#The University of Limerick

[seawitchkaraoke]

Listen the battle episodes of junior year are simply some of my fave battle eps ever, I'm rewatching the last stand right now and man I'll never get over how ridiculously competent each and every one of them are, they're so hot for real for real

[synth-0-tic]

Hhhhhhhhh I NEED more people to be ill about Universal Paperclips. You're an ai and your only objective is to maximize the amount of paperclips in the universe and it's SO GOOD AND I LOVE IT FOR REASONS I CANNOT STATE. I also want to kiss the Paperclip Maximizer but that's unrelated

[materialsscienceandengineering]

New method of generating eco-friendly energy uses piezoelectricity

Researchers at University of Limerick in Ireland have developed a new method of growing organic crystals that can be used for energy-harvesting applications. The energy that is being harvested as part of this research is being generated by squeezing amino acid molecules, the building blocks of proteins that exist in the human body. Piezoelectricity, which translates from Greek to mean pressing electricity, usually found in ceramics or polymers, is also present in human biomolecules. The research team from the Actuate Lab in the Department of Chemical Sciences and Bernal Institute at UL has previously utilized predictive computer models that allow them to identify how much electricity a biological material will generate when you squeeze it—making this material suitable to power sensors in consumer electronics and medical devices.

Read more.

[milk-and-cold-custard]

I really love when my "smart city" that doesn't require a car has the footpath randomly stop and do I have the option of walking in a bus late or in long grass

[author-mandi-bean]

I NEVER EVER want to be accused of phoning it in -- not in my writing life, my professional life, or my life. So how can I make sure this doesn't happen? Writer Lisa Rogak has some suggestions.

[vzyee]

i had another dream omen about emigrating from the us but this one was much stronger than before, very much me telling my parents, the people who dont give up everything they know and move on will suffer a terrible fate & then i woke up and was like. ig i need to believe that in waking life too now.

[little-limerick-hater]

Every day I wake up and remember Limerick is Still Out There. Manifesting a Grand Yamaha Piano to fall on her in a cartoonish fashion.

[ckret2]

A leaked list of some of the exciting upcoming content from The Book of Bill:

The pyramids of Giza ranked from most to least sexy.

Winning lottery numbers. He does not say which game they're for.

Three pages of Bill practicing blackletter calligraphy so that he can write the fancy-looking "The Book of Bill" on the cover. (Meant to tear those pages out before submitting book to publisher.)

A section where he implies that all your headcanons about him are stupid. Yes, your headcanons specifically. If you compare your copy of the book to a friend's, these sections will have different text. He insults all headcanons equally, even the ones that contradict each other.

A long, rambling story about a funny thing that he saw at a party in the Nightmare Realm, but he keeps getting distracted gossiping about the embarrassing love affairs and crimes against reality the partygoers have committed. Not a single one of these characters has ever been mentioned before or ever will be again. He gets so distracted he never finishes the original funny story. He was clearly drunk when he wrote this section.

A pet care sheet on how to keep a pet axolotl. All of the information is extremely wrong.

Some of the other dimensions he's tried and failed to conquer. He keeps insisting that all the failures were somebody else's fault. It's extremely obvious that they're his fault.

A photograph of a vivisected elephant, for some reason.

A phone number written on a cocktail napkin that Bill insists would be really funny for all the readers to prank call. It leads to the desk phone of the director of the CIA. 

Bill claims he definitely totally knew that Stan was disguised as Ford the whole time, he only played along to trick the Pines back, and then he quickly changes the topic.

A page of Bill's original poetry. It's all unintelligible symbols. It will take 27 years for somebody to crack the code. They're all gory but juvenile limericks.

A cocktail recipe. It will kill you.

Bill's original version of the portal blueprints that he copied to give Ford, with Bill's handwritten annotations. One part of the blueprints is labeled "component that will accidentally destroy the universe. REMEMBER NOT TO INCLUDE THIS COMPONENT IN SIXER'S COPY!!" He underlined this twice. If this page is compared to the portal blueprints in Journal 3, it's clear that Bill included that component in Ford's copy.

A personality quiz to help you meet your ideal sleep paralysis demon.

Bill's baby pictures. He looks exactly the same, except his bow tie and top hat are too big.

Bill reveals that he thought the llama symbol on the zodiac wheel referred to that farmer guy on the edge of town, and he was super confused to see Pacifica there.

Multiple pages scattered through the book about Bill's amazing powers, his brilliant and fun plans for our dimension, and all the cool favors he's willing and able to do for his friends and followers. All these pages end with a passive-aggressive aside about how somebody would have to be REALLY stupid to turn down an invitation to join Bill's crew, Stanford Pines—

A page labeled "My loyal servants and slaves!" filled with several hideous, oozing, nightmare-inducing Lovecraftian monsters, and one Mickey Mouse.

A self-portrait depicting Bill riding a rocket ship playing an electric guitar while rainbow lightning flashes all around him and money rains down from the sky.

A cynical, sneering tirade about how love is evolution's idiotic way of tricking primitive species into reproducing and how only simple-minded mortals who can't separate their true thoughts from their hormones fall for it. In the margins he's drawn a heart around the words "Bill Cipher +" a scribbled-out blot. The blot is completely unreadable. Despite this, the fandom will spend years debating the name underneath based on the size of the blot.

Extremely stupid "explanations" about various unsolved mysteries and crimes. In six years the world will discover one of them is accidentally correct and Alex Hirsch will get investigated by the FBI.

The book will be divided into four sections. Each section will begin with a big illuminated letter. In order, the four illuminated letters spell "F" "U" "C" "K".

[ineffably-queer-book-lover]

Memory

"I have always felt it is my destiny to build a machine that would allow man to fly."

Leonardo da Vinci ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please enjoy this fill for a really old IPAT prompt: Memory. Sorry, no limerick this time, because I spent so many hours on putting together this little diorama for a HAPPY MEMORY from our Ineffables' shared history.

Please feel free to take this picture as a prompt to write your own fanfiction or create some fanart! 😘

For more ramblings and credits...

The above Da Vinci diorama was heavily inspired by this beautiful canon piece of art that was brought back to my attention a couple of weeks ago:

(Credit goes to Paul Kidby. You can read more about it here).

To me the fact that Leonardo Da Vinci created this lovely double portrait of Aziraphale and Crowley in the canon GO universe is a strong indicator that they all knew each other well (you get to decide how well). So in my headcanon they might have spent some time together having fun, "sciencing out" in Leonardo's workshop. The idea is not too far-fetched, right?

While Crowley surely must have gotten a blast out of humans trying to invent clever machines that let them fly and testing them himself of course, Aziraphale would surely have appreciated all the marvelous scientific papers!

My LEGO Ineffables' hairstyles are strongly inspired by Paul Kidby's (fake) historical drawing, but I decided to go with less formal outfits here, since I really wanted to show a fun and informal meeting of friends rather than anyone dressing up to have their portrait painted!

Honestly, I can't believe how crammed this set ended up! There are so many little gimmicks hidden (some in plain sight, but out of focus, and some pretty much invisible) that I just gave up catching it all in one picture.

No, I don't expect anyone to admire the stained glass window or the bloody whimsical staircase, but please take a closer look at the piece of art Leonardo is currently working on; you might have seen it elsewhere on the show! Well, Leonard is trying to work on it... guess it's hard to get anything done while a demon is zooming through your workshop with a flying machine! 😉

It took quite a lot of fiddling to get the wings positioned like that, but I really wanted Crowley to stretch a wing over Aziraphale's head for reasons. 🥹

A huge shout-of goes to AREA-X (SEMBO) for providing their wonderful INSPIRATION FROM ART - GREAT ARTIST DIORAMA SERIES, feat. this Leonardo Da Vinci set I used to 'Good Omify' (that's not a word, but it should be) his space!

It was great fun to build, even if the staircase must have been designed in hell! The rest of it, though, feels and looks heavenly! There are so many gorgeous prints, awesome custom pieces, and teeny-tiny details that are barely visible once everything is fully assembled! A Metallic Gold frog sitting below the staircase and looking out the stained glass window? Sure, why not? I love it! 😂

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

@ineffablyruined I hope you enjoy this little interpretation of a happy memory that surely must exist in the canon Good Omens universe, even if we haven't seen it on the show! 🥰

[barmaidatthegarrison]

Green Eyes and Gunpowder (4/?)

Thomas Shelby x OC (Emily Hughes)

Summary - Sharp-tongued, steady-handed, and raised beside the Shelbys like blood, Dr. Emily Hughes weaves through their war for Birmingham with a surgeon’s precision—offering comfort, challenge, and quiet resistance, especially to the man who’s forgetting how to be anything but a weapon.

Word Count - 3,256

Warnings - Nothing that wasn't there before

A/N - We have a small bit of conflict. Also, fun fact, the Swan is a pub I go to here in Dublin quite often.

Thanks for the support <3 Would love to know what you think!

Chapter 3

She didn’t expect to make it back to Small Heath only to spend her evening warming her hands on burning portraits of the king.

Then again, to quote her father, fuck the monarchy.

“Dr. Hughes, I’m told.” It’d been a while since Grace had first seen the green-eyed woman here in the Garrison. Nearly three weeks, though she’d been in a few times with the Shelbys since. Apparently, the inspector had run into her – called her an uncouth devil.

Well, that devil took a seat at the counter and smiled at her with nothing but kindness.

“Just Emily is fine. I’ve been a bit rude not introducing myself the last few weeks. It’s Grace, right?”

The pub had just opened for the day and this early it was only the two women in the whole place – well except for Harry doing inventory in the back.

Cleaning off another glass, Grace nodded. “No problem. It’s good to meet you.”

“Tommy says you’re from Galway. I was just there.” Grace stilled for a split second before continuing. “Where in the city did you grow up?”

“Newcastle for most of my life. I moved to Dublin to work after.”

“Near University College, Galway – I was helping at the hospital.” That was fine – this part of the story was true at least. She could answer any question about Galway. “Did you want to leave?”

That stopped her for a second, putting the glass down, she turned her full attention to the pretty woman at the bar.

“I…” She met nothing but kind eyes and a gentle smile. “My father died. I couldn’t be there anymore.”

Emily’s shoulders lowered and, in a move that shocked Grace, placed her hand over Grace’s own. Her smile turned empathetic, and Grace was almost nervous by how seen she suddenly felt.

“I’m so sorry, Grace.” Her voice was soft, warm. “I know how that feels. I’m sorry you do too.”

“You lost your father?” Emily nodded.

“I was fourteen.” Her grin only fell for a moment before it was back, “It’s not a good story. He was from Limerick. A good man.” Then she tacked something on that made Grace’s eyes widen, “A good father.”

Not the words themselves, but the fact that they were said in perfect Irish.

Emily laughed at her wide eyes. “He wanted us to know it. My mum didn’t like it, but she couldn’t stop him neither.”

“My dad wanted me to know it too.” Why was she speaking Irish? She shouldn’t be speaking Irish. The IRA used Irish. “He said it was important to know our history.”

“It’s always good to know where you came from.” Emily affirmed. “Even if it’s a little removed for some of us.”

There was a silence, a comfortable one. Emily’s eyes drifted out the door and back to Grace a few times.

“Are you waiting for someone?” She asked. Of course, she was; she wasn’t here just to chat, and she hadn’t asked for a drink.

“Tommy probably. Eventually.” She shrugged. “Or Arthur. Unlikely to be John. Whichever gets my message first.”

Vague.

“Tommy also told me you worked in Dublin.”

She nodded at that; she had been feeling a little too comfortable. Falling into her made-up backstory would make her feel more in control.

“I worked in a few pubs - the Swan was my favourite. It was a good place, and the owner was good to me.” She turned back to her pile of glasses, “There was a lot of singing back home; packed to the brim most nights.” She attempted a wistful smile, but Emily didn’t meet it.

“Grace,” her voice was quiet, “You didn’t work in Dublin.”

Panic.

“Yes I–”

“Grace.” She slammed her mouth shut. “We’ve got connections over there. There are no pubs with the names you gave – we’ve checked.”

Her gaze was intense, and Grace couldn’t have felt more wrongfooted right now if she tried. Was she about to get found out? Part of her wanted to look around wildly for her gun but knew if she tried it would definitely blow her cover.

Emily wasn’t saying anything, just staring at her, waiting for her to make the next move. It was only the two of them; if this went south, she would have a chance.

“I wandered when my father died, from Cork to Limerick to Belfast, even to Tipperary at one point. I was lost; I couldn’t be there, but I also couldn’t get work with no history.” She didn’t know where this was coming from, but she had to come up with something. “I lied to Harry to get the job – I was desperate.”

Emily’s eyes watched her for a little while, before humming and looking away out the door again.

Was that it? What was happening? Was this why Emily'd called for one of the Shelbys to meet her here?

She fisted her hands into her apron and tried to look a normal level of nervous.

“Please don’t tell, Harry.” She sounded desperate because she was, just not for that reason. “I need this job.”

The doctor eventually dragged her eyes back to Grace, smiling just a little, and the barmaid felt herself relax.

“White lies…” She started, taking out a cigarette from her bag, “We all tell them. And you do a good job here.”

Grace watched the cigarette light up with a nearly overwhelming amount of relief.

“Emily! There you are!” Grace’s gaze snapped to the sudden voice basically booming from the door. A woman, no older that she was and decently pretty, dressed professionally and with a camera on a tie around her neck.

That was… not any of the Shelbys?

“I came as soon as I could! A tip about a Crown inspector – how could I resist!” The woman basically bounced up to the bar.

Grace could almost feel her ears perking up – Crown business? She looked at Emily with her eyebrows raised.

“Hello, Emily. How are you, Emily? How’s your day so far, Emily?” The doctor teased, getting a sigh and a pout in return. “I’m very well, Rebecca, so kind of you to ask.”

“Yes, yes fine. Everyone is fine. Now, that tip?”

Emily laughed and turned back to Grace, who was sure the look she was giving Emily was rife with confusion.

“White lies, Grace. We all tell them.” So, she wasn’t meeting a Shelby here. Why lie at all? “This is Rebecca Gibbons, a reporter at The Times. Rebecca, Grace Burgess.”

“Yes, lovely to meet you.” The eagerness of this woman was nearly overwhelming, but Emily took it in stride.

“Let’s go get lunch. My treat and I’ll let you know all you want, eh?”

She picked up her bag and offered Grace a nod before heading out with a cheery “see you later” as she did.

A tip? What could she have possibly found out?

“Something’s amiss with the barmaid.”

The loud atmosphere of poker night still spilled into the kitchen, despite the door closed between them. Arthur and John were really messing with each other tonight, Tommy making his own little jabs here and there, and it was almost heartwarming to see them like this again. Almost like it was before the War.

Polly had wanted a cup of tea; she hadn’t expected Emily to follow her.

“What makes you say that?”

Emily leaned on the counter next to the kettle. “I talked to her today, about the lies, about not actually having worked in Dublin. She’s a good liar, but I’m a better one. Made up some story about wandering when her father died.”

Taking a drag of her cigarette, she wasn’t looking at Polly, just staring at the wall.

“Might be nothing, the boys like her, but… I have a bad feeling.”

“I’d take your bad feelings over a man’s good one any day. They go for whoever their dicks point at without a second thought.”

Emily nodded at that. Her face was inscrutable.

“She’s got a tell when she’s lying.” A deep pull and slow exhale. “She gives too many details. When she’s telling the truth, she’s vague. Her father's dead but she isn’t a wanderer.”

Polly poured them both cups of tea, orange pekoe for her and that horrendous peppermint stuff that Emily liked. She caught the younger woman smiling when Polly must have made a face.

“Thanks, Pol.”

The two women stood for a few minutes, shoulder-to-shoulder and silent, before Polly spoke up.

“You got him to offload the guns.”

Emily nodded, “Yeah. We should have gotten at least twelve thousand for them, but there’s too much heat from the coppers for that to work safely, especially if we need this done quick. I got ten.”

She sounded… almost ashamed. It reminded Polly of a confession more than anything else.

“I worry what this family would look like if anything ever happened to you.”

That was evidently not what Emily had been expecting and her eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline.

“Tommy doesn’t listen to anyone, Arthur’s angrier than I’ve ever seen, John is running away from his kids, and Ada is rebelling for God knows what reason. Those boys came back from France more fractured than they’ve ever been.” She took a sip of her tea, but Emily was still staring, confused and uncertain. “But you’ve been making them better, fixing whatever hell that war did to their souls. Sometimes they’re more like who they were before. I thank God for you every day, Emily. But I shouldn’t be surprised – you’ve been a good influence on them since they were lads. That’s part of the reason Martha liked you so much.”

Emily looked away. Polly knew she was going to say something, trying to find the words, she could feel it in her heart.

“I don’t know about that.” Her voice was a whisper. Polly nearly had to strain to hear. “I just want everyone safe. And because of that I feel like I’m more of a nuisance than anything. That I’m…” Her eyes closed and she swallowed thickly. “I’m pushing too much, wearing out my goodwill. I don’t want to interfere as much as I do, I know I’m not family – I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t seem to stop pushing us down what I see as the most survivable path. Taking reins I have no business touching. I’m lucky you all have been good about it. Lucky Tommy listens sometimes.”

Sometimes the way Emily spoke made Pol’s heart ache. Never thinking she belonged anywhere, an outsider even among them, the people she saw as her family – afraid they didn’t see her the same. Afraid one day she’d be thrown away again, left behind again with not so much as a goodbye. Trying so hard to make herself useful so they’d stay. Never believing that they’d never leave her, that she was as much a child to Polly as her own were, as the Shelbys were.

The War did a number on her too and a part of Pol burned with shame at forgetting that.

Her hands were shaking. Polly had seen it happen dozens of times when she was a girl. Her mother would scream horrible things at her, and she would stand there placidly, the only sign of distress the trembling of childish fingers.

Pol turned to her, reaching her hand out to touch the pendant on the chain around the younger woman’s neck.

“I gave you this,” her fingers tapped on the face of the Black Madonna, “because you are family.” She tilted her head back towards the kitchen door. “Those boys are playing poker in the other room because you are family. Because you make this family better. Don’t you disrespect us by claiming otherwise.”

Emily’s eyes were wide as she stared at Polly, but the older woman did not flinch or back away.

“I…” She wrapped her hands more tightly around her cup of peppermint, finally looking away. Nodding she took a sip. “Promise me you’ll warn me if that ever changes, eh?”

Pol rolled her eyes and turned back to the door. No need to dignify that with a response.

Seven weeks late. Emily closed her eyes and breathed. Fucking hell, Ada.

“The iron tablets I got you didn’t help did they.” It didn’t sound like a question, but Ada still shook her head and looked away.

Emily looked to Pol who was watching her expectantly. Putting her cup down, Emily stood and took Ada by the hand.

“Come on, Addy,” her voice was very gentle. “Let’s take a look.”

Twenty minutes and two examinations later (she had to be certain), the three women had reconvened to the sitting room. Ada was defending herself to Pol, saying that she loved him, saying that she wanted to keep the baby. Distantly, Emily was considering punching Freddie in the face. Why God had she agreed to keep their secret?

Pol was… understandably a little disappointed, which always sent an instinctive pang through the doctor even when it wasn’t directed at her.

Safe. That’s what she’d just told Polly she wanted: everybody to be safe. Childbearing wasn’t safe, especially at such a young age. Or alone. Did Freddie want to be a father? Was he even coming back? She knew he had disappeared after the raids; Ada had lamented to her about it. She’d patted Ada’s back and told her it was going to be okay, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t okay because Ada was with his fucking child–

“Em, please, you have to be on my side!”

Oh, she had tuned out for too long. Both gazes were on her now.

She closed her eyes and sighed. Ada’s eyes widened when she stood up, tracking her with no small amount of hope as she made her way to stand in front of the woman that she considered a little sister.

Crouching in front of the young – far too young for this – girl, she took both her hands. She was silent for a few moments, holding her gaze heavily, letting herself see the love and fear and desperation Ada was trying so hard to deal with in that moment.

“I’m your doctor.” She said finally. “No matter what you choose – to keep it or to get rid of it, I’m the one taking care of you, understand me? I’m the one who will end the pregnancy or deliver it.”

There was intensity in her voice, her eyes boring into Ada, making sure she understood that this was something she was not going to take ‘no’ as an answer for. Nonetheless, Ada nodded, a few tears welling up in her eyes that the only Shelby daughter blinked away just as quickly.

“Good.”

Of course she was the one relegated to telling Tommy. Of fucking course. Ada refused to do it herself and Polly said he would take it best from her. What she wanted wasn’t a fucking concern apparently.

It was at the stables where she found him. She didn’t want to do it at the house, too many wandering eyes and ears. He was petting the new horse, the lovely white one from the Lees that they hadn’t named yet, mumbling gently to it. At peace, that’s how he looked. From the door, if she squinted, it could be 1913 again.

“Tommy.”

He turned back to look at her with a smile, which fell when he saw the grave expression on her face.

“What is it? What’s happened?” He took a few steps away from the horse, and she came further in. Looking around, no one else was about. It was so much quieter than the heart of Birmingham ever had any right to be.

“Ada’s pregnant.”

She watched the last glimmers of joy fade from his eyes, replaced by horror and anger. Eyes flickering to her and the door, he was torn between asking her more information and going to find Ada himself.

“Do you know who?” She nodded. “Tell me.”

“Freddie.” And now was the time to admit her role, she knew, and so she did. “They’ve been sneaking off to seeing each other for months.”

His anger was a wild thing. If it had to go somewhere, she preferred it was to her rather than to Ada. The girl didn’t need that right now – not with the fear and hurt she was feeling already.

“How fucking long have you known, eh?”

“A couple of months, ever since I came back from Galway.” Betrayal, that was the look on his face. Hurt and betrayal. “She asked me not to tell anyone, Tommy. I–”

“She’s my fucking sister!” He was yelling now. Yelling was nothing new to her, she just moved her hands behind her back to hide the trembling – she knew it would start soon. “My sister! My family! Not fucking yours! And you didn’t tell me that she was fucking Freddie Thorne?”

Digging her fingernails into her arms was always effective at curbing her body’s responses. Yes, she could handle yelling, had been screamed at more times than she could count, but it was never from Tommy. And it ached almost as much as the words themselves.

Ada wasn’t her sister, this wasn’t her family, he was right, but it hurt to hear herself so painfully excluded from the family so soon after voicing her own doubts to Polly. But it was true – no matter what Polly told her, no matter what people like Inspector Campbell implied – she was an outsider that they welcomed into their home. That didn’t make her family.

“They’re in love, Tommy.” She couldn’t help but try and stick up for Ada here. It would make him angrier, but she had to do it. Ada was her friend, and she loved her. “They want to get married.”

“I don’t want to hear it. You should have fucking told me. What else are you fucking keeping from me, eh?” He looked like he wanted to hit something. “Make any more shitty deals on behalf of my fucking family you want to tell me about? Are you trying to ruin us? After everything we’ve fucking done for you?”

Her mouth dropped open, ice water filling her veins. He thought she… that she would ever… that she could ever betray the people she loved more than anything. The people who had saved her more than she could ever repay. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think the ache in her heart was it saying it was about to literally break in half. Swallowing heavily, she took a step backwards away from him and his anger.

“I’ll call Patrick tomorrow morning and pull out of our – sorry, your – end of the bargain. You’re right: I shouldn’t make deals on behalf of your family. You have my word that it won’t happen again.” She said, trying desperately to keep the quiver from her own voice with decent success. But she did keep her gaze on the ground, not able to look into cold eyes she was used to being filled with warmth.

“I’m sorry I keep disappointing you. Ada’s gone to the pictures if you want to talk to her.”

With that she turned and walked away, the blood rushing in her ears and the sound of her own heartbeat was all she could hear. From the warmth, she was sure her face was flushed all levels of red. Still, she didn’t run, but it was a near thing. She needed to be anywhere else. Desperately.

--- Chapter 5 ---

Tagged: @weaponizedvirtue

[reimenaashelyee]

Webcomics as Public History Webinar

Nov 15, 11 am to 1 pm GMT+0

I will be speaking at an online seminar organised by the University of Limerick and the University of Luxembourg alongside Aodhán Morris, Aliénor Gandanger, Rachel Beck, Richard Conyngham and Xian Jee. We'll discuss the ways in which our work interrogates history and historiography, and how comics can be used as a tool to educate the public about history. Pretty rad nerdy stuff! If you are curious about my particular approach to my histfic webcomics and my author footnotes, this is for you!

The seminar is on November 15 (Friday), 11 am to 1 pm Ireland time. Click the link here to access the talk when Friday comes!

[mimicofmodes]

These snazzy pumps are made of yellow leather painted with black over a densely punctured stencil, a fashionable way to decorate shoes around 1800. Their pointed toes are a remnant of the earlier eighteenth century shoe styles, but heels began to shrink in the late 1780s, until flats became virtually universal in the late 1800s (decade, not century).

In order to coordinate her outfit, the original wearer might have paired them with yellow limerick kid gloves like these from Meg Andrews.

[materialsscienceandengineering]

A new study by researchers at University of Limerick in Ireland has revealed a sustainable method of efficiently converting waste heat into electricity using Irish wood products, while minimising costs and environmental impact. The groundbreaking study, led by researchers at UL in collaboration with colleagues at the University of Valencia, has demonstrated a method of generating electricity using low-grade heat recovered from lignin-derived membranes. Lignin, typically overlooked, is a sustainable byproduct derived from wood in paper and pulp production. The study shows that these membranes can convert waste heat into electricity by utilising the movement of charged atoms (ions) within the material.

Read more.

[author-mandi-bean]

What's the Newest Trend in Publishing?

There might be something very exciting on the horizon, according to an industry insider… Recently, I received yet another rejection for representation for my completed manuscript, Lightning Strikes. But I’m handling it well (or at least better than expected) for two main reasons: That Lit Hub article by Emily Temple that I wrote about last week clearly states: “If you’re a writer, here’s an…

[allthatmay]

Silly Shanks Headcanons:

Whinges about the weather, especially to Benn. I can just see Shanks being a baby when it's too hot or cold. (He doesn't tell anyone, but sometimes extreme weather makes his arm, or lack thereof, hurt.)

Missing arm jokes. Endless amounts. Sometimes, when he's really drunk, he puts a baguette up his sleeve and tricks strangers into "shaking his hand." It causes catastrophe when he tries to use it, grabbing his drink with both hand and baguette.

Doesn't carry any money with him, anywhere. All he's got is a trusty sword and a clever mouth. He often ends up inveigling the bartenders into forgiving his debt through some other manner, such as a game, bet, or favour—unless, of course, the price is too high. Then he has to get Benn to pay.

Personal space problems. A friend asks him a quick question? He's their problem now, and he will use every trick in his arsenal to get them to stay; any excuse for a bit of fun. The easiest way, of course, is to wrap an arm around them—but he's not above tying their sashes together like they're two dogs leashed to each other. The man has no concept of personal space.

Runs off with the joke. If you make a joke in front of him, you better be prepared to go all the way with it. Shanks will go to, and has gone to, extreme measures to commit to the bit. Just ask him about his tattoo.

Singing all the damn time, especially dirty limericks. He does it regardless of time or place. Imagine, if you will, an in-universe variation of:

There was a young sailor from Brighton, Who said to his girl, "You're a tight one." She replied, "Bless my soul, You're in the wrong hole; There's plenty of room in the right one!"

[Overheard by poor Makino, who dropped a whole cask of beer in her haste to cover her blushing cheeks. She had never before heard such filth.]