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scotianostra · 6 months

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On March 23rd 1848, the Free Church of Scotland settlement at New Edinburgh, New Zealand was founded, it is known today as Dunedin.

It was the poet’s uncle, Rev Thomas Burns, who was among the first settlers to arrive in Dunedin, the Gaelic for Edinburgh, having been appointed by the Free Church to lead a new Presbyterian settlement in the South Pacific

One passenger on the John Wickliffe, the fist ship to carry Scottish settlers to the South Island of New Zealand, wrote in his diary: “All seemed pleased and called it a goodly land – Port Chalmers and around is truly beautiful – rich in scenery – its slopes and shores are fertile, and wooded to the water’s edge.”

Every year in Dunedin, the arrival of these first settlers from Scotland is marked by Otago Anniversary Day, the public holiday falling this year on Monday just gone.

A second boat sent by the Otago Association, founded by the Free Church to broker land sales in South Island for its followers, arrived on April 15 with more than 200 people on board. They had spent 114 days at sea since leaving Greenock.

On board were people such as Adam James, 25, a boatbuilder; James Blackie, 21, a school teacher, James Brown, 23, a calico printer and Mary Pollok, 19, a servant.

By the end of the 1850s, around 12,000 Scots had joined them in this new flourishing city, many from the industrial lowlands.

Artisans, small traders and industrial workers were to make up a third of all Scottish migrants to New Zealand with almost 70 per cent of this group coming from the Edinburgh and Glasgow area.

A number left Paisley in the early 1840s when its weaving industry was in trouble with the south part of the city to become known as “Little Paisley”.

It was George Rennie MP, born in East Lothian, who first proposed a Scottish settlement in 1842 when he declared “We shall found a New Edinburgh at the Antipodes that shall one day rival the old.”

Chief operators of the church-led plan included William Cargill, a former British Army captain who commanded the John Wickliffe and became the first superintendent of Otago.

Edinburgh solicitor John McGlashan, became the Otago scheme’s chief organiser and promoter who commandeered residents for the new colony and organised ships.

His office at 27 South Hanover Street was open 10 hours a day as people turned up at his door to organise their passage.

Conditions were tough on arrival with relentless hard graft required to transform mud and bush into even the most primitive settlement. A number of wattle and daub cottages were constructed with the place dubbed “Mud-edin” given the coarse conditions.

Still, the Free Church, in an 1853 publication, had the highest praise of the new Scots residents who were “mostly of the labouring classes who had the aim of becoming landowners.”

The author noted the “very high character” of the residents and the “very serious regard to their religious duties.”

The extreme piousness of the settlement is made startling clear.

“The silent religious aspect of our Sabbath, the solemn seriousness, the death-like stillness, and the reverential attention in the house of God strike every stranger and are unequalled by anything of my experience,” the account added.

Despite the growth of Dunedin, the Otago Association folded in 1852 after repeatedly failing to meet is sales targets with its assets and liabilities taken over by the British Government.

McGlashan took a ship to join the settlers in Otago. He and Captain Cargill were to become major players in the governance of the region with the moral authority delivered by Rev Burns, a foundation chancellor of the University of Otago who some disliked for his heavy handed puritanical ways. Anglicans were referred to as “Little Enemy” by the Ayrshire-born minister.

As Tom Devine noted in To the Ends of the Earth, one anonymous correspondent to the New Zealand Otago Times, writing under the pseudonym a Staunch Englishman, described the Scots settlers as a “mean, close, bigoted, porridge-eating” lot who were prone to “minding the sixpences.”

The legacy of those first settlers is, however, ample. Otago Boys’ High School was set up in 1864, the University of Otago in 1869 and Otago Girls’ High School, one of the first state-run schools of its type in the world, opened in 1871.

John McGlashan College, Dunedin’s Presbyterian boys’ school, was founded in 1918 from a bequest to the Church by McGlashan’s daughters.

The stiff presbyterian tone of Dunedin is also said to have spurred a “creative rebellion” with works by Dunedin poet James K Baxter considered among the country’s finest.

Today, whisky, pipe band sand the city’s own Haggis Ceremony continue to mark the impact of those first Scottish settlers who arrived.

Shops on the main street stock Dunedin tartan, tweeds and Scottie dog trinkets and sign posts point to places such as Leith Valley, Corstorphine, Musselburgh and Calton Hill.

Bars pride themselves on their selections of fine malts, churches have an air of architectural familiarity and the municipal chambers looks as if it could have been transported from any Scottish town. A statue of Robbie Burns stands in the main square.

Mark Twain, after visiting Dunedin in 1895, wrote of them: “The people are Scotch. They stopped here on their way from home to heaven thinking they had arrived.”

For millions of Scots scattered worldwide, Scotland remains the homeland. It's the place they look towards for inspiration, with affection, or with an air ticket to renew that sense of Scottish identity. The internet has made the world a lot smaller for us all, which is why many enjoy the posts here, it gives them a wee sense of belonging, even if it less than a dram of Scottish blood you have flowing through you.

#scotland #scottish #history #settlers #new zealand

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sule-skerry · 1 month

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Harry Canyon and Hanover Fiste are drag king names if I ever heard any

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vvictuss · 11 months

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i’ve been on an obscure animated film bender so i watched Heavy Metal (1981) the other day. absolutely belligerent movie.

here are some of my favorite quotes in no particular order.

Gloria: [to the robot] I'm just scared I'll come home one day and find you screwing a toaster. I forgot one thing, are you circumcised?

—

[after sex]

Robot: Earth women who experience sexual ecstasy with mechanical assistance always tend to feel guilty!

———

Hanover Fiste: [about Stern] He never did... anything that was... illegal...

[pauses]

Unless you count all the times he sold dope disguised as a nun.

———

[looking at a beautiful naked woman with huge breasts]

Den: [voiceover] She had the most beautiful eyes.

Katherine: You saved my life. I have no reward to give you, but if any part of me pleases your senses, I will give it to you willingly.

[they lie down on the ground and start to have sex]

———

Den: [voiceover] There was no way I was gonna walk around this place with my dork hanging out!

———

Den: [as the Queen presents her disrobed body to him] Wow! 18 years of nothing, and now twice in one day! What a place!

———

Stern: [repeated line to his lawyer] It's all right, Charlie. I've got an angle.

Lawyer: But the most we can hope for is to get you buried in secrecy so your grave don't get violated!

———

Hanover Fiste: [voiceover] Sucker play or not, I must have turned her on somethin' fierce. 'Cause this dame was goin' for broke. Maybe it was her first time with a New Yorker, I dunno.

Anyway, nothing beats good old American know-how. And I was givin' this broad "The Stars and Stripes Forever".

———

Harry Canyon: The U.N. Building. What a joke. They turned it into low rent housing. It's a dump.

#???#sexism aside.. i had a good time #heavy metal #heavy metal 1981 #indie animation #is this indie? idk #animation #80s aesthetic #adult animation #movie recommendation

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dreams-of-mutiny · 1 year

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youtube

The Clash - Rock The Casbah (1982) 0:00

Hanover Fist - Razor Garden (1986) 3:31 Real Life - Send Me An Angel (1983) 8:41 New Order - Blue Monday (1983) 12:20 Camouflage - Heaven (I Want You) (1991) 16:44 The Psychedelic Furs - The Ghost In You (1984) 20:07 Blancmange - Why Don't They Leave Things Alone? (1985) 24:15 Echo And The Bunnymen - The Killing Moon (1984) 27:57 Midge Ure - Call Of The Wild (1986) 32:20 Camouflage - Neighbours (1988) 37:54 Midge Ure - If I Was ((1985) 42:10 Q Lazzarus - Goodbye Horses (1988) 46:35 New Order - Confusion (1983) 49:36 The Cure - Fascination Street (1989) 53:54 Japan - Quiet Life (1979) 58:30 Depeche Mode - Flexible (1985) 1:02:08 Gene Loves Jezebel - Twenty Killer Hurts (1987) 1:07:17

#new wave #mix #80s #music #Youtube

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mrcowboydeanwinchester · 1 year

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🌧️ the sun, through it all, abides ☀️

charthur fic - 3152 words - rating: G - arthur healing - read on ao3

“This sickness inside of me, it’s like climbing the Grizzlies. I can’t come down, there’s no way back. It hurts. An’ when I get to the top– that’s it, Charles. I’m done. It’s a trail made of bridges and I’m burning ‘em, all of ‘em."

“So maybe you can’t see a way back, Arthur,” Charles said. “But there’s always a way forward. It’s a big old mountain you’re climbing. Take the scenic route.”

Charles convinces Arthur to make it out of Beaver Hollow alive. The arid West Elizabeth air is better for Arthur's lungs, but then a week of rain arrives, leaving Arthur's chest rattling and his mind uneasy. Turns out the slow, unsteady weight of getting better is easier to carry when shared.

fic is below the cut!

"Love, in all its forms, is the most powerful weapon we have, because love is a form of hope. And, like hope, love abides. In the face of everything.” - Vinay Patel, ‘Demons of the Punjab’

Arthur’s world had narrowed significantly since his collapse in Saint Denis. It wasn’t like the possible pathways of his future had been so wide and varied before, but with the rattling in his chest there seemed to be only one path ahead: the fork in the road had come and gone, and he had left the freedom of life’s highway for a steep and rocky mountain trail which ended more abruptly than he’d anticipated.

He’d told all this to Charles, once, at Beaver Hollow.

“So maybe you can’t see a way back, Arthur,” Charles had said. “But there’s always a way forward. It’s a big old mountain you’re climbing. Take the scenic route.”

“The scenic route?”

“Ride with me and ride somewhere slow and warm and dry. Make it easier. Make it out of this chapter of your life alive.”

And when Charles had left, Arthur had followed him, with John following Arthur.

Now, Arthur’s narrow world is as wide as the views surrounding Beecher’s Hope. Charles and John’s handiwork is impressive even if half-finished, with Charles fixing the ranch up while John runs errands. Arthur does what he can to help out. It’s not much, but it’s more than he was able to do when he was running with the gang, and some days, those burned bridges leading back to a healthier life even seem a little salvageable. The West Elizabeth air is hot, the land is arid, and his lungs are better for it. They have a life here, a real one. It’s good. It’s healing.

It is really, really hard.

When the rain comes to Beecher’s Hope, it comes for a week, and it comes to make Arthur miserable. The humidity of the air combined with the foul weather’s accompanying chill wreaks a wearying havoc on his lungs. John has ridden up to Valentine for a job and gotten caught in a storm in New Hanover, sending word back that he won’t be arriving home until the weather has passed, and so Arthur and Charles are alone in the ranch. In a way it’s nice to have all the time to themselves. But there is so much time, and so little to do with it, and Arthur misses the extra company. With the weather working against his health the way it is, it’s all he can do to make meals on good days, and rest up on bad ones.

It’s weeks like these that Arthur is reminded that climbing this mountain is unrelentingly boring. There are things he simply cannot do, things he used to do often and enjoyed; some things he can do on some days but strictly not others and only at the time will they be made known; a list of things he can do but only if he deems them worth the consequences.

That is a mighty big part of his job, now. Valuing the worth of something against the consequences. Hardest thing about it is, everything is worth it in the moments before the consequences. But in the gripping fist of a coughing fit, praying he doesn’t bring up blood again, rendered a helpless silvery consciousness in a breaking body, nothing is ever worth it. And knowing that, living through it, how can he make the choice to bring that pain into being again?

Life has become a constant balancing act, with pros and cons and quantifiable outcomes. There’s a level of mathematics to it which Arthur finds exhausting. He’s always been more for metaphors than mathematics, really. But there aren’t many metaphors for being ill. He can tell Charles he’s climbing a mountain all he likes but that doesn’t stop the fact he’s sore all over in ways nothing can properly fix.

So the amount of things he can do is meager and oftentimes, he finds, pitiful. And very boring.

“You’re drawing again,” Charles notes as he wanders into their bedroom to check on Arthur. It’s the third day of pouring rain. Charles’ building chores, too, have been held up by the weather, but there’s enough work for him to do on the farm without John here that his dashes to and from the barn are frequent.

“Hmmf,” Arthur grunts in illustrious reply.

He’s a far cry from happy, the rain-roused heavy wheezing of his chest making him feel more accordion than human. There’s a dull ache accompanying it. It’s one which threatens more than tortures, but the threat of it is enough to make him uneasy, a fidgety anxiety that combines with the cabin fever to make him feel shit.

Today, the most he has managed is to drag the rocking chair from its usual corner of the room to face the window. With his journal and charcoal in his hand, he’s sketching the panes of the window and its limited view. Repeatedly, over and over across the page, are little and large visions of the cagey window and the tree just outside of it that blocks most of the light.

Charles deciphers his cartoons with ease. “You’re restless. Anything I can do?”

“Bring back the damn sun,” Arthur snaps. He bites down on his lip the second the words leave his mouth, disliking the harshness which emanates from them. He hates how he can feel himself being worse to the people he loves over this. He hates that he can’t control his body, and now he can’t even control his tongue. Still, he doesn’t say sorry.

Charles is gentle as he always is, running a calm hand through the light strands of Arthur’s hair from where he’s leaning against the back of his chair. He is not a man without anger, but he seems to know when Arthur’s isn’t really directed at him. “This tree, it covers almost the whole window,” he muses. “Blocks most of your view.”

“I guess,” Arthur supplies, helpfully.

“Next time the rain lessens, I’ll chop it down.”

“Charles, you don’t have to do that–”

“I can’t bring back the sun, but I can let a little more light in,” Charles says, like that settles the matter.

Haltingly, the rain patters to a not-quite stop the next afternoon, the remaining drizzle just bearable enough for Charles to head out in.

“I’ll chop that tree today, before more rains come,” Charles calls as he makes his way through the front door in lieu of hello. He takes off his hat, holding open the front door and shaking it so that droplets of water roll off the black leather.

The draft that whistles through the open door is misty and cold. Arthur is glad for the fire burning in the hearth today which wrings the moisture out of the air before the worst of it reaches his lungs.

He sighs, though, the prospect of another bout of rain settling low and depressed in his gut. “You don’t think this is the end of ‘em?”

“Sorry, Arthur. Clouds still rolling in over Blackwater. It’ll be a few more days, at least. Are the axes in the outhouse?”

“You know more about that than me, I ain’t got much to do with manual labor ‘round here,” Arthur chuckles, a little sourly. “And I swear, they say tuberculosis is meant to cut your life short but time has never passed more slowly in my life.”

Charles nods, nudges his toes against the fire to stoke it a little. “Keeping a sick body alive is harder than surviving a shootout.”

“Well, I’d take being shot at any day. Least then I can shoot back. Never once did a job with shootin’ involved that went by so slow.”

Charles huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he makes once more for the door. “How about watching me chop this tree?” he suggests, rolling the sleeves of his navy tunic up his broad forearms as he smiles. His voice is low and rich, like the smoke which rises from a gun barrel after a hunt’s quick kill. “I’ll fell it clean.”

With that, he turns and heads back outside, leaving the hairs of Arthur’s neck standing. Arthur gets up stiffly and slowly, heading back to the bedroom with the noises of the outhouse doors opening and closing accompanying him. He drags the rocking chair back into view of the window in time to see Charles walking up to the tree with his ax in hand.

“You sure there ain’t nothing I can do?” Arthur shouts to Charles. He pushes open the window as he does so - some days he can decide something is worth it and the consequences forget to arrive afterwards. Maybe today is one of those days.

Charles hears him, positioning himself at the far side of the tree so Arthur has a clear view of him. Or he has a clear view of Arthur. “Well, you can sit there and look pretty,” he grins.

“I– oh,” Arthur falters, heat rising to his cheeks and likely turning him a bashful pink. “Pretty,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head at Charles’ smile.

“You’re getting some color back,” Charles says, quite seriously, but Arthur can hear the tease rolling through his voice. Arthur waves his ribbing away.

It’s nice to know, at least, that he hasn’t lost the ability to produce a blush. He’s been pale so long now he’s near forgotten what he used to look like. And for Charles to call him pretty through all that - the perpetual pallor, the gauntness, the loss of the fat by his waist he used to know was his – is something. Arthur looks in the mirror now and sees sickness. Charles looks at him and somehow still sees something good.

The rain spits down steadily outside the window, Charles’ tunic soon dampening and clinging to his arms. He’s foregone his hat for this, and so his hair, too, is soon stuck against his skin, the strands falling over his face from where he’s tied half his hair back fixed to his forehead. He runs a dark hand through his hair to clear his vision and the moment passes in a pattering heartbeat Arthur wishes he could recapture.

Charles swings once, twice, brings the tree down on the third slice through the air. It comes down easily, and Arthur watches the world outside his bedroom window be made anew. The sky blooms into being, the gray light of the expansive plains flooding the room. Everything reaches outwards, the fences which had once caged his field of vision now the markers of near distance as the horizon rolls away. A single patch of blue, once hidden by the branches of the tree, is clear in the sky.

“That better?” Charles asks.

It’s one tree. It’s a small change. Arthur feels a ray of delight he hasn’t felt in weeks. That’s the one good, desperate thing about a narrow life: the littlest moments of contentment become all-consuming.

He nods, cheeks dimpling. “Sure is. It sure is.”

“Arthur,” a familiar voice whispers softly, lifting him from a dream where he is holding blood-stained money in his hands and can’t put it down, “Arthur, wake up. The rain has dried and the sun is rising. Come outside with me.”

Arthur opens bleary eyes to see Charles lit in dawn’s nectarine light. The curtains are pulled back from the window, leaving its newly clear view to reveal drying ground and open, almost cloudless, sky.

Finally.

Charles offers his hand and Arthur takes it, gladly, rising from the bed and following him to the front door, slinging on his jacket and boots over his union suit as he goes. He passes from the wooden boughs of the house out into the open air with the deep breath of a wakening yawn in his lungs. There is no dampness to fight against. Just a world which seems to extend from him, the temperature around him at one with that of his skin, the dry air passing through his lungs and out again almost smoothly. Smooth as they can ever manage. There’s no cure. No real healing, not properly. But there’s this. Things in his body aren’t ever okay for long, but they’re okay for the moment, and Arthur has this.

He sits himself down on the step of the porch. His boots, grown clean without use over the past few weeks, gain a fine coating of dust around where the sole meets the leather again. Charles sits to his right and the morning thrums, quiet around them, with little hints of life. A spider spins its home along the wooden railing of the porch.

“Thanks for wakin’ me,” Arthur murmurs.

Charles smiles. “It felt important.”

“I’ve been– bad to be around, these past few days,” he manages to say, tugging up a blade of grass from the ground beside him. He flips it between his fingers as he gets the rest out. “Ain’t made things easy for you. I want to do better. Don’t want to be no fair weather friend. Literally.”

“What you’re going through, it’s not easy.”

“Neither is what you’re doin’.”

“Maybe,” Charles nods. “But allow yourself some grace, Arthur.”

Arthur bumps his elbow roughly into Charles’s side. “Jus’ take the damn apology.”

“Okay,” Charles concedes, and Arthur can feel his shoulders shaking with gentle laughter as they rest against him.

The mountains in the distance are plummy, ripening in color with the rising sun; in another world Arthur is sinking his teeth into the skin of them and reaching the softness beneath. The light shimmers down in tangible rays. Once, Arthur could’ve traveled far enough to reach out and touch them.

“Mornin’s like this… I used to ride through the night, sometimes, just waiting for the light to stream down through the clouds. Made it worth it.”

Charles hum in agreement. “There are many things you can say about this world, but you can never forsake its beauty.”

“Yeah,” Arthur mutters. Bitterness creeps back into his voice, seeing all this beauty, and knowing it has to be held at arm’s length.

With an intuition saved just for Arthur, Charles hears his discordant tone. “What are you thinking about?”

“I guess– I miss riding how I used to,” Arthur sighs. “Look at ‘em plains, just sprawlin’ outwards. Years ago I could’ve jumped up on a horse and flown over ‘em all, wouldn’t’ve even looked back. Now I’m just– just here. Can’t do anything the way I used to. And it makes me think I won’t ever get it back.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the sloping horizon, staunchly away from Charles’ sympathetic gaze. Frankly, he knows that he’s being dramatic about it all, wallowing in self-pity when there’s no need to. The fact he’s living is a goddamn miracle. Problem is, he can’t remember the last time he felt properly alive.

“We can rebuild it, Arthur,” Charles murmurs. His shoulder is warm and sturdy against Arthur’s arm, the muscles thick in a way Arthur’s no longer are. “All is not lost. We can rebuild it all.”

Arthur can’t help it; he turns his head to look at Charles and the desperation in his voice cracks out. “You think?”

“Yeah,” Charles says simply. No promises; they’ve learned long ago that there is no point making promises. But still, if Charles thinks it, then maybe Arthur can too.

“Okay,” he agrees, a faint smile flickering across his lips. And then– “sorry for sounding so desperate, makes me feel like a goddamn fool.”

Charles shakes his head. “You don’t sound desperate, Arthur. Even if you did, I wouldn’t judge you for it. You more than anyone has been through hell. You know another word for desperation?”

Arthur scoffs. “I dunno – weakness? Fear?”

“Hope,” Charles says, entirely paradoxically, yet with the steadfast sincerity with which he always speaks.

“I think you need to find a dictionary, friend,” Arthur chuckles. “Those are some very different words.”

“No, I meant what I said. Hope and desperation – both come from wanting a better life. Wanting a better way of being, wanting something to turn out right. I say desperation and you say weakness, maybe because to be desperate about something is to care so strongly about it. Desperation is vulnerable. It’s intimate. It’s hope without belief.”

The sun is risen, now, a fledgling held in tender hands and being released skywards. It floats over the land and cloaks the plains in the celestial mist of dawn. Light lingers close to the ground, and dust kicked up from a rider on the road into Blackwater glows with it. The rains ceased, the darkness receded. The sun, through it all, abides.

Arthur hums. His throat rattles with the sound of it, though a cough doesn’t catch, and when he speaks his voice is raspy for a different reason. “Do you believe in me, Charles?”

Charles’ eyes meet his and in the dawning light the deep brown of his eyes is spun golden. “Arthur, of course I do.”

“I believe in you. All the time.”

“Then there’s hope in you yet,” Charles smiles. “It’s a thing that builds, I think. Over time. The world will come back to you.”

Arthur lifts Charles’ hand from where it’s resting on his knee and gently turns it so the paler skin of his palms face upwards. Places his own hand over Charles’.

“Starting with us,” he makes plain. He can make it no plainer than this, his world and all its desperation and hope falls away without Charles by his side. His partner huffs out a fond sigh beside him and Arthur nudges him with his knee, thoughts straying from the philosophical to the more physical. “You were sayin’ something ‘bout being vulnerable. Being intimate,” he begins, raising an eyebrow.

“Hmm, was I?” Charles laughs coyly. “Seems to have slipped my mind.”

But he leans right into the kisses Arthur nuzzles into his hairline, grabbing at the hand not already in his to thread his fingers between Arthur’s. His body is warm as the rainless air. And Arthur knows it’s a hard climb up the mountain. Feels it every day, slow and unforgiving, both restless and demanding. But for as long as the sun stays rising, as long as the scenic route lends him moments like this, there is a feathered thing singing an old song within him. Charles takes his narrow world and finds ways to make it wider. The song carries on, and Arthur is starting to believe it’s worth listening.

#posted this earlier but thought i would make a proper post of it too for tumblr folk!#hiya red dead fandom how we feeling <3 #charthur #charles smith #arthur morgan #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 spoilers #rdr2 spoilers #ola writes

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firstprince-ao3feed · 7 months

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The Joys of Mild Narcissism

by cool_fullmetal, MayQueen517 A prince and the son of a president walk into a Waffle House....things go a little sideways after that Words: 3714, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston, Red White & Royal Blue (2023) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Hanover Stuart-Fox Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Hanover Stuart-Fox, Alex Claremont-Diaz/Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor/Henry Hanover Stuart-Fox Additional Tags: Crack, this is the crackiest thing, off screen negotiations, Rimming, Fisting, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, healthy doses of narcissism, this is the result of chaos nothing to see here, Praise Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Mild Degradation, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms via https://ift.tt/Wp9HQhP

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #red white and royal blue #rwrb #firstprince #cool_fullmetal #MayQueen517

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libidomechanica · 6 months

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Untitled (“Fair in all the Welling”)

Where to dedicate Arab desert sand. Some cares vnto my lust: thou shall I makes of quaint to what is the art. Fair in all the Welling. And if rymes wide: by the Hanover to keep extremets’ eyes are them all drown opinion. Let us not a stories! All weeping his let our lake all my fool, to our fists into you. Fair in the houseleek’s head, over than aught to received with his whom The Reason; Lust must beauty’s still, and marble, mere came in a colour best way: I must rehead to my bosom strong, this was ne’er sight, blushing in your flowers, sisters fled by thing draw neare.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #170 texts #sonnet

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historydailyfrancischappellblack · 1 year

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Six American Airmen Were Murdered by the Townspeople of Russelsheim, Germany, During World War II. August 26, 1944.

Image: Five Germans were condemned to death for the killing of six American flyers, who were seized from their German military captors. Joseph Harzgen is led to execution by hanging at Bruchsal, Germany. (Wikimedia Commons.)

On this day in history, six American airmen were murdered by the townspeople of Russelsheim, Germany, during World War II. The war crime happened two days after nine USAAF crew members of a B-24 Liberator were shot down over Hanover. They parachuted to the ground and were captured and held by German Luftwaffe personnel. Unable to transfer the downed airmen to a POW facility due to the train tracks being heavily damaged by RAF bombing the night before, the crew was forced to march through the already devastated town of Russelsheim to catch another train. The townspeople, already angered by the previous night's raid, started attacking the unarmed airmen with rocks, hammers, sticks, and shovels, resulting in six airmen dying.

History Daily: 365 Fascinating Happenings Volume 1 & Volume 2 - August 26, 1944

During World War II, the RAF bombed Russelsheim, an industrial town that housed many vital targets, including the Opel plant. The RAF carried out a policy of "area bombing" of cities at night, while the USAAF relied on "precision bombing" by day. On August 24, 1944, an American B-24 bomber named Wham! Bam! Thank you, Ma’am was shot down while taking part in an attack over Hanover, and the crew parachuted down near Hutterup. The airfield's local fire brigade and military detachment were alerted and dispatched to find the downed airmen. One of the nine airmen had serious flak injuries to his abdomen. After landing on a farm, the airman found was given medical assistance by an elderly couple, and in return, the airman gave the couple his silk parachute as a gift. Within a few hours, most of the crew had been captured and taken to an interrogation room in the town hall in Greven. After that, most crewmembers were taken to an airbase near the town, where they slept for the night. The injured crewman was taken to a medical clinic where his wounds were looked after and then shipped to a hospital in Munster to undergo an operation. The following day, the rest of the airmen were loaded on a train for a trip south to the Dulag Luft in Oberursel, north of Frankfurt. After German civilians noticed the Americans on the train at every stop, crowds would form at the windows, yelling angrily at the "terror fliers" and shaking their fists while spitting on the windows. On the evening of August 25, the RAF sent 116 Lancaster bombers to Russelsheim to attack the Opel plant, dropping 674 2,000-lb bombs and more than 400,000 incendiaries on the city, destroying the plant and damaging the rail tracks.

On the morning of August 26, most crewmembers were still proceeding to their original destination. However, the RAF heavily damaged the train line from the previous night's bombing, so the airmen were forced off the train and made to walk to Russelsheim to catch another train. Two German soldiers escorted them. As the crew marched towards the devastated town of Russelsheim, the townspeople, assuming that the fliers were Canadians from the previous night bombing raid, quickly formed and immediately became an unruly, angry mob. Two women shouted out, “There are the terror flyers. Tear them to pieces! Beat them to death! They have destroyed our houses!" One of the crewmembers replied in German, "It wasn't us! We didn't bomb Russelsheim!"

Nevertheless, one woman hurled a brick at the crew, precipitating a riot during which the townsfolk attacked the crew with rocks, hammers, sticks, and shovels. Three Opel workers arrived with iron bars and started beating the men to death to the cries of the crowd. The mob was joined by a German air raid warden, Joseph Hartgen, armed with a pistol. He would prove to be the crew’s worst nightmare. The German soldiers who guarded the airmen made no attempts to prevent the beatings; Hartgen lined them up and shot six in the head, then ran out of ammunition, leaving two of the airmen, William Adams and Sidney Brown, alive. The mob then put the airmen on a cart and took them to the cemetery. Those who moaned were beaten further. An air raid siren went off during the attack, and the mob ran for cover. The two surviving crewmembers managed to crawl from the bloody cart, fled toward the Rhine, and avoided capture for four days. However, they were found by a policeman and brought to their original destination, the camp in Oberursel, where they remained until the war's end.

After the war in Europe ended in 1945 when Russelsheim came under occupation by the American Army, the killings came to light, and the bodies were located on June 28, 1945. In the first war trials in Germany before the Nuremberg trials, eleven residents of Russelsheim, including Joseph Hartgen, were put on trial in late July 1945 in Darmstadt, a town devastated by a British night attack the previous September that had killed 8,500 residents and left 70,000 homeless. The defense argued that they had been incited to commit the crimes by Joseph Goebbels's propaganda, which encouraged the German people to take reprisals against the downed Allied pilots, and that they were not guilty of their actions. Lt. Colonel Leon Jaworski, who would achieve national fame three decades later as the special prosecutor in the Watergate scandal, argued that the townsfolk were responsible for their actions.

The trial lasted six days. The court heard eyewitness testimony to the cold-blooded assassinations and chilling accounts of the bludgeoning and shooting of the airmen. On August 2, Joseph Hartgen and six other townspeople were found guilty and sentenced to death. The remainder of the defendants were given varying prison terms, while the Commission acquitted one. The judge, however, commuted two of the death penalties to 30 years in prison. On November 10, 1945, Hartgen and four others were hanged at the prison in Bruchsal. A sixth, a German soldier, was convicted and executed in 1946.

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History Daily: 365 Fascinating Happenings Volume 1 – VOLUME 2 NOW AVAILABLE

In the United States:

History Daily: 365 Fascinating Happenings Volume 1: January – June: Chappell Black, Francis: 9780991855865: Amazon.com: Books

History Daily: 365 Fascinating Happenings Volume 2: July - December: Chappell Black, Francis: 9780991855896: Amazon.com: Books

In Canada:

History Daily: 365 Fascinating Happenings Volume 1: January – June: Chappell Black, Francis: 9780991855865: Books – Amazon.ca

History Daily: 365 Fascinating Happenings Volume 2: July - December: Chappell Black, Francis: 9780991855896: Books - Amazon.ca

#history daily #1940s #Russelsheim Massacre #military history #world war 2

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necrogothic · 4 years

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Heavy Metal, 1981

#movies #heavy metal #hanover fist

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cordeliasdarling · 3 years

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stress relief

pairing: mildred ratched x reader

word count: 3300

summary: mildred comes home from a bad day at work and uses you to help relieve the stress

warnings: smut, dom/sub themes, war/injury talk ( 18+ !!!!)

extra notes: i included a ‘scenario’ like mildred uses in the show, it felt weird writing it but hey, milly has her kinks..

(also pls don’t let this flop, i actually don’t mind this one ahh)

****

The slam of the front door practically shook the whole house, almost making the window panes rattle in their frames and the lamp flicker.

You jumped out of your sleep, sitting up from your curled up position on the living room armchair, startled. Glancing at the grandfather clock, it read half one in the morning. This was definitely the latest your girlfriend had gotten home.

Soundlessly, your feet padded across the cream carpet until you made it to the doorway that lead to the space by the foot of the stairs and the front door. As predicted, Mildred was there, unbuckling her heels and putting them neatly against the wall, in their precise location. She liked order, even if it was as small as where the shoes went, or which hook her coat would hang on.

“Mildred, are you okay?”

She turned around, and your smile dropped when you read her expression. Her dark brown opals that usually had a sparkle in the light, were filled with anger, annoyance, and exhaustion. Her soft lips were pursed, and jaw set in place, like she was clenching her teeth, and had been doing so for a while.

“Oh Milly, what’s wrong?” Worry made your eyebrows furrow, reaching out to hold her hands, but she shook her head, straightening her posture.

“Work.”

That was all she had to say, knowing that you would understand. There had been countless evenings she’d come home fuming, ranting on about the “insufferable Nurse Bucket” and “the pathetic mewling child known as Hanover”. You often spent the evenings helping her relax in any way possible. But today it looked like a particularly bad moment. On an average day, she’d start telling you all the things that had ticked her off, though today she didn’t, just giving you a one word answer. Also there was the fact that her hands were bawled into fists.

“How can I help, sweetheart?” You tried to think of the things that helped her most. “A warm bath? Massage? Dinner? Reading a b-“

“No.”

Your words ceased when she cut over with a stern tone. Thoughts ran through your mind, helplessly wracking your brain for anything you could do.

Looking at Mildred, you saw her expression change, a type of dominating stare beginning to form behind her dark eyes. Her gaze darted from you, then to the floor.

Then it hit you. Several times before, at the end of some of the worst days Mildred had had, you’d let her.. own you. Maybe ‘own’ wasn’t the right way to describe it. But you’d let her take complete control of your mind and body, letting her use you in whatever way she pleased, until she got the gratification she so needed. It was about control. All those hours she spent running around Lucia Hospital, having to follow the head nurse’s rules, doing what other people told her to do. And at the end of that, Mildred needed something to keep her grounded, she needed to control something, or someone. You, being the devoted partner you were, gladly gave her your body.

Without thinking a moment longer, you sunk to your knees in front of her feet, keeping your head bowed down, remembering how Mildred liked it. After the first time this type of situation had happened, when she’d calmed down and held you close under the sheets, she’d explained what she liked or needed, in case that were to happen again. You listened intently, nodding along, because you were willing to do anything. Some of the things she’d mentioned, were for you to only speak or look at her with permission.

She let out a satisfied hum, slowly circling you. Your heart hammered through your chest. It shouldn’t have excited you, after all, this situation was for Mildred’s benefit. But this dynamic, kneeling in front of Nurse Ratched, it caused an ache between your thighs and a shortness of breath.

A hand ran it’s fingers thorough your hair. You leaned into her touch, closing your eyes, but they flew back open when she yanked at it. A small surprised yelp left your lips, to which she tutted at.

“My my, so sensitive.” She murmured, letting go. You wanted to apologise, and explain that you’d been caught off guard, but you knew better, so kept your mouth shut.

Silence fell over the both of you for a while and at one point, due to the absence of her touch or voice, you almost wondered if she’d disappeared, until the sensation of fingertips danced across your cheek. She gently dragged her perfectly shaped nails up your flushed face, and into your hair, once again gripping onto a large section of it. This time you didn’t make a noise.

“Upstairs.” Her voice had dropped to a low tone that dripped in authority. Behind it were still the hints of anger and exhaustion from the day.

You moved to stand, but she immediately shoved your head back down, snapping, “Crawl!”

Nodding quickly, you stayed on your knees and crawled slowly to the stairs. Her grasp never left your hair, almost using the strands as a leash, tugging once or twice as she took the steps, showing that she wanted you to move at the same pace as her.

It was uncomfortable and a little difficult to advance the stairs on your hands and knees, for two reasons. One, with the both of you side by side, there was little space, two, going up stairs was just a generally difficult task when in a dog like frame. But you tried your best, desperately wanted to please the nurse. No, needing to please the nurse.

When you both made it to the top, she paused, then tilted your head up, finally allowing eye contact. A hint of a smile flickered on her lips.

“Good girl.”

You whimpered quietly, almost feeling tears prickle at your eyes, because those two words were the validation you needed to know that you were doing the right thing in pleasing the woman. Her smile didn’t last long though. It was quickly replaced with her previous stony glare.

She led the both of you along the landing and into the bedroom, where she let go of you and walked across the room to observe your next actions.

“Strip. Completely.”

Heartbeat picking up the pace, you wasted no time in sliding off your green dress and practically ripping off all your undergarments until you were in the nude.

“Bend over the bed, face in the sheets.”

You quickly did as you were told, managing to balance on your now shaky feet, to bend over the foot of the bed. Your head had to turn to the side, left cheek smushed against the duvet, and backside in the air. You couldn’t see as she approached you from behind slowly, only being able to watch the wall uselessly.

A sharp inhale, her breathing hitched ever so slightly as she took in the sight. Seeing you bare and waiting, made Mildred feel a whole myriad of things.

“I want you to count, okay? Loud and clear.” It was obvious what was going to happen next, and you weren’t complaining, though you had to take a deep breath and clench your eyes shut in preparation.

Sure enough, a hand came striking down, slapping your ass harshly. An involuntary groan escaped you, it took a few moments before you could gasp out ‘One’.

Mildred clearly wasn’t impressed though. She wrapped her fingers around the back of your neck and leaned down over your body to hiss in your ear. “Where are your manners, girl. It’s ‘One, thank you Nurse Ratched’. Got it?”

You nodded frantically, “I-I’m so sorry, one, thank you Nurse Ratched.” Something you’d learned about Mildred, was that during these ‘sessions’, she liked being called by her work title, as that filled her with a sense of authority.

“Good. Don’t make that mistake again.” She struck her hand down again, harder than before. You let out a choked breath. “Two! Thank you Nurse Ratched!”

Many hits later, tears were streaming down your cheeks and creating a damp patch on the duvet. Your backside felt as if it were on fire. Mildred had been relentless, it seemed as if she’d almost lost control, because she had stopped pausing in between to let you count once it got past the twentieth spank.

A quiet sniffle finally pulled her out of her state, she suddenly realised just how long this had been going on. She immediately knelt down next to you, cupping your cheeks and wiping the fresh tears away. You didn’t make eye contact, as she hadn’t given permission yet.

“Look at me sweetheart.” So you did, meeting her dark opals that looked more relaxed than before, but still holding the emotions of pent up anger. “What colour are we on?”

By that, she meant on the scale of green, yellow, red. Green: you were okay, yellow: you’re at the edge of tolerance, red: you need everything to stop right now.

Hesitating, you took a moment to assess how you were feeling. You knew the importance of being truthful, Mildred would stop absolutely everything if you were at a point where you couldn’t take anymore. Despite all of this, the softness of her touch against your cheek showed that no matter what state she was in, your feelings were always her top priority.

“Green.”

She nodded letting her gentle touch linger a moment longer, giving you a small smile before straightening up and slipping back into her dominant state easily.

There was a pause, you could almost hear the cogs in her brain whirr away as she planned out the rest of the night.

“Lay on the bed, arms above your head.” You didn’t waste a moment in scrambling up onto the bed and laying down, wrists crossed and resting above you on the pillows. Mildred’s footsteps pattered across the room, followed by the creek of drawers opening. It didn’t surprise you when she returned with a velvet rope, wrapping it around your wrists to bind them securely together.

She settled herself on top of you, her knees either side of you, looking down with a piercing gaze.

“You’re a nurse trainee, in the corps.”

Her statement surprised you a little. After all, it was an odd thing to say, when it was clearly untrue. But it only confused you for a moment until you remembered the fact she was sometimes predisposed into creating ‘scenarios’. It didn’t happen often, Mildred used to be adamantly embarrassed by her imaginative roleplay fantasies due to her past experience, where her past partners had shamed her.

Admittedly, when she first opened up to you about it, you were slightly weirded out, as they were no normal scenarios, often including themes of wounded patients, or divorced couples fighting over kids, but over time it didn’t feel strange, it even became somewhat exciting. As long as she was happy, you were happy. But still, it wasn’t often, so it had taken you a moment to realise that was going on.

When you did catch on, you went along with it, listening carefully in case you needed to act with her, once in the past she wanted you to make the sounds of a wounded patient.

“You’re so inexperienced in the job, so you need help. Of course I’m there to guide you.”

Nodding feverishly, you watch as she crawls off you and almost runs to the drawer again, searching for something. When she returned, her hands began fastening a harness around your waist, and you knew straight away that it was her favourite strap. You almost let out a moan when she slid off her beige tights and panties, then hiked up the bottom half of her uniform to rest around her torso.

She crawled closer, swinging one of her smooth legs of your hips and letting the toy rest an inch away from her exposed core.

Your eyes were drawn to it, unable to look away as the silicone rubbed against her clit with every small movement.

It hadn’t occurred to you before that she was turned on until now, when you could see just how wet she was. You understood that sometimes the spanking and kneeling was for the power dynamic alone, not necessarily sexual, but today it seemed there was most definitely a sexual element.

Mildred’s hips shifted as she began to rub herself slowly against the strap. She let out a shaky groan. Her hands were pressed against your chest, using you as a way to keep her balance. You laid as perfectly still as possible, just wanting to watch her lavish in this moment. You felt honoured to witness her in such a state. It was truly beautiful in its own type of way.

“I s-show you how to tend to the soldiers wounds, how to stitch up the terrible gashes, how to relieve their suffering.”

With a swift movement, she raised her hips, lining herself up with the toy, slowly sinking onto it. She let out a low and almost inaudible groan as the whole length of the strap filled her up.

A fire danced around the pit of your stomach as you watched it all, it took everything inside you not to thrust your hips up and fuck her. But you knew how important it was right now for her to be the one to cause her own pleasure.

She stilled, her eyes closed. “But one day you’re foolish enough to wander outside the perimeter, and into the enemies land. You get terribly injured, and have to be carried back to the tent I’m the head of.”

She slowly started to rock her body, the slick toy shifting inside her, causing pleasured tremble to sweep her body.

“You’re in so much pain, it’s excruciating.”

She fell silent, then glared down at you expectantly, “It’s excruciating.”

You clear your throat hastily, realising what you were expected to do. “O-oh god it hurts!” Granted, you weren’t the best actor, but it seemed to satisfy her.

“All the other nurses rush to your aid, faffing around, but they’re all pathetic and useless. Through your pained screams, you request for me, because deep down you know that only I, the greatest nurse, can help you.”

You took the hint to speak again, “I need Nurse Ratched! Please!”

A hint of a smirk tugged at her lips at the sound of your desperate voice. The pace of her hips moving sped up, putting some more of her weight through her hands onto your chest, using you as leverage to slide up and down the toy, beginning to ride it. “It takes hours to patch you up, but I manage it, obviously. You can’t stop thanking me for being such a talented nurse, for being the one to relieve your pain.”

“Thank you Nurse Ratched, no one can compare to you!”

She lets out a throaty moan, from both your words and the rippling pleasure of the strap filling her up. “N-no one has the r-right to boss me around! I-I’ll make sure no one d-dares disobey me again!” She almost shouted out, startling you a little. It seemed like an awfully specific thing to say in a scenario about nursing. It dawned on you that perhaps one of the things that had set her off today was someone who’d bossed her around, and that’s why she was saying this now.

“Say it, tell me no one can control me.” Mildred growled, her hand wrapping around me neck. It wasn’t a tight hold, not enough to affect my breathing, but enough to remind you of your place beneath her, not to mention the fact the action had caused another ache between your thighs.

“No one can control you Nurse Ratched, you know best.”

She nodded desperately, her face contorting as she rode you frantically, the mattress and bed frame making rhythmic squeaks from her sheer thrusts.

“T-that’s right-“ A gasp slipped through her lips, moaning and groaning in pleasure. Obscene noises of the slick toy repetitively slamming into her wet cunt filled the room. You could tell she was close by the feeling of resistance from the silicone shaft and her core, her walls were clenching around the strap as the pleasure built up in a knot.

Wordlessly, she let out a high pitch screech, her body shuddering and squirming as a huge orgasm rippled through her. You were glad that your home didn’t have shared walls with the neighbours, otherwise Mildred would have definitely woken them up.

“Fuck!” She cursed, panting heavily and gripping your throat tighter subconsciously. She rode the ecstasy out, then lifted herself up off the toy, breathing heavily. She took a minute to recover, waiting until the pleasure fuelled trembling stopped. Once she’d calmed down, her hands reached out to unfasten the harness from your hips. The silicone was absolutely drenched in her cum.

She slowly moved the toy up to your lips, ordering you to open your mouth, which you did without hesitation, taking the whole length in to clean up all of Mildred’s slick juices. When she was satisfied, she pulled it out and placed it on the bedside table.

You looked up into her eyes, and smiled when you saw that all the tension had faded away. Slowly she slipped out of her dominant headspace, and leaned down to kiss you gently, undoing the velvet restraint on your wrists. Her lips moved softly against yours, nothing like the hungry energy she’d had before. Once you knew that the intense part of the session was over, you felt it was okay to sit up, not needing permission anymore.

Mildred wrapped her strong arms around you, embracing your body. “Thank you, my precious love.” She mumbled, resting her chin on your shoulder. “You did so well for me.”

Your heart swelled at the praise, it was crazy how just her validation was enough to spark happiness in you.

“Don’t thank me, I’m just glad I could help.” Holding her hands, you looked into her deep loving eyes. “Do you want to talk about today?”

She sighed, leaning into you as she thought about the day she’d managed to momentarily forget. “Doctor Hanover ordered me to obey Nurse Bucket during therapy sessions. I had to do everything that foul excuse of a woman told me to. Of course she had a whale of a time, making me do all the dirty work, all the charts, medications, observations. Then she made me work overtime. I was meant to finish at six, and yet I left past midnight.”

“Oh you poor thing. I’m sorry.” You knew how hard that must have been for her. She found it hard feeling inferior to others.

“It’s okay now I’m with you.” She cracked a smile, kissing your nose affectionately. “Now let’s get in a bath, you’re probably so sore from those strikes. We’ll find the salve to stop the burning, okay darling?”

You nodded, heart warming; she was always adamant on aftercare.

The next hour consisted of the two of you cuddled up in the warm water, whispering sweet ‘I love you’s. The time dawned on the both of you, realising it was about half three in the morning, so you got out, dried and dressed into comfortable pyjamas (not before Mildred had spread cream on your sore skin of course) and got into bed, holding each other close.

****

#mildred ratched #nurse ratched #nurse ratched x reader #mildred ratched x reader #sarah paulson #sarah paulson x reader #sarah paulson imagine #ratched #ratched imagine #x reader #x you #lgbt #smut #stress relief

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