#The other was a field + desk paper about the effects of national politics and natural disasters on Honduran SMEs (incl. an advisory report)

[lunasilvis]

For the regular Monday night, I'm just v glad to get notified about my research on international business & relations being dazzling hits at the German Lit. & Critical Thought Dpt. in Chicago, Illinois 🎓👔👠

[thetravelerwrites]

Courtship of the Headless King: Chapter Two

Rating: General Audiences Fandoms: 忘却の首と姫 | Boukyaku no Shirushi to Hime | The Princess and The Forgotten Head Relationship: Female Human/Male Headless King Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Political Marriage, Power Dynamic, Headless King Content Warnings: Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Abductions Words: 4448

Lilya conducts her marriage interview with His Majesty. Please reblog and leave feedback!

There was a tense moment in which no one moved. The triplets and the king’s attendants watched apprehensively as Lilya stood there, taking in the sight she was seeing. Slowly, she took a step forward, and then another, and stopped right in front of the desk.

“Does that hurt?” Lilya asked softly.

The king actually took a small step backward, clearly not expecting this. For a moment, no one knew how to react to her question. After a minute of heavy silence, His Majesty picked up a pad of paper that lay on the desk in front of him and began to write.

~No, it doesn’t hurt.~

“Oh, that’s a relief,” Lilya said, placing a hand over her heart. “I’ve seen people lose their heads before; it always looked like it hurt terribly.”

The king began to write again. ~You were present during such barbaric acts?~

Lilya nodded shakily. “The royal family in Tritsia was captured during the war and were forced to witness many terrible things. Able-bodied countrymen were rounded up and executed en masse in a horrible show of power, even if they were just farmers or merchants. We were made to watch them all.”

All five attendants exchanged looks of horror.

~That must have been harrowing. How old were you when this happened?~

“It started when I was ten, after my father was killed, and carried on until Couliea claimed our land for themselves three years ago. I helped dig a fair number graves during that time.”

~How old are you now?~

“Nineteen, Your Majesty,” Lilya said.

Conversation died briefly, but after a moment, the king began to write again.

~Would you like to sit down?~

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Lilya said. Raba brought a chair for her and she took a seat. His Majesty waved his hand, and all five of the attendants bowed and left the room, closing the door behind them. Peridot winked at them as she exited.

~Are you not afraid of me?~ His Majesty asked.

“Not really, no,” Lilya replied. “After all that’s happened, I’m not afraid of very much anymore. Should I be scared?”

~This meeting marks three thousand, six hundred and sixty-two marriage interviews that I’ve conducted. You are the first and only woman who has seen me and not screamed, run, fainted, vomited, burst into hysterics, or begged me to let them go, fearful that I’d eat them or some other nonsense.~

“How awful. I couldn’t imagine someone treating you so cruelly. Why would they even come if they didn’t want to?”

~Pressure from their families. The political gain of a union with Banfarie would be a boon to any country on the continent. The appeal of that power and influence drives people to do things they don’t want to do. Either the women would cry hysterically and run away, or they would swallow their disgust and force themselves to conduct the interviews as if it were normal, all the while looking as if the idea of marrying me made them sick.~

“That was terribly rude of them,” Lilya replied, incensed.

His Majesty’s shoulders shook slightly, and Lilya thought he might be laughing.

~In all fairness to them, I am unusual and a little frightening.~

“That’s no excuse! So what if you���re a bit different? That’s no reason to make such a fuss. How would they like it if people acted that way around them? I know my feelings would be hurt. They should have been more considerate.”

His Majesty was completely still for a full minute. Lilya was beginning to wonder if he was alright, when he started to write again.

~You’re rather unusual, aren’t you?~

Lilya laughed good-naturedly. “I suppose so.” She looked at the paper and pen in his hand thoughtfully. “It must be difficult for you to communicate sometimes. I know most people of royal or noble birth are required to learn to read and write, but even in a prosperous nation like this one, many people are illiterate. Do you have trouble communicating with your staff?”

He moved his shoulders in such a way that it put Lilya in mind of someone shaking their head.

~No, since most of my staff are made up of fairies and spirits, my magic allows me to communicate telepathically with them. If needed, they can convey my thoughts to others.~

“Oh, I see! That’s how you spoke to Raba when the door was closed.”

~Yes.~

“Do you know any of the signing languages? Perhaps we could talk that way.”

His Majesty visibly perked up and began gesturing.

“Oh! No, I’m sorry, I don’t know the signing languages, I just meant that I’d be willing to learn it so that we could communicate easier with each other.”

He stopped signing, but he didn’t seem disappointed. Rather the opposite, he seemed touched.

~You’d be willing to learn an entire language just to be able to talk to me?~

“Well, yes. After all, if you accept me, I’d also need to learn this country’s native language to talk to the citizens. Adding another language to my curriculum wouldn’t be so bad.” She leaned forward a little, and His Majesty leaned back, as if intimidated. “This may be an impertinent question and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but may I ask how you lost your head?”

~It’s alright. I removed it myself.~

Lilya looked both horrified and impressed. “Whatever for?”

He paused for a moment before writing again, and this time he wrote out an extended statement.

~I was the son of a concubine who died during my birth. Apparently, I resembled her very much and did not take after my father, the king, at all. The queen’s children, my half-siblings, bullied me relentlessly, often questioning the legitimacy of my birth and whether or not I was indeed my father’s son. They spread rumors about me and my mother, which eventually got back to my father. He also began to question my birthright and threatened to send me into exile. In anger, I somehow managed to pry off my own head and throw it into the Aurora. I think I’d meant to end my own life, but I survived somehow. When my father saw this display of my magical power, he reversed his position and put me first in line for the throne, even though he had four sons by the queen who were all older than me. I was crowned king the following year, and the year after, my father passed away.~

“How old where you when you became king?”

~Twenty-two.~

“How old are you now?”

~One hundred and sixty years old.~

Lilya’s eyes widened in shock.

~Does my age upset you?~

“No, not at all, it’s just…” She frowned in sympathy but fell silent. It must be lonely to have lived alone for so long, she thought to herself.

~I have not aged since I lost my head. I think the magic of the Aurora is what keeps me alive.~

“That’s incredible,” Lilya breathed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing happening.”

~My family has always been strange.~

Lilya chuckled a little. “How are you able to see and hear without a head?”

~Magic. It’s hard to explain to in simple terms, but I don’t see or hear in the same way as normal humans. It’s more of a perception of the wavelengths created by light, shadow, and sound by my whole body instead of my head. I can perceive those sensations similarly to true sight and hearing, but it’s not quite the same.~

“That’s fascinating,” She said, leaning closer. “May I ask you something else that might be a little personal?”

He seemed to laugh again. ~More so than you have already done? Please do.~

“You’ve only been conducting marriage interviews for the last sixty years, right? That means you had already been ruling for almost eighty years without a queen. Why did you suddenly start looking for a wife?”

~My attendants began to pressure me to marry and sire an heir.~

“Is that the only reason?”

~What other reason would there be?~

“Weren’t you lonely?”

His Majesty’s hands were motionless and he seemed to be thinking.

~Perhaps.~

Then he fell still again, as if he didn’t know what else to say.

Lilya smiled a little. “You don’t enjoy these interviews, do you, my Lord?”

He gave another shoulder-shake of laughter. ~No, not at all. I believe this may have been the longest conversation I’ve had with a human woman in my entire life.~

“Oh, goodness,” Lilya said, holding a hand to her mouth in surprise. “I hope I haven’t bored you, my Lord.”

~Not in the slightest. This has been surprisingly pleasant.~

“Oh good,” She said, relieved.

~You’ve asked me a fair number of questions. May I ask you something in return?~

“Of course, My Lord.”

~What is one thing you wish for more than anything?~

Lilya looked out of the far window and thought about the question. She had never spent much time wishing for anything, knowing that wishes did little to affect reality. After all, she had wished for her father back numerous times, and for the terrible atrocities committed against her country to stop, and that had never happened. The only thing she really wished for was the safety of her people, but how could she achieve that?

“Walls,” She said suddenly.

~Walls?~

“The borders of my homeland have no defenses. People from outside the kingdom come in and steal food, destroy crops, take livestock, and even abduct people right out of the fields, and we have nothing to stop them. My land grows smaller every day because people just come in and take whatever they like, whenever they like. I wish we could do more to protect ourselves, but we have no military or security forces. Walls would be just as effective as guards, perhaps more so.”

You care very much about your home and people, at your own expense, it seems.

“Yes,” Lilya said, clutching the pendant on her neck. “I… I sold the tiara you sent to me so that I could feed the people affected by a famine on our southern border. It was a lovely gift and I was quite touched by it, Peridot even took this jewel off for me to keep,” She pulled it up to show him. “But… my people needed food more than I needed a crown. I hope you won’t be too disappointed in me, but… I didn’t want to lie or mislead you.”

~I see. He sat quietly, as if in thought. Very well. It will be done. I’ll have construction teams sent out to Tritsia right away.~

Lilya looked up in shock. “Wha… You’re Majesty! I wasn’t… I didn’t mean…”

~I know you didn’t. It is my gift to you for your understanding and patience. This has been one of the most enjoyable mornings I’ve had in many years. That alone is worth giving you some peace of mind.~ 

He stood up and made for the door. Overwhelmed by his generosity and on the verge of tears, Lilya jumped out of her chair as his Majesty passed her.

“I’ll marry you!”

His Majesty stopped dead in his tracks and turned. He hadn’t brought the paper with him so he couldn’t respond, but he was rooted to the spot as if frozen.

“This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me or my people. How could I possibly refuse?”

This spurred him to action. He walked briskly back to the desk and wrote on the notepad.

~I didn’t do it to buy your cooperation,~ He protested. ~It’s only a gift, nothing more. I expected for us to continue the interview after I made the arrangements. You don’t have to accept because you feel obligated to repay me.~

“No, that’s not it at all!” Lilya protested. “I don’t know what all those women saw when they looked at you, but it can’t be the same thing I see.”

~What is it that you see?~

She took a deep breath and attempt to gather her thoughts into a coherent fashion. “Maybe when they saw you, you reminded them of a storm that covered the sky at night, full of destructive power, and it made them afraid. But… all I can see when I look at you is what’s behind the storm.”

~Which is?~

“You’re the stars, not the storm. Your Majesty, you’re the light that shines when the storm passes.” She shook her head and laid it in her hands, unable to keep her overwhelmed tears from spilling. “Oh, I don’t even know if I’m making sense. But, Your Majesty, please believe me when I tell you that I don’t just want to marry you because I feel as if I’m in your debt, even though I most certainly am in your debt. I want to marry you because… I… I just do! I don’t even know how to explain it properly. I just… I would be happy to be your wife and honored to be your queen. If that’s what you want.”

~Wouldn’t you be happier marrying a normal man?~

“My Lord, I had no thoughts of marrying at all before I received your summons. If I did marry, it would most likely have been someone my family chose for me. With you, I get a choice. And I’ve chosen you.”

Slowly, he wrote, ~Are you sure?~

“Yes, I’m certain.”

~Then why are you crying?~

“Because I’m happy,” She replied, her voice shuddering as she laughed.

He held out his hand to her. ~You truly mean this? You’re accepting the proposal?~

“Yes,” She replied, taking his hand. “I’ll marry you right now if you want.”

He seemed to chuckle. ~It is enough that you said yes freely and without reservation. I am pleased.~

He turned toward the door, and it flew open after a moment, and all five of the attendants stood there with their mouths hanging open, staring at the pair holding hands. He must have told them the good news telepathically.

“Sire, congratulations!” Larima said. “It’s about time one of these women saw sense!”

“Larima, hold you’re tongue!” Aquamarine said, boxing one of his ears.

“His Majesty says that the wedding will have to be soon,” Raba told Lilya. “He regrets to have to rush it, but there is a political upheaval brewing to the west that he must take care of. He honestly hadn’t expected you to accept, so he hadn’t canceled his plans to intervene.”

“That’s quite alright,” Lilya said, grinning a little giddily. I can’t believe it! I’m really getting married! “I understand his Majesty must be terribly busy. I don’t mind if the wedding is soon. Oh!” She turned back to the king. “Can my family attend the wedding? I promised that I’d keep in touch with them, and I’d like them to meet you. Would that be alright?”

“He says that would be fine, except he’s worried that your family will not like him, which doesn’t normally bother him, but that it may cause trouble for you,” Raba said.

“It’s fine, I’ll explain everything to them. Thank you, Your Majesty!”

Lilya threw her arms around His Majesty’s waist, hugging him. He went completely still and his body tensed under hers, as if he were at the mercy of a pack of rabid dogs. Lilya, sensing his discomfort, released him immediately.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep! I was just so excited that I acted without thinking.”

If a headless person could gulp, His Majesty would have done so. He straightened his lace collar and waved his hand.

“He says it’s alright, he was just startled,” Peridot said. “He also says that as his chosen queen, your word is equal to his. You may give any order you wish and the staff with follow it without hesitation.”

“I understand, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

He bowed deeply in response, his arm across his chest as a show of respect.

Peridot clapped her hands eagerly. “Come now, princess! There’s much to do to get ready for the wedding and only a short amount of time to do it!”

The triplets led Lilya from the room, tittering happily. Once the door closed behind them, the king fell into a chair as if exhausted.

She’s like a whirlwind, He said to Raba and Larima. I am completely at her mercy.

“I’ve never seen you like this, My Lord,” Raba said. “She must have made one hell of a first impression.”

That is an understatement. Send a letter to her family inviting them to the wedding. It’ll make her happy to see them.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Larima said. “But… are you sure she’s the one? In all these years, after all those interviews, are you sure you’ve found your queen?”

It’s her; I knew it the moment I saw her, the second I heard her voice.

“The second she didn’t scream, you mean, sire?” Larima said. Raba flicked him in the forehead.

I’ve spent sixty years… no, much longer than that, looking for her. I’m not going to wait anymore. Begin preparations for the wedding immediately.

“Yes, My Lord.”

It took only a week for the preparations to be complete, seeing as the wedding would be a small affair. His Majesty said he would give Lilya any kind of wedding she wanted, no matter the expense, but she said all she wanted was for her family to be there and nothing else. All that was left now was to wait for Lilya’s family to arrive.

She hadn’t seen his Majesty since the interview, but she knew he had to have been incredibly busy. He was the monarch of a vast empire, after all, and he genuinely didn’t think he’d be getting married so soon.

A day before her family was due to arrive, a dress appeared in her quarters. It was gorgeous; a white, princess cut ball gown with a sheer layer of silk over the top painted with pink roses. The neckline was a low square-cut and it had half-sleeves with lace frills. On top of the mannequin holding it was a lace veil that trailed the ground and glittered as though it was woven from diamonds.

“Oh, how beautiful!” Lilya said. “Is this for me?”

“Yes, it’s your wedding gown,” Aquamarine said. “His Majesty had it sent down for a fitting.”

“It’s lovely,” She breathed, daring to reach out and touch the fabric, though it looked so delicate that it might disintegrate under her fingertips.

“Here, let us help you,” Garnet said, beginning to untie the laces.

Garnet, Aquarmarine, and Peridot assisted Lilya in putting the dress on. Though it fit like a glove around the waist, the skirt was just slightly too long. The sisters assured her it was a quick and easy fix.

That night, she was alone in her room looking at the dress, newly tailored and ready to be worn, and began to get anxious.

“What if I trip and tear it?” She fretted. “A dress like this couldn’t have been made in just a few days, no matter how many seamstresses worked on it; The lace on the train alone would have taken months to tat. It must be some kind of imperial heirloom. What would I do if I destroyed it? Would His Majesty be angry or cancel the wedding? What if he decides he doesn’t want a klutz for a wife?” Lilya scrubbed her face and sighed forcefully. “I need some air.”

She went to the long gable windows and unlatched one side, letting it swing open. The night air was cool and refreshing, and the aroma of the nearby gardens was soothing.

As she was about to close the window again, a wild gust of wind rushed in and caught up the veil, blowing it out of the window.

“No!” Lilya yelled, throwing her foot out of the window and jumping to the ground. It was a good thing her room was on the ground floor. She chased the veil across the lawn until it eventually got caught in the branches of a tree.

“Oh, come on!” She groused. The branched were too high for her to reach, so she was going to have to climb the tree in her nightgown to get it back. It didn’t help that there were no low branches for her to grab on, so she was basically going to have to shimmy up the trunk. How dignified.

“Okay,” She said, taking a breath before she started up. One foot, one hand, over and over. It seemed to take ages, and when she looked down, it was as if she hadn’t moved at all. “Ugh, I shouldn’t have stopped working in the stables. I have no core strength anymore.”

She was nearly at the lower-most branch when her foot slipped and she lost her grip, falling from the tree. She expected to hit the ground pretty hard, but she fell onto something soft. Looking around, she realized to her horror that His Majesty,  was on his back underneath her, having broken her fall. He was dressed in a casual white buttoned-up shirt and simple black slacks, likely his sleepwear.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry!” She said, scrambling to get off of him. “Are you alright?”

He pulled out a small pad of paper from the inside of his shirt and a fountain pen.

~I’m fine. Are you alright? Why were you climbing a tree at this hour?~

“My veil,” She replied, pointing at the branches. “It flew out of the window. I was trying to get it back down.”

~Why didn’t you call the sisters?~

She laughed a little self-consciously. “I panicked. I was scared that I’d tear it and you’d be upset with me.”

~I wouldn’t be upset over such a trivial thing. It’s just a piece of fabric.~

“How did you know I was out here?”

~I saw you from the window of my suite. I was worried you would hurt yourself or that you were running away.~

She was a little alarmed. “Were you chasing me down to bring me back?”

~No, I was going to watch over you until you got somewhere safe. Don’t worry, you’re free to change your mind at any time. I wouldn’t hold that against you.~

“Oh,” She said, surprised. “Your Majesty, I have no intention on going back on my decision. I meant it when I said I’m happy to be your bride. You feel the same, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood up and easily reached the branch with the veil. He was quite a bit taller than she was. Pulling it down carefully, he folded it and handed it back to her.

“Sorry to have caused you trouble,” She said, worried by his silence. “I’m afraid you’re bride-to-be is a little clumsy.”

~It’s nothing. Let’s go back.~ He held out his hand for her to stand up, and she took it, feeling sad.

He doesn’t want to marry me, She thought. He’s just doing it because I’m the only one who didn’t refuse him. I like him very much, but he doesn’t feel anything for me. That’s not fair to him.

The triplets met them back at the castle and escorted her back to her room. His Majesty left her in their care with a bow and went back to his quarters.

“Just call us next time, My Lady!” Garnet said. “His Majesty would be devastated if anything happened to you.”

“He might be inconvenienced, but I think devastated might be too strong a word,” She said. “He doesn’t even really want to marry me, he just thinks he has to.”

Peridot scoffed. “Why on earth would you think such a thing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m just the only person who accepted. I’ve only seen him once since the marriage interview, and that’s because he was rescuing me from a fall. He doesn’t really want to be with me.”

“My Lady, that’s absurd, of course he wants to marry you!”

“How can you be sure?”

“Look,” Aquamarine said as they reached her room. She opened the door and lay the veil back on the mannequin with the dress. “You see this? Where do you think it came from?”

“It’s an heirloom, right? Something that’s been in the royal family forever? It couldn’t have been made just for me, there wasn’t enough time for that.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Garnet said. “His Majesty himself made this gown for you.”

“He did?” Lilya exclaimed, looking more carefully at the gown.

“Yes, with his magic. Do you know what he said to us when we were waiting outside of the office door after you agreed to marry him?”

“What?”

“’She said yes!’ he said. Every interview before always ended the same. He would tell us, ‘I don’t like her’ or ‘she’s lying’ or ‘she looks like she’s going to pass out, take her back to her room and let her go home’ or ‘why do they keep sending these women with dirty souls to me?’ He always sounded so dejected. But when you accepted, he was so excited. I’ve never heard him sound so happy.”

“Miss Lilya, you must understand,” Peridot said. “His Majesty’s mother died when he was born, and he was raised by nurses. In truth, he grew up never knowing the love of another person. Now as a man, he has no idea how to express affection for others. Until now, it’s never come up as a problem, but he sincerely wants you to be happy.” She pointed at the dress as an example, and then to the pad of paper on her desk. “You see those notebooks?”

“Yes?”

“Ordinarily, those would only be in one place: and His Majesty’s office, since that is the only place His Majesty meets with people who can’t hear him telepathically. But now, every single room in the castle has a notebook, just in case you’d like to talk to him. He’s doing everything he knows how to do to make it comfortable and easy for you, he’s just operating outside of his, admittedly, vast expertise. Give him some time. He’s very intelligent, if a little dense and insensitive. He’ll learn.”

Lilya smiled softly, touched. “I had no idea.” She pulled the sisters in for a hug. “You’re right, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. His Majesty and I don’t know each other well, for all that we’ll be married in a few days. I think when he gets back from the diplomatic trip, we should spend time rectifying that.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Aquamarine said.

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience! To help me continue creating, please consider becoming a Patron or donating directly to my PayPal!

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[gaymer-hag-stan]

Lara Croft's Biography

This is my attempt at consolidating Core Design's two biographies for Lara Croft as well as Crystal Dynamics' revised version for Legend into one, cohesive background story that includes all key events from her past adventures. Certain elements of the first nine games and their backstories are bound to be included in the new, unified timeline so any Reboot fans that are not as familiar with Classic Lara may find this interesting to read :) Hope you like it!

Name: Lara Croft

Nationality: British

Date of Birth: 14 February 1968

Birthplace: Wimbledon, London

Marital Status: Single

Blood Group: AB-

Height: 1,75m

Weight: 58 kg

Hair Colour: Brunnette

Eye Colour: Brown

Distinguishing Features: 9mm Handguns

Bio

Lady Lara Croft is an 11th generation Countess. The Croft family was granted the title and rights to Abbingdon, Surrey by King Edward VI in 1547. The Croft Estates are comprised of three separate manor houses, two of which are maintained by the National Trust, and the third is home to Lady Croft.

Lady Croft herself has suffered several personal tragedies, including the deaths of both parents on separate occasions before she came of age. Reputably an accredited genius and Olympic-standard gymnast, Lady Croft is the focus of wild speculation and intense debate in both the scientific and political communities in addition to the popular press. Idealized and vilified in equal measure, she is perhaps one of the most fascinating and enigmatic figures of our time.

Lara Croft was born in Surrey's Parkside hospital on the 14th of February in 1968 to Lady Amelia Croft and the notorious archeologist Lord Richard Croft, the late Earl of Abbingdon. She was raised to be an aristocrat from birth, and had lived in luxury and security aloof from the world at large. Between the ages of three and six, she attended the Abbingdon Girls School, where it quickly became clear that she was an exceptionally gifted child.

At the age of nine she survived a plane crash in the Himalayas that took the life of her mother. In perhaps the first story of her prodigious indomitability, she somehow survived a solo ten-day trek across the Himalayan mountains, one of the most hostile environments on the planet. The story goes that when she arrived in Katmandu she went to the nearest bar and made a polite telephone call to her father asking if it would be convenient for him to come and pick her up.

For six years following the plane crash, Lara rarely left her father's side, traveling around the world from one archeological dig site to another. During this period she was ostensibly given a standard education from private tutors, but it would probably be more accurate to say she was her father's full time apprentice.

When Lara was fifteen, her father went missing in Cambodia. Extensive searches by the authorities and Lara herself turned up human remains that could not definitively be identified. Since Lord Croft's body was not officially recovered, Lara could not directly inherit the Croft title and Lara was thrust into a bitter family feud over control of the Abbingdon estates with her uncle Lord Errol Croft. Lara eventually won the legal battle, and took possession of her inheritance but at the cost of a deep rift in the Croft family that left her estranged from her living relatives.

At 16 she began studying at Gordonstoun, one of Britain's most prominent boarding schools where she discovered the mountains of Scotland. One day Lara came across a copy of National Geographic on the hall table. The front cover featured a familiar name - Professor Werner Von Croy. A respected archaeologist, Von Croy had once lectured at Lara's school to pupils & parents alike.

The experience had a profound effect on Lara, triggering a desire for travel to remote locations in search of adventure. In some ways Von Croy had become an inspirational figure for Lara. As Lara read further, she learned that Von Croy was currently preparing for an archaeological tour across Asia, culminating in a potential new discovery to be made in Cambodia. Unable to pass up this opportunity, she walked over to the desk & penned a letter to Von Croy. She Introduced herself and offered financial assistance in exchange for her place on the expedition. Von Croy's reply assured her that the territories were friendly and that he had ample experience to look after both his & Lara's well being.

Lara's company as an assistant would be welcome, as was the offer of such a generous cheque. He remembered Lara from his lecture - her incessant yet insightful questions had made quite an impression upon him. And so it was agreed that Lara would accompany Von Croy for the duration of the tour.

At 21, while in college, she was part of a team of aspiring archaeologists in charge of a dig in Paraiso, Peru. Her closest friends, Amanda Evert, aspiring anthropologist, and Anaya Imanu, engineer, among them. They were attempting to break through the tomb of the Queen of Tiwanaku. The expedition was cut short however, as a tragic accident led to the deaths of most of Lara's friends and colleagues, including Amanda, with Lara and Anaya emerging from the dig as the only two known survivors.

Lara probably should have died there, as most did, instead she learned how to depend on her wits to stay alive in hostile conditions a world away from her sheltered upbringing. Her experiences had had a profound effect on her and in that process transformed herself as well. Her Peruvian odyssey was both miraculous and enlightening, as the young woman not only survived, but gained a perspective on herself and the world that made her past appear shallow and naive. Out of the darkness of her ordeal, she saw her future reflected in a different light.

She felt profoundly that there was more for her in this life than the coddled existence that had become her numbing habit. Unable to stand the suffocating atmosphere of upper-class British society any longer, she realized that she was only truly alive when she was travelling alone. Over the eight following years she acquired an intimate knowledge of ancient civilizations across the globe. Despite this drastic life change, Lara still retains the essence of her upbringing - most notably with her polite, upper-class accent. She turned to writing to fund her trips.

While in England, Lara lives in a mansion in Surrey which she inherited many years ago. At one time she saw little use in it but now realises that, if nothing else, it is at least handy for storing all the artifacts she has acquired on her travels. She has also had a custom-built assault course constructed in the grounds for training purposes.

Lady Lara Croft has already eclipsed her father's career; as of this writing she is credited with the discovery of some fifteen archeological sites of international significance. These sites are still yielding new and exciting insights to the past on an ongoing basis. No one can deny Lady Croft's incredible contribution to the field of archeology, however she is not without her detractors.

Lara's methods have been frequently called into question by government officials and other practicing archeologists. She has been described variously as anything from cavalier to downright irresponsible. Some scholars have suggested that her notorious lack of documentation and brute force methodology have contaminated countless sites and done more harm than good. There have even been (unsubstantiated) allegations that Lara actually takes items from these sites before informing the international community of their locations, and that she is nothing more than a glorified treasure hunter.

Despite the tabloid press's infatuation with her, Lara Croft guards her privacy with complete determination. She has never granted an interview nor made any personal comment to any of the rumors associated with her, preferring to express herself through brief formal statements given by the family solicitors, Hardgraves and Moore.

Predictably there have been a number of unofficial biographies printed about the young Countess, that attribute wild and fantastic feats to her exploits, ranging from the discovery of living dinosaurs in the Congo to infiltrating the infamous Area 51 in Nevada. The official line from the Croft Estate to these works is simply that "...these books are utter rot: disgraceful, trashy works of total fiction."

Nevertheless if you even make a cursory search on the Internet for the Unexplained, the Mysterious and the Downright Unbelievable, time and again you will find Lara Croft's name appearing. She appears to be a hero to conspiracy theorists and alternate history aficionados alike.

It seems the further you dig into Lady Croft's life, the more bewildering and mysterious she becomes. Perhaps like the archeological sites she discovers, we have only scratched the surface of this incredible woman and the complex and inscrutable secrets buried deep within her.

Lara Croft became the seeker of truths, both large and small, and in that pursuit she continues to this day.

Employment

Lara doesn't consider tomb raiding as a job, merely a way of life - although she has been known to uncover archeological artifacts on commission. To fund her radical lifestyle, Lara writes travel books. Titles so far have included 'A Tyrannosaurus is Jawing at My Head' and 'Slaying Bigfoot'. Her common complaint though is that she doesn't have enough time to put pen to paper.

As well as uncovering many notorious archeological sites - including the Atlantean pyramid and the last resting place of the dagger of Xian, Lara has found fame in other areas - she has driven the dangerous Alaskan Highway from Tierra del Fuego in South America in record time (although this was later denounced by the Guinness Book of Records due to her "reckless driving") and she hit the headlines again when she hunted out and killed Bigfoot in North America.

Sports

Not much of a team player. Discovered rock climbing while at Gordonstoun and used to set off into the hills alone during netball practice. Also took up shooting as an extra-curricular activity but was instantly banned for showing "too keen an interest'. However, the strength that climbing gave her fingers was to become useful when she started pulling triggers for real.

Music

Lara was brought up to appreciate classical music but having been a guest on U2's Popmart tour, has since become a fan of their music. She has also been introduced to the sounds of Nine inch Nails by her Aunty and considers it "good easy listening". Finds trance music, in general, good for training.

Food

Despite being a proficient cook from her days at finishing school and having sampled most of the exotic delicacies of the world, Lara usually opts for beans on toast when at home.

Hobbies

Any challenging sports. Has a particular interest in experimenting with different, often extreme forms of transport. Has also once admitted to stitching a kind of Bayeaux tapestry of her own adventures while at home.

Ambition

With her unique physical abilities, Lara is certain of being able to break many world athletic records and so sees no challenge in this herself. Her main ambitions still lie in the undefined world of tombs and the past. She has also however, developed a personal regard for Brian Blessed's attempts to climb Everest. If he never succeeds, she is determined to piggy-back him up there.

Heroes

All the great ancient figures who respected themselves enough to design such intricate tombs to be buried in. "Nobody goes to trouble like that anymore..."

Fears

Her Aunty's Corgi which has bitten her on several occasions - about which, for once, there is little she can do.

Lucky Charm

Any gun at hand.

[sol-futura-est]

When I finally step into my room, I unlace my shoes, undo my jumpsuit, and strip almost naked, save for my boxers. On my desk, besides the dim lamp, is at least four or five stacks of journals, most unread, organized from the formation of the first republic, to the modern era, but I only read about the recent wars more closely. I had returned all but a few of the ones of the beginning. What was open and waiting was Lawrence di Firenze’s account of his movement from Mesopotamia to Saint Petersburg, after fighting numerous skirmishes and enlisting the help of men on the path, he defied the orders of the senate and abandoned a quiet sector in favor of facing the fire, predicting the enemy’s advances as if he knew them more than anyone else. When he arrived to relieve his brother, and routing the siege, he was widely considered by people from east and west to be more than a mere tribune, but a hero worth talking about.

"Today marks the first of February, 2236. I’ve personally, let alone commanded the death of, killed so many of these machines and zealots that I’m beginning to view this war as something eternal, something worth finishing sooner than later. Araasi, the elected chief of the armies and political mastermind of the Svarogovist war machine, has laid siege to the great city of Petrograd, Saint Petersburg, Leningrad, whichever you prefer. As I already made clear to the senate, and the consul, he intends to take the city for the rail lines and airstrips that tie it to the rest of Eastern Europe and north into Finland and Scandinavia. I was ridiculed. I was told he would be stupid to challenge my brothers forces to open combat while entrenched in the city, and that I should take my horsemen and my commandos to greater effect in waiting for another attack from the Caspian Sea, or a new set of tunnels in northern Persia to burst. Despite my track record, despite my national appeal, from Mongols, Sikhs, Latins, Intermarians, even among my auxiliaries from even farther parts of the world, the senate, a handful of men, refuse.

It’s too bad I’m already here, on the banks of the sea to the west, encamped, ready to give the order to advance across the south and give my brother some relief. My chief lieutenant, my divisional legate, is still young. His aptitude is unquestionable, but he’s deeply afraid, almost embarrassingly so. He insists that I’m insane for using my horsemen like I do. I always ask him who won at Sinjar, in Central Asia, or even further back, in Kunduz, or Khalistan. Every time he just shudders, calls me old fashioned. I always tell him that it isn’t the implement, it’s the organization, it’s the application, the details. He insists that my ways will get me killed. In my eyes, this is why I’ve been so successful. Twenty years ago, my adoption and adaptation of coursers was laughed at, until we pushed Araasi’s predecessor into battle and killed him. For the first time in three hundred years, horsemen marched on city streets as heroes. My brother was amazed. He even told me before we deployed that his power armor would be the new knights of old, that I could not be in the spotlight as he hoped. After, it was as if he was seeing horses for the first time. Part of me wishes it was him, that the future, the grand spectacle of old books, where man fought different enemies, with suits of steel powered by space age technology. Little did I know we still used rifles and bows and lances, swords, knives, we even fought in hand to hand ambushes. Those were grand times.

Araasi still has us outnumbered two to one. Most of his other forces are south of us, dealing with Roland in the Caucasus, and the Sikhs further still.  All I have to stop is this one individual, and when this front collapses, I can end the war completely. If I end it, that’s just gonna exacerbate what certain voices are already shouting in the west.

It isn’t just youths who want me to take the mantle of dictator for some time, but even a lot of the men and women my age. Rumors that the senate gamed things after the first war, and allowed this one to happen, and my zeal against the enemy, it all makes these folks wish I was the one making decisions, not men who once upon a time were my peers. 

These dreams of mine are always alight with the same scene. I’m charging headlong through a valley of fire, against frightened machines, mutilated and disformed men, lowering my rifle and gunning them down. But I can see my horse and myself alight, in golden flame, as if the sunlight was pouring out of me. I can feel the horse galloping fast, the thrusting push of my rifle, even the fear through the air from the demons in front me. 

But it goes black suddenly, and I can’t wake up for a few moments. When I wake up, I feel as if the fire had only just gone out, as if Sol was trying to tell me something, but I cannot be sure. I want to believe that his is truly with me, that he was there when my father crossed the alps to take Bern, I want to believe not only that the republic is chosen, but many men themselves, but should I be afraid?"

Almost abruptly, the entry closes. Two weeks later he enclosed Araasi on a field and both of them died in the ensuing battle. Lawrence was found and carried out, Araasi was apparently either mutilated or simply drug back to the underground cities, entombed in whatever strange way they did things.

Specifically, it was this tale that caught my thoughts in moments like this. Two weeks after he penned this, he died. More than that, I know nothing of the man’s ripples in the lake of what remained. My body shivered trying to imagine what that battle was like, how it ensued beyond the tide of time, how the memory that existed on paper was so that the memories of those that adored him could feel his heartbeat through the letters. When I folded the tome and set it down again, next to one of Tarquin’s journals from the first war, I remembered reading it for the first time seven years ago, slowly, each night when one page became ten, ten became twenty or thirty. Mortimer told me once when there was a book or a movie the owners of this place didn’t want a fighter to see in his possession, that he got sent to a mining colony in the Urals. One of the few mandated by the senate, but operated by what used to be Svarogovist refugees. Those were my bedtime horror stories. Mortimer let his hate sew into me from youth on. When I’m stuck here, I can’t know if that’s true.

If the night was going to last forever, I might stay up, read more, but there’s not much reason to. Tomorrow always comes. When I slip under the thin blanket on my bed, I drift closer and closer to sleep as the dim lamp lights my desk, but not revealing the far off corner I was in. Each ride of the waves as they came onto me dragged me into the current, until suddenly…

Stop.

I know it’s a dream, but when I open my eyes again, I’m no longer in the arena, and somehow, I know I’m no longer in Karelia. When I stand, My feet are buried in flowing grass, and my ears can hear the faint whistle of the draft wrapping around me, and in front of me is emptiness, as far as I can see. All there are is rolling hills, the same I have seen every so often in my dreams. If I do dream, it’s lucid, just like this, just as if I can see and feel every little thing in some far off place I’ve never been to. The sun is always at dawn, gleaming rays striking firm into an endless horizon beyond the human imagination, a light that always inflicts on you the fury of comfort, of confidence. Nothing here can hurt you, nothing here is imperfect. Sparse trees and shrubs, hills that come in waves, glimmering dew, glistening blue sky, it all comes together to paint one picture, serene, perfect. Mountains afar stand taller than the ones here in Karelia, and faintly, from the north, is the smell of the ocean, riding the wind. Urban stench, sound, and surefound idiocy are gone. This isolation, the temporal, spiritual, physical isolation is not uncommon to me, but my own life, and I thrive within the quiet moments, where all that is left is to either think or lie down and breathe.

The first time I heard of a dream, I didn’t know what it was. When I found out that Mortimer knew I had dreams, he regrettably mentioned he knew nothing of the dreams I had. When I pried as a young kid, all he could do was shrug, and I came to think there was a local rarity within myself. When I found myself dreaming more than twice a week, I heard comments from the legionnaires, within their own conversations, and I’ve figured out that my dreams weren’t common, but still rare. I got lucky that day hearing that conversation; it helped me not be so afraid of being alone here. At first, all I could do was hope the shadows around trees were the light dancing. Eventually all I learned was that fear is a beast that starves without your hand to feed it, and this world was nobody’s but mine. In domineering it, I domineered the one part I could control.

When all you hear is the wind whipping, every little noise becomes another sound against the background, water running, grass flowing, trees groaning and twisting, and eventually, your own heart becomes an addition to the symphony. I didn’t want anything here. I never wanted more than this, but in my heart, I was curious for more. Every nagging thought, asking if this is all life is, was at times too much. Those nights I would wake up, pace my room, maybe even exhaust myself with two or three hundred push ups until the pain distracted me, and when I finally slept, my eyes simply stared at the absence. Every time I woke, rested or not, I went about my day.

But the questions would stay for night after night until the quiet of my mind returned, and when I finally went back to the dream, to the rolling hills I now sit in, encapsulated by walls of granite on one end, and the endless ocean on another. Each air into my lungs was rhythmic, patterned, as if I was breathing with the earth, with the wind, and no longer was I so detached for a few moments. Even as the hours drew on, the dawn never rose to the day, and the dew never rose up. 

Soon enough, my visage faded more and more, as if there was a great weight on me, and just as it began, my eyes shut.

Stop.

[prorevenge]

Dapper Dan fails to think things through.

Warning: this is a very long story.

I graduated uni a few years back and immediately started looking for a job in my chosen field - marketing.

Marketing entry level roles were thin on the ground, so when I found a role which was hybrid of marketing with sales support, I took it.

The company was a medium sized business which specialized in recruitment, contractor hiring and head hunting. They also subcontracted work for a recruitment technology provider, which matched up perfectly with one of my other passions - technology.

I absolutely loved the role. I got to do all parts of the marketing and sales lifecycle, I got to work with suppliers, event organizers, clients, staff all across the company, meet new people and do really exciting things.

I had two managers - the one who managed the sales team and the one who managed marketing.

The marketing manager was a kindred spirit; the sales manager was oldschool sales. An arrogant and headstrong late-forties man who lived for making deals and boasting about them. Shiny shoed, silver-tongued. I’ll call him Dapper Dan. We were not friends.

For about 18 months, things went swimmingly. I’d do marketing half the time then divide the rest of the time between sales support and billable work. Billable was building custom careers / job sites to host the recruitment system front end. A steep learning curve but with the help of some web dev friends I got pretty familiar with simple site builds.

Being tech-aligned meant I was always looking digital first, bringing the company into the age of social media, SEO / SEM, website optimisation and multi channel marketing.

Dapper Dan sneered at such things. He saw digital as a waste of money. However, we were always able to justify the spend on digital by offsetting the billable website work.

The marketing manager eventually moved on to bigger and better things. Rather than promote me or hire in a replacement, the company moved the marketing responsibilities to Dapper Dan.

Dapper Dan’s changes were immediate and far-reaching. He removed the digital budget. He required that 50% of my time would be sales support, to ‘better enable the sales team’. He incorporated the billable work with his own team’s revenue. He rewrote my annual objectives to align purely with sales targets, rather than marketing. When I voiced my objections, he took me aside for a ‘friendly chat’ and told me if I didn’t like it, I could always leave.

Naturally I went and complained extensively to the departed marketing manager over drinks. After listening sympathetically for 45 minutes, she held up a hand, said ‘Stop’, and shared some life advice. ‘Each job pays you twice. You get your money now, that’s your wage. You also get experience now, that’s how you get paid in the future. So. Are you still getting paid? Yes? Are you still learning? No? Figure out how to keep learning, or leave.’

Taking the advice to heart, I busted my ass for the next year. I worked on digital outside of office hours. I made friends with the tech provider’s support and dev teams. I went to developer group meetups, attended conferences, studied for and acquired industry qualifications. I joined the national marketers and digital marketers group. I dug through blogs, articles, emailed people, took every opportunity to cross skill, upskill, to learn.

And I sat with a smile on my face in the sales meetings as Dapper Dan delegated dumb do-work to me so his team of sycophants could make the company’s growth figures look spectacular. Spectacular they were, to the point that the company was acquired, and Dapper Dan betrayed me.

You see, managers have the discretion to assign a pool of shares to high performing staff. The shares have no real value and can’t be traded, but in the event of a management buy out, they would suddenly have value - and quite a lot of value.

Dapper Dan felt it appropriate to reward every SALESperson in his team with a generous parcel of shares. As a SUPPORTperson, I would not be the beneficiary of such kindness. I’d had a verbal agreement with the previous marketing manager that the pool would be shared across the entire team so was pretty shocked to discover I’d been excluded from the pool.

I queried him on it, per the previous agreement, and he said (verbatim) ‘Well, an verbal agreement is only worth the paper it’s written on. You don’t make any sales, you haven’t built the business, you don’t get a cut’.

'If you didn’t like it,' he reiterated, 'you're welcome to leave.'

That is EXACTLY what I decided to do. Except I didn’t tell him.

The way the contract handover works in this instance is that all staff cease employment with company X on one day. The following day, they commence employment with company Y. Annual leave is paid out and begins to re-accrue at the new employer. Other arrangements - salaries, incentive arrangements, length of service - may be transferred to the new employer.

About six weeks before the handover, Dapper Dan passed me my new contract. I waited a week, came back with some enthusiastic queries on the new benefits, which took him two weeks to follow up.

Three weeks away from drop date, everyone’s frantically running around getting all the deals as close as possible to closing and employment contracts are the last thing on his mind. I go back to him, I tell him I have a couple more things I need to check out and I’ll email them through to him before I sign it.

A week passes, I fire off a couple of really complex questions around the transfer of benefits. He obviously forgets about them, then in the week of the handover, catches heat from the HR team about the outstanding contract and pulls me into a meeting room to berate me about not having signed the new contract.

I explain I’m waiting on his feedback on those specific points before I’ll commit, that I don’t want to be disadvantaged moving into the new role, call out the lack of a share option as an example. Clearly frustrated, he drops the words I’ve been waiting for. ‘If the signed contract is not on my desk on Friday, don’t bother coming into the office Monday.’ He paused for dramatic effect, and reiterated ‘I mean it. You won’t have a job.’ I replied that I completely understand and that I’ll have everything he needs on his desk by close of business Friday.

On Friday afternoon, Dapper Dan leaves the office early to attend his normal ‘client networking’ visits which typically involve long lunches and alcohol.

At 4.45pm I save the final set of forecasting and reporting to the share drive, send an email to the IT team passing over access to the Marketing lastpass account which contains the global database of usernames and passwords for all digital assets (including client sites), an Excel workbook containing my reporting macros and the location of all my documentation. I redirect my phone to Dapper Dan’s desk number, lock my laptop and leave it on his desk along with my ID card.

Over the weekend I update my work history and add my contact details to my LinkedIn profile, switching it to 'Actively Searching' mode. I figure my holiday pay will cover me for a couple of weeks of downtime before I have to go diving back into the workforce.

On Monday, I’m enjoying a long walk in the spring sunshine with my dog, who’s incredibly happy that his human has not disappeared down the driveway at 0720 per normal. We stop for coffee at a local cafe and my phone begins to ring. It’s one of the sales drones at old company; I ignore it and thoroughly enjoy the freedom of being able to amble through a park without anywhere to be. The phone buzzes another eight or ten times by the time I get home. The poop has well and truly hit the windmill.

I check my voicemails, ignoring those I know from my previous employer and returning the phone calls of two ex-clients to let them know that my contract has ended and to check in with Dapper Dan for work in progress - or contact the technology provider for support requests.

Shortly afterwards I got a call from a bemused contact who works at the technology provider who’s been fielding support calls that I’d normally handle. He listens with increasing interest as I explained the situation, then tells me he’d call back shortly.

Ten minutes later he’s back with the Head of Product on the line, asking about my lunch preferences. She arranges to meet me at a nearby Thai place. Over a delicious red duck curry, she cheerfully describes the wonders of a career as a contractor. She also mentions the day rates for highly qualified, industry-certified staff, mentioned that Tech Provider were really struggling to find such staff and gives me the number of a senior manager who may or may not have been on Tech Supplier’s preferred supplier list. I call the recruiter on the way home.

Meanwhile, my collection of voicemails from Dapper Dan was growing by the hour as he came to grips with the breadth of the problem that he’d generated. At some point in the late afternoon, HR must’ve clicked to what had happened and I received a polite SMS from the personal number of the regional HR Directory asking if I was available for a quick chat.

I call through and discussed the options presented to me by Dapper Dan on Friday, and that I felt I had no option but to follow his instructions. They probed for more information and it became apparent they were unaware that Dapper Dan had pulled an ultimatum without first engaging HR. They then informed me that to benefit from the sale of my shares, I would need to transfer to the new company and remain in their employment for a full year.

When I explained that I had no such share options, there was a full four second silence. It transpires that this, too, was not adequately communicated to HR. I mentioned that I’d appreciate it if Dapper Dan could discontinue his voicemails to me as I found them unprofessional and had no intent of recommencing employment under his management. We ended the call politely, I wished them all the best and regretted the conversation had to happen under such circumstances.

My contract for Tech Provider came through via the PSL agency at 11pm that evening and was signed and returned the following day.

I was deployed to client site that Wednesday.

Post Departure... I met up with one of the old IT team at a conference three months after it all went down. He was ecstatic to fill me in on what had happened.

The first notice anyone got of it was the service desk asking who they should route my LastPass account to and why I’d be passing it around. One of the techs came up to my floor to find me, then found an empty desk. Asked around for where I’d moved to and noone knew. That was the first call, from one of the Sales drones trying to locate me.

The tech went to Dapper Dan’s desk and found my laptop with my ID and post-it note taped to it. He put two and two together, went back downstairs and checked the access logs and realised the last time I’d logged in was Friday. He then locked my account for security purposes and went to HR to check if there was a leaver form.

HR checks, no leaver form AND a great big red cross next to 'employment contract received'. HR calls Dapper Dan, who’s not in the office. Dapper Dan says ‘No, contract should be on my desk, it was on there on Friday, I’m out on the road at the moment, give me till lunch time and I’ll sort it out’. Obviously thinking that I’m grandstanding. Starts to call me and leave messages then gets progressively agitated as he realises I’m not coming back.

When he gets into the office, he can’t find the contract either so he goes to HR and ‘explains’ what has happened, says I have been stonewalling them and it’s cool, he’ll get it sorted, it’s between me and him. HR says erm, no, this is our thing now, and the HRD sends me the SMS.

Shortly after my phone conversation the HRD walks into a sales meeting and very abruptly pulls Dapper Dan out. They disappear into a meeting room where it may only be assumed that Dapper Dan was required to spell out exactly what had occurred and address the comments that I had made. I suspect he came completely clean at that stage.

Dapper Dan was subsequently reamed as only HR and senior management can ream a manager who’s f*cked up. He was demoted, decoupled from Marketing, his budget reduced by half and a new, separate Marketing function created.

His team were collectively put under review and forced to carry out their own reporting, tracking and metrics, which lacked the coherence and consistency that I’d been able to deliver. This reduced the capacity of the team. A couple of them left and they missed out on some key deals.

In the fallout they completely dropped the ball on the client website builds. They went to market to try and find a resource who could fulfil these builds, and Dapper Dan was reportedly astounded to discover that experienced technical marketing staff are both hard to find and expensive to recruit.

They were unable to fill the role and the builds were taken back inhouse by the tech provider, who now had an experienced resource to deploy (me). I ended up working on three of these at full utilisation rate, which was paid by the new company. I’m pretty sure Dapper Dan would’ve seen the funding arrangements for these and would know my day rate - which is substantially higher than his.

Much later... As the sales lead, Dapper Dan had to bear the displeasure of his superiors for the full twelve months before he could claim his share payout. It would’ve been a really, really shitty twelve months for him. He resigned within two weeks of the anniversary of the purchase, and the company enforced a six month notice period and another 12 month no-compete clause. Any benefit he would have received from the share payout would have been consumed over that 12 months unless he switched industries or moved cities. Last time I saw he was on the job market.

As for me? Happily living the life of the contractor. I get paid for the hours I work and I work the hours I want.

My old marketing manager is now VP of something at a large multinational. I’ve used her speech several times when giving young, frustrated staff career advice.

TL;DR Old school sales manager attempts to call my bluff. Hilarity ensues.

(source) (story by DanishProtestPig)

[cassandra-acton]

ONE-TIME THING:

I’ve been thinking about Cassie’s staff recently, so this happened! Meet some of them. Eric is going to be a gem of an NPC character, so keep an eye out for him in future self paras. Also mentions some other shenanigans, so enjoy that. 

Date: March 7th, 2018. Warnings: Shouty, sweary Welshman. tw: nerd mention.

“The man’s like a fucking balloon animal with moving parts and a face hole that makes occasional, meaningless noise.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

Enter Eric Vickery: the slightly sociopathic communications director that had stood loyally at her side since Election Day. There was no one in Parliament who had an even remotely comparable way with words (probably a good thing) and the fact that he sounded like he’d just drunkenly stumbled out of the Welsh Valleys made everything he said ten times more hilarious. The team had gotten lucky with him; especially when he made the bizarre decision to work with Cassie exclusively, instead of dividing his time between handfuls of London-based MPs like his counterparts typically did.

The man, edging into his late forties, liked to regularly remind her that she had potential, and she was sure he stuck around because he thought they’d be shooting for a ministerial position one day. Eric wanted a promotion, he would use her to get there, and she loved him for it.

“Leader of the Opposition,” Laura Monroe, her PA, mocked through a mouthful of pizza.

“Yeah, well, there’s a reason they’re only the opposition, and that reason is he’s a fucking cretin.”

It was a tradition that they had upheld every in-session Wednesday for almost two years. Cassie, Eric, Laura, and occasionally her Chief of Staff, Gary Hill, would gather in her office and make a night out of BBC Parliament’s repeat of Prime Minister’s Questions. They rock-paper-scissored who would be responsible for bringing the food, before showing up around midnight to settle in for two solid hours of soul-cleansing bitching. Of course, watching it back was constructive in other ways, but she wasn’t ashamed to admit that in a world where one had to hold back constantly, the bitching kept her sane.

“Why does he always look as if he’s about to choke on his own tongue?” Laura added.

Cassie scoffed, crossing her legs to get comfortable as she positioned herself in the middle of her desk. “Turn it up. I want to hear him trip over whichever bullshit line Karl Marx fed him this time.”

They’d massacred enough pizzas to feed a large family, and watched as her sister expertly dismembered every single critic from the opposing bench with an ease that Cassie could only admire. Elizabeth Acton was fucking good at her job; so much so that even Eric hadn’t a bad word to say about the way in which she conducted herself.

Suddenly, a knock at the door stole attention away from another one of Elizabeth’s ruthless comebacks. They’d barely heard it over the sound of the Conservative benches heckling the poor sod that had just been absolutely decimated on national television, but when the door swung open, Laura moved to mute the television momentarily.

“I—You said you wanted a transcript of the highlights from the last committee meeting as soon as I printed—“

It was James Gillespie, the poor, stuttering intern still afraid of breathing Eric’s oxygen.

“Beautiful. Leave the folder on the side, go the fuck home, and get some sleep. You look like you’re about to pass out, kid,” the Welshman ordered, words about as close to sympathetic as they ever came. Clearly, this registered in the young man, because he offered an uncharacteristic smile along with his usual silent and obedient nod.

Without another the word, the intern had disappeared as quickly as he’d entered.

Chewing on the end of her last slice of pizza, she shot a glare at her communications director. “Will you please be nice to the intern? I like James. It’d be rather nice if James stuck around. James is a good egg.”

“Oh, you do?” Eric enthused sarcastically. “Well then you’ll be disappointed to hear that he’s not Labour, so please avoid trying to fuck him.”

In a split second, her glare switched from playful to murderous. Eric took issue with how much time she spent working with Adam Hassan, and he made absolutely no secret of it.

“Nice.”

“Nice? Do you know how difficult you make my job?”

“I didn’t fuck Adam,” she informed, annoyed.

In that moment, she swore she could see his eye twitch. It wasn’t a lie. The initial ‘date’ he was having a mental breakdown over was so tame, it ended with a kiss on the cheek and slight confusion on her part as to whether she’d misread his signs entirely. Cassie felt stupid even thinking about it. She wished to God he hadn’t brought it up so she could avoid the internal cringing.

“You didn’t fuck Adam yet.” Eric corrected. “Not that he needs you to. The press is already on its hands and knees sucking Beautiful Perfect Angel Boy’s dick. You realize this is going to be a bigger pile of shit for me to clear up than you, Silas and your Roman fucking rendezvous?”

Okay, that she could understand him being upset about.

The press had picked up on it quickly and threatened with a God damn field day, but he had deftly stopped them in their tracks, like the genius he was, before the story gained momentum. If only he knew. Cassie felt a pang of guilt, and not the type that one might’ve expected. None of it was for Alice, and all of it was for the communications director she really did push to his limit.

“Thanks for smoothing that over, by the way. You are also a good egg.”

“No, I’m a miraculous egg, Cassie. I’m a miraculous fucking egg. Alice’s little fan club wanted your head on a spike and for a minute there, I debated how giving it to them would look on my resume.”

“You wouldn’t do that to me…”

There was an awkward pause. Cassie’s usually disarming smile had little effect.

Eric sighed out through his nose, and suddenly, all of the dismissive humour he was so famous for was gone. “Did you sleep with Silas?”

The seriousness of his tone was so unfamiliar, it stunned her into silence. Laura cleared her throat—in all honesty, Cassie had forgotten she was there for a second—before politely excusing herself as though she thought it wasn’t her business to be a part of this conversation. Eric probably agreed, because he waited until after she’d shut the door behind her to repeat himself.

“Look, you don’t need me to tell you that it’s a bad fucking idea, but if you screwed him, I need to know about it. God forbid this ever fucking surfaces, Cass, but if it does, I need to know the facts. I have to be equipped to deal with it.”

Even though she was sure her expression said everything he needed to hear, he waited.

The night in question had been repeating on her mind solidly since it had happened; mostly, because she didn’t even know how she felt about it. The only thing she knew for sure was that she certainly harboured no guilt. Yes, Silas was married, but he was married to fucking Satan. It was something to do. It was company. It was stupid.

Things between them hadn’t changed. They’d had sex, but they were adults and it was fine.

“It was just once,” she conceded, barely managing the words as she held up her hands in genuine surrender for fear of him biting her head off. “It’s not going to happen again. I made a mistake, okay? It was just a one-time thing.”

The man looked as though his brain had partially melted. Believing it already was one thing, but hearing it firsthand?

“Well, I guess that explains the eye fucking then!” Eric bellowed, gesturing both hands toward the still muted TV wildly. “What happened to doing us all the courtesy of pretending you fucking hate each other, huh? If you’re going to sleep with him, at least spare us the pining looks across the backbenches, Cassie, because I’m just a man. I like my food. I’d rather not lose it.” Sighing, he pressed his fingertips to his forehead, letting out an inhuman groan. “There’ll be gifs of that shit.”

Cassie froze, once again lost for words. What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to defend herself?

“Eric, come on…”

“One-time thing,” he warned, sitting bolt upright and pointing at her. By this point, she’d noted his expression had made an uncomfortable diversion from its earlier anger. He looked…disappointed. Concerned. “You don’t fuck your career up for a married man, so you fucking promise me now that this is a one-time thing, otherwise I’ll rip his God damn dick off myself.”

Promise? What were they, ten? “Don’t you think you’re being a little overdramatic?”

Even she didn’t think that. In fact, she was cursing herself for saying it almost as soon as the words left her dumb mouth.

“He’s fucking married, Cassie!”                                      

“Okay, okay! Can you maybe stop shouting ‘he’s married’?!” The blonde whispered, eyebrows pulling together in an angry frown. “I feel like that might get some fucking attention, don’t you?”

There was a lengthy pause in which both parties attempted to calm themselves. Neither of them seemed to manage it particularly well.

“One-time thing.”

“All right, Eric,” Cassie relented with a sigh. It was hard to tell whether she meant the words, or whether she was just desperate to appease him, but she coughed them up all the same. “I promise.”

[nodynasty4us]

From the long June 29, 2020 essay (worth reading in full):

As an amateur pilot, I can’t help associating the words catastrophic failure with an accident report. The fact is, confronting a pandemic has surprising parallels with the careful coordination and organization that has saved large numbers of lives in air travel. Aviation is safe in large part because it learns from its disasters. Investigators from the U.S. National Transportation Safety Board go immediately to accident sites to begin assessing evidence. After months or even years of research, their detailed reports try to lay out the “accident chain” and explain what went wrong. ...

In these two fundamentally similar undertakings—managing the skies, containing disease outbreaks—the United States has set a global example of success in one and of failure in the other. It has among the fewest aviation-related fatalities in the world, despite having the largest number of flights. But with respect to the coronavirus pandemic, it has suffered by far the largest number of fatalities, about one-quarter of the global total, despite having less than one-20th of the world’s population.

Consider a thought experiment: What if the NTSB were brought in to look at the Trump administration’s handling of the pandemic? What would its investigation conclude? I’ll jump to the answer before laying out the background: This was a journey straight into a mountainside, with countless missed opportunities to turn away. A system was in place to save lives and contain disaster. The people in charge of the system could not be bothered to avoid the doomed course.

...

1. The Flight Plan

...

James Giordano, a biosecurity expert at Georgetown University Medical Center who has been extensively involved in pandemic-response planning, told me this spring: “Absolutely nothing that has happened has been a surprise. We saw it coming. Not only did we see it, we ran the models and the gaming exercises. We had every bit of the structure in place. We’ve been talking about a biohazard risk like this for years. Anyone who says we did not see this coming has their head in the sand, or is lying through their teeth.”

...

2. The Air Traffic Controllers

... In the previous two decades of international public-health experience, starting with SARS and on through the rest of the acronym-heavy list, a standard procedure had emerged, and it had proved effective again and again. The U.S, with its combination of scientific and military-logistics might, would coordinate and support efforts by other countries. Subsequent stages would depend on the nature of the disease, but the fact that the U.S. would take the primary role was expected. When the new coronavirus threat suddenly materialized, American engagement was the signal all other participants were waiting for. But this time it did not come. It was as if air traffic controllers walked away from their stations and said, “The rest of you just work it out for yourselves.”

...

3. The Emergency Checklist

...

Anything that Barack Obama had recommended, Donald Trump was predisposed to ignore. Of the many lies Trump and his defenders have spun, none is more flatly false than the claim, as stated by Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell in May, that the Obama administration “did not leave … any kind of game plan for something like this.”

In response to McConnell’s claim, Ron Klain tweeted about the official pandemic playbook left for Obama’s successors. McConnell, surprisingly, retracted his statement—but the White House spokesperson, Kayleigh McEnany, then claimed that whatever “thin packet of paper” Obama had left was inferior to a replacement that the Trump administration had supposedly cooked up, but which has never been made public. The 69-page, single-spaced Obama-administration document is officially called “Playbook for Early Response to High-Consequence Infectious Disease Threats and Biological Incidents” and is freely available online. It describes exactly what the Trump team was determined not to do.

What I found remarkable was how closely the Obama administration’s recommendations tracked with those set out 10 years earlier by the George W. Bush administration, in response to its chastening experience with bird flu. The Bush-era work, called “National Strategy for Pandemic Influenza” and publicly available here, differs from the Obama-era playbook mainly in the simpler forms of technology on which it could draw. But the premises, recommendations, and warnings are fundamentally similar in each—and at complete odds with the “let’s just ignore it” nature of the Trump administration’s response.

...

4. The Pilot

...The system was primed to act, but the person at the top of the system had to say, “Go.” And that person was Donald Trump.“Here is the way I would put it,” a person who has been involved with the President’s Daily Brief process told me, referring to Trump. “The person behind the desk is the same person you see on TV”—emotional, opinionated, fixed on his own few hobbyhorses and distorted views of reality, unwilling or unable to absorb new information. “In a normal administration, the president would have seen the warnings unfolding from January onward. But this president hadn’t absorbed any of it.”

...

5. The Control Systems

...A president depends on people who have developed the skills and muscle memory needed to shift a huge bureaucracy’s focus. Because Donald Trump himself had no grasp of this point, and because he and those around him preferred political loyalists and family retainers rather than holdovers from the “deep state,” the whole federal government became like a restaurant with no cooks, or a TV station with stars but no one to turn the cameras on.

“There is still resilience and competence in the working-level bureaucracy,” an intelligence-agency official told me. “But the layers above them have been removed.” Near the end of one full term in office, an unusually large number of senior deputy-secretary and assistant-secretary posts in Cabinet departments remain empty. Donald Trump’s zeal for filling lifetime-appointment judicial vacancies has not extended to the regular government. An unusually large share of those who have been appointed are political staffers, donors, or Trump protégés without experience in their field.

...

6. The Crash Landing

...

The language of an NTSB report is famously dry and clinical—just the facts. In the case of the pandemic, what it would note is the following: “There was a flight plan. There was accurate information about what lay ahead. The controllers were ready. The checklists were complete. The aircraft was sound. But the person at the controls was tweeting. Even if the person at the controls had been able to give effective orders, he had laid off people that would carry them out. This was a preventable catastrophe.”

[blogwritetheworld]

The Write Place: The Everywriter’s Desk

by Lisa Hiton

Looking for the right advice on pursuing the writer’s life? You’ve come to the write place!

The summer before my junior year in high school, my soon-to-be teacher, Ms. Tanimoto, assigned two books to incoming AP students: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne and The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White. The Scarlet Letter was forgotten as soon as it was finished; I instantly detested Hawthorne’s penchant for moral allegories surrounding evil and sin, finding it all a bit too on-the-nose and heavy-handed. The Elements of Style, however, became an instant mainstay to my writerly temperament.

It seemed strange to be assigned a reference book to read cover to cover. I’d only ever used reference books like dictionaries, thesauruses, and encyclopedias as touchstones during reading and writing assignments—brief interruptions to expand my knowledge and/or revise my work.Upon reading Strunk and White’s masterpiece, however, my understanding of reference books changed entirely. Though the book is a mere 87 pages, my peers seemed to begrudge the assignment or blow it off entirely. I, on the other hand, found my attention rapt.

The Elements of Style is a reference book on the rules of English rhetoric, yes, but the attitude and dogma of its writers, Strunk and White, make it as much a manifesto as a convincing collection of laws governing the way we (ought to) speak and (must) write. The seriousness of tone and voice in these pages presents us with far more than a reference for grammar and usage, but rather, a true understanding of style in and of itself—that rhetoric is more than grammar and syntax, but a true translation of our consciousness into clear, material words. Such gravitas became most apparent to me when I arrived to page 52. Amid the section on misused words and expression, Strunk and White lay out the difference between nauseous and nauseated as follows:

Nauseous. Nauseated. The first means “sickening to contemplate”; the second means “sick to the stomach.” Do not, therefore, say, “I feel nauseous,” unless you are sure you have that effect on others.

Besides thinking of the many times I had misused “nauseous”, I actually laughed out loud. Amidst the seriousness in the rule there was a deep sense of snark. From the seriousness came a great deal of humor.

Since that first reading encounter with The Elements of Style, my well worn copy has remained with me. Whether I’m writing an academic paper, a cover letter, an author’s bio, a poem, a book review, or anything else, Strunk and White are there reminding me to be as clear as possible.

MY ELEMENTS OF STYLE

As I continued to grow in my writing life, I found that other books became constant sources of aid and knowledge, so much so that my desk had its own section of books at the ready, for whatever obstacles befell a given blank page. And over the years, the kinds of references have grown to fit my own writerly needs. And as I visit my friends who are writers, I notice some trends from desk to desk.

Here’s my working writing desk, fit with all I need! I’ve got my laptop, notebooks, pens, reference books, books to review, and some of my favorite books that I keep near me for inspiration. In the drawer of my desk, I keep mailing materials for my stack of chapbooks to sign and send to those who request it.  

Regarding reference books, every writer’s desk seems to contain The Elements of Style by Strunk and White, a dictionary, and a well-worn thesaurus. My desk currently has my hardcover copy of The Elements of Style, The New Roget’s Thesaurus in Dictionary Form, and Soule’s Dictionary of English Synonyms. Especially for those of you dreaming up holiday wish-lists, Maira Kalman’s illustrated version of The Elements of Style may be just the special book to add to the collection for you.

While I used to keep a desk-sized Merriam-Webster Dictionary on hand, I find the synonyms and thesaurus more useful these days, perhaps especially as I revise my first book of poems. When I find myself overusing the same verbs and adjectives, I can quickly reach for one of these books and get some inspiration. I’ve converted, these days, to using apps for dictionary and etymology. I especially like the free dictionary.com app, which allows you to click on a word three times and open up its dictionary page. The app also offers audio pronunciation.

Dictionaries are important resources, ones which can’t quite be replicated online. Each nation has its favorite, from the Oxford English Dictionary, to Merriam-Webster’s, to the Macquarie. While I don’t keep Merriam-Webster on my desk at this moment, I do keep it at my fingertips, using their online resources when I’m in need. Further, I’ve found the Merriam-Webster twitter to be a source of great comfort and comedy amidst America’s dire political landscape. While it is easy to look up a word online, the physical books—dictionaries, thesauruses, etc.—encourage more meandering through the worlds of words. Without the instant gratification that comes from looking up a word, you may stumble upon an etymological note that takes you to another page, and so on, until you’ve learned new things about words and perhaps found an even better way to say whatever it is you set out to put on the page.

These are my three most used reference books right now. I’m really excited about this new, hardcover copy of The Elements of Style, especially!

Another particularity of a writer’s desk seems to be a given writer’s tools. Do you do most of your writing on a computer? In a notebook? With an old refurbished typewriter? I personally use multiple tools to get my writing done. Certain parts of my writing process involve pen and paper, while others are done on my laptop. Many writers have a kind of obsession with their objects. For example, I only write with fine point uniball pens in black or purple ink. I use fine point, black sharpie markers for my writing to-do lists. And, as you'll see from a glimpse at my desk, I'm as particular about notebooks as I am about pens!

I keep a few different notebooks with different purposes going at a time. Here you’ll see two Shinola notebooks, which I love because they engrave your name for free—a great holiday gift, indeed!—my Moleskine planner, my to-do list pad, and a grey notebook where I keep notes on books as I read them. 

Another important element of a writer’s desk is its proximity to field guides. In my dream writing room, this might include specific maps, atlases, and encyclopedias. Currently, I’m working on poems and essays about my time spent in Greece on the island of Thassos and in the city of Thessaloniki. To that end, I have acquired field guides that can help me re-orient myself to that location. Names of trees, fish, flora, fauna, and foods are different in other places. I’ve also become a collector of field guides, including one that has images and names of specific kinds of lighthouses. What field guides might help you with a particular piece you’re working on right now?

As a field guide collector, these are some of my favorite possessions, found in random parts of the world, flea markets, and antique stores. Right now, I’m revising poems about my time in Greece on the island of Thassos. These field guides help inspire precision in describing water, fish, beaches, shells, and the like. 

Besides reference books and field guides, it seems that craft books or books about writing and reading are a mainstay on my desk too. Some of my absolute favorites are:

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

The Writing Life by Annie Dillard

Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose

Blue Pastures by Mary Oliver

Having these books on my desk is a reminder of my own intellectual inheritance as a writer, as well as a great source of guidance and inspiration to me.

EXPANSIVE FIELDS

There are of course many other must-have books, tools, and resources that writers need to have at the ready. A comparative study of writers’ desks would be ideal. In the absence of access to the likes of desks by Dr. Seuss, Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, Stephen King, JK Rowling, and the rest, here are some starter ideas by genre that you might consider as you expand your own writer’s desk. And of course, send us picture of your own desks and favorite desk necessities on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter by tagging us or using the hashtags: #everywritersdesk.

A Poet’s Guide to Poetry

Poetry has its own rules and vernacular that may give writers pause. From reference books, to prompting books, there are many craft resources for poets looking to understand lines, stanzas, and the soul of poetry as they grow their own volumes of poetry. Here’s a wishlist of some of my most beloved/ragged/well-loved books on poetry:

A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver

The Triggering Town by Richard Hugo

Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

A Poet’s Guide to Poetry by Mary Kinzie

A Poet’s Glossary by Edward Hirsch

The Art of the Poetic Line by James Longenbach

A Little Book on Form: An Exploration Into the Formal Imagination of Poetry by Robert Hass

Rules for the Dance by Mary Oliver

The Sounds of Poetry: A Brief Guide by Robert Pinsky

ABC of Reading by Ezra Pound

Keeping Things Novel

For all you novelists, there are also a whole host of books to guide you in the writing of fiction.. Here are a few additions you might want to make to your #everywritersdesk:

How Fiction Works by James Wood

Brevity: A Flash Fiction Handbook by David Galef

The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardener

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose

Mastering Suspense, Structure, and Plot: How to Write Gripping Stories that Keep Readers on the Edge of Their Seat by Jane K. Cleland

Nonfiction

If creative nonfiction is where your writing practice is focused, there are all kinds of books available for your #everywritersdesk too! Nonfiction is a huge category, which could include journalism, biography, autobiography, and more. This list is focused on the literary spirit of creative nonfiction:

Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg

To Show and to Tell by Phillip Lopate

On Writing Well by William Zinsser

You Can’t Make This Stuff Up: The Complete Guide to Writing Creative Nonfiction by Lee Gutkind

Writing True: The Art and Craft of Creative Nonfiction by Sondra Perl and Mimi Schwartz

Inside Story: Everyone’s Guide to Reporting and Writing Creative Nonfiction by Julia Goldberg

Crafting the Personal Essay: A Guide for Writing and Publishing Creative Nonfiction by Dinty W. Moore

As these books serve the writing life, there are also those books that are so well-loved that they seem to live on our desks. Right now, the collected works of Sylvia Plath and Frank Bidart have been near me at all times, just like a security blanket for my authorial heart. What books do you find stay off the shelf? Tag them in your #everywritersdesk photos.

Of course, there are many other books that may guide you on your journey. Many craft books and writers’ resources can also be found on my series blog, “Reading Like a Writer” where I recommend specific craft books in conjunction with the genre of Write the World’s monthly writing contests. We can’t wait to see your additions to #everywritersdesk by tagging us on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook!

About Lisa

Lisa Hiton is an editorial associate at Write the World. She writes two series on our blog: The Write Place where she comments on life as a writer, and Reading like a Writer where she recommends books about writing in different genres. She’s also the interviews editor of Cosmonauts Avenue and the poetry editor of the Adroit Journal.

[wildflowerfiction77]

Tales of Scarcity: Fiction 1

G-Man 2 July 4, 2019

By Daniel Vera

 Chapter One: The Beginning of a Movement

  Gerard Williams, as a forty-eight year old ex-cop, found himself in the slums of a part of the city that he frequented as a rookie.  There he saw some of the worst drug related crimes in all his years on the force.  That first year, they had assigned him the corner block on Hash St. and Venice Ave.  His overseeing Officer, Veteran McGower, was a plump proud Irishman that was part of a lineage of badge wielding McGowers; others simply referred to him as the Hammer.  He was ready for retirement.  He was assigned to show the rookie what it means to be a cop.  

One night, they got a call from dispatch around midnight.  It was a domestic violence on that same corner.  Now McGower had thought it was a pimp and his cattle, so they dragged their feet.  Williams was anxious and wanted to get there before anything bad could happen.  He knew that specific scenario and it brought out dark thoughts.  When they got to the scene, he saw a murder instead.  There was a young woman lying on the concrete sidewalk with pills falling out of her purse.  That was the first time he had seen the new drug, “Anti-Reel”, an anti aging drug that brought out side effects of extreme emotions, that caused incidents like this.

He never forgave McGower for not seeing that part of town as a priority.  The group of the “IN Boys” as they referred to themselves, would always make dehumanizing comments about the “Zoo” and being the “Zoo Keepers”.  It was a long line of racism, fascism and fear cultivated through generations of normalizing genocide, and what it takes to justify a soul in slowly killing fellow humans.  Gerard was one of a small group of Black Cops recently graduated and integrated into the Scarcity police force at the time.  They were jokingly called “The Affirmative Action Dogs.”  One of the older cadets had taken this moniker and made t-shirts for his fellow African-American cadets. It was frowned upon by the Zoo Keepers.  

As the years passed Gerard, the violence escalated into what some saw as a fault of the police force, specifically the new colored recruits.  Some of the “Dogs” would get together on their off time to talk about the job over some beers at each others house.  They were used to racism, but with the type of work they were doing, it was too dangerous to take lightly.  Some of them were assigned to menial tasks that didn’t fit their abilities.  Pan, the biggest and strongest of the five, was frequently assigned to clean-up duties, taking statements and doing paper work, when they knew he was a man of action.  Larry, the brains, often referred to as “the calculator”, was put on small drug related busts, when his IQ and crime solving gifts were underused, almost assuring that he wouldn’t reach Detective anytime soon.  They all had similar stories, but the camaraderie helped them get through.  

Gerard was some-what of the sooth sayer, and would try and justify some of the slights that occurred.  He would talk to the Chief about them and be the go-between for the “Dogs” on concerning issues.  The Chief at the time, Bill “The General” Mahone, would give the young man a listen to and reassurance that there were “changes” being made, but he was ready for retirement as well. It was just a gester, and Williams knew this.  It wasn’t until one of the “Dogs” was compromised and lost a leg, in a place he shouldn’t have been, in a crime that never occurred, that things changed at the station for everyone.  Word on the street was that the “Dog”, known as “The Target”, for his sharp shooting, was dealt with by a local drug distributor for a bust he wasn’t supposed to make a year prior.  It was all over the papers and got national attention.  The boat seized was named “The Santa Maria”, and had a years supply of Coke.  The city was dry, and a lot of powerful people were unhappy.  They couldn’t prove it was a retaliation and no one but some street runners were prosecuted.  Soon after, a new Chief had been appointed, Chief Susan Gowen, “The Clamper” in certain circles.  Gerard and her got friendly real quick.  

It was on her run that Gerald was set up by his fellow officers and found himself in deaths clutches.  At the time he was working with Susan to clean up some of the “IN boys” with some dirt from the streets.  It wasn’t clean or easy prosecutions, but he had gotten a few rotten apples, including McGower, on some drug related ties and money laundering businesses they shared.  It wasn’t too long before he was ambushed and left for dead.  Something out a comic book had brought him to a grungy motel with a high tech bio engineered refabricated body made of titanium, wires, mechanics and self stabilizing prosthesis attachments that made him some kind of RoboCop.  This wasn’t a movie to him though.  He was living in pain and suffering both in body and spirit.  He was trying to keep himself on the low, while both the Mafia and the crooked cops were hunting him.  After a week or two of ordering pizza and soda, he had to find a way to get his belongings, including his money.  One of “The Dogs” was his only hope.  He had bad blood with them before this had went down.  They had felt he betrayed their trust after his affair with Susan.  Some of them got reassigned to other departments, and some of them got desk jobs.  No one was on the field at the time, except for Gerard, and that didn’t look good to them.  So they labeled him an Uncle Tom and a Judas.  The only thing he had going for him was his death and his strength.  That would have to be enough for now.

 End of chapter one.

 Chapter Two: The Resentment

 He sits in the cold motel room with the the ambient light of the television pulsating through static and low murmurings of the talking heads of the news.  The TVs haven’t been upgraded for quite some time.  He is starting to notice his own stench.  There are certain areas he can’t reach to clean properly.  He needs a back scrubber and some better soap.  He has been able to sneak out and make some phone calls late at night to local clubs to locate the places a few of the “Dogs” frequent on occasion.  He starting to make a plan.  The money he has won’t last him much longer.  

There is an intensifying pain where the mechanics start.  It feels like they are increasingly grafting into his flesh. He scrapes off the extra skin when he showers.  Everything is too small in the room.  He tries not to break the walls or towel racks. Luckily the maids do infrequent cleaning.  He has an arrangement with the lady at the front desk.  They don’t ask questions and he pays on time with a few extra dollars a week.  He hears the locals doing their pimp games.  Some nights are filled with fake orgasms and pounding of bed frames and walls; some nights are filled with slapping of flesh in other ways.  He tries to ignore both.  Once in awhile he hears a baby cry.  That’s when the cop starts to scream inside of a broken man.  He still tries to maintain himself and makes promises to himself.  Ones he doesn’t want God to hear.  

 A young woman just moved in next door, a mother in her early twenties. He heard their voices in the middle of the night.  It sounded like a five year old boy and Puerto Rican mom.  She sounded fearful and her voice was exhausted, probably from yelling and crying.  Later, on the phone, she was ordering some meth.  He tried not to listen, but she was so damn loud, and she reminded him of a girl he once knew, except the girl he knew wasn’t a druggie and it was twenty years ago.  

The next morning as he was waiting for the maid to clean, he was returning to his room from the fire escape balcony, he saw the boy by himself in the hallway playing with some toys.  Their room door was open and he didn’t hear the mother, since she was usually loud.  He wasn’t sure what to do because it wasn’t the safest place to be.  He peeked in the door to make sure she didn’t overdose.  The boy didn’t take notice of the towering giant walking by.  Gerard kept his door slightly open to make sure nothing happened.  Around 30 minutes later, she heard the mother with a white guy: he could tell by the way he spoke.  She sounded like she was turning tricks.  Another sad case of the ghetto.  

Its been over two weeks and he knew he was getting hot.  He would either have to get out of the city or find a better disguise.  Although people around here were busy with their own problems, people talk.  They always talk.  Most of them would sell out their own kids for a twenty, since half of them were on drugs and the other half didn’t have two dimes.  He knew the price on his head must be at least half a million.  Those were some important people to some important people.  The good thing is that it could start a turf war, and that would buy him some time.  The bad thing is that it could bring in some political mercs and military.  Those guys don’t care about blowing up a neighborhood to find one guy.  His time was up.  He had to make his move.

 End of chapter two.

 Chapter Three: The Innocent

  After blending in the best he could and taking different routes to each location, he decided to find another motel in a week.  He was starting to get some looks from the locals, even when traveling late at night.  He did find a Chinese restaurants not too far away from a bus route he used to gather amenities from a grocery store.  On a Wednesday night while watching the local news, the only channel that came in clear, he heard a name of one of “The Dogs”; Jimmy “The Target” Shews.  He had passed away that Friday from a stroke.  They did a short interview with his daughter, a twenty something social activist working not too far from where he was at.  A local non profit trying to help the communities economic ills seemed to be where she worked, Eco-Now, by the t-shirt and location they interviewed her at.  

He remembers meeting her at one of the get-together s they had early on, when Jimmy was still with her mom, Judy.  Gerard remembers because Judy was a fast girl, and used him to make Jimmy jealous a couple of times.  It didn’t work.  Jimmy was a smart guy.  By the time Gen, his daughter, was five years old, Jimmy had made arrangements to fight for custody.  It was messy after he had lost his leg.  Things got complicated for his family.  Jimmy went into a work depression.  Judy quickly found another man, suspiciously quick.  She was able to gain custody of Gen and begin a new family.  Jimmy didn’t have the energy to deal with the custody battle and losing his leg and its consequences.  That was when Gerard and him began a close work agenda uprooting some officials.  They worked on some important cases, including some of the “IN Boys”.  

As time went on though, his depression got the better of him and he began his road of addiction.  The pills to help with his pain became too great, even for a hero cop.  He gained weight and eventually retired early.  From what Gerard remembers, Gen and Jimmy patched things up.  Judy had a few marriages and relationships that didn’t quite work out.  Gen had a couple of half sisters and moved out on her own when she turned 18.  It looked like she was doing alright.  She looked like a young Angela Davis and even talked like her.  

On one of Gerard’s outings, he unconsciously decided to pass by the non-profit on the way to get some Chinese food. Some call it coincidence and some call it fate, but on that precise day, on that precise hour, and on that precise moment, the universe decided to have her rush out of the building right before Gerard passed. She ran out to the sidewalk from the gated walkway where a young man was standing.  Gerard stopped and blended in next to the homeless sleeping and rustling on the steps to an old building.  He could hear the conversation.

The young man, who she immediately spoke his name, Daniel, was in a heightened disturbed state. It looked like he hadn’t slept the night before.  He was ranting on how they were following him and that they were the same people that killed her Dad.  As he was explaining the situation of goons, drug dealers and politicians, she started to tear up.  Gerard noticed an unmarked car pulling up, an agents car from high up.  His heart rate started to rise.  Damn, what was he going to do now.  

 End of Chapter Three

 Chapter Four: The Accent

 Daniel was also a social activist around the neighborhood.  He was an aspiring film maker, mainly working on documentaries relating to the people around him.  That’s how he met Gen.  He had gotten a freelance assignment from the local paper to video an event.  It was a debate about water issues held at the city college.  Gen and her father had attended.  They met over a spilled cup of coffee.  After that, they exchange info and worked on a few projects together. 

A few months later, Gen was giving a speech at the same college for housing issues within her community.  There was the issue of gentrification, a term used for displacement of a group of people by another group of people.  The inner city was in turmoil throughout the neighborhoods of color.  The police harassment’s tripled and the jobs seemed to be changing into the high tech industry.  It was nothing new, but it had just gotten worse.  Groups of people a month were having to move out of their homes due to rent doubling or buildings being renovated.  These people lived here for generations, built a culture that gave the city life and tourism, now they were seen as disposable, and worse, unwanted.  Gen had a lot to say about this subject.  Daniel documented it with his camera.

After that day, he noticed bad luck starting to increase for him and the people around him, like Gen.  At first it was a flat tire, or a parking ticket in the mail.  Then it started getting bizarre, like his dog dying and losing jobs.  He thought it was bad luck, but it was happening to his friends and family.  His cousin had gotten busted for having some drugs on him at school.  He knew that kid in particular had nothing to do with drugs, and was powerless to stop them from charging him, potentially ruining his school life and his future.  The more he protested these injustices, the more bad luck he encountered until he realized he was getting set up.  He noticed some of his stuff was missing and misplaced.  He would hear these weird computer sounds once in a while, like low beeping.  He didn’t want to believe it, until it escalated.  

He saw Gen’s father on the news.  It was out of nowhere.  She said that he was healthy and nothing was wrong with him until the day before.  They had went out to eat, and he had complained about a headache.  The next morning, she had to call the ambulance.  They wouldn’t let her see him until after he had passed.  She had called Daniel, and he stayed with her ever since.  Day in and day out, Daniel started editing the footage he had gathered for a short documentary on some of the social-economic problems the community of color were facing.  Some included interviews with local politicians, business men, tech companies, water resources, school districts, police, land owners and the people that lived in the community.  There was an art gallery that just popped up that included a cafe and a distillery.  Whoever created the gallery were heavily funded.  He thought that it would be a good intro to the documentary.  

After doing the interview, he arrived at Gen’s place, where he was staying, and the door was open to the small apartment.  As he entered, the place was being ransacked.  He wasn’t sure quite what to do, thinking they might be movers or armed thugs. He was quickly rendered unconscious. When coming to, he was surrounded by police, neighbors and Gen.  They were arresting him, despite Gen’s protest.  He asked her to save his save his footage if possible.  It looked like they had destroyed some of his tapes, as he glanced through the corner of his eye as they took him away.  He figured he had a good amount of the edited footage on an online storage.  There were too many coincidences for the break in to be random.  

 End of Chapter Four

 Chapter Five: For the love of God       

  Gerard was sitting on the couch while the TV played old cartoons.  He had lost awareness of the time.  The pain in his arms were killing him.  The areas where his flesh met the prosthetics, felt like they were at war.  The metal was organtic and building into the blood systems, nervous systems and overall bio system of his body.  It was painful.  He could feel the wires bore into his bones and move through them.   It was like surgery without anesthesia.  Tonight it is worse than any of the previous nights.  Normally he would take some over the counter pain killers and some JD, but he had to save on money, so he’s dealing with it.  

He hears a knock on the door.  At first it was distant, and began to slowly enter into his brain that it was happening.  Someone was at the door knocking at 2 am.  He quickly gathered himself and looked through the looking glass.  He saw his Puerto Rican neighbor.  He didn’t know quite what to do and stood there for a moment, thinking she might just walk away if he didn’t answer.  As she knocked again, she raised her voice.

 “I know you’re in there.  I saw you walk in yesterday and you haven’t left.”

“You should just open up the door, and introduce yourself.  We listen to each other for weeks.  You make noises at night.” 

 He was astonished at her brashness.  He answered her.  

 “How can I help you?”

 She replied, “I have some food for you.  It might help you sleep.  So I don’t have to hear you moaning all night.”

 He was slightly embarrassed.  He didn’t realize he was making noises in his sleep.  He had to think for a while.  

 She spoke again, “It’s not poisoned, I will eat some with you.  I can’t sleep either, and I keep late hours like you.”  

 “I promise I won’t hurt you.”  She jokingly rebutted to his muteness.

 Something inside him felt like letting her in was the right thing to do.  It could have been loneliness, the pain or that he needed help.  He opened the door.  She walked in like a feline that was at home.  He towered above her 5’5 frame.  She handed him a bottle of Whiskey as she passed by him with the bowl of food.  As she sat on the couch, she stated, “Oh Tom and Jerry, one of the classics.”

He was thrown off by her demeanor.  She didn’t seem to be high on meth.  Maybe he was wrong about her.  She didn’t look like she was in a bad place.  As she served the food on a couple of plates on the coffee table, she asked for a beer.  Gerard luckily had a couple left that he hadn’t worked through.  He was saving them for the morning, but the Whiskey will help with that.  She told him that there were some natural anti toxins that she mixed in with the Whiskey, and it would help cleanse any anxiety he was having along with body pains.  As she kept talking, he realized that he had gotten her wrong.  She was explaining her crazy situation and that she has sleep walking episodes.  That explained a few things.  She also explained how she ended up in a grungy hotel in the bad part of the city.  She had lost everything in a fire and had no one to turn to  She was fairly new to the city, and the babies father had abandoned her.  

Normally he wouldn’t eat the food or have let her in, because it was a compromise that he can’t afford.  But he was desperate.  Hopelessness was starting to sink in.  The physical pain of some weird experimental mechanical limbs and feeling betrayed by everyone he trusted was enough for him to take some abnormal chances.  He ate the food and drank the Whiskey.  She went back to her apartment and he slept better than he had in months.  

The next morning, he decided to pay one of the “Dogs” a visit.  After seeing Jimmy, the “Target” Shews’ daughter, he mustered up the guts to make amends with his past.  When he had left them, the car that was following them had driven away.  He wasn’t sure if they had spotted him or they were just checking up on her.  After laying low for the next couple of days, he didn’t get the feeling that they were following him.  They were following her, and that was a problem that he would have to solve.  

He needed money and he needed it quick before he decided to break an ATM machine, which is how he got the money that he had to begin with.  When he had gotten shot, he lost everything.  The world believes he is dead.  They are looking for a metal man.  Everyone that he confronted in the restaurant is dead.  The only link that he has to his old identity is the scientist who experimented on him.  He doesn’t even want to think on all the possibilities that could be going on.  The girl is the only one who has seen him, other than the other locals.  They all seem to be minding their own business, as staying alive in the Ghetto is a full time job.  His hooded sweater and jacket seem to cover up most of his new limbs, along with his gloves and scarf.  Lucky its winter. 

 End of Chapter 5

 Chapter 6: The Reckoning

[angrycollectordaze-me-blog]

Paper代写：Waldo's comprehensive eclectic view of administration

下面为大家整理一篇优秀的paper代写范文- Waldo's comprehensive eclectic view of administration，供大家参考学习，这篇论文讨论了沃尔多的综合折中行政观。沃尔多是西方行政学发展历程中一位博学多产且极具影响力的行政学家，他不仅在西方行政学发展的历史研究方面造诣很深，而且对行政学内在本质也颇具见地。沃尔多首先认为，政治——行政二分法无论是作为现实的描述还是作为对行政行为的规定都是不恰当的，在他看来，传统行政学家所提出的现实问题并不是政治与行政是否应该分离，而是行政应将其决定价值观和政策的功能扩大到何种程度，但他们并没能为这个问题提供合适的答案。

Waldo western administrative science development is an erudite prolific and influential administrative scientist, he not only in the history of the development of western public administration research very accomplished, and the inherent nature of administrative science also considerable insight, he is actively advocate of western new public administration movement and participants, and is a creator in the field of public administration, but he is more of a critic and critic. This critical spirit is rare anywhere and anytime.

During the study of Waldo's comprehensive eclectic view of administration, I found that he criticized the traditional view of administration, which made me think deeply. Waldo think first, political - administrative dichotomy as the description of the reality and to the provisions of the administrative behavior is inappropriate, in his view, the traditional administrative experts have put forward the real question is not whether the political and administrative should be separated, but the function of the administrative decision values and policies should be expanded to what extent, but they didn't provide the right answer for the question; Secondly, Waldo criticized the rationalism tendency of traditional administrative organization theory, criticizing that traditional administrative theory overemphasized the commonality or so-called principle between organizations and ignored the concreteness as "administrative substance". Again, he accused the traditional administrative experts of the so-called "scientific" rely mainly on "stack", his chances for the development of administrative science reservations, but this is not to say that Waldo unnecessarily think science, but think the scientific method is not suitable for this kind of public administration involves to the theme of man's thinking and evaluation; Finally, Waldo opposed the traditional administrativist's overemphasis on efficiency. He claimed that although efficiency itself was not a value, efficiency was only a useful concept within the framework of consciously held values.

The development of public administration has gone through a long process. The traditional public administration model can be traced back to the middle of the 19th century. It is the longest and most successful theory in public administration. Whether as a theory or a practice, it has its own advantages. And up to now, the traditional administrative thought is still deeply rooted in our culture, and no other administrative thought has been unanimously considered to be able to completely replace the traditional administrative category. In this case, it is very difficult to break the theoretical framework of traditional administration from the perspective of oneself or society, but Waldo has done it. Is it not worth learning from this spirit of dare to criticize and dare to break through?

In China, a big country with a history of 5,000 years, the long history inheritance means more serious ideological constraints to some extent. Whether it is "ousting a hundred schools of thought and respecting Confucianism alone" or "preserving the principle of heaven and destroying human desire", Confucianism has become a tool for rulers to maintain feudal rule and control people's thoughts. After two years of absolute monarchy, coupled with the "closed door" of the qing dynasty, China was isolated from the world at that time, limited the development of advanced ideology and technology, and brought great difficulties to the liberation of the mind. The disastrous defeat in the mid-1890s caused Chinese scholars to have the experience of losing power and humiliating the country again after the fall of the southern song dynasty, and they were forced to reflect again. Chinese scholars realized in pain that they could not help themselves by rejecting foreign ideas and locking up the country. Since then, the process of ideological liberation of the Chinese nation began to face the world, hoping to seek new forces for China's liberation from the west. The revolution of 1911 overthrew the feudal autocratic rule of China for more than 2,000 years, thus providing a free and loose political environment for the ideological liberation movement. The ideas of gu yanwu and others in the late Ming dynasty and zhang taiyan and others in the late qing dynasty also paved the way for the ideological liberation. The advanced intellectuals of that period made a thorough criticism of the feudal autocracy and made a clear cry for pursuing democracy and science. But only to criticize is far from enough, but also combined with China's national conditions for analysis and application. In the practice of leading Chinese revolution, the Chinese communists represented by MAO zedong gradually explored a development path and general strategy of "encircling the cities in the countryside and seizing political power by armed forces" with Chinese characteristics. With the development of the revolutionary war, the people's armed forces and the base areas, victory was finally won throughout the country.

From the ancient feudal autocracy to the socialist society where the people are the masters of the country, it is not difficult to imagine how many difficulties and obstacles there are in the process of development. The most difficult and important is the emancipation of the mind. Our party's continuous development from victory to victory proves that, no matter in what era, breaking the shackles of thought is a necessary prerequisite for success. With the development of society, the shackles of feudal thought have been broken gradually, but when can the shackles of modern exam-oriented education be opened?

Chairman MAO once said, "the world is yours and ours, but in the final analysis it is yours. You young people are full of vigor and vitality. You are like the sun at eight or nine o 'clock in the morning. Hope is in you." However, the cramming method of examination-oriented education has limited children's best time to several test papers at one desk. This exam-oriented education mode and method limit the full play of students' ability, and passive learning firmly frames children's thoughts in the textbook. In the present exam-oriented education, the cultivation of critical thinking is still relatively neglected. In our daily teaching and home education, we tend to tell our children the answers directly, and tell them that these are the truth, there is no need to question and think, just remember them. Most children of this kind of education lack the ability of independent thinking, creativity, analysis and integration and critical thinking, which makes them out of step with the new trend of mass entrepreneurship and innovation. Imagine what would happen if a child who had been helped to walk ran alone. Similarly, how can young people who grow up under the exam-oriented education environment actively respond to the call of The Times and invest in the wave of innovation?

For contemporary college students, the ability and level of creative summation and critical and analytical thinking is an important reflection of their comprehensive quality and an important condition for them to adapt to the development needs of the era of knowledge economy. Therefore, contemporary college students should not only have critical thinking, but also be able to properly use critical thinking. Only by cultivating critical thinking ability, improve their cognitive level and ability of analysis, induction, can in the complex social life, for some about itself and the social hot issues to make timely and effective, appropriate analysis, and trying to solve it, thus to promote the development of knowledge economy society to make due contributions. These efforts in the classroom alone are not enough. After class, students should take the initiative to train and cultivate critical thinking skills so as to truly become the talents needed by the country.

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[newstfionline]

Behind bloody Gaza clashes, economic misery and piles of debt

By Loveday Morris, Washington Post, April 23, 2018

Every Friday for the past month, thousands of Palestinians have surged to Gaza’s border fence with Israel in a show of anger and defiance, some throwing stones and molotov cocktails, others simply to be there.

“Young people have nothing to lose,” said 31-year-old Mohammed Sukkar, a few hundred yards from the boundary fence on the first day of protests last month as the crowd retreated after pops of gunfire. Sukkar is unemployed and says he is hard pressed to feed his six children.

Across the 140-square-mile territory, Gazans are struggling to finance their daily lives. Young people--unable to pay for weddings or homes of their own--are delaying marriage, figures show, while health officials say suicide, once virtually unheard of in Gaza, is on the rise.

Universities say students are dropping out because they cannot afford the fees. At the Islamic University in Gaza City, a third of the students did not re-enroll this semester. Graduates have little hope of finding work in their specialized fields.

Unemployment in Gaza is nearly 50 percent, and 68 percent of those between the ages of 20 and 24 are jobless, according to figures from the Palestine Trade Center.

The Gaza Strip’s economy has been crippled by a more than decade-long blockade by Israel, which maintains tight controls on trade and movement in and out of the territory, citing security considerations. But Gazans are also frustrated with the territory’s rulers, the Hamas organization, for its failure to provide basic services, and at the West Bank-based Palestinian Authority for cutting the salaries of its Gaza employees.

The United Nations is warning that something has got to give. Even Israeli security officials have sounded an alarm in recent months, warning that a humanitarian crisis could set off an explosion of violence, putting Israel itself at risk.

“We are on the edge of economic collapse,” said Judge Mohammed Nofal, sorting through a pile of case files in his courtroom in central Gaza, where plaintiffs and accused debtors shuffle in and out to have their financial cases heard.

Nofal’s courtroom, nothing more than a small office stacked with files, provides a glimpse into Gaza’s economic hardships. From behind his desk, he hears about 20 cases a day and rules on another 80 just from the paperwork.

Nofal, one of two financial judges in the Gaza court, says he heard 12,000 cases last year, up 50 percent from a year earlier. The value of checks bounced in the territory surged to $112 million last year, according to the Palestine Monetary Authority. In 2016, the figure was $62 million.

Desperate for small loans, Gazans seek credit wherever they can, Nofal said. Often, for instance, people turn to electronics stores that offer products on credit, signing up to buy televisions or washing machines on installment plans, then immediately selling those appliances to get cash.

When they fail to pay their creditors, a domino effect of defaults is triggered, Nofal said.

Nabil Abu Afash, 58, used to sell furniture on installment. But customers stopped paying him and he had no way to recoup the losses, he said. He sold his house to cover $90,000 of his own debt and now owes rent to a landlord.

On a recent day, he was queuing outside the courthouse, waiting to request that his overdue rent be deferred, when his landlord happened to pass by.

“I owe him $3,000,” Abu Afash said.

“Four thousand,” countered the landlord, Hatem Qalaga, who said he came to court to petition that his debtors be imprisoned.

“What am I supposed to do?” Qalaga continued. “I’m owed $100,000, and now I’m $30,000 in debt myself.”

“It’s collapsing, collapsing,” he said of Gaza’s economy.

As they spoke, a man nearby was bundled off to prison in a police car.

Nofal said prison is a last resort. But he signed 20 arrest warrants on his desk that day.

Everyone is feeling the pinch, he said, acknowledging that his own salary was cut by the local government by 60 percent to $800 a month.

The only solution is for Israel to ease border restrictions, he said.

“People need to work,” Nofal says.

Beleaguered Gazans do not blame only Israel; pressure is building against Palestinian leaders, too.

“It’s because of Hamas,” Ahmed Hamouda, a 25-year-old worker on Gaza’s seafront, said without missing a beat. “This is the reality. We are fed up.”

Gaza is suffering because of Hamas’s isolation from the rest of the world, he said. The group is considered a terrorist organization by Israel, the United States and the European Union, and it has been increasingly ostracized within the Middle East.

While Hamas’s relationship with Egypt has warmed somewhat in recent months, the group’s fortunes took a dive when the Muslim Brotherhood was ousted from power in Egypt in 2013. Since then, Egypt has shut down smuggling tunnels connecting Egypt and Gaza that had generated taxes for Hamas and breathed some life into Gaza’s economy.

Meanwhile, the Palestinian Authority in the West Bank has cut wages for its employees in Gaza to squeeze Hamas, a rival political force.

As economic pressure mounts, Hamas has tried to hand over the burden of administering the strip to the Palestinian Authority, headed by Mahmoud Abbas. But talks to mend a long-standing rift have failed, with Hamas ultimately unwilling to give up its control over security in Gaza. It has, however, handed over the main border crossing with Israel, ceding with that control the taxes collected there.

With Hamas cornered and unable to provide basic services, analysts speculated that another war with Israel could be imminent as the militant group sought a way to divert attention from the internal crisis.

But Hamas has found another release valve--for now at least.

The idea for the weekly protests, dubbed the “March of Return,” has been widely attributed to Palestinian activist Ahmad Abu Artema, who disavowed any political affiliation and said he believes in a one-state solution to the conflict, an arrangement in which Palestinians are given rights alongside Israelis in a democratic state.

He says the “hardship of Gaza” spurred the “revolutionary step” of peacefully protesting against Israel’s occupation and the loss of Palestinian land when Israel was created in 1948.

Artema said it was important for the protests to have the backing of the political parties that rule Gaza. “We cannot deny them,” he said. “They are part of society.”

But for Hamas, the march--however it came about--came at the right moment.

“They decided, I wouldn’t say to hijack the march, I’d say to lead the march,” said Mkhaimar Abusada, a professor of political science at Gaza’s Al-Azhar University. The aim was to deflect attention to Israel “instead of anger and frustration building up against Hamas in Gaza.”

Hamas is testing a new strategy, Abusada said.

“Hamas has realized very late that in military confrontation we lose,” Abusada said. “They are not quitting the military resistance. They are trying to use nonviolent resistance alongside.”

Ahmed Yousef, a former senior adviser to the Hamas political leader Ismail Haniyeh, said the demonstrations have provided needed relief.

“We are a little bit happier than before,” Yousef said. “We can see something with this demonstration that the issue of Palestine is seen by the whole world.”

Protest organizers say they hope to sustain the demonstrations until at least mid-May, when Palestinians commemorate what they call the Nakba, or catastrophe, marking the flight and expulsion of an estimated 700,000 Palestinians seven decades ago upon Israel’s creation.

The numbers of protesters, though, are declining with the passing weeks, and the toll of the demonstrations continues to rise. More than 1,500 Palestinians have been shot.

And none of this is kick-starting the economy.

Wissam Sabah, 34, runs a mechanic shop and imports building materials in Rafah, a city in southern Gaza.

He pulls out a wad of bounced checks from people who owe him money.

“See all this, all paper, no cash,” he says. He is taking the checks to the police to file a report.

Construction is virtually at a standstill, he said. International aid to the territory is declining, and only just over half of the $5.4 billion dollars pledged for Gaza’s reconstruction in 2014 has been delivered, according to the World Bank.

Tragically, Sabah and others here say, another economic solution exists.

“When there’s a war, they pay attention,” he says. “When there is destruction, there will be reconstruction.”