren climbed down to find a better position.  He was crossing the end of the shed when he was killed.

 Another of Charles's bullets found its billet in the body of Frank  Evans, an ex-member of the police force. He was on the Rampart Street  side firing whenever he had an opportunity. Officer J.W. Bofill and A.S.  Leclerc were also wounded in the fusillade.

 While the events thus briefly outlined were transpiring time was a-wing,  and the cooler headed in the crowd began to realize that some quick and  desperate expedient must be adopted to insure the capture of the fiend  and to avert what might be a still greater tragedy than any yet enacted.  For nearly two hours the desperate monster had held his besiegers at  bay, darkness would soon be at hand and no one could predict what might  occur if he made a dash for liberty in the dark.

 At this critical juncture it was suggested that the house be fired. The  plan came as an inspiration, and was adopted as the only solution of the  situation. The wretched old rookery counted for nothing against the  possible continued sacrifice of human life, and steps were immediately  taken to apply the torch. The fire department had been summoned to the  scene soon after the shooting began; its officers were warned to be  ready to prevent a spread of the conflagration, and several men rushed  into the lower right-hand room and started a blaze in one corner.

 They first fired an old mattress, and soon smoke was pouring out in  dense volumes. It filled the interior of the ramshackle structure, and  it was evident that the upper story would soon become untenable. An  interval of tense excitement followed, and all eyes were strained for a  glimpse of the murderer when he emerged.

 Then came the thrilling climax. Smoked out of his den, the desperate  fiend descended the stairs and entered the lower room. Some say he  dashed into the yard, glaring around vainly for some avenue of escape;  but, however that may be, he was soon a few moments later moving about  behind the lower windows. A dozen shots were sent through the wall in  the hope of reaching him, but he escaped unscathed. Then suddenly the  door on the right was flung open and he dashed out. With head lowered  and rifle raised ready to fire on the instant, Charles dashed straight  for the rear door of the front cottage. To reach it he had to traverse a  little walk shaded by a vineclad arbor. In the back room, with a cocked  revolver in his hand, was Dr. C.A. Noiret, a young medical student, who  was aiding the citizens' posse. As he sprang through the door Charles  fired a shot, and the bullet whizzed past the doctor's head. Before it  could be repeated Noiret's pistol cracked and the murderer reeled,  turned half around and fell on his back. The doctor sent another ball  into his body as he struck the floor, and half a dozen men, swarming  into the room from the front, riddled the corpse with bullets.

 Private Adolph Anderson of the Connell Rifles was the first man to  announce the death of the wretch. He rushed to the street door, shouted  the news to the crowd, and a moment later the bleeding body was dragged  to the pavement and made the target of a score of pistols. It was shot,  kicked and beaten almost out of semblance to humanity....

 The limp dead body was dropped at the edge of the sidewalk and from  there dragged to the muddy roadway by half a hundred hands. There in the  road more shots were fired into the body. Corporal Trenchard, a  brother-in-law of Porteus, led the shooting into the inanimate clay.  With each shot there was a cheer for the work that had been done and  curses and imprecations on the inanimate mass of riddled flesh that was  once Robert Charles.

 Cries of "Burn him! Burn him!" were heard from Clio Street all the way  to Erato Street, and it was with difficulty that the crowd was  restrained from totally destroying the wretched dead body. Some of those  who agitated burning even secured a large vessel of kerosene, which had  previously been brought to the scene for the purpose of firing Charles's  refuge, and for a time it looked as though this vengeance might be  wreaked on the body. The officers, however, restrained this move,  although they were powerless to prevent the stamping and kicking of the  body by the enraged crowd.

 After the infuriated citizens had vented their spleen on the body of the  dead Negro it was loaded into the patrol wagon. The police raised the  body of the heavy black from the ground and literally chucked it into  the space on the floor of the wagon between the seats. They threw it  with a curse hissed more than uttered and born of the bitterness which  was rankling in their breasts at the thought of Charles having taken so  wantonly the lives of four of the best of their fellow-officers.

 When the murderer's body landed in the wagon it fell in such a position  that the hideously mutilated head, kicked, stamped and crushed, hung  over the end.

 As the wagon moved off, the followers, who were protesting against its  being carried off, declaring that it should be burned, poked and struck  it with sticks, beating it into such a condition that it was utterly  impossible to tell what the man ever looked like.

 As the patrol wagon rushed through the rough street, jerking and  swaying from one side of the thoroughfare to the other, the gory,  mud-smeared head swayed and swung and jerked about in a sickening  manner, the dark blood dripping on the steps and spattering the body of  the wagon and the trousers of the policemen standing on the step.

MOB BRUTALITY

The brutality of the mob was further shown by the unspeakable cruelty with which it beat, shot and stabbed to death an unoffending colored man, name unknown, who happened to be walking on the street with no thought that he would be set upon and killed simply because he was a colored man. The Times-Democrat's description of the outrage is as follows:

While the fight between the Negro desperado and the citizens was in  progress yesterday afternoon at Clio and Saratoga Streets another  tragedy was being enacted downtown in the French quarter, but it was a  very one-sided affair. The object of the white man's wrath was, of  course, a Negro, but, unlike Charles, he showed no fight, but tried to  escape from the furious mob which was pursuing him, and which finally  put an end to his existence in a most cruel manner.

 The Negro, whom no one seemed to know—at any rate no one could be found  in the vicinity of the killing who could tell who he was—was walking  along the levee, as near as could be learned, when he was attacked by a  number of white longshoremen or screwmen. For what reason, if there was  any reason other than the fact that he was a Negro, could not be  learned, and immediately they pounced upon him he broke ground and  started on a desperate run for his life.

 The hunted Negro started off the levee toward the French Vegetable  Market, changed his course out the sidewalk toward Gallatin Street. The  angry, yelling mob was close at his heels, and increasing steadily as  each block was traversed. At Gallatin Street he turned up that  thoroughfare, doubled back into North Peters Street and ran into the  rear of No. 1216 of that street, which is occupied by Chris Reuter as a  commission store and residence.

 He rushed frantically through the place and out on to the gallery on the  Gallatin Street side. From this gallery he jumped to the street and fell  flat on his back on the sidewalk. Springing to his feet as soon as  possible, with a leaden, hail fired by the angry mob whistling about  him, he turned to his merciless pursuers in an appealing way, and,  throwing up one hand, told them not to shoot any more, that they could  take him as he was.

 But the hail of lead continued, and the unfortunate Negro finally  dropped to the sidewalk, mortally wounded. The mob then rushed upon him,  still continuing the fusillade, and upon reaching his body a number of  Italians, who had joined the howling mob, reached down and stabbed him  in the back and buttock with big knives. Others fired shots into his  head until his teeth were shot out, three shots having been fired into  his mouth. There were bullet wounds all over his body.

 Others who witnessed the affair declared that the man was fired at as he  was running up the stairs leading to the living apartments above the  store, and that after jumping to the sidewalk and being knocked down by  a bullet he jumped up and ran across the street, then ran back and tried  to get back into the commission store. The Italians, it is said, were  all drunk, and had been shooting firecrackers. Tiring of this, they  began shooting at Negroes, and when the unfortunate man who was killed  ran by they joined in the chase.

 No one was arrested for the shooting, the neighborhood having been  deserted by the police, who were sent up to the place where Charles was  fighting so desperately. No one could or would give the names of any of  those who had participated in the chase and the killing, nor could any  one be found who knew who the Negro was. The patrol wagon was called and  the terribly mutilated body sent to the morgue and the coroner notified.

 The murdered Negro was copper colored, about 5 feet 11 inches in height,  about 35 years of age, and was dressed in blue overalls and a brown  slouch hat. At 10:30 o'clock the vicinity of the French Market was very  quiet. Squads of special officers were patrolling the neighborhood, and  there did not seem to be any prospects of disorder.

During the entire time the mob held the city in its hands and went about holding up street cars and searching them, taking from them colored men to assault, shoot and kill, chasing colored men upon the public square, through alleys and into houses of anybody who would take them in, breaking into the homes of defenseless colored men and women and beating aged and decrepit men and women to death, the police and the legally constituted authorities showed plainly where their sympathies were, for in no case reported through the daily papers does there appear the arrest, trial and conviction of one of the mob for any of the brutalities which occurred. The ringleaders of the mob were at no time disguised. Men were chased, beaten and killed by white brutes, who boasted of their crimes, and the murderers still walk the streets of New Orleans, well known and absolutely exempt from prosecution. Not only were they exempt from prosecution by the police while the town was in the hands of the mob, but even now that law and order is supposed to resume control, these men, well known, are not now, nor ever will be, called to account for the unspeakable brutalities of that terrible week. On the other hand, the colored men who were beaten by the police and dragged into the station for purposes of intimidation, were quickly called up before the courts and fined or sent to jail upon the statement of the police. Instances of Louisiana justice as it is dispensed in New Orleans are here quoted from the Times-Democrat of July 26:

Justice Dealt Out to Folk Who Talked Too Much

 All the Negroes and whites who were arrested in the vicinity of  Tuesday's tragedy had a hard time before Recorder Hughes yesterday. Lee  Jackson was the first prisoner, and the evidence established that he  made his way to the vicinity of the crime and told his Negro friends  that he thought a good many more policemen ought to be killed. Jackson  said he was drunk when he made the remark. He was fined $25 or thirty  days.

 John Kennedy was found wandering about the street Tuesday night with an  open razor in his hand, and he was given $25 or thirty days.

 Edward McCarthy, a white man, who arrived only four days since from New  York, went to the scene of the excitement at the corner of Third and  Rampart Streets, and told the Negroes that they were as good as any  white man. This remark was made by McCarthy, as another white man said  the Negroes should be lynched. McCarthy told the recorder that he  considered a Negro as good as a white in body and soul. He was fined $25  or thirty days.

 James Martin, Simon Montegut, Eddie McCall, Alex Washington and Henry  Turner were up for failing to move on. Martin proved that he was at the  scene to assist the police and was discharged. Montegut, being a  cripple, was also released, but the others were fined $25 or thirty days  each.

 Eddie Williams for refusing to move on was given $25 or thirty days.

 Matilda Gamble was arrested by the police for saying that two officers  were killed and it was a pity more were not shot. She was given $25 or  thirty days.

INSOLENT BLACKS

"Recorder Hughes received Negroes in the first recorder's office yesterday morning in a way that they will remember for a long time, and all of them were before the magistrate for having caused trouble through incendiary remarks concerning the death of Captain Day and Patrolman Lamb."

"Lee Jackson was before the recorder and was fined $25 or thirty days. He was lippy around where the trouble happened Tuesday morning, and some white men punched him good and hard and the police took him. Then the recorder gave him a dose, and now he is in the parish prison."

"John Kennedy was another black who got into trouble. He said that the shooting of the police by Charles was a good thing, and for this he was pounded. Patrolman Lorenzo got him and saved him from being lynched, for the black had an open razor. He was fined $25 or thirty days."

"Edward McCarthy, a white man, mixed up with the crowd, and an expression of sympathy nearly cost him his head, for some whites about started for him, administering licks and blows with fists and umbrellas. The recorder fined him $25 or thirty days. He is from New York."

"Then James Martin, a white man, and Simon Montegut, Eddie Call, Henry Turner and Alex Washington were before the magistrate for having failed to move on when the police ordered them from the square where the bluecoats were Tuesday, waiting in the hope of catching Charles. All save Martin and Montegut were fined."

"Eddie Williams, a little Negro who was extremely fresh with the police, was fined $10 or ten days."

SHOCKING BRUTALITY

The whole city was at the mercy of the mob and the display of brutality was a disgrace to civilization. One instance is described in the Picayune as follows:

A smaller party detached itself from the mob at Washington and Rampart  Streets, and started down the latter thoroughfare. One of the foremost  spied a Negro, and immediately there was a rush for the unfortunate  black man. With the sticks they had torn from fences on the line of  march the young outlaws attacked the black and clubbed him unmercifully,  acting more like demons than human beings. After being severely beaten  over the head, the Negro started to run with the whole gang at his  heels. Several revolvers were brought into play and pumped their lead at  the refugee. The Negro made rapid progress and took refuge behind the  blinds of a little cottage in Rampart Street, but he had been seen, and  the mob hauled him from his hiding place and again commenced beating  him. There were more this time, some twenty or thirty, all armed with  sticks and heavy clubs, and under their incessant blows the Negro could  not last long. He begged for mercy, and his cries were most pitiful, but  a mob has no heart, and his cries were only answered with more blows.

 "For God's sake, boss, I ain't done nothin'. Don't kill me. I swear I  ain't done nothin'."

 The white brutes turned

 A DEAF EAR TO THE PITYING CRIES

 of the black wretch and the drubbing continued. The cries subsided into  moans, and soon the black swooned away into unconsciousness. Still not  content with their heartless work, they pulled the Negro out and kicked  him into the gutter. For the time those who had beaten the black seemed  satisfied and left him groaning in the gutter, but others came up, and,  regretting that they had not had a hand in the affair, they determined  to evidence their bravery to their fellows and beat the man while he was  in the gutter, hurling rocks and stones at his black form. One  thoughtless white brute, worse even than the black slayer of the police  officers, thought to make himself a hero in the eyes of his fellows and  fired his revolver repeatedly into the helpless wretch. It was dark and  the fellow probably aimed carelessly. After firing three or four shots  he also left without knowing what extent of injury he inflicted on the  black wretch who was left lying in the gutter.

MURDER ON THE LEVEE

One part of the crowd made a raid on the tenderloin district, hoping to find there some belated Negro for a sacrifice. They were urged on by the white prostitutes, who applauded their murderous mission. Says an account:

The red light district was all excitement. Women—that is, the white  women—were out on their stoops and peeping over their galleries and  through their windows and doors, shouting to the crowd to go on with  their work, and kill Negroes for them.

 "Our best wishes, boys," they encouraged; and the mob answered with  shouts, and whenever a Negro house was sighted a bombardment was started  on the doors and windows.

No colored men were found on the streets until the mob reached Custom House Place and Villiers Streets. Here a victim was found and brutally put to death. The Picayune description is as follows:

Some stragglers had run a Negro into a car at the corner of Bienville  and Villere Streets. He was seeking refuge in the conveyance, and he  believed that the car would not be stopped and could speed along. But  the mob determined to stop the car, and ordered the motorman to halt. He  put on his brake. Some white men were in the car.

 "Get out, fellows," shouted several of the mob.

 "All whites fall out," was the second cry, and the poor Negro understood  that it was meant that he should stay in the car.

 He wanted to save his life. The poor fellow crawled under the seats. But  some one in the crowd saw him and yelled that he was hiding. Two or  three men climbed through the windows with their pistols; others jumped  over the motorman's board, and dozens tumbled into the rear of the car.  Big, strong hands got the Negro by the shirt. He was dragged out of the  conveyance, and was pushed to the street. Some fellow ran up and struck  him with a club. The blow was heavy, but it did not fell him, and the  Negro ran toward Canal Street, stealing along the wall of the Tulane  Medical Building. Fifty men ran after him, caught the poor fellow and  hurried him back into the crowd. Fists were aimed at him, then clubs  went upon his shoulders, and finally the black plunged into the gutter.

 A gun was fired, and the Negro, who had just gotten to his feet, dropped  again. He tried to get up, but a volley was sent after him, and in a  little while he was dead.

 The crowd looked on at the terrible work. Then the lights in the houses  of ill-fame began to light up again, and women peeped out of the blinds.  The motorman was given the order to go on. The gong clanged and the  conveyance sped out of the way. For half an hour the crowd held their  place at the corner, then the patrol wagon came and the body was picked  up and hurried to the morgue.

 Coroner Richard held an autopsy on the body of the Negro who was forced  out of car 98 of the Villere line and shot down. It was found that he  was wounded four times, the most serious wound being that which struck  him in the right side, passing through the lungs, and causing  hemorrhages, which brought about death.

 Nobody tried to identify the poor fellow and his name is unknown.

A VICTIM IN THE MARKET

Soon after the murder of the man on the street car many of the same mob marched down to the market place. There they found a colored market man named Louis Taylor, who had gone to begin his early morning's work. He was at once set upon by the mob and killed. The Picayune account says:

Between 1 and 2 o'clock this morning a mob of several hundred men and  boys, made up of participants in many of the earlier affairs, marched on  the French Market. Louis Taylor, a Negro vegetable carrier, who is about  thirty years of age, was sitting at the soda water stand. As soon as the  mob saw him fire was opened and the Negro took to his heels. He ran  directly into another section of the mob and any number of shots were  fired at him. He fell, face down, on the floor of the market.

 The police in the neighborhood rallied hurriedly and found the victim of  mob violence seemingly lifeless. Before they arrived the Negro had been  beaten severely about the head and body. The ambulance was summoned and  Taylor was carried to the charity hospital, where it was found that he  had been shot through the abdomen and arm. The examination was a hurried  one, but it sufficed to show that Taylor was mortally wounded.

 After shooting Taylor the members of the mob were pluming themselves on  their exploit. "The Nigger was at the soda water stand and we commenced  shooting him," said one of the rioters. "He put his hands up and ran,  and we shot until he fell. I understand that he is still alive. If he  is, he is a wonder. He was certainly shot enough to be killed."

 The members of the mob readily admitted that they had taken part in the  assaults which marked the earlier part of the evening.

 "We were up on Jackson Avenue and killed a Nigger on Villere Street. We  came down here, saw a nigger and killed him, too." This was the way they  told the story.

 "Boys, we are out of ammunition," said someone.

 "Well, we will keep on like we are, and if we can't get some before  morning, we will take it. We have got to keep this thing up, now we have  started."

 This declaration was greeted by a chorus of applauding yells, and the  crowd started up the levee. Half of the men in the crowd, and they were  all of them young, were drunk.

 Taylor, when seen at the charity hospital, was suffering greatly, and  presented a pitiable spectacle. His clothing was covered with blood, and  his face was beaten almost into a pulp. He said that he had gone to the  market to work and was quietly sitting down when the mob came and began  to fire on him. He was not aware at first that the crowd was after him.  When he saw its purpose he tried to run, but fell. He didn't know any of  the men in the crowd. There is hardly a chance that Taylor will recover.

 The police told the crowd to move on, but no attempt was made to arrest  anyone.

A GRAY-HAIRED VICTIM

The bloodthirsty barbarians, having tasted blood, continued their hunt and soon ran across an old man of seventy-five years. His life had been spent in hard work about the French market, and he was well known as an unoffending, peaceable and industrious old man.

But that made no difference to the mob. He was a Negro, and with a fiendishness that was worse than that of cannibals they beat his life out. The report says:

There was another gang of men parading the streets in the lower part of  the city, looking for any stray Negro who might be on the streets. As  they neared the corner of Dauphine and Kerlerec, a square below  Esplanade Avenue, they came upon Baptiste Thilo, an aged Negro, who  works in the French Market.

 Thilo for years has been employed by the butchers and fish merchants to  carry baskets from the stalls to the wagons, and unload the wagons as  they arrive in the morning. He was on his way to the market, when the  mob came upon him. One of the gang struck the old Negro, and as he fell,  another in the crowd, supposed to be a young fellow, fired a shot. The  bullet entered the body just below the right nipple.

 As the Negro fell the crowd looked into his face and they discovered  then that the victim was very old. The young man who did the shooting  said: "Oh, he is an old Negro. I'm sorry that I shot him."

 This is all the old Negro received in the way of consolation.

 He was left where he fell, but later staggered to his feet and made his  way to the third precinct station. There the police summoned the  ambulance and the students pronounced the wound very dangerous. He was  carried to the hospital as rapidly as possible.

 There was no arrest.

Just before daybreak the mob found another victim. He, too, was on his way to market, driving a meat wagon. But little is told of his treatment, nothing more than the following brief statement:

At nearly 3 o'clock this morning a report was sent to the Third Precinct  station that a Negro was lying on the sidewalk at the corner of Decatur  and St. Philip. The man had been pulled off of a meat wagon and riddled  with bullets.

 When the police arrived he was insensible and apparently dying. The  ambulance students attended the Negro and pronounced the wounds fatal.

 There was nothing found which would lead to the discovery of his  identity.

FUN IN GRETNA

If there are any persons so deluded as to think that human life in the South is valued any more than the life of a brute, he will be speedily undeceived by reading the accounts of unspeakable barbarism committed by the mob in and around New Orleans. In no other civilized country in the world, nay, more, in no land of barbarians would it be possible to duplicate the scenes of brutality that are reported from New Orleans. In the heat of blind fury one might conceive how a mad mob might beat and kill a man taken red-handed in a brutal murder. But it is almost past belief to read that civilized white people, men who boast of their chivalry and blue blood, actually had fun in beating, chasing and shooting men who had no possible connection with any crime.

But this actually happened in Gretna, a few miles from New Orleans. In its description of the scenes of Tuesday night, the Picayune mentions the brutal chase of several colored men whom the mob sought to kill. In the instances mentioned, the paper said:

Gretna had its full share of excitement between 8 and 11 o'clock last  night, in connection with a report that spread through the town that a  Negro resembling the slayer of Police Captain Day, of New Orleans, had  been seen on the outskirts of the place.

 It is true that a suspicious-looking Negro was observed by the residents  of Madison and Amelia Streets lurking about the fences of that  neighborhood just after dark, and shortly before 8 o'clock John Fist, a  young white man, saw the Negro on Fourth Street. He followed the darkey  a short distance, and, coming upon Robert Moore, who is known about town  as the "black detective," Fist pointed the Negro out and Moore at once  made a move toward the stranger. The latter observed Moore making in his  direction, and, without a word, he sped in the direction of the Brooklyn  pasture, Moore following and firing several shots at him. In a few  minutes a half hundred white men, including Chief of Police Miller,  Constable Dannenhauer, Patrolman Keegan and several special officers,  all well-armed, joined in the chase, but in the darkness the Negro  escaped.

 Just as the pursuing party reached town again, two of the residents of  Lafayette Avenue, Peter Leson and Robert Henning, reported that they had  just chased and shot at a Negro, who had been seen in the yard of the  former's house. They were positive the Negro had not escaped from the  square. Their report was enough to set the appetite of the crowd on  edge, and the square was quickly surrounded, while several dozens of  men, armed with lanterns and revolvers, made a search of every yard and  under every house in the square. No Negro was found.

 The crowd of armed men was constantly swelling, and at 10 o'clock it had  reached the proportions of a small army. At 10:30 o'clock an outbound  freight train is due to pass through Gretna on the Texas and Pacific  Road, and the crowd, believing that Captain Day's slayer might be aboard  one of the cars attempting to leave the scene of his crime, resolved to  inspect the train. As the train stopped at the Madison Street crossing  the engineer was requested to pull very slowly through the town, in  order that the trucks of the cars might be examined. There was a string  of armed men on each side of the railroad track and in a few moments a  Negro was espied riding between two cars. A half dozen weapons were  pointed at him and he was ordered to come out. He sprang out with  alacrity and was pounced upon almost before he reached the ground.  Robert Moore grabbed him and pushed an ugly-looking Derringer under his  nose and the Negro threw up both hands. Constable Dannenhauer and  Patrolman Keegan took charge of him and hustled him off to jail, where  he was locked up. The Negro does not at all resemble Robert Charles, but  it was best for his sake that he was placed under lock and key. The  crowd was not in a humor to let any Negro pass muster last night. The  prisoner gave his name as Luke Wallace.

 But now came the real excitement. The train had slowed down almost to a  standstill, in the very heart of town. Somebody shouted: "There he goes,  on top of the train!" And sure enough, somebody was going. It was a  Negro, too, and he was making a bee-line for the front end of the train.  A veritable shower of bullets, shot and rifle balls greeted the flying  form, but on it sped. The locomotive had stopped in the middle of the  square between La voisier and Newton Streets, and the Negro, flying with  the speed of the wind along the top of the cars, reached the first car  of the train and jumped to the tender and then into the cab. As he did  several white men standing at the locomotive made a rush into the cab.  The Negro sprang swiftly out of the other side, on to the sidewalk. But  there were several more men, and as he realized that he was rushing  right into their arms he made a spring to leap over the fence of Mrs.  Linden's home, on the wood side of the track. Before the Negro got to  the top one white man had hold of his legs, while another rushed up,  pistol in hand. The man who was holding the darkey's legs was jostled  out of the way and the man with the pistol, standing directly beneath  the Negro, sent two bullets at him.

 There was a wild scramble, and the vision of a fleeing form in the  Linden yard, but that was the last seen of the black man. The yard was  entered and searched, and neighboring yards were also searched, but not  even the trace of blood was found. It is almost impossible to believe  that the Negro was not wounded, for the man who fired at him held the  pistol almost against the Negro's body.

 The shots brought out almost everybody—white—in town, and though there  was nothing to show for the exciting work, except the arrest of the  Negro, who doesn't answer the description of the man wanted, Gretna's  male population had its little fan and felt amply repaid for all the  trouble it was put to, and all the ammunition it wasted.

BRUTALITY IN NEW ORLEANS

Mob rule reigned supreme Wednesday, and the scenes that were enacted challenge belief. How many colored men and women were abused and injured is not known, for those who escaped were glad to make a place of refuge and took no time to publish their troubles. The mob made no attempt to find Charles; its only purpose was to pursue, beat and kill any colored man or woman who happened to come in sight. Speaking editorially, the Picayune of Thursday, the twenty-sixth of July, said:

ESCAPED WITH THEIR LIVES

At the Charity Hospital Wednesday night more than a score of people were treated for wounds received at the hands of the mob. Some were able to tell of their mistreatment, and their recitals are briefly given in the Picayune as follows:

Alex. Ruffin, who is quite seriously injured, is a Pullman car porter, a  native of Chicago. He reached New Orleans at 9:20 o'clock last night,  and after finishing his work, boarded a Henry Clay Avenue car to go to  Delachaise Street, where he has a sick son.

 "I hadn't ridden any way," said he, "when I saw a lot of white folks.  They were shouting to 'Get the Niggers.' I didn't know they were after  every colored man they saw, and sat still. Two or three men jumped on  the car and started at me. One of them hit me over the head with a  slungshot, and they started to shooting at me. I jumped out of the car  and ran, although I had done nothing. They shot me in the arm and in the  leg. I would certainly have been killed had not some gentleman taken my  part. If I had known New Orleans was so excited I would never have left  my car."

 George Morris is the name of a Negro who was badly injured by a mob  which went through the Poydras Market. Morris is employed as watchman  there. He heard the noise of the passing crowd and looked out to see  what the matter was. As soon as the mob saw him its members started  after him.

 "One man hit me over the head with a club," said George, after his  wounds had been dressed, "and somebody cut me in the back. I didn't  hardly think what was the matter at first, but when I saw they were  after me I ran for my life. I ran to the coffee stand, where I work, for  protection, but they were right after me, and somebody shot me in the  back. At last the police got me away from the crowd. Just before I was  hit a friend of mine, who was in the crowd, said, 'You had better go  home, Nigger; they're after your kind.' I didn't know then what he  meant. I found out pretty quick."

 Morris is at the hospital. He is a perfect wreck, and while he will  probably get well, he will have had a close call.

 Esther Fields is a Negro washerwoman who lives at South Claiborne and  Toledano Streets. She was at home when she heard a big noise and went  out to investigate. She ran into the arms of the mob, and was beaten  into insensibility in less time than it takes to tell it. Esther is  being treated at the charity hospital, and should be able to get about  in a few days. The majority of her bruises are about the head.

 T.P. Sanders fell at the hands of the Jackson Avenue mob. He lives at  1927 Jackson Avenue, and was sitting in front of his home when he saw  the crowd marching out the street. He stayed to see what the excitement  was all about, and was shot in the knee and thorax and horribly beaten  about the head before the mob came to the conclusion that he had been  done for, and passed on. The ambulance was called and he was picked up  and carried to the charity hospital, where his wounds were dressed and  pronounced serious.

 Oswald McMahon is nothing more than a boy. He was shot in the leg and  afterward carried to the hospital. His injuries are very slight.

 Dan White is another charity hospital patient. He is a Negro roustabout  and was sitting in the bar room at Poydras and Franklin Streets when a  mob passed along and espied him. He was shot in the hand, and would have  been roughly dealt with had some policeman not been luckily near and  rescued him.

 In addition to the Negroes who suffered from the violence of the mob  there were several patients treated at the hospital during the night who  had been with the rioters and had been struck by stray bullets or  injured in scuffles. None of this class were hurt to any extent. They  got their wounds dressed and went out again.

WAS CHARLES A DESPERADO?

The press of the country has united in declaring that Robert Charles was a desperado. As usual, when dealing with a negro, he is assumed to be guilty because he is charged. Even the most conservative of journals refuse to ask evidence to prove that the dead man was a criminal, and that his life had been given over to lawbreaking. The minute that the news was flashed across the country that he had shot a white man it was at once declared that he was a fiend incarnate, and that when he was killed the community would be ridden of a black-hearted desperado. The reporters of the New Orleans papers, who were in the best position to trace the record of this man's life, made every possible effort to find evidence to prove that he was a villain unhung. With all the resources at their command, and inspired by intense interest to paint him as black a villain as possible, these reporters signally failed to disclose a single indictment which charged Robert Charles with a crime. Because they failed to find any legal evidence that Charles was a lawbreaker and desperado his accusers gave full license to their imagination and distorted the facts that they had obtained, in every way possible, to prove a course of criminality, which the records absolutely refuse to show.

Charles had his first encounter with the police Monday night, in which he was shot in the street duel which was begun by the police after Officer Mora had beaten Charles three or four times over the head with his billy in an attempt to make an illegal arrest. In defending himself against the combined attack of two officers with a billy and their guns upon him, Charles shot Officer Mora and escaped.

Early Tuesday morning Charles was traced to Dryades Street by officers who were instructed to kill him on sight. There, again defending himself, he shot and killed two officers. This, of course, in the eyes of the American press, made him a desperado. The New Orleans press, in substantiating the charges that he was a desperado, make statements which will be interesting to examine.

In the first place the New Orleans Times-Democrat, of July 25, calls Charles a "ravisher and a daredevil." It says that from all sources that could be searched "the testimony was cumulative that the character of the murderer, Robert Charles, is that of a daredevil and a fiend in human form." Then in the same article it says:

The belongings of Robert Charles which were found in his room were a  complete index to the character of the man. Although the room and its  contents were in a state of chaos on account of the frenzied search for  clews by officers and citizens, an examination of his personal effects  revealed the mental state of the murderer and the rancor in his heart  toward the Caucasian race. Never was the adage, "A little learning is a  dangerous thing," better exemplified than in the case of the negro who  shot to death the two officers.

His room was searched, and the evidence upon which the charge that he was a desperado consisted of pamphlets in support of Negro emigration to Liberia. On his mantel-piece there was found a bullet mold and an outfit for reloading cartridges. There were also two pistol scabbards and a bottle of cocaine. The other evidences that Charles was a desperado the writer described as follows:

In his room were found negro periodicals and other "race" propaganda,  most of which was in the interest of the negro's emigration to Liberia.  There were Police Gazettes strewn about his room and other papers of a  similar character. Well-worn textbooks, bearing his name written in his  own scrawling handwriting, and well-filled copybooks found in his trunk  showed that he had burnt the midnight oil, and was desirous of improving  himself intellectually in order that he might conquer the hated white  race. Much of the literature found among his chattels was of a  superlatively vituperative character, and attacked the white race in  unstinted language and asserted the equal rights of the Negro.

 Charles was evidently the local agent of the Voice of Missions, a  "religious" paper, published at Atlanta, as great bundles of that sheet  were found. It is edited by one Bishop Turner, and seems to be the  official organ of all haters of the white race. Its editorials are  anarchistic in the extreme, and urge upon the negro that the sooner he  realizes that he is as good as the white man the better it will be for  him. The following verses were clipped from the journal; they were  marked "till forbidden," and appeared in several successive numbers:

OUR SENTIMENTS H.M.T. My country, 'tis of thee, Dear land of Africa, Of thee we sing. Land where our fathers died, Land of the Negro's pride, God's truth shall ring. My native country, thee, Land of the black and free, Thy name I love; To see thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and matchless hills, Like that above. When all thy slanderous ghouls, In the bosom of sheol, Forgotten lie, Thy monumental name shall live, And suns thy royal brow shall gild, Upheaved to heaven high, O'ertopping thrones.

There were no valuables in his room, and if he was a professional thief  he had his headquarters for storing his plunder at some other place than  his room on Fourth Street. Nothing was found in his room that could lead  to the belief that he was a thief, except fifty or more small bits of  soap. The inference was that every place he visited he took all of the  soap lying around, as all of the bits were well worn and had seen long  service on the washstand.

 His wearing apparel was little more than rags, and financially he was  evidently not in a flourishing condition. He was in no sense a skilled  workman, and his room showed, in fact, that he was nothing more than a  laborer.

 The "philosopher in the garret" was a dirty wretch, and his room, his  bedding and his clothing were nasty and filthy beyond belief. His object  in life seemed to have been the discomfiture of the white race, and to  this purpose he devoted himself with zeal. He declared himself to be a  "patriot," and wished to be the Moses of his race.

Under the title of "The Making of a Monster," the reporter attempts to give "something of the personality of the archfiend, Charles." Giving his imagination full vent the writer says:

It is only natural that the deepest interest should attach to the  personality of Robert Charles. What manner of man was this fiend  incarnate? What conditions developed him? Who were his preceptors? From  what ancestral strain, if any, did he derive his ferocious hatred of the  whites, his cunning, his brute courage, the apostolic zeal which he  displayed in spreading the propaganda of African equality? These are  questions involving one of the most remarkable psychological problems of  modern times.

In answer to the questions which he propounds, the reporter proceeds to admit that he did not learn anything of a very desperate nature connected with Charles. He says:

Although Charles was a familiar figure to scores of Negroes in New  Orleans, and they had been more or less intimately acquainted with him  for over two years, curiously little can be learned of his habits or  mode of life. Since the perpetration of his terrible series of crimes it  goes without saying that his former friends are inclined to be reticent,  but it is reasonably certain that they have very little to tell. In  regard to himself, Charles was singularly reticent for a Negro. He did  not even indulge in the usual lying about his prowess and his  adventures. This was possibly due to the knowledge that he was wanted  for a couple of murders. The man had sense enough to know that it would  be highly unwise to excite any curiosity about his past.

 When Charles first came to New Orleans he worked here and there as a day  laborer. He was employed at different times in a sawmill, on the street  gangs, as a roustabout on the levee, as a helper at the sugar works and  as a coal shoveler in the engine room of the St. Charles Hotel. At each  of the places where he worked he was known as a quiet, rather surly  fellow, who had little to say to anybody, and generally performed his  tasks in morose silence. He managed to convey the impression, however,  of being a man of more than ordinary intelligence.

 A Negro named William Butts, who drives a team on the levee and lives on  Washington Street, near Baronne, told a Times-Democrat reporter  yesterday that Charles got a job about a year ago as agent for a  Liberian Immigration Society, which has headquarters at Birmingham, and  was much elated at the prospect of making a living without hard labor.

According to the further investigations of this reporter, Charles was also agent for Bishop Turner's Voice of Missions, the colored missionary organ of the African Methodist Church, edited by H.M. Turner, of Atlanta, Georgia. Concerning his service as agent for the Voice of Missions, the reporter says:

He secured a number of subscribers and visited them once a month to  collect the installments. In order to insure regular payments it was  necessary to keep up enthusiasm, which was prone to wane, and Charles  consequently became an active and continual preacher of the propaganda  of hatred. Whatever may have been his private sentiments at the outset,  this constant harping on one string must eventually have had a powerful  effect upon his own mind.

 Exactly how he received his remuneration is uncertain, but he told  several of his friends that he got a "big commission." Incidentally he  solicited subscribers for a Negro paper called the Voice of the  Missions, and when he struck a Negro who did not want to go to Africa  himself, he begged contributions for the "good of the cause."

 In the course of time Charles developed into a fanatic on the subject of  the Negro oppression and neglected business to indulge in wild tirades  whenever he could find a listener. He became more anxious to make  converts than to obtain subscribers, and the more conservative darkies  began to get afraid of him. Meanwhile he got into touch with certain  agitators in the North and made himself a distributing agent for their  literature, a great deal of which he gave away. Making money was a  secondary consideration to "the cause."

 One of the most enthusiastic advocates of the Liberian scheme is the  colored Bishop H.M. Turner, of Atlanta. Turner is a man of unusual  ability, has been over to Africa personally several times, and has made  himself conspicuous by denouncing laws which he claimed discriminated  against the blacks. Charles was one of the bishop's disciples and  evidence has been found that seems to indicate they were in  correspondence.

This was all that the Times-Democrat's reporters could find after the most diligent search to prove that Charles was the fiend incarnate which the press of New Orleans and elsewhere declared him to be.

The reporters of the New Orleans Picayune were no more successful than their brethren of the Times-Democrat. They, too, were compelled to substitute fiction for facts in their attempt to prove Charles a desperado. In the issue of the twenty-sixth of July it was said that Charles was well known in Vicksburg, and was there a consort of thieves. They mentioned that a man named Benson Blake was killed in 1894 or 1895, and that four Negroes were captured, and two escaped. Of the two escaped they claim that Charles was one. The four negroes who were captured were put in jail, and as usual, in the high state of civilization which characterizes Mississippi, the right of the person accused of crime to an indictment by legal process and a legal trial by jury was considered an useless formality if the accused happened to be black. A mob went to the jail that night, the four colored men were delivered to the mob, and all four were hanged in the court-house yard. The reporters evidently assumed that Charles was guilty, if, in fact, he was ever there, because the other four men were lynched. They did not consider it was a fact of any importance that Charles was never indicted. They called him a murderer on general principles.

DIED IN SELF-DEFENSE

The life, character and death of Robert Charles challenges the thoughtful consideration of all fair-minded people. In the frenzy of the moment, when nearly a dozen men lay dead, the victims of his unerring and death-dealing aim, it was natural for a prejudiced press and for citizens in private life to denounce him as a desperado and a murderer. But sea depths are not measured when the ocean rages, nor can absolute justice be determined while public opinion is lashed into fury. There must be calmness to insure correctness of judgment. The fury of the hour must abate before we can deal justly with any man or any cause.

That Charles was not a desperado is amply shown by the discussion in the preceding chapter. The darkest pictures which the reporters could paint of Charles were quoted freely, so that the public might find upon what grounds the press declared him to be a lawbreaker. Unquestionably the grounds are wholly insufficient. Not a line of evidence has been presented to prove that Charles was the fiend which the first reports of the New Orleans charge him to be.

Nothing more should be required to establish his good reputation, for the rule is universal that a reputation must be assumed to be good until it is proved bad. But that rule does not apply to the Negro, for as soon as he is suspected the public judgment immediately determines that he is guilty of whatever crime he stands charged. For this reason, as a matter of duty to the race, and the simple justice to the memory of Charles, an investigation has been made of the life and character of Charles before the fatal affray which led to his death.

Robert Charles was not an educated man. He was a student who faithfully investigated all the phases of oppression from which his race has suffered. That he was a student is amply shown by the Times-Democrat report of the twenty-fifth, which says:

"Well-worn textbooks, bearing his name written in his own scrawling handwriting, and well-filled copy-books found in his trunk, showed that he had burned the midnight oil, and desired to improve himself intellectually in order that he might conquer the hated white race." From this quotation it will be seen that he spent the hours after days of hard toil in trying to improve himself, both in the study of textbooks and in writing.

He knew that he was a student of a problem which required all the intelligence that a man could command, and he was burning his midnight oil gathering knowledge that he might better be able to come to an intelligent solution. To his aid in the study of this problem he sought the aid of a Christian newspaper, the Voice of Missions, the organ of the African Methodist Episcopal Church. He was in communication with its editor, who is a bishop, and is known all over this country as a man of learning, a lover of justice and the defender of law and order. Charles could receive from Bishop Turner not a word of encouragement to be other than an earnest, tireless and God-fearing student of the complex problems which affected the race.

For further help and assistance in his studies, Charles turned to an organization which has existed and flourished for many years, at all times managed by men of high Christian standing and absolute integrity. These men believe and preach a doctrine that the best interests of the Negro will be subserved by an emigration from America back to the Fatherland, and they do all they can to spread the doctrine of emigration and to give material assistance to those who desire to leave America and make their future homes in Africa. This organization is known as "The International Migration Society." It has its headquarters in Birmingham, Alabama. From this place it issues pamphlets, some of which were found, in the home of Robert Charles, and which pamphlets the reporters of the New Orleans papers declare to be incendiary and dangerous in their doctrine and teaching.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Copies of any and all of them may be secured by writing to D.J. Flummer, who is President and in charge of the home office in Birmingham, Alabama. Three of the pamphlets found in Charles's room are named respectively:

First, Prospectus of the Liberian Colonization Society; which pamphlet in a few brief pages tells of the work of the society, plans, prices and terms of transportation of colored people who choose to go to Africa. These pages are followed by a short, conservative discussion of the Negro question, and close with an argument that Africa furnishes the best asylum for the oppressed Negroes in this country.

The second pamphlet is entitled Christian Civilization of Africa. This is a brief statement of the advantages of the Republic of Liberia, and an argument in support of the superior conditions which colored people may attain to by leaving the South and settling in Liberia.

The third pamphlet is entitled The Negro and Liberia. This is a larger document than the other two, and treats more exhaustively the question of emigration, but from the first page to the last there is not an incendiary line or sentence. There is not even a suggestion of violence in all of its thirty-two pages, and not a word which could not be preached from every pulpit in the land.

If it is true that the workman is known by his tools, certainly no harm could ever come from the doctrines which were preached by Charles or the papers and pamphlets distributed by him. Nothing ever written in the Voice of Missions, and nothing ever published in the pamphlets above alluded to in the remotest way suggest that a peaceable man should turn lawbreaker, or that any man should dye his hands in his brother's blood.

In order to secure as far as possible positive information about the life and character of Robert Charles, it was plain that the best course to pursue was to communicate with those with whom he had sustained business relations. Accordingly a letter was forwarded to Mr. D.J. Flummer, who is president of the colonization society, in which letter he was asked to state in reply what information he had of the life and character of Robert Charles. The result was a very prompt letter in response, the text of which is as follows:

Birmingham, Ala., Aug. 21, 1900

 Mrs. Ida B. Wells Barnett, Chicago, Ill.:

 Dear Madam—Replying to your favor of recent date requesting me to write  you giving such information as I may have concerning the life, habits  and character of Robert Charles, who recently shot and killed police  officers in New Orleans, I wish to say that my knowledge of him is only  such as I have gained from his business connection with the  International Migration Society during the past five or six years,  during which time I was president of the society.

 He having learned that the purpose of this society was to colonize the  colored people in Liberia, West Africa, and thereby lessen or destroy  the friction and prejudice existing in this country between the two  races, set about earnestly and faithfully distributing the literature  that we issued from time to time. He always appeared to be mild but  earnest in his advocacy of emigration, and never to my knowledge used  any method or means that would in the least appear unreasonable, and had  always kept within the bounds of law and order in advocating emigration.

 The work he performed for this society was all gratuitous, and  apparently prompted from his love of humanity, and desires to be  instrumental in building up a Negro Nationality in Africa.

 If he ever violated a law before the killing of the policemen, I do not  know of it.

 Yours, very truly,

 D.J. Flummer

Besides this statement, Mr. Flummer enclosed a letter received by the Society two days before the tragedy at New Orleans. This letter was written by Robert Charles, and it attests his devotion to the cause of emigration which he had espoused. Memoranda on the margin of the letter show that the order was filled by mailing the pamphlets. It is very probable that these were the identical pamphlets which were found by the mob which broke into the room of Robert Charles and seized upon these harmless documents and declared they were sufficient evidence to prove Charles a desperado. In the light of subsequent events the letter of Charles, which follows, sounds like a voice from the tomb:

New Orleans, July 30,1900

Mr. D.J. Flummer:

 Dear Sir—I received your last pamphlets and they are all given out. I  want you to send me some more, and I enclose you the stamps. I think I  will go over in Greenville, Miss., and give my people some pamphlets  over there.

 Yours truly,

 Robert Charles

The latest word of information comes from New Orleans from a man who knew Charles intimately for six years. For obvious reasons, his name is withheld. In answer to a letter sent him he answers as follows:

New Orleans, Aug. 23, 1900

 Mrs. Ida B. Wells-Barnett:

 Dear Madam—It affords me great pleasure to inform you as far as I know  of Robert Charles. I have been acquainted with him about six years in  this city. He never has, as I know, given any trouble to anyone. He was  quiet and a peaceful man and was very frank in speaking. He was too much  of a hero to die; few call be found to equal him. I am very sorry to  say that I do not know anything of his birthplace, nor his parents, but  enclosed find letter from his uncle, from which you may find more  information. You will also find one of the circulars in which Charles  was in possession of which was styled as a crazy document. Let me say,  until our preachers preach this document we will always be slaves. If  you can help circulate this "crazy" doctrine I would be glad to have you  do so, for I shall never rest until I get to that heaven on earth; that  is, the west coast of Africa, in Liberia.

 With best wishes to you I still remain, as always, for the good of the  race,

 ——

By only those whose anger and vindictiveness warp their judgment is Robert Charles a desperado. Their word is not supported by the statement of a single fact which justifies their judgment and no criminal record shows that he was ever indicted for any offense, much less convicted of crime. On the contrary, his work for many years had been with Christian people, circulating emigration pamphlets and active as agent for a mission publication. Men who knew him say that he was a law-abiding, quiet, industrious, peaceable man. So he lived.

So he lived and so he would have died had not he raised his hand to resent unprovoked assault and unlawful arrest that fateful Monday night. That made him an outlaw, and being a man of courage he decided to die with his face to the foe. The white people of this country may charge that he was a desperado, but to the people of his own race Robert Charles will always be regarded as the hero of New Orleans.

BURNING HUMAN BEINGS ALIVE

Not only has life been taken by mobs in the past twenty years, but the ordinary procedure of hanging and shooting have been improved upon during the past ten years. Fifteen human beings have been burned to death in the different parts of the country by mobs. Men, women and children have gone to see the sight, and all have approved the barbarous deeds done in the high light of the civilization and Christianity of this country.

In 1891 Ed Coy was burned to death in Texarkana, Ark. He was charged with assaulting a white woman, and after the mob had securely tied him to a tree, the men and boys amused themselves for some time sticking knives into Coy's body and slicing off pieces, of flesh. When they had amused themselves sufficiently, they poured coal oil over him and the women in the case set fire to him. It is said that fifteen thousand people stood by and saw him burned. This was on a Sunday night, and press reports told how the people looked on while the Negro burned to death.

Feb. 1, 1893, Henry Smith was burned to death in Paris, Texas. The entire county joined in that exhibition. The district attorney himself went for the prisoner and turned him over to the mob. He was placed upon a float and drawn by four white horses through the principal streets of the city. Men, women and children stood at their doors and waved their handkerchiefs and cheered the echoes. They knew that the man was to be burned to death because the newspaper had declared for three days previous that this would be so. Excursions were run by all the railroads, and the mayor of the town gave the children a holiday so that they might see the sight.

Henry Smith was charged with having assaulted and murdered a little white girl. He was an imbecile, and while he had killed the child, there was no proof that he had criminally assaulted her. He was tied to a stake on a platform which had been built ten feet high, so that everybody might see the sight. The father and brother and uncle of the little white girl that had been murdered was upon that platform about fifty minutes entertaining the crowd of ten thousand persons by burning the victim's flesh with red-hot irons. Their own newspapers told how they burned his eyes out and, ran the red-hot iron down his throat, cooking his tongue, and how the crowd cheered wild delight. At last, having declared themselves satisfied, coal oil was poured over him and he was burned to death, and the mob fought over the ashes for bones and pieces of his clothes.

July 7, 1893, in Bardwell, Ky., C.J. Miller was burned to ashes. Since his death this man has been found to be absolutely innocent of the murder of the two white girls with which he was charged. But the mob would wait for no justification. They insisted that, as they were not sure he was the right man, they would compromise the matter by hanging him instead of burning. Not to be outdone, they took the body down and made a huge bonfire out of it.

July 22, 1893, at Memphis, Tenn., the body of Lee Walker was dragged through the street and burned before the court house. Walker had frightened some girls in a wagon along a country road by asking them to let him ride in their wagon. They cried out; some men working in a field near by said it was at attempt of assault, and of course began to look for their prey. There was never any charge of rape; the women only declared that he attempted an assault. After he was apprehended and put in jail and perfectly helpless, the mob dragged him out, shot him, cut him, beat him with sticks, built a fire and burned the legs off, then took the trunk of the body down and dragged further up the street, and at last burned it before the court house.

Sept. 20, 1893, at Roanoke, Va., the body of a Negro who had quarreled with a white woman was burned in the presence of several thousand persons. These people also wreaked their vengeance upon this helpless victim of the mob's wrath by sticking knives into him, kicking him and beating him with stones and otherwise mutilating him before life was extinct.

June 11, 1898, at Knoxville, Ark., James Perry was shut up in a cabin because he had smallpox and burned to death. He had been quarantined in this cabin when it was declared that he had this disease and the doctor sent for. When the physician arrived he found only a few smoldering embers. Upon inquiry some railroad hands who were working nearby revealed the fact that they had fastened the door of the cabin and set fire to the cabin and burned man and hut together.

Feb. 22, 1898, at Lake City, S.C., Postmaster Baker and his infant child were burned to death by a mob that had set fire to his house. Mr. Baker's crime was that he had refused to give up the post office, to which he had been appointed by the National Government. The mob had tried to drive him away by persecution and intimidation. Finding that all else had failed, they went to his home in the dead of night and set fire to his house, and as the family rushed forth they were greeted by a volley of bullets. The father and his baby were shot through the open door and wounded so badly that they fell back in the fire and were burned to death. The remainder of the family, consisting of the wife and five children, escaped with their lives from the burning house, but all of them were shot, one of the number made a cripple for life.

Jan. 7, 1898, two Indians were tied to a tree at Maud Post Office, Indian Territory, and burned to death by a white mob. They were charged with murdering a white woman. There was no proof of their guilt except the unsupported word of the mob. Yet they were tied to a tree and slowly roasted to death. Their names were Lewis McGeesy and Hond Martin. Since that time these boys have been found to be absolutely innocent of the charge. Of course that discovery is too late to be of any benefit to them, but because they were Indians the Indian Commissioner demanded and received from the United States Government an indemnity of $13,000.

April 23, 1899, at Palmetto, Ga., Sam Hose was burned alive in the presence of a throng, on Sunday afternoon. He was charged with killing a man named Cranford, his employer, which he admitted he did because his employer was about to shoot him. To the fact of killing the employer was added the absolutely false charge that Hose assaulted the wife. Hose was arrested and no trial was given him. According to the code of reasoning of the mob, none was needed. A white man had been killed and a white woman was said to have been assaulted. That was enough. When Hose was found he had to die.

The Atlanta Constitution, in speaking of the murder of Cranford, said that the Negro who was suspected would be burned alive. Not only this, but it offered $500 reward for his capture. After he had been apprehended, it was publicly announced that he would be burned alive. Excursion trains were run and bulletins were put up in the small towns. The Governor of Georgia was in Atlanta while excursion trains were being made up to take visitors to the burning. Many fair ladies drove out in their carriages on Sunday afternoon to witness the torture and burning of a human being. Hose's ears were cut off, then his toes and fingers, and passed round to the crowd. His eyes were put out, his tongue torn out and flesh cut in strips by knives. Finally they poured coal oil on him and burned him to death. They dragged his half-consumed trunk out of the flames, cut it open, extracted his heart and liver, and sold slices for ten cents each for souvenirs, all of which was published most promptly in the daily papers of Georgia and boasted over by the people of that section.

Oct. 19, 1889, at Canton, Miss., Joseph Leflore was burned to death. A house had been entered and its occupants murdered during the absence of the husband and father. When the discovery was made, it was immediately supposed that the crime was the work of a Negro, and the motive that of assaulting white women.

Bloodhounds were procured and they made a round of the village and discovered only one colored man absent from his home. This was taken to be proof sufficient that he was the perpetrator of the deed. When he returned home he was apprehended, taken into the yard of the house that had been burned down, tied to a stake, and was slowly roasted to death.

Dec. 6, 1899, at Maysville, Ky., Wm. Coleman also was burned to death. He was slowly roasted, first one foot and then the other, and dragged out of the fire so that the torture might be prolonged. All of this without a shadow of proof or scintilla of evidence that the man had committed the crime.

Thus have the mobs of this country taken the lives of their victims within the past ten years. In every single instance except one these burnings were witnessed by from two thousand to fifteen thousand people, and no one person in all these crowds throughout the country had the courage to raise his voice and speak out against the awful barbarism of burning human beings to death.

Men and women of America, are you proud of this record which the Anglo-Saxon race has made for itself? Your silence seems to say that you are. Your silence encourages a continuance of this sort of horror. Only by earnest, active, united endeavor to arouse public sentiment can we hope to put a stop to these demonstrations of American barbarism.

LYNCHING RECORD

The following table of lynchings has been kept year by year by the Chicago Tribune, beginning with 1882, and shows the list of Negroes that have been lynched during that time:

1882, Negroes murdered by mobs       52

1883, Negroes murdered by mobs       39

1884, Negroes murdered by mobs       53

1885, Negroes murdered by mobs      164

1886, Negroes murdered by mobs      136

1887, Negroes murdered by mobs      128

1888, Negroes murdered by mobs      143

1889, Negroes murdered by mobs      127

1890, Negroes murdered by mobs      171

1891, Negroes murdered by mobs      192

1892, Negroes murdered by mobs      241

1893, Negroes murdered by mobs      200

1894, Negroes murdered by mobs      190

1895, Negroes murdered by mobs      171

1896, Negroes murdered by mobs      131

1897, Negroes murdered by mobs      156

1898, Negroes murdered by mobs      127

1899, Negroes murdered by mobs      107

Of these thousands of men and women who have been put to death without judge or jury, less than one-third of them have been even accused of criminal assault. The world at large has accepted unquestionably the statement that Negroes are lynched only for assaults upon white women. Of those who were lynched from 1882 to 1891, the first ten years of the tabulated lynching record, the charges are as follows:

Two hundred and sixty-nine were charged with rape; 253 with murder; 44 with robbery; 37 with incendiarism; 4 with burglary; 27 with race prejudice; 13 quarreled with white men; 10 with making threats; 7 with rioting; 5 with miscegenation; in 32 cases no reasons were given, the victims were lynched on general principles.

During the past five years the record is as follows:

Of the 171 persons lynched in 1895 only 34 were charged with this crime. In 1896, out of 131 persons who were lynched, only 34 were said to have assaulted women. Of the 156 in 1897, only 32. In 1898, out of 127 persons lynched, 24 were charged with the alleged "usual crime." In 1899, of the 107 lynchings, 16 were said to be for crimes against women. These figures, of course, speak for themselves, and to the unprejudiced, fair-minded person it is only necessary to read and study them in order to show that the charge that the Negro is a moral outlaw is a false one, made for the purpose of injuring the Negro's good name and to create public sentiment against him.

If public sentiment were alive, as it should be upon the subject, it would refuse to be longer hoodwinked, and the voice of conscience would refuse to be stilled by these false statements. If the laws of the country were obeyed and respected by the white men of the country who charge that the Negro has no respect for law, these things could not be, for every individual, no matter what the charge, would have a fair trial and an opportunity to prove his guilt or innocence before a tribunal of law.

That is all the Negro asks—that is all the friends of law and order need to ask, for once the law of the land is supreme, no individual who commits crime will escape punishment.

Individual Negroes commit crimes the same as do white men, but that the Negro race is peculiarly given to assault upon women, is a falsehood of the deepest dye. The tables given above show that the Negro who is saucy to white men is lynched as well as the Negro who is charged with assault upon women. Less than one-sixth of the lynchings last year, 1899, were charged with rape.

The Negro points to his record during the war in rebuttal of this false slander. When the white women and children of the South had no protector save only these Negroes, not one instance is known where the trust was betrayed. It is remarkably strange that the Negro had more respect for womanhood with the white men of the South hundreds of miles away, than they have today, when surrounded by those who take their lives with impunity and burn and torture, even worse than the "unspeakable Turk."

Again, the white women of the North came South years ago, threaded the forests, visited the cabins, taught the schools and associated only with the Negroes whom they came to teach, and had no protectors near at hand. They had no charge or complaint to make of the danger to themselves after association with this class of human beings. Not once has the country been shocked by such recitals from them as come from the women who are surrounded by their husbands, brothers, lovers and friends. If the Negro's nature is bestial, it certainly should have proved itself in one of these two instances. The Negro asks only justice and an impartial consideration of these facts.

[stoportotouch]

requesting Tozer Thoughts for the meme :3

first impression

i actually can't remember. i probably noticed his non-british-english pronunciation of "lieutenant" in the first episode the first time i watched it.

impression now

oh i love him. he's so pathetic. also it's a good thing that they don't pay him to be clever because he would owe them money by the end if they did. interesting to me also that he kind of occupies hodgson's place in the narrative when you think about The Book. (which is mostly done by having heather die far less... pleasantly. in the show than in the book.) a real orange cat of a man.

favourite moment

i like him and armitage conspiring to whack little on the head. this is in part because little getting his brain stirred around a bit is one of my favourite things to contemplate but partly because i do not think that i would have the self-control that little has not to just go with him.

idea for a story

he isn't really a guy that i do enough with in general in fanfic. i would like to Think A Bit More about his relationship with hodgson though. i have a written but not published prequel to it hurts to pray to god where they are if not friends then kind of in agreement. (tozer is just like "hm. not sure what to do with that information." about hodgson telling him that he was going to poision himself, etc.)

unpopular opinion

i don't know if i have one tbh.

favourite relationship

oh this is a complicated one because while i don't think he timed his "run away with me join the mutiny" with little very well (just after little's Boy Best Friend was killed. badly.) i fear that they have a type of chemistry that is more interesting than i give 'em credit for. so, you know, missed connection maybe?

favourite headcanon

even if they aren't A Thing i feel like he and little can no less vibe somewhat. little's youngest brother is a marine; i feel like they get each other thanks to that.

[writingintheshadowsforever]

Hi Let Me Explain

Quick Note: This might be a long post so I don't blame anyone who doesn't read the whole thing. This is an explanation, an apology, and an update all in one.

Hi everyone I'm back this time for real. I won't make any promises to posting three to four times a week. I won't make any promises on what series or request will be updated first. I will reassure all of you than none of my series or requests are forgotten about. I have them saved somewhere and plan on finishing them. The plan here is to take it one day at a time. One fic at a time. As I start my journey to finding the joy in writing again.

You see I've been doing a lot of self reflection these past couple of weeks. I've been at war with myself on rather or not to let a dream go. That dream to become this big time bestselling author one day. I didn't want to admit that dream which has always been my biggest dream since like high school was doing more harm than good. The dream of being a published writer is destroying my love for writing. So I need to let it go before I find myself hating writing altogether.

Its never easy to walk away or let go of your dreams especially for creatives. I sort of feel like its harder for any type of artist in whatever field to admit that they want to move onto something else. Because we grow up having to listen to parents and teachers telling us. Its not a plausible goal and to pick a safer path or at least have a backup goal. And most of us decide right then and there no matter what we're going to prove all those people wrong. No matter what obstacles we have to face, how many times we fail, or how long it takes. We are determined to find success with our craft and make them eat those words.

Some of us refuse to even consider another interest or path. Some of us put all our eggs in one basket. Some of us let our craft become our entire identity meaning. Later on if we want to walk away or maybe just put on the back burner for a while. Its like losing who you are as a person. You feel like you've failed yourself and at life for letting go. I say letting go and not giving up because I will never give up on writing or more specifically storytelling.

Storytelling made me the person I am today. I wouldn't be here today without my love for storytelling. It got me out of some dark places as a kid and still does today. Storytelling is the only real magic in this world.

As a writer who feel like the heart of storytelling is dying because of capitalism. I can't let it go. I can't let my love for it die which is why for now I have to let the dream go. It doesn't mean my dream still won't come true one day. And its not like becoming a bestselling author is my only dream. I have other dreams that have take the backseat, and I think its time to move them to the front seat.

For now on I write for the joy of it. I write to get those stories out of me. When it comes to my writing I don't ever want it to be about money or fame. Starting now I'm going to stop stressing over traditional publishing and rather or not I'll ever be good enough.

I'm sorry everyone for being gone so long. For a while a part of me started to contemplate giving up on writing altogether and even deleting this account. I was starting to hate writing because I was so stressed trying to figure out how to achieve success as a professional writer.

I once had a stranger who I didn't know at all tell me that one day I was going to be a great writer. Never met or talked to this guy a day in my life. I felt like it was a sign from God, the universe or whatever you believe in. Either way it was some divine intervention moment letting me know I was one day destined for a long and great career as a professional writer. But do you have to be a professional writer to be a great writer? Is it the same thing? Can someone be great at something but never find traditional success? Those are the questions that have been running my head every time I thought about letting go. I still going to struggle with those questions, but I hope one day I find the answer. What makes a great writer?

After going through my old fics the ones I'm going to get started on are:

Queen Ramonda x Reader Enemies to Lover

Part 2 to being Namor's daughter and choosing Wakanda over Talokan

Steal Your Heart

Not Who You Think I Am

New Marvel Stuff

New Addition

My Hero Academia imagines because its my new anime obsession

[so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed]

2023 writing self evaluation

I was tagged by the lovely @neondiamond, thank you!! I was also almost tagged by @lululawrence who texted me but I was already asleep lol.

1. List of works published this year:

In order of posting, these are the 17 fics I published:

April: saw some things on the other side [61K, Larry, written for @onedirectionbigbang]

May: (now I realize that the world outside) it's bigger than me [3,5K, written for @faithinthefutureficfest]

let's get naked and explore (our inner secrets) [8K, Zouis, written for @wankersday]

June: the missing piece that makes me fit [17K, Zouiam, written for @zouisfics]

we will get another day (to begin again) [1,8K, Ziam]

July: rain makes the flowers grow [1,1K, Larry, ficlet friday]

a life that's lived without you [1,1K, Ziam, ficlet friday]

August: and there's no one to blame [1,8K, Larry, ficlet friday]

You don't have to say "I love you", to say I love you [1,5K, ficlet friday]

I'm falling again [2,2K, Larry, ficlet friday]

like a moth into a flame [5,4K, Zouis, written for @wordplayfics]

September: I'll Run (Run to You) [1,1K, Larry, written for @wordplayfics]

like a bridge over troubled water (I will lay me down) [6,4K, written for @wordplayfics]

(don't you ever) hope for something else [5,4K, Ziam, written for @wordplayfics)

you try to stop it tumbling (but on and on it goes) [2,7K, Lirry, written for @wordplayfics]

October: when love gets involved [666, Larry, written for @1dtrickortreatfest]

find a way (to send me a sign) [666, Larry, written for @1dtrickortreatfest]

December: Santa Baby (one little thing I really need) [3K, Larry, written for @parmahamlarrie for the @1dcreatorclubhouse holiday exchange]

In total, including works that I haven't published yet, I've written 129.843 words in 2023.

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

I always really struggle with my Big Bang, and this year was no different. There was a lot of math involved, and a lot of schedules to make sure that the time travel all worked and the dates were accurate. I am really proud of how it turned out though, and the art (by the wonderful @monpetithl) is absolutely stunning.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

I suppose by default I'm 'least proud' of some fics, since I'm more proud of others, but in general, I'm very proud of everything I published this year.

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

This is from (now I realize that the world outside) it's bigger than me

His throat feels dry and his face looks flushed, and there’s a moment where he contemplates dunking his head under the tap, but he doesn’t want to keep the fans waiting, even if he knows that his band is excellent at keeping the crowd entertained.

Or at least, they usually are. But right now, heading through the hallway back to the stage, all he can hear is silence.

Louis feels his heartbeat kick up a notch, and even though he knows that it’s ridiculous and highly implausible, there’s a brief moment where he wonders if everyone has just up and left. Maybe they’ve had enough. Maybe they only came here to see if he was willing to confirm the rumours, and now that he hasn’t, they’re leaving.

His palms are sweating, making him wipe them on his jeans, and it’s only when the band starts playing the intro to Bigger Than Me that they had come up with for the tour that Louis has the courage to step back onto the stage.

He has just opened his mouth for the first line – when somebody told me I would change – when it sinks in what he’s looking at.

Where the crowd is usually colourful, little rainbow flags showing up throughout the songs, or being held up en masse during a fan project for Only the Brave, it’s almost muted now, blacks and whites and greys.

And purple.

It is a sea of flags. A sea of ace flags.

Louis is vaguely aware that the band has started the intro for the third time. He can hear the cheers, the chants, can see the banners that are being held up by people on the balcony. We love you Louis, they read. We need you and you’ve got us.

His blood is rushing through his ears and he’s pretty sure he’s about two seconds from crying, and there is no way in hell that he’s going to be able to sing this song right now. It’s not even because it’s one of the harder songs in his set and he can feel his throat closing up. But he feels like he needs to acknowledge this. Because while he might not acknowledge it in the press, might play coy, these are his fans. These are the people that get him. The people that understand and support and love him, and they’re right. He’s got them. No matter what else, he’s got these people in his corner.

5. Share or describe a favorite review you received:

So my favourite review wasn't actually written. It was a friend of mine, at the concert in Paris, locking eyes with me during Bigger Than Me, and the two of us sharing a moment because we knew.

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

Honestly, a lot of the year. I've written on something every month, but I've had months where I barely made 5K, if that. I've also had periods where my health was just utterly shit, and periods where I was too busy (like in November, which I mostly spent hanging out with the amazing @chaotic-bells)

7. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you:

Well, it is written but not published, but something happened in my Big Bang for 2024 where I was like "really?? this is what you're going with??" and I guess you'll have to find that moment in my fic when it posts.

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

I'm honestly not sure I did, though I feel like I wrote a lot more short fics this year, so I suppose in that regard I grew by being able to write shorter things.

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

I mostly just hope to continue being able to write, continue loving writing, because for a while this year I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue being a writer in this fandom. But I got lovingly told that there was no way I wasn't doing the Big Bang next year, and then I got matched up with an amazing artist (hiii @whatagreatproblemtohave!) so that definitely helped in getting my mojo back.

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

I had wonderful guidance in the form of @londonfoginacup who told me a) you are not dropping out of the big bang and b) how about you rewrite the fic in Zayn's perspective, which has helped A LOT. I've also had an absolutely wonderful friend in @beardyboyzx who has read through a lot of my fics, has offered advice, a sounding board, and anything I could ask for. My beta, as always, is the wonderful @foullovehideout who is just the best person I could ask for. I had such a wonderful time seeing them again this year too.

And then there's the people that I've written with! Most notably, @jacaranda-bloom who is my standard writing buddy, though we've not been able to write together as often as last year, she's still helped me stay committed to my writing and I wouldn't have been able to publish as many fics if it weren't for our sprints.

Lastly, there's the beautiful people from the @1dcreatorclubhouse who have been just wonderful and a great source of joy and comfort.

11. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

Honestly it always does. Mostly this year in the aro/ace characters, because they are me and I am them.

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

I don't think it's new, really, but a) write what you want to write and b) don't forget that writing is a muscle, it needs to be trained just like anything else. You can't expect the same ease that you felt while writing daily when you end up not having been able to write for a while. Give yourself grace, and above all, believe in yourself and the stories you want to tell. They'll be loved by so many people!

13. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

Definitely my Big Bang for 2024. It's a struggle and really outside of my wheelhouse, but I'm excited to see where it ends up going. I am also super intrigued by the possible 1daroacefest that @red-pandaaa was running a poll for (you can vote here) so depending on when it runs I definitely want to participate. And I'm thinking I might dabble in some F1 fic next year!

14. Tag three writers whose answers you’d like to read. ;)

I am going to tag the wonderful @beardyboyzx because I need to read their answers. And I am tagging @voulezloux and @reminiscingintherain too!

[thelollipoplux]

Cupid's Corner | In Focus: Buck

Buck embodies an adventurous soul, reveling in his nomadic lifestyle. Roaming the country on his cherished motorcycle alongside his fluffy Alaskan Malamute, Ruby, he continuously seeks thrilling escapades. Together, Buck and Ruby have embarked on countless journeys, culminating most recently in conquering the peak of Mount Komorebi.

Having recently taken up residence in the peculiar town of StrangerVille, Buck aims to contemplate his past decisions and confront the inner turmoil that has long haunted him. Whether he's unwinding at the 8 Bells bar or trekking through nature with Ruby, Buck can often be found embracing these activities. And during quieter moments, he can be spotted cruising along deserted evening roads on his motorcycle.

Buck finds solace in the world of books and the craft of writing. This passion emerged during a dark period in his life and swiftly evolved into one of his pillars of strength. Chronicling his escapades, Buck curates captivating narratives on his blog titled "Buck and Ruby do Adventures." Alongside this, he's engrossed in crafting a book series centered around a mysterious town harboring enigmatic secrets—a project he aspires to see published in the future.

Despite his past romantic endeavors, including marriage, Buck has shied away from long-term commitments. However, as time advances, he begins to sense a yearning for companionship. Eager to explore the realm of love, he's now open to welcoming romance into his life.

Additional information about Buck can be found below.

Aspiration

Bestselling Author

Job

Manual Laborer (Level 3)

Skills

Rock Climbing (8), Writing (7), Handiness (6), Guitar (6), Fitness (5), Fishing (5), Horse Riding (4), Cooking (4), Nectar Making (3), Gardening (2).

Traits

Adventurous, Self-Assured, Noncommittal, Muser, Morning Person, Night Owl, Frugal, Free Services, Stoves and Grills Master, Shameless, Carefree, Independent, Professional Slacker, Storm Chaser, Iceproof, Heatproof, Great Kisser, Mentor.

Lifestyles

Outdoorsy, Adrenaline Seeker, Technophobe

Likes and Dislikes

Hobbies and Skills Likes: Fishing, Gardening, Handiness, Rock Climbing, Writing, Cooking, Fitness, Guitar, Nectar Making, Horse Riding Dislikes: Acting, Skiing, Snowboarding, Wellness

Conversation Topics Likes: Physical Intimacy, Compliments, Stories, Potty Humor, Pranks Dislikes: Gossip, Discussing Interests, Small Talk

Sim Characteristics Likes: Argumentative Sims, High Energy Sims, Nature Enthusiasts Dislikes: Cerebral Sims, Romance Enthusiasts

Color Likes: Brown, Red, Black Dislikes: Yellow, Green, Pink

Music Likes: Americana, Ranch, Metal Dislikes: Electronica, Pop, Summer Strut, Tween Pop

Fashion Likes: Basics, Country, Rocker Dislikes: Streetwear

Décor Likes: Industrial, Basics, Farmhouse, Shabby Dislikes: Vintage, Contemporary

All these characteristics, including Milestones, have been set to add to the sim's character. You can download Buck and his companion Ruby on the Gallery. My username is @thelollipoplux the same as on Tumblr.

The Cupid's Corner Template is by @sarahsimmerxo Thank you so much for making such a wonderful template!

Creating Buck in CAS and developing his story has been VERY fun to do. This is the first time I've ever gone into details like this with a sim and I'm loving it. I've created a few more sims that I will be using in my own gameplay when Lovestruck comes out so I will be giving them a dedicated post on Tumblr as well.

[ohallthecrushes]

You're a storm in a teacup and I'm starting to like the chaos.

I've been written this story since the last episode of Criminal minds Evolution that I've seen, which was...around one year ago. And this is so far the longest story I've ever written. Damn. I'm impressed by my own hyperfixation on this. xd I've never published it anyway, cause honestly, it was for my own amusement. Kind of self-inserted main character, you know. But since I've almost lost the whole story, I've decided to put it here to make it immortal. Who knows, maybe there are fans of CME that will find this story interesting (or sick, or both, hopefully both) and who love Elias Voit as a character (I don't recommend falling in love with someone like him!)

Without further ado!

Summary: Evelyn is a young-troubled woman who's just escaped a highly guarded psych ward (twice, but this time causing havoc on her way out)

Now she's running through the city, hiding from police. A not-so-accidental encounter with a man named Elias Voit will change her life forever. And she'll change his. His seemingly selfless help is laced with danger, hidden agenda, manipulation, endless tension, and...love? Slow burning inteligent-idiots-in-love trope. But mind you, just because it's a love story, doesn't mean it ends well.

General warnings throughout the story: Manipulation, illegal activities, murder(s), Stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, explicit content, language... The whole pack. It's Criminal minds after all.

In this episode: Breaking into a house, whether it's abandoned or not, comes with a risk of dealing with a proposition that it's hard to decline.

Before Evelyn could stop him, Elias reached for the door handle. The front door creaked open with a rusty protest against the intrusion. Looked like it was really abandoned or someone forgot to lock it. She followed him inside, her warm breath created a fog in the cool, stale air when she sighed. The interior mirrored the house's neglected exterior – peeling wallpaper, dust everywhere, furniture barely standing...

"All I want is to stay away from trouble and somehow I'm still getting into a bigger one" she muttered under her breath with disbelief, complaining to herself at the same time. Here she was, at the doorway, contemplating whether to commit another crime or not.

Glancing around the sparsely furnished living room that bled into a grimy kitchen, she couldn't help but hope the place was deserted. Her break-in yesterday had been a stroke of luck and a desperate attempting to find a shelter – a family on vacation, the flat empty, no one even noticed, no damage done. This one, however, held a different energy. She noticed an open cereal box on the counter, and a few bottles of unopened beer – signs of life, however meager.

She sighed again as she went inside. She should have stayed in the car before Elias locked it instead of getting out with him.

"Looks empty down here. I'll check upstairs."

She jumped, startled by the unexpected sound of his voice. Her gaze darted to the avocado-green old fridge staying in the corner. Hunger, merely appeased by one single hot dog, made its presence known again. With a sigh, she abandoned any pretense of innocence.

"Go on." she said "I'll stay here guarding... the fridge." She opened it ignoring his surprised look, and reached for a lonely sausage that looked still fresh-ish. As she peeled the plastic off of it, a little voice in her head relentlessly judged her life choices.

After a long moment of silence and two bites later she heard the creak of the stairs. It made her spin around, a sausage halfway to her mouth. Elias, not someone else, stood there and flashed a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "One snoring old drunk man upstairs. As long as we keep it quiet, he'll sleep like a baby."

The news should have been a relief, but it wasn't. She started thinking...What if the old man wasn't such a sound sleeper? What if he woke up and stumbled downstairs to find them rummaging through his belongings? Her voice, when she finally spoke, was a whisper. "And… and if he wakes up?"

He shrugged, a casual movement that concerned her. "Then I'll take care of it."

His words were...unsettling to say the least, his tone nonchalant, as if he were discussing the weather. A glint in his dark blue eyes, a sign of something cold and calculating caused her to step back from him.

The tiny voice in her head was judging her ability to judge people correctly.

He noticed her reaction and put up his hands, saying he was only joking. Surely.

"Right, joking" she echoed, her voice barely a whisper. As she was about to turn her eyes away, something caught her attention. With his hands up, his shirt went up revealing something metallic tucked into his waistband. She blinked away the initial shock.

Fuck.

Internally, she was screaming.

what taxi driver carried a fucking Glock?!

Her intuition told her to run, but logic told her to stay calm. She turned her head to the fridge to avoid eye contact. She wasn't easily fainthearted or timid. And the last couple of months taught her that she could find a way out of every situation. But she needed a moment to collect herself.

She slowly closed the fridge door. Her eyes landed on two bottles of beer. She'd already stolen a sausage, so why not? Telling her body to act casual, she brought the bottles to a nearby table where Elias was already sitting.

The silence was uncomfortable, broken only by the drip-drip of rain from the leaky roof. He opened one bottle, his face showed no emotion in the dim light. With a sigh, she reached for the second one, analyzing the situation.

She figured that the taxi must had been stolen.

She figured he might not be a taxi driver at all.

She figured that whatever game he was playing she wasn't going to play along.

"Alright," she began, her voice low and careful. "Who are you really? The stolen taxi was a bit of a head fake."

He took a long swig of his beer, his eyes flickering across her face.

"What do you mean?" He feigned confusion.

"You're not a taxi driver, are you? I mean, not the one that selflessly helps a random refugee charged with homicide to flee the town."

He didn't answer right away. His eyes piercing through her as if challenging her to figure this out on her own. "I guess, I'm not... But it doesn't necessary mean I'm your enemy."

"Then why you.." she hesitated "...carry a gun?"

He blinked with a surprise, a brief moment of genuine emotion, before his face became unreadable again. He cursed silently. She noticed. The gun could backfire easily, shattering the illusion of a kindly stranger. But he reminded himself that he could still control the situation even though he knew lying wouldn't work. Not with her.

But a half-truth could do the trick. At least for now.

"The gun is just for… protection," he said vaguely, his voice low and reassuring. "You know, the city can be a rough place at night."

"Right" She wasn't buying it. "You're a criminal on the run, aren't you? That's why you didn't alert the police."

He chuckled. "A criminal... like you?" he asked almost provocative, watching her reaction.

She fidgeted with her bottle of beer, turning it around. She didn't like that word being used to describe her by people who didn't know the whole story,. It was a label she learnt to despise. "No... Probably not like me... Who are you, really?"

He took a deep breath, forcing his voice to remain calm. "It's complicated," he began, choosing his words carefully. He couldn't tell her everything – the darkness, the violence, the blood that stained his hands – not yet. "Let's just say I help people. People like you, who find themselves in… difficult situations."

That wasn't enough. She raised her brow. "Continue..."

He put the bottle down. Pushing a little, are we, he thought.

"I operate in the shadows, I know how navigate it to my advantage, I know how to survive, how to avoid detection. I teach that to others." His voice was remained calm, almost detached. "I know you've been mistreated and I see the side of you that others can't. I know you're inteligent and resourceful and I see how much you want to survive. The gun… it's not about hurting you, Evelyn. It's about keeping you safe."

She looked at him with disbelief before she snorted with laughter. "A criminal mastermind that wants to help me. Of course," She hid her face in her hand dramatically. "Why would I meet a normal person when I could meet a criminal who have an interest in me? Jesus…" Sarcasm dripped from her voice, a defense against the helpless despair she felt. She looked away shaking her head in disbelief.

He felt a pang of irritation. He offered her his protection and that was how she reacted?

He leaned forward, his voice low and intense. "Look at me," he commanded. With a hesitation she did, her brows furrowed.

"You don't understand, do you?" He continued, frustration laced with a strange sort of self-control. "Right now, you're on the run with poor chances of getting away and with no connections that could help you disappear effectively."

He saw it in her eyes, a recognition of the truth behind his words. "You're on your own, your luck will eventually end sooner or later, and you need help, whether you like it or not." He added.

"I can take care of myself, thanks." She said firmly as she looked into his eyes. She'd made it this far without nobody's help. But there was a vulnerability in her voice, fear masked by bravado that she knew he noticed.

"Even if they catch you and lock you up again?"

She flinched, a sudden painful memory of her time in the psych ward flashed before her eyes.

"We can help each other." Elias pressed, but his voice softer now. "You can be more than what they think you are, more than what you think you are." He leaned forward as he saw the battle raging within her – fear warring with an unwelcomed acceptance.. "It's a lot to take in." he conceded, his voice calm, almost gentle. "But trust me, it doesn't have to be this way. This constant running, this fear… you don't have to live like that anymore."

His words stuck in her head, a challenge and a promise rolled into one. She stared at him, conflicted with emotions. Was he right? Was there a chance that he could help her? To what extend? And even if, then what would be the price? On one hand, the idea of aligning herself with someone like Elias was horrifying. It would be like going deeper into a rabbit hole, blindfolded. On the other hand, she wasn't sure how long she could go on like this. Alone. Against everyone.

She parted her lips. "I just want to live a normal life... And not be a monster." She said with sadness in her voice.

"We're not monsters," he continued, his voice low. "Not exactly. We're different. Our minds work differently. More efficiently, some might say. Pragmatic. Analytical."

He saw the skepticism flare in her eyes, the headshake a silent denial. She still held onto the fading dream of normalcy, a life where she could blend in, be 'good' and prove her innocence. He sighed, it was a dream he himself had once harbored, a dream that had been brutally shattered by reality.

"You think normal is granted?" he challenged, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "Look at the world around you. Chaos. Violence. Hypocrisy. Normal is a lie, an ugly mask that's already cracked for you."

She bit her lip as she dropped her gaze to the table. His words were harsh, but they weren't entirely untrue. The world she remembered, the world she craved, felt increasingly distant and surreal, like a mirage in the desert.

"I won't be your… your partner, in crime." she muttered with defiance. "I'm not like you."

He leaned back, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He knew better than to push too hard, too fast. She wasn't ready to embrace the darkness yet, but the fight was half the fun.

"No." he agreed, his voice softer now. "Not yet, anyway. But keep this in mind, Evelyn. The world doesn't offer choices to people like us. It throws us into the deep shit, and survival becomes the only choice. And sometimes, survival requires… adapting. You'll see."

He finished the beer and rose from the table, leaving her with unspoken possibilities.. and threats. She remained seated, lost in her own thoughts. the harsh words of Elias echoed in her head – "survival requires adapting".

Adapting. It was all she had left. This or the alternative – psych ward or worse, jail.

The situation was far from ideal. Elias, for all his twisted pronouncements and some kind of empathy that she didn't quite believe in, had another strong argument against her possible resistance - a gun.

A gun wasn't something she could argue with. Not even with a small, sharp knife hidden within the sleeve of her black hoodie.

Even if he said that he wasn't going to use it against her, there was no guarantee of that.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. She regretted getting into that taxi.

Elias after throwing the empty bottle into a trash bin, turned to her, and shoved his hands into his back pockets. Unexpectedly he announced his need for a quick nap. "...just a short nap. In the meantime you can think about what I've said."

She looked at him and just slightly nodded. Nap? Perfect. A plan immediately started forming in her head. She could say that she'd stay awake, 'on watch' just in case. And while he slept, she could snatch the car keys and disappear into the night.

No shady partnership.

But just as quickly as the plan formed, it was shattered. With his eyes locked on her and a smirk he pulled something out of his pocket.

Handcuffs.

They were dangling from his index finger, the evidence of his distrust. Unlike the doctors and the police, he wouldn't be fooled by her facade of fragility and innocent looking face.

Her brows furrowed in a mixture of anger and defiance. Couldn't he give her a break? She met his gaze. "You're kidding?"

[josefavomjaaga]

Yet ANOTHER fiction snippet

But this will be the last, I hope. And it's only because it's the 200. anniversary of Eugène's death today. The text below is in fact translated from my very first story set in the napoleonic era, after hearing about Eugène had sparked my interest. It's the longest story I ever wrote, and one of the few I finished and even self-published. I've also shortened it a bit because I tend to be blabbering too much.

The scene takes place in Milan in early June 1805. Napoleon has turned the Italian republic into the Kingdom of Italy and now is searching a monarch for it. But his brothers, to whom he turns, all refuse. After having discussed his brothers and the reason why they refused at length with Caulaincourt (yes, I know, him of all people. No, I do not know why he would do that other the fact Caulaincourt happened to be in the room. Listen, this was my first story, okay? 😋), he resumes:

"All right, so my brothers are letting me down one by one. I have to take the crown myself, but I can't rule France and Italy at the same time without risking trouble with Austria. I must at least appoint someone to act as my governor in Italy. Any suggestions?" "Well, for the sake of argument, I must point out to Your Majesty that Prince Jérôme was not even asked whether he would accept the kingship of Italy." "I was thinking of serious suggestions, Caulaincourt. Jérôme can't command a rowing boat without help. If he gets his act together for a few months, gives up his American wife and submits to my command, we can consider elevating him to higher honours. Not before that. Who else do we have?"

"The most obvious candidate for the office would be your current Vice President of the Italian Republic, Francesco Melzi d'Eril." "Melzi? No, no. As vice president, he was a simple civil servant. This guy won't go any higher than that. I definitely don't want an Italian as viceroy. Fickle people, only pursuing their own interests. I need someone I can rely on here, a Frenchman, preferably someone from my family." "Well, both Prince Joachim Murat and Her Imperial Highness Princess Caroline Murat have repeatedly expressed their willingness, indeed their hope, to be considered for the posts in Italy."

"Did I not make myself clear, Caulaincourt? I said: I need someone I can rely on. - Murat!" He fervently motioned with his hand through the air. "Have you forgotten the ways he managed here as governor during the revolutionary wars? The Italians haven't, you can bet your life they haven't! [...] Pauline's husband is Italian, so he's out of the question, especially as the Lombards wouldn't accept a Roman as their ruler. And Elisa's Baciocchi? I'd rather pick a random oaf off the street to crown him! - Which reminds me ..." He wheeled round, stormed to the door and tore it open. "Duroc!" he shouted out into the anteroom. "Where's our little cutie?" Grand Court Marshal Duroc, busy sorting through some papers, seemed to have to think for a moment. "He's invited some officers from his chasseurs regiment to breakfast, if I'm informed correctly."

"Get him over here right away! His guests can have their coffee without him." He slammed the door shut again, folded his arms behind his back and continued to walk up and down, trapped in gloomy brooding. Grand Stable Master Caulaincourt, who knew his emperor, was careful not to disturb this contemplation. A few minutes passed in complete silence before the Grand Marshal entered in person to announce Prince Eugène Beauharnais. »At last!" Napoleon hastened across the room towards Eugène. "Listen, Prince, I have a task for you. If you've already packed for your journey back to Paris, go unpack straight away. You will stay in Milan. I hereby appoint you Viceroy of Italy."

"P-Pardon?" stuttered the young man, and both the grand marshal and the grand equerry shouted in disbelief: "Eugène?" "Yes." The emperor beamed and slipped a hand inside his unbuttoned vest. "What's wrong with that, gentlemen? The boy is not stupid and he has been in need of something meaningful to do for a long time. Besides, with him I can be certain that he will at least try to do what I tell him. An ideal solution. I'm very pleased with myself; the best idea I've had for a long time." "But sire," the young man objected. "I'm only twenty-three. And a soldier. I mean, I haven't learnt anything else. I don't speak Italian. I have no idea about portfolios and budgets and taxes and accounts…"

"Well, at least you realise that there are such things. With that, you're probably ahead of quite a few of my civil servants." His tone changed abruptly, he stepped next to his stepson and put his hand on his shoulder. "Listen, my boy, I know I'm throwing you in at the deep end. But you can do it, I'm sure of it. You don't need to worry about important things anyway, I'll decide those myself. What I want you to take care of here is the day-to-day business. Parliamentary sessions, submissions, petitions, promotions. [...] You'll have a lot to do. Italy has almost no army and what it has is in a terrible state. You will have to rebuild everything from scratch; reorganise the existing regiments, streamline the administration, build barracks, bolster fortifications, establish officer schools ... now don't look at me so fearfully. I'll write it all down for you. You'll see, it's not witchcraft. It's important that you don't allow them to steal your thunder. You have to show the Italians who's boss. Don't be too soft, don't be too kind-hearted. [...] Don't let anyone read my letters, not even Méjan or Melzi! Preside over the parliamentary sessions, meet your ministers once a week for reports, and learn Italian. Don't pretend to know more about things than you really do; nobody will believe you anyway. Don't let the Italians fool you and beware of flattery. Don't trust anyone! Above all," he added in a suddenly changed tone, "never sit on my throne! The only exception: you have to represent me in an important matter and I have expressly ordered you to do so. And if you do, hang a picture of me behind the throne so that it is clear that you are only representing me and speaking on my behalf. Otherwise, you are to sit on a chair next to or in front of the throne. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sire." Eugène nodded, having grown increasingly pale over the course of the speech. "At your command, Sire." "Very well. Then I will shortly present you to the parliament. Go and say goodbye to your mother in time; I think the Empress and I will return to France soon." "The Empress won't be at all pleased to see her son stay behind in Italy," Grand Court Marshal Duroc dared to remark. Napoleon dismissed the objection. "She will have to get used to the fact that he can no longer cling to her apron-strings all the time. And you, Caulaincourt, why are you looking so gloomy?" "If I may be so bold as to say so, Sire: the appointment of Prince Beauharnais will undoubtedly cause discord in the imperial family." "Yes," Napoleon Bonaparte beamed. "That's what I like best about my plan. I can't wait to see which of my dear siblings will be most annoyed."

[cptnbeefheart]

now that ABOM issue 1 is published, i can post my contribution :] please do not repost unless you clearly credit me!!

here’s an obnoxious explanation of all my choices that is probably way too much information :

I find the most interesting aspect of the monkees to be their era of deconstructing the image that TV & studio execs had so carefully crafted. in the process of preserving this image, these execs had created somewhat palatable characters, caricatur-izing (sorry.) elements of the casts’ real personalities. the artists themselves were given an illusion of control over their brand, rarely getting the opportunity to publish the art that they made themselves.

ANYWAY.. tying this all into my piece .. i wanted to make something dedicated to frustrations felt by all members of the monkees. Peter is in the front, making strides toward the edge of the chessboard; the monkeemobile flooring it to stand in his way. I wanted the image of a monkee crushing something that was a major symbol in the show itself. what’s more iconic than the monkee mobile itself ?! my hope is that this shows autonomy on peters part, his true self contradicting this false image created by execs-- no longer a pawn for them! of course peter was the first to quit, which is why he is taking the lead. Mike was next, buying himself out of his contract in order to publish his own music and take control of his artistic career. even throughout the brainstorming process for this, i knew i wanted to put mike in his flashy (but fabulous) nudie suit. to me its such a foreshadowing of what he would go on to do in his solo career and with the first national band. i had to CONTAIN MYSELF because i didnt want mike to have a whole bunch of detail and not fit in with the rest of the subjects.. Mike is looking straight toward the audience, realizing he would like to pursue creative projects that would not be possible working with the monkees™ and everything that they symbolize. Davy looks for the edge of the chessboard, contemplating whether or not he should leave. Micky, wearing his outfit from Head (1968), holds a remote control. This is all in reference to the imagery seen in the film; he finally has the option to change the channels for himself. I actually used a screenshot from the movie to get his face & hair right. I think in the 2 years filming the show micky started embracing his curls, but the only references from a upward angle were when he was straightening his hair !!!! I ended up using the scene where he blows up the Coke machine, a satisfied smirk on his face. what an appropriate scene. finally the chessboard, white rabbits & wind up toys. I don’t think I really need to explain that aside from mentioning that the image of the wind-ups is from 33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee (1969). I think this was the last official monkees thing Peter was in (outside of future reunion tours). The television special echos the themes already present in Head, so i felt like it would be a nice addition. And it shows the monkees as pawns versus having full autonomy. WHICH BRINGS ME TO MY LAST POINT ONE MORE THING ITS QUICK I PROMMY okay perpective ! I wanted to do an upward shot because First of all its fun but more importantly . it shows the cast themselves have outgrown their characters :] now who knows if ive succeeded in any of the things i attempted but at least i had fun :] and feeling like charlie iasip pepe silvia is healthy every once in a while...