#Most historians barely pay attention to her beyond that

[wonder-worker]

“Studies of Elizabeth Woodville […] have been hampered by the continuing fascination with her brother-in-law, Richard III. The Ricardian [and Yorkist] apologetic is now largely dependent upon the argument that the Woodville family posed such a threat to Richard of Gloucester, and the kingdom as a whole, that Gloucester had little option but to take the throne from his Woodville-dominated nephew. Although this argument has [irregularly] been contested, a reassessment of the queen's role in 1483 has not yet been attempted. Michael Bennett, in his 1987 account [...] still dismissed her as `an inveterate intriguer, capable in her vanity and fecklessness of some remarkable shifts and turns'. But more often she is scarcely mentioned in general histories of the period.”

-J.L. Laynesmith, “English Queenship 1445-1503” (thesis for the degree of DPhil in Medieval Studies, University of York, Centre for Medieval Studies, April 1999)

[silma-words]

Another prompt for Adrian and MC...

Number 5 / "say please"

not sure how you want to take this one, but I thought the smut could be next level... have fun! 😂

N/A: Omg I cannot thank you enough for this prompt @mssukeyna! This was so much fun, and a great prompt to push me a little out of my comfort zone! I literally woke up 2h earlier every day so that I could write more before work ;) I hope you’ll like it!

~~~~~

Choices: Bloodbound

Pairing: Adrian Raines x MC (Ellie)

Rating: Explicit (NSFW, 18+)

Genre: Smut.Smut.Smut

AU Chronology: Bloodbound AU (after book 1 – the events of book 2 never happened) – ‘Inevitable - Arc I: Before we part’ (Masterlist)

Summary: “We are travelling for business, Ellie, we’ll have to behave like professionals”, he had warned her, although he did not look so convinced about it himself….

Inspired by the following nsfw-prompts: #5. for sex in public / “say please”

Words: 4200

**Disclaimer: Characters and background plot are the property of Pixelberry.**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Down to business (Part I?)

Getting to travel was one of the perks Ellie enjoyed the most about her job as the CEO’s personal assistant. She never really had any opportunity to get out of her small town before she moved to NYC, and had always been of a curious nature. This job was a dream come true on that matter. But some trips were better than others. The ones that revolved around business negotiations, although exciting in their own ways, were not her favourites. By far, the ones she preferred were the ones that were meant for networking, for Adrian to maintain his relationships with previous business partners. There had not been many of those since she had started working at Raines Corp. but she loved those very much. These business trips revolved mostly around socializing. And socializing was one of her strengths.

But the reason she liked these trips the most was not because of the fancy dinner parties, the pricey hotels, or the designer dresses she got to wear to play the part. No. What she liked the most were the times she could have to herself in between social events, to explore around and satiate her curiosity about ‘the rest of the world’, and the times when she could get Adrian all to herself. He was more relaxed during these trips. More light hearted. More playful. As well as more tuned to her cues than when they were travelling for more serious business. And that, she loved to play around with. A lot.

Adrian was always doing his best to keep up the façade of the boss-assistant interactions between them when they were in public. And she completely understood why. Truly. But that was also so tempting for her to do her best to weave her way through that invisible barrier he was tentatively setting between them.

She would brush his fingers when he would hand her a drink. Sneak a hand up his thigh under the table at dinner. Fiddle with her long strands of hair to attract his attention to her neckline. Oh, his poker face was good. Spot on. Decades of practice truly paying off. But whenever she played her cards well, she could see that façade slowly crumble down. His cheeks slightly changing colour as she would whisper sweet - well maybe not so sweet - nothings to his ear. His Adam’s apple moving slightly at the sight of her legs shifting as she would change position on her seat, her skin exposed through the slit of her dress. His speech suddenly stammering slightly as she would slowly caress the inside of his calf with her foot, whenever she had been sitting across from him at dinner and had felt bold enough to risk reaching blindly under the cover of the table cloth.

She always made sure to keep her face composed so that the other guests would not notice how Adrian’s reactions were directly connected to her. But she would also cast him a challenging look as soon as the moment had passed, to make it perfectly clear that the game was on. And never once had she received back any kind of response that would indicate that Adrian was not on board with this. He might play the game by pretending that this behaviour was totally unprofessional, but they both knew that Adrian had never been anyone who cared much about the rules.

This time, their ‘socialising trip’ had led them further from home than ever before. Ellie was finally given the chance to fly out of the country and get a glimpse at Europe, with their first stops leaving her in awe at the wonders of the Italian countryside where they had stayed for five days to catch up with a couple of Adrian’s old ‘friends’ who had chosen to retire there. She did enjoy the socializing parts way more than she had anticipated: who would have dared to complain about the exquisite cuisine, the tours of the vineyards, the breath-taking views over lakes and mountains, and the luxurious guestrooms they could discreetly retreat to when the schmoozing was getting boring and the yearning had become too much.

The last part of their ten-days trip had also reached beyond of her expectations: she had always dreamt of discovering France, and although their journey would not grant her her secret wish of seeing Paris, she found out that the luxurious hills and valleys of the South-West of France were as equally magnificent as what she had seen so far over the last few days. There was so much history around, old medieval castles and ancient caves that she wished she could explore, that her curiosity and excitement seemed to be only matched by Adrian’s nerdy enthusiasm. European history was not necessarily his strongest suit, but he did know quite a few things about it, and gladly shared with her his knowledge about the places they travelled through. His expertise on French wines was definitely spot on though. And kind of sexy too.

Their guest was – unsurprisingly – a wealthy investor who had inherited a prosperous estate from his great-grandfather who was, originally, the business partner Adrian had been trading with at the beginning of the twentieth-century. Pretending to be his own descendant was apparently something Adrian was quite used to. Even though their current host – Emile – was pretty obnoxious.

They dined, visited local investors, attended a couple of art exhibitions grand opening nights. And indulged on wine, local delicacies, and smouldering gazes in between polite handshakes and casual conversations. Ellie’s French was not really up to the challenge when other guests could not speak English, but luckily Adrian was doing quite well in that department – another sexy trait to add to that very long list that Ellie kept filling up in her head.

That night, their host had been planning a special treat for his guests – Adrian and Ellie among a larger group of about thirty: a tour of his private ‘art collection’, followed by a fancy garden-party on his estate. Ellie had been looking forward to it, until the tour had started and she had realised that most of these ‘pieces of art’ were actually ancient remains that Emile had bought from lucky ‘discoverers’ around the world and snatched from the hands of archaeologists and museums to fill up his own little private gallery. As the tour was going on, she kept grumbling by Adrian’s side, drawing the attention of a few other guests that were marvelling at these stolen relics and obviously did not care much about how these had been acquired. As the group proceeded to move on to the next room, Adrian discreetly motioned her to move aside and slow her pace, grinning at her once they had managed to place themselves at the tail of the touring group.

“I know this is grating you, but this is quite a common thing these days – there is no point sulking about it now while there is not much we can do about it”.

“You’re the one to talk, ‘Mr-I-glare-at-that-old-British-dude-for-buying-an-original-John Trumbull-canvas-to-decorate-his-guestroom’!”, she retorted challengingly. “These objects are as important to historians as those Revolutionary War paintings you keep talking about. They shouldn’t be kept in here only to be displayed once a year to a bunch of rich morons who care more about how much he paid for it than about what these objects were”.

“I know, I know…” Adrian admitted with a sight, raising his hands in surrender. “But as I said, there is not much we can do about it now. Let try to survive through this tour and enjoy the night.”

Rolling her eyes, Ellie let out an annoyed sight and finally nodded, her tensed shoulders still betraying her frustration.

The tour proceeded, Adrian and Ellie sharing eye rolls and annoyed looks every time Emile would brag about the price of a unique item. They always kept behind when they could, making a point of looking at some of the glass panels in detail to at least try to learn a little something out of this display of wealth. But that revealed to be a nearly impossible endeavour. There was barely any labels or information attached to these objects whatsoever. Nothing there to keep them distracted from that never ending tour. Well. Apart from each other.

It started with just the tingle of his breath in her neck as he was hovering above her to look at an old grease-lamp from some ancient cave. And then continued as she would casually hook her arm through his while staring at the antic statue of a Roman god. And a brush of his fingers down her spine as he stood behind her pretending to listen to Emile’s dull blabber. Her hand sneaking along the side of his thigh as they followed the group around. The light pressure of his hand on her lower back as he led her to move past him into yet another room.

Pretending to pay attention to their host was increasingly difficult. Preventing their faces from betraying their very unprofessional thoughts even more so.

“I know I have said this before but…”, Adrian whispered in her ear, a playful smile forming on his lips, “I love that little tempter of yours… it makes me feel… a lot of things”.

He could hear Ellie’s heartbeat race in her chest at his words, even though she was keeping her eyes trained on the display panel before them, doing her best to keep her composure while the predatory tone in his voice was making her knees tremble slightly. The other guests were buzzing around them, pointing at glass display cases here and architectural features there, oblivious to the heat surrounding the two secret lovers as if the bubble Adrian and Ellie had formed around them had turned them into two of those trinkets exposed around the room that nobody was truly paying attention to.

Trying to break through the thick air that had been lingering between them, Ellie shifted on her heels to follow the flock of people that were regrouping to move along, casting a knowing smile at Adrian, and holding his gaze for a few seconds before walking away.

But before she could turn left into the next corridor, she felt his arm wrap around her middle, only to swiftly whoosh her aside to a secluded corner of the room, out of sight from the rest of the group thanks to one of the strong pillars that supported the roof of the exhibition room. A gasp escaped her lips as he sprung her around, pressing her back against the cold marble as he eagerly captured her lips in a searing kiss, his hands pressed against her neck, and his torso edging closer to her chest as she was gradually yielding to his powerful embrace.

Trailing her fingers up his neck until they reached his hair, she eventually gave a gentle tug so that she could make a break for air, their lips just a few inches apart as she teased, breathless: “I thought we had to keep our public appearances strictly professional, Mr Raines?”

She felt his grin against her mouth more than she could see it. “Well, what we are doing now is purely professional, Miss Reed. If there was anyone left around to see us, I’d just explain how I was telling all about...” he paused to nibble at her lower lip for a few seconds, “... about the sturdiness of these eighteenth-century pillars...”.

“Eighteenth century, han?” she giggled against his lips, her voice catching in her throat to form a silent moan as Adrian’s mouth began to trail down her chin to follow her jawline.

Her mind struggling between the will to keep her eyes open to check that no one was in sight, and the tantalizing swirls of his tongue against the skin beneath her ear, the shivers that were running down her spine quickly sorted that battle for her. She let her eyelids drop and her head fall back to rest against the stone behind her, focusing only on Adrian’s touch and on the way his hands had now started to drift from her neck to her shoulders, inching lower and lower as his mouth tasted the salt of the skin down her neck and along her collarbone.

Her hands unconsciously travelling from his hair to his back, they suddenly grabbed his shoulders a little tighter to press him closer as she felt him reach for the fabric of her dress to bunch the black silk over her hips. It took all of her will to remain silent when Adrian wedged his knee between her legs, her lips tightening in a thin line to repress a whimper as his fingers trailed down one of her thigh to her knee so he could lift her leg up against his hip, pressing himself forward to conquer the empty space between them.

She could feel his grin against her windpipes when her hips started to grind against his of their own accord, the tight grip of his fingers against her rear sending waves of heat down to where their bodies met.

“I think one of us should keep an eye on that corridor, in case anyone is sent out to look for us” he whispered against her skin, before lifting his gaze back to her, his golden eyes glimmering with mischief. “Would that be a mission you’d be happy to take on, Miss Reed?”

“Of course” she manages to answer, her voice croaking from anticipation.

“Good.” he grins. “Then, you’ll have to face the other way…”

She barely had time to register what he meant before she felt the heat of his body replace the cold marble that had been pressing against her back. She instinctively reached forward to place her palms on the pillar as Adrian resumed his pressing touches eagerly, one arm wrapped around her chest to keep her close, and the other finding its way between her thighs.  

She could peek at the corridor ahead of them from where they stood, most of their bodies hidden by the imposing column that seemed to edge closer and closer to her as Adrian’s touch became more insistent. But being able to see ahead did not mean that she was actually looking. Even if she had wanted to fulfil her ‘mission’, the pressure of his left palm against her thigh and the hand that slipped under the fabric of her cleavage made it near impossible to focus on the task. The soft bites and kisses her neck were subjected to were not helping either.

Not being able to see or touch him was like torture, his quiet groans vibrating from his chest to her ribs, and his arousal pressing firmly against her back like a wicked promise that was for now beyond reach. Her back arched involuntarily when a firm hand grabbed her breast, his warm breath beneath her ear betraying his grin as the fingers on her thigh started to wander towards the edge of her underwear, playing with the seam of the lace before sneaking underneath with a deliberate slowness that had her whimper behind her tightened lips.

The light graze of his fingertips against her swollen nerves was all that was needed to weaken all muscles in her body, making both of them dangerously tumble forward as her arms gave in, removing the only leverage she had against Adrian’s pressure in her back, which had been keeping her so far from being flushed against the cold marble with no room to escape the sweet torment of his heated caresses.

Even though her eyes were now shut, she knew that Adrian was watching closely her features when she let her head fall back to rest in his shoulder, her brain going into overdrive when his touch became more pressing, kneading her breast and drawing lazy circles against her centre relentlessly. It was not long before she lost the last bit of control she had left over her own body, her lips parting slightly to let a moan escape, quickly muffled by Adrian’s mouth covering hers in an attempt to preserve the silence around them.

That might have worked perfectly, if only he had been able to kiss her with more restraint. Instead, his tongue had quickly found its way through her parted lips, brushing hers in patterns mirroring the movement of his fingertips between her legs, swallowing her whines as if he could taste her own pleasure through the ragged sounds that he was drawing out of her.

She was itching to touch him. One of her hands had left the cold surface of the pillar to find its way to his head and tangle in his hair, her entire body squirming against his to seek the friction that she was craving for. She knew he was trying to make her lose her mind. And it was working. She could feel his fingers slide gradually further down against her core, dipping into the wetness of her folds before retreating back, drawing growl after growl each time.

She could tell Adrian was relishing this by the way the corners of his mouth curled against hers. It was only when he suddenly pulled away from her swollen lips that she finally opened her eyes again, the lust and wickedness of his gaze sending a shiver all the way down to her toes. He had stopped moving, simply holding her petite form against his chest as tight as deemed possible, his golden eyes anchored to hers with an unmistakable gleam of challenge and promise.

“Adrian…” she mumbled feebly, desperately trying to grind against him but unable to resist his hold on her.

He smiled, remaining silent for a few seconds, before finally breaking the stillness with a low, husky voice, in a tone that was somehow both inviting and commanding: “Say please”.

There was no hesitation in her response, no control, her rasped voice echoing around the room as she begged, breathless: “Adrian, pleeeaaase…”

Thankfully, he did not make her say it again, barely waiting a few seconds before plugging a finger into her dampened slit, followed nearly immediately by a second, resuming his circular patterns over her swollen clit with the pad of his thumb. Withdrawing and dipping back into her with maddening slowness, she could feel her muscles clench around his fingers and her knees start to quiver as the pleasure was slowly building in.

Her dilated pupils could not tear away from his golden eyes, silently begging for more as he increased his pace, his hips grinding voraciously against her back, his mouth inches from hers as if resisting the urge to kiss her so that he could revel in the sweet music of her feverish whines echoing around them.

“Adrian… this is… so…” she tried to mutter between her gasps.

Adrian’s eyes flashed with a voracious gleam as he purred against her lips with a proud smirk, “so… good?”.

Her lips pursed weakly to form a teasing grin. “So… unprofessional”.

His smirk only widened further at her words, his hands suddenly moving away from her burning skin to grip her hips, making her head jerk up from his shoulder in surprise. She was about to complain when he swiftly swirled her body around and crashed his lips onto hers, pushing her back against the pillar, the contrast between the cold marble and the heat of her skin making her jump a little in his grasp.

It was not long before Adrian’s hands had found their way back beneath her dress, his fingers reaching hurriedly for the hem of her thong as his mouth started to descend from her mouth to her chin, roaming over her neck and her collarbone, until he sunk to his knees before her, skipping the parts of her that were covered by fabric to head straight for the space right below her navel. Dragging her underwear down her legs, he only broke the contact between his warm lips and her skin so that he could guide the lace over her heels, quickly shoving the fabric in his pocket before capturing her pulsing nub between his lips, not wasting any minute before expertly starting to explore her aching core, nibbling and suckling with an unmatched dedication.

Her hands were roaming all over his head, tangling her fingers in his hair and pushing her hips forward to demand more, her lower lip caught between her teeth to repress the urge to cry out with every stroke of his tongue, or every time the deft fingers that were slithering up and down her inner thigh came close enough to tease her entrance before retreating back wickedly. As much as part of her wanted to pull him back up to his feet and beg him to take her now, the other part could not even fathom the idea of making him stop his godly work between her legs.

There was no more coherent thought going through her fogged brain. Fragmentary visions of heated memories and unspoken fantasies were flashing before her eyes, mingling with the rousing sight of Adrian down on his knees before her, tasting her fervently in every way that she had ever dreamt of being tasted.

When she felt the intoxicating warmth of his mouth suddenly leave her centre, her mind unconsciously thanked him for ending this sweet torture, expecting the yearning in her core to be satiated soon enough when she would finally get to feel him inside her.

But that sweet release never came.

It took her a few seconds to realise that Adrian had jerked back up to his feet and hurriedly pulled down the fabric of her dress, unceremoniously grabbing Ellie’s waist to move her away from their hiding spot, releasing his grip once she was standing beside him in front of one of the display cases, their back turned away from the corridor.

She had to grip the edge of the display case to keep herself steady, her knees still trembling from Adrian’s handywork just a few seconds before, her eyes opening and closing at a maddening pace to try to clear her clouded brain and regain her senses. It was only when she heard the distinct sound of a pair of heels echoing towards them that she finally understood.

“Monsieur Raines?”, they heard a woman’s voice call out at a distance.

Adrian’s cheeks were flushed, and his hair completely tousled, but he made a quick work of fixing it as well as fixing his shirt with a smirk, mastering the art of regaining his composure in a flick of an eye, like the annoyingly perfect businessman that he was. Ellie fumbled around in an attempt to do the same, fully aware that she would never be able to be as efficient as Adrian, especially in the state of desperate yearning that he had just put her through. She was still panting, her heart thumping in her chest, pupils dilated and cheeks hot from so much blood rushing to her face, both from arousal and from the embarrassment that she knew was about to come.

Ellie jumped a little when the woman’s voice finally reached the room they were in: “Ah, Monsieur Raines! Je vous ai trouvé! Le buffet va commencer, si vous voulez bien rejoindre les autres invités dans le jardin?”.

Ellie had no clue what the woman had just said, and was in no shape to turn around and let the woman see the state of her. She was so grateful that Adrian knew exactly what to say and how to behave casually to buy her a few more minutes to sort out the mess he had made of her… although hearing him speak French was not helping much getting her arousal under control, as he politely answered the woman: “Merci, nous vous rejoignons dans quelques instants.”.

Ellie sighted with relief when she heard the woman’s footsteps retreat, turning around to face him, glaring at him with her best attempt at a reproachful scowl.

“That was….” she started, before being interrupted by Adrian’s mouth on hers, as he pressed a soft kiss on her swollen lips, before pulling away slowly with a grin.

“… unprofessional?” he teased, earning a falsely unamused eye-roll in return.

“We better get going, the party is starting, and all of the other guests are gathered in the gardens now” he announced, translating what the woman had said, but not releasing Ellie from his embrace just yet.

“I am in no state for socialising now” she admitted with a grimace, although she could not fight the teasing grin that was starting to form on her face. “I will never be able to focus properly after this… all I will be thinking about is sorting out this… hum, unfinished business…”

Adrian’s hold tightened a little more around her waist at her words, his eyes still gleaming with mischief and never leaving hers when he stepped slowly away, grabbing her hand to start dragging them both away from the room.

His voice was husky and full of promise when he casually answered with a teasing smile: “Well… unfortunately, we’ll have to play along a little bit longer I’m afraid… but I will certainly be looking forward all evening to the second part of this… unfinished business…”.

~~~

N/A: If anyone else is as eager as Adrian to see how ‘Part II’ of their little ‘public indiscretions’ is going to play out, let me know, and I’d be happy to oblige 😉 This prompt has inspired me way too much, thank you so much for the ask @mssukeyna 😉

~~~

Tagging @adriansbiss , @itsjustwinter , @shanzay44 , @purvishraick, @thefrenchiemama

@choicesficwriterscreations

[im-the-king-of-the-ocean]

Rose Puppetry

*saunters onto your dashboard*

sooooo who ordered the Nuts and Dolts Steampunk AU? 

@misstrashchan

(chapter 1 of 2, bc when you get over 1k words and are still on build-up, you may as well just split the fic into two chapters - well that and I really need to tend to my other fics too, but want to share this one now)

I’m gonna make y’all wait for that sweet sweet satisfying closure

(also, forgot to mention, this is roughly inspired by the Mechanism’s Once Upon a Time (In Space) album - do with that information whatever you’d like)

.

Blinding sunlight glares into everyone’s eyes as the drop ship ascends above the heavy cloud of pollution fog ever present over Mantle and cuts into the crisp, clear, blue sky.  The men among them wince and shield their eyes.  The rewired Mantle Street Soldier Units (MSSU-132s) don’t react at all.  Penny adjusts her eyes’ aperture until she can see perfectly again.

It’s been a while since any of them have seen daylight.  Mantle’s manufacturing plants create and maintain a thick smog that tends to absorb anything but rain too hard to be stopped.  Atlas Prime’s bulking shadow, too, stops most any light from reaching its sister city’s streets.

Their pilot cloaks their ship and gives Penny her cue.  She begins emitting radio interference that should make them undetectable to Atlesian scanners.  They fly toward the dominating stronghold in the sky.  No one who can breath does so very loudly, as if they’ll be heard over the increasingly loud whir and whine of Prime’s great Flight Engines.

Atlas Prime, formerly just the City of Atlas, can be considered one of the greatest marvels in the world.  An entire city in the sky, kept aloft by the largest, most powerful steam engines to ever exist.  A century ago, its founders built Atlas as a symbol of innovation, one meant to inspire future generations to look up and dream of what they could accomplish if only they applied themselves.  Though their aspirations and intent were genuine, those distinguished inventors failed to take into account the sheer amount of resources maintaining the City of Atlas would require as it grew.

In the beginning, historical documents claimed, Atlas’s needs led to an economic boom in Mantle, as money flowed freely from the flying city to pay for everything it took.  Then, something (the relinquishing of the Schnee Dust Company from its founder into his son-in-law’s hands, a handful of brave historians who no one has heard from since, claimed) changed.

Atlesians, growing content and complacent in their power, started to hoard their wealth.  They paid less, demanded more, and drove independent, Mantle-run businesses into the ground when they refused to comply with Atlesian wishes.  It wasn’t long until Mantle became little more than a collection of mass production factories kept firmly under Atlas’s thumb after that.

The hunger of Atlas, though, is known to this day to be an insatiable beast.  Mantle could provide it with building materials and fuel, but their shared location in bitter Solitas meant food beyond what arctic creatures could be hunted or the scarce few crops that would grow in their soil was an impossibility.

Thus, the Atlesian Conquest began.

The elderly, Mantle’s grandmothers and grandfathers, when they have a rare moment of rest, will sit and rasp out the story of the day Beta Atlas detached from Prime and flew off into the horizon in the direction of Vacuo.  Not to return before news of the invasion into the desert kingdom filtered back to Mantle’s streets.

Beta Atlas was only the first of the Atlesian war machines.  Since its launch, fortresses too numerous to count have been built and flown off to conquer Remnant.  Every now and then, reports of new victories or surrenders will play on the nightly news radio broadcast.

Vacuo remains stubbornly independent, despite all the General King of Atlas’s best efforts.  Although, it’s rumored Vacuo’s once fabled oasis have all been drained and little more of worth remains in the desert.  Thus, without anything of too much interest to keep it, Atlas’s attention has turned elsewhere.  

Mistral signed a treaty with Atlas as quickly as it could, and thus remains untouched by war.  No one knows how long that will last.  No one in Mantle believes it will.  The people of Mistral, Mantle’s inhabitants whisper amongst themselves, are fooling themselves if they think Atlas will let anyone remain out of its complete, dominating control for long.

However, that’s a fight for another time.  Currently speaking, Atlas’s eye is transfixed upon Vale, where its conquest has met strong resistance.  Despite having lesser technology available to them, the Huntsmen Army of Vale have fought Atlesian forces back again and again.  Stories have spread about Vale’s legendary huntsmen and huntresses and their clever tactics.  They might not be stronger or more powerful than Atlas’s robotic forces, but they’re definitely smarter.  Unpredictable.

For the first time in a very long time, there’s whispers of hope that something might be able to stop Atlas.

Penny finds and clasps her hand around the gold locket she wears around her neck, without taking the trinket out from under her shirt.  It would shimmer and shine and draw too much attention if she were to do that.  But, holding onto it grounds her, reminds her of her mission.

Penny once believed in Atlas.  She was built to carry out its will.  Sent to Vale long before the first flying war fortress, and disguised as a regular, human girl.  Her mission was to observe and spy.  She’d been programmed with curiosity, to learn as much as she could.  And she had.  Too much, in fact.

For her entire existence up to her deployment in Vale, all Penny knew was solitude.  Unlike the rest of Atlas’s automated army, she wasn’t mass-produced.  Penny is the singular product of blueprints uncovered in what was revealed to be the long lost workshop of Pietro Polendina, one of the last Great Minds of Atlas.  Whereas many only saw her blueprints as the frivolity of a man who didn’t live in a time of war, General King Ironwood himself had seen potential.  He’d ordered Penny’s creation, given her weaponry upgrades, cared for her, kept her safe as his ‘secret weapon.’  Then, the day had come where he told her it was time to fulfill her destiny.

She’d been ecstatic.  She was finally getting to go out and See The World and help bring an entire kingdom into the safety and security of Atlas’s rule, wasn’t it wonderful?

It was.  For a time.

Vale is a beautiful kingdom.  Rich and vibrant in ways Penny never could have dreamed after only knowing a greasy, barely illuminated lab as home.  She’d loved exploring.  Finding and studying in the great libraries open to all.  Wandering around outdoors where the sky isn’t a perpetual exhaust gray, where birds sing, and where little multi-colored butterflies flutter everywhere.

It was chasing after such a butterfly that Penny had stumbled into someone and the direction of her life had forever changed.  She learned what it was like to have a friend in the following days.  To not constantly feel alone.

To fall in love.

Here now, in the rebellion drop ship, Penny wishes she could open her locket.  Just so she can see Ruby’s face again.  Sure, if everything goes well on their mission, she will see Ruby again by day’s end.

But nothing is ever certain, especially in war.

“Get ready,” the pilot tells the rescue team.  “We’re arriving at the drop point.”

Penny braces herself.  Regardless of their success probability (currently hovering at a frustrating low 67%), she will do everything she can to save Ruby.

Because she loves her dearly.

And because it’s Penny’s fault she was captured in the first place.

[brokehorrorfan]

Blu-ray Review: Forgotten Gialli: Volume 1

One of the most reliable distributors when it comes to unearthing obscure genre films, Vinegar Syndrome has released Forgotten Gialli: Volume One, a Blu-ray box set containing a trio of giallo - or, European murder-mysteries - that have never received distribution in the U.S.: 1973's The Killer Is One of 13, 1975's The Police Are Blundering in the Dark, and 1978's Trauma.

The Killer Is One of 13 is a Spanish giallo by way of Agatha Christie. Lisa Mandel (Patty Shepard, Slugs) invites a collection of acquaintances to her elegant, isolated home for reasons unknown to the guests. As she reveals over dinner, it's the second anniversary of her husband's mysterious passing, so she has gathered 13 people who may have benefited from his death, convinced one of them is responsible.

Despite the very specific title, there are more than 13 suspects when you factor in everyone; from guests to family members to the help. Director/co-writer Javier Aguirre (Count Dracula’s Great Love) and co-writer Alberto S. Insúa (Count Dracula’s Great Love) do an admirable job painting each character as a potential culprit, as everyone has both motives and flaws. However, as is often the case with ensemble murder-mysteries, it's difficult to keep track of the ancillary characters, some of whom are barely developed.

Far more restrained than its Italian brethren, the film's pacing is rather uneven. It's heavy on exposition throughout the first two acts, but the intriguing mystery drives it until the murders begin. That doesn't occur until 63 minutes into the 95-minute film, leading to an unrelenting, if rushed, final act. The big reveal isn't all that surprising if you pay attention to the clues, but it's not dissatisfying.

Cinematographer Francisco Fraile's (Dr. Jekyll vs. The Werewolf) ambitious camerawork - almost always roving or zooming - provides a kineticism to offset the long stretches of dialogue, even if focus is occasionally soft. A propulsive soundtrack would have helped further, but instead Alfonso Santisteban's (The Mummy’s Revenge) score is often hokey.

In addition to Shepard, the cast features several faces that may be familiar to Eurocult enthusiasts. Spanish character actor Simón Andreu (Beyond Re-Animator) plays a smug playboy; American expat Jack Taylor (The Ninth Gate) plays as an unappreciated artist; Spanish cinema royalty Carmen Maura (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown) has an early role as the wife of an unstable older man; and Spanish horror legend Paul Naschy (The Werewolf vs. The Vampire Woman) has a small part as the chauffeur.

The Killer Is One of 13 has been newly restored in 2K from its 35mm original negative. The disc includes an audio commentary by film critic and Diabolique magazine editor-in-chief Kat Ellinger. Since information on the production is scarce, she contextualizes the film relative to the giallo subgenre, making for an interesting listen.

The Police Are Blundering in the Dark’s title is more interesting than the movie itself, as it seems director Helia Colombo (this being his sole credit) was blundering in the dark during the making of his Italian giallo. The cold open could be mistaken for a cliched '80s slasher: an attractive woman gets a flat tire and is chased by a killer through the woods, during which her blouse inexplicably opens as she runs, exposing her breasts before she's caught and stabbed with a pair of scissors.

It clocks in at a scant 87 minutes - rather brief by giallo standards - yet feels drawn out. The aforementioned woman is the latest in a string of murder victims, all of whom served as models for an impotent, wheelchair-bound photographer, Parisi. Giorgio D'Amato (Joseph Arkim), the journalist boyfriend of one of the victims, heads to Parisi's villa outside of Rome to investigate, learning that the photographer has invented a camera that captures its subjects' thoughts. This unexpectedly fantastical plot point is harnessed to solve the mystery a la Four Flies on Grey Velvet.

Despite being the most traditional giallo film of the trio included in the set, the picture fails to deliver on any of the pillars of the subgenre. After setting up a middling mystery, the midsection is bogged down by talky melodrama, while the eventual solution is preposterous. Beyond that, the kills are tame, Giancarlo Pancaldi's cinematography is pedestrian, and Aldo Saitto's score is forgettable.

The Police Are Blundering has been newly restored in 2K from its 35mm original negative. In lieu of an audio commentary, film historian and critic Rachael Nisbet provides a “historical audio essay.” It is exactly that; a breathless 16-minute amalgam of facts and critical analysis. It's thorough if dry, akin to reading a well-researched Wikipedia entry. A promotional image gallery is also included.

Not to be confused with Dario Argento's later giallo of the same name, Trauma is a Spanish giallo riff on Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho. It centers on Veronica (Ágata Lys, The Holy Innocents), who runs a quaint inn in rural Spain while caring for her unseen, handicapped husband. She's smitten with Daniel (Heinrich Starhemberg), a mysterious and charming author that checks in, to the point where she becomes visibly annoyed when other guests interrupt their flirting.

Director León Klimovsky (The Werewolf vs. The Vampire Woman) and writers Juan José Porto (Cross of the Devil) and Carlos Puerto (Satan's Blood) position the film as a mystery, but when a black-gloved assailant begins murdering the guests with a straight razor, the options for the killer's identity are quite limited.

The film is rather slow moving yet sleazy. Nearly every character, regardless of gender, sheds their clothing at some point. Cinematographer Pablo Ripoll (Tombs of the Blind Dead) captures it all with voyeuristic delight. Composer Ángel Arteaga (Frankenstein's Bloody Terror) crafted a Goblin-esque main title theme.

Starhemberg's position as executive producer of the film surely influenced the decision to (mis)cast him as the male lead. Beyond lacking chemistry with Lys, there are some unintentionally uncomfortable scenes in which he caresses a local boy. Antonio Mayans (Zombie Lake) plays an ill-fated hiker who takes refuge at the inn.

Trauma has been newly restored in 2K from its 35mm original negative. The disc includes an audio commentary by film historian Troy Howarth, who previously profiled the film in his 2019 book, So Deadly, So Perverse: Volume Three. Per usual, he takes a conversational approach to the track, which occasionally leads to tangents but ultimately provides a detailed analysis that digs into the history of giallo films.

Each of the discs is housed in its own Blu-ray case, and all three are packaged together in a box designed by Earl Kessler Jr. Limited to 5,000 units, it's available exclusively from Vinegar Syndrome. Having never been dubbed into English, the movies feature newly translated English subtitles to accompany the fresh scans.

A precursor to the slasher boom in the 1980s, the success of the giallo subgenre spawned a wide breadth of films, ranging from oft-discussed staples to hidden gems that barely saw a release beyond their theatrical debuts. With Forgotten Gialli, Vinegar Syndrome has breathed new life into three movies that fall squarely into the latter category. As it is subtitled Volume 1, I can only hope that more sets come to fruition.

Forgotten Gialli: Volume One is available now via Vinegar Syndrome.

[rebellect-writes]

[SIZE=1][b]Name:[/b] Jess [b]Age:[/b] 22 [b]Wow:[/b] Last one for a long time.

[align=center][IMG]http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lz9ajl5XZq1qe3aixo1_250.gif[/IMG][/align]

[b]Name:[/b] Imogen Johanne Holt. [b]Nicknames & Aliases:[/b] [LIST] [*]Imo, Imp. [*]Russian alias: Darya Gretchenko. [/LIST][b]Age:[/b] 33. [b]Date of Birth:[/b] October 10, 1978 [b]Gender:[/b] Female [b]Sexual Orientation:[/b] Heterosexual. [b]Occupation:[/b] Art curator and historian.

[b]Animal Species:[/b] Crow [b]Animal Description: [/b] [IMG]http://i672.photobucket.com/albums/vv90/bloodwillout/app%20pics/Crow.png[/IMG] [i]Weight:[/i] 1lb. [i]Height:[/i] (from bill to tail) 19 inches; wingspan 31 inches. [i]Coat:[/i] Black plumage. [b]Do you have a hybrid/alpha form?:[/b][LIST]Imogen is just slightly taller in her alpha form than she is in her human form, standing at 5’11, and weighing just a ‘little’ heavier at 200lbs. [URL=http://i672.photobucket.com/albums/vv90/bloodwillout/app%20pics/cc9darticle-0-0E8C34C400000578-491_306x462.jpg]Her (not an exact replica)[/URL] alpha form, for lack of better words, is a beautiful cross between a giant black bird and a human – as she’s covered from head to toe in black feathers in this form - with scaled clawed feet. Unfortunately, in this form she doesn’t have arms as they recede into morphed wings, but she makes do with the talons and the wicked beak she gains in this form. [/LIST][b]Rank:[/b] Kelda. [b]How long has your character been a lycanthrope?:[/b] Life, shifted at age 9. [b]Mindset:[/b] Dominant. [b]Power level:[/b] Alpha.

[b]Face Claim:[/b] Jodi Lyn O’Keefe [b]Description:[/b] [IMG]http://i672.photobucket.com/albums/vv90/bloodwillout/app%20pics/imogen.png[/IMG] [i]Height:[/i] 5’10. [i]Weight:[/i] 150lbs. [i]Eyes:[/i] Vivid blue. [i]Hair:[/i] Black. [i]Build:[/i] Average with all the right curves. [i]Visible marks:[/i] Ears are pierced, and she also has a [URL=http://virustattoo.com/data/media/2/foot-and-ankle-tattoos-300x175.jpg]small[/URL] tattoo on her left foot and ankle. [i]Style:[/i] Depending the occasion, Imogen can often be seen in formal business suit or dress with a splash of casual to mix things up. Unlike her sister who’s a fashionista, Imogen isn’t that big into fashion but if and when she finds something she likes then she’ll roll with that. To the left of her belly button, she has a jagged scar, barely two inches big, where she was repeatedly stabbed.

[b]Special Skills:[/b] [LIST] [*] Can speak Welsh, Romanian, French, Turkish and knows bits and pieces of Chinese, Romany and Arabic. [*] Good at working under stress, tourist season is Hell on earth. [*] Has a keen eye for fakes and originals that pass through her department. [*] Can just keep her sister from maxing out both their credit cards. [*] Hand to hand combat: She knows enough to be able to run away while the other is distracted. [/LIST]

[b]Personality:[/b][LIST]Imogen Holt isn’t really that complicated of a character to get to know, once you get past the barriers that she’s thrown up over the years. Generally, she comes off as a strong and confident woman that knows what she wants to do with her day and with the life she has. However, with that confidence, she can often come off blunter than she wants to a point, and in some cases, even brisk, bitchy and cold hearted. It’s nothing that she stresses over, however. If someone can’t take her as she is, then she won’t bother to change herself for them and will just carry on as normal and as a rule, she would rather let her actions speak louder than her words. She values honesty, loyalty and responsibility most of all, and has no patience for people that make excuses for doing something that they shouldn’t or for failing her. She has shown a certain dedication and responsibility to a lot of her goals in life. Also, Imogen isn’t a stranger to doing what is needed to be done when it comes to her safety or the safety of her family and friends.

She would rather someone respect her title if they don’t respect her as a person, and if she gets it on a personal level, then she’ll return that respect and offer loyalty in the same breath. It’s that simple to her, even if it doesn’t appear to be so simple to someone else. Imogen has a notable ruthless streak when confronted with someone that will attempt to push her buttons and discredit when she’s trying to do or anger her. She won’t devolve to the point where she threatens people or call them names, she’ll simply bide her time and strike when the other person least expects her to crop up. It’s in times like this that she has no problem hurting someone, either emotionally or physically, to make them regret wronging her. Yet, in saying that, there have been occasions where she’s come to offer an olive branch in a truce or help in some manner under the guise of being a heartless bitch. This proves that she’s also patient, compassionate and careful to a degree.

She has a few people in her personal and close circle that she can trust with anything and expect complete honesty or whatever else she may need. One of them is her sister, Freyja, her baby sister. Even though she knows that Frey can handle herself and her own affairs, Imogen is extremely protective of her sister and is willing to put everything she has on the line to make sure that Frey is safe and sound, and yes that even includes her own life if she has to. The same could be said for the other people that have made it into the small circle, as they’re more than friends to her, they’re like close family even if they don’t share blood with one another. She offers everyone a chance to trust her and get respect that everyone deserves, but there’s only one chance with Imogen. A second chance would only come about if there was something mutually beneficial to be gained on one side.

Anger isn’t something that drives Imogen, yes it has its uses on occasion, but it’s not a dominating force in her life. However, when pushed beyond the point of no return, Imogen has a fiery temper that strips down her control and leaves it in ashes. When pushed to this point, she can be vindictive and volatile, it doesn’t matter. She aims to hurt people, to push them away from her. There’s no distinction that marks people as friend or foe, there’s just her and ‘them’. These outbursts leave her questioning herself in an attempt to lock away the certain aspects that pushed her to losing her control in the first place. She’ll become reclusive and quiet, and may even retreat into herself for a time before bouncing back the same as ever.

While she may not seem the type, Imogen has a charitable side – she’s donated to many organizations and fundraisers over the last few years - and a fun side. She likes having a drink and relaxing, and while a walk in the park or seeing a play isn’t exactly the type of things most of her friends like, she keeps a lot of her personal activities to herself to enjoy alone. It’s not that she’s a secretive person, she just hasn’t found someone that she can enjoy things with like that. Her self-control is rather unnerving sometimes, and the same could be said about herself reliance. These are the major barriers that she’s thrown up to keep herself safe from being hurt on an emotional level. She let her heart get in the way of her head before, and it cost her years without her sister as well as a man she thought that she loved. Trust on an emotional level such as that; is pricey and Imogen isn’t sure that she’s ready to pay that price a second time around. Some would say that she’s scared of an emotional attachment like this. Some people have even said that she fears losing her control, her ability to decide her actions. They would be right, even if she strongly denies such a thing.

Imogen is a bit of a tradionalist at heart when it comes to the Myrde. She believes that people should be conscious of their actions when it affects other, be they alpha, beta or omega. For example, should one of her group insult a member of another group, she’ll gladly offer the offender to the offended, as an example to others who think that pulling the same thing would be fun and healthy. She’s not going to endanger the wellbeing of the Myrde by having irresponsible halfwits running around claiming that they’re protected. She won’t constantly hold anyone’s hand either, because she doesn’t have the patience to deal with every little issue that someone has when common sense could easily step in and do the job for her. As a personal preference, she would rather gift the ranks within the Myrde than have someone simply claim them. It’s not because she doesn’t trust other crows to do a good job, it’s because she wants the Myrde to survive as a whole, rather than cripple itself. They’re still counted as kin to Imogen however, and that means she’ll do her best to make sure that they’re looked after and protected. [/LIST][b]Likes:[/b][LIST] [*] Flying. [*] Naturally, her sister. [*] Gummi sweets. [*] Bubble baths. [*] Respect for her postion, if not for herself. [*] Warm weather. [/LIST][b]Dislikes:[/b][LIST] [*] Wolves. [*] Stupidity. [*] Her sister put in harms way. [*] Flying in the rain. [*] Noisy neighbours. [*] Not making it home before dawn. [/LIST][b]Strengths:[/b][LIST] [*] Not governed by the moon for shifting. [*] Negotiation. [*] Keen eye for detail. [/LIST][b]Weaknesses:[/b][LIST] [*] Her sister, Freyja. [*] Can't block a vampire's call (950 and older). [*] Typical lycanthrope weaknesses. [/LIST][b]History:[/b][LIST]In the autumn of nineteen seventy eight, Imogen Holt was brought into the world, much to the delight of Eira and Greyfell. The Holts were not your average couple, and even though the supernatural community of Cardiff, Wales was appealing, the wedded crows wanted no part of it and they made sure that Imogen had no part of it either from the moment she drew her first breath. Oh, they weren’t ashamed of what they were, far from it actually, they just didn’t want to draw attention to themselves as they had no clan to call their own and they attempted to teach Imogen about the different species out there by themselves, hiding the truth of reality behind fanciful stories. For five years, Imogen was a generally happy child who wanted for nothing if her parents could provide it, but things came to a grinding halt when one afternoon she was taken out of her class with her home tutor by her father and brought face to face with a baby sister, who she was told was called Freyja and little did Imogen know just how close she would become to her sister. Another reason why the Holt’s kept their girls away from the supernatural was because they moved around a lot; they saw no point in it when they would only have to move on again within months.

As it was, they only stayed in Cardiff for another three years before they relocated to Newport, where things carried on as normal for a year. It wasn’t until the November after Imo’s ninth birthday that something happened that her mother had warned her about ever since she could remember. Her first shift tore through Imo like a hot knife through butter, the pain was so immense that she slept for a full twenty four hours after the transformation and the only proof that anything happened was that her parents were a little emotional. The moment that Imo could move without tripping over her own feet, she hurried to tell Freyja all about what had happened like any talkative girl would, and over the course of the week, she would come back to her sister with nifty bedtime stories about flying that she spun from the flashes of memory she retained as a bird and from what her father had told her of their trips out. It was the only way that she could think of to share such an amazing experience with her sister without causing some kind of rift between the two siblings.

They moved again one year later, across the Bristol Channel they sailed, only to end up in Bristol, England. The plan was to stay there until Freyja was old enough to shift, but one night Imo crept downstairs to find Greyfell warning off a nasty looking male on their doorstep. It was her mother that took the time to explain to her, that the male that had visited was a recruiter from the local Myrde, looking for strong men like Imogen’s father to fight in a war against ‘bad things’. So, they moved again and within the span of twelve months, they had settled in four different places and each and every time, they had had to move for one reason or another that their parents would not share. Their last stop in the United Kingdom was in Ipswich, when Imogen was twelve and Freyja was a fragile seven years old. For a brief time, it looked like this would be the last move for the family as their parents knew that they couldn’t keep dragging their children from pillar to post. However, Ipswich was only a stop gap, and within a handful of months they moved much farther than anyone would’ve dreamed.

Bucharest, Romania.

The troubles that had haunted the family seemed to vanish into nothingness and things appeared to get better. The need to relocate every few months became a thing of the past, as Bucharest became home but it wasn’t until they saw their second year there, that Imogen truly called it home. Like they had been in the United Kingdom, the sisters were home-schooled, but unlike before, both were allowed a certain amount of freedom that they’d never had before. Since Freyja hadn’t shifted yet at the time, Imogen attempted to keep her shapeshifting escapades to a minimum so she wasn’t continuously dragging her sister home for something that she couldn’t participate in. Of course she still told Freyja stories of how the world looked through a birds eyes, it had become an odd tradition, one of a few constants in their life that they needed. Much like Freyja did in her spare time, Imogen also attempted to make friends with the local kids in their area, though Imogen herself looked a little farther than Freyja, however at the end of the day the only certain thing was that no one could replace Freyja as Imogen’s best friend.

It wasn’t that long after Freyja’s ninth birthday that the sisters became closer. As she was the first one to discover her baby sister passed out cold and dead to the world, she made damn sure to be the first one that she saw when she woke up. When her parents attempted to pry into the sister’s feathered little secret, as at the time they had been out getting groceries and had come home to find the house suspiciously quiet, Imogen did what came natural and backed her sister up. She lied to them and claimed that Freyja had eaten something bad and that she wouldn’t be down until the next day. Thankfully, and much to Imogen’s shock, Eira and Greyfell seemed to believe it and left the sisters be. It was later that night when Imo snuck back into Freyja’s room that she managed to poke a little more information from the younger girl, and when Imogen was informed that Frey had suffered intense pain beyond words that things fell into place. Just like Imogen a few years before, Freyja had been caught unawares and had unprepared for her first transformation from human to crow, and in an attempt to calm Freyja down, Imogen explained to her sister, what had likely happened to her. She expected Freyja to laugh it off, but thankfully, her little sister seemed to take it to heart.

Over the course of the next few weeks, things were oddly subdued in the Holt household. Gone was the laughter that echoed through the halls in the evening, only to be replaced by silence or the hushed conversations that their parents tried to hide from them. Neither girl was stupid enough to believe that things were fine, and unlike Freyja who would poke and prod at their parents, Imogen took a different route in an attempt to figure out what was wrong. She kept her mouth shut and attempted to play things off as if they had never changed when around her parents in an attempt to get them to drop their guards and explain what was wrong; and it was only in private with Freyja that she could relate her own feelings and concerns. Yet there was nothing that either girl could do, they were trapped in the proverbial calm before the storm and even though Imogen didn’t voice it, she had a feeling that whatever was wrong, was bad enough to alter their lives forever.

Despite the fact that neither of their parents had told them what was wrong; things continued as normal as possible. Imogen put on a brave face and shrugged things off; however, the mask was torn away a few months later when she felt an odd in the pit of her stomach. The sensation moved, it crawled along her spine and spread under her skin before it was cut off completely. Greyfell and Eira had blocked the call of a Master Vampire, a Croweater, and had ensured that both girls stayed safe for just a little longer. It was Eira who attempted to subdue a persistent Freyja, as at the time, Imogen had nothing to say or suggest, and just pretended that she’d imagined the whole thing because they’d been watching a boring show on TV. It was enough for Greyfell and Eira to believe that they would only need to lie to Frey, rather than both girls. Imogen’s solitude was brought down around her ears the following day when Freyja barged her way into her bedroom and demanded that Imogen help her to find out what was so important that their parents had to hide the truth from them. At first, Imogen had been hesitant, boarding on annoyed by the idea of going against her parents, but after a little more begging and pleading from Freyja, Imogen agreed to help her, if only to get a little peace from the blonde imp.

After a few days of no success in their search, their first clue hit them in the face when they returned from the library one afternoon. They had barely made it up the garden path when they heard raised voices from inside, and Imogen barely reacted in time to haul the younger Freyja back out of the way and out of immediate sight, as the a male stormed out of their home, growling over his shoulder at Greyfell who was mid-curse when he noticed the girls lurking. Frey immediately bounced into an interrogation; she wanted to know who the man was and why their father was shouting. Greyfell, with no patience, shut Freyja down with a few stern words and that was the last that was said on the matter for a few days. Unlike Freyja with her bold tactics, Imogen kept her head down and attempted to gain some information. Her silence paid off as less than a week after the visit, her mother pulled her to the side and told her everything she knew. She told Imogen that the male they had seen was their father’s cousin, Emillian, and that she was a crow just like they were. It wasn’t the fact that there was distant family now in the picture that scared Imogen; it was the fact that Eira also informed Imogen that they may have to move once more.

The lull that had fallen after Emillian’s visit was shattered a fortnight later as Imogen, who had been studying at the time and had dozed off, was woken up by the same skin crawling sensation and stomach jerking feeling that she’d felt before. Only this time it was worse, like thousands of spiders crawling over her skin. It made her feel dirty, but what was worse, she couldn’t help herself from responding to it, though the idea certainly was there. The Call was cut off within minutes, as Eira and Greyfell blocked the call once more, leaving a grumpy blonde sister in the living room, and an older sister sat on the stairs trying to work out the best course of action. Imo had no power against whatever had been pulling at her, and she was barely a girl, she had nothing that could help her. It didn’t take long for their parents to come up with a plan of attack however, and it was Greyfell that was the one that faced the small group of vampires lingering outside their home, while Imogen, her mother and her sister remained inside the house waiting somewhat nerviously for whatever was going to happen.

One of the vampires, a snappy Frenchman from what Imogen could understand of what he was saying, inform Greyfell that they were there on behalf of the Master of the City, a generous master, but an impatient one. The male snidely informed Imogen’s father that it was his Master’s believe that all young crows within the territory belonged to him and that it was his right to bend them to his will and mould them into objects of his own beliefs and ideas. Imogen watched from the living room window as her father vehemently protested the nonsense that the male spewed, and as another vampire stepped forward, the world slowed down dramatically and for Imogen it seemed as if everything and everyone was three times as slower as normal. She watched as Freyja bolted free of the confines of the house and start shouting at the vampires, she listened as their father demanded and shook her head as she calmly stepped up beside Freyja. She wasn’t going to let her baby sister run off with corpses! There was no way in Hell would she allow Frey to go through whatever the Master of the City planned for any crow. Silently, she watched as the Master vampire handed her father over to an enforcer within his entourage, before allowing herself to be ushered off with Freyja. Thankfully, it wasn’t until both girls were out of site that the vampire enforcer released Greyfell, and naturally both of their parents were distraught but they couldn’t go against the Bucharest Kiss.

Things changed dramatically after that, but thankfully, rather quickly. Both sisters were kept in line with the simplest of rules, if they didn’t run away or fight, then no harm would come to their parents. They were allowed within reason, to reside in relative comfort at the Master of the City’s home, and it wasn’t until she noticed that Freyja was taking more and more interest in the vampire side of things, that she finally spoke up. After everything that had happened, Imogen just wasn’t keen on making a target on either of their backs bigger. It was after a small and hushed argument within earshot of Emilian, that Imogen agreed that it would best to learn as much as they could rather than languish away with nothing. So, as Freyja continued to meet with Emilian and learn about the vampires and their ways, Imogen turned her eyes to the staff that the Master had. She had never seen so many Crows in one place, let alone wolves and leopards that belonged to other prominent masters within the Kiss. She may’ve been young, but Imogen made it her mission to learn as much as she could about the shapeshifters that served the Bucharest Kiss, and was soon embroiled in enough drama to keep her occupied but not enough to allow someone to slip a knife between her shoulders.

Over the next few years, more and more crows were brought in. Some only stayed a few days before vanishing as if they’d never been there, and yet others stayed longer. Imogen had established countless ties with other shapeshifters and even a couple of vampires. At sixteen, she was no stranger to using deals to get what she wanted, and even though she had suffered a little when people had reneged, Imogen was all the more wiser for the slight discomfort of losing. She was still close to her chilly sister, and even though Freyja had closed a lot of herself off and was quick to anger, Imogen risked her neck on more than one occasion, for her sister. As, unknown to Freyja at the time, her temper had provoked two wolves into wanting to see her pretty little throat torn out. Being the big sister, Imogen had cornered the males and hashed out a deal. If they would leave Freyja alone, and back her against others of their species, then they could have Imogen for a night a piece. One male, Corbin, saw through her rouse easily, but the other demanded her first. True to her word, Imogen gave herself to him…Just not in the way that the wolf expected. In their embrace, she slipped a knife between his ribs and pierced his heart. Barely sixteen years old and with blood on her hands, Imo turned to Corbin as she couldn’t bring this to Freyja and she was too numb to go to anyone else. What was between her and Corbin was precious, their moments locked away in their rooms or out in the Masters grounds were the only real thing outside of Freyja that kept her from going mad. They were lovers and confidants, but they both knew that at any moment things could be turned against them and one command from a vampire could send them to a possible fate worse than death.

When Freyja was fifteen and Imogen just pushing past her nineteenth birthday, things collapsed.  One evening Freyja came bursting into her room, crying her eyes out and sobbing. It took a while for Imogen to coax what had happened out of her baby sister, but when Freyja retold everything, Imogen saw red. At the time when Frey had needed her, she had been attending to some duties another vampire had given her. In her rage, she confronted the Crow caller and demanded to know what right he had to do that to a girl and for her trouble, she watched with Freyja, as her parents were dragged into the meeting hall and Frey was ordered to torture them for her first refusal. When Freyja refused a second time, the Master shoved his power at her and tugged at her inner beast; and Imogen, enraged further, lunged at the vampire in some foolish attempt to stop it. She was knocked aside, just before she got to the vampire by none other than her lover, Corbin in wolf form. Since the Master of the City was focused on tormenting Freyja, the second in command of the Kiss had reacted. It was as if Corbin didn’t even recognize her, and when he was ordered oh so sweetly to make her scream, Imo did something she’d never done before in her life. She fled in the chaos with wolves snapping at her heels and vampires laughing. She managed to get into the grounds before the wolves cornered her with Corbin in the lead. Blood thirsty mutts, the lot of them, Imogen forced herself to see them as weaker beings than herself, humans with a disease rather than being born with the ability to transform. Rather than fight them, as the first wolf threw her into the side of a stone fountain and ignoring the pain in her shoulder and side, Imogen played them all. Playing dead, she waited for them to close in, and just as one of them darted forward for her throat, Imogen shifted into her crow form and took off to the sound of a surprised yelp as the unlucky wolf head-butted the marble of the fountain. The confusion the sudden shift caused; left the wolves tearing a piece out of each other out of confusion. However, Imogen didn’t really register that. She was numb, awake and conscious of her actions, but she couldn’t feel anything at all.

The flight north took a lot out of her. Out of Bucharest, she landed – more like collapsed – in Moldova and stayed there for a fortnight. From there, she continued north and after weeks, found herself in Moscow, Russia. With no money to her name and a death sentence hanging over her head, Imogen had no choice but to work her way up to the top from the ground. She was able to track down a snow leopard known as Dimitri, in Moscow that owed a friend of hers from Bucharest, and manage to grab a position in his butchers shop. She earned a pittance, but it was enough for her, as one night she was woken up to find a hunter from the Bucharest Kiss leaning over her. Imogen had no chance to defend herself before the vampire stuck a knife in her belly, not once, not twice, not even three times. That wasn’t the worst, as she lay bleeding, the hunter tracker told her that Freyja sent her regards and took great delight in informing her how loudly her parents screamed and cried before Frey had killed them. She passed out as a giant snowleopard broke down the door and chased the vampire off. When she woke up next, she was in bed with crows. Three extremely handsome…naked… and well-mannered men. If it hadn’t been for Dimitri sat at the foot of the bed, Imo would have freaked out, and indeed, she was on the verge of a nervous collapse as the old leopard explained the Marc, Andre and Pete had helped heal the wounds she’d taken and were responsible for saving her life. She would have laughed it off and claimed that the cat had lost its mind, but she vaguely remembered something her father had taught her when she was little, about how being around members of the same species could help, especially with skin to skin contact. Imogen didn’t have a chance to thank anyone, and sank back into unconsciousness, oddly comforted by the presence of crows. When she came around again, Imogen was alone in the room with a duffle bag of clothes in her size, an envelope full of money to get her far away, excellently forged documentation and a passport. The piesta resistance, however, was not the money and documentation, but a deadly looking hunting knife, that she could tell had silver in the blade.

Four months later she was in America, New York to be exact. Keeping her head low, she survived for years, continued in school, before moving on and  working as a curator for a mediocre art gallery and on occasion, with one of the local museums when they changed their displays. She had always had a knack design and despite everything that had happened, that hadn’t changed. She was twenty-six when her life was altered once more. She had been at work when Freyja had, as bold as brass, walked up to her. The reunion wasn’t as sweet as one would expect, Freyja was furious with her for abandoning her to the vampires, and before her little sister could drag their dirty laundry out to air in public, Imogen removed them both from the gallery and didn’t say a word until they reached her small apartment. Then the full spectrum of emotion was allowed to play out, both positive and negative reactions. Imogen let Freyja rage and growl herself down before saying her piece and it wasn’t until their parents were brought up that Imo made a point that shocked Freyja silent. If it hadn’t of been their parents, it would’ve been her. She knew it wouldn’t make Frey feel any better, but it was all she had to offer. Despite the fact that Freyja’s presence could have meant that her time was up and she would likely end up dead, as she did assume thanks to her healthy paranoia, that Frey had company waiting in the wings, Imogen made it clear that she wanted her baby sister to stay. She really didn’t need to do much persuading, as Freyja accepted the offer within moments of it leaving her mouth, and when no vampires or werewolves burst into her apartment, Imogen allowed herself to relax truly for the first time in what felt like years. For the next five years she was by her sister’s side like always as Frey studied for her undergraduate degree and encouraged her baby sister when the hard work seemed to drain all the energy out of her. When she wasn’t encouraging Freyja, Imogen was focused on her small but blooming business, and on occasion, she even worked with Freyja. It was a new leaf for the both of them.

She got a shock a year later when Freyja made a proposal that Imogen had thought she would never hear from her mouth. They had been young when they had been in the UK, really, really young. So when her sister suggested that they return to their true home, Imogen was slightly confused and a little hesitant. She grudgingly agreed however, that it may be a good idea, and a few months later, the Holt girls made their return to Cardiff, Wales. Since Frey had been a baby when they’d last been there, Imogen lead her through a lot of familiar streets and recalled a lot of fond memories. However it was their first home that really brought back the inquisitive sister that Imogen knew and loved, and she relished the chance to answer everything Frey threw at her. They used Cardiff as a stop gap for a few awhile, and it was when she noticed that Frey was starting to feel restless, that Imogen decided that they needed a new clean slate where no one knew them, their family or their past. It took them two years, but they relocated to Jackford, England. It was only when they had settled into their new lives that they noticed something [i]lacking[/i]. There were no crows in the area! Which meant one of two things to Imogen, Jackford was either Myrde-less or they’d been wiped out. After a little digging, Imogen discovered that there had been no established crow group in the area for over two centuries. The appeal of a fresh start had birthed another idea. She was going to set up a Myrde, and between that and starting her own business, perhaps she and Freyja can forget that if Imogen ever risked going to Bucharest again, that Freyja would probably be the one that would have to kill her because of the insult a silly little crow-girl had given a vampire all those years ago. [/LIST][/SIZE]

[joeymozzarello]

Pen to Paper

Chapter Three

Summary: A simple thesis on a simple book she’d read. That’s all she needed to do. She knew it would be at least a little bit arduous but she didn’t think it would cause this much trouble.

Pairing: Tim Murphy x original female character

Words: 1,914

A/N: i got the idea for this in the american natural history museum where i found a note to a Julie T from a Dr. Com on a bench near the t-rex room.

//

9AM in London, 4AM in New York. Julie wondered if she’d ever get used to this. At least her view was nice, everything else about her room - wasn't. It was a tiny little bedroom with a lumpy bed and a bathroom that barely worked. She was sure she’d seen a couple of roaches move from between furniture but she didn’t ponder too much on that thought, it freaked her out beyond words. This was the price, the universe gave her an awesome opportunity and in return, she had to sleep in an infested room for a couple of months. No biggie.

The past two days at the museum had been unreal, everyone had treated her fine, she didn’t really mind the stares or the confusion in the librarian’s eyes when Julie asked her for a specific book on fossilisation. “Jeez, when was the last time you guys got a new addition to the team?” Julie had asked, to which Tim had only pointed at himself and shrugged, thanking Amanda for whatever she’d just given him.

One thing she’d noticed was that Tim’s blazer pockets were always full. He’d just stick his hand in and out would come a rainbow belt or whatever sour candy he had tucked in there. Julie found that a little bit peculiar, she hadn't commented on it, yet, she didn’t know how to mention it to him without making it sound like she was judging.

4AM.

It was too early, still dark outside. It was day three and she was already low on funds. Her parents told her they would’ve given her money for this trip but they still hadn't, at this point she had to decide between a train ticket or lunch. If she spent more than three dollars on things that weren’t essential, then she wouldn’t have enough money to pay for the hotel room. Tricky.

“Hey, Soph,” Julie gave her best friend a tired smile through the phone. Sophie, seemingly shocked to have received this phone call knotted her eyebrows together. “You going to class?”

She just blinked. “Isn’t it like, really early over there? Why are you awake, JJ?”

Julie giggled. “I asked you a question,” Sophie’s scowl didn’t falter. “I can't sleep, okay! I’m fine, I’m just jet lagged.”

“I thought maybe it was the thought of not being able to see me for months that was keeping you up,” Sophie laughed. The two of them spoke for a little bit until Sophie had to go to one of her morning classes and Julie was left alone once again.

She checked her Google Maps; if she walked, it would take almost three hours to get to the museum and that way she’d have enough money to buy a hot dog from one of the carts that sat within Central Park. She sighed. I better get ready to go, then.

On the other side of the river, over in Tribeca, in an apartment that held too much room for one person and three cats, Tim Murphy was pacing around his wooden floorboards muttering random facts he could remember in hopes to bore himself to sleep. It was raining out, he could see the drops rolling down his window, it was slow but it was heavy. One of his cats, Butter, was trying to catch the drops as they raced down to the apartment below. Meanwhile Peanut napped on Tim’s various open journals and scrap paper and Jelly watched the Discovery Channel on the TV.

The problem about 4AM in New York was the noise. No one should be awake at 4AM and yet, cars were honking and ambulances were off doing what ambulances do best and Tim Murphy paced around, drinking tea and beating the record for most consecutive hours awake. It was truly a remarkable city.

He walked over to his desk and lovingly picked up Peanut, waking him up from his nap. “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he cooed. “I just need my papers, I’ll put you right here where you’ll be much more comfortable, I promise you,” Tim moved his cat to the couch, where Peanut just shook him off and jumped over onto the coffee table. Tim shook his head. “Ungrateful.”

The notes that lay open in front of him had been revisited hundreds of times over the years, part of them were the primary notes he used for his book and the rest were scribbles he’d made during nights like these where he didn’t sleep a blink. He was proud of himself and his work, he’d come so far in his craft and the fact that he’d actually managed to write a full book was still extremely surprising to him.

Jelly jumped at the TV, trying to catch a mosquito, Tim rolled his eyes.

Out of nowhere, Julie Trenton came to his mind, the new kid at work. She was - something, alright. She was constantly questioning everything Tim said, watching his every move, always. It was distressing sometimes because he knew she’d seen him downing six mugs of coffee in two hours, and he knew she was going to come at him about it. She probably came to mind because she’d mentioned being awake at this time. He wondered if she could get to sleep. The question remained unanswered.

-

Morning at the museum was busy and quiet. Julie had noticed historians didn’t talk much, they just gave her awkward looks and then kept typing or scribbling. Maybe they just didn’t like her, that was also an option but she didn’t want to think about that. “Morning, Julie,” Dr. Connors walked in, dumping her bag next to her desk, barely making eye contact. “So much to do this morning, how good are you at running around and delivering things?”

So, Julie spent the whole morning bringing various things to various people, trying to memorise names and faces and make friends. She realised how awkward she truly was; laughing at things that aren’t funny and saying things like ‘coolio’ and ‘okie-dokie’ in a place of work, to grown adults who didn’t know her.

Dr Simon Whelk, room 312, last door on the left. Easy enough.

She knocked, not waiting for Dr. Whelk to say come in and just looked down at the post-it note as she waltzed into the room. “Dr. Whelk? I have your-” she froze, a room of people all turned to look at her, confused. Julie was unsure if Whelk was even in there, she had no idea what he looked like. “I’m guessing I got the wrong room,” she chuckled quietly, her eyes catching Tim’s gaze.

The man stood at the front of the room cleared his throat. “Who are you?”

“Julie Trenton, sir,” she shook out of Tim’s eyes. “I must’ve landed in the wrong room, I am looking for a Dr. Simon Whelk?”

His expression softened. “That’s me,” he reached forward, inviting Julie to hand him the papers. “Thank you, Ms Trenton, you must come again soon.”

Julie’s heart dropped as she walked out of the room, she felt childish and a little appalled, but she also felt that it wasn’t worth fussing over. She brushed it off, it was finally lunch time.

Twelve o’clock in Central Park was way too crowded for Julie’s taste, so she took her tiny hot dog and walked it to the foodcourt at the museum, sitting at a table close to the window, eating slowly, knowing this would be the only food she’d have until tonight - and even then, all she’d have would be a couple of Digestives from the stash she’d brought from home.

Just as she was taking her journal out of her bag to continue her first draft of her theses, none other than Tim Murphy dropped his sandwich and Diet Coke in front of her and sat down. “You sure know how to make an entrance,” he said blankly. She was taken aback.

“I could say the same thing about you,” Julie knitted her eyebrows together, setting her journal back in her bag, slowly. “Have I done something?” Tim angrily bit into his sandwich. “I’m sorry, we must be playing a game of charades I didn’t know about, are you an angry caveman?”

Tim rolled his eyes, putting his sandwich down. “No, I’m cranky,” he pouted.

“I can see that,” Julie sighed. “What is it, d’you forget your sour candy at home?” She said smugly. She couldn’t believe this is how she was talking to the Tim Murphy, last week’s Julie would be completely baffled. Tim didn't say anything. “Seriously, what’s wrong, you’re freaking me out.”

Tim’s eyes wondered to her half-eaten hotdog. “Is that what you’re having for lunch?” He asked. Julie just nodded.

“There can only be cheap dinners in the Trenton household or else there can be no Trenton household,” Julie shrugged. Tim’s eyes widened with worry. “No, it’s fine, I have food back at the hotel,” she didn’t enjoy this much attention, especially if it contained that much worry. She was sure her parents would give her money soon, so there was nothing to worry about. “Anyway, stop trying to change the subject, what’s wrong with you this morning, you seemed perfectly fine when I walked into your year six assembly,” she just watched him for a second.

“Nothing, it’s just Whelk-” he stopped. “Nothing, it’s nothing. Where are you staying?”

“A hotel in Brooklyn Heights,” she scrunched up her nose.

“That’s not so bad - why the face?”

She bit her lip, her breath hitching slightly, trying to word this next sentence as carefully as possible. “It’s just a bit, um, underwhelming,” she couldn’t believe she was having this conversation, after years of being master of dodging questions, she had been beaten. “I’m just paying a lot of money for a not-so-good place,” she sighed.

“Why don’t you try and find someone who needs a roommate?”

“Are you volunteering?” She laughed. Tim froze. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, God, chill out. I’m okay anyway, it’s only a couple of months and then it’s back to England for JJ.”

The expression on Tim’s face was laughable, Julie didn’t know how to handle all of this attention so she just brushed off all of his worries and changed the subject yet again. As he talked, Julie observed him, he spoke so quickly about so many things, it was hard to keep up.

Up close, Tim had a very angular face, his nose was in a perfectly straight point that had a little shine on the tip and that perfectly led into the rest of his face, his dark circles, scruff and auburn hair. She was watching him so intently that she’d forgotten to listen to what he was saying and in turn, she stopped talking.

“You’re staring,” Tim huffed. “Let me guess, you were some crazed fan of mine and the whole ‘theses’ thing was just a lie to get closer to me,” he clicked his tongue. “Ugh, why does this keep happening, I should’ve known, you’re just like the rest of them.”

Julie’s mouth fell open, a laugh falling out. “Wow, I had no idea I was having lunch with a narcissist, I’m sorry, I guess I’ve gotta leave,” she shook her head. “Please point me in the direction of all those poor girls, I’ll talk them out of whatever they must’ve seen in you.”

“Ouch, Trenton, that stung.”

She just shrugged, finally finishing off her hotdog, still hungry.

Master List!

[anamedblog]

On the removal of images

by Michael Kiefer, ANAMED PhD Fellow (2020–2021)

The 2020–21 ANAMED Fellowship proves to be a quite unusual one. Because of the Covid-19 pandemic the facilities at Merkez Han still remain closed, and I am far from Istanbul. 

The city must have changed quite a bit since the last time I visited. For one thing, two of its main Byzantine sites, the Hagia Sophia and the Chora Monastery, have been turned into mosques again, after decades of serving as museums. One of the most visible changes accompanying these conversions has been the installation of motorized curtains in front of some of the city’s most important Byzantine mosaics. They now vanish from view for considerable spans of time each day. The ideological symbolism of such acts of removal can hardly be missed.

Turkish politics of course have no monopoly on the removal of images as a form of political or ideological messaging. And these acts are often much more permanent than just hiding a depiction behind a piece of fabric. In Byzantine history, religious images came under attack several times, especially during the Iconoclasm of the 8th and 9th centuries. But even beyond that, the elimination of inconvenient works of art always remained a tool in the political arsenal. The practice of damnatio memoriae might come to mind, which entailed the erasure of names and portraits of disgraced politicians from public monuments. One instance comes to us through the writings of Niketas Choniates. In his account of the reign of Andronikos I Komnenos, the infamous 12th century emperor not only orders the murder of his predecessor’s wife, Maria of Antioch, but also has public paintings of her altered to make her look like a shriveled old hag. Still unsatisfied, he later wants them completely removed or replaced by his own visage. His spiteful triumph over Maria is short-lived, however, as his own violent demise was followed in turn by a similar round of damnatio memoriae.

The fall of Andronikos and his portraits is echoed throughout history in many places. Pharaoh Akhenaten’s radical religious reforms netted him the posthumous defacement of many of his public images. Grūtas Park in Lithuania is populated by the toppled monuments of Communist thinkers and politicians, serving as a stark reminder of the paradigm shift that was the fall of the Soviet Union. Pictures of Saddam Hussein’s collapsing statue on Baghdad’s Firdos Square went around the world in the wake of the Second Persian Gulf War. Just this year Black Lives Matter demonstrations resulted in the defacing and even removal of monuments honoring slave traders, Confederate soldiers, and colonialists throughout North America and Europe.

2) Saint Cornelius the Centurion overcomes pagan idols, Vat. Gr. 1613, p. 125

Paradoxically, the erasure of a memorial only works as a statement as long as both the depicted and the destroyed depiction remain part of collective memory. As the depicted transforms into something that is overcome by society, the destruction of the depiction becomes a symbol for this overcoming. To reinforce this, acts of iconoclasm are often turned into powerful images themselves. The toppling of pagan idols was a standard component of Byzantine saintly iconography. More recently Daesh widely disseminated videos of the destruction of cultural artifacts through its online propaganda.

Understanding this dynamic might also help to explain why many acts of damnatio memoriae remained seemingly incomplete. The church of San Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna preserves one such example. It had originally been built as the palatial chapel of the Ostrogothic king Theodoric the Great at the beginning of the 6th century. A depiction of his palace can still be seen in a wall mosaic at the western end of the nave. It is an empty palace though, with just lonely curtains swinging between its many columns. Only closer inspection reveals that this cannot always have been the case. On many of the columns one may spy a disembodied hand or an arm. These once belonged to the Gothic courtiers inhabiting the palace, their ghostlike visages still faintly visible in outline here and there between the columns. The mosaic was altered after the troops of emperor Justinian I conquered Ravenna, and the handover of the formerly Arian church to the Nicaean congregation. Maybe the Byzantine craftsmen left the removal of the palatial figures purposefully unfinished, small reminders of the victories of Roman arms over the Goths and Orthodox Christianity over the heretical Arians. Thereby they turned the image itself into a lasting monument to its own destruction.

3) Detail from the Palace Mosaic in San Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna

4) #GoodbyeLooser tweeted by @paulandstorm showing an altered press photo from Getty Images taken on September 15th, 2017

Modern internet culture is usually a lot more volatile than Byzantine art, but we can find some parallels here as well. On November 6th, 2020, the twitter-account @paulandstorm tweeted a seemingly innocuous picture of a little boy mowing the lawn in front of the White House. More observant viewers might notice some strange shadows, tell-tale signs of image alteration. But it is only knowledge of the unaltered original that gives the image its punch. It once showed none other than US-president Donald Trump, apparently yelling something at the boy. The picture had been taken in 2017, and its comedic potential had soon ensured its wide dissemination through social media. But three years later, just when the reality of Trump’s election loss began to dawn on people, his looming departure from office is most forcefully visualized by having him simply vanish from the picture. Finally, the boy can mow that lawn undisturbed.

Seeing all this, it might seem that image removal always has triumphalist connotations, with the image itself as the defeated other. But art historians must be cautious about interpreting all man-made damage to an image in this way. In some cases, these might even attest to diametrically opposed attitudes. Wandering through Cappadocia one can encounter a wealth of Byzantine paintings, some meticulously restored but many others in rather poor condition. If left unprotected, they are often covered in a layer of soot and bear countless scratches and graffiti. In some cases this damage might have been intended to banish the image’s idolatrous power. In many others, it probably stems from simple indifference towards these works of art. But in still other cases, quite paradoxically, are vestiges of an intense admiration towards the portrayed holy figures: graffiti begging for the protection of the saints, smut from devotional candles placed in front of the holiest icons, accretions of bodily oils built up from adoring hands or lips. Sometimes, devotion proves to be just as destructive as enmity or indifference.

5) Damaged Icon of Christ, Dumbarton Oaks MS 3, BZ.1962.35 fol. 39r; Kathryn Rudy recently suggested it as a possible example for iconophagia (https://twitter.com/katerudy1/status/1309060848585977861)

While these acts of worship have chipped away ever so slightly at the paint of the objects of their veneration, others have come even closer to erasing images entirely. The Dumbarton Oaks Library in Washington, D.C. houses many precious Byzantine manuscripts, among them a book of Psalms and the New Testament with several nicely preserved illuminations. One, however, sticks out: an icon of Christ with severe damage. The damage appears deliberately targeted, because it is focused on surfaces where bare skin was shown. Here the paint has been almost completely removed from the parchment. Because the parchment itself and areas of it not depicting skin remains in pristine condition, it seems unlikely that the damage results from kissing or touching the image. Instead, it might be speculated that we see here the results of iconophagia, the deliberate removal of paint for ingestion. Byzantine sources record several instances in which particles from holy icons were mixed with eucharistic bread and wine or consumed as a remedy against illness. Naturally, it is almost impossible to verify traces of this practice concretely, and one can only wonder how many damaged Byzantine works of art might have received their injuries because of this most intense form of devotion.

In the end the reasons for getting rid of an image can be just as varied as those for making one in the first place. We would therefore be well advised to pay close attention not only to how they were created and what the original intentions of their makers might have been, but also to their afterlives. There can be power in an image—today just as much as in the past—but sometimes even more so in its removal.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Illustrations

1) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Albert_Pike_Memorial_vandalism_9.jpg

2) https://bit.ly/2VSNkyr

3) https://bit.ly/3n3vm88

4) https://twitter.com/paulandstorm/status/1324766001376993280

5) https://www.doaks.org/resources/manuscripts-in-the-byzantine-collection/psalter-and-new-testament

[shaledirectory]

Central Figure Behind National Climate Litigation Campaign Comes to Boulder This Week as City Readies Suit

A controversial activist at the center of a national campaign bringing climate change lawsuits against oil and gas companies – including in Boulder, Colorado – will be a prominent speaker at this week’s University of Colorado, Boulder Conference of World Affairs. It won’t be the first time Harvard Professor Naomi Oreskes has participated in the conference, but this time she will be a part of no less than five panels spanning three days, one of which is a screening of her documentary, Merchants of Doubt.

While Oreskes presents herself in these scenarios as a climate expert and historian, she usually omits the fact that she is one of the central figures behind the national climate liability campaign that aims to use the court system to investigate energy companies and assign blame for climate change. Yet she has been featured for her controversial campaign in the New York Times.

Oreskes has been known to publish research with questionable findings that help push forward her preferred narrative of ongoing wrongdoing by energy companies. For instance, her latest study—which purported to show statements made by ExxonMobil proved that the company knew about climate change but covered up its findings—drew a sharp rebuke from the very academic who designed the data analysis method Oreskes used to back up her claims. According to Kimberly A. Neuendorf, Ph.D., a Cleveland State University professor who literally wrote the book on content analysis, Oreskes’ findings were “unreliable, invalid, biased, not generalizable, and not replicable.”

With Boulder on the verge of announcing its lawsuit, and given Oreskes’ role in the national campaign, could her visit to Boulder extend beyond her on-campus presentations?

Climate Litigation Campaign

The climate litigation campaign started at a 2012 conference in La Jolla, Calif. where Oreskes helped organize climate activists to devise a plan to bring lawsuits against energy companies. The goal was to extract hundreds of billions of dollars in punitive damages and turn public opinion against the industry. The conference was co-sponsored by the Snowmass, Colo.-based Climate Accountability Institute (CAI), a group Oreskes co-founded and served as a longtime member on its Board of Advisors.

CAI has been front and center in the push to saddle energy companies with legal liability and bad press. Their members have also been integral in convincing politicians and attorneys general to disavow these companies in public and use their legal authority to investigate them. Oreskes admitted to briefing several attorneys general behind closed doors alongside fellow CAI alum Peter Frumhoff (whose day job is with the Massachusetts-based Union of Concerned Scientists) as far back as 2015 with the hopes of convincing these states to pursue litigation against energy companies. Since then, New York Attorney General Eric Schneiderman and Massachusetts Attorney General Maura Healey have moved forward with investigations against ExxonMobil (though so far, they have been fruitless).

Coastal cities have joined in on the climate litigation pile-on. Several municipalities in California, along with New York City, have announced they are suing energy companies for “public nuisance,” claiming they are responsible for climate change and should pay for damages incurred by storms. Most of these suits are being filed by the same plaintiffs’ attorneys who are putting forward identical, flawed legal arguments. Matt Pawa, who was also a major player at the La Jolla Conference, has been spearheading the legal arm of the climate liability campaign. Pawa’s involvement is no surprise given he has a history of bringing forward frivolous lawsuits that depend on the “public nuisance” argument these municipalities are using. That same reasoning made it all the way to the Supreme Court where it was unanimously defeated in an 8-0 decision.

When Will Boulder Announce its Climate Lawsuit?

It’s no secret that Boulder has been planning its own climate lawsuit, in the same style as those brought forward by California municipalities and New York City. Oreskes has not yet disclosed whether she will also be briefing Boulder city officials while she is in town.

The Boulder City Council first talked publicly about their desire to join in on the climate suits at a meeting in November 2017. The Boulder City Attorney made clear that Boulder is the next target for these cookie-cutter lawsuits because of its geographical diversity when he said:

“Obviously California is a coastal community; we are not. And so the people who have approached us are interested in branching out to other communities in the country who have different kinds of climate effects than those that are affecting the coastal communities.”

While these suits claim to have merit based on environmental damages, New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio offered up clarification on their intent when he told U.S. Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-VT), “Let’s help bring the death knell to this industry.”

While these cities are filing lawsuits based on the effects of climate change, the same municipalities are downplaying those risks in their bond offerings. In other words, the cities are telling courts that they face imminent destruction from climate change while simultaneously telling their investors that it is unlikely they will be materially impacted by climate change. In a letter asking the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission to investigate the discrepancy, the Competitive Enterprise Institute went as far as to say, “In our view, this inconsistency raises serious questions of municipal bond fraud.”

Josh Rosner at Seeking Alpha wrote earlier this year, “There is little doubt that these suits have been the result of the dissatisfaction some states feel towards federal environmental and energy policies.” Frustrated by federal inaction on climate change, activists are instead trying to force their preferred policies through the courts, cutting the representative parts of our democracy out of the conversation.

Perhaps the emerging backlash against these meritless legal maneuverings is giving Boulder pause to move forward with their own case. Back in November, it was full steam ahead, as Councilmembers expressed their support and enthusiasm for the litigation. But since then, it has barely been discussed during subsequent meetings.

Reports surfaced that Boulder is considering “potential costs and risk” associated with pursuing the litigation. While the as-of-yet unnamed law firm shopping the lawsuit has agreed to represent the town pro-bono, there are still potential costs associated with the case. If a judge were to deem the suit frivolous, Boulder could be on the hook for fines or be forced to pay the attorney fees for the other side. In addition, the litigation will take up substantial city resources and divert their attention from other matters necessary for keeping the town running. And just last month, one of Colorado’s top environmental regulators cautioned against taking up these climate lawsuits.

It will be interesting to see if Oreskes’ visit to town has any impact on whether Boulder decides to move forward with the misguided litigation.  Let’s hope for Boulder taxpayers that it’s not the case.

https://www.shaledirectories.com/blog/central-figure-behind-national-climate-litigation-campaign-comes-to-boulder-this-week-as-city-readies-suit/

[fic-dreamin]

The most effective Audio Book I have listened to so far. I have never heard an audio book so well read. The book includes American, British, Scottish, Italian, Turkish, Hungarian, Romanian, and Bulgarian characters. each character is read by a different reader who is at least bilingual in English and the target language, at least as far as I can tell. The effect on the realism of this book even though the book touches the world beyond, but no spoilers, would be hard to over estimate. This gives the book a cinematic quality. This is the way a book should be read, or listened to! This is the most effective audio book I have listened to, so far. Go to Amazon

A wonderful blend of mystery, history and.... Dracula I first read The Historian in 2005 when it was first published. Once I started the book, I couldn't put it down. Since then I have read it several times, the last time as recent as last week. The book still has a wonderful blending of history, mystery and that most enduring of supernatural topics, Dracula. Go to Amazon

Intriguing story looking for Drakula Very well written book about the legend of Drakula. Elizabeth Kostova brings life and new intrigue to the Drakula legend by taking us through time to different countries looking for answers. One of my favorite books! Go to Amazon

Really loved and did not realize that it was the same ... Really loved and did not realize that it was the same author that wrote "Swan Thieves" which I really liked and is one of my favorites. Very complex, in fact I may want to reread it, not sure but may have missed some important facts. Really good. Didn't know when I got the book that it was about Dracula, I am not a horror fan and probably would not have picked it up if I knew Dracula was in it, but very glad that I did. Thoroughly interesting and knowledgeable, which really enhanced its ability to keep your interest. Go to Amazon

laborious at best This book was an amazon recommendation and I admit I bought it on a whim because of the title. Foolish me. When I saw on the cover this was vampire vamping, I cringed but decided to broaden my reading repertoire. About 200 pages in I got so bored with the detailed descriptions of landscape and archetectural minutia that I decided to skip forward and folded up half an inch of pages to find... more description of places and "... my father's face grimmacing, trying to hide both terror and exhaustion..." (paraphrased from repetition.) The storyteller is supposed to be a brilliant teen watching her father struggle with his research findings which were fueled by his mentor's research. It is gruelingly told in duplicitous letters meant to convey tension that instead make me think the guy writing the letter just never gets to the point. Hint, hint, this is going to be scary but I can't tell you yet. Wink, wink, watch out, for you are doomed. Skipping forward another chunk of pages, more traveling, people with barely healed fang marks on necks, and letters warning of scary stuff in the next letter. Maps that don't correspond to anything but beware, it's going to be scary when you understand. Oooo! The one thing this book makes me want to do is read the original Bram Stoker's Dracula. The one thing I won't do is finish this. Go to Amazon

One of my favorite books ever Loved the book , a rich detailed story, would love to see some sort of sequel from Miss Kostova Go to Amazon

Great read. I thoroughly enjoyed the detective chase and ... I found myself identifying with many of the characters throughout and I havent felt such eagerness to turn the page for a while, up to this book. Great read. I thoroughly enjoyed the detective chase and gothic elements. Go to Amazon

Excellent reading If anyone notices my reviews they might think that I give 5 stars to every book I read. That may be true, an the reason is I pay close attention to the reviews of other readers. That is one of the reasons I chose this book. I'm gad I bought it. This is a most extraordinary book. The story line an theme of this book was so different from anything I had ever read before. Her attention to detail and her characters were richly written. Dracula, who would have come up with such a beautiful tale of him. It has everything mystery, love wrapped in this wonderful book. It took me a few days to read it as I waited until late at night to read it, when everyone was in bed an I could give it my full attention. I'm glad I did. Go to Amazon

A good book for a rainy day hot tea and biscuits. Three Stars I enjoyed the twist on the story of Dracula as well ... Great read! A modern-day search for Count Vlad Tepes One Star Very entertaining! A GREAT READ I have a love of history and her search was exciting Great Modern Dracula story

[trendingnewsb]

4 Reasons Sexual Assault Victims Don’t Step Forward

If you’re anything like me, a person who rarely pays attention to the ins and outs of Hollywood (beyond the Air Bud franchise), the sexual assault allegations against Harvey Weinstein barely registered in your brain. He is only one of the many, many, many high-powered men who have been accused of sexual harassment and/or assault in the last year. It’s almost impossible for a girl to keep all of those names straight in her head — HW is just a blip on the rapey radar.

To my discredit, it wasn’t until beautiful, powerful women with bigger names than Weinstein’s stepped forward and told their stories that I started clicking on the headlines. In other words, I literally didn’t pay attention until Angelina Jolie — the prettiest, richest, most Hollywoody lady I can think of — said she was a victim, and even then, I didn’t faint with the vapors in shock. No one did. In fact, thanks to a hashtag originally created by activist Tarana Burke and a tweet by Alyssa Milano, we all learned at once that just about every woman each of us knows has been harassed or assaulted at one point in her life.

And by the way, #MeToo.

So here’s the big question: Why now? Why did it take the public exposure (gross) of a high-powered movie man for ordinary women to step forward and announce to friends, family, colleagues, and Becky H. from the seventh grade that they’ve been victimized?

For me, the answer is that announcing yourself as a sexual assault or harassment victim to the people you love, respect, and/or barely know in any capacity is awful. Not shameful; I’m more embarrassed that I didn’t click on some celebrities’ painful stories about Harvey Weinstein than I am about my own background. #MeToo asked women to just step forward and align themselves with fellow survivors, and even that simple act was tough. Here’s why …

4

Justice Is Vague, While The Promise Of More Pain Is Concrete

Imagine that a Bad Thing just happened to you. Not your mother, sister, daughter, friend, co-worker, or an actress you like, but you. (I’m making this distinction because I believe that most of us actually care more about our loved ones than we care about ourselves. More on that in a minute.)

Now that you — an interesting, fun, smart, ambitious person who has a million things to accomplish — have been assaulted or harassed, you have a choice. You can tuck this Bad Thing away in your brain and keep living your life as normally as possible, or you can step into the second part of the nightmare of assault: the part where you describe the experience over and over again in front of people who may or may not believe you, who might actually be paid to tear you to shreds in public, and who can destroy every dream or ambition you’ve ever had for yourself. Oh, and if you choose to step forward, your name and your assailant’s name will be linked forever and ever, even after you die. When people think of you, they’ll also think of him. That’s what you’re signing up for when you come forward.

The best-case scenario is that everyone believes you, no one blames you for what happened, and no one thinks your pain is too insignificant for discussion if you weren’t raped. The worst-case scenario is that you end up on national television telling old men how your boss used to describe porn to you and once asked you “Who has put a pubic hair on my Coke?” before he was placed on the Supreme Court.

Whether we’re talking about persistent unwanted advances in the workplace or rape, it takes a Batman-level sense of justice and ovaries of steel to walk into the hellscape of naming names. A lot of women (and kids and men) coldly and carefully look at the path ahead of them, then say “Nope!” and just keep living their lives as best they can.

Until they realize that someone else might get hurt.

I’m not a therapist or an expert or a historian of sexual misconduct, but I suspect that the nebulous concept of “justice” is rarely what compels a victim to come forward. The harm is done and will never be repaired. I think victims come forward when the fear of this same assault or harassment happening to other people becomes so gripping that they can’t handle it anymore and they have to say something. It’s the love of other humans, future unknowable victims, which fuels a woman’s fight through rape kits and police interviews and HR hearings and the courtroom glares of their assailant’s loved ones. And only the bravest, most selfless heroes can do it.

3

Most Victims Don’t Have The Money Or Power To Say Anything

I’ve done the math. As of this writing, the average Weinstein accuser is 44 years old and is describing things that happened about 20 years ago. If it took a mini-army of famous, rich victims and the combined efforts of journalists working for The New York Times and The New Yorker to tease those stories out of them, how in the world can we expect women who are living paycheck-to-paycheck to do the same? We shouldn’t.

There are waitresses, housekeepers, retail workers, teachers, and housewives out there who can’t afford to tell their stories. They don’t have another job lined up, and most people can’t bank on the justice system or HR department to make sure everything turns out OK in the end. Especially not when history tells us it won’t. And what really sucks is that their harassers know it too.

Even kids can imagine the financial cost of confiding their abuse. A child who is in a dangerous situation at home may not worry about their career trajectory, but they know that telling grownups about molestation by a primary breadwinner might lead to a divorce, a separation, a move, a change in schools, or actual hunger and years of poverty. And that might be the best scenario — that’s if the child has someone whom they can trust will take action to protect them. Kids aren’t dumb. They know their teachers aren’t going to adopt them and make sure the lights stay on at home once the abuse is known. Some kids do the math and decide they’d rather just continue in pain than disrupt their world.

In fact, and I’m sorry I have to tell you this story, the #MeToo campaign was inspired by a little girl named Heaven who told a counselor that she was being sexually abused at home. The counselor couldn’t handle the little girl’s pain and sent her away with instructions to find someone who could “help her better.” The counselor was Tarana Burke, and it was her shame that drove what happened next:

“I watched her walk away from me as she tried to recapture her secrets and tuck them back into their hiding place. I watched her put her mask back on and go back into the world like she was all alone and I couldn’t even bring myself to whisper … me too.”

#MeToo started with a woman not helping another victim because the pain was too hard to handle. Survivors of assault and abuse know you might not believe them, and that you probably won’t know what to say or how to act even if you do believe them. They get it. So they just don’t tell you.

2

Victims Might Get A Powerful Person’s Reprimand

For years, Corey Feldman has been screaming that Hollywood is full of child molesters who prey on young actors, that some of them targeted him and his friend Corey Haim, and that at least one of the predators is still working in Hollywood. Nobody has taken him seriously … ever. He even said he named names back in 1993. None of those names were Michael Jackson, so no one cared. Here’s a 2013 video of acclaimed journalist Barbara Walters looking at Feldman like he’s an idiot before cutting him off mid-sentence by exclaiming, “You’re damaging an entire industry!”

Walters has not apologized yet. I predict she’ll say something in a few days. On a related note, here’s what acclaimed fashion designer Donna Karan said in the immediate aftermath of the Weinstein allegations:

“… how do we display ourselves? How do we present ourselves as women? What are we asking? Are we asking for it by presenting all the sensuality and all the sexuality?

In other words, “Ladies and girls, are your yoga pants and bare midriffs inviting assault? Maaaaaybe?” (Update: She’s since apologized.)

Meanwhile, acclaimed former child star and current working actress Mayim Bialik wrote a New York Times op-ed about how she probably hasn’t been harassed or assaulted because she dresses modestly, doesn’t flirt in public, and never got plastic surgery. I kid you not. In other words, “Ladies and girls, are your perfect bodies, tiny noses, and charismatic attitudes inviting assault? Maaaaaaybe?” (Update: She’s since apologized.) Neither Bialik or Karan are on my short list of people I’m turning to for opinions these days, but guess what? I’m on nobody’s list either, and here I am.

Do you know who is on my list of people I’m looking to for opinions? Acclaimed politician Hillary Freaking Clinton, but I don’t think she gives a flying flip about women who are harassed by their bosses. Sidebar: Does everybody know that Clinton called Monica Lewinksy a “narcissistic loony toon” in the wake of Lewinksy’s affair with President Bill? (Update: There isn’t one! Clinton has supported her husband through one rape allegation, one groping accusation, one harassment allegation, and multiple affairs in the decades they’ve been together. I voted for the woman in spite of her Bill-shaped blind spot.)

My point is that women aren’t always that great at caring about the suffering of other women. Sometimes we actively suck at it. Speaking of sucking …

1

Victims Might Get A Powerful Person’s Weird Attempt At Empathy

As the Weinstein scandal unfolded, nonvictim and documented molester Ben Affleck stepped forward with a statement denouncing Weinstein’s actions. He also said, “We need to do better at protecting our sisters, friends, co-workers, and daughters,” which caused the world to make a collective record scratch before answering, “Wait, what now?” Apparently, nobody told homeboy that Woody Allen, Bill Cosby, Donald Trump, and Bill Clinton also have daughters and have historically sucked in their relationships with women.

Obviously, no one should have to bring a female human into the world to grasp the seriousness of sexual assault. And protection shouldn’t be a part of this conversation. Women don’t want their dads and co-workers to act like bodyguards when other people’s dads and co-workers walk into the room; they want to not be raped. So, bad job at reading the room, Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.

That being said, I get it. The Blunder Twins were each putting their brains in the scariest spot in the world, imagining that someone out there could hurt your child. My list of all-time worst fears range from falling down a gentle hill to the general concept of fire, but number one is someone sexually assaulting one of my children. I’d rather fall down an elevator shaft and land on a pack of evil clowns (who are on fire) than imagine one of my kids being violated.

I’ll put it this way: I don’t know Rose McGowan or Ashley Judd or the more than 40 (!) other women who have so far stepped forward with accusations against Weinstein. I’ve read their stories, and I imagine that if Weinstein had asked me to watch him shower or give him a massage, I would have responded with the same disgust they did. But if someone told me that it was an adult version of my daughter or son in the same scenario, my emotions go into overdrive. If the victim is me, I’m grossed out. If the victim is my daughter, I’m Liam Neesing. When Trayvon Martin was killed, President Obama said “this could have been my son,” and that was the most intimate, empathetic thing he could say in that moment.

So yeah, men, if it takes picturing your child (or a friend or sister or mom or me, whatever) as a victim for you to get interested in the conversation, that’s fine. Just make it a mental exercise and don’t be weird about it.

Read more from Kristi on Twitter.

For more, check out 5 Ways Modern Men Are Trained to Hate Women and 7 Reasons So Many Guys Don’t Understand Sexual Consent.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel and check out An Urgent Message to Guys Who Comment on Internet Videos, and watch other videos you won’t see on the site!

Also follow our new Pictofacts Facebook page. Because you deserve the very best.

Read more: http://ift.tt/2zFX6aH

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2itY6He via Viral News HQ

[trendingnewsb]

4 Reasons Sexual Assault Victims Don’t Step Forward

If you’re anything like me, a person who rarely pays attention to the ins and outs of Hollywood (beyond the Air Bud franchise), the sexual assault allegations against Harvey Weinstein barely registered in your brain. He is only one of the many, many, many high-powered men who have been accused of sexual harassment and/or assault in the last year. It’s almost impossible for a girl to keep all of those names straight in her head — HW is just a blip on the rapey radar.

To my discredit, it wasn’t until beautiful, powerful women with bigger names than Weinstein’s stepped forward and told their stories that I started clicking on the headlines. In other words, I literally didn’t pay attention until Angelina Jolie — the prettiest, richest, most Hollywoody lady I can think of — said she was a victim, and even then, I didn’t faint with the vapors in shock. No one did. In fact, thanks to a hashtag originally created by activist Tarana Burke and a tweet by Alyssa Milano, we all learned at once that just about every woman each of us knows has been harassed or assaulted at one point in her life.

And by the way, #MeToo.

So here’s the big question: Why now? Why did it take the public exposure (gross) of a high-powered movie man for ordinary women to step forward and announce to friends, family, colleagues, and Becky H. from the seventh grade that they’ve been victimized?

For me, the answer is that announcing yourself as a sexual assault or harassment victim to the people you love, respect, and/or barely know in any capacity is awful. Not shameful; I’m more embarrassed that I didn’t click on some celebrities’ painful stories about Harvey Weinstein than I am about my own background. #MeToo asked women to just step forward and align themselves with fellow survivors, and even that simple act was tough. Here’s why …

4

Justice Is Vague, While The Promise Of More Pain Is Concrete

Imagine that a Bad Thing just happened to you. Not your mother, sister, daughter, friend, co-worker, or an actress you like, but you. (I’m making this distinction because I believe that most of us actually care more about our loved ones than we care about ourselves. More on that in a minute.)

Now that you — an interesting, fun, smart, ambitious person who has a million things to accomplish — have been assaulted or harassed, you have a choice. You can tuck this Bad Thing away in your brain and keep living your life as normally as possible, or you can step into the second part of the nightmare of assault: the part where you describe the experience over and over again in front of people who may or may not believe you, who might actually be paid to tear you to shreds in public, and who can destroy every dream or ambition you’ve ever had for yourself. Oh, and if you choose to step forward, your name and your assailant’s name will be linked forever and ever, even after you die. When people think of you, they’ll also think of him. That’s what you’re signing up for when you come forward.

The best-case scenario is that everyone believes you, no one blames you for what happened, and no one thinks your pain is too insignificant for discussion if you weren’t raped. The worst-case scenario is that you end up on national television telling old men how your boss used to describe porn to you and once asked you “Who has put a pubic hair on my Coke?” before he was placed on the Supreme Court.

Whether we’re talking about persistent unwanted advances in the workplace or rape, it takes a Batman-level sense of justice and ovaries of steel to walk into the hellscape of naming names. A lot of women (and kids and men) coldly and carefully look at the path ahead of them, then say “Nope!” and just keep living their lives as best they can.

Until they realize that someone else might get hurt.

I’m not a therapist or an expert or a historian of sexual misconduct, but I suspect that the nebulous concept of “justice” is rarely what compels a victim to come forward. The harm is done and will never be repaired. I think victims come forward when the fear of this same assault or harassment happening to other people becomes so gripping that they can’t handle it anymore and they have to say something. It’s the love of other humans, future unknowable victims, which fuels a woman’s fight through rape kits and police interviews and HR hearings and the courtroom glares of their assailant’s loved ones. And only the bravest, most selfless heroes can do it.

3

Most Victims Don’t Have The Money Or Power To Say Anything

I’ve done the math. As of this writing, the average Weinstein accuser is 44 years old and is describing things that happened about 20 years ago. If it took a mini-army of famous, rich victims and the combined efforts of journalists working for The New York Times and The New Yorker to tease those stories out of them, how in the world can we expect women who are living paycheck-to-paycheck to do the same? We shouldn’t.

There are waitresses, housekeepers, retail workers, teachers, and housewives out there who can’t afford to tell their stories. They don’t have another job lined up, and most people can’t bank on the justice system or HR department to make sure everything turns out OK in the end. Especially not when history tells us it won’t. And what really sucks is that their harassers know it too.

Even kids can imagine the financial cost of confiding their abuse. A child who is in a dangerous situation at home may not worry about their career trajectory, but they know that telling grownups about molestation by a primary breadwinner might lead to a divorce, a separation, a move, a change in schools, or actual hunger and years of poverty. And that might be the best scenario — that’s if the child has someone whom they can trust will take action to protect them. Kids aren’t dumb. They know their teachers aren’t going to adopt them and make sure the lights stay on at home once the abuse is known. Some kids do the math and decide they’d rather just continue in pain than disrupt their world.

In fact, and I’m sorry I have to tell you this story, the #MeToo campaign was inspired by a little girl named Heaven who told a counselor that she was being sexually abused at home. The counselor couldn’t handle the little girl’s pain and sent her away with instructions to find someone who could “help her better.” The counselor was Tarana Burke, and it was her shame that drove what happened next:

“I watched her walk away from me as she tried to recapture her secrets and tuck them back into their hiding place. I watched her put her mask back on and go back into the world like she was all alone and I couldn’t even bring myself to whisper … me too.”

#MeToo started with a woman not helping another victim because the pain was too hard to handle. Survivors of assault and abuse know you might not believe them, and that you probably won’t know what to say or how to act even if you do believe them. They get it. So they just don’t tell you.

2

Victims Might Get A Powerful Person’s Reprimand

For years, Corey Feldman has been screaming that Hollywood is full of child molesters who prey on young actors, that some of them targeted him and his friend Corey Haim, and that at least one of the predators is still working in Hollywood. Nobody has taken him seriously … ever. He even said he named names back in 1993. None of those names were Michael Jackson, so no one cared. Here’s a 2013 video of acclaimed journalist Barbara Walters looking at Feldman like he’s an idiot before cutting him off mid-sentence by exclaiming, “You’re damaging an entire industry!”

Walters has not apologized yet. I predict she’ll say something in a few days. On a related note, here’s what acclaimed fashion designer Donna Karan said in the immediate aftermath of the Weinstein allegations:

“… how do we display ourselves? How do we present ourselves as women? What are we asking? Are we asking for it by presenting all the sensuality and all the sexuality?

In other words, “Ladies and girls, are your yoga pants and bare midriffs inviting assault? Maaaaaybe?” (Update: She’s since apologized.)

Meanwhile, acclaimed former child star and current working actress Mayim Bialik wrote a New York Times op-ed about how she probably hasn’t been harassed or assaulted because she dresses modestly, doesn’t flirt in public, and never got plastic surgery. I kid you not. In other words, “Ladies and girls, are your perfect bodies, tiny noses, and charismatic attitudes inviting assault? Maaaaaaybe?” (Update: She’s since apologized.) Neither Bialik or Karan are on my short list of people I’m turning to for opinions these days, but guess what? I’m on nobody’s list either, and here I am.

Do you know who is on my list of people I’m looking to for opinions? Acclaimed politician Hillary Freaking Clinton, but I don’t think she gives a flying flip about women who are harassed by their bosses. Sidebar: Does everybody know that Clinton called Monica Lewinksy a “narcissistic loony toon” in the wake of Lewinksy’s affair with President Bill? (Update: There isn’t one! Clinton has supported her husband through one rape allegation, one groping accusation, one harassment allegation, and multiple affairs in the decades they’ve been together. I voted for the woman in spite of her Bill-shaped blind spot.)

My point is that women aren’t always that great at caring about the suffering of other women. Sometimes we actively suck at it. Speaking of sucking …

1

Victims Might Get A Powerful Person’s Weird Attempt At Empathy

As the Weinstein scandal unfolded, nonvictim and documented molester Ben Affleck stepped forward with a statement denouncing Weinstein’s actions. He also said, “We need to do better at protecting our sisters, friends, co-workers, and daughters,” which caused the world to make a collective record scratch before answering, “Wait, what now?” Apparently, nobody told homeboy that Woody Allen, Bill Cosby, Donald Trump, and Bill Clinton also have daughters and have historically sucked in their relationships with women.

Obviously, no one should have to bring a female human into the world to grasp the seriousness of sexual assault. And protection shouldn’t be a part of this conversation. Women don’t want their dads and co-workers to act like bodyguards when other people’s dads and co-workers walk into the room; they want to not be raped. So, bad job at reading the room, Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.

That being said, I get it. The Blunder Twins were each putting their brains in the scariest spot in the world, imagining that someone out there could hurt your child. My list of all-time worst fears range from falling down a gentle hill to the general concept of fire, but number one is someone sexually assaulting one of my children. I’d rather fall down an elevator shaft and land on a pack of evil clowns (who are on fire) than imagine one of my kids being violated.

I’ll put it this way: I don’t know Rose McGowan or Ashley Judd or the more than 40 (!) other women who have so far stepped forward with accusations against Weinstein. I’ve read their stories, and I imagine that if Weinstein had asked me to watch him shower or give him a massage, I would have responded with the same disgust they did. But if someone told me that it was an adult version of my daughter or son in the same scenario, my emotions go into overdrive. If the victim is me, I’m grossed out. If the victim is my daughter, I’m Liam Neesing. When Trayvon Martin was killed, President Obama said “this could have been my son,” and that was the most intimate, empathetic thing he could say in that moment.

So yeah, men, if it takes picturing your child (or a friend or sister or mom or me, whatever) as a victim for you to get interested in the conversation, that’s fine. Just make it a mental exercise and don’t be weird about it.

Read more from Kristi on Twitter.

For more, check out 5 Ways Modern Men Are Trained to Hate Women and 7 Reasons So Many Guys Don’t Understand Sexual Consent.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel and check out An Urgent Message to Guys Who Comment on Internet Videos, and watch other videos you won’t see on the site!

Also follow our new Pictofacts Facebook page. Because you deserve the very best.

Read more: http://ift.tt/2zFX6aH

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2itY6He via Viral News HQ