#Lost Colony of Roanoke

[queer-alienbean]

I need the lost ronoake colony rant so please indulge me

Ahhhhh thank you for indulging me, her comes a rant

Ok so the roanoak colony was started by sir walter raleigh in 1585. he got a charter from the king and sent a ship with 100 settlers. 

it was the first permanent settlement in north america by england, but didn’t last long enough to be counted. in 1590 when a supply ship came back over, the settlement had been abandoned. 

in a tree nearby was carved “cro” and the full carving of croatoan was in a post of the roanoke fort. Croatoan was the name of the nearest native group. 

among the abandoned settlement we have found parts of swords, rings, algonquin pottery, arrowheads, and more. 

there are a lot of ideas about why they disappeared . most think that they went to live with the natives but there are some who believe they were killed by spaniards or natives. 

I just think about this colony all the time and how no one actually knowssssss

[katelutter]

Super happy to share that The Blue Medallion just received 5 STARS from A Look Inside: A Book Review Blog. Demetria C. Head writes: The Blue Medallion is not just a tale of adventure and fantasy; it's a story of self-discovery, sacrifice, and the enduring power of love. As Lily embarks on her quest, readers are taken on an unforgettable journey filled with twists, revelations, and emotional resonance. This novel is a must-read for fans of fantasy and romance, offering a captivating narrative that will leave a lasting impression. Kate Lutter's storytelling prowess shines brightly in this enthralling tale. To read the full review: https://alookinsidebookreviews.blogspot.com/2023/09/a-review-of-blue-medallion-by-kate.html

[langdonss]

American Horror Story - Roanoke

[cloysterbell]

what is Haven even about because every time i see gifs of them talking about Troubles with a capital T i think of the irish ones

Yeah you know, that's what I thought too when I started watching because they sure did name their little magical curse after the uh, very real political and nationalist conflict that waged in Ireland between the 1960s and 90 huh

Anyway Haven’s veeeeeery loosely inspired by the Stephen King novella The Colorado Kid so it’s set in a small town in Maine called Haven, natch, where every 27 years, these magical afflictions/curses called The Troubles pop up. They’re almost all terrible like Dwight becoming a literal bullet magnet or Nathan losing his entire sense of touch but some are more manageable, like how everything that one woman eats turns to cake. It’s a mixed bag but Troubles for the most part run in the family and are passed down from parent to child, so you typically know what you’re gonna get

But also, every 27 years the same woman blows into town. Sometimes she’s Lucy, sometimes she’s Sarah, sometimes she’s Veronica, but she’s always connected to the Troubles somehow and when she leaves, so do the Troubles

So Haven’s about FBI special agent Audrey Parker who gets sent to Haven for a routine case and ends up embroiled in the mystery of this town with her cop partner Nathan and resident bad boy smuggler Duke. They end up at the heart of the Troubles and together with their plucky rotating cast of women that the writers love killing off, they have to figure out how to rid Haven of the Troubles forever or risk the entire town getting blown up and everyone in it dying

[captain-safetypants]

this was hard.

[lightsinadarkworld]

Virginia by Shannon McNear—Blog Tour

About the Book Book: Virginia (Daughters of the Lost Colony Book Four) Author: Shannon McNear Genre: Christian Fiction / Historical Romance Release date: September, 2024 The White Doe of the Outer Banks Grows into Womanhood Return to the “what if” questions surrounding the Lost Colony and explore the possible fate of Virginia Dare–the first English child born in the New World. What happened…

[creepytalesdaily]

The Lost Colony’s Curse

When an archaeologist unearths an ancient curse while investigating the mystery of the lost Roanoke Colony, he descends into a realm of chilling nightmares and haunting realities, leading to a heart-wrenching sacrifice to seal away the unearthed horror.

Chapter 1: “The Unearthed Secret” Dr. Samuel Harper lived in a world of dust. It clung to his clothes and hair, settled in the creases of his well-worn hands. And it was in the dust of the ages that his life found its purpose. An archaeologist by profession and an obsessive historian by choice, Harper’s fascination was focused, as a laser, on one particular mystery: the lost Roanoke…

[thegaminwitch]

The Statue of Virginia Dare

~Elizabethan Gardens, Manteo, NC

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Croatoan | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (Eventual ? ;) )

Warnings: implied suicidal ideation, canon violence, canon gore, medical stuff lol

Word Count: 6176

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Sam had another vision; one involving Dean killing some dude strapped to a chair. Apparently, the dude had been begging, saying, “It’s not in me!” 

‘What’s not in him, though? A demon? THE demon?’ you thought as he relayed his story.

“Well, I’m sure he had good reason,” you told Sam when he was finished.

“Well, I sure hope so—”

“What does that mean?” Dean grunted.

Sam didn’t reply.

“I mean, I'm not gonna waste an innocent man,” he scoffed.

Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother.

“He wouldn’t, Sam,” you stated, your tone warning.

“I never said he would!”

“Sure seemed implied,” you commented.

“Look, we don't know what it is,” sighed Sam. “But whatever it is, that guy in the chair's a part of it. So let's find him, and see what's what.”

“Fine,” Dean said.

“Fine,” said Sam.

The rest of the drive to Crater Lake, Oregon, was done in silence. 

***

You pulled into the small town of Rivergrove along the main strip of small businesses and homely apartment complexes. Most of the shops almost looked like wooden cabins, and you approached a man sitting under one of the wooden overhangs cleaning a rifle. 

“Morning,” Dean called.

“Good morning. Can I help you?” He turned to you.

“Yeah.” Dean pulled out his badge. “Uh, Billy Gibbons, Frank Beard, Kymberly Herrin. U.S. Marshals.”

The man furrowed his brows. “What’s this about?”

“We're looking for someone,” he answered.

“A young man, early twenties,” added Sam. “He'd have a— a thin scar right below his hairline.”

The man seemed surprised. “What’d he do?”

“Well, nothing. We're actually looking for someone else, but we think this young man could help us,” Sam replied. 

“Yeah, he's not in any kind of trouble or anything; well, not yet,” Dean chuckled. He looked down at the intricate tattoo on the man’s forearm. “I think maybe you know who he is… Master Sergeant.” He smiled. “My dad was in the Corps, he was a Corporal.”

“What company?” the man asked.

“Echo-2-1,” Dean replied, smiling proudly. 

Sam got back to business. “So, can you help us?”

The man hesitated before talking again. “Duane Tanner's got a scar like that. But I know him. Good kid, keeps his nose clean.”

Dean nodded. “Oh, I'm sure he does. Um. You know where he lives?”

“With his family, up Aspen Way.”

“Thank you.”

You bumped into a telephone pole as you and the brothers headed back to the car. You looked down at it, and something caught your eye. There was a single word etched into the pole: “CROATOAN.” You brushed your fingers over the etching. “Guys, look.”

“Croatoan?” Dean read.

“Yeah.”

Dean looked at you blankly.

Sam gave him a look. “Roanoke? Lost colony? Ring a bell? Dean, did you pay any attention in history class?”

“Yeah! Shots heard 'round the world, How bills become laws…” Dean trailed off.

“That's not school, that's Schoolhouse Rock,” Sam scoffed.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Anywho,” you cut back in. “Roanoke was one of the first English colonies— late 1500s-ish?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, I do remember that,” Dean said excitedly. “The only thing they left behind was a single word carved in a tree. Croatoan.”

“Yeah. There were theories,” you continued. “Native American raid, disease, famine, but nobody really knows what happened. They were all just… gone. Wiped out overnight.”

Dean cocked his head to the side. “You don't think that's what's going on here, I mean—”

Sam cut him off with a sigh. “Whatever I saw in my head, it sure wasn't good. But what do you think could do that?”

“Well, I mean, like I said, all of your weirdo visions are always tied to the Yellow-Eyed Demon somehow, so…” Dean trailed off.

“We should get help. Bobby, uh, Ellen maybe?” Sam suggested.

“Good idea,” you said. You pulled out your phone to call Bobby, only to discover you had no signal. “Great. No signal.”

The two brothers took their phones out as well. 

“Huh, me neither,” said Sam. 

“Nada,” Dean stated.

“Payphone, maybe?” you tried, leading the boys over to one. Unfortunately for you, all you heard was a beeping to signify no signal. “Line's dead.” You hung up the phone.

“I'll tell you one thing. If I was gonna massacre a town, that'd be my first step,” Dean noted, pointing at the payphone. 

***

You pulled up in front of a homely, slightly tacky cabin. Sam rapped his knuckles against the door, and almost immediately, a teenage boy opened it.

“Yeah?” he grinned.

Dean flashed his badge. “We're looking for Duane Tanner; he lives here, right?”

“Yeah, he's my brother,” the boy nodded.

“Can we talk to him?”

He sucked in air through his teeth. “Oh, he's not here right now.”

“Do you know where he is?” Dean pressed.

“Yeah, he went on a fishing trip up by Roslyn Lake.”

“Your parents home?” Sam questioned.

“Yeah, they're inside,” the boy nodded.

“Jake?” a voice called. ‘Oh, that’s his name.’ “Who is it?”

Dean spoke as the owner of the voice appeared. “Hi, U.S. Marshals, sir, we're looking for your son Duane.”

Mr. Tanner seemed confused. “Wh— Why? He's not in trouble, is he?”

“No, no, no, no. We just need to ask him a couple of routine questions, that's all.” Dean flashed a winning smile.

“When's he due back from his trip?” questioned Sam.

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, maybe your wife knows.”

The man’s eerie smile was far too cheerful for the current conversation. “No, I don't know, she's not here right now.”

You cocked your head to the side. “Your son said she was.”

Jake seemed caught. “Did I?”

This whole thing was weirding you the hell out.

“She's getting groceries,” Mr. Tanner smiled. “So, when Duane gets back, there's a number where he can get a hold of you?”

“Oh, no,” Dean said. “We'll just check in with you later.”

The three of you turned back down the steps, and you waited to talk until you heard the door close. “That was kind of creepy, right? Little too… Stepford?”

“Big time,” Dean replied.

You headed around the back of the house, ducking down to avoid being seen by the Tanners. You caught sight of a poor woman with mussed up blonde hair tied to a chair sweating and crying. You cocked your gun as Dean kicked in the door, and you quickly shot Mr. Tanner in the chest when he tried to charge you with a knife. You turned to Sam and Dean who were over by the window.

“He got away,” Dean grunted, referencing Jake who had leapt out of the window.

“Great,” you sighed. You turned your attention back to the woman in the chair and noticed a profusely bleeding wound. “Dean, start the car. Sam, get her to the backseat. I’m gonna patch her up as best I can til we can get to a doctor.”

The boys nodded and rushed to do your bidding. You rushed to the trunk of the Impala and pulled out your makeshift first aid kit— a collection of wraps, bandages, antiseptics, antibiotics, sutures, sewing needles, thread, and painkillers you gathered from random pharmacies and kept in a small, vintage tin box with roses etched into the lid and occasionally refilled. You hurriedly got in the backseat with the woman, and you kept her conscious by asking her questions about herself. You learned her name was Beverly, and that her two sons, Duane and Jake, went fishing and hunting together all the time. Her first sign that something was wrong was that Jake didn’t go with his brother on the trip. After her hiccups mourning the death of her husband— for which you profusely apologized to her— and hissing in pain as you kept pressure on her wound, you finally arrived at a small clinic on the main stretch of road. 

You held the pressure on her shoulder as you led her into the clinic, yelling, “Doctor! We need a doctor!”

A young woman in a pleasant floral jacket and cute pink headband came rushing out, concerned. “Mrs. Tanner, what happened?” she asked the woman on your shoulder.

“She’s been attacked,” you explained, hurrying past her.

“Dr. Lee!” the young woman called.

The doctor instructed you to head down the hallway into an examination room. You gently placed her down on the bed, and Beverly moaned as you shifted position around her to continue holding her shoulder. The doctor came into the room moments later followed by Sam and Dean, who stood at the doorway. You filled the doctor in on the medical history you’d gathered from Mrs. Tanner on the way to the clinic, and the doctor immediately set to work stitching the wound. You tossed the tattered and bloodstained jacket Mrs. Tanner had been wearing into the garbage and washed your hands up to your elbows. 

Beverly began to explain what happened to the doctor, who seemed shocked. “Wait, you said Jake helped him? Your son Jake?” the doctor asked.

Beverly nodded. “They beat me. Tied me up.”

“I don't believe it,” the young nurse breathed out. 

“Beverly… do you have any idea why they would act this way? Any history of chemical dependency?” Dr. Lee questioned.

“No, of course not. I don't know why. One minute they were my husband and my son. And the next, they had the devil in them.” Beverly shook as she spoke.

You walked out into the hallway with Sam and Dean.

“Those guys were whacked out of their gourds,” Dean commented.

“Ya think?” you snorted. “And what I don’t understand is, if they already beat and subdued her, why put that giant gash on her shoulder? That wound was fresh; like it happened this morning. Everything else seemed a few days old, at least.”

“Yeah, this whole thing is weird, man,” Sam added. “What do you guys think? Multiple demons, mass possession?”

“If it is a possession there could be more. I mean, God knows how many, it could be like a friggin' Shriner convention,” Dean grumbled. “Of course, that's one way to wipe out a town, you take it from the inside.”

“I don't know, man. We didn't see any of the demon smoke with Mr. Tanner, or any of the other usual signs,” Sam reminded his brother.

“Well, whatever. Something turned him into a monster. And you know if you woulda taken out the other one, there'd be one less to worry about,” the older brother chided.

Sam huffed, “I'm sorry, alright? I hesitated, Dean, it was a kid!”

“Boys, relax!” you scolded, standing between them.

Dean looked over your head at Sam. “No, it was an ‘it’. Not the best time for a bleeding heart, Sam.”

“Dean,” you murmured harshly. 

Dr. Lee stalked out of the lab, heels clicking loudly on the floor to let the brothers know it was time to stop arguing. 

“How is she?” you asked her.

“Terrible! What the hell happened out there?” she questioned.

“We don't know,” Dean shook his head.

“Yeah? Well, you just killed my next door neighbor.” Dr. Lee crossed her arms over her chest.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you told her. “All of us would’ve been dead if I hadn’t.”

“Maybe so, but we need the county Sheriff. I need the coroner —”

Sam cut her off. “Phones are down.”

“I know, I tried. Tell me you have a police radio in the car?” Dr. Lee pleaded.

“Yeah, we do. But it crapped out just like everything else,” Sam said.

The blonde ran a hand through her hair and began to pace. “I don't understand what is happening.”

“How far is it to the next town?” you asked her.

“It's about forty miles down to Sidewinder.”

“Alright, I'm gonna go down there, see if I can find some help. You’re coming with me.” He looked down at you before clapping Sam on the shoulder. “My partner 'll stick around, keep you guys safe.”

“Safe from what?” Dr. Lee questioned pointedly.

“We'll get back to you on that,” Dean responded. He then led you away from Sam and Dr. Lee and out to the Impala.

“What’d you do with Mr. Tanner?” you asked him.

“He’s in the lab somewhere. Man’s heavier than he looks,” he joked as he began to drive off.

“Dean, I killed him,” you mourned. “He was just a guy. Now, his two sons don’t have a father. He was a person.”

“(Y/N), since when are you all morally gray?” Dean questioned gently. His usual bite behind his sarcasm was missing. “I get it, but he wasn’t ‘just a guy’ anymore.”

“I know that,” you said. “That’s what I’m starting to get worried about. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice. Vamps used to be people. Hell, one of my first vamp kills was my parents. I don’t know what’s happening to me, man. I don’t hesitate— hell no— but… I don’t know.”

“Hey, I get it.” He reached across the seat and grabbed your hand. “I’m a straight shooter, too. I’m in the same place you are.”

You scooched across the bench seat and kept your hand entwined with Deans, playing with his fingers. You leaned your head on his shoulder, and he pulled your hand up to his lips and kissed it, eyes never leaving the road. 

“Things keep getting weirder, dude. Since when do we second-guess?” You tried to muster a laugh, but your heart wasn’t in it.

“I know. This whole thing is spinnin’ out of our control. I hate it,” he admitted. 

“Yeah, me, too,” you murmured. “I wish we could’ve met under normal circumstances.”

He chuckled. “Hm. Me, too.”

The rest of the drive was spent hand in hand and silent. You continued to play with Dean’s fingers and kept your head on his shoulder. Only when you saw two cars blocking the road and men standing with their large guns drawn did you pull your head up. Dean’s grip on your hand tightened— whether to reassure you or himself, you weren’t sure— as he rolled to a stop. You noticed one of the men in front of you was the teenager from the Tanner house, Jake. He stopped the car, frowning. Something banged on the roof of the car, making both you and Dean jump. His hand never left yours, and he shifted his body toward the man leaning down into the window almost protectively in front of you. “Oh-ho-ho. Hey,” Dean awkwardly laughed.

“Sorry. Road's closed,” the man at the driver’s side window grinned.

“Yeah, I can see that. What's up?” Dean questioned.

“Quarantine,” was his simple reply.

“Quarantine? Why?” you asked. Dean stiffened and tried to hide you more with his body when you spoke.

“Don't know,” the man tsked. “Something going around out there.”

“Uh-huh. Who told you that?” Dean asked, sass lying just below the surface of his tone.

The man’s face was blank when he responded. “County Sheriff.”

“Is he here?”

“No. He called. Say, why don't you get out of the car and we'll talk a little?”

Dean laughed nervously. “Well, you are a handsome devil, but I don't swing that way, sorry.”

“I'd sure appreciate it if you got out of the car, just for a quick minute.” The man’s stoicism was beginning to drop, and the anger bubbling just below the surface was becoming visible.

“Yeah, I'll bet you would.” Dean released your hand to quickly throw the car in reverse. The man grabbed his collar and held on for dear life as you tried your best to pry his fingers off. Thankfully, Dean swung the car around, finally cutting the man loose, and sped away. The sound of guns firing at the car filled your ears, but none of the bullets seemed to be hitting their desired target.

“You okay?” Dean asked you, throwing you a worried look.

“Yeah,” you heaved. “You?”

“Peachy,” he grunted.

Suddenly, the ex-military man you first met in town stepped in the path of the Impala, brandishing a rifle.

Dean slammed on his brakes, and you put your hands on the dashboard to steady yourself.

“Hands where I can see 'em!” the man yelled.

“Son of a—” Dean grumbled, holding his hands up. You did the same.

“Get out of the car! Out of the car!” he commanded.

You slowly slid across the seat to the passenger’s side door as Dean started climbing out. You took the opportunity of your hands being hidden behind the door to quickly whip out your handgun.

“Drop the gun!” you ordered.

“Put it down, now!” the man yelled back at you. “Are y’all part of 'em?!” 

“No!” Dean answered. “Are you?”

“No!”

“You could be lying!” Dean protested.

“So could you!”

“Alright! Alright,” you broke in. “We could do this all day, alright? Let's just, uh, let's take it easy before we kill each other.”

The sergeant relaxed slightly. “What's going on with everybody?”

“I don't know,” you admitted.

“My neighbor— Mr. Rogers, he—”

Dean interrupted the man. “You've got a neighbor named Mr. Rogers?”

“Not anymore,” the man responded gruffly. “He came at me with a hatchet. I put him down. He's not the only one, I mean, it's happening to everyone.”

“We’re heading over to the Doc's place, there's still some people left,” Dean explained.

“No, no way. I'm getting the hell out,” the older man stated.

“There's no way out, they got the bridge covered, now come on,” the older Winchester said.

“I don't believe you,” the man replied.

“Fine, stay here, be my guest.” It was then you noticed Dean was pointing a handgun at the man, too, who hesitated before walking over to the backseat of the Impala. He swapped his rifle for a handgun as he stooped down into the backseat, and you kept your gun trained on him over the back of your seat. The older man kept his gun aimed at you, but his eyes would frantically flick to Dean every now and again.

Dean looked between you and the man and put his gun away to be able to drive back to the clinic. “Well, this ought to be a relaxing drive.”

You pinned the sergeant to his spot in the backseat with a hard glare and your gun on him. He returned your glare and pointed gun the whole way to the clinic. Despite your aching arms, you refused to falter. “What’s your name?” you asked him, still on your guard.

“Mark.”

“Mark. Nice to meet you, Mark,” you smiled despite your situation.

Dean slowed to a stop in front of the clinic, and you and Mark mutually agreed to relax your guns. 

“Sammy? Open up!” Dean banged on the door to the clinic. 

Sam appeared at the glass a few moments later and allowed you inside. You kept your gun cocked and in your hand but pointed at the floor. 

“Did you guys, uh, get to a phone?” Sam questioned, looking between the three guns you were all brandishing.

“Road block.” Dean turned to Mark. “I'm gonna have a word. Doc's inside.”

Mark looked between the three of you, hesitating, before heading inside.

“What's going on out there, guys?” Sam asked.

“Man, I don't know, I feel like Chuck Heston in the Omega Man. I mean, Sarge is the only sane person I could find. What are we dealing with, do you know?” Dean questioned.

“Yeah. Doc thinks it's a virus.”

Dean snorted. “Okay, great. What do you think?”

“I think she's right.”

“Really?” Your eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Really,” Sam answered. “And I think the infected are trying to infect others with blood-to-blood contact. Oh, but it gets better. The, uh, the virus? Leaves traces of sulfur in the blood.”

“Cool. Demonic virus,” you deadpanned.

“Yeah, more like demonic germ warfare,” Sam added.  “At least it explains why I've been having visions.”

“It's like a Biblical plague,” noted Dean.

“Yeah. You don't know how right you are, Dean. I've been poring through Dad's journal, found something about the Roanoke colony,” Sam began. “Dad always had a theory about Croatoan. He thought it was a demon's name. Sometimes known as Deva or sometimes Resheph. A demon of plague and pestilence.”

Dean laughed humorlessly. “Well, that— that's terrific. Why here, why now?”

“I have no idea. But Dean, who knows how far this thing can spread? We gotta get out of here, we gotta warn people—”

Before any of you could speak, Mark called from the back of the clinic, “They've got one! In here!”

Dean entered the room behind Sam. “What do you mean?” he asked Mark.

“The wife. She's infected,” Sam explained.

“We've gotta take care of this. We can't just leave her in there. My neighbors, they were strong. The longer we wait, the stronger she'll get,” Mark urged.

You hesitated, but only for a moment, before brushing past Sam and Dean into the lab with your gun drawn. 

“Whoa!” the sweet nurse from earlier exclaimed. “You're gonna kill Beverly Tanner?”

“Doctor, could there be any treatment? Some kind of cure for this?” Sam pleaded.

“Can you cure it?” You turned toward Dr. Lee.

“For God's sake, I don't even know what ‘it’ is!” she cried.

“I told you, it's just a matter of time before she breaks through,” Mark told you.

“Just leave her in there, you can't shoot her like an animal!” the young nurse said.

You slowly walked over to the door of the utility room Beverly was being held in. You, Dean, and Mark held your guns steady on the door. Sam carefully opened it to reveal Beverly huddled on the floor in a corner, crying into her knees. She jumped as you approached. “Mark, what are you doing? Mark, it's, it's them!” She pointed at you, Dean, and Sam, who stood over your shoulder. “They locked me in here, they— they tried to kill me! They're infected, not me! Please, Mark! You've known me all your life! Please!”

“You sure she's one of 'em?” Dean asked, looking at his brother. 

Sam nodded. Mark pulled back, looking distraught, and you took the opportunity to step forward. 

In an attempt to hear as few of her cries for mercy as possible, you quickly fired one shot square between her eyes. Guilt immediately clawed at your throat, and you thought you could throw up. You stowed your gun and crouched beside her crumpled form. You moved her into a less disturbing configuration, laying her on her back with her arms crossed over her chest. You closed her paralyzed, open eyes and brushed through her hair with your fingers. With the back of your hand, you wiped your own eyes and stood, leaving the room and shutting the door behind you. 

Choked up, you pushed past a concerned Sam and Dean and headed out to the car. You grabbed your duffel bag to have some reason for going outside from the trunk when you heard a sound from down the street: a car approaching. Your breath caught, and you ducked behind the wall of the clinic’s entrance; back pressed to it. You peeked out briefly to see Jake was the one driving the car with the man who had tried to kill you and Dean earlier. Soundlessly, you slipped back inside the building and turned the lights at the entrance off. 

You locked both the door to the entrance and the door to the waiting room behind you, hurriedly pulling down the shades and turning off as many unnecessary lights as possible. You turned the light off in the waiting room and stormed into the lab where everyone was huddled together. You pulled down the shades behind Dr. Lee wordlessly.

“(Y/N/N)?” Sam asked gently. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re here. Everybody, get yourself a weapon from my bag if you know how to use one. Don’t grab one, get injured, and then get infected, got it?” you ordered.

Sam nodded and grabbed your bag from you. He threw you your bowie knife and pulled a hunting knife from the duffel for himself. 

The young nurse, who you learned was named Pam, dropped a vial of blood, and she screamed. “Oh god! Is there any on me? Am I okay?”

Dr. Lee tried to calm her down. “You're clean, you're okay.”

“Why are we staying here? Please, let's just go!” Pam cried.

“No, we can't because those things are everywhere,” Dean stated firmly.

Pam began to sink to the floor. “Oh god!—”

“Hey, shh, shh,” Dr. Lee told her.

Sam turned to you and Dean who stood together by the lab’s entrance. “She's right about one thing,” he said just loud enough for the two of you to hear. “We can't stay here. We've gotta get out of here, get to the Roadhouse? Somewhere. Let people know what's coming.”

“Yeah, good point,” Dean nodded. “Night of the Living Dead didn't exactly end pretty.”

“Well, I'm not sure we've got a choice,” Mark cut in. “Lots of folks up here are good with rifles— even with all your hardware we're- we're easy targets. So unless you've got some explosives…” he trailed off.

You looked up at the shelf of medical supplies and turned to Sam. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

“Yeah, actually.” He grabbed a bottle of potassium chloride and waved it at you.

“I’m lost, what’s happening here?” Dean questioned. “Speak, nerds.”

You deadpanned at him. “Potassium chlorate bombs. I’ve gotta figure out a way to ionize the chloride and get some oxygen in it; otherwise, this’ll never—”

Your explanation was cut off by a loud banging on the door.

“Hey! Let me in, let me in! Please!” the voice called as you approached the door.

“It's Duane Tanner!” Mark announced. He opened the door to let him in, and you grabbed your gun in your jacket immediately.

“Thank god,” Duane breathed out, walking into the clinic. 

Mark locked the door behind him. “Duane, you okay?”

Dean quietly asked Sam, “That's the guy that I, uh—” he clicked his tongue.

Sam nodded, seeming shaken.

“Who else is in here?” Duane went to step into the lab, but Dean grabbed his arm.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy there, chief,” he said. “Hey Doc! Give Duane a good once-over, would you?”

Dr. Lee led your group into the lab. “Pam?”

Pam seemed to understand what that meant and moved to gather medical supplies.

“Who are you?” Duane asked Dean.

“Never mind who I am. Doc.”

Dr. Lee nodded nervously. “Yeah, okay.”

“Duane. Where you been?” Mark asked softly.

“On a fishing trip up by Roslyn. I came back this afternoon. I— I saw Roger McGill being dragged out of his house by people we know! They started cutting him with knives! I ran, I've been hiding in the woods ever since. Has anybody seen my mom and dad?”

Your heart squeezed in your chest and bile rose in your throat.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay,” Dean whispered to you. 

You could barely hear him over your heart pounding against your ribcage. You then noticed a deep gash in Duane’s left leg. “He’s bleeding.”

“Where'd you get that?” Dean interrogated.

“I was running, I must have tripped.” Duane’s cool tone was making it difficult to read whether he was infected or genuinely had no idea what was going on.

“Tie him up, there's rope in there,” the older brother ordered. You complied and dug the rope out of the supply closet.

“Wait—” Duane said, attempting to stand.

“Sit down!” Dean commanded, pointing his gun at Duane.

“I'm sorry, Duane, he's right,” Mark agreed. “We've gotta be careful.”

“Careful? About what?”

“Did they bleed on you?” Dean questioned, not answering the young man’s question.

“No, what the hell? No!” Duane frantically answered.

“Doc? Any way to know for sure, any test?” Sam questioned. You could tell he was trying to deescalate the situation before his vision came true. 

Dr. Lee sighed. “I've studied Beverly's bloodwork backwards and forwards.”

“My mom!” Duane cried.

Dr. Lee continued. “It took three hours for the virus to incubate. The sulfur didn't appear in the blood until then, so… no, there'd be no way of knowing. Not until after Duane turns.”

Sam looked over to his brother. “Dean, I gotta talk to you. Now.”

Dean looked over to you, and you nodded, standing up from where you’d tied Duane to the chair he was sitting in. You drew your gun and trained it on him while the brothers stepped out into the hall.

Dean reappeared a minute or so later.

“Where’s Sam?” you asked him.

He didn’t answer you. He simply cocked his gun and looked past you at Duane. Pam and Dr. Lee startled to their feet, chests heaving as they looked between Dean and Duane.

“No, you're not gonna—” Duane heaved. “No, no, I swear it's not in me!”

“Oh God. We're all gonna die,” Pam cried.

“Maybe he's telling the truth,” Mark tried.

“No, he's not him, not anymore.”

“Stop it! Ask her, ask the doctor! It's not in me!” Duane pleaded.

Dr. Lee shook her head and hesitantly looked at Dean. “I… I can’t tell.”

Duane began to sob. “Please, don't. Don't, please. I swear, it's not in me, it's not in me, I swear, I— I swear it's not in me. No, don't.”

Dean seemed to get choked up, too. “I got no choice.” 

You stared at him, eyes almost pleading him not to pull the trigger. However, you would also respect his choice if he did; you knew the risks. Dean trembled, hesitating, and finally lowered the gun. “Dammit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. 

He left the room, and you followed. Dean let Sam out of the room he’d apparently locked his younger brother in wordlessly and kept stalking down the hall. Sam simply looked after him for a moment before turning back to the lab, but you followed Dean further.

He turned into a dark exam room at the end of the hall. You did so as well, making sure the curtains were drawn as tightly as possible before you flicked on the desk lamp. Dean sat in a chair while you sat in another, facing him. Neither of you said a word for a moment. 

“What made you stop?” you asked him.

He hesitated before answering. “Sam,” he replied simply. “And you.”

Your breath caught at his admission. “Me?” you asked, just loud enough for him to hear. 

He nodded, unable to meet your gaze. 

“Why?” you asked softly.

“Couldn’t let you watch me do that,” he muttered. “And… I want you to see me how I see you.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“I mean— You just— You remind me that there’s good out there. In all this crap. You make me wanna be better,” he admitted, gaze still pointed to the floor. 

You reached over and tilted his chin to face you with your index finger, forcing him to look at you. “Dean—”

He cut you off by surging forward to crush his lips to yours. You sighed into the kiss, winding your hands around his neck and threading your fingers through his hair. He cupped your chin with one hand and grabbed your waist with the other. You kissed once, then again, then one final time before simply resting your foreheads against each other’s. You nudged his nose with yours, eyes still closed, and he stroked circles on your hip with his thumb. 

The two of you were broken apart by the sound of a scream and two shots being fired off. You barely shared a look before sprinting toward the sound with your guns drawn.

“It’s Sam,” Mark told you. “He’s infected.”

Your jaw went slack at the sight of Sam on the floor with an open wound on his chest and Pam lying dead on the floor beside him.

“Oh, god,” you breathed out, turning to see Dean completely shocked and terrified.

*** Your group had Sam tied to a chair with a bandage over his wound. Dean was angry, and Sam seemed defeated. Your heart broke for both brothers and for the fact that you were gonna lose an amazing friend soon. 

“Nobody is shooting my brother,” Dean stated firmly.

Duane argued, “He isn't gonna be your brother much longer. You said it yourself.”

“Nobody is shooting anyone!” you shouted. 

“He was gonna shoot me!” Duane gestured toward Dean.

“You don't shut your pie-hole, I still might!” Dean grunted.

Sam’s sad voice caught everyone’s attention. “Dean, they're right. I'm infected; just give me the gun and I'll do it myself.”

“Fuck that,” Dean scoffed.

“Dean, I'm not gonna become one of those things,” Sam pleaded.

“Sam, we've still got some time—”

Mark cut Dean off. “Time for what? Look, I understand he's your brother, and I'm sorry, I am. But we gotta take care of this.” He pulled out his gun.

“I'm gonna say this one time— you make a move on him, you'll be dead before you hit the ground. You understand me? Do I make myself clear?!” Dean growled.

Mark’s face was set in hard lines. “Then what are we supposed to do?!”

Dean tossed Mark his kets. “Get the hell out of here, that's what. Take my car. You've got the explosives, there's an arsenal in there. You two go with him. You've got enough firepower to handle anything now. (Y/N), you go with them.”

“Dean, no!” you said. “I’m not leaving you!”

“Sweetheart, you have to—”

“No!”

“Guys, no. No. Go with them. This is your only chance!” Sam cried.

Dean turned to his younger brother. “You're not gonna get rid of me that easy.”

Mark chimed back in. “No, he's right. Come with us.”

Dean just stared at him.

“Okay, it's your funeral.” He led Duane and Dr. Lee out the door.

“Thank you, for everything,” Dr. Lee told you as she left.

“Don’t mention it,” you said halfheartedly.

She shut the door behind you, and Sam began to cry.

You were repeatedly surprised by Dean’s sense of play and slight immaturity at the grimmest of moments. “Wish we had a deck of cards, or a foosball table or something.”

“Don’t do this,” Sam pleaded. “Just get the hell out of here.”

“He’s right, (Y/N), you should leave,” Dean tired.

You crossed your arms and spoke with authority despite your soft tone. “Dean, we’ve discussed this already. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Give me my gun and leave,” Sam begged.

“For the last time, Sam. No,” Dean stated.

Sam slammed his fists against his chair. “This is the dumbest thing you've ever done.”

“Oh, I don't know about that. Remember that waitress in Tampa?” Dean shuddered.

“Dean, I'm sick. It's over for me. It doesn't have to be for you two,” Sam sobbed. “You can keep going.”

“Who says I want to?” Dean admitted.

“What?” you and Sam breathed out.

Dean pulled his handgun out of his waistband and put it on the file cabinet behind him. “I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired of this job, this life… this weight on my shoulders, man. I'm tired of it.”

Sam scoffed. “So, what, so you're just going to give up? You're just gonna lay down and die? Look, Dean, I know this stuff with Dad has—” 

“You're wrong. It's not about Dad. I mean, part of it is, sure, but…” he trailed off.

“What is it about?” Sam questioned.

A knock at the door broke the tense silence settled over the room. “You'd better come see this,” Dr. Lee called through the door.

You quickly untied Sam and brought him out to where Dr. Lee, Dean, Mark, and Duane were already gathered. 

“There's no one. Not anywhere. They've all just… vanished,” Dr. Lee explained.

“Croatoan,” you realized, looking over at the telephone pole opposite you.

***

Miraculously, the virus didn’t incubate in Sam’s blood. Strangely, when Dr. Lee looked back at the Tanner samples, the sulfur was gone, too. Confused and slightly uneasy, you and the brothers packed up the Impala. 

“Hey, the Sarge and I are getting the hell out of here, heading south. You should come,” Duane suggested to Dr. Lee.

“I'd better get over to Sidewinder, get the authorities up here. If they'll believe me. Take care,” she told them.

Mark waved to the three of you as well as Dr. Lee. 

“What about him?” Dean pointed to his brother.

“He's going to be fine. No signs of infection,” she grinned.

You turned to Sam.

“Hey, don't look at me. I got no clue,” he said.

“I swear, I'm gonna lose sleep over this one. I mean, why here, why now? And where the hell did everybody go? It's like they just fuckin’ melted,” Dean griped.

“Why was I immune?” Sam wondered aloud.

“Yeah. You know what? That's a good question. You know, I'm already starting to feel like this is the one that got away.” Dean walked around to the driver’s side of the car and pulled away from the town. His words hung ominously over the car for the remainder of your drive.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[max1461]

the lost colony of roanoke more like. the long cocklony of moancock. uh. whatever.

[ynneleac]

croatia? ain't that what was carved in the tree at the lost colony in roanoke?

[stirringwinds]

I can't agree more with your post about how natural languages are intimately tied to power dynamics, culture and personal identity. To make the nation personifications magically understand each other all the time is removing the depth and potential of their relationships with each other.

Since you mentioned that Alfred's first language was a Native American language, it sounds like he was close to the Native Americans as a child, and not only the English settlers. My thought is that Alfred, the personification of what would become the USA, was only "born" after the English settlers arrived. He was raised by Pilgrims, spoke only English and didn't have meaningful contact with the Native Americans. I'm not a fan of the idea that Alfred was a Native American personification who was born before the arrival of the colonists and was "kidnapped" by Arthur, as it implies that the tribe that he represented was the foundation of the modern USA. It makes more sense to me that he was a personification of the Pilgrim settlements when he was born. What are your thoughts on Alfred's "birth" and his relationships with the personifications around him as a child?

hello, thanks for your question!

to start off, i don't headcanon that nations are born the human way, but when they come into being, there are real cultural/linguistic links they have to other nations which I model on historical interactions and influences. my conception of Alfred is that his "birth"/beginnings are linked to Roanoke (aka the so-called "Lost Colony") and Jamestown (and its famine)—less so the Pilgrims/Mayflower in Massachusetts. but that difference aside, Alfred's 'beginnings' in my view certainly stem from British imperialism and European colonisation all the same. so he is not the personification of "Native America", because this would indeed be racist and homogenising: there can't be such a singular personification but would have to be multiple personifications to begin with. All of whom are much older and culturally distinct just like how Asia/Europe/Africa as a continent doesn't have one personification. this is a similar approach I take with my Mexico OC; she is Indigenous/European and spoke Nahuatl and Spanish, but she herself didn't come into being until Spanish colonisation—and there are other older personifications like Tlaxcala and Mexica (who was the head of the Triple Alliance/what we call the Aztec Empire and rivals with Tlaxcala, another pre-Columbian political entity).

so, for me Carolina Algonquian is one of Alfred's first languages—the other is English. the reason why I think he speaks Carolina Algonquian: the real-life interactions (from cooperative (barter, trade) to neutral to hostile—conflicts that happened since obviously the colonists were encroaching on other people's land) that occurred between the colonists and Algonquian-speaking peoples (such as Croatan and also Powhatan) occurred. All these were central to the history and trajectory of the early colonies. further, the research material on early colonial America I based his character on examined the experiences of biracial/multiethnic people and the dynamics of assimilation & cultural imperialism into Englishness that occurred. i'm from an ethnically-mixed family myself, which experienced cultural assimilation because of British imperialism that also resulted in a deprioritisation and loss of our other ancestral languages, so the cultural dimension of imperialism: how people navigate these faultlines, and pass or don't pass as a dominant group is something I'm interested in exploring.

hence, while i personally headcanon Alfred as mixed-race, he is certainly not an older personification that predates European colonisation of the Americas, and Arthur claims him as his son when he finds him with the Jamestown colonists, after the famine—so he isn't really 'kidnapped' because he isn't the personification of a pre-existing, Native nation. the Jamestown colonists don't really 'raise' him either—he appears to them as a young child who can already talk and walk, and they assume he is an orphan of sorts—after which Arthur comes into the picture. Arthur asserted his power by claiming Alfred as his son—just as the English politically claimed their colonial holdings, but Alfred certainly interacted with other personifications like Croatan or Powhatan and others, because that's who the English colonists themselves in Roanoke and Jamestown met. this contact imo, was meaningful in the sense that it was important and extensive—though obviously not wholly peaceful or conflict-free. So, in my headcanon, before Arthur arrived with the relief ship that met the starving Jamestown colonists, Alfred was regarded with some curiosity and at least distinct wariness, if not apprehension, by other nations because despite his familiarity with Carolina Algonquian, they know he is clearly linked to the encroaching English colonists—and they've heard similar stories already, about Mexico and Cuba.

overall, yes, the political/cultural origins of the United States are very much connected to the British Empire's settler-colonialism. For that reason Alfred is Arthur's 'son', because he is English—but he is not just English or European, because the truth of the British Empire is that while there was a racial and class hierarchy that privileged Englishness and then whiteness generally, the actual human communities that shaped the colonies were never homogeneous ethnically/culturally. Biracial/mixed people existed—and those European colonies as a whole were shaped by the varied dynamics of Native and other non-European influences and contact—whether it was involuntary or voluntary, cooperative, neutral or hostile. that's the angle I've personally chosen to take—and I would end off with emphasising that this is just my approach—because I think there's certainly more than one way to approach Alfred's beginnings and cultural identity.

[corvid-news]

Rock Furnace, a modern-day Roanoke or Jonestown?

Edit- gender and pronouns changed for missing resident

October 10th, 2024

Written and Researched by Yuuma Iseri & Issac Hawthorne

Most of us with any interest in occult theories and unsolved mysteries are likely familiar with the lost Roanoke colony of 1587. The first English colony, settled off the eastern coast of North America; with a population of anywhere from 112 to 121 people. One moment and three years later it was discovered the entire population had vanished without a trace. The only clue to explain the odd disappearances were the words CROATOAN and CRO etched into the bordering trees of the now deserted settlement, and the highly disputed Dare Stones.

The reason for The Lost Colony of Roanoke's disappearance is mostly left to speculation, and the array of imaginative theories that range from – mysterious illness, alien abduction, War with the natives, etc. – forensic science suggests a much more sinister factor for the sudden, tragic deaths of the entire population of Montana’s Rock Furnace city.

The Tragedy of Rock Furnace

Research and on-site investigation by Issac Hawthorne

The town of Rock Furnace city (a population of 72, at last recording) is a small, nearly one road city nestled in the Beartooth mountains was a quiet and isolated town.

When researching for this article it soon became clear that Rock Furnace City was a closed and tight knit community which solely revolved around a version of Christianity unique to its fellowship. The church was dubbed with the title “Saint Eligius Church”, although there is no evidence to show the teaching had any relation to the church's namesake.

The details of the region are few and far between, as outsiders of the town were often viewed as heathens; this led to outside interaction often being kept to a minimum. Shunning and ostracism as well as physical punishment was a severely psychologically damaging method often used against those who failed to conform or uphold the “morals and ways of faith” required of them. Very few reported people who had grown up in the city had ever left. Only five people in its entire documented history successfully did so, with two of the bunch living for longer than one year.

Although this was without a doubt a harmful and dangerous cult, no action was ever taken against its religious leaders. At the time of the mass death the leader of the town and head of the church was one John Stoker, a known descendant of Timothy Stoker, the founder of the township. When taking statements from residents in the town closest to the Beartooth mountains, very few people would offer up information on the city of Rock Furnace and those who lived there. Those who did give information all gave nearly the same, almost rehearsed responses. Their eyes would seemingly glaze over when reciting the fact that those of Rock Furnace interacted little, mostly for supplies and necessities. 

Whether it be fear or some other unknown factor, digging into the truth behind the town proved to be exceedingly difficult. We may never know the events leading up to this mass extinction.

The last glimpse we have into the life of this small cult is from an article published in May of this year regarding the attempted patricide and subsequent vanishing of a young resident known as Hayden Fenton. Some time between the disappearance and the date of today's publishing, the entirety of the City of Rock Furnace seemingly utterly succumbed to a mystery illness, which would leave not a single survivor.

The last time a resident was seen was four days before the bodies were discovered when heading into the post office to mail out missing person flyers for the teenager. Remains of the townsfolk were found in stages of decomposition far beyond the realm of which logic could explain. These events horrified and shocked surrounding communities, all somehow spared the path of devastation that wove through the Montana countryside like the wrath of God.

The area has now been permanently condemned and entry into the city is strictly prohibited

Forensic scientists thus far have no explanation for the cause of these advanced decomposition or for what may have stricken residents down in the first place; those among our audience, however, have quite a few theories to share.

I will now pass the torch to my associate, Yumma Iseri.

Theories

Written by Yuuma Iseri

We surveyed the surrounding communities and attempted to collect evidence and conjecture as to how this horrible virus and sudden decomposition may have occurred.

Of course, there are your more mundane theories, such as chemical leaks leading to a poisoned water supply. But this alone does not go on to explain, in my humble opinion, the sudden rapid onset decay of the remains of the population.

One idea suggests that it could have been an evolved Ebola-like virus, spreading widely amongst a close-knit town: a fast acting, quick spreading variant of the already terrifying virus. For a town unprepared for such devastation, all it would take is one all too close encounter to spread such a deadly variant. Yet this theory lends no explanation on why it did not cross the city's borders or how it had been spread to the city in the first place. Isolation and lack of outside interaction with the small community would cause contamination with such a virus to be nearly impossible.

Others suggest that perhaps those in the close knit, deeply pious community took the route of the infamous Jonestown massacre. A mass suicide. Perhaps a mass poisoning is to blame for the sudden passing of an otherwise healthy and hale community? As would be expected for a cult, outsiders wouldn’t be surprised by the notion of mass suicide. Yet once again a large portion of the mystery can't be explained. How did the corpses decompose at such an extreme rate? No currently known poison has the properties of accelerated decomposition.

There are even those that suggest that perhaps the source of this oddly gruesome spectacle may lie in otherworldly beings. A disease originating among the stars. Alien experimentation among the isolated population eventually brought forth a bio-hazardous event that culled those living in the isolated city when left to spread.

The most interesting theory is that the extinction of Rock Furnace City can only be explained by an act of God. A punishment for the perversion of faith and corruption which needed to be eradicated, similar to the ancient cities of Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, and Zeboiim.

As of this time, there are no proven theories.

Up close investigation is unsafe to pursue at this time, as the method of this mystery disease's transmission is unknown. In the best interest of our researcher and author's health, the town of Rock Furnace will remain undisturbed until the possible end of the incubation period of what has already stolen so many lives.

A vigil will be held in the surrounding towns for the lives lost this coming Sunday. May they rest in peace.

[marzipanandminutiae]

In regards to the Roanoke post you commented on, your insight was appreciated as usual, but wouldn't mitochondrial DNA be useless for matching descendants? Unless I'm mistaken those southern colonial expeditions were men only, so no British mitochondrial DNA would've been passed along no matter how complete the integration.

There were famously women present at Roanoke Colony! Notably Eleanor Dare, mother of Virginia Dare, believed to be the first English baby born in North America (and unfortunately now sometimes used as a white nationalist symbol, I just learned). There at least 16 other women there, too.

One issue with this is that no remains of the Roanoke colonists have been found to date, making DNA testing difficult. Like I said, without delving into it, I assume any testing to date has been done with descendants of the lost female colonists' surviving relatives back in England, or something.

[buzzdixonwriter]

No More Old White Men For President

I think we’ve seen the last of old white men as political leaders for this century. 

Not saying there won’t be old political leaders.

Not saying there won’t be white political leaders.

Not saying there won’t be male political leaders.

Just saying we’re not going to see any combinations of all three (maybe two of three provided the politician is really good at their job).

Good.

As a distinct subset, old white men have never been the majority in this country.  They wielded their unearned status over women and minorities and younger people to leverage power and control for hundreds of years.

But that was then, this is now.  A hundred  years ago the country was almost ninety percent white; in less than twenty-five years current demographic projections will reduce that to just under fifty percent, making whites the largest minority in a country made up of minorities, but a minority nonetheless.

Good.

Right now, whites are no longer effectively a majority in the U.S.  Including people of mixed ancestry who identify as white, only seventy-one percent of the country is white.

When persons of mixed ancestry are taken out of the mix, that number today drops to less than sixty-two percent.

The cause of this precipitous drop in the white population? 

The whites’ own pernicious “one drop rule” that goes all the way back to the earliest colonial era.

As demonstrated by the fabled “lost colony” of Roanoke, white English colonists in the new world felt no particular attachment to their home culture across the Atlantic and when treated shabbily by their absentee masters back in merrie olde England were perfectly capable of defecting to one of the local Native American tribes.

Realizing they couldn’t force indentured servants to work like slaves, the landed gentry began importing actual slaves from Africa.  Unlike the indentured servants who colonized America, the enslaved Africans faced perpetual chattel slavery with their children born into slavery as well.

Small wonder many of them sought escape to the west where they could be adopted and accepted by local tribes.

Add to this various frontiersmen willing to intermarry with Native Americans -- not to mention the countless number of half-white children born into slavery after white slaveowners raped their mothers -- and whites in American -- particularly that entitled white gentry class -- sought to exclude as many people as possible from the body politic by claiming one drop of non-white blood meant that person by legal definition was non-white.

Don’t listen to the malignant MAGA nonsense; identity politics were created by white men for the protection and preservation of white men.

In the beginning, “white” applied only to those of English or Northern / Western European descent. 

Jewish people, no matter where they came from, weren’t accepted as “really” white.  The Irish and Italians were viewed as subhuman thugs.  A select few French, German, Scandinavian, and some upper crust Spaniards and Slavs were allowed in the white man’s world, but most Eastern Europeans, Middle Easterners, and all Asians were excluded.

…that is, until the number of white people in America began declining, then suddenly previous barriers held against the Irish, Italians, and Eastern Europeans dropped in order to reinforce white ranks.

But to this day Latin Americans, African-Americans, Middle Easterners, and Asians are kept outside the old white men’s circle of power.

Oh, a few token representatives are allowed in:  Fetching females who parrot what the old men want to hear, sociopathic opportunists of all kinds willing to make a buck by selling out others like them, etc.

But by excluding all those tainted by so much as “one drop” of Native American, African-American, Middle Eastern or Asian heritage, selfish old power hungry white men hoped to concentrate all the benefits of citizenship on themselves alone.

Well, that didn’t last long.  First African-Americans were freed, then women got to vote, then laws forbidding Asians from being American citizens were struck down, and finally laws against miscegenation were abolished.

The latter meant a lot of people now claimed membership in two subsets of American, the traditional pure white stain [sic!] and something else.

This results in bizarrely arcane rules and regulations, as well as increasingly paradoxical cultural standing.  A single “full blooded” Native American great-great-grandparent enables one to claim membership in that tribe, a tall kid without a noticeable epicanthic fold can be accepted as white even if one parent is fully Asian.

On the one hand, the true American ideal is liberty and justice for all with every person having a chance to participate in society to the best of their abilities. 

On the other, there’s definitely a cultural subset that wants to make sure old white men (and the various subsets of that subset, viz. white women, young white men, etc.) are more equal than others.

But their day is drawing to a close.

Already there are enough old white men who do believe in liberty and justice for all and who vote for young and female and minority candidates to ensure this country’s coalition of minorities get a say in how things are done.

Donald Trump and MAGA represent that last feverish attempt to hold onto power before old white men no longer find the country deferring to them simply because they’re old white men.

Oh, there will be old white men involved in politics in years to come.

They will start as young white men who know how to deal and make alliances with all the other subsets in the country.  A few will be successful enough at their careers to survive long enough to become old white men…

…but they’ll never wield the same dominant clout old white men used to have.

I trust we will not have another old white male president for the rest of this century.  That particular combo is a toxic turd that needs to learn to play will with others.  We will have old people male and female, of all sorts of different backgrounds serve as president, and we’ll probably have a few younger-to-middle aged white men as well, candidates who grew up in the new realpolitik and understand their age and skin tone and assigned genitalia give them no more special consideration than anyone else.

  © Buzz Dixon