#Le Drapeau

[prosedumonde]

Nul n’aimerait  plus que moi demeurer sur l’oreiller où tes paupières  veulent pour moi murer le monde. Je voudrais là  laisser aussi dormir mon sang enlacé avec ta douceur. 

Pablo Neruda, Le Drapeau (La Bandera)

VO : 

Nadie quisiera 

como yo quedarse 

sobre la almohada en que tus párpados 

quieren cerrar el mundo para mí.

Allí también quisiera 

dejar dormir mi sangre 

rodeando tu dulzura. 

[makairodonx]

Poster for Bastille Day 2024

[philoursmars]

Mi-juillet, mon ami breton Christian est venu me visiter à Marseille.

Ici, dans le quartier des Goudes, la petite chapelle Saint-Lucien.

On se croirait en Grèce et même le drapeau marseillais a des allures helléniques...

Et le prêtre n'est pas loin, apparemment !!!

[dykedivorce]

autant y a des régionalismes qui puent un peu la merde, autant quand le premier jour de mon arrivée à montréal j'ai croisé un énorme drapeau breton et un bumper sticker breizh j'avoue j'ai été prise d'affection

[breizhbaguette]

🏁🌧🥖

write your url by only using emojis

🍅✨✨

[asemimir]

Le jeu des drapeaux

Mon amour de Stargate Atlantis pour son histoire, son écriture, son lore et ses personnages ne saurait égaler la joie sans nom que j'éprouve quand je crie "ALLEMAGNE !" "SUÈDE !" "AFRIQUE DU SUD !" "MEXIQUE !" quand un figurant passe en arrière-plan.

Parfois, je vais jusqu'à faire pause et retour en arrière, image par image, jusqu'à bien voir l'épaule gauche du personnage, puis j'ouvre wikipédia.

C'est comme ça que je sais qu'il y a juste un Français sur la base d'Atlantis mais deux Belges !

[captain-jale]

Mauvaise nouvelle à tout les islamo-gauchiasses qui se réjouissaient de cette cérémonie en pied de nez au gouvernement et au RN/LR :

La cavalière de métal est une gendarme

[blastdamage]

c'est une criss de joke de penser que le québec est laïque quand ya une grosse croix sur notre drapeau instauré par un gouvernement catholique ultraconservateur sinon fasciste lol

[jotunvali02]

Oh, putain de merde...

Ce qu'on fait au nom du capitalisme...

Capitalisme = colonialisme = génocides

The way stores get caught lying all the fucking time about fruits and vegetables…

Carrefour says that the dates come from Algeria. Except Algeria doesn’t produce Medjoul dates (we make Deglet Noor) so it is impossible that these dates come from Algeria. You know who export Medjoul dates to France? Morocco and “Israel”. Mainly “Israel”. So once again a French store is caught lying to avoid the boycott and to support the occupation of Palestine and the genocide of Palestinians without consequences.

(Reminder that Carrefour is a target of BDS so we’re boycotting regardless of their lies)

Again caught lying. This time it’s Auchan. The poster with the price says the avocados come from Portugal except the box says “Israel”.

In the video this time in Lidl you can see that the store says the avocados are from Columbia. Except at the person show it on the video the tag says “Origin: Israel”

Regarding avocados especially they lie all the fucking time. I actually stopped buying them because of the constant lies and because even in other countries it’s often produced at the expense of the local population using too much water to satisfy the needs of the West.

Either way I would suggest being super careful look at the box and tags not just what the store tells you. And if you live in France know that this is illegal and you can report all those instances to the DGCCRF (here). If you live elsewhere I suggest looking for the legislation and reporting those lies if you can.

[wallartdesignergift]

(via T-shirt classique « Le drapeau de l'irlande a la forme d'un coeur st patrick, st patrick s day » par Digital-for-you)

[infosisraelnews]

C'est la menace contre Netanyahu - juste avant l'inauguration du nouveau gouvernement

C’est la menace contre Netanyahu – juste avant l’inauguration du nouveau gouvernement

Les batailles sur les affaires du Likud s’intensifient et Israel Katz menace de ne pas entrer au gouvernement s’il ne reçoit pas un poste de haut rang • Les tribunaux rabbiniques seront-ils autorisés à discuter des affaires économiques et civiles selon la loi de la Torah ?   Trois jours avant la prestation de serment du sixième gouvernement de Netanyahu et les batailles sur les dossiers du Likud…

[philoursmars]

Nouveau retour à mon projet de présenter la plupart de mes 55500 photos (et des brouettes).  Plus trop loin du présent....  

Marseille :

- les 5 premières : le Fort Saint-Jean avec sa chapelle et la Place de la Commanderie

- L’église Saint-Laurent et le “Montreur d’Oursons”

- la rue de la Cathédrale, dans le Panier

- la Cathédrale de la Major, pavoisée

[ayanna-tired]

Une bonne journée du 17 mai (Journée contre les LGBTQI+phobies) à toustes ! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

On fête les 10 ans du mariage pour tous !

Bon visiblement la civilisation ne s'est pas effondrée comme c'était annoncé, mais on fais des efforts promis.

[chilling-seavey]

Even Out of View (pg10, eo31)

↳ A/N I took so much creative freedom with this request from my 1.5k celebration, straying quite far from the modern-vibes song, but once I get a WW1 idea in my head, I can't say no. (Plus shoutout to my girl @starlightiing for not only submitting this request but also helping me to broaden my writing to include different interests, such as undertones of cardiophilia iykyk lolol)

↳ Inspired By: 'Beating Heart Baby' by Head Automatica

↳ Pairings: WW1!FrenchArmy!Pierre x WW1!WarCriminal!Esteban

↳ Word Count: 1824

↳ Warnings: Active historical war setting, some minor descriptions of heart related things, military crimes and their historically accurate punishments, descriptions of execution

Pierre’s footfalls echoed through the abandoned house as he ascended the rickety staircase to the second storey. His muddy boots thudded across the creaking hardwood floors with each step, his rucksack clanking ungracefully against the walls of the narrow upstairs hallway in his rush, past lived-in rooms with their furniture and once-loved belongings coated in layers of dust and gunpowder. All he could hear was his breathing, echoing in his mind, the thudding of his heart and the rush of blood loud in his ears.

He reached the door at the end of the cramped hallway in no time, the bullet holes in the wood overlooked by him in the world that had long since numbed him to the shock of war. Thrusting it open with an unattractive creak, Pierre was met by the sight of a tiny bedroom with a lanky figure sitting on the side of a single bed that was clearly built for a small child. The juxtaposition was a cruel mirth: a reminder of where they came from and the way war ripped their childhoods out of their hands far too soon.

The commotion of Pierre’s entrance had Esteban slowly turning his head to see who entered, keeping his hands folded with his forearms resting on his knees. His face stayed stagnant, pale, even when he noticed who it was. The sight of his expression sent a chill down Pierre’s spine.

“Este-” Pierre’s dry voice caught in his throat and he cleared it quickly before rushing closer, slinging his rifle from his shoulder to let it clatter to the grimy floorboards. In one smooth motion, Pierre helped himself to the side of the small bed beside his friend, his wide blue eyes dead focused on Esteban’s stone expression.

Esteban hung his head, shutting his eyes tightly.

“Esteban, how could you?” Pierre spoke as gently as he could, resting a firm hand on his forearm. He squeezed.

“Go away.” Esteban replied firmly, although his volume was quiet.

Pierre’s concerned expression faltered for a moment, eyes jumping all over Esteban’s face before he answered, “No, why would you want me to go away? In a moment like this?”

Esteban unclasped his fingers and shoved Pierre’s hand off his arm, “I am to be shot at dawn, Pierre, I don’t particularly want to sit here with you and make small talk. I want to be alone.”

Pierre swallowed thickly at his comrade’s bluntness and he turned his body to face forward too so they were sat perfectly parallel, side by side on the little bed with blue gingham sheets. Silence rested heavily on the dust coated room and the soldiers’ shoulders. Across from them, the ripped wallpaper was tacked with a few children’s drawings – or, at least the few drawings that weren’t shot to smithereens – and many of them housed colourful scribbles of stick figure men amongst red, white, and blue. Messy juvenile printing scrawled ‘Vive la France’ and ‘Pour le drapeau! Pour la victoire!’ on the parchment above the subjects.

The nationalistic phrases written proudly by the hand of a likely now deceased French child stared tauntingly back at the two of them.

Long Live France

For the Flag! For Victory!

None of this felt like they were heading towards victory.

Pierre’s shoulders sank, glancing around the abandoned bedroom of some unnamed child. They were supposed to be fighting for the children of France, for their future, for their country, and now, with the world in peril, Esteban was now to be treated as the enemy by his own people.

Despite Esteban’s firm request to be left alone, Pierre spoke up quietly, alerting him gently as if he were a grenade about to go off, “I can’t leave you. I’m your night watch.”

Esteban looked over at him again, eyebrows furrowed, words thick with angst, “Why are you my night watch?”

“I offered…I asked the Lieutenant.” Pierre answered, “I just…I needed to see you.”

He swallowed thickly, blinking back the dampness in his eyes that came with the weight of their hellish reality. He wanted to say more to him: to say that he was worried sick about him when he didn’t return to the trenches a fortnight ago, to say that when he heard he was captured by the military police and was to be tried for desertion Pierre first felt relief, to say that after such a short lifetime together he couldn’t stomach the idea of living without him…of going back out there to the battlefields without him.

But, instead, the silence spoke enough. Esteban simply nodded once.

What else was there to say when he was to be facing his execution in less than twelve hours?

If it were anyone sent to keep an eye on him over night, he was damn glad it was Pierre.

As if that thought physically pained him, Esteban rested his elbows on his knees again and hid his face in his grimy hands. His blue uniform jacket was caked in mud until it looked almost brown and the sweat and blood of the enemy that he was drenched it flattened his midnight black hair across his forehead. Pierre didn't look much better.

Pierre just stared at him like that, wanting to ask so many questions and say so many things.

“I know you don’t want anything to do with me,” Pierre stumbled out, “but, can you let me in your arms just for tonight?”

When Esteban lifted his face from his hands, his mud-stained cheeks were streaked in tears.

He nodded.

Pierre’s heart leapt in his chest at the unexpected agreement and he hurried to shuffle off his rucksack and his utility belt to drop them to the floor before Esteban could change his mind. The tiny metal bed creaked and groaned under the two grown men as they arranged themselves in a hesitant mess of uniformed limbs.

Always the braver, bolder, more assertive of the two, Esteban cuddled up under Pierre’s arm like a weak child. Branded as a coward and a traitor to his country Esteban had just wanted a break. A break from the war, the cries of agony, the death. Here, now, in this abandoned house in the French countryside, in the country they were raised in together, they finally felt a moment of peace for the first time in a long time.

Pierre’s chest shuttered through his calming inhale as he familiarized himself with their newfound position, chest to chest with Esteban, his arms wrapped around his taller comrade. He could feel his rapid heartbeat against his own, the two of them a frantic mess of anxiety and unspoken uncertainties. In a world of darkness and fear and death, the feeling of Esteban’s heartbeat was a reminder of life, of love, of hope.

The two of them kept their eyes screwed shut as if silently willing themselves to be taken back to their childhood town on the beach where summers were joyful and the air was filled with laughter and they raced each other on their bicycles down cobblestone streets. Just like those summer days, their hearts beat firmly in steady time, rapid from exertion and the good company of familiarity.

As the sun set below the horizon to the distant sound of cannons and shells and gunfire, the two men stayed tangled together on that little blue bed. Their heartrates slowed as they held each other, finding a calming rhythm against each other beat by beat. Everything was uncertain – life was uncertain – but them always finding each other? That was always certain.

“In spite of all this, I still love all of you.” Pierre breathed into the night, trying to keep his voice from shaking with subconscious awareness of what the morning would hold, “I do…and I always will.”

Esteban’s hand tightened on the back of Pierre’s matching blue uniform jacket. His heart skipped a beat.

In the morning, they were woken by the officer in charge and two assisting men. Esteban was firmly yanked out of bed by the men of his same rank, each with a stone-like grip on his biceps as they nearly dragged him down the narrow hallway and towards the stairs. Pierre barely had a chance to grab his belongings before he was rushing after them, boots pounding down the flimsy staircase and out into the damp spring morning. It was so cold he could see his panting breath.

He wanted to call out for Esteban as the men let go of him outside of the abandoned house they had slept in that night, letting him fall clumsily to his hands and knees.

“On your feet, Private.” The commanding officer ordered, standing in front of a line of eleven soldiers all armed with their rifles.

As Esteban brought himself to his feet on trembling legs, he looked over at Pierre only a yard away. The officer followed his gaze.

With a cock of his head, the officer called out to Pierre next, “Over here, Gasly, open your rifle.”

Esteban and Pierre both looked at the officer as if he were completely out of his mind.

“Sir-” Pierre started as calmly as he could muster, trying to decline the order.

“We need a dozen men, Private, don’t make me ask again.”

If he argued, he would be put up there against the wall with him, he knew. With a curt nod to his superior, Pierre joined the lineup.

He was supplied three bullets to load into his empty rifle and he loaded it with trembling fingers before clicking his weapon back into place. His red rimmed blue eyes rose to Esteban’s figure standing in front of the stone wall of the house in which they shared their last night together. Out of everyone in that lineup, Esteban’s gaze was locked solely on Pierre.

Esteban was offered a blindfold. He declined.

On the order, the firing squad raised their rifles. Twelve rifles pointed at Esteban.

Pierre had killed a lot of men since the start of the war. He had more blood on his hands than in his body, one might argue. Killing Germans was easy. But this?

Pierre could hardly hear over the ringing in his ears, the rapid thump, thump, thump of his heart enough to drown out the officer’s pitch for Esteban’s final words.

Through the deafening noise, he barely heard Esteban’s voice cutting across the misty spring dawn, words off-set from the movement of his mouth as Pierre stared at him, “I defend France with honour and glory.”

Esteban’s dark eyes never wavered from Pierre’s baby blues, staring at him right through the rifle that was pointed directly at him. He raised his hand to set over his heart, a silent reminder of the rhythm they shared so closely the night before and all those years back home. Pierre swallowed the lump in his throat.

Finally, the commanding officer gave his order, “Fire at will, gentlemen.”

Pierre shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.

"You want nothing to do with me, I don't know what to do with you, Cause you don't know what you do to me. Baby is this love for real? Let me in your arms to feel The beating of your heart, baby."

[francoise-larouge]

"Zeus", le cheval métallique qui a galopé sur la Seine portant la cavalière au drapeau olympique pendant la cérémonie d’ouverture des JO le 27 juillet dernier. Photo©FrançoiseLarouge2024

[rollinginthedeep-swan]

En ajout au texte important de @crococookie juste ici

Je voulais reblog et poster à la suite mais mon texte est vraiment trop long.

Poster ça, ça m'angoisse énormément. J'ai toujours peur qu'on m'interprète de travers. J'ai donc hésité longuement mais j'ai envie de rebloguer parce que même si j'ai pas été diag de troubles dys liés à la lecture et l'écriture (ce qui ne veut pas dire que je n'en ai pas, l'errance médicale, tout ça) je suis terriblement étourdie. Et si je me décide à l'écrire, c'est parce que l'an dernier, une personne a osé me demander de me relire et de corriger mes fautes, sur un paragraphe que j'ai écris rapidement en étant au téléphone un jour où j'étais sollicitée toutes les deux minutes. Avec les troubles qui me sont propres, mon vécu et j'en passe, j'ai mis du temps à me réconcilier avec l'orthographe et la grammaire. Le scolaire ne m'a pas aidé (du tout).

C'est le RP qui l'a fait.

Attention, il n'y a aucune agressivité dans ce poste (je pense que maintenant vous avez assez pigé mon mood de meuf pacifiste qui lève le drapeau blanc et veut qu'une chose : LA PAIX BORDEL.) , je partage juste mon expérience et mes conseils sur le sujet des fautes et du rapport à L'orthographe dans la commu RP. C'est aussi un petit appel à la bienveillance et à une direction vers un comportement plus chill envers vos partenaires qui font des fautes.

L'autre raison qui me pousse à poster, c'est parce qu'à la minute où j'écris je n'arrête pas de me relire. Et ça montre bien que je suis encore marquée par mes débuts dans la sphère du RP.

J'aimerais beaucoup vous dire que c'est exclusivement grâce à la bienveillance d’autrui, mais ce serait mentir. En quinze ans et surtout au début, j'ai eu le droit à des commentaires assez (trop) désagréables. C'est la capacité des autres à ne rien laisser passer qui a heurté ma confiance en moi et qui m'a donné l'impulsion de ne plus leur donner aucuns prétextes pour me reprendre. Et vous savez, je ne leur en veux même pas, à ces personnes. Je leur pardonne même assez facilement et je suis persuadée qu'iels ne sont pas tous-tes malveillant-e-s. L'humain est plus complexe que ça.

Ce qui m'a poussé à ne plus vouloir faire de fautes, c'est mon foutu caractère et ma tendance à vouloir contredire les personnes qui ne laissent rien passer. (Parfois ça peut être un problème, d'autre, un vrai coup de pied aux fesses pour faire face aux détracteurs. Et là, notez toujours qu'on parle de mon expérience personnelle avec mon profil à moi. Je ne parle pas pour tout le monde. Pitié, ne demandez pas à une personne dys de 'faire un effort', c'est validiste et grossier. Et si vous avez du mal, on a beaucoup de personnes concernées qui sont là pour donner des sources et aider à comprendre.)

Je fais encore des fautes d'étourderie aujourd'hui. Je vous raconte pas le nombre de fois où j'édite des postes parce que j'ai vu une boulette d'étourderie. (Rien que ce matin j'ai dû éditer un petit poste d'intrigue parce que j'ai réalisé que j'avais oublié un fuc$$ng mot pour que ma phrase fasse sens.) Y a un truc que je peux conseiller pour les gens maniaques de l'orthographe (dont je fais partie, faut pas croire) : S'il-vous-plaît (vraiment, je demande gentiment) attendez qu'on vous demande ? (En supposant que ça puisse arriver.) C'est frustrant et même blessant. Et si on vous demande : Ne pas jouer les profs avec des formules telles que : 'Ceci ne s'écrit pas comme ça, mais comme ci'. Vous partez ainsi du principe qu'on ne sait pas. Et même si c'est le cas, n'oubliez pas que les troubles dys existent et que vous ne connaissez ni la personne ni son vécu. Derrière l'écran, c'est toujours un être humain.

J'rp par exemple avec une personne Dys qui me pond les textes les plus élaborés et qui passe un temps fou à se relire. Chaque profil est différent. N'oubliez pas qu'on est aussi souvent crevé-e-s de nos semaines et que même s'il y a des gens qui pondent des textes sans fautes hyper facilement, c'est pas le cas de tout le monde et derrière, on peut se retrouver à être nombreux-ses à complexer, à vouloir poster des trucs parfaits parce qu'on a encore le souvenirs de ces remarques qu'on ne veut plus affronter. Même si derrière, on a les partenaires les plus adorables et les moins regardants de la sphère. Ça peut gâcher le plaisir d'écrire, alors que le RP est un loisir. Pas un job. On ne va pas publier nos écrits, on le fait pour se changer les idées et s'amuser. Un rappel constant de nos étourderie ne va rien arranger, ça ne va rien changer. Même si vous pensez sincèrement bien faire, et quand c'est le cas - parce qu'on ne peut pas espérer que ça le sera toujours malheureusement - merci de vouloir aider, même si c'est maladroitement. (Mais écoutez les conseils svp)

Bref, restons indulgent-e-s et humain-e-s, on a une passion commune vraiment géniale. <3

Si vous avez tout lu, merci d'avoir pris le temps pour ce pavé qui complète un poste à lire absolument !

Des bises,

Swan (qui va lutter contre l'envie de relire et éditer ce texte pour la cinquantième fois.)