#Miracle: letters to the president

[baeinhyuks]

MIRACLE: LETTERS TO THE PRESIDENT (2021)

dir. Lee Jang-Hoon

[kaipanzero]

Miracle: letters to the president

기적 (2021)

[marymekpop]

K-Movie Review: Miracle: Letters to the President (2021)

K-Movie Review: Miracle: Letters to the President (2021)

[pomefioredove]

Noble Bell ; Book Two, Part I ; The Knight of The Sun

what if you were sent to Noble Bell College instead?

type of post: series characters: rollo, original characters (pierrot, bou, phoenix, clodio) additional info: reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu and has a canon yuu personality, I edited this ONCE and it took an hour I'm not doing that again. if there are mistakes that's my bad word count: 8.1k HELP ME

prologue | the king of truands, 1 | the king of truands, 2 | the knight of the sun, 1 |

Chapter One

The lingering warmth of summer had long kissed the noble City of Flowers good-bye, leaving nothing but the white sun as a reminder of what had once been. The north bell tower became colder, the sun-stained banners on the stone walls of the school became duller, and you were left to your silence and solemnity.

From your place in the bell tower, Fleur City became your closest friend, your confidant, your only color in the white light that poured through the windows of the tower, every cloudy morning. It rained. Your curiosity led you higher and higher, closer to heaven and further away from the people on earth, up to the stone statues, abandoned by time and speckled by moss and weather, up to the bells, to the fingerprints and breath left on the noble bronze. Away from the lives of the students, the city, the fishermen and bakers, where on foggy mornings (and it was often foggy), it was only you, the bells, the gargoyles, and the clouds which separated you from the earth and its people. 

There was evidence of life in this place. The fingerprints on the bells, empty wine bottles, wood shavings you seem to find everywhere, no matter how much you sweep and dust and organize and try to make a home of this place. You found a wooden ladle and a bejeweled dagger wedged behind a door, once. You use the ladle as a door jamb and the dagger to open letters from the school, which never seem to stop coming. They pour in like the rain, each addressed in neat, orderly handwriting, signed by your professors and your headmaster and your student council. 

Almost all are about your temperament. Your behavior. Unorderly, they say. No matter how straight you stand, your shoulders are never back far enough, your chin is never held high enough. 

Some are about your classes and grades. Some come from Clodio LeFou, the self-named “King of Truands”, who has taken you as a penpal against your will. Some are simple weather reports to warn you of coming storms, signed by Vice President Bou de Neige. You keep those. You’re not sure why, but you do. 

Three weeks flow over you like the cold water of the Soleil. You become less of a visitor, and more of a roommate to whomever lived in the bell tower last. Still not a student. Never quite a student. 

But you have the company of the bells. The gargoyles. The city, from above its roofs and heads, from heaven. Your mysterious roommate, and their wine bottles, their wood shavings, their ladles and daggers. 

It’s the only place where you don’t feel unwelcome. Where you don’t feel abnormal. It’s home, in a melancholic sense, because you are alone there. 

Some days, in the late of September, when the sun still held your hand and warmed you, you think that you could stay there forever. Where there are no sneers or whispers, no looks of disgust, no eyes that follow you. 

But you can’t. 

“Watch your head, dearest!” 

You miraculously avoid the trio of stilt walkers carrying a long wooden beam between them just to crash into Clodio LeFou, who, mercifully, catches you before you can bruise your tailbone as well as your ego. 

“Sorry,”

The young gentleman, hair pulled back into two artfully messy pigtails, eyes hidden but impish grin still striking under the unfeeling white of an unpainted carnival mask, brushes off your shoulders, and pats you twice on the head.

“Where’s your mind at today, hm?”

The Miracle Court, buried six feet deep beneath the well-mannered people of Fleur City, is unusually alive today, even with the smell of death only a breath away. “Students” of the makeshift dorm are carrying banners, painting wood, sewing costumes, and chatting amongst themselves with an excitement that makes your existence above ground seem dull. There’s life here; completely unlike the stillness of your bell tower.

It had been but a month since you unceremoniously stumbled into orientation and became an unwelcome guest of the college, and an unwilling guest of the Miracle Court. The hours of waiting for home stretched into days, and then into weeks, although every minute still felt like an eternity. The classes were near impossible to keep up with, even with Pierrot, who, both endearingly and annoyingly, seems entirely disinterested in helping you. 

“I like you more when you’re you, not them,” he says.

It would be a romantic sentiment if the cream-colored letters holding your grades, like a captive in rope, didn’t send a shiver down your spine. 

You find yourself strangely grateful for Clodio, who, despite his eccentric passion for la scène and his disregard for the rules and rigidity of Noble Bell College, is more intelligent than anyone else you’ve met thus far. 

“What’s going on here?”

“Mystère , you do not know? Has no one the decency!” he gasps, holding a hand over his chest as if his heart had been struck by an arrow. Dramatic as ever. “Pierrot! Where is Monsieur Philosophie?”

His voice becomes higher with each echo across the imposing walls and vaulted ceiling of the Miracle Court. As if on cue, a loud crash follows, and then Pierrot Gregoire comes stumbling out of what was presumably once a stage prop, but is now an inconveniently placed pile of wood. 

“Here! What is the problem? Has anyone a question about the script?”

Perhaps you wouldn’t say it aloud, but Pierrot has become a warm familiarity to you. The time you’re apart- that is, as soon as classes end and before they begin again- can feel like an eternity. He isn’t allowed in the bell tower. You’ve received several angry letters from a certain Vice President Bou de Neige about having him there. 

“Worry not, your script is so derivative and simple, a circus monkey could understand it! Our mystère would only like a proper welcome!” Clo smiles merrily and slings an arm around a very grumpy Pierrot’s shoulder. 

“Oh, I didn’t-”

“Nonsense,” he cuts you off. “As a part of our court, you are a part of our stage. Pierrot! Show our mystère around, would you?”

Pierrot, sour about his script, takes your hand and pulls you away from the eccentric thespian. “Pretentious, demanding, tone-deaf…” he grumbles to himself. 

“What’s going on here?” your question echoes quietly, coming back to you in the same voice.

“Ah,” Pierrot says, turning over his shoulder to you with wide eyes. “I forgot you were here… we’re making preparations for Topsy-Turvy fest… which, of course, you wouldn’t know. It’s a Fleur City festival. Noble Bell provides much of the entertainment: music, dancing, singing, acting, puppet shows…”

“Puppet shows?”

He sighs. “Clodio insists. He says he would much rather spend time with the “bright-eyed children” than us dull scholars,”

“Right…” you mutter, watching a trio of students dressed as dogs practice cartwheels around each other.

“I will, of course, be writing and directing a one-act of my own creation,” A proud smile suddenly pulls at the corners of his lips. “It will be performed first, as per tradition.”

“Only to get it over with!” Clodio’s voice carries from somewhere behind you. Pierrot’s smile immediately drops. 

“Anyway,” he says, back to his grumpy disposition. “I’ve taken a historical inspiration, and adapted a famous Fleur City folk story. In the spirit of the festivities, I’d like it to be… interactive, for the audience. That’s where you come in.”

You’re suddenly very aware of your place on the floor and the feeling of your feet in your too-tight school shoes. You turn to him, your eyes widened. There are many things about Pierrot to appreciate, and his impressive ability to talk about his interests for hours on end, providing ample, comfortable background noise, is one of them. It’s unlike him to surprise you.

“What?”

Pierrot forces a smile. “N-now, I know you haven’t had the most pleasant experience with the students of Noble Bell College-”

“That’s an understatement,” 

“But you won’t be alone!” he says, setting his hand on the small of your back and ushering you to a corner strung with curtains and beads. “You’ve met Jolie, haven’t you?”

An emerald green curtain parts and a person you’ve certainly never met, nor seen before, peers out. You think you surely would have remembered. Jolie is not only a girl, but a child. 

“Who- ah, Pierrot,” her voice is warm but strained with accent. “Your friend?”

She’s not much taller than you, and can’t be any older than thirteen years old, but even aside from that, she looks like no one else you’d seen here. Her hair is short, white and streaked with gray, her eyes golden, and she’s wearing a…

Her eyes narrow at Pierrot. “Why are you not in your dorm uniform? Clodio says-”

“HUSH! He hasn’t said anything, I don’t think he’s noticed yet. And I want to keep it that way, thank you!” he whispers. “And- yes, this is them.”

“Took you long enough,” and that familiar scratchy voice is followed by Hugo, who comes out of the tent to twirl around Jolie’s legs like a cat. She kneels to scratch his head, giving you silence and the opportunity to look at Pierrot with a devilish grin. 

“Dorm uniform?” You ask. “You mean that?”

Jolie, even shorter now as she kneels beneath the two of you, is dressed in a very, very colorful tunic, clearly sewn out of old flags and banners in a gold-and-emerald checkered pattern, with a gold-colored undershirt and tights. It’s quite unlike the somber and dark school uniform of Noble Bell, and the dull color palette of the city. 

He sighs, his arms crossed. “Mine is in gold and red, actually,”

“Clodio’s has purple!” Jolie chimes. “But he’s in costume now. We’re rehearsing.”

You just barely manage to withhold a snicker. Luckily for Pierrot (or perhaps unluckily, because you’re certainly going to remind him later), Jolie’s change of subject saves him from his tight, tunic’d fate.

“For Topsy-Turvy Fest?”

“Yes,” Pierrot grumbles. “...Which is why we’re here. Jolie will be helping with the play.”

The girl smiles, exuding a warmth that once again reminds you she is not a student of Noble Bell. It was as if the summer sun had retired from the sky and become a person, now under the streets of Fleur City, wearing a dorm uniform made of scraps and shoes a size too large for her. 

She couldn’t have fit in any less if she tried. 

Watching her joke with Pierrot, smile at him with a sort of familiarity and warmth that you yourself had not felt in months, makes something without a name twist in your stomach. Here, the smell of baking bread is not enough to cover the stench of death. 

“Then what will I be doing?” 

Pierrot’s eyes, dull in Noble Bell’s dark uniform but alight with life and breath nonetheless, brighten, becoming a luminous emerald when he looks at you. It’s as if he’s been waiting all his life to tell you this.

“You will be Jolie’s assistant,” 

...Anticlimactic.

But thoughtful, nonetheless. Pierrot is, perhaps, more empathetic than even he himself knows. As much is apparent from the soft look he gives you, his back turned to Jolie as she plays with your goat and his voice but a whisper. 

“I don’t want to give you any more trouble than you’ve already had,” he says. “Clo will demand your participation no matter what. At least, in this way, I can keep you close to me.”

Pierrot isn’t the sort of brave that leads uprisings or searches for adventure. He isn’t really brave at all. But he’s offering you what he can: kindness. Which is invaluable to you now. 

You nod. “I’ll do my best,”

He deserves as much, you think. A flicker of warmth makes Pierrot’s face glow for but a second, and he smiles. 

“Thank you. And worry not- you’ll only be chaperoning,”

You share his smile. His pride can be deathly contagious, sometimes. “Should I be worried about that?”

Pierrot peers over his shoulder to look at the girl, who seems far more interested in playing with Hugo than “rehearsing”. 

“It’s not uncommon to see children here. I’ve had my own concerns, but it’s Clodio’s call, and he can’t seem to stop himself from adopting every lonely child he finds,” Pierrot says. “Better in here than on the streets, at least.”

Or in the bell tower, you think, and then just as soon drown that thought. “I suppose, when you put it like that, it’s smart,”

The playwright turns back to you with another smile. “Of course. I said it, after all. Now, let’s talk about your costume…”

Chapter Two

If he were allowed in the bell tower, Pierrot could have written a novel about the differences between your home and the Miracle Court.

Mornings are always quiet. The sound of rain comes before the sound of humans, their walking, breathing, shouting and bartering and laughing on the streets below, living the life one can’t help but dream of. To belong somewhere. 

Today, there is no rain. 

You wake to the gray of morning pressing its foggy hands against your windows, asking to be let into your tower and into your lungs. The air is sharp, the glass frosted over with cold, and you’re shivering before you’re even out of bed. For once, you’re grateful for the stifling, heavy Noble Bell uniform; it’s better than your blankets on mornings like these. 

Once dressed and no longer at risk of hypothermia, you begin your morning trek to greet the bells and the gargoyles and the city. It’s a journey in itself, but you can’t seem to stop yourself from doing it. It’s become a compulsion. 

Much has changed since you came here. 

The bells are cold and stiff with frost. There are icicles hanging from every wooden beam and rafter. 

It’s only the second of October, but you have to brush a thick layer of snow off the gargoyles this morning. You’re suddenly quite grateful that neither you nor Pierrot are sleeping in La Tombe anymore. You’d be dead before sunrise. 

Fleur City looks warm, despite the snow blanketing the roofs and streets. Candle and firelight pour out of every window and open doorway, small children waddle around each other in snug coats and boots that were likely meant for winter, not October, and are thus much too big for their small feet. The wind carries a smell of cinnamon and butter from a bakery across the Soleil. 

It’s almost beautiful. 

And then you have to walk to class in snow up to your ankles, and suddenly it’s no longer so charming. 

“Rough weather,” you sit next to Pierrot in Astrology, brushing snow off the shoulders of your uniform just as you had done to the gargoyles that very morning. 

Pierrot, who had again been hunched over his paper, likely writing something that had nothing to do with the class agenda on the board, glances up at you.

“Yes. It doesn’t usually snow so early,”

“I figured not. I’d have gotten a letter about it, if it did,” you say. Pierrot looks confused for a moment (as he so often does), and then lights up. 

“Oh, I have something for you,” 

You raise an eyebrow, watching him awkwardly crawl under the table, hit his head as he tried to come back, and then hand you a folded piece of paper. 

“From Jolie. She insisted I deliver, since you and Clo have no classes together,” he says. “She can be quite scary when she wants to be…”

You roll your eyes and open the letter. It’s a drawing of you in the Miracle Court dorm uniform. Gold, and a fiery orange. 

“...Interesting choice,” you say, taking in each meticulously placed detail and design note, in a different language. “But nice. You’ll have to thank her for me.”

“I’m not a messenger, you know…” he grumbles, and then sighs. “But very well.”

You run your thumb over the rich color of it. “How does a child like this end up in a place like that?”

Pierrot dabs his quill back into his inkwell and does nothing with it. Habit, you suppose. “Clo has mentioned that the family came to Fleur City a few months ago. Father always working, no mother, no siblings, and her language proficiency is not good enough to enroll her in school. So, we tutor her at the Court,”

You blink. “...Ah… I see. I couldn’t even tell she wasn’t fluent,”

“She’s come quite a ways. As much as I cannot stand his tastes, I admit that Clodio is an adequate tutor,” 

“And what’s his story?” 

“Pardon?”

You lean against the thick wooden desk on your elbow. “I mean, he’s been writing to me for weeks, and I barely know anything about him,”

“No one does,” He shrugs. “He’s rather mysterious, and I think he prefers it that way. We’re not even sure of his real name. It’s said that he lost his parents some time ago, but I can’t say when or how.”

“He’s smart enough to be going here, though,”

“That he is,” Pierrot says. “We were accepted in the same scholarship program. Just three of us. But he has the sense to keep his dislike of the institute rules to himself.”

“Heh. Unlike you,”

He smiles slightly. “Unlike me,” 

The large doors open behind you and Madame Jean-Marie, an old, gray-frocked professor, comes in whacking her cane against any feet not firmly planted under a desk. You and Pierrot both fall silent. 

She takes a seat and loudly clears the mucus from her throat, a grating, unpleasant sound that makes everyone sit up straighter. 

“Now. I am well aware of our unfortunate weather. Do not ask me about it. Do not mumble about it. This hour is not for the affairs of the city. Astrology is a science, not a superstition, so I will have no talk of fortune or misfortune here. Am I understood?”

The class hums, and you give Pierrot a confused look. He refuses to meet your eyes, staring down at the ink dripping from his quill. 

“Good. Begin, then. Pages one-thousand and sixty!”

Pierrot still won’t look at you, though he’s the only one. When you finally turn back to the front of the room, everyone is staring right at you. Everyone. Some only give glances before burying their noses in their textbooks, some outright glare. 

It’s uncomfortable. 

Madame Jean-Marie falls asleep in her chair, as per usual, and the room remains silent. The sound of quills scratching on paper is not as melodious as it usually is, but dissonant, broken by the silences the scholars take when they turn to look at you. Each time the wind blows against the window, each shiver that goes down a spine. 

It lasts for an eternity. The sound of the noon bells could not have come soon enough, and as soon as you’re permitted to stand, you practically drag Pierrot out of the lecture hall by the scruff of his neck. 

“What was that?”

Pierrot laughs, nervously. “What was what?”

“Seriously?”

Even now, standing in the hall, you’re being stared at. Glared at. The whispers are suffocating. Pierrot looks like he’d much rather be in the gallows, now. 

“It’s alright, Gregoire,” a cold voice says from behind you, making Pierrot jump. “And calm yourself. You’ll pop a blood vessel.”

You turn to see Vice President Bou de Neige, his arms crossed over his broad chest, hair pulled behind his shoulders. “I will escort them for today,”

“But-”

“Dismissed,” he says, and puts a firm hand on your shoulder. He guides you away from your poor friend without so much as a smile. 

At least the other students don’t stare when you’re with him. 

“What’s going on?” you ask. 

��Ignore them,” his tone is sharp, demanding. “It’s nothing but superstition. Old wives’ tales.”

He glares at a few dawdling first years, and his hold on your shoulder tightens. 

“What does that have to do with me?”

Bou scoffs. “It’s nothing to concern yourself over. An early winter is regarded by the people of Fleur City as “bad luck”. They think you’ve caused it.”

Unlike Pierrot, who concerns himself far too much with protecting your feelings, Bou de Neige has no problem with pulling the rug out from under you. 

“Excuse me?”

“You are unusual, yes?” he says. “Chaotic. You don’t belong here. They believe you’re causing misfortune. It’s nothing but talk based on centuries’ old superstition. Ignore them.”

He stops you in front of a heavy wooden door, that of your next class, and finally lets go of your shoulder. 

“And if you should need help… Do not ask Gregoire. Come to me,”

Chapter Three

You need to get out. 

You’re not sure where, or how, but you need to get out of here. The bell tower feels suffocating. Smaller. The school is a prison. A beautiful one, but a prison nonetheless. 

Bou’s words meant nothing to you. You wouldn’t have gone to anyone if you needed help, not here. The stares and whispers and sneers and shoves of the students, even of the teachers, would keep you firmly in place, your nice school shoes fused with the tiled floor. 

You just need an afternoon off. Alone. 

That word feels heavy now. Pierrot had once said something to you about the mightiness of the written word, but he never said how to wield it. You would continue letting the other, smarter, better students slash into you until you bled out. You had no other choice. 

And so, you left. Just for the afternoon. For a pastry or juice or something else good with the meek allowance that comes in envelopes signed in the headmaster’s handwriting. 

Anything. 

You had been out of the school before, with Pierrot, once with Clo to get some flour, and so you at least know the way to your favorite spots. 

If you don’t draw attention to yourself, if you pull up the hood of your uniform and act like a Noble Bell student, you can pretend, if only for a fleeting moment, that you belong here. People won’t stare, or sneer, or gossip. Vendors will try to get you to buy their fish and flowers and desserts. Parents with babies will smile at you. 

It’s an illusion, but one you need. Being cooped up inside Noble Bell forever would lead you to madness. 

Your cafe of choice is, mercifully, still open despite the snow. It’s busy inside, selling hot chocolate and coffee for the cold weather, but you don’t mind. The less attention on you, the better. You’re out on the street within minutes, walking aimlessly with a treat in hand and no desire to return to your bell tower before dark. 

It’s funny, you think. For all the insistence that Fleur City is a safe, modern place, you’re warned about going out after dark by everyone you speak to. 

You wonder what else people are lying about. 

You’re thinking of a good place to sit when you hear someone shouting, and it draws you closer. Not out of curiosity, but out of familiarity. That voice…

Outside of an empty bakery and a dark boutique, you see two boys in Noble Bell uniform. They must be first years, judging from their baby faces and their unfamiliarity. You’ve never seen them before, though. Then who-

Something moves on the ground. You hadn’t noticed them before, because their hair is the same color as the snow, and they’re much smaller than the boys. Something in your chest tightens. 

“Hey- get away! Back off!” You shout without thinking, pushing between them and helping Jolie out of the snow. She’s shivering, but not bleeding. You can settle for that. 

The two boys turn to you wide-eyed, but the fear of this unknown mediator turns to something smug when they see that you’re not so unknown after all. 

“It’s them,” one says to the other. “The magicless one. What’re you gonna do, huh?” he shouts back.

You have no answer for that. You shouldn’t have shouted. You should’ve found someone- de Neige or Pierrot or anyone-

The second boy, smaller than the first, follows his lead. “Y-yeah! Mind your own business!”

“You know we could kill you if we wanted to. And you couldn’t even do anything, could you?”

“G-go hide in your tower!”

“Monster!”

“Monster!”

The first takes a step closer, and then the snow stops. The clouds vanish, and sunlight pours over all of you. 

But it’s not sunlight. It’s magic. And it’s still snowing. 

“And what’s going on here?”

The boys fall silent. You look behind yourself, but Jolie is gone, a set of shoeprints in the snow leading away from you. Smart kid. 

You look back. The boys are quiet, stuck in place. “N-nothing, Monsieur Bussiere,” the second one says. 

Phoenix Bussiere scoffs. He’s got that stupid smile on his face again, and his hands on his hips.

“Now, don’t think that just because we’re not on campus, I won’t arrest you. I’m sure President Flamme would be beside himself if he lost the chance to punish you accordingly,”

The two shake their heads. “We didn’t do anything! We were just talking!”

“Lying is a vice, you know,” he chuckles as if he’d said something clever. “I better not catch you two picking fights again. Now, get out of here.”

The boys run off like they’d gotten their tails stepped on, leaving you and Phoenix alone. He smirks. 

“We meet again. You have a way of finding trouble, you know,”

More like trouble has a way of finding you. But oh, well. 

You’re in no place to be ungrateful, after all, he just saved you. Again. It’s just that stupid cocky look he gets… 

“Can I escort you back to campus? Ahem, I mean… may I?”

His one-liners are awful. But you suppose humoring him is the least you could do. He holds out an arm, which you ignore, and you awkwardly walk side-by-side instead. The setting sun casts an orange glow over the city, like fire.

The wind and weather picks up, blowing around you in thick swirls of snow and ice. You have nothing to say. Today has been pretty terrible. And very, very exhausting. You’re not looking forward to how cold the bell tower will be tonight…

You feel something around your shoulders, and you turn sharply to see Phoenix putting his cloak around you. “What are you doing?”

“I’m… being chivalrous,” he says, obviously trying not to smile. He seems very pleased with himself. “It suits me, doesn’t it?”

Ugh. “Sure,”

“You can keep it, if you want. It looks good on you,”

You wouldn’t like to admit it, but with the night ahead, you sort of need it. “...Aren’t these uniform pieces super expensive?”

Phoenix shrugs. 

“My mom will just buy me a new one. I’ll say I lost it,” 

He doesn’t seem particularly worried about that. Or about… Anything, really. The most you’ve seen him care was months ago, when you went still and silent like an idiot because you thought something was following you under the city. He had practically carried you out. 

“Your mom is nice,” you mutter. You don’t know what else to say, really. 

Phoenix scratches his chin, looking ahead with disinterest. “She’s alright. She really wants me to do well here, so she’ll do whatever if I say it’s for class.”

“Doesn’t your dad care?”

“He doesn’t talk much,”

Another silence. You cross one of the bridges back to the school, and he kicks a chunk of ice across the stone path. You can’t stand the quiet. Not with him, of all people. It’s… weird. It’s unlike him. 

“Thank you for the coat,” 

“Hm? Oh, no problem,” he says. “I’m housewarden of La Ville, you know. Knight of the Sun. Chivalry and all that.” 

He says it as if you know what any of that means. You’ll ask Pierrot tomorrow. 

Chapter Four

“Places, everyone, places!”

You look up from your outfit. You’ve been picking at the scratchy fabric all morning. What was this made out of, flour sacks?

It’s nothing like what Jolie had designed for you. No, of course not, because life can’t be easy for you. They just had to run out of gold fabric for the jester outfit everyone else has, and put you in something you’re pretty sure Clodio found floating at the top of the Soleil instead. 

It’s stylish, in a depressing sort of way. 

You adjust the headpiece one final time before the curtain to your changing tent splits at the seams and Pierrot falls in, landing on his rear (and a table… and a vase). Hugo climbs over him with a sigh. 

“Can’t take him anywhere,”

You shake your head. This may be miserable, but at least there’s free entertainment. “Hey, you two. Ready?”

Pierrot gets up, shaking the rope he tripped on off his foot. He’s in uniform today, the red and gold standing out brilliantly against his eyes. Say what you will about the man himself, but Clo knows his way around a stage outfit. 

“As I’ll ever be,” he sighs, brushing shards of porcelain vase off his tights. 

Despite the costumes, the tents and flags and banners, the stage at one end of the courtyard, today is not the Topsy Turvy fest. It’s only a Friday in late October, just after classes, and it’s only a rehearsal. A… test screening of sorts. 

“Don’t be nervous. It’s only for the students,” Pierrot says, perhaps more to himself than to you. “The public won’t see it until the festival itself.”

“The students are what I’m nervous about,” you mutter. 

Hugo eats a flower from the once-was vase off the floor. “You’ll be fine. You don’t even have any lines,”

“Exactly,” Pierrot says. “All you have to do is select some volunteers from the audience to go on stage. You won’t say a word.”

The reassurance feels hollow. You go back to picking at your costume, obviously still grumpy about… well, everything. 

Hugo bleats, and then talks through a mouthful of daisies. “You can’t hide in that bell tower forever, you know,”

“Hugo!” Pierrot scolds. 

“What? Someone has to say it. No one wants to stay cooped up in there forever. Topsy Turvy fest is fun!”

He hums, and scratches his chin. “Mmm… Well, it is an educational experience. Plays, performances, folk music…”

“I was thinking more about the food, but yeah,”

“Oh, of course. The regional cheeses,”

“Mmm,”

“Guys,” you interrupt, drawing their attention back to you. “Let’s just do this.”

Chapter Five

There's more of an audience than you would have liked. 

You watch the students talk and laugh and shout for the play to start from the thin sliver between the curtains, silky and blue, the only thing that separates you from them. 

“See anyone you recognize?” Clo asks, putting the finishing touches on the actors’ costumes behind you. 

You shake your head. “No. Pierrot is backstage, and I don’t see Bou de Neige or Phoenix Bussiere,”

“Ehehe, I’m not surprised. The student council president has a notorious dislike for these events, so they’re likely with him,” he rolls his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “Blind devotion. Isn’t it beautiful?”

You don’t have a response for that. You’re still trying to decide if performing to an audience of strangers is better or worse than to friends. 

Well, sort of friends. 

Acquaintances. 

People you know. 

“Places! Places, everyone!” Clodio shouts, ushering the actors into their spots. Jolie appears at your side, and you force yourself not to panic. 

The music starts. The curtains split open, the dark blue giving way to the gray sky. You stand where you were told to stand, letting the play go on without much care or attention. You’re not listening for anything but your cue. 

How much easier this would have been if you were anywhere but here…

The crowd murmurs and cheers and sings along and seems to be engaging just fine with Pierrot’s “derivative and simple” script, which gives you some assurance. Perhaps, if they’re enjoying the play, they won’t even notice it’s you on stage. 

“And here it is- the moment you’ve been waiting for!” Jolie recites each word with care, a delicacy to pronounce everything correctly, though she likely doesn’t know what she’s actually saying. 

“Now, it’s time to crown the king!”

The actors dance around, swirling in circles that you’d be dizzy watching, if you were in the audience and not here. Jolie calls for volunteers, and you hurry to the edge of the stage, reaching out a hand to the more outgoing people in the crowd. It’s not difficult, but not without some awkwardness. 

Hand after hand, student after student as you move down the stage in a line, waiting for the end of your part with practiced patience. You’re not even watching. 

You were almost done when it happened. 

Of course, you hadn’t been looking. You simply reached into the moving crowd, waiting for a taker, and felt a cold, dry hand slip into yours, almost making you shiver. You could have sworn, feeling that hand in your own, that familiar sense of dread that had been following you for months, in long, quiet halls, in dark places, under the school itself, was with you. 

You force yourself to shake off the feeling, and you help the owner of the hand on stage. 

And then everything goes quiet. 

The music stops. The crowd becomes as still and quiet as the school’s statues. Even the actors have lost character, staring at you with widened eyes, horror etched into their features. 

The owner of this hand has not let go yet. He keeps your hand in his, close to him, his emerald eyes drawn to the touch. 

It’s as if time has stopped. No one speaks. Nothing moves, except for the chest of this boy, which rises and falls with each breath. His fingers twitch, and he tightens his grip around your hand, turning it over so he can see your palm. There’s something familiar about the gesture. A feeling which has no name. 

And then, all at once, he lets go, practically pushing you away from himself, and leaves, clutching his robes in the hand that held yours as he descends the stairs of the stage and vanishes into the school. 

It begins to snow. 

The clouds, darker and thicker, now, breathe wintry death over the courtyard, turning everyone’s heads to the heavens. 

And then hell breaks loose. 

“Get off the stage!”

“Get them out of here!”

“Out!”

“They don’t belong here!”

“Get out of our school!”

“Demon!”

“Monster!”

The crowd pulses, pressing towards the stage like the waves of an angry sea, lapping at your feet. You stumble backwards and nearly crash into the actor behind you, but someone grabs your wrist and keeps you upright. 

“Come with me,”

In a blur of anger and spitting and hissing and shouting, it’s dark again. You’re inside the main building, your home, your prison, under the rich purple and yellows and reds of the stained glass. 

And there’s Phoenix, a beam of light in the dark, pulling you to a standstill by the doors. 

“You’ll be safe. They can’t bother you in here,” he says, releasing your wrist and taking a step back to give you some air. “Are you alright?”

You say nothing. You don’t know. You don’t know anything. And you certainly can’t keep pretending like you do. 

Phoenix looks like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth, he breathes, and then he closes it again. He holds out a hand, and then withdraws it. His blue eyes are darker in the low light of the building. You’re much closer here. Has he always had freckles? That scar over his lip? 

“...I’ll inform Monsieur Diacre of what happened,” 

“That won’t be necessary,” someone calls out from the dark. You both turn, eyes following the tiled floor, the carved columns, the art on the wall, and Bou de Neige comes out of the shadows. 

“I sent word as soon as I was told. This will be dealt with. Bussiere, you are dismissed,”

Phoenix doesn’t look like he wants to leave. “But-”

“You are dismissed,” the vice president repeats himself, his voice colder and sharper than before. Phoenix still hesitates, his mouth open again, glancing to you, then to Bou, and then he closes his mouth and leaves. 

The both of you watch him go, and only when he is gone, does Bou speak. 

“You caused quite a commotion today,”

You look away from him. You know that. Of course you know that. 

de Neige leans closer, trying to meet your eyes again. “You’re not in trouble,”

You have nothing to say to him. To any of them. He’s not an idiot, he knows this. But there’s still something in his expression, the wideness of his eyes, crinkle of his nose, maybe, that’s not unhappy, or cold, or harsh. 

And then he looks away again. 

“I know what you did for that girl. Jolie,”

Your bitter expression breaks instantly, and he holds a hand out to silence you before you can even speak. 

“She and I live in the same part of the city,” he answers your question for you. “I visit my mother every weekend."

This is, perhaps, the most you’d ever heard him talk about himself. When you speak, your voice is softer than you’d meant it to be. “You…”

“Most of the students of Noble Bell College are not here on scholarship. They will never have to worry about not having heat in the winter. Or not knowing when their next meal will be. They purchase their uniforms from boutiques in town, so their mother won’t spend every night for months sewing it for them,” he turns over a side of his cloak as he speaks, running his thumb over the fabric. 

You don’t know what to say. You watch him fidget with his cloak, and then let go of it, his hands going still. 

“Thank you for helping her,” he says. “No one else would have.”

You can suddenly feel the anger, the resentment, the bitterness you’d been holding down for so long, smothering under your foot, under you too-tight, too-perfect shoes like the embers of a fire, swelling in your chest. 

“What do they have against people who are different, anyway?”

Bou looks at you, his eyes softened, but melancholy all the same.

“You can’t right all of the wrongs in the world on your own. I know. I’ve been trying for years,”

You shake your head and look away again, refusing to answer that. He’s right. You know he is. But you don’t want him to be. You want Fleur City, Noble Bell College, to be the modern, safe, perfect place that everyone says it is. You want to believe. 

But you can’t. 

de Neige sighs, and he looks away again. This building; outside of its classrooms and lecture halls, outside of its libraries and crypts, is a museum. A moment of time. The vaulted ceilings, the paintings and statues, the stained glass, the wooden doors, the stone walls, even the bodies inside it, the few students lingering about, trying not to stare at the two of you as they walk the nave, are sacred. 

This is a school. A place of education. Of science. But it wasn’t always that. And you can feel it. You’re sure everyone can. This is a home of scholars who believe that forgoing the past will right it, forgetting their wrongs, burying them under the tiles, smothering them like the flames of a fire, will save them. That absolution comes from repression. 

This place is a grave, and yet it is more alive than it ever has been. 

“You know,” Bou says, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Here, in this very building, students, with… respect, may ask for things. It’s only a tradition, it doesn’t mean anything. Just a way to calm the nerves before exams... But miracles have happened in stranger places.”

You glance at him, and he smiles weakly. It’s a strange look on him. “Maybe it’s true that no one out there can help. But there might be something in here that can,”

He lets go of your shoulder and leaves you there, standing against one of the stone walls of the school, in a quiet, dark room, full of people that are dead and ideas that are more alive than they should be. 

This is ridiculous. 

And yet, you lean against the wall, and you look at the statues, the paintings, the windows. You ask yourself what you’re doing here, and why. You know no one can hear you, and there’s nothing here. Nothing you can see. 

The wind howls outside, beating against the windows and rattling the iron bound doors, and yet it’s warm inside. The chandeliers are lit with candles, casting a golden glow over the floor. You shouldn’t be here, you know. You should have left the second de Neige was out the door. But here you are, anyway. 

The name you have in your mind, what you speak to, is entirely yours to keep. Perhaps it’s nothing at all. Perhaps it’s only yourself. You want to feel as if everything is going to be okay, even if it’s not. 

That's all you can ask for.

“I know I’m only me, and I shouldn’t be here,” you start, only a murmur. “Still, I see this place, and wonder if you’ve been outcasted, too.”

A few students pass you by with their own wants, again trying not to stare at you, you, the magicless student, the misfortune. You’re quiet until they’ve gone. 

“I don’t want anything. I can get by, but I know so many less lucky than I… someone has to help the outcasts, we look for you still. Please help the outcasts, or nobody will,”

The snow has calmed outside, the clouds giving way to the sun, now setting in the west, which reaches its hands through the large windows and colors everything in purples, pinks, yellows, reds and blues. It’s more color than you’d ever seen on Noble Bell campus, and you spend a moment just standing in its light. 

The air feels clearer here. You drink in the sun’s light until the clouds pass over it again, leaving you with nothing but dark, and the feeling of eyes on you. 

You turn around quickly just to see a candelabra crashing to the ground and a flash of black and purple. Somehow, you know just who it is. 

“Wait!”

You call out, running towards the door he’d disappeared into. You follow a narrow flight of stairs, spiraling higher and higher towards the heavens, the twin sister of your home, the southern bell tower. 

You can hear the sound of shoes scuffing on stone ahead of you. The footsteps are quick and lithe, each with precision, as if he’d been up here a million times before.

“Wait, I just want to talk to you!” You shout, coming to a wooden landing, and stopping at a short, rickety set of steps. 

“I’m sorry, if I’d known who you were, I never would’ve pulled you onto… stage.”

Crowning over the steps, at the precipice of the bell tower, is the biggest, most beautiful bell you’ve ever seen in your entire life. It dwarfs the bells you’d become so familiar with, and, quite frankly, no amount of words could do it justice. 

“...Who are you?” you whisper to it, still only halfway over the last step, stuck in place. 

“The Bell of Salvation,” 

Out from behind the bell, like a shy child behind the legs of its mother, he appears. His emerald eyes meet yours for but a moment, lingering, drinking in the sight of you, before he looks away again. 

“The heart of Noble Bell College. Its namesake. Its magic,” he says, looking at the bell with reverence, as if it were something holy. You suppose it is. “I am its keeper.” 

You finish your step, now standing on even ground with him. “You…”

And he looks at you, something not quite hostile, but not quite trusting, either, in his eye. 

“I am Rollo Flamme. Student council president of Noble Bell College,”

You hold onto a wooden beam, as if you might get blown away. You had never been so high up in your own bell tower. “We haven’t met before,”

Rollo stares you down, his emerald eyes lowered, as if he’s waiting for something. When nothing comes, he looks away again. 

“I suppose we haven’t. I apologize for not formally introducing myself. I’ve been… quite busy,” 

“That’s alright,” you say, daring to step a little closer. He looks unsure of you, as if he’s afraid. Or perhaps you make him nervous. But what a silly thought that is…

“I take it you’ve been enjoying your time here?”

Small talk. Not exactly what you’d been looking for after having a breakdown and then chasing him up a bell tower. 

He takes your silence as an answer. “It must be taxing, living amongst mages. I understand,”

You lean against the beam, watching him. His mannerisms, his expression, the way his back is straightened, his head held high. It’s rigid. Unnatural. It’s the perfect image of a Noble Bell student, nonetheless. Proud. Emotionless. Polite. 

“Do you?”

You hadn’t meant for that to come out the way it did. Rollo’s eyes widen, his arms fall to his sides, and he says nothing. He just looks at you. Your question lingers in the air, making it heavy with unspoken things. 

“Yes. I do,” 

The setting sun paints the sky with reds and oranges, colors too bright and too violent for a moment like this. It’s quiet. And cold. You look at him again. 

“I'm a monster here,”

Again, you hadn’t meant for it to sound that way. You were only reciting what people had been calling you, treating you as, since you stepped foot on this little island at the heart of the city. Rollo doesn’t take it as such. 

“Come with me,” he says, and you follow. 

Your hands curl around the wooden banister that separates you and him from the sky at the edge of the bell tower. You can see far over the city, the river, glimmering in the light of the setting sun, and the sky, purple and orange and yellow and blue, sparkling with stars, alight with color and life not unlike the window you’d been standing under earlier. 

You exhale, your breath visible in the chill. “It’s beautiful,”

“I think so as well,” Rollo says, though he’s looking at you, not the sky. “I come here when I want to be alone.”

“I could stay here forever,”

“You could,” 

You’re drawn back to him, and he returns your gaze. His hair, white, but tinted dark purple from the light of the sky, flutters around his face in the wind. The ribbon of his hat is stuck over his shoulder, and his robes are tousled. The cold has turned his pale face a little pink. He looks… unkempt, almost. Nothing like one would expect from the student council president of a place like this. It’s almost comforting. 

“I can’t,” you finally say, looking at your hands, dry and cracked from the cold wind. “I don’t belong here. I’m a monster, remember?”

Rollo finally lets his eyes rest on the island, the river, and the city beyond. The sky is dark now, purple with early evening. 

“You’re not,”

“How can you say that?” you ask, leaning against the banister. “Everyone loves you. They all talk about how great you are. You’re respected. You’re admired. You belong here…”

For whatever reason, that seems to strike a nerve with him. His nose wrinkles and lips go tight, as if he’d tasted something sour, and he turns to face you fully. 

“I don’t care for what they think. You’re not a monster,” he says. 

His conviction, the look in his eyes, dark yet warm like the dying embers of a fire, forces your silence. And yet, he says nothing more. He, again, stares at the city, but there’s something different in him now. Something secret. Something bitter. Even you can feel it. He parts his lips again, breathing in the cold air, his brow still knotted with frustration. 

“And perhaps they’re wrong about the both of us.”

tag list!! :]

@darling-5yndrome @moonyasnow

[queermania]

you know, i really meant it when i said i'm not going to hold a knife to the throats of the people that are ultimately on my side. i don't hope that you suffer from the policies you've chosen to enable. i don't hope you "get what's coming to you" or any other disgusting thing i've seen people saying. i don't believe in punitive cruelty. i genuinely hope that, miracle of all miracles, trump's presidency somehow manages to be a net positive for everyone. i would love to have egg on my face about him. i don't want anyone to suffer and i'm not going to fight you.

but i'm also not going to take you seriously anymore either. so you didn't vote for kamala harris. okay. what did you do? did you vote for any of the ballot measures? any of the local elections? did you vote in the primary? in the midterms? any election at all? did you do any organizing or campaigning for any of the changes you want to see at all? did you go to a single town hall or city council meeting? are you subscribed to your reps' newsletters? what about your library's? did you go to a protest? have you contacted any of your reps about anything? via email? phone? written letter? fax? did you donate to a single cause–palestine, ukraine, the sudan, abortion funds, LGBT organizations, etc? have you done anything at all besides spread misery and gloat from your very tiny high horse that you are okay with sacrificing everybody's life, including palestinians, as long as you don't personally have to feel bad about it?

i haven't blocked you yet and i cropped your name out but i obviously know who you are. if you can provide a single shred of evidence that you personally have done any one of these things before the timestamp of whenever i end up posting this, i will give you my entire rent for november, no questions asked. you don't even have to use it to donate to a cause you clearly care so much about. you can spend it on candy. and i'm talking anything at all–did you donate a single dollar to esims six months ago? good enough. sign up for a newsletter relevant to your community? great! my rent is yours.

like i said, i don't wish you ill. but i am done treating political rubberneckers who criticize me for my imperfect triage as anything other than children throwing a tantrum. if you want to be taken seriously, fucking do something.

[fictionadventurer]

First Letter from Julia I. Sand to Chester A. Arthur

[1881 Aug 27]

To the Hon Chester A. Arthur.

The hours of Garfield's life are numbered--before this meets your eye, you may be President. The people are bowed in grief; but--do you realize it?--not so much because he is dying, as because you are his successor. What President ever entered office under circumstances so sad! The day he was shot, the thought rose in a thousand minds that you might be the instigator of the foul act. Is not that a humiliation which cuts deeper than any bullet can pierce? Your best friends said: "Arthur must resign--he cannot accept office, with such a suspicion resting upon him." And now your kindest opponents say: "Arthur will try to do right"--adding gloomily--"He won't succeed, though--making a man President cannot change him."

But making a man President can change him! At a time like this, if anything can, that can. Great emergencies awaken generous traits which have lain dormant half a life. If there is a spark of true nobility in you, now is the occasion to let it shine. Faith in your better nature forces me to write to you--but not to beg you to resign. Do what is more difficult and more brave. Reform! It is not the proof of highest goodness never to have done wrong--but it is a proof of it, sometime in one's career, to pause and ponder, to recognize the evil, to turn resolutely against it and devote the remainder of ones life to that only which is pure and exalted. Such revolutions of the soul are not common. No step towards them is easy. In the humdrum drift of daily life, they are impossible. But once in a while there comes a crisis which renders miracles feasible. The great tidal wave of sorrow which has rolled over the country, has swept you loose from your old moorings and set you on a mountain-top, alone. As President of the United States--made such by no election, but by a national calamity--you have no old associations, no personal friends, no political ties, you have only your duty to the people at large. You are free--free to be as able and as honorable as any man who ever filled the presidential chair.

Your past--you know best what it has been. You have lived for worldly things. Fairly or unfairly, you have won them. You are rich, powerful--tomorrow, perhaps, you will be President. And what is it all worth? Are you peaceful--are you happy? What if a few days hence the hand of the next unsatisfied ruffian should lay you low, and you should drag through months of weary suffering, in the White House, knowing that all over the land not a prayer was uttered in your behalf, not a tear shed, that the great American people was glad to be rid of you--would not worldly honors seem rather empty then?

Make such things impossible. Rise to the emergency. Disappoint our fears. Force the nation to have faith in you. Show from the first that you have none but the purest aims. It may be difficult at once to inspire confidence, but persevere. In time--when you have given reason for it--the country will love and trust you. If any man says, "With Arthur for President, Civil Service Reform is doomed," prove that Arthur can be its firmest champion. Do not thrust on the people politicians who have forfeited their respect--no matter how near they may be to you as personal friends. Do not remove any man from office unnecessarily. Appoint those only of marked ability and of sterling character. Such may not be abundant, but you will find them, if you seek them. You are far too clever to be easily deceived. In all your policy, have none but the highest motives. With the lamp of patriotism in your hand, your feet will not be likely to stumble.

Do you care for applause? Of course, you have had it, after a fashion. Perhaps from the dregs of the populace, inspired by the lowest of politicians. Possibly it pleased you at the time--it may have served some purpose that you solved then. But in the depths of your soul, do you not despise it? Would not one heart-felt "God bless you!" from the honest and true among your countrymen, be worth ten thousand times more? You can win such blessing, if you will.

Your name now is on the annals of history. You cannot slink back into obscurity, if you would. A hundred years hence, school boys will recite your name in the list of Presidents and tell of your administration. And what shall posterity say? It is for you to choose whether your record shall be written in black or in gold. For the sake of your country, for your own sake and for the sakes of all who have ever loved you, let it be pure and bright.

As one of the people over whom you are to be President, I make you this appeal. Perhaps you have received many similar. If not, still believe that this expresses the thoughts in many hearts, today--and do not give those who have had faith in you, cause for regret.

Yours Respectfully,

Julia I. Sand.

46 E. 74th st. New York.

Aug 27th 1881.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

August 20, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Aug 21, 2024

At Chicago’s United Center today, the delegates at the Democratic National Convention reaffirmed last week’s online nomination of Kamala Harris for president. The ceremonial roll-call vote featured all the usual good natured boasting from the delegates about their own state’s virtues, a process that reinforces the incredible diversity and history of both this land and its people. The managers reserved the final slots for Minnesota and California—the home states of Democratic vice presidential candidate Tim Walz and presidential candidate Kamala Harris, respectively—to put the ticket over the top. 

When the votes had been counted, Harris joined the crowd virtually from a rally she and Walz were holding at the Fiserv Forum in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Last month the Republicans held their own national convention in that venue, and for Harris to accept her nomination in the same place was an acknowledgement of how important Wisconsin will be in this election. But it also meant that Trump, who is obsessed with crowd sizes, would have to see not one but two packed sports arenas of supporters cheer wildly for her nomination. 

He also had to contend with former loyalists and supporters joining the Democratic convention. His former press secretary, Stephanie Grisham, told the Democratic convention tonight that when the cameras are off, “Trump mocks his supporters. He calls them basement dwellers.” Grisham endorsed Harris, saying: “I love my country more than my party. Kamala Harris tells the truth. She respects the American people and she has my vote.”

Trump spoke glumly to a small crowd today at the Livingston County Sheriff’s Office in Howell, Michigan. 

It was almost exactly twenty years ago, on July 27, 2004, that 43-year-old Illinois state senator Barack Obama, who was, at the time, running for a seat in the U.S. Senate, gave the keynote address to that year’s Democratic National Convention. It was the speech that began his rise to the presidency.

Like the Democrats who spoke last night, Obama talked in 2004 of his childhood and recalled how his parents had “faith in the possibilities of this nation.” And like Biden last night, Obama said that “in no other country on earth, is my story even possible.” The nation’s promise, he said, came from the human equality promised in the Declaration of Independence.

“That is the true genius of America,” Obama said, “a faith in the simple dreams of its people, the insistence on small miracles.” He called for an America “where hard work is rewarded.” “[I]t's not enough for just some of us to prosper,” he said, “[f]or alongside our famous individualism, there's another ingredient in the American saga.”

He described that ingredient as “[a]belief that we are connected as one people. If there's a child on the south side of Chicago who can't read, that matters to me, even if it's not my child. If there's a senior citizen somewhere who can't pay for her prescription and has to choose between medicine and the rent, that makes my life poorer, even if it's not my grandmother. If there's an Arab American family being rounded up without benefit of an attorney or due process, that threatens my civil liberties. It's that fundamental belief—I am my brother's keeper, I am my sister's keeper—that makes this country work. It's what allows us to pursue our individual dreams, yet still come together as a single American family. ‘E pluribus unum.’ Out of many, one.”

Obama emphasized Americans’ shared values and pushed back against “those who are preparing to divide us, the spin masters and negative ad peddlers who embrace the politics of anything goes.” He reached back into history to prove that “the bedrock of this nation” is “the belief that there are better days ahead.” He called that belief “[t]he audacity of hope.”

Almost exactly twenty years after his 2004 speech, the same man, now a former president who served for eight years, spoke at tonight’s Democratic National Convention. But the past two decades have challenged his vision.

When voters put Obama into the White House in 2008, Republicans set out to make sure they couldn’t govern. Mitch McConnell (R–KY) became Senate minority leader in 2007 and, using the filibuster, stopped most Democratic measures by requiring 60 votes to move anything to a vote. 

In 2010 the Supreme Court handed down the Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission decision, declaring that corporations and other outside groups could spend as much money as they wanted on elections. Citizens United increased Republican seats in legislative bodies, and in the 2010 midterm elections, Republicans packed state legislatures with their own candidates in time to be in charge of redistricting their states after the 2010 census.  Republicans controlled the key states of Florida, Wisconsin, North Carolina, Ohio, and Michigan, as well as other, smaller states, and after the election, they used precise computer models to win previously Democratic House seats.

In the 2012 election, Democrats won the White House decisively, the Senate easily, and a majority of 1.4 million votes for House candidates. Yet Republicans came away with a thirty-three-seat majority in the House of Representatives. And then, with the 2013 Shelby County v. Holder decision, the Supreme Court gutted the Voting Rights Act, making it harder to protect Democratic voters.

As the Republicans skewed the mechanics of government to favor themselves, their candidates no longer had to worry they would lose general elections but did have to worry about losing primaries to more extreme challengers. So they swung farther and farther to the right, demonizing the Democrats until finally those who remain Republicans have given up on democracy altogether. 

Tonight’s speech echoed that of 2004 by saying that America’s “central story” is that “we are all created equal,” and describing Harris and Walz as hardworking people who would use the government to create a fair system. He sounded more concerned today than in 2004 about political divisions, and reminded the crowd: “The vast majority of us do not want to live in a country that’s bitter and divided,” he said. “We want something better. We want to be better. And the joy and the excitement that we’re seeing around this campaign tells us we’re not alone,” he said. 

And then, in his praise for his grandmother, “a little old white lady born in a tiny town called Peru, Kansas,” and his mother-in-law, Marion Robinson, a Black woman from the South Side of Chicago, he brought a new emphasis on ordinary Americans, especially women, who work hard, sacrifice for their children, and value honesty, integrity, kindness, helping others, and hard work. 

They wanted their children to “do things and go places that they would’ve never imagined for themselves.” “Whether you’re a Democrat or a Republican or somewhere in between,” he said, “we have all had people like that in our lives:... good hardworking people who weren’t famous or powerful but who managed in countless ways to leave this country just a little bit better than they found it.” 

If President Obama emphasized tonight that the nation depends on the good will of ordinary people, it was his wife, former first lady Michelle Obama, who spoke with the voice of those people and made it clear that only the American people can preserve democracy.  

In a truly extraordinary speech, perfectly delivered, Mrs. Obama described her mother as someone who lived out the idea of hope for a better future, working for children and the community. “She was glad to do the thankless, unglamorous work that for generations has strengthened the fabric of this nation,” Mrs. Obama said, “the belief that if you do unto others, if you love thy neighbor, if you work and scrape and sacrifice, it will pay off. If not for you, then maybe for your children or your grandchildren.”

Unlike her husband, though, Mrs. Obama called out Trump and his allies, who are trying to destroy that worldview. “No one has a monopoly on what it means to be an American,” she said. “No one.” “[M]ost of us will never be afforded the grace of failing forward,” she said. “We will never benefit from the affirmative action of generational wealth. If we bankrupt a business…or choke in a crisis, we don't get a second, third, or fourth chance. If things don't go our way, we don't have the luxury of whining or cheating others to get further ahead…we don't get to change the rules so we always win. If we see a mountain in front of us, we don’t expect there to be an escalator waiting to take us to the top. No, we put our heads down. We get to work. In America, we do something."

And then Mrs. Obama took up the mantle of her mother, warning that demonizing others and taking away their rights, “only makes us small.” It “demeans and cheapens our politics. It only serves to further discourage good, big-hearted people from wanting to get involved at all. America, our parents taught us better than that.” 

It is “up to us to be the solution that we seek.” she said. She urged people to “be the antidote to the darkness and division.” “[W]hether you’re Democrat, Republican, Independent, or none of the above,” she said, “this is our time to stand up for what we know. In our hearts is right. Not just for our basic freedoms, but for decency and humanity, for basic respect. Dignity and empathy. For the values at the very foundation of this democracy.”

“Don’t just sit around and complain. Do something.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[recentadultburnout]

The meaning of characters' names in (mostly BL) Thai series

I do a "Name's Meaning" post for some (most) of the series before I watch them, so if there is an explanation in the story and I get something wrong, do tell.

KinnPorsche

Star in My Mind

Triage

Manner Of Death

Until We Meet Again

Love Mechanics

2Moons

The Gifted

The Miracle of Teddy Bear

Vice Versa

Bad Buddy

The Eclipse

Love In the Air

Not Me

180 Degree Longitude Passes Through Us

Khun chai + Extra

Big Dragon

I will knock you

GAP

Never let me go

My School President

10 Years Ticket

Cutie pie

Moonlight Chicken

Midnight Museum

A boss and a babe

Bed friend

Past-Senger

Step by step

Be My Favorites

La Pluie

A tale of thousand star

Hidden Agenda

Laws of Attraction

Tonhon Chonlatee

Dangerous Romance

I Feel You Linger In the Air + Por Jom

Absolute Zero

Shadow

Last Twilight

My Dear Gangster Oppa

The Whisperer

Cooking Crush

Dead Friend Forever

You're My Sky

To be continued

Wandee goodday

Memory in the Letter

My Marvellous Dream Is You

Two worlds

Spare Me Your Mercy (2024)

Main Index

[kfkr1ze]

[002-A27] your deeds are your monuments

Summary — ✈︎ Kafka explains to the students why they were chosen as candidates for Ward Mayors. Then, the long awaited report card grades are announced.

Characters— ✈︎ Sakujiro, Ushio, Nanaki, Kiroku, Muneuji, Akuta, Kafka

Location: Hama Asunaro High School Community Revitalization Club Room

Sakujiro: Thank you for your detailed explanation, President. Now, let us move on to the announcement of the highly anticipated results.

Your grades were determined by two grading systems. One being “relative grading” based on a 5 point system, and the other being “perspective grading” which were given letter grades. Your overall grade was decided based on the combination of the two.

There were around 10 categories you were assessed in.

“Joy of Service”, “Service Spirit”, “Hospitality”, “Ambition”, “Physical Strength”, “Mental Strength”.

“Communication Skills”, “Composure”, “Empathy”, and most importantly… “Ability to Respond to Accidents”. I believe that one was one you all felt severely on this trip.

Kiroku & Akuta & Nanaki: ………

Muneuji & Ushio: ………

Sakujiro: Each of the items I mentioned have around 108 sub-categoriesーー

Kaede: A-Around 108!?

Kafka: Sakujiro, you don’t have to go that far. Just hurry up with the announcement. I don’t think they can take the suspense anymore.

Sakujiro: Understood. I will now begin distributing the report cards with all the details outlined. When I call your name, please come forward.

Kurama Ushio-kun.

Ushio: Pyah! M-Me…?

Muneuji: You got so surprised you got called first that you accidentally bit your own tongue, didn’t you, Uu-chan?

Ushio: Shut up… Ow… Yes, here!

Sakujiro: Out of all 5 of you present, you were one of the least motivated on this trip. Do you have any objections?

Ushio: None.

Sakujiro: Indeed. The area you had most difficulty in would be your lack of “Ambition”.

Ushio: ‘Kay. Guess that means I failed. So unfortunate. Bye.

Sakujiro: No. Please allow me to finish.

Although you received a low score in “Ambition”, you did receive a high score in a different category. That would be “Service Spirit”.

Ushio: …Hah? I did?

Sakujiro: We heard from various people at the food stall you were in charge of. Things like, “Although his attitude could use some work, he ended up working very hard.”

You assisted with various little things, paid attention to details many would overlook, and were considerate… Everyone was pleasantly surprised, despite how your attitude seemed.

Ushio: ………

Sakujiro: And with that, you passed.

Ushio: Eh…?

Akuta: You did it, Ushio!! You’re the first one that passed! Gimme your report card, I wanna see!

Nanaki: Wow… Miracles really do exist. I thought for sure that you’d fail.

Kiroku: …grat…lations…

Muneuji: Congratulations, Uu-chan.

Ushio: …Tch. …Just shut up.

Sakujiro: Kinugawa Kiroku-kun.

Kiroku: ! ………… He…re.

Muneuji: Calm down, Kinugawa. Imagine him as a potato.

Kiroku: …tato……

Sakujiro: Your face is extremely pale. It is alright. Gather yourself.

Kiroku: ………

Sakujiro: I am sure in your case, this goes without saying, but your weakest point would be your “Communication Skills”.

Kiroku: ………

Sakujiro: Of course with Chief, as well as myself, the other students, and Gannosuke-san as wellーー

You could not communicate properly with most other people. In addition to that, although it managed to get displayed, the lantern you created remained unfinished.

Kiroku: ………

Sakujiro: However, you possess a strong sense of self. You have a unique worldview that no one else has.

You scored high in “Ambition”. You are very mentally strong, Kinugawa-kun.

Kiroku: ……Eh?

Sakujiro: And you also scored high in “Physical Strength”. You displayed incredible resolve while working on your art. Gannosuke-san laughed when saying, “He is a creator to his core.”

For those reasons, you have passed.

Kiroku: ーー………

Akuta: I THOUGHT SOOOOO!! I KNEW YOU WERE GONNA PASS SINCE THE BEGINNINGGGG!! Right!?

Muneuji: I did as well. With a talent such as yours, it would be impossible not to pass.

Ushio: Huuh? Buddha Statue ended up passing too. …Boring.

Kiroku: ………

Kiroku: ……!

Nanaki: You did it.

Kiroku: ……ank… you…

Sakujiro: Nanamegi Nanaki-kun.

Nanaki: Heeere.

Sakujiro: You did a splendid job at creating a song for the summer festival. Not only did you make it yourself, but you also operated all the equipment on your own as well.

While we did not have anyone to give a personal account on your work, we found there was no need for that anyways. 

The large audience that you gathered serves as proof of that. Your strong points would be your “Empathy” and “Joy of Service”.

Nanaki: Service?

Sakujiro: Music is created to be listened to by others, even if it was made with self-serving purposes. 

The pursuit of how to move people’s emotions… That in itself can be said to be the very essence of serving others.

Nanaki: …I think that’s a stretch though.

Sakujiro: Not at all. In fact, it is because those feelings are so strong that your mind is weak.

For all the reasons stated above, your weakest point would be your “Mental Strength”. Please do try to improve that in the future.

ーーYou have passed.

Nanaki: ………

Akuta: That’s crazy! I wasn’t worried that you’d fail at all, but I’m so glad you passed!

Kiroku: ……Cong……

Ushio: Sensei, what is this? Is this rigged or something ? At this rate, everyone’s gonna pass.

Sakujiro: I graded everyone based on a specific set of criteria. There are no biases in the results in the slightest.

Muneuji: That’s correct. So don’t look so upset, Nanamegi. Hold your head up high.

Nanaki: I’m not too satisfied with my results but… it’s whatever.

Sakujiro: Next up is Kaguya Muneuji-kun.

Muneuji: Present. 

Sakujiro: As for your grade, Kaguya-kun, there was little room for error. We have no complaints. You passed.

If we were to lay out a visual diagram with everyone’s results fully spread out, it is certain that your results would fill the greatest amount of area.

The most particular point to mention would be your “Calmness”. Perhaps it is due to your experience as the current vice-president of the student council. Your keen perspective was on par with that of us adults.

If I were to pick a weak point of yours, I would have to say that would be your “empathy”. Particularly, this is due to your stoic nature. Do you perhaps have a tendency to draw a line between yourself and reality to observe from a distance?

Muneuji: !

Sakujiro: “Empathy” is not just the ability to understand another’s emotions, but it is also about having someone share these emotions with yourself. You should allow yourself to share your destiny with others.

Muneuji: …Thank you very much.

Akuta: WOWW～～！ That’s amazing! He said there’s nothing to complain about! You’re so cool, with that charismatic helmet of yours!

Ushio: Well, it’s only natural you passed.

Nanaki: That helmet of yours is probably your only weak point.

Kiroku: …Cong……tions.

Muneuji: Thank you. And thank you, Uu-chan, for being even prouder of me than I am.

Ushio: …Obviously I would be.

Sakujiro: Last up, Isotake Akuta-kun.

Akuta: HEEEEEEEEEERE!!!

Ushio: Gh… My fucking eardrums are gonna burst…!

Sakujiro: Isotake-kun, in your caseーー

Due to your low score, you have failed.

Akuta: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaayyーー Eh…

Akuta: Huh?

Kaede: (Huh!?)

Previous — ✈︎ Masterlist — ✈︎ Next

[jinitak]

An analysis of some BL logos

[Adapted from something I wrote in Thai]

Last Twilight

The logo uses an opacity gradient for the characters, the characters would gradually fade, both the Thai and English title, with the word "twilight" being the only word to not fade. The fade probably represents Day's losing vision, with twilight being the only word that is not fading, might be a representation of the Last Twilight (book in the series), where twilight is the last fleeting moments where the body doesn't fade away.

Only Friends

[I think I'm kinda bullshiting this part]

The logo of this series replicates the neon sign of the YOLO pub, the centre of the story, the purple probably symbolises queerness. The size of the word "only" symbolises one of the core ideas of the story, in an attempt the balance sexual desire and friendship, their relationship became so entangled and complicated that they can't be "only" friends anymore.

My School President

The san-serif characters used in the logo is an attempt at replicating children's handwriting, as such the characters have a messy and uneven look, but make no mistake, the characters are expertly done, the space and shape of character fit with each other for the most part, despite the different stroke widths and typographical tradition. The colours used are cyan, greenish yellow and white, all real chalk colours you would find in schools. The finishing touch of the heart in lieu of the negative space in the ธ of the word "president" indicating the love of Gun for Tinn is such a good way to show the series easy going, puppy love and a slight playfulness.

The Eclipse

คาธ "Khat" (The Thai title) means catching or swallowing, used in the context of natural occurrences such as a solar eclipse สุริยคาธ "Suriyakhat" (alternative form of สุริยคราส "Suriyakhrat," the word for solar eclipse), symbolising the story of Rahu swallowing the sun or moon during a eclipse. Therefore it is not surprising that the logo's background is a sun during an eclipse with the title written out in a san-serif font with the terminals being rounded into an angle. The text is made to look like an eclipse as well. The style of the text probably symbolises the authoritarian nature of Thai schools, the fact that they used a modern style of lettering (san-serif) is probably a symbol that authoritarianism still exists in Thai school, even if the edge is dulled a bit with insubstantial reform.

1000 Stars

The thread that links Tian and Phupha is Torfun's diary, the usage of handwritten style of text for the title symbolises this thread well. The show's creators have made a wise decision of not incorporating any stars into the logo as the stars are of lesser importance to the story. The stars counting wish could not make Phupha and Tian's love suddenly appear, their love happened on their own, not by some divine miracle. Using stars for the logo would only be a visual wordplay, rather than emphasising the essence of the story

[cruger2984]

THE DESCRIPTION OF OUR LADY OF PROMPT SUCCOR The Patroness of New Orleans and the State of Louisiana Feast Day: January 8

The French Ursuline nuns first arrived in Louisiana in 1727. The nuns established a convent and founded what is the oldest school for girls in the territory of the modern-day U.S., Ursuline Academy, which educated the children of European colonists, Native Americans, and those of the local Creole people, slave or free. The Spanish sisters came to assist the growing school in 1763 after Louisiana fell under Spanish control.

In 1800, the territory came back under French possession, and in 1803, most of the sisters, fearing the anti-clerical sentiment of the French Revolution, fled to Havana, Cuba. When Louisiana passed into the control of the United States, the sisters sent the President a letter asking if their property rights would be honored by the new government.

Short of teachers, Mother Saint Andre Madier requested sisters from France to come to America to aid the struggling convent. She wrote to her cousin, Mother Saint Michel Gensoul, who was running a Catholic girls boarding school in France at the time. The Catholic Church was suffering the wrath of the revolution under Napoleon. Mother Saint Michel, knowing that the Church was in distress in both her homeland and abroad, approached Bishop Fournier of Montpelier to request a transfer. Bishop Fournier felt unable to afford the loss of another nun, as many had been killed or fled during the revolution, and advised Mother St. Michel that only the Pope could give this authorization.

Pope Pius VII was a prisoner of Napoleon at the time, and Mother St. Michel knew the unlikelihood of the Pope even receiving her letter. She prayed before a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary and said: "O most Holy Virgin Mary, if you obtain for me a prompt and favorable answer to this letter, I promise to have you honored at New Orleans under the title of Our Lady of Prompt Succor."

Sending her petition on March 19, 1809, Mother St. Michel received a letter from the Pope Pius VII granting her request on April 29, 1809. Mother St. Michel commissioned a statue of the Virgin Mary holding the Infant Jesus. The workman carved her flowing robes so that she would appear to be moving quickly. Bishop Fournier blessed the statue and Mother St. Michel's work.

Many miracles have been attributed to the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary under the title of Our Lady of Prompt Succor. Two historical events are especially associated with the Virgin. The first occurred in 1812 during the eruption of a great fire in New Orleans devastating the Vieux Carré. The Ursuline convent was facing imminent destruction as the winds blew the terrible fire toward the Plaza de Armas.

An order was given to evacuate the convent, however at that moment, a nun named Sr. St. Anthony (Marthe Delatre, daughter of Antoine Delatre) placed a small statue of Our Lady of Prompt Succor on a window seat and Mother St. Michel began to pray aloud, "Our Lady of Prompt Succor, we are lost unless you hasten to our aid!"

The second major miracle occurred in 1815, three years after the disastrous fire. General Andrew Jackson's 6,000 American troops faced 15,000 British soldiers on the plains of Chalmette. On the eve of the Battle of New Orleans, New Orleans residents joined the Ursuline sisters at their convent in the French Quarter to pray throughout the night, imploring the help of Our Lady of Prompt Succor.

On the morning of January 8, the Very Rev. William Dubourg, Vicar General, offered Mass at the altar on which the statue of Our Lady of Prompt Succor had been placed. Cannon fire could be heard from the chapel. The Prioress of the Ursuline convent, Mother Ste. Marie Olivier de Vezin, made a vow to have a Mass of Thanksgiving sung annually should the American forces win. At the very moment of communion, a courier ran into the chapel to inform all those present that the British had been defeated. They had become confused by a fog and wandered into a swamp.

The Mass ended with the singing of the Te Deum, and an annual Mass of Thanksgiving has been held January 8 ever since.

Pious believers of New Orleans pray before the statue of Our Lady of Prompt Succor, asking for her intercession whenever a hurricane threatens the city. During hurricane season, prayers are said at every Mass in the city during the Prayers of the Faithful requesting Our Lady of Prompt Succor's intercession and protection. After Hurricane Katrina, prayers were made to Our Lady of Prompt Succor asking for the quick recovery of the damaged city and surrounding area.

On June 13, 1928 - the feast of St. Anthony of Padua, Pope Pius XI declared the Blessed Virgin Mary, under the title of Our Lady of Prompt Succor as the Patroness of Louisiana.

[baeinhyuks]

Miracle: Letters to the President (2023)

dir.  Lee Jang-Hoon

[riverofrainbows]

Called my delegates (you can do that apparently). I had already sent letters (emails) too. About the new version of the self id law in Germany.

Active citizen check. Honestly this worked better than i thought.

One of them even confirmed that the delegate in question is already sure about voting yes on the new version of it.

(the other one didn't because the delegate is part of the conservative christian party in germany (the more conservative version of it too). But the office person there was really nice and is apparently aware and supportive, and we had a short chat.)

The issue is not that the law passes (that's pretty likely, it's been ruled to be necessary by the EU court too, and it's in the coalition contract).

No the issue is that by a benevolent miracle they took out the very concerning part of it that would allow the government to comprise lists of every trans person in germany (and we all know why that's not a good idea). And it's on the last voting round in parlament. And we need it to pass parlament like this.

(It's less of an issue for it to get toppled in the Bundesrat after it already passed there, and the president (who could veto it at the end if he thinks it's against the constitution) usually doesn't do that (and again it's been ruled to need to happen on EU level because the previous law is against the constitution and it's in the coalition contract).

[smaller-comfort]

April 14, 2006

(Behind the altar, brightly backlit, bored with bondage, and Unamused, the pornographic Christ presides. Embarrassed, I avert my eyes from his withered figure, high on the wall.)

We gather to hear, in this hallowed space, Of the vacant vault where their savior was. No body there, only hidden hope, wrapped in ragged rolls of cloth. Is faith so simple: a hollow tomb? My grave overflows, filled with bones.

And yet, faithless, I feel I am never more at home than in the house of god, when our offerings echo in the emptiness.

Who will hear our halleluiahs?

The angled apse lit with spotlights draws my drifting eyes upward. I lose myself in lines and silence; I will not wonder at the deafness of angels, nor the cold comfort of an open tomb.

The sermon is short, a small blessing; little miracles mean more to me than sacrifice and faceless Fathers.

Outside, against the outbursting onset of spring, the snow recedes in the sun, revealing letters in the leaves of drooping daffodils. A crocus calls out, commanding me to read what is written: "Resurrection time." I believe in nothing, if not in this.

[devonico]

(  ★  ) FREE CONTENT.

In the source you’ll find a payhip link ( PAY WHAT YOU WANT ) to #111 medium gifs of IM YOONA ( 1990, south-korean ) as song rahee in MIRACLE: LETTERS TO THE PRESIDENT ( 2021 )

A reblog would be much appreciated. Any updates will not change the price.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Today in Christian History

Today is Thursday, April 20th, the 110th day of 2023. There are 255 days left in the year.

Today’s Highlight in History:

1479: Death of Alexander who founded the Orthodox monastery of Oshevensk, experienced miracles, and was a notable spiritual counselor.

1529: At the Second Diet of Speyer, the term “Protestant” is first applied to participants of the Reformation. The term was taken from the Protestatio, a statement by the reformers challenging the imperial stance on religion.

1558: Death of Johannes Bugenhagen, a leading Lutheran reformer, a professor at the University of Wittenberg, and the pastor of the city church there. Bugenhagen had helped Luther with his German Bible translation as well as translating the Bible into Low German himself.

1653: Cromwell dissolves the Rump Parliament, so-called because it consisted of only a few representatives who still remained. Cromwell lectures them on their vices and their uselessness, saying he is doing this at God’s command: “Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. Go!”

1676: Death of Baptist minister John Clarke, a founding father of Rhode Island, and the agent who obtained the colony’s charter from King Charles II in 1663.

1898: C.H. Spurgeon’s London tabernacle burns down. Efforts to rebuild it commence at once.

1962: Theologian Karl Barth is featured on the cover of Time magazine.

1988: Wilson Rajil Sabiya, a Lutheran theologian, writes a letter to General Ibrahim Babangida, President and Commander-in-chief of the Armed Forces of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, alerting him to Muslim efforts to make Nigeria an Islamic country by infiltrating the police force.

2001: A Peruvian Air Force aircraft shoots down a private airplane carrying missionaries, killing Veronica Bowers and her infant daughter, Charity.