#Heartland Sings

[heartlandians]

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We've got a treat for you—Shaun Johnston singing a song from Heartland!

[badolmen]

I understand that a lot of different factors influenced the tonal shift of country music post 9/11 toward strong nationalist and misogynistic themes, but as someone who listens to/actually likes a lot of the music from that era, I’m personally blaming Toby Keith. He’s my Ronald Reagan of 2000s country music.

[emiliosandozsequence]

oh thank g-d i found a cut of riverdance that's like the one i used to watch growing up that cuts out all of my least favorite acts

[fraulein-ciano]

Sometimes I sing folk and country songs in the shower in Eunice's voice. Found a good recording app and decided to record one for the funzies. Based on the old classic, "Shenandoah", I changed the lyrics to be about the River Dessarin. Younz grew up in the river's valley, and as a young woman out in the world for the first time, away from her family she gets homesick. I thought this song captures that pretty well.

[lindseymcdonaldseyelashes]

prev -> #its so neat. like i watched that ep of SPN he was in and when dean pulled up outside the bar i was like.... thats christian singing isnt it#just watched 50 to 1 and yup. theres at least 2 of his songs in there that i caught#leverage is obvious (s3e6 the studio job)#almost paradise iirc he partially wrote Lone Wolf in season 2?#iirc he wrote the yodeling bit in the tv ep of the librarians#obvs the L.A. song in angel#yeah i just think its cool#a fun little game to spot his discography/singing

I think it's fun, when watching anything Christian Kane is in, to look for any of his songs/him singing, because he does it a lot

[eretzyisrael]

by Phyllis Chesler

How could so much rabid and vulgar Jew-hatred suddenly erupt everywhere? Did someone flick a switch that unleashed millions of haters programmed to disrupt public meetings, graduation ceremonies, legislative sessions, and singing and athletic contests? To block streets, schools and bridges? To smash windows, deface synagogues and kosher or Israeli restaurants, and publish false narratives about Israel and the Palestinians all over the world?

I’ve been asking myself this question ever since Oct. 7. Today, I may have something of an answer.

This worldwide non-stop attack on the world’s Jews did not happen when the U.N. passed its infamous resolution equating Zionism with racism in the 1970s. It did not occur after Palestinian terrorists bombed synagogues, hijacked planes and murdered Israeli athletes at the Olympics. Nor when Arab countries launched attack after attack on Israel, subjecting it to countless wars.

It did not even happen when Palestinian terrorists blew up Israeli civilians on buses and stabbed, car-rammed and shot Israeli civilians to death on Israeli streets. Nor did it happen after Iranian proxies launched rockets at the Jewish state, sent flotillas of armed assassins in the name of “peace” and declared their intention to exterminate the Jews once and for all.

Despite incredible losses, Israel rose triumphantly each time.

Here’s what’s different now:

First, back then, the well-funded and well-organized media and university assault on Israel had not yet indoctrinated three or four generations of Westerners.

Second, on Oct. 7, perhaps for the first time, Israel looked genuinely vulnerable. This rendered both Israelis and Jews everywhere fair game.

It’s as simple as that.

Once the terrible sight of Israeli blood, of charred and/or raped Israeli corpses, was broadcast the world over, the haters knew it was possible to chase the Jews down, to try to destroy us yet again. Who would protect us? The IDF was under the most profound siege on Israel’s northern and southern borders and in its historical heartland in Judea and Samaria.

Diaspora Jewry was seen as safe because Israel was militarily, economically, culturally, scientifically and technologically strong. Israel led the world in counterterrorism and was the only country in the Middle East that protects all religions, not just Judaism.

Israel’s strength meant that left-wing Diaspora Jews who loudly criticized Israel’s every imperfection and failure, and right-wing Diaspora Jews who kept supporting Israel no matter what, were safe because Israel existed. Israelis who excel at dissenting politics and are geniuses at criticizing their government were also kept relatively safe because Israel was and was seen as strong. Without this, we would all be subject to the historically endless pogroms and persecutions that have characterized Jewish existence in both the Muslim and the Christian world.

Things have changed. Israel looks vulnerable and the Jew-haters have been emboldened as a result.

So, if Diaspora Jews and our Christian, Hindu, Sikh and Muslim friends the world over want to help both the Jews and the West to defeat barbarism, they must strengthen the IDF in every way. These precious young men and women are on the front line fighting for civilization. However imperfect Israeli and American leaders and political systems may be, they are far better than those of Iran, China, Russia, Turkey, Afghanistan and North Korea.

Now is the time to act. I am urging you, imploring you, to do so.

Send money to the IDF and Israel’s ambulance and medical services. Volunteer as physicians and physical therapists, nurses, harvesters, fruit pickers and compassionate caregivers. Stand with pro-Israel demonstrators. Attend your local city council meetings, write articles for and letters to newspapers. Sue schools for harassing and chasing Jewish students away. Work to end the poisoned curriculum that has turned students into Jew-hating zombies.

This work may take decades to complete. Begin it today. And whatever you choose to do, never stop.

The fate of the world is in your hands

[zhimaqiu]

“This God damned wind”

Word count: 900-1000

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57341785

Paring: You & Javier Escuella, no established feelings - could be read however your heart desires

Reader info: Gender neutral reader, 2nd person, past tense

Summary: Reverse comfort, but with a dosage of restraint.

You notice Javier passing time at the edge of the camp and he doesn't seem entirely okay to you.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was that song again. The sad song one could only heard late at night if a certain someone couldn't sleep.

"Angel de amor, tu pasion no la comprendo..."

You raised your head from a book you tried to read at the camp table when Javier's quiet voice reached your ears.

He was sitting alone, at the edge of the camp in Horseshoe Overlook, leaning on a trunk that was usually occupied by John. But scar-face was asleep, so Javier could enjoy the solitude; or maybe he simply felt like singing, wanting to distance himself enough so he doesn't wake the others. Whatever it was, that night Javier's voice... broke a couple of times. It wasn't a challenging or a new song for him – didn't make sense that Javier's angelic voice could falter.

Keeping the book in your hands, you made your way to him, not caring much about making noise. Bill, Sean and Reverend were dead asleep, either snoring or buried under covers. The cold of Heartland's nights wasn't as bad as the one in the mountains, but Miss Grimshaw kept reminding everyone this still ain't a tropical island. You had a thick coat on you arms, Javier however lacked anything on his.

"You alright, Javier?" You stopping next to him when he finished the lyrics.

"I'll be fine. No need to worry," he answered without looking at you.

His fingers still worked on the guitar's strings elongating the melody until he finally letting it die when you knelt next to him.

"You shouldn't sit on the ground." A pat on the grass let you know how chill and wet it was. "Might catch a cold from that and we don't have the greatest doctor in the camp."

"Are you sure Miss Grimshaw's spirit hasn't possessed you? Who knows, maybe it travels between us when she's asleep."

You laughed at his joke and patted his arm. "Come on, let's get back to the camp fire. No one will mind if you sing there."

"I ain't exactly concerned with that." He looked at you, his eyes reflecting the moonlight and fire. "It's the only time Marston doesn't occupy my favorite spot."

"You can always tell him to get. He doesn't own the place," you grumbled, looking back at his tent. It was time to get the rest of the tents to look like that. Wind could get into Javier's way too easily. It barely protected him from rain.

"Yea..." His voice was more raspy when he drifted away for a moment, straining his answer. "But I want to let him enjoy himself a bit more after that mountain business."

"Do that too much and he will be even more spoiled than he already is."

"Can't get much worse."

You both laughed, Javier leaning back and looking up the stars as he calmed down. The leaves, shaking on the wind, covered the most of the bear constellations, but the view to the west was free as the west itself. No wonder so many members of the gang subconsciously looked in that direction when enjoying the view. What a coincidence.

"You... might be right about that cold." Javier shivered a little standing up and offering you a hand to stand up. "The campfire doesn't sound so bad after all. Maldito viento..."

"I think Charles made some... cherry juice. Not sure what that exactly is, but he got some cinnamon in it. Expressive stuff. Real good and sweet when you warm it. Sounds good?"

"For sure," he responded with a smile.

Once you were back at the fire, he leaned on his guitar as he watched you take out the jug with the juice and warmed it on the open fire. His gaze hazy as he began drifting away from the warmth and the delicious scent. Sweet aroma of cherries mixed with faint spiciness of cinnamon melting his previous worries away.

You poured the drink from the metal cup you warmed it up in into a glass and passed it to him, warning him that you weren’t sure how hot it is. He thanked with a nod and smelled it, a cat-like smile making his face relax. It only widened further when he tasted it.

“You know, amigo," you began trying your best in his language, "you deserve some good, warm rest." You reaches for a blanket and threw it over his shoulders. “You did great on that last job.”

In fact, he simply looked sick and didn’t act nor smelled like typical drunk Javier. You didn’t have a good excuse to check his temperature, so you figured the best way is to just prevent it the best you could, without making him think you worry that much.

He swayed from side to side, melting away. Fever must have taking him over when he leaned on your shoulder, his forehead brushing against your neck. You sighed and patted his shoulder, feeling how hot it was.

“Come on, time for bed,” you encouraged him and pulled him towards his tent.

No complain left his mouth when he lied down setting the glass down. You tugged him in and took of his hat and loosened his jet black hair. Javier yawned and sniffed again reaching for your arm.

“Thanks,” he murmured and smiled when you put your hand on his, squeezing reassuringly.

“As Dutch would say," you made fun on his voice, "We. Need you strong.”

You barely heard his little chuckle before he quickly fell asleep and felt his hand slip away. He didn't need much. Just a friend to get him there without pushing it.

[wildlyglittering]

Illyrian Comfort Pie

I shared a post with some Christmas OTP prompts and asked if anyone wanted any for Nessian and @dustjacketmusings chose:

"Every country has different traditions for Christmas when it comes to food: trying something new when they have always eaten the same dishes for the holidays feels wrong at first. But when it’s cooked with love by their favourite person, it can sure taste like new traditions."

I don't know if this entirely fills the prompt and it's a lot rougher than I'd like but please enjoy!

Illyrian Comfort Pie

“Fuck you, Morrigan.” Nesta wiped her bare arm across her brow, spices and herbs transferring straight from her forehead onto her forearm, the little green and orange specks dusting her skin. “And fuck you Rhys come to that.”

The alarm on her phone screamed and Nesta whirled around in her small kitchen space. She’d put the device down earlier, stabbing at the timer with a flour covered fingertip whilst trying to shove her pie into the oven.

Where the hell had she put the damn thing?

On the counter stood an open cookbook entitled ‘Recipes from the Heartland of Illyria,’ a bottle of wine which doubled as a rolling pin and cooking motivation, and Nesta’s pathetic pastry attempts one, two, and three – each one slightly less gloopy than the last - until she finally made semi-successful attempt number four.

No phone.  

Nesta let out a noise halfway between a screech and a yell, her hands reaching either side of her head, ignoring whatever food stuff would end up in her hair.

“Shit!” At least she managed to remember what the phone alarm was for, swivelling behind her and yanking down the oven door, reaching for the mitts as she ducked a plume of smoke.

This one didn’t smell too bad. Nesta grabbed the pie and shoved it onto the trivet on the counter. The crust was a little singed on one side but, if she was careful, she’d be able to scrape that off.

Her movements jostled a reem of paper towels and as they fell to their side, they revealed the object of Nesta’s irritation. One phone.

“Thank you,” she muttered, her eyes drifting upwards to the ceiling as she turned off the alarm. Her thanks was to whatever cookery god was willing to listen and half to the smoke alarm not going off.

Three notifications waited for her. She took a breath in and hit open on the first one.

Hahaha. You agreed to what?! Even *I* run from making that dish. Pretty sure my *grandmother* ran from making that dish and she used to be a baker. Anyway, are you coming Thursday?

Emerie. Not providing the answers Nesta was so desperately hoping for, instead reminding Nesta she had yet to confirm drinks with her and Gwyn. Nesta typed out a quick response.

Yes to Thursday. Any chance your grandmother would attempt making this again if I paid her?

Sent. Nesta moved onto notification number two - Feyre.

Did you want me to see if the Illyrian restaurant down Sidra Street will do a delivery? If you put it in the oven for a bit and burn the edges no one will know.

Nesta raised an eyebrow. The audacity of her sister to assume Nesta would need assistance and that she’d burn the pie. She had burnt the pie but still, the audacity.

She chose not to respond to that one and instead moved to the final notification. Cassian. Nesta took a deep breath and hit open.

Are you having as much fun as I am? Thinking I could do this as a side hustle.

There was a photo attached. Cassian had taken a selfie of himself standing in front of his obnoxiously large quartz kitchen counter. His dark hair was tied in a messy bun and he winked into the camera. He wore an apron Nesta had never seen before, deep red with candy cane striped ties and in Christmas style writing was embroidered ‘Kiss the Chef’ underneath a sprig of mistletoe.

Nesta squinted at the image, zooming past Cassian himself to the dishes behind him slightly out of frame. Was that a bowl of perfectly glazed parsnips? A tray of immaculate shortbreads?

She let out another noise and flung the phone back onto the counter so she could press her palms into her eyes. At this point she was covered in flour, meat juice, and soggy pastry pieces. Sweat gathered under her breasts and trickled down her back from the constant heat of the oven.

Nesta had been baking for over six hours now and though there was a small part of her which wanted to cry, she refused. Although she’d cursed Morrigan and Rhys the biggest ‘fuck you’ should have been delivered to Nesta herself.

She’d agreed to this when she should have declined, and now her pride would cause her to take a fall.

There had been five of them for drinks at Rita’s. Should have been two – only Nesta and Cassian for their quiet post theatre drinks, but Morrigan had been there with other friends who she swiftly abandoned as soon as she saw Cassian arrive.

Within minutes Morrigan had called Feyre and then before Nesta knew it, she was being squished into a booth, Cassian to her left and Feyre to her right, while she sipped her chilled white wine and counted the minutes until it was socially acceptable to say her goodbyes.

“Oh my god,” Morrigan had been saying. “That was the best dish I think I’d ever eaten. Do you remember it Rhys? The caramelised onions and gravy? What was it called again Cass?”

Cassian groaned and lolled his head back. “Illyrian Comfort Pie. My favourite.” He took a sip of his beer. “The Illyrian army did a version with off-cuts, almost ruined a perfect dish.”

“What’s this pie?” Feyre asked.

“Only the best pie in the world,” Cassian replied, his eyes misting over. “Imagine thick tender beef soaked in its own juices for hours, drowned in rich gravy and embedded with caramelised onions all under a cover of hot crust pastry.”

“You need a room, Cass?” Rhys laughed.

Cassian raised his middle finger to Rhys but joined him in the laughter.

“Cassian’s ex made the best version,” Morrigan said, her eyes sliding to Nesta. “Honestly no one would be able to top it. Bri wasn’t even Illyrian but it was spot on.” She took a long sip from her own glass of red wine. “I guess it doesn’t need to be your own tradition if you care enough to put in the effort.”

There was a heavy silence which would have lingered if not for the clearing of Feyre’s throat. “Who’s got who for Secret Santa?”

“Oh, I’m sure if Nesta put in the effort it would be just as good. Right?” Nesta looked up and met Rhys’ eyes as he ignored Feyre’s question. He smirked as he finished speaking, cocking his own beer bottle to his mouth.

Three more pairs of eyes looked her way. Nesta felt the slight, almost imperceptible tensing from Cassian but it was Feyre’s eyes which widened the most. There was a kick against Nesta’s shin under the table.

“I’m sure it would,” Nesta said, “if I had the time.”

“Cassian was telling us at the bar you’re now on vacation. All your gifts already wrapped and under the tree. Sounds like you have time.”

“Rhys...” Feyre began but Morrigan jumped in.

“I think that would be a lovely Christmas present for Cass. You can start your own tradition now you’re official. Illyrian food is so hearty.”

There was a part of Nesta which was too stubborn for her own good. Rhys’ smirk and Morrigan’s too-wide grin opposite her, the meeting of the cousin’s eyes like this was some in-joke they had just started. Feyre kept kicking her under the table, the jostling movement irritating Nesta further.

The flash of irritation was the problem. That, and the second glass of wine she’d drunk on a half empty stomach fuelling it. Her temperature rose and her skin prickled and instead of counting to twenty like she’d been practicing in her apartment Nesta opened her mouth.

“Fine,” she said, “this whole thing sounds great. One Illyrian Comfort Pie it is. When do you want it? Day after next?” Nesta quickly grabbed her glass to take a swig of her drink before she agreed to anything else.

Cassian’s eyebrows shot up but she didn’t want to meet his eyes, he was probably thinking how Nesta wasn’t implementing those ‘take a moment’ techniques. But his hand reached down to clasp her free one under the table, giving it a squeeze.

“You know what?” he said, looking at the group. “I want in on this. New traditions sound great. You’re making mine so how about yours. What’s the Archeron family dish of choice?” He asked this looking at Nesta but she still had the wine glass clamped to her lips. No longer drinking, just holding it there to feel the cold.

“Ooh,” Feyre said, clapping her hands and jiggling a little on her seat. “Roasted venison, but that’s quite tricky. We haven’t eaten that since Elain went vegetarian. We also had roast potatoes and honey glazed parsnips. Green beans. There was a cheesy mash and – oh, oh, the shortbread biscuits with a chocolate drizzle and the Prythian Pavlova. That’s Nesta’s favourite.”

Cassian laughed. “You want to take a breath there, Feyre?”

In response, Feyre’s stomach grumbled. “No, but I think I need some dinner.”

Aside from Nesta, the table laughed. Her wine glass was now empty and back on the table, her fingers toying with the stem, her mind too preoccupied with the thought of this pie and how the hell she’d even find the recipe.

As the chatter resumed, now about where Rhys and Feyre were going for dinner, Cassian’s weight shifted against her, his arm casually slinging around her shoulders.

“You ok?”

She glanced up at him, plastering a smile on her face. “Absolutely fine.”

“Hmm. Is that genuine fine or Nesta fine?”

Cassian was staring at her intently, concern swimming in his dark eyes. She knew if she immediately conceded he’d let it go, their friendship group knew Nesta wasn’t known for her domestic pursuits and Cassian could whip up a mean dish filled with flavour.

If she really wanted to, Nesta could cheat her way out of this. Getting Elain to bake the pie for her would have once been a consideration until Elain and Lucien’s diet change. No meat, no dairy, no sugar.

No flavour, Lucien had added, ignoring Elain’s frown.

Still, there was something else shining in Cassian’s eyes. Excitement. He was pleased she’d agreed, he relished competition in all its forms and he seemed eager to do this with her.

Nesta’s smile melted in a more genuine one and she squeezed his hand back. “Honestly, it’s good. Dare I say I may even find it fun?”

That was two days ago. Two long days.

“Ha!” She now shouted to her cramped kitchen. “Two drink Nesta has no concept of what the fuck fun is.”

Everything was a mess, even the edges of the cookbook were singed and Nesta cringed at the sight. Gwyn had managed to track down the edition on her behalf and Nesta hated to see a book suffer.

She looked at the clock. Two hours to go – plenty of time to shower, dress up and cart the pie to Cassian’s where they would have a grand unveiling in front of their friends. Her phone pinged and Nesta glanced down to see a reply from Emerie.

She says no chance.

“That’s not a problem,” Nesta said, wiping her hands on her thighs and staining her jeans further. “Because I now have a half decent pie.” She picked up the sharp knife. “Just scrape some of the black bits off and we are good to go.”

The knife slid through the crust and Nesta lifted some of the burnt pastry off using the blade. Odd. What was a deep and crispy brown on the surface seemed pale and soft underneath. Almost as though the pastry hadn’t fully cooked all the way through.

“It’s just this bit,” Nesta told herself. “I’m sure the rest is just fine.” But as she gently lifted the pie-top she could see the same pale colour underneath. Worse was the distinct lack of steam rising from the filling. “No, no, no, no. You’ve been in the oven for almost two hours.”

Grabbing a fork, she stuck it into the dish and scooped out a lump of meat. Juice, which looked far too oily for her liking, dripped off the prongs. Nesta placed the meat on the counter and cut through it with a knife.

She was met with resistance. The beef was still cold. A noise left her throat unbidden, something akin to a half sob. Nesta had researched the best meat cuts for the pie, she’d made sure to go to the best butcher and spent no less than forty-five minutes asking the rather exasperated man behind the counter questions from her list.

Her eyes flew up to the clock. Less than two hours to go. The time she’d budgeted to get ready and go to Cassian’s now shrivelled up. Just like my hopes for this pie.

She peered into the dish, the caramelized onions bobbing in the gravy like some apple bobbing contest gone wrong. “You’re mocking me,” she said and then groaned. They wouldn’t be the only ones.  

Nesta sank down onto her floor, ignoring the drip of gravy she sat on and put her head on her knees. She could imagine it all now; Feyre, Rhys, and Morrigan all dressed up, swanning around Cassian’s apartment waiting to be served their multiple courses.

Feyre’s eyes would go wide at Nesta’s attempt but she’d try and make Nesta feel better and yet somehow by trying, she’d only make Nesta feel worse. Cassian would likely tuck the monstrosity – if she even bothered bringing it – behind some extravaganza he’d made and perform an elaborate distraction.

Rhys and Morrigan would probably just snigger behind their drinks and tell her that ‘at least she tried.’ Patronising fuckers.

A tear dripped from the corner of her eye down her chin.

Nesta had tried. Had really tried. She’d memorised the recipe from back to front before she even started, she’d gone out into Velaris Market with a clipboard, she’d called Elain early for pastry tips ignoring Lucien joining the call to ask Nesta if she could describe what real food tasted like because the memory of butter was fading fast.

She wiped her eyes with her fingers, knowing she must look even more of a state than before. But wait – there was an option open to her. Hope flared yet.

Nesta grabbed her phone from the counter. What had Feyre said? The Illyrian restaurant down Sidra Street might be able to deliver. If anyone served an Illyrian Comfort Pie, it would be them. She scrolled through her favourites for the number. Her and Cassian had eaten there so often, she practically had them on speed dial.

The phone answered after the second ring.

“Hello? Hi. I know it’s late notice but I’m in a bit of a bind and hoping you could help.”

She explained the situation, confirming that yes, her pie request was for that Cassian, the one with the tattoos and arms.

“I mean, I don’t know,” Nesta said, eyeing up the clock and tapping her foot against the cupboard. “I’ll ask him. Some kind of protein shake, I think. Yeah, it’s really glossy hair. I’ll ask him that too. Anyway – the pie?”

They were regretful. Truly. Nesta could almost feel their sorrow down the phone. They didn’t have any pies pre-baked and they wouldn’t have one ready for the time she needed it by. They offered Nesta and Cassian a discount on their next visit and Nesta thanked them before hanging up.

“Well. Shit.”

Her eyes itched and she wanted to cry again but this wasn’t the Archeron way. She shook her shoulders and cleared her throat. There would be no pie but Nesta would be damned if she turned up without bringing anything and looking like a chaotic mess.

The kitchen horror show was a problem for future her, but in less than an hour, she had showered, dressed herself in her most confidence boosting little black dress and practiced her affirmations in front of the hallway mirror.

“You are a calm, confident, capable woman. You did not achieve the pie. Others have probably not achieved the pie. You have achieved other things. Like your best friends, two degrees, and this awesome looking pavlova.”

Nesta held the covered bowl to the mirror as though to show her reflection the cream and meringue evidence. Her lipstick red smile shook a little but the taxi driver was calling to say he was downstairs so there was no time for doubt to creep in.

On a usual night it took too long to get to Cassian’s. The drive was less than fifteen minutes from one end of the small city where Nesta lived to Cassian’s address and every second stretched out painfully slow.

Tonight, it was as though all roads had cleared especially for her just to say ‘look, you can get to your ritual humiliation even earlier.’

“It’s not like I’ve ever seen Rhys or Morrigan cook,” she mumbled to herself as she exited the cab and entered Cassian’s building. The porter nodded and buzzed her in and then Nesta was counting the too-quick numbers on the elevator.

Cassian’s apartment was one of two at the top of the building and though the sound-proofing was excellent, which they could attest to personally, Nesta was surprised at the distinct lack of any festivities sounding from behind his door when she approached.

He answered after one knock, hair freshly washed and dried. His white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons were undone, swathes of black swirling tattoos on display.

Cassian let out a low whistle and grinned like a wolf when he saw her. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite lady, in my favourite dress of hers, with my favourite dish.”

He leant in to kiss her and Nesta winced at the mention of food. Cassian’s lips met hers in a chaste kiss but he must have noticed her response as he was frowning when he pulled away.

“Come in,” he said with a light tone. “Let me take that.” He held his hands out for the bowl she was carrying but she clutched it tighter to her body.

“That’s ok, let me find a space to put it.”

“Sure.”

Nesta stepped further into the apartment. Everything was chrome, quartz, or wood but Cassian couldn’t help himself when it came to Christmas. What was once an interior designers dream for a ‘bachelor living’ magazine spread was now a grotto fit for the dreams of any eight-year-old girl.

A smile lifted the corner of her lips. She’d never begrudge him this. Foster care and ten endless churn of care homes hadn’t left Cassian with any sense of home and the orphanage tried their best but lacked the funds.

Cassian had told her that his best Christmas eventually came in the Illyrian military and all that involved was eating dry turkey from paper plates and reading stupid jokes from cheap crackers. But he was with people that felt like family and that’s what mattered the most.

Now, garlands hung from the oversized windows, a tree larger than Cassian himself stood by the fireplace decked with shining ornaments. A range of presents piled up under the tree to the point where they spilled across his floor.

Stockings on the mantel, rugs everywhere, gingerbread houses which increased in number each time Nesta was over. Candles on every surface.

“Wine?” Cassian asked as Nesta slid the bowl onto his counter. She nodded while taking a breath in. Ham and apricot, honey, a distinct scent of rich chocolate. All the food laid out but under coverings to keep them fresh.

Her stomach stank. She’d failed him so miserably.

Her face must have painted a picture because Cassian moved beside her. “Hey, what’s up.” His fingers tucked under her chin, tilting her face to his. Those deep eyes of his, again swimming in concern.

She hoped the best Christmas present she could get him was honesty.

“I fucked it.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“The pie, I completely fucked it up.”

His confused blank expression immediately melted and he laughed, his head thrown back and the column of his throat on display. His face in laughter was a delight, he was young and happy and in love with life. “Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“There is no pie. I botched it.”

He looked down at her, his expression softening, his smile gentle. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t. That pie is an art only the devil knows how to get right. Did you know Emerie’s grandmother won’t even make one and she won Illyrian baker of the year for fifteen years?”

Nesta coughed and reached for the wine poured out for her. “No, I didn’t know that.”

Cassian moved round the counter to Nesta’s dish. “So, what did you bring?”

“The only thing that didn’t involve my oven. The meringue isn’t even home-made. I’m such a sellout.”

He peeked under the covering and exhaled. “Oh, thank the Mother.” He stepped back, his hand over his heart. “I fucked it.”

Now, Nesta blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“The meringue for the Prythian Pavlova. It was the one thing I wanted to get perfect but do you know how hard meringue is to make? I couldn’t even make it to the store.”

He shook his head, grabbing his own glass of wine. “I even rang Elain to ask her for tips but Lucien answered and begged me to tell him in great detail how the filo wrapped parcels were smelling. He said, and I quote ‘go low and take your time’. I’m not sure how comfortable I am having them over for New Year.”

Nesta laughed, shaking her own head, glancing around the apartment. It had taken her long enough but something finally dawned on her. “Am I early? When are the others arriving?”

Cassian paused, swirling his glass. “Yeah, about that... I thought ‘fuck ‘em.’”

Nesta’s eyes bulged. “I think I’m missing something.”

Cassian put his glass down and leant back against the far counter.

“You know Bri’s pie wasn’t all that great. Mor was being...” he trailed off, scratching his eyebrow the way he did when he was uncomfortable. “Mor was being difficult and it was unfair. Rhys too. But I liked the idea of you and I doing our own holiday tradition so I guess I thought I’d see where we ended up.”

He gestured to his apartment and the dishes before them. “So, we ended up here. Just you and I, a bottle of wine, lots of delicious food and a very comfy rug we’re fucking on after dinner.”

“Is that right?” Nesta said, putting her glass down. She walked over to him. “Have you seen what you’ve made? We are not fucking after dinner.” She placed her hand on his chest, his heart beating a rhythm against her palm as she ignored his disappointed face. “We’re fucking before dinner.”

That wolf grin was back on his face and he leant forward to kiss her but Nesta stopped him. “I feel bad, everything here is an Archeron dish. You didn’t get your pie.”

“Oh, I’ll get to eat my pie.”

“Cassian!”

He laughed again, his broad arms wrapping around her body. “The fact that you tried means everything. I promise. This is a great start to our forever tradition.”

Nesta looked up at him; the hours of failed baking, the constant smoke alarms, the mess she had to clear up tomorrow. Worth it. All of it. “Forever you say?”

“Forever.”

[oliolioxenfreewrites]

novaxiom chronicles master-post: the world that sings itself apart

welcome to novaxiom, a place where every note hums with magic, every sound shapes reality, and silence? well, silence will probably get you killed.

the world here isn’t your typical fantasy landscape of lush forests and quaint little villages. oh, no. in novaxiom, it’s all about sound—sonoric sorcery runs the show, manipulating everything from the air you breathe to the ground beneath your feet. magic here isn’t just some flashy light show; it’s built into the very foundation of existence.

the origins—sound and fury

our story begins with aųrōlis, the goddess of sound and harmony. she shaped this world by plucking a perfect note from the void, creating a melody that gave birth to the sonorians—the unfortunate souls tasked with keeping everything in balance.

but balance? that’s boring. enter manœf, the shape-shifting god of infinite forms, and menþiš, the god of thought and manipulation. one played nice, the other… not so much. turns out, harmony gets a little screechy when power-hungry gods get involved.

menþiš, with his genius (read: psychotic) mind, decided sound alone wasn’t enough and twisted the sonorians’ magic into something darker—psinoric sorcery, the manipulation of thoughts and reality itself. because nothing says "i’m helping" like turning everyone into mind-controlled puppets.

cue the cacophonous wars, a symphony of destruction that nearly tore novaxiom apart, because why not ruin a good thing with a little chaos?

the aftermath—silence is deadly

when menþiš’s ambition finally hit a sour note, aųrōlis and her auxiliary offspring (elemental deities that are basically walking, talking mixtapes of power) intervened, casting him and his right-hand man, kørüx, into the dustbin of history. but peace? nah, not yet.

kørüx’s legacy gave rise to the dysonorians, beings who use dyssonoric sorcery—silence and dissonance as weapons. nothing says "we’re fine" like a bunch of angry mutes planning world domination.

a fragile peace—cue the dissonance

novaxiom now stands in the aftermath of the cacophonous wars, in a "peaceful" stalemate where the factions keep themselves busy with intellectual duels, magical sports, and the occasional assassination attempt. it’s a world of innovation—where sound and magic are at the heart of every invention and intrigue—but the echoes of war still loom large.

the players—the ones who can’t stay silent

syrin novachrome: i emerged from a crystal, not a womb, so excuse me if i don’t quite fit your definition of "human." i’m not here to save the world, but i might stick around long enough to watch it burn again. after all, history has a nasty habit of repeating itself, and i’m just here for the encore.

naia thalassum: water, blood, control. that’s my life in three words. if you think you can keep up, good luck. i’m not here to make friends—just to make sure no one underestimates me again. trust is a liability i can’t afford.

breeze harmonix: i’ve already won all the accolades that matter, so why the hell am i here? oh right, my sponsors. don’t get me wrong, i could blow you all away if i wanted to. i just prefer to stay above it all, literally and figuratively.

hymn cadenza: the world is broken, and i’m supposed to help fix it. no pressure. people think kindness is weakness, but the truth is, it’s the only thing holding this place together. if i can’t heal novaxiom, i’ll at least try to make sure it doesn’t tear itself apart again.

kova obsidius: reformed igniteri? sure, that’s what i’ll let you think. the truth is a bit more… complex. i’m playing both sides of this little war, and love wasn’t supposed to be part of the equation. i guess betrayal gets complicated when you start caring about who you're betraying.

the regions—each with their own sound

aurixian heartland: imagine cities made of sound, where every step you take echoes with history, magic, and the occasional screaming politician. resona, the capital, is a hub of intellectuals who think they can keep everything in harmony. spoiler: they can’t.

the viridian grove: where the trees hum with nature’s music and the verdant voices think their eco-magic will save the world. newsflash, nature can only do so much when the rest of us are busy trying to blow everything up.

shattered saskatchewan: where the dysonorians live in silence, plotting their next move. it’s a place of ruins, whispers, and enough cold stares to make even the bravest sorcerer shiver. silence is golden, or at least, lethal here.

the echoing isles: the ēbÿßmæ and vøçėrmäi merfolk call this place home, wielding sanguine sonorium and hydrophonic sorcery. here, water and blood weave together in complex harmonies most of the world can’t comprehend. but they’re not the only ones. the aeropexians also dominate the skies above the isles, their mastery over air and sound reshaping the atmosphere itself. they’re arrogant, proud, and love reminding everyone else that they’ve literally got the high ground.

igniteris volcanic range: think rivers of lava, molten magic, and people who enjoy blowing things up for fun. the igniteri are volatile, and their capital pyrospire is a glorified pressure cooker. if something’s going to explode, it’ll probably happen here.

the magic—because silence isn’t golden

sonoric sorcery: the manipulation of sound to shape reality. it’s the lifeblood of novaxiom, whether you’re healing a wound or leveling a city. everyone wants a piece of it, and everyone’s ready to fight over it.

psinoric sorcery: courtesy of our dear, departed (okay, just banished) friend menþiš, this twisted magic bends minds, alters perceptions, and, in some cases, warps reality. it’s like sonoric sorcery’s evil twin that no one really wants at the family reunion.

dyssonoric sorcery: silence is deadly, and the dysonorians know how to wield it. their magic thrives on dissonance and quiet destruction, proving that sometimes, it’s what you don’t hear that kills you.

so what now?

now we wait for the next disaster to strike—because in novaxiom, it’s not a matter of if, but when. the igniteri and dysonorians are gearing up for another attempt at rewriting the rules of magic, and let’s just say it won’t be a peaceful negotiation.

the sonorian council is calling all the shots, but there’s tension in the ranks. with our unlikely band of heroes (or anti-heroes, if we’re being honest), the future looks… well, chaotic.

will harmony be restored?

….probably not.

but it’s going to be one hell of a show either way. so stick around, grab a seat, and listen carefully—because in novaxiom, the only thing louder than the sound of magic is the silence before everything goes to hell.

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[theboywithburninghands]

Is it possible to write a Funnybunny/Buttonblossom story without Pomni? I dunno, but I just did. Anyway, this one is a little on the short side, but it took a complete 180 from where I was originally going with it. And I think the result is good, one of the better things I’ve written… That said, it is a little bit on the heavier side. So I’ll drop a small content warning just in case, but really it shouldn’t be any rougher than your average romance movie. Hope you enjoy!

Young and Dumb

t/w: angst, relationship drama

Another day came to an end. The adventure, forgettable. Somewhat unpleasant, but nobody died or got maimed. Dinner was fine, digital spaghetti and meatballs. The performers said their goodbyes and headed off to bed. With the exception of two.

Ragatha left the tent, holding Layla, the music-playing microphone beetle that Kinger picked up from a few adventures ago. It was Ragatha’s turn with her, and the doll-woman wanted to savor the opportunity. She walked a long way to her favorite retreat; a copse (Dark Souls II taught her that word) far in the back of the woods by the Digital Lake. She didn’t love the woods on account of her fear of bugs with too many legs, but there were so few places to be well and truly by herself around here. It was like what Kierkegaard said. There can’t be joy without risk.

Or… maybe that was faith without risk. Who the hell was Kierkegaard anyway..? Eh.

She came to her small thicket, or “copse.” It was distinguishable from the rest of the woods by the mossy boulder in the middle of it, softly illuminated by the digital starlight. Ragatha spent many evenings sitting on that boulder. Sometimes she cried for hours. Sometimes she screamed in rage until her voice was completely dried up. Sometimes she just laid on the boulder and stared at the sky. Once she laid there until dawn.

She first checked the rock for any insects, before sitting cross-legged on it, smoothing out her dress. She placed Layla down on her lap, the microphone-beetle looking up at her expectantly.

Ragatha: Layla, play… Into the Great Wide Open by Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers.

Layla nodded and began to play a heartland rock song. Ragatha closed her eye and let the music take her away. Hardly even realizing it, she began to sing along.

Ragatha: “Eddie waited ‘til he finished high school

He went to Hollywood, got a tattoo

He met a girl out there with a tattoo too

The future was wiiiide open…”

Jax: You’re kinda flat, Dollface.

Ragatha opened her eye and turned about on the boulder. Jax was leaning against a tree, his eyes also closed, with his hands tucked behind his head. Ragatha rolled her eye and tapped a hand to her lips.

Ragatha: Shh. Listen for a second.

The two of them remained quiet as Layla played Ragatha’s selected song. Ragatha swayed in time with the music, relishing every last note, before it concluded about three minutes later. She then smirked at Jax.

Ragatha: Ill met by moonlight, proud Jax.

Jax: What’d you say?

Ragatha: It’s from Shakespeare. What’s up? If you’re here to put a centipede down my dress again, you might as well get it over with.

Jax: Nah. It’s way funnier when you’re not expecting it. Can I join you? *points to the boulder*

Ragatha: Sure.

Ragatha scooted over as Jax strutted to the rock, sitting down and crossing a leg over one knee. There was a moment of somewhat awkward silence before Jax spoke up.

Jax: New kid is adjusting pretty well.

Ragatha: Mmm. She’s definitely a fighter. At least in an emotional way.

Jax: Think she’ll outlast us?

Ragatha: Come on, Jax, you know I don’t like thinking about who’s gonna abstract next. Hopefully nobody.

Jax: That��ll be the day.

Ragatha: …Well, I know for a fact it’s harder to completely give up hope when you have feelings for someone.

Jax shot Ragatha a look, who met it with a small, confident smile. The rabbit sighed and rolled his eyes. He balled his fists for a moment before unclenching them.

Jax: …Did she have fun?

Ragatha: Huh?

Jax: At the theme park. With Pomni. Did you have fun?

Ragatha: …Yeah. I did. It’s the same old rides, but… it’s a whole different experience having someone to share it with. To see react to stuff, y’know?

Jax: Did you two make out~?

Ragatha: Ugh, don’t be a creep.

Jax made some obnoxious kissing sound effects.

Ragatha: You know, I could ask you the same thing! Did you make out with her?

Jax: *immediately* Yeah.

Ragatha: Wh- *blushes* Oh. Uh. Hm. Wait, you can kiss people? Do you even have lips?

Jax: Huh? What are you talkin’ about?

Ragatha: No, I’m just thinking about the logistics of the whole situation, does she like… kiss you on the teeth?

Jax: I got lips, genius. *closes his mouth around his teeth*

Ragatha: Yeah but can you pucker them? Or do you just sort of… bump your lips against hers?

Jax: You’re reaaaally into my kissing techniques there, Dollface. There something you’re not telling me?

Ragatha: Dream on.

Jax: More like “have nightmares.”

Ragatha: Ha! Even if I were to kiss you, which I won’t, I think you’d find it perfectly acceptable at the very worst.

Jax: At the very best. At the very best I find it acceptable. At the very worst, I might puke in your mouth.

Ragatha: Jax! Blech… *sticks out her tongue* You always take it too far…

Jax: You all just don’t take it far enough...

Ragatha: Oh whatever. It makes me happy you’re enjoying your time with Pomni.

Jax: Why wouldn’t I? She’s… she’s alright. *he blushes faintly*

Ragatha: Yeah. She is alright. I’m really proud of you.

There’s a prolonged silence.

Jax: What?

Ragatha: I said that I’m proud of you.

Jax: You’re… “proud of me?”

Ragatha: Yeah. You’ve come a l-

Jax: What do you mean you’re proud of me, proud of me for what?

Ragatha: For-For finding someone that helps you get through the days, you know? It's hard to keep going.

Jax: That wasn’t what you were going to say. You said “I’ve come a long way.”

Ragatha: Oh. Well… I dunno. I can tell you’re softening up a little.

Jax: Huh?

Ragatha: I mean, Pomni is good for you. You’re not nearly as… well, as much of a jerk as you were before. Sometimes you need someone in your life that grounds you.

Jax: So what’s she doing for you?

Ragatha: What do you mean?

Jax: Well she makes me less of a jerk. What does she do to help your personality, huh? Or do you not need to change anything?

Ragatha: Hey now, I wasn’t saying anything like that.

Jax: But you get to be “proud” because the new girl makes me better? Like you got nothing to fix or already have romance figured out.

Ragatha: Jax, it’s a compliment!

Jax: Alright, look. *he stands up* I’ll let you kiss Pomni, but you don’t get to talk to me like I’m your baby brother.

Ragatha: Sorry, you'll let me kiss Pomni? And I mean, I am eight years older than you…

Jax: Oh so you do think I’m a kid, nice.

Ragatha: Jax, you know I didn’t mean it like that-

Jax: Amazing. It’s not enough you get to treat me like a child, you get to come into my relatio- my, my- you get to come into my life and take my girlf- *the words catch in his throat and he stops*

Ragatha: What..? *she stands up* Jax, where is this coming from? You told me you were okay with sharing!

Jax: Yeah, well… maybe I’m not so much.

Ragatha: You... Pomni said-

Jax: I know what I told Pomni! I told her…

There's another lengthy pause

Jax: I told her what she wanted to hear!

Ragatha: You…

Jax: She was freaking out over liking you, so I just bit the bullet and told her it was fine so she wouldn't flip out. I thought I could deal with it… But you know what? I can’t! It hurts just a liiittle bit to have someone you… the… the first person who you ever really cared about in this dump just up and decide that you’re not good enough for them and go find someone else! Especially if your replacement is some condescending knock-off!

Jax poked her hard in the left shoulder, and Ragatha slapped his hand away instinctively.

Ragatha: Jax, stop it!

Jax: No, no, you know what? Keep her! I’m just a dumb kid, right?! It’s pretty d@#& clear I’m not cutting it anymore! I hope you two have fun! I’m better off alone!

Layla piped up with a peppy late nineties techno beat upon hearing Jax’s words. The corner of the rabbit’s mouth twitched with rage.

Jax: Oh you think you’re funny..?

Ragatha: Jax, she doesn’t know any better-

Before Ragatha knew it, Jax had his hands around the beetle, who gave a squeal of feedback at being grabbed so tightly.

Jax: You little-!

The rabbit reared back

Ragatha: NO JAX DON’T!

Jax threw Layla hard into the woods, the tiny creature rocketing into the treeline. Ragatha gasped and ran after Layla, falling to her knees and palming around in the tall grass for her. She eventually felt a small round body and pulled it free from the leaves of grass.

Ragatha: Layla, are you okay? You didn’t hit a tree did you?!

Layla’s eyes twirled in circles before she blinked the confusion away and shook her head “no.”

Ragatha: *gives a long sigh of relief* Jax! Why would you-

Upon turning around, the rabbit was nowhere to be found.

Ragatha: Jax?

——

Jax made it to the edge of the forest. He panted and grabbed the sides of his head. His chest hurt. Shame and fury and guilt grappled in his stomach like a knot of snakes.

Jax: It’s late. I should… I should sleep.

He said this aloud to himself, a pitiful attempt to calm his emotions like twisting the cap back on a bottle of soda that was about to erupt with fizz. He just wanted to go back to his room. So he started walking.

His throat hurt. He kept walking. His vision became blurry. He kept walking. His cheeks were getting wet. He kept walking. His breathing hitched. He stopped walking. He fell into a squat. He got back up. He walked to the lake shore and sat.

He cried. For the first time in years, he cried.

And he cried.

And he cried.

[writeonthrough]

Namy Nuggets (11/13)

A fanfic collection of Amy and Nathan scenes from CBC’s Heartland. (Catch up on the series here)

Nugget #11: Evening Plans

It's seven o'clock before Nathan finishes his work for the day. As he watches the cows take their rest at the end of the day, his mind debates between his evening plans. He imagines his dad, alone in their half-lit kitchen, trying to convince himself he still has the cooking skills he once did. His mind then drifts to Amy. He can't help wondering, imagining, how her evening is going. He wonders if most of her evenings are the same; a huge family dinner followed by putting Lyndy to bed—or how often her routine is spontaneous.

Before he can venture a guess, however, he finds himself galloping towards Heartland. Powder races across the open fields and Nathan enjoys the beautiful summer night—the Sun still up in the sky and the birds flying across the skyline. He swivels around birch trees and enters Heartland property, happily anticipating what he will find there.

He's not disappointed when he rides up to find Amy alone in the round pen. The rest of the place is deserted, which makes it simple for him to ride straight to her.

Amy turns at the sound of hoofbeats. "Hey!" The entirety of her face brightens when she sees him. "I didn't expect to see you tonight."

"Hey," He pulls Powder to a stop and watches her walk towards him. "I wasn't expecting to come over."

"Oh, well…" She climbs up the round pen fence and sits at the top to meet him at eye level. "It's good to see you," she says sweetly before leaning forward for a kiss. He smiles and meets her willingly, stretching his neck out to kiss her more fully.

He pulls back. "You too." He gestures to the horse in the ring. "Who's this guy?"

"Tory. New client horse. He arrived this afternoon, I'm just getting to know him."

"Huh," Nathan inspects the horse. "He looks pretty good. What's his story?"

"After a year as a good police horse, he's suddenly afraid of loud noises. They say no major incident happened. He was perfect on Friday and after a weekend in the field as usual, he came in all freaked out on Monday."

"Sounds like a puzzle," Nathan offers.

"That's one word for it," Amy smiles. "I'll figure it out eventually."

"I'm sure you will." Nathan smiles back. "Hey," he reaches for her arm. She reciprocates by taking his own arm gently stroking it with her hand. "Did you already put Lyndy to bed? Are you—"

"Amy!"

They release each other at the calling of her name. Amy turns on top fence rail to see Caleb running in her direction.

He walks up to the opposite side of the round pen and climbs the wood railing. "Hey. Why didn't you tell me about your concert tonight?"

Nathan does a double take at the idea of Amy performing a concert. His interest peaks and his longing to hear her sing reawakens.

"It's not my concert, and it's not a big deal, and," she gestures to his truck, "You said you had to leave tonight, so why would I—"

"Come on," Caleb tilts his head as if the answer were obvious. "You're an amazing singer and-"

"Okay…that's a bit of a stretch there, cowboy." Amy rolls her eyes and downplays her talent. Caleb, she thinks to herself, thinks I'm amazing at everything, so it doesn't mean much.

Caleb ignores her. "I love hearing you sing—"

"It's not just me, Caleb. Katie wants to try leading for a song—"

"Yeah, I heard her practicing. She sounds great."

"Caleb. Do not make a big deal out of this. I just want to go have some fun for an evening, blow off some steam."

Nathan notes the diametrical ways Amy and Caleb describe the same event. Caleb's high praise and excitement stand in stark contrast to Amy's quiet humility.

"Yeah," Caleb promises. "So do I."

Amy rubs her temple, unsure. "Caleb…"

"I can postpone my drive for a few hours." He quickly offers. "They said you guys are going on at 9?"

"Yeah." She pauses and then adds, "If you're coming, you're not driving back tonight. Ask Lou for a dude ranch key."

Caleb breaks into one of his wide, over-excited smiles. "Thank you!"

As he climbs down the fence, Nathan can't help but speak out. "Caleb, where is this thing?"

"No—" Amy tries interjecting.

"At the Blue Bull Bar, downtown," he says, jumping off the second railing pole and turning back towards the house.

With Caleb's back turned, Nathan returns to Amy's side, riding closer and resting an arm on her leg.

He tilts her head at her, teasing, "Anything you want to tell me?"

"Uh..." Amy decides to ignore Caleb's interruption and picks up where they left off. "I did actually put Lyndy to bed. But, as it turns out, I don't think I'm free to do anything with you tonight, so…"

"No, apparently, you have very amazing plans for tonight."

"No," she pulls her leg back from his hand. "Not amazing. Blow-off steam, low-stakes kind of plans."

"Hey," Nathan points to himself. "I like low-stakes kind of plans."

"Nathan," Amy's head drops. "Come on. My whole family's gonna be there—"

"It's a public place. I can hide in the crowd."

"You haven't heard me sing before…and I wasn't planning on like—I don't know—having you there tonight."

Nathan retreats. "Do you really not want me to come?"

"No, it's not that," Amy clarifies. "I don't want to worry about you being there."

"Because of your family?"

"No, because…" She can't find any new words to express her hidden vulnerability and secret desire to impress him. Her repeated words come out as a breathless whisper, inundated with meaning, "You haven't heard me sing before."

Nathan's breath catches at her confession. He nudges Power closer to the railing and he reaches out to her, his arms encircling her waist. As he leans in for a kiss, he notices that, even with her eyes closed, her face reveals all her hidden emotions. When their lips touch, he feels the love she's holding inside.

[heartlandians]

Block 2: Day 4 (6/6/2024). Videos by: Spencer Twins

[mariacallous]

I am bad at small talk, so I went in big. “You are probably going to be the social democratic leader with the largest parliamentary majority anywhere on Earth. How does it feel?” I said to Keir Starmer during a private meeting with him and a few advisors in late 2022.

Starmer’s aides looked annoyed, while the likely next prime minister of the United Kingdom paused and tried to deflect: “We can’t take anything for granted,” which has become the unofficial motto for Labour’s general election campaign.

Yet despite Starmer’s hesitancy to bank success—he is genuinely a modest man—it is likely that on the morning of July 5, Starmer will wake up as the world’s social democratic superhero: the only center-left leader of a major economy with a parliamentary supermajority and the great hope for progressives all over the world.

The governing Conservative Party, which is historically arguably the most successful political party on Earth, now faces electoral oblivion. In 2019, Boris Johnson demolished Labour’s heartlands, the so-called red wall. Labour had become detached from its base and collapsed in its postindustrial heartlands after then-leader Jeremy Corbyn embraced the siren sounds of political extremism; he refused to sing the national anthem at a memorial for the Battle of Britain and drove the party toward a position of fiscal incontinence that scared anyone with financial assets.

Five years later, Labour is on track not only to regain the red wall but also to achieve a dream of progressives by taking solid Conservative seats in their blue wall of affluent commuter constituencies surrounding London and rural seats that have voted Conservative since time immemorial. (East Worthing and Shoreham, for example, is part of a constituency that first voted Tory in 1780 and has been reliably Tory since. Polls suggest Labour is on track to take the seat.)

What is happening in the U.K. is unusual for center-left parties, to put it mildly. Labour could gain as many as 70 percent of seats in the House of Commons—a victory that could surpass even the electoral landside of former Labour Prime Minister Tony Blair in 1997, offering lessons for progressives everywhere. A politically dominant Starmer will attend the G-7 as a leader in total political control, in stark contrast to his counterparts in France and Germany, Emmanuel Macron and Olaf Scholz, who are facing high disapproval ratings and struggling to pursue their governing agendas.

Labour’s victory in the U.K. will be important in three key regards: It will recast how progressives can win national elections and set a high-water mark for what social democrats can achieve; it will reshape British politics in new and unexpected ways that could be more important than the victory itself; and it will flip external perceptions of the U.K., resetting international views of the country and its future.

Despite the pathological obsession Britain’s political class has with America’s, it is perhaps time for Democrats in the United States to look across the pond and glean some lessons from Labour’s success.

Part of Starmer’s success has been to take an oath of omertà on culture war issues, much as the Australian Labor Party did. These include transgender rights, Britain’s colonial past, and immigration—all issues that the British right has tried to capitalize on. Starmer, a former human rights lawyer, has committed to scrap the Tories’ controversial Rwanda deportation scheme but on the grounds of practicality rather than as a wider moral statement. More broadly on immigration, the party has been treading very carefully. This is certainly not brave, but it has worked. For all the attempts to fire up the culture wars in this election, Labour has remained focused on the prize.

While the Conservatives have attempted to stoke a culture war, what remains more salient for voters in the U.K. is the perceived corruption and rule-breaking of leading Conservatives, culminating in the current scandal involving elected officials using insider information to bet on the election date.

Scandals including preferential contracts for protective equipment for the National Health Service (NHS) during the COVID-19 pandemic, where an astonishing 4 billion pounds ($5 billion) worth of faulty equipment was procured (some allegedly from companies with links to the ruling party). Then came “Partygate,” in which Johnson and current Prime Minister Rishi Sunak were fined by police for breaking COVID-era laws. A lobbying scandal involving another former prime minister, David Cameron, also caused significant public anger. Elite rule-breaking has cut through with voters in a way that the endless culture wars simply haven’t.

In parallel, Labour has pivoted from a form of identity politics under Corbyn to a very proactive position on class. Starmer has put his humble upbringing center stage in the U.K. election campaign and has spoken authentically about the “class ceiling” in British society. This has particular resonance as Starmer is running against Sunak, whose net wealth of $822 million makes him the richest leader of any democracy.

A typical Starmer set-piece homily is as follows:

“My dad was a toolmaker, he worked in a factory, and my mum was a nurse. We didn’t have a lot when we were growing up. Like millions of working-class children now, I grew up in a cost-of-living crisis. I know what it feels like to be embarrassed to bring your mates home because the carpet is threadbare and the windows cracked. … I was actually responsible for that as I put the football through it.”

This focus on class is unusual in modern British politics. Indeed, recent Labour leaders—from Blair to Gordon Brown to Ed Miliband to Corbyn—were all in different ways outsiders to the British working class: Blair and Corbyn for their relatively affluent (and privately educated) upbringings, Brown and Miliband because of their middle-class backgrounds and partly because Miliband’s father was one of the country’s most notable Marxist academics. As for the Conservatives, the days of a prime minister who was a grocer’s daughter are long gone. Cameron and Johnson didn’t just attend the same elite private school (Eton) two years apart; they went to the same university (Oxford) and were members of the same private dining club (for the most privileged).

Starmer is leaning into class politics—and it is working. The promise to impose the same value-added tax on private school fees that is applied to most goods and services (20 percent) has led to an outpouring of anger from the often very wealthy 6 percent of U.K. parents who send their kids to private schools—usefully, those who are privately educated often tend to vote Conservative. Labour’s pledge to use the private school tax revenues to invest in education for the 94 percent of kids in state schools has, on the other hand, drawn support from ordinary voters.

This focus on class has won back a group of voters who in other countries have now been captured by the right and far right. Labour now leads among working-class voters with 38-42 percent of the vote share, in contrast to Conservatives’ 22-24 percent. For those with the fewest educational qualifications, Labour leads in every age category except the over-50s.

One of the architects of Labour’s reengagement with the British working class is Angela Rayner, who is on track to become deputy prime minister. Rayner is working-class, was a mother at 16, and a grandmother at 37. Opinionated and unfiltered, an unapologetic smoker who enjoys a strong drink, she worked in a care home before rising quickly through the trade union movement and becoming a Labour candidate. Rayner’s story is a masterclass in how to elevate remarkable people into parliamentary politics. Her success is her own, but the unions cultivated her, and the membership backed her as deputy leader. She has real star power—and there is virtually no one like her in the upper echelons of the Democratic establishment in the United States.

Remarkably, the class dimension has not, it seems, alienated middle England. Disillusioned surbubanites and centrist liberals have been turned off by a Conservative Party that seems increasingly radical and dysfunctional. Starmer’s former career as the country’s chief prosecutor, and his knighthood—he is formally referred to as “Sir Keir”—have given him broad appeal, just as the Conservatives’ unapologetic embrace of the populist right’s pet causes has cratered their support.

Part of Labour’s success is due to the systemic clusterfuck that has been the last few years of the Conservative government. The Tories have foisted five prime ministers on the public since 2010—four of them elected by the party’s mostly white, male membership of about 170,000 rather than the public at large. Economic growth is anemic; there are nearly 8 million people on the NHS waiting list in England alone (in a country where the use of private medical care is uncommon); and essential public services including the prison service and local government are on the edge of systemic failure.

Yet signs exist that there may be more fundamental shifts at play. Labour leads in every age group except the over-65s. If you work, you are more likely to vote Labour; 45 percent of voters under 45 are likely to vote Labour, compared with only 1 in 10 backing the Conservative Party. Millennials will become the largest voting bloc in the U.K. in this election. Their key issues include policies to prevent catastrophic climate change (which poll well across the U.K. political spectrum), the building of homes, better transport links (especially for non-car owners, many urban millennials among them), and pro-family policies. All of these have come into play in this election.

Older homeowners across the Western world have been successful in running what is, potentially, the world’s largest cartel—by opposing construction of new homes for millennials. Labour is committed to ending that in the U.K. with a significant loosening of planning regulations that currently thwart sustainable development.

While the party has ruled out taxes on working people, no such commitment has been made on unearned income, leading to widespread speculation that the tax system may be rebalanced with higher capital gains taxes and fewer loopholes for the megarich, including for the landed gentry whose farming estates pass between generations tax-free. Labour has no love for landlords either. After nearly two decades in which London’s property market has been inflated by speculative investments from the world’s kleptocrats, the public appetite for new restrictions on foreign property ownership or new taxes has grown.

Labour has also surrounded itself with a technocratic positivist elite. This group includes Labour Together, an ambitious intellectual think tank closely aligned with Starmer’s inner circle, and the Tony Blair Institute, which has embraced a techno-futurism aligned with the country’s comparative advantage in the life sciences and artificial intelligence. Public sector reform under a Starmer government could be significant if one imagines the potential, for example, of using the NHS’s treasure trove of data (on 70 million people) to drive innovation in health care.

In stark contrast to Labour’s focus on the future, an aging right-wing voter base is now split between the Conservative Party and Reform, a vehicle that is a mix between a private company, a political party, and a personal platform for Nigel Farage—the pro-Brexit politician Donald Trump has trotted out as a posh Anglo stage prop. Conservatives in Parliament are already moving rightward. Tory MPs give statements to the media condemning the European Convention on Human Rights, a document co-drafted by David Maxwell-Fyfe—a Conservative MP and prosecutor of Nazis at Nuremberg—that was inspired by Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s vision for postwar Europe.

Meanwhile, a wing of Conservative MPs are already attempting to cast the almost certain defeat as evidence that the party did not pivot enough to the populist right. The divided right is making the admission of the controversial Farage into the Conservative Party a real possibility, a prospect that fills Labour with glee. Needless to say, the next Conservative leader is unlikely to be a moderate. With the party tacking to the right, it could soon become a vessel for Faragism and a weak British version of the Trump movement.

Finally, there are the vibes. A progressive recasting of British politics will shift narratives around the U.K. National narratives can flip in an instant: Think of foreigners’ perceptions of the United States from Barack Obama to Trump or the assumption of Chinese economic primacy to a sense of retrenchment and decline under Xi Jinping. The U.K. in recent memory was seen as a fairly stable, politically dull island anchored somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. Brexit, Johnson, and Liz Truss put an end to that. With the shift from perceived and actual chaos and an insurgent right to a progressive supermajority, attitudes will likely shift again.

Vibes are important, especially to the economy of the U.K., which may have ceased to be a traditional superpower but remains a cultural one punching significantly above its weight internationally. Six percent of U.K. GDP comes from the creative industries—from the success of British music to the Premier League, a booming film and TV industry, fashion, and the arts. That’s double the level of Germany and larger than the contribution of the German car industry to the country’s output (4.5 percent). For a country that trades on vibes and is reliant on the export of its creativity, Brexit and isolation have caused real damage.

It’s long forgotten now, but during the last Labour government from 1997 until the 2008 financial crisis, the U.K. was the fastest-growing economy in the G-7, faster than that of the Clinton- and Bush-era United States. Given the country’s currently stagnant economy, the next Parliament will be more challenging, but in a highly open society, the role of consumer confidence and investor confidence cannot be underestimated.

In a previous piece in these pages, after Labour’s historic loss in the 2019 general election, I wrote: “Radical leftism is not a drug you can take as a party and return to normal the next morning.” I was right about the election but wrong about the next morning.

No one expected Labour to turn a historic defeat into a historic victory in just five years. The circumstances the Conservative Party faced were extraordinary, but Starmer has shown that tight party management, a focus on voters and not ideology, and a sprinkling of class-based politics can reinvigorate social democratic politics.

What lessons does this hold for other center-left parties?

First, culture war issues aren’t a central motivation for most voters. On all the major culture war issues, Labour holds a less popular position than the Conservative Party. Yet when mortgage rates have risen from 2 to 5 percent, “it’s the economy, stupid.” Progressives don’t need to fear the charge of the populist right; they need smarter answers.

Second, rule-breaking or perceived corruption is a powerful motivator for voters, and global polling proves this. Progressives need a stronger line on conflicts of interest, corporate lobbying, the kleptocratic buy-up of the finest properties in the world’s global cities, and tackling emerging monopolies that exist due to political capture. Doing so counters the populist right head-on.

Third, the dominance of identity politics in left-wing online spaces is not matched by public understanding of or interest in this form of politics. Class is understood, whereas intersectionality isn’t. Class may, or may not, be the most relevant dividing line for progressives in different places—but for progressives to win, they need messengers who are from outside the upper middle class and have lived experience that resonates with people who feel disenchanted and left behind. In other words, Democrats in the United States need an Angela Rayner.

Most critically, once in power, social democrats do not have the luxury of time. Crumbling infrastructure, failing public services, falling living standards, and a lack of housing all point to direct state intervention on a scale not seen since the late 1960s Great Society programs in the United States and similar policies during that era in the U.K. Unless progressives can deliver, it will be challenged further by a populist right that is gaining momentum.

U.S. President Joe Biden’s Inflation Reduction Act has been the talk of London and Brussels for progressives, and Biden deserves more credit for his boldness. With a supermajority, Starmer has the scope for even bolder programs. A progressive U.K. government will not only reset Europeans’ views of the country, but if successful, it can aid progressive arguments within Europe that austerity and fiscalization do not generate economic growth or social stability.

Starmer’s victory will give global social democrats a high-water mark for electoral success in a wealthy democracy. The challenge for Starmer is the incredible weight of hope in an era of polycrisis. If Labour succeeds in delivering growth, building homes, and raising wages, then it will provide a blueprint that can—and should—be copied elsewhere.

[broadwaydivastournament]

Broadway Divas Tournament: Round 1C

Kerry O'Malley (1969) starred as The Baker's Wife in the 2002 revival of Into the Woods, which, y'know, tough act to follow. One of our few LA-based actresses, she's starred in just about every early-2000s touring production of White Christmas you can think of. Other credits include Annie Get Your Gun, On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (2011), and Showstoppers in Vegas where I first saw and fell in love with her. Her big thing is dying on stage and screen because I think I must've watched this woman kick the bucket at least eight times. She does it really well.

THE Baker's Wife, Joanna Gleason (1950) is a Tony-winning legend who set a standard that has yet to even be approached. Her Baker's Wife in the original Into the Woods beat out Patti's Reno Sweeney, and Patti is still a little pissed off about it. She was also in infamous flop Nick & Nora (1991), Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (2005), and I Love My WIfe (1977). Nowadays, she devotes her focus to directing and screenwriting and her film The Grotto won Best Narrative Premiere at the Heartland Film Festival.

PROPAGANDA AND MEDIA UNDER CUT: ALL POLLS HERE

"Okay, so the only reason Kerry's on this tournament is because I saw her in a Vegas show when I was a teenager and fell in love from the first note she sang. I am fully expecting her to get brutally murdered by Joanna Gleason, but she's finally getting her dues in film these days. Her ten minutes in The Killer were the only ten minutes worth watching. I was riveted. I also got to see her perform "Moments in the Woods" live at 54 Below a few years ago and she's just as pretty and sweet as I remembered. Her friend was sitting at my table, so I was able to introduce myself. I, uh, did not mention how I'd been distantly in love with her for the last decade or so..."

"Joanna Gleason, my beloved. Look, I've loved her for a while, but a few years ago I went down a deep rabbit hole watching her play Password Plus with Betty White, and I have not been the same since. I am deeply affected by smart, sardonic, eloquent women, and Joanna is on another level of brilliant. She broke a record on that show. You need to watch and marvel. Furthermore, full offense to everyone else, but Joanna is the only one who doesn't opt up at the end of "Moments in the Woods," and that is the correct way to sing it. I hate the opt up. Fuck your opt up. Joanna plays the Baker's Wife with a razor-sharp wit none of the others can match. Their Baker's Wife's are smart, and determined, but they don't have her droll swagger. Her line readings? Unmatched."

[frozen-ivydene]

I love the sounds that Cornwall's factory makes. In a land where you can hear animals running or birds singing or the wind blowing through the leaves, how strange must it be to hear the churning or whiring of machinery, especially if you're new to the heartlands or have never heard machines before. I imagine that since the heartlands is very open but sorta lower than everything else, it echoes for miles. Imagine having spent your entire life in the forest or woodlands, somewhere like strawberry. And when you decide it's finally time to travel, you're in the vast land, and amongst the horses gallops or people hunting, you just hear this horrible grinding of gears. Since you don't know the land, you have no idea where it's coming from and since you're surrounded by hills (albeit relatively flat ones) you can't see where it's coming from either. That sounds horrible. I think I'd go back to west Elizabeth and never leave.

This is the sounds if you're curious.

I love the sounds of machines but I can imagine they'd be slightly scary to people in the 1890s.

I don't think anyone else has ever talked about this before, I think I’m cornplating but i just love this game so much.

[binaxenon]

"You have that look in your eye."

Tanhì's ears perk at the voice approaching. She turns her head slightly to face them, but she had already recognized the footsteps of her friend, Ri'nela.

"What look?" She asks carefully, looking out at the rolling hills and sharp cliffs of the Heartlands again. Ri'nela doesn't answer for a moment, settling down on the cliffside beside her. They admire the scenery in silence, watching the clans dancing, singing, and enjoying zangke at the camp below for a while longer before Ri'nela breaks the calm.

"When you are lost in thought, I see a shadow over your mind, reflected in your eyes." Ri'nela faces her now, placing a gentle hand on her back. Tanhì sheds a bit of the stress she'd been carrying at the comforting gesture. "Tell me what troubles you, ma'eylan."

A wary smile spreads across her face, and she draws symbols in the dirt to keep herself focused. "A conversation I had with So'lek the other day hasn't left my mind yet," Tanhì answers her truthfully. After defeating Lieutenant Price, he'd confessed that he felt as though her hate of the RDA would consume her. "He worries that at all times, I am thinking of the next battle. My mind is focused on the RDA - the humans - and the rage I feel for them."

Tanhì can practically feel Ri'nela's furrowed brow and knows her thoughts drift to Nor - the last time they saw him. The rage he felt, they all felt, when Alma's true involvement in their clan's destruction was revealed. Though she tried to calm him, she shared his violent anger in silence, and it makes her stomach churn, even now. An awful, sickening truth was revealed to her that day.

She is not the peaceful diplomat she believed herself to be.

Ri'nela's voice rings clearly through the storm in Tanhì's mind. "Tanhì, you are more than your rage. You fight for our home and help us reclaim our place among the clans."

A hollow chuckle leaves her, and the movement causes the tears she'd been fighting to fall. Shaking hands angrily wipe them away, smearing the warpaint she had so carefully adorned to match her bonded, Amay. When she pulls her hands back and sees them, there is a flicker of red where the purple should be for a moment.

Blinking away the vision, Tanhì stands with weak knees and steps closer to the cliff edge. "He is right, Ri'nela. When we tell stories around the fire, I-I... I can't help but think of the next death that will surely stain my hands. When I try to meet Alma's eyes, I can only see her memories that Eywa showed to me. Even now," Tanhì chokes out, gesturing to the Great Games camp, "after all that has happened, I-"

"Carry the burdens of a warrior," Ri'nela finishes softly. Amay's sharp roar sounds in the distance, as if she can feel her bonded's pain without tsaheylu. She stands and closes the distance between them, cautious, and steps into Tanhì's line of sight.

"But you mustn't do it alone. We fight as one, we mourn as one," Ri'nela takes her hands into her own, and Tanhì looks at her, her stomach twisting with anxiety, "and we will get through this. Together."

😀 this is probably way too dialogue heavy and super rushed, but I needed an excuse to get back into writing, and this was the perfect one.