#WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE WAS NO WAR IN 1928???

[ootori-sibs]

I'm going to commit several crimes. My fucking Ootori curse timeline doesn't match up to real world events and I need to rework it. I can't just reshape the political landscape of the world to kill off one character.

[badplayerana]

Current favorite cherik fics - pt2

part 1 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8

See what I mean when I say 'current'? lol anyway, heres some more. I will probably keep updating this every other week or so

To Know You Forever by sadbigchungus (Star Wars AU!!!)

High-raking Mandalorian Erik Lehnsherr is, much to his chagrin, assigned on a protection detail to solidify the new Jedi/Mandalorian alliance. His charge? None other than renowned scientist Jedi Master Charles Xavier. What he thinks will be a standard mission quickly devolves into something where the stakes are much higher, with the fate of Mandalore and the Republic hanging in the balance.

The stars incline us, they do not bind us by ikeracity, Pangea (top tier stuff, highly recommend - mind the tags!!!)

Intergalactic Federation pilot Lieutenant Charles Xavier is assigned last-minute to a high profile mission: transporting over two thousand prison inmates from an old and overfilled prison complex to a newer, higher-capacity prison stronghold located on the outer reaches of the galaxy. Just as he's settling down for a long and uneventful ride, things take a turn for the worse after the inmates riot and stage a hostile takeover of the ship, leaving Charles to find himself at the complete mercy of cold-blooded killers and facing the chilling prospect that he might not ever make it back home alive.

Special Topics in Mutant Studies by populuxe

The trouble with Charles Xavier isn’t just that he teaches genetics and holds terrible views about mutant rights—it’s also becoming increasingly clear that everyone but Erik seems to love him.

The Eldest of the Gods by lapetitesinge

It's 1928, and sixteen-year-old Charles Xavier is intrigued by the new boy joining him at Eton College. He's thrilled to realize that they may be alike in more ways than one, but there's more standing between them than he can possibly guess.

Playing House by ClarkeStetler, Goosenik

Erik Lehnsherr has been 'fighting for mutant rights' for the last couple years. Some might call it terrorism, but those people were narrow-minded. Unfortunately, this means that when Magda Maximoff died, no one was able to locate him to let him know that his children were without a guardian. Charles Xavier was selected as their foster parent instead, and had been doing an excellent job for the past year. Erik is back now and has no intention of being separated from his children, but working together for the kids is easier said than done. In a different situation— some anonymous bar in some overpopulated city, perhaps— Erik would absolutely have been interested. He was slender and looked about Erik’s age, but his eyes took up the majority of his face and were almost alarmingly blue. His dark curls looked like they were made for a hand to fist in. His anger was nearly palpable, sparking off him in waves that Erik could physically feel. Under any other circumstance, he’d be attracted, would have immediately started things working to get the pretty little Englishman back to his place. Not this circumstance. “You will not,” the Brit snarled at Erik, “Not be taking custody of my children.”

[hero-israel]

Hi. I want to preface this by mentioning I am a non Jewish supporter of Israel and of the Jewish people, but I have some serious questions that really bother me and make me rethink my position.

Reading up on the beginning of the Zionist movement and its leaders, I cannot help but think, how can they simply ignore that there are already people there, or that said people would be alright with becoming a minority? Did they really think Arabs and arabised people living there would just be alright with it?

I do believe that Jews are indigenous to the land and that it’s only just that they have their homeland back, but I think the way they went about it was wrong. It’s not the fault of the people living there that Romans exiled them after all. Some Zionists leaders admitted that the only way to establish a state was against the will of the native population and that some ethnic cleansing is necessary to achieve it.

I want to support Israel but I’m very uncomfortable with the idea that many innocent people who lived there for generations were kicked out after the lands were bought by Zionists, or ended up ethnically cleansed in the civil war even if they didn’t participate in the hostilities. It feels morally inconsistent to me to just ignore this or brush it aside.

What is your view on all of this?

My view is that it's fine to believe exactly what you said - "the Jews are indigenous, it's only just that they have their homeland back, but the way they went about it was wrong." Nothing in that construction justifies hatred or violence against Jews or Israelis, nor does it prevent building a better future for Palestinians.

Israel exists. It houses half the world's Jewish population and a majority of all Jewish children, mostly descendants of refugees from obliterated communities in the MENA or Europe (more the former). Those political realities matter far more than an essay debate published in 1928. You may have already encountered people who try to relitigate the Civil War by pointing out that Abraham Lincoln unlawfully suspended habeas corpus and didn't even really like black people anyway, so instead of a gruesome and devastating war led by a morally compromised man it would have been better to allow the South to gradually phase out slavery on its own, that it should have happened some other way. Well, it DIDN'T happen some other way, it happened and people well into the 21st century need to move on with life. If anyone in the world had an excuse to cling to bitterness forever, it would be the Jews of Israel vis-a-vis Jordan and Egypt and Saudi Arabia, Poland and Russia and Germany. So why are the Jews of Israel able to move on with having relationships with all those countries that persecuted and destroyed them? And if they can do it, shouldn't casual observers half a world away do it?

By all means, read up on early Zionist history, see what the ideas were and how they had to change when exposed to real events (and also see how they were specifically opposed to population removal). Some, like Martin Buber, urged a binational state formed cooperatively with Arabs. Ze'ev Jabotinsky warned that Arabs would never accept large numbers of Jews as their equals and that promises of shared wealth were a fantasy, therefore Jews would need to demonstrate military power and win respect and negotiations that way. Albert Einstein had initially hoped for a binational state, but once history happened the way it did, he accepted - and loved - the Israel that he got.

I also think you should look a bit more deeply into just why so many people departed Palestine in 1948, and just how many generations had passed since their own ancestors had in turn immigrated there.

Whatever you may read about the 1920s, or 1940s, you will find nothing that justifies hatred, harassment, violence, or genocide against Jewish people at any place or time, including Israel today. If you truly are a supporter of the Jewish people as you claim to be - and we would be happy to have you - by all means look at the true toll of history and keep speaking up for our protection and our lives.

[tickettride]

Like real people do

Alfie Solomons x Fem!OC

[warnings: war trauma, slight violence, OC is getting followed by a creep, cursing, angst, mentions of death.

AN: I wrote this first chapter weeks ago when I still had no idea where this would lead, and it's surely the most cliché of all. I really, really love it though. I hope you do too.]

— one

May 1928, London

The contact of your palm against the man’s jaw echoed through the silent street, louder than the pigeon's fluttering wings as it startled into flight. You froze for a second, not quite believing you had really slapped a stranger—though he deserved it—and suddenly took off, running like you had never done before across the slippy cobblestones. Your heart threatened to burst out of your chest, but you didn’t stop. With one glance behind, you cursed when you saw his short frame getting closer, racing behind you.

He’d get you and do more than call you a whore, wouldn’t he? The mere thought made you stumble over your feet when you took a sharp turn, nearly falling face down into a puddle. 

“You fuckin’ bitch!”

A whimper escaped your throat. It felt like you were merely running anymore, just taking large steps that would be enough to get you killed, one hand holding your hat on top of your head. There was only one solution left if you wanted to escape the man: burst through the first door you found and try to hide. The sun was setting already; now wasn’t the right moment to get lost. 

And burst through a random door you did. You slammed it behind you with trembling hands, the back of your head thudding against the wood as you leaned against it. 

It was only when you opened your eyelids that you saw the men standing across the room, visibly interrupted. You couldn’t discern their faces due to the lack of light, but you knew you had cut into something important anyway. 

A faint smell of alcohol lingered in the air, but you didn’t focus on that. You stared at the shadows crammed between barrels, gasping breaths as you tried to think of what to do. Open the door again and head out, where the other one was waiting? Pretend you were lost? 

“You are…?”

Flinching at the voice addressing you, you licked your lips nervously and cleared your throat.

“Lost,” you said, which made the shorter man scoff. 

“Clearly.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you added, your left hand growing closer to the doorknob where freedom might await you if you were lucky enough. 

Though you knew you were trapped in here too, and luck was a foreign concept. It made no doubt when the tallest one limped over to you, his burly frame causing you to swallow down any other stupid word that might come out. 

Your heartbeat quickened as he stopped in front of you, staring down at your face like you were nothing but a lost deer. He was a large man, and in all honesty, his white shirt did nothing to conceal the musculature of his chest. 

You’d never been so troubled by another human being before, and yet here you were. Or perhaps once, long ago. Love at first sight didn’t exist in this world, but you were close to it. Yet, there was something so… familiar to him, though you couldn’t put your finger on it. Some… feeling at second sight, that was. His eyes reminded you of something long forgotten. 

“Fuckin’ hell," he turned around to his friend, snapping you out of your thoughts. "Is she any of yours, Tommy?” 

God, that voice. It would command an entire squadron. 

“What use would she be to me?” the other, Tommy, replied from his spot. 

His sharp features had you staring a second too long. He looked almost bored, though, not half as interested as the one leaning closer to your face.

“Who are you?” the tall one demanded, his sweaty warmth coasting over you. 

“I–” you started, trailing off when you thought about the shitty position you were in. “Look, I’ll just go home and we’ll forget about this, alright? I’ve made a mistake coming here. It's on me."

A boisterous knock on the door had you sauntering further away. Fuck. It could only be that arsehole you had managed to leave behind. 

Your gaze slowly traveled back to the tall man, whose bearded chin gave a persuasive jerk toward the door. 

“Right then. Go home, love.”

After a long hesitation, your feet led you back to the front of the door. No matter how much you willed yourself to open it, you were terrified at the idea of meeting the creep again. It was easy for them, doing whatever business they had in a safe and slightly scary storage building, while women like you had to physically reject men’s advances. You bet they even found it funny. Could they not guess you'd sacrificed yourself for men all those years ago, only to get this as a payback? You’d open the door and run until your lungs threatened to explode. And then? Where even were you?

“Fuckin’ knew it,” the marked accent spoke behind you, as if detecting your inner turmoil. “That was in your plans, wasn’t it?”

Spinning on your heels, you opened your mouth to repeat it was just a mistake, but the other man cut you off. Better to keep your mouth shut, then. 

“I don’t know the girl, Alfie,” the second one shot a glance at you, clearly unwilling to help if needed. 

“You don’t?” that Alfie said, his tone warm as honey as your hand tightened against the doorknob.

Did he really think you’d come all this way to spy on him? How stupid was that? 

Think, damn it! His name was not so foreign.

Maybe this was your way out. Alfie. You’d met three during the war, but they had probably left this world by now, carried off by grief or their mental and physical wounds.

“Maybe our new friend is going give us a fuckin’ clue at some point, yeah?” he nearly spat in your face, seizing your arm.

Rough but warm. That’s when it clicked. 

“Captain Solomons,” you breathed out, allowing yourself to slightly relax.

He wouldn't hurt you.

Yet, you felt slightly wounded by his lack of response, watching his breath get heavier like the two words had shot him once again. This time, no piercing cry filled the hospital tent. You bet it was as painful, though. 

“Sadie Murray, sir," you removed the hat from your head, hoping the face reveal would have some sort of softening effect on the situation. "I reckon I’ve stitched you up a couple of years ago.”

Holding out your hand, you tried desperately to reach for a white flag, only met with Solomons’ blank stare. So you lowered your arm, taking a step backward instead–as much as you could, as you were now leaning against the door. Something flashed in Solomon’s eyes as he visibly realized something, too. He scrutinized you longer, examining every controlled breath, the flutter of your lashes, and the details of your cheeks.

Your heart drummed erratically with each passing second. Not all memories were good to be reminded of.

“Leave us now, Shelby,” Alfie’s voice suddenly filled the room, making you flinch.

Tommy released a strained sigh. “Not until we agree on my terms.”

The staring contest between the two men was ridiculous. It was only when a door opened in the back of the building, sunlight flooding the room, that you recognized the second man as well. The name Shelby now rang a bell. You remembered all the stories you’d heard about him–and judging by the meeting that had occurred just a few minutes prior, you could only suppose Mr Solomons was not someone you'd want to associate with either. It was too late to think of the consequences now anyway. 

You had no time to slip through the doorway, as swift as you were. Despite being focused on Shelby, Solomon’s hand had grasped you even tighter, not one look shot in your direction. Instinct and panic overtook you instantly as you tried to wiggle out of his grip. The fucker was strong. 

“Let me go!” you hissed, ignoring Shelby’s sardonic snort a few feet away. 

“No,” Alfie Solomons’s eyes met yours again, and you hated that amused spark in his eyes. “You, Mrs Murray, are stayin’ with me. We’re gonna have a short conversation, yeah?”

You couldn’t believe a conversation with him would ever be ‘short’ anyway. You’d experienced it once. The hours spent talking about everything that came to your mind. He’d been a different man then. Not the frightening… hot as hell kind of man. You barely recognised him, and the contrast hurt. Who had you loved?

“Don’t touch me,” you pushed against his chest in one last effort, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "We can talk without you locking me up, can't we?"

A few heads popped out from nowhere, curiously gazing at the reason you were shouting. Clearly, no one else was going to get you out of here. 

Andrew wouldn’t come. Whether he was at the theatre or the pub–if you believed what he told you–he would tell you to stop being paranoid. He was quite right, deep down. You really were. 

“Bye, Tommy. Fuck off, Tommy,” Solomons almost chanted, walking away, and you had no choice but to follow. 

And that hallway was fucking endless. Where was the end of it? Why did the men stop moving every time Solomons walked past them? He was like a hurricane. Not even his slowed movements made him any less intimidating. 

You remembered him telling you about a bakery one day, but the memory was as hazy as the rest, and it had sounded less… important, coming from his mouth. You'd imagined a small family-owned shop, not an entire dark building where men stored bottles.

After what felt like forever, still clutching your arm like his life depended on it, Solomons walked up a narrow flight of stairs. He hollered something about flour to a young lad and finally pushed open a door. A new wave of panic flooded you as you studied the room that featured a single window, a disorderly desk, and dark wooden furniture. You wished you knew how to compliment one's office, but you lingered on the threshold, already picturing him hitting you, or… shooting you, or anything you could think of.

“Take a seat.”

His tone could have been mistaken for welcoming, but you were on watch. Raising your gaze to his, you slightly narrowed your eyes in wariness and checked that no one was standing behind you.

“Have you become deaf by any chance, Miss Murray?” Solomons’ voice, though sweet once, became harsher. 

An odd thumping began in your chest as he stepped in your direction, as though he wouldn’t be afraid to throw you on the armchair himself. 

“Don’t touch me,” you repeated before you could even think, feeling his inquisitive gaze on your back as you went to sit down shakily. "I'm sitting down."

The leather of the armchair reeked of alcohol.

Solomons headed to a small wooden cabinet behind his desk, pouring himself a drink while taking all his time. You stared at his back and every move he made, knowing where it hurt and when the random shootings of pain likely occurred. Others would never know about it; you knew he was too full of himself to admit he was weakened. But you did know, in a deeper way, and it felt like a secret only the both of you shared. 

Checking the golden liquid in the light, Solomons turned around to have a look at you. Like he was weighing the pros and cons of having you here against your will. 

But once again, what could you threaten him with? Reveal to everyone he had killed that Italian man eleven years ago with that nail up his nose? What was scary about that? They’d probably seen worse, all of them.

“I hadn’t recognized you at first,” Solomons broke your frantic train of thought, settling comfortably across the desk. “Must be the hair.”

“What can I say?" you mumbled, the phrase painfully shy. "War changes people, doesn't it?”

He made a sound in his throat. “War, huh? Hope you were a bit bolder there.”

The irony of it all.

“You’ve seen it with your own eyes, haven’t you? I didn’t really have a choice.” 

The corner of his lips tugged, taking his beard along with it. “I do remember, yeah. Fierce little thing you were.”

You scoffed softly at that, looking down at your hands resting on your lap. Red and orange streetlights blurred beyond the windows, adding to the warm light coming off his lamp desk. It felt like a completely different world here.

“You didn’t seem so cruel back there, M. Solomons.”

“War changes people, right,” he slouched in his seat, so damn intimidating. Definitely a different man. “I’d be dead if I weren’t cruel, as you say.”

It sounded silly. You couldn’t believe a baker had to be cruel to survive. If he had ever been, that was. 

Talking about death.

“Well, most of them did leave this world after you left,” you muttered, willing yourself to speak a bit louder. You weren’t sure why you were coaxing him into feeling the weight of the aftermath, but it was the only thing you could think of. The only thing you’d wish to confess about after he was gone, when no one was willing to listen. “Thought you’d… I didn’t think you’d made it back to England, actually.”

“Didn’t think I’d make it either.”

Glancing up, you met Alfie’s gaze and it was suddenly clearer. As if the bombs were still exploding near you, and the ground was still shaking. You saw his face then. The fear had wrinkled his face, and that brown vest made him look older. Just like you, you supposed. Beneath that beard, he probably thought he’d been reduced to nothing more than a veteran.

You knew he was so much more, even remembered all his layers, but what good would it be finding all about it again? Eleven years had passed. He had moved on, just like you had.  

Shutting your eyes close for a second, you tried to get a hold of yourself, rubbing your eyes. If Alfie wasn’t willing to speak, then maybe you could fill the silence and gently ask him to let you go home. 

“I–I have trouble. Remembering faces. Um… They call that dissociative amnesia. Whatever that means. I’m not… I’m not so bold anymore, you see.”

“But you remember me, yeah? You do.”

At that, your heart beat a little faster. All his focus was directed at you. The centre of his world for a minute, like he had been yours during the fights.

“There are things I find rather memorable. Some faces.”

“Memorable, eh?” Alfie leaned forward on his seat, resting his elbows on his legs. “I could say the same about you. I’ve dreamt of you stitching me up more than I can count, you know. Almost shot myself to see you again."

Your soft chuckle pulled another smile to your lips. Now filled with deep feelings of sorrow and sheepishness, you could only think of crying in bed. God, that day couldn’t get stranger. 

"I'm done stitching people up," you admitted, holding his gaze. "Now I deliver babies."

Alfie nodded slowly. "A midwife, right?"

A gentle smile curved your mouth. "Yes, sir."

"Yeah, I always knew you'd end up doing something like this."

Alfie's lips twitched with something you thought was pride, filling the void in your stomach with so much warmth.

You hadn’t meant to get so defensive and hysterical so fast, but he’d been scary as hell, hadn’t he? It was hard to find the balance between the two personalities now. In the mayhem of it all, you didn’t know what to believe, and whose face to talk to. One thing was sure, Alfie had not forgotten about you.

[matan4il]

Do we have a name for the time hundreds of thousands of jews were kicked out of the surrounding middle eastern countries in and after the 1948 war? I know that the Palestinians call theirs the nakba, but, is it just that, even though those particular groups of jews had been living there for hundreds or even thousands of years, we as a whole ethnoreligious group have been kicked out so many times we don't name them any more? Or is there a name I don't know?

Hi, lovely Nonnie!

That's an excellent question.

There is a national memorial day in Israel, to remember the at least 850,000 Jews from Arab countries and Iran who were abused, persecuted, and eventually expelled. This is a process that actually started in the 1930's, before the establishment of the State of Israel, but very much intensified in the 1940's. By the 1960's, the Middle East was basically ethnically cleansed of Jews.

Here's a New York Times headline from May 16, 1948 (days into the invasion of Arab armies during Israel's War of Independence):

There was an ethnic cleansing of Jews in the Land of Israel as it existed under the British Mandate, too. For example, a Jewish community on the east bank of the Jordan River was established in 1928 for Jewish workers, and destroyed by the Jordanians in 1948. There were Jewish communities in east Jerusalem, in Judea and Samaria (re-named by the Jordanians as 'The West Bank' in 1948, after they occupied that land and tried to cement the Jordanian claim to it), in Gaza... all were ethnically cleansed of Jews between 1929 and 1948.

In Israel, there are also monuments to commemorate the fate of the Jews from Arab countries and Iran. Here's one in Jerusalem:

So, since there's a remembrance day and memorials, you'd think there would be one unifying, easily identifiable term for this event, right? But sadly, there hasn't been one. Different people have used different terms, such as 'the expulsion of Jews from Arab countries and Iran' (the official term), 'the crisis of Jewish refugees from Arab countries' or 'the Jewish exodus from Arab countries,' and so on.

I have also seen people referring to it repeatedly (and of course unofficially) as the Jewish Nakba.

'Nakba' is an Arabic word which means catastrophe, so it's a fitting term for how these Jewish communities experienced what was done to them, I also think it's appropriate since most of them were Arabic speakers before the expulsion, and lastly, I think it is right to remind people that the Palestinian Nakba (a disaster of their own leadership's making, which I'm so sorry for them that they lost their homes, because their leaders rejected the 1947 two state solution) wasn't a one sided case of abuse. There was abuse of Jews in the Middle East, and it started before the State of Israel was even established. And ANY narrative that erases that part, that erases the suffering of Middle Eastern and North African Jews, is inherently antisemitic.

To any Jews who may be reading this, who come from Arab countries and from Iran, I love you, my beautiful brothers and sisters. Your story and your pain deserves to be heard and remembered.

Thank you for the ask, Nonnie. I hope I sort of managed to answer it, and that you have a great day! xoxox

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[ekaterinasnoww9160]

For those of you interested, this is kinda what I imagine Tobias to look like in my Fics/Au(s):

And when I write that he or Severus have blue eyes, I do not mean itty bitty pretty baby blues. I mean this:

These boys have deep blue, bottom of the ocean eyes that haunt everyone who looks into them. (I’m saving my poet power for the stories).

Now- spoilers ahead for some current/future fics lol. This applies to fics where I have “Russian Severus Snape” tagged:

SERIOUSLY THOUGH: SPOILERS AHEAD

IN ORDER: Adillarania, Baby Tobias, Alexei

Basically, Tobias is either the son of Alexei Nikolaevitch or Tatiana Nikolaevna (It switches depending on the fic and plot lmao). One way or another, one of them survives Ekaterinburg, and end up taking residence in Darmstadt, Germany in the New Palace where Tobias ends up being born.

Following the “Alexei lives” plot, he marries a Russian-Jewish woman named Adillarania. Tobias is born a Grand Duke of Hesse and by Rhine on 19 March, 1928.

The war starts, the trio end up being separated in the war, and (in most fics) die through the events of WWII, except Tobias obviously. He is smuggled out to Britain where he lies about his age to be enlisted in the military. His entire family is dead and he didn’t particularly care about what happened to him.

He meets Eileen, who’s fighting in the war as a part of some teenage rebellion kick, and doesn’t really seem to be affected by war (because she has magic and had been using it during the war). He likes her, she likes him, war ends and they get together.

This leads to baby Severus. Eventually. Who considers himself the half blood prince, but has no idea he is actually royalty.

I WANT MORE LOST ROYALTY SEVERUS FICS. BUT I HAVE TO BE THE ONE TO WRITE THEM LMAO

I think that’s it :)

[thethirdromana]

Suggestions for Tumblr's next book club

With Dracula Daily on the horizon again, I've been pondering what other out-of-copyright novels we might like to consider reading very slowly. Here are my ideas! And if any of them already exist, lmk.

North and South

Author: Elizabeth Gaskell Year of publication: 1854-55 Length: 185,000 words, 52 chapters. So we could have a chapter weekly for a full year. Summary: Margaret Hale is forced to leave the rural south of England and settle in the rough, industrial north. There she clashes with mill-owner John Thornton over his treatment of his workers... Why Tumblr would like it: Enemies to Lovers! Class struggle! Fascinating historical context! Honestly, it's a great read.

Evelina

Author: Fanny Burney Year of publication: 1778 Length: 157,000 words in 84 letters. That's right, it's epistolary, and the letters are almost all sent March to October of the same year, so we could read this one in true Dracula Daily fashion. Summary: Evelina is the sheltered daughter of an aristocrat trying to make her way in the world of late 18th-century society. Why Tumblr would like it: Evelina is a likeable, relatable character. I think it'd be fun to get emails from her.

The Well of Loneliness

Author: Radclyffe Hall Year of publication: 1928 Length: 158,000 words in 56 chapters. Summary: The story of Stephen Gordon, a girl who realises at an early age that she's a lesbian, and her attempts to find love in the early 20th century. Why Tumblr would like it: It's one of the most iconic lesbian novels of the 20th century!

The War of the Worlds

Author: HG Wells Year of publication: 1897 Length: 63,000 words in 27 chapters. Summary: Alien invaders land from Mars and fuck up the south of England. Why Tumblr would like it: Alien invaders land from Mars and fuck up the south of England, come on, what's not to like?

The Moonstone

Author: Wilkie Collins Year of publication: 1868 Length: 200,000 words (so a bit of a marathon) in 51 chapters. Summary: A young English woman inherits a large Indian diamond of dubious provenance on her 18th birthday. Then it gets stolen! Why Tumblr would like it: One of the first detective novels, and supposed to be one of the best, it's a page turner with lots of suspense, twists and cliffhanger endings.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

Author: Agatha Christie Year of publication: 1920 Length: 60,000 words in 13 chapters. Summary: The first murder mystery starring Hercule Poirot. Why Tumblr would like it: Look, you liked Glass Onion, right? And if you like this, Agatha Christie's novels are emerging from copyright at the rate of about two per year.

Les Misérables

Author: Victor Hugo Year of publication: 1862 Length: 570,000 words in the English translation (ouch) in 365 chapters. Summary: A vast, sweeping story of poverty, justice and revolution in early 19th century France. Why Tumblr would like it: Well, if you thought Moby Dick didn't have enough digressions...

The Canterbury Tales

Author: Geoffrey Chaucer Year of publication: 1387-1400 Length: 24 stories averaging 700 lines each. Summary: Some pilgrims are heading to Canterbury. They tell one another stories to pass the time. These are their stories. Why Tumblr would like it: I mean, there's a reason we still read these 600 years later. They're a fascinating insight into medieval life, but they're also - for the most part - just good fun.

If you love any of these suggestions and would really like to see it take off, reblog to help make it happen.

[mariacallous]

The prospects of a united front preventing Donald Trump returning to power in the US looked a little bleaker this week.

Let’s be frank they weren’t great to begin with. To an outsider Joe Biden just seems to be too old to be a viable candidate. He doesn’t pas​s the first impressions test. Look at him and you do not see someone capable of serving another four years.

True, he won Michigan's Democratic presidential primary a few days ago– but he was hit by a significant protest vote from left-wing and Arab-American voters angry about his qualified support for Israel's war in Gaza.

And at this point that second cause for worry, and, frankly, panic kicks in.

The left urged registered Democrats to vote for the "none of the above" category to express their opposition to Biden's Israel policy – and about 100,000 did. Their votes represent a wider chunk of the electorate who could well stay at home or vote for minor Green or left-wing candidates and deny the Democrats key states.

In a deeply divided country with a warped electoral system that favours the Republicans, it does not take many voters abandoning the Democrats for Trump to retake power.

I wrote at the weekend about how the Trump example shows how hard it is to unite against a dictatorial threat.  People, or to be fair, many people, cannot put aside their commitments and ally with men and women they profoundly disagree with for the greater good of defending democracy.

On the one hand, they cry that Trump is a fascist and white supremacist. On the other hand, they refuse to use all available means to stop him. Mainstream liberals do not moderate their demands to win over wavering conservatives. The far left sees the Biden administration as its true enemy.

The history of the struggles against Nazism are highly relevant to the dilemmas and the dangers we face today.  

As Hitler began his rise to power at the end of the 1920s, the European far left was in the same place as a section of the modern US left.  

The threat of fascism was as nothing when set against its hatred of moderates.

 In 1928 the communist movement adopted one of the cruellest and stupidest policies in its history, which considering the history of Soviet communism was nothing more than a history of cruelty and stupidity was quite an achievement.

Partly because it helped Stalin in his internal power struggles in Russia, Moscow ordered all Europe’s communists to follow an ultra-leftist policy. They were told to denounce moderate leftists as “social fascists”, and fight them to the death.

Communism’s triumph was inevitable, the party line went. No compromise was possible with anyone who stood in history’s path. Reformists were opportunists and traitors. They were social fascists who were as bad as the Nazi gangs which were already gathering on Berlin streets.

Or perhaps they were worse….

For an argument that is still heard today held that, say what you like against them, at least fascists were honest in their way.

By contrast centre-leftists were traitors who had been “bribed by the bourgeoisie” to deceive the masses, as no less an authority than Lenin had said.

They were hypocrites who pretended to want change while watering it down. Nothing could be achieved until they were swept away.

When Stalin’s enemy, Leon Trotsky, who was hardly a moderate, warned that instructing left-wingers to fight other left-wingers was a sure way of allowing fascism to “ride over your skulls and spines like a terrific tank”, Ernst Thälmann, the leader of the German communist party, denounced him for his ‘criminal counter-revolutionary propaganda’.

The result was a disaster. The communists and socialists fought each other instead of the Nazis, making Hitler’s rise easier. Thälmann went along with Stalin’s categorisation of social democrats as “social fascists”  until actual fascists came to power in Germany. They taught him the difference by holding him in solitary confinement for 11 years at the Buchenwald concentration camp, and putting him before a firing squad in 1944 and shooting him dead.

Today there are plenty of Thälmanns who believe with absolute certainty that the discredited centrist mainstream is the enemy.

Here is a columnist on the Washington Post greeting the Michigan result

As I emphasised in my previous piece, his stance is absolutely fine in normal circumstances. US leftists are perfectly entitled to refuse to support the Democrats if Biden’s behaviour outrages them.

But surely only enormous levels of delusion prevent them acknowledging that Trump is a threat to democracy.  If he wins, the American republic may be so gerrymandered and its civil service so politicised that it will be a Herculean task to remove Trump and his successors. There are plenty on the US far right who cite the rigged democracy of Viktor Orban’s Hungary as their model and dream, after all.

The​ alternative is to build alliances and once again history is a guide,

Having seen that their previous policy of treating moderate leftists as Nazis had resulted in Hitler coming to power 1933, the geniuses running the Soviet Communist party decided on a U-turn. Henceforth communists were instructed to support “popular front” movements where everyone opposed to the fascist threat would be welcome.

Some of the most interesting US writers have reached back to the 1930s to find ways of dealing with Trump. In How Democracies Die the US academics Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt found an example in the little-known story of how fascism was stopped in Belgium in the 1930s.  

Belgium might have gone the same way as fascist Italy or Nazi Germany. In 1936 far-right outfits —the Rex Party and the Flemish nationalist party, or Vlaams Nationaal Verbond (VNV)—surged in the polls, capturing almost 20 percent of the popular vote.

They challenged the historical dominance of three establishment parties: the centre-right Catholic Party, the Socialists, and the liberals.

The leader of the Rex Party, Léon Degrelle, was a classic far-right figure.  A journalist (like Mussolini, and so many other believers in simple solutions) he would go on to become a Nazi collaborator in the Second World War.

Levitsky and Ziblatt wrote that, “the Catholic Party, in particular, faced a difficult dilemma: collaborate with their longtime rivals, the Socialists and Liberals, or forge a right-wing alliance that included the Rexists, a party with whom they shared some ideological affinity.”

 Unlike the mainstream conservative politicians of Italy and Germany, who brought Mussolini and Hitler to power, or the mainstream Republican leadership who collaborated with Trump, the Belgian Catholic leadership declared that any deals with the far right could not be contemplated.

"Catholic Party leaders heightened discipline by screening candidates for pro-Rexist sympathies and expelling those who expressed extremist views. In addition, the party leadership took a strong stance against cooperation with the far right. Externally, the Catholic Party fought Rex on its own turf. The Catholic Party adopted new propaganda and campaign tactics that targeted younger Catholics, who had formerly been part of the Rexist base. They created the Catholic Youth Front and began to run former allies against Degrelle."

Right-wing Catholics knew that they must ally with socialists and liberals they normally deplore in a popular front. And it worked. The far right was beaten.

I think popular front politics are essential. But they are not easy or even particularly principled. Go back to the 1940s and you find George Orwell was utterly repelled by communists and conservatives allying to stop Hitler

He looked back with mockery on

“The years 1935-9 were the period of anti-Fascism and the Popular Front, the heyday of the Left Book Club, when red Duchesses and ‘broadminded’ deans toured the battlefields of the Spanish war and Winston Churchill was the blue-eyed boy of the Daily Worker.”

To Orwell, the idea of covering up the crimes of communists for the sake of the greater anti-fascist good was horrific. But that was what the left of the 1930s did. And that was what the British and American governments did during the Second World War. Defeating Hitler came first. They were prepared to forget about the millions Stalin killed until the war was over.

It's a hard choice. But in the circumstances US progressives face, it is an obvious one. There is no argument against making every necessary compromise to prevent a second Trump term. You will have no right to protest, if you do not.

[wizardingworldlibrary]

New Years (3) Masterlist

part one, part two

About Time (ao3) - GaeilgeRua scorpius/lily G, 1k

Summary: The last time he saw her was over two years ago, and so much had changed in such a short amount of time. And yet, some things never change.

After Midnight (ao3) - xxExtremeWaysxx hermione/draco T, 7k

Summary: Draco offers to take Hermione to the Ministry's New Year's Eve gala. One-shot.

and the songbirds keep singing (like they know the score) (ao3) - strawhouses draco/harry G, 4k

Summary: How do you tell your totally platonic roommate that your feelings for him are more than platonic?

A New Year's Fate (ao3) - flipflop_diva neville/luna T, 100

Summary: Neville wishes Luna a happy new year.

As You Mean To Go On (ao3) - lightofdaye parvati/harry E, 637

Summary: Harry arrives on NYE just in time to get a kiss.

At The Beginning (ao3) - Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle tina/newt G, 1k

Summary: On the eve of the year 1928, Tina realizes what she must do before the new year arrives if she ever hopes to have a better year than this past one has been. Thankfully, Newt has no objections whatsoever.

Auld Lang Syne (ao3) - StarlingFlight james/lily G, 3k

Summary: It's New Year's Eve and Lily can't take it anymore. It's New Year's Eve and there's only place left to go.

Beginnings (ao3) - Noppoh hermione/draco T, 4k

Summary: A drunken statement leads to that which they both have wanted for a long time.

Best Laid Plans (ao3) - clio_jlh seamus/dean E, 3k

Summary: Even though their first kiss was only ten days ago, Seamus always figured his first time would be with Dean, and has an idea of how that should happened. But Dean shows him that it's good to be flexible.

Champagne and Silver (ao3) - In_Dreams hermione/draco M, 4k

Summary: Hermione finds herself dragged by Draco to a posh New Years Eve Party - but the lines of friendship and attraction can become a blur when champagne is involved. Happy 2019!

Clouds (ao3) - PhoenixPhoether draco/harry T, 8k

Summary: A New Years fic in which Harry confronts his anxiety and discovers just how many people love him-including Draco. Tender and sweet. Established H/D relationship.

Granger, It's Cold Outside (ao3) - DreamlikeQualities hermione/draco E, 14k

Summary: Draco hosts the second annual Snakes and Lions night on New Years eve, five years after the war. After last year's unfortunate end, and a year of pining, Draco is determined to set the record straight with a certain curly haired witch.

What happens when he thinks he's missed his chance with Granger again on this cold winter's night?

how to avoid your brother's best friend over the holidays (unsuccessfully) (ao3) - noasmirrorball regulus/james M, 10k

Summary: Or Regulus ends up on a skiing trip with Sirius' friends over the holidays and hates everything about it

New Year Wishes (ao3) - KrysKrossZee luna/ginny T, 13k

Summary: Ginny Weasley has had enough of her life being ruled by her crushes on boys, and is it any wonder when the Chosen One - her boyfriend - seems to be taking her for granted?

one for the books (ao3) - anxiousm3ss hermione/draco T, 1k

Summary: Working overtime at the Ministry of Magic on New Year's Eve ends with a proposal from Draco - and Hermione is inclined to say yes.

until midnight (ao3) - vespertineflower luna/theodore, astoria/draco/harry, pansy/ginny M, 2k

Summary: On the night of the Malfoy New Years Party, Theo would see Luna for the first time since their breakup—a chance for her to explain, reintroduce herself to Luna filled with hope and promise for new beginnings.

When Midnight Strikes (ao3) - GaeilgeRua luna/blaise G, 954

Summary: Some people just can’t hide their personality, no matter the spells in place. For others, there might be another explanation.

[intheshadowofwar]

21 June 2023

You’re In The Army Now

London 21 June 2023

It was an early start today - I was out the door just after 7.30, catching the Victoria Line to Oxford Circus and the Bakerloo to Paddington. It was already very busy, but there was a laurel at the end of my journey to make braving rush hour a little bearable. It look me a little questioning of staff before I knew whether or not my journey was in vain - it wasn’t - and then I proceeded to sit on Platform One for an hour because I’d massively overestimated how early the train would enter the station. And what locomotive, pray tell, would I go to all this trouble for?

If you know your trains, you could probably make an educated guess.

Built a century ago this year, No. 4472 - ahem, 60103 Flying Scotsman needs absolutely no introduction. Today she is the Kardashian of locomotives - she is famous for being famous. Unlike the Kardashians, that fame is well earned - namesake of the famed Flying Scotsman express, first non-stop run from London to Edinburgh in 1928, first (sort of) authenticated 100mph by a steam locomotive in 1934, one of the first privately preserved steam locomotives. She toured the United States (even though we don’t like to talk about how that one nearly ended) and Australia, making the longest non-stop run by a steam locomotive ever between Parkes and Broken Hill. To her detractors, she’s the ‘flying moneypit,’ bankrupting every owner since 1963. To her fans, she’s the most famous steam locomotive in the world, Sir Nigel Gresley’s masterpiece. And at long, long last, I have seen her in steam.

Basically, do you know how monarchists get really excited about seeing the King? This is my version of that.

After her departure at 9.40, I headed on the Circle Line to Sloane Square, walking through Chelsea and past the famed hospital there to the National Army Museum. The NAM is basically the cooler, hipper IWM, in my opinion. It perhaps benefits from a narrow subject matter; specifically Britain, and specifically the British Army. Without becoming too complicated, it does a much better job at contextualising its exhibits than the IWM, without shying away from the controversies and horrors of war. Do you think, for example, that the Australian War Memorial would stock a book about the massacre of Surafend, in the way the NAM stocks one on the British organised mass slaughter of Amritsar?

When I talk about museums, as you probably know by now, I like to mention an exhibit that struck me, and the exhibit in question at the NAM was more recent than you might expect. While I could discuss the saw that amputated the Earl of Uxbridge’s leg again - the fact that it still exists makes me very happy - I’ll instead mention a ruined L85 rifle from the Middle East, which was recovered from a vehicle destroyed by an IED - none of the passengers survived. Jay Winter has said that if one shows a weapon in a museum, they ought to show what it does. Here, in this ruined weapon, we see both at once. We don’t need to see the blood and bones of the soldiers; from this broken rifle, we can fill in the gaps as to the horrific power of explosives ourselves.

Also, the NAM cafe does a mean scrambled eggs.

After the Army Museum, I headed back to the tube and caught the Circle Line again to St. James’ Park, where I walked to the Guards Museum. This is a small museum that people don’t really know about, and that surprises me as it’s literally right across the road from Buckingham Palace - it’s in Wellington Barracks, where the guards march from during the Changing of the Guard.

The Guards Museum is a very old-school and classic museum; a British Army regimental museum in the same old style that I love so very, very much. The museum is both wide in scope and intimate in subject matter - this isn’t the story of the army or the wars it fought, but the part played by the five regiments of the Foot Guards - the Grenadiers, the Coldstream, the Scots Guard, the Irish Guard and the Welsh Guard. For the majority of the British Army’s history, there were only the first three - oddly, the ��1st’ (Grenadier) Foot Guards are actually the youngest, but as they were Charles II’s personal guard, they got to be senior after the Restoration in 1660.

There were a lot of very interesting things in this museum, but I’m going to highlight something very boring instead. There’s a shako worn by a soldier of the Coldstream Guards in the late 1820s - it’s called a bell-top shako. Guards shakos from this period are very rare, because they were introduced in 1829 and dropped in 1831, when all of the Guards regiments adopted the bearskin cap of the Grenadiers. In fact, this shako was so rare that I didn’t actually know it existed - I’d assumed that the bearskins were adopted soon after Waterloo, but it seems the Coldstream and Scots Guards kept the shakoes of the regular infantry for just a little bit longer. This is a completely, utterly useless factoid, but I find it absolutely fascinating.

Across from the Guards Museum is the Guards Chapel, and to the uninitiated it looks strangely modern. Surely regiments as old as the Guards ought to have a similarly old chapel, right? Well, they did - until the morning of 18th June 1944, when it suffered a direct hit from a German V-1 flying bomb in the middle of a morning service. 121 were killed, and over 140 injured. The new chapel is not only a memorial to the men of the Household Division (the Foot Guards and the Household Cavalry), but to those killed in the bombing. I was initially the only visitor, and by the time I left only a small group of Americans - who I will say were very respectful - had joined me there. Dozens of regimental colours from throughout the Guards histories hang from the walls. I almost felt like an intruder in another family’s mausoleum.

I’m not religious, but for some reason I was moved to light a candle.

I walked from there, back past Buckingham Palace and down Lower Grovesnor Place, to a small memorial on the side of an intersection near Victoria. This is a curious little monument - it’s explicitly a memorial to the Great War, yet the Tommy on top is joined by a pair of riflemen from the Napoleonic and Crimean Wars respectively. This is the memorial to the Rifle Brigade, the progeny of the famed 95th Rifles of Wellington’s time (although a number of Rifle Brigade battalions could trace their heritage to the 60th Rifles as well.) After the Second World War, it was adapted to commemorate the riflemen lost in that conflict.

I visit a lot of memorials because I think they are interesting, or because I simply find them in the wild. I hunted down this one because it was important to me personally. This isn’t because I think the 95th were cool or because I watch a lot of Sharpe, or because green is my favourite colour and riflemen wore green uniforms. My nan had two uncles, one who fought in the First World War and one who fought in the Second. Both were riflemen - the first of the ‘Hackney Rifles’ and the second of the 7th Rifle Brigade. The first was wounded at Third Ypres, although I’m not certain how severely. The second still lies to this day in Florence, lost in the attacks on the Gothic Line in September 1944. It’s silly, and probably vulgar, but I’ve always seen the Rifle Brigade as ‘ours.’ I probably confused a lot of London commuters by pointing at a random monument in the middle of the city, repeating over again - ‘that’s us. That’s us.’

Yet it is us. The memory agents, the people who lived through the First World War, are all dead. The people who lived through the Second will still follow. It is now up to us to interpret their memory, their experiences, their histories and their stories. We have a responsibility to them.

Like it or not, this is us.

I then wrecked this profound emotional moment by having a big fanboy moment over a Routemaster bus, and then I walked back to the hotel. After a brief rest, I reunited with my mum and stepdad, who had been very kindly invited by my professor to join the group at the garden party of the Britain-Australia Society at the Royal Over-Seas League’s London HQ. It was all very sophisticated, with a lot of the great and good - and Joe Hockey - present, but I think it just didn’t quite gel with me. We stayed for a socially acceptable amount of time, then went back to Victoria Station and grabbed some McDonalds before parting.

We will reunite in Paris, but there’s a long road ahead to get there…

[letrune]

I need to say this

I am a booklover. I have books that are almost a century old. One of my favourites is Karel Capek's War with the newts, a book written between 1924 and 1928, published in 1928. In it, a bunch of intelligent newts are found, domesticated, trained for industry and tool usage, then for war.

Spoilers from beyond this point.

Eventually, for some reason not revealed until the last few pages, the newts go to war with humanity, bombing and shelling coastlines in organised warfare, and somehow they always have enough shells and bombs. Many nations, instead of fighting them, decide to try and settle old wars, including the then-recent Great War. It ends with a main character considering that anyone who has a coast is screwed. Then a newt shows up in the river near his home.

Then we get the final chapter, where the author talks to himself over how mankind screwed itself and if you read the included FOREIGN LANGUAGE documents, yu can piece together the main story that gone on in the background: every nation, every army,every bank fjnding and arming their newts, and one guy deciding to take control over them. This guy, a disgruntled Austrian artilleryman, who had a failed political carrer following The Great War, figured out how to use newts for his own advantages and declared war on the world.

Yep. Capek wrote a book about fascism and Hitler in 1928. Newts are just an allegory of creeping fascism, a science fiction coat over a then-very present event.

In War with the newts, when we first see this Austrian in the first few chapters, he is seen ordering newts in simple, basic commands. "Dig this", "cut that", "harpoon sharks", etc.

I do wish to expand on this, not just about nazism but related to that. We see two major trends in art lately: the removal of art archives, a sort of eternal present; and the rise of machines making art by command.

By removing archives, we forget what came before. We consume the art not for itself or joy, but because it exists now and then tossed away, forgotten, burned away. This way the same story can be sold numerous times and nothing new ever gets produced. This way we can not remember that we saw the angry Austrian artilleryman in chapter 1 of the book, because by the time we get to chapter ten, chapter one is gone. Forever.

Machine generated art is to circumvent the writer. To not have Capek write about this disgruntled Austrian who failed politics, but paint him as a hero, or the newts exterminating innocents on simple orders as a good thing - because machines can not object. Machines can not wave allegory, they just copy it off of each other, serve it up and then regurgitate it, like how newts had no idea what it means to write the letters up on a wall that read "only German newts are meant for greatness".

Yes, I am making anallusion while gushing about a book I love.

In todays' current state, War with the newts would be ignored and forgotten, while an angry Austrian artilleryman, who failed in politics, orders mindless machines to produce things for him. It won't be a war with shelling coasts and destroying innocents, obviously...

...until you see how many extremists, especially rightwing extremists, endorse the idea of using dead celebrities as their spokespeople, using machine algorythms to bring back the dead. How they hide behind these while history gets deleted forever.

The newts shown up in the rivers, holding a harpoon rifle and a bomb, not because they wanted to be there, but because an angry man ordered them to do that in his petty revenge against the coasts of the world he hates, to paraphrase Capek as the author in the book itself. Similarly, machines do not understand why it is a disguating atrocity to use a dead celebrity to spout their current xenophobia.

Protect our past art and help human artists; otherwise, we won't have art, but the waves of a dead ocean.

[anarkittywantspatsonthehead]

Ramblings of a chronically online trans woman

Its weird how political opinions can get the unfriend really quick. So with this in mind right now I am going to declare that

I am

A far left wing anarchist communist.

I believe in the right to bare arms.

I believe that the only reforms we can take on this country is by dismantling the current system and implementing a classless moneyless society where we can benefit and support eachother through mutual aid and organized community out reach. This is what I will be standing for til the day I die and If you aren't able to be apart of th a t conversation then that's fine but don't unfriend me or go quietly because I'm genuinely interested in your opinion.

The revolution and frustration of the bourgeoisie is the most important thing in the entire world

That means we have to:

A. PROTECT OUR SELVES BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY. Fascist groups have had a long history and pattern of disarming minorities. Ben Harcourt from Columbia law school says, "If you read the 1938 Nazi gun laws closely and compare them to earlier 1928 Weimar gun legislation – as a straightforward exercise of statutory interpretation – several conclusions become clear. First, with regard to possession and carrying of firearms, the Nazi regime relaxed the gun laws that were in place in Germany at the time the Nazis seized power. Second, the Nazi gun laws of 1938 specifically banned Jewish persons from obtaining a license to manufacture firearms or ammunition. Third, approximately eight months after enacting the 1938 Nazi gun laws, Hitler imposed regulations prohibiting Jewish persons from possessing any dangerous weapons, including firearms"(harcourt). So, with the apparent evidence that targeted minorities are often disarmed in their communities its my opinion that we advocate for the arming minority populations, including trans women and poc.

B. help eachother grow and learn and understand why the other person feels invalidated or upset or angry or frustrated. This is a key step in holding eachother accountable for any harm people may have caused. A lot of left of center politics revolve around the act of shaming, policing, and otherwise gatekeeping*the bad kind* leftist spaces as a means to try and hold someone accountable. How ever this doesn't always work when the people you're shaming, gate keeping, or policing are the same as you and me. We are all prone to mistakes and causing acts of harm. But it's how we move forward that makes us better people and a better community. It's apart of my core beliefs that we must work out our individual traumas between us and those we've harmed so thst we can present a more solid collective.

C. Frustrate any attempts to separate or divide eachother, I don't think that any thing will be solved unless the left presents a unified front. A united front is key. With a united front we can actively take a stand against tyranny and our oppressors in ways we never could have before. But to present a united front we have to be able to collectively address issues together and take back our power as workers and minorities in this country.

And finally,

It is my honest opinion that there is going to be a revolution.

Every day people's rights come under attack and fascists are now able to be more bold in expressing rhetoric that invites and incites violence against minorities of all, shapes, color, culture, gender, sexuality, and religion. Do not let them control you with tactics they invented to police queer, poc, and indigenous people. It's up to us to stand up and fight back against people who would see us dead, in chains, or otherwise disenfranchised. Their strategy is divide and conquer and we must subvert that by any means necessary.

"On Gun Registration, the NRA, Adolf Hitler, and Nazi Gun Laws: Exploding the Gun Culture Wars", Ben Harcourt, Columbia Law School, https://scholarship.law.columbia.edu/faculty_scholarship/1327/

[batboyblog]

Wha your an inspiration! Also sorry I meant to say what things will you see in your lifetime enter the public domain bsbsbhsbs should have said that! Anyways I'm happy to see the final stuff from the 1920s finally be layer to rest and enter the public domain by 2025! Also should more people be hyped and anticipated for the Steamboat Willie (1928) or The Opry House (1929) in your opinion/thoughts?

Anyways, what your top 15 most anticipated and hyped things whether it be cartoon/film, book or something else that will enter the public domain? Wah so sorry for so many questions dvbdbdd qwq

Things I'd like to see in my life time? well I did bring up a New Hope because I could live to see that enter the public Domain, I'd be in my 80s so it could happen. I'd love to see the end of the 95 year copyright, which would be the same year as Star Wars, in general I'd love for the law to change to something more reasonable because right now.... when the 95 year copyright term runs out we could be looking at works under copyright for well over 100 years, for example George Lucas is still alive if he died tomorrow by my math Empire would be under copyright till 2099, since he's a healthy (as far as I know) man in his late 70s he could live another 10 or 15 years (maybe even 20+) expending the term deep into the next century.

On Mickey Mouse, thats a tricky question. The Issue is the difference between Trademark and Copyright. Copyright is ownership of the whole idea in all contexts, while trademark is limited to images and words (or phrases) used for marketing. SO for example you could do a "Who Framed Roger Rabbit" style movie and have Mickey (and/or Minnie) show up. However Disney still holds/will hold the Trademark because those can be renewed endlessly, so you wouldn't be allowed to use his name in the title, or say his name in the trailers or any marketing. My question and I don't know is how much of the image do they own? could you use him in Steamboat Willie form? I would guess no, I think you'd be barred from using his image in marketing but I'd also guess you'd have a legal fight with Disney trying to use trademark as copyright.

in any case I think... there's a big big Disney community and I'd guess the first effect would be fan art and unofficial merchandise blowing up big time.

top 15? hmmm well I'll stick to stuff coming out in the near-ish future, I'm very unlikely under current laws to live to see Harry Potter become public, but that'd be a trip to see.

The Hobbit (1937): thankfully Elves and dwarfs were not made up by Tolkien so fantasy can basically steal his ideas freely but it's very clear we've all been playing in JRR's sandbox since at least The Lord of The Rings of not the Hobbit so releasing this out into the wild will be amazing also hobbits which he did make up (and also Ents, and the Uruk-hai) to finally be allowed to appear in all the fantasy literature that has elves and dwarfs.

The Wizard of Oz: Of course the original book by L. Frank Baum has been public for years and years and nothing stops any one from trying to make another one, and some have. See "The Wiz" and also "Wicked" but the 1939 movie remains a triumph and a huge piece of cultural history, I'm unsure what could be done with it, but you know

Superman, Batman, Robin, Wonder Woman, Captain America: I mean this should shock no one that this is something I want to see. But I think... Superman and Batman in particular are SUCH a universal part of our culture, you can stop randos on the street who have NEVER read a comic and say "what is Batman's name?" or Superman and they can answer, they can tell you Superman's powers. I think in terms of universally known and recognizable pieces of pop culture... I mean nothing else under copyright today is as big of a pop icon as they are they are as part of the basement of our popular imagination as Dracula, or Santa.

I'm sure a lot of other stuff but I think I've gone on long enough

[tickettride]

Like real people do

Alfie Solomons x Fem!OC

[warnings: references to war and death, I apologise for any mistakes I may have made!]

masterlist | previous part

— three

May 1928, London

You’d often said things you didn’t mean in the past, but 'I need to go home' was a first.

That damn, deranged, and deep man had captivated you with just a few words. It didn’t take long for that old feeling of comfort to creep back. You wouldn’t go as far as to say that Solomons was making you feel safe, but… he would definitely make sure you were fine in any situation, and you were strangely willing to be the one to take care of him again. 

It started when he took you home. You hadn’t insisted much. In fact, you’d thought of asking him first, just to make sure you wouldn’t be followed. Now wasn’t the time to die, not when you were so close to getting to know him again. Although you were two very different individuals, you were both linked by the same fears that haunted you at night. 

It was different with Andrew. You never talked about the war. 

“At least walk me to my street, right?” your voice echoed with your footsteps in the street, the harsh wind making you squint. “I’ll be all right walking the rest of it.”

Most shops and pubs were now closed, the buildings hidden in shadows. A few people passed you by, stamped against the cold, but still taking the time to gawk at the man beside you. He looked rather scary; you gave them that. His long black coat matched the hat that shadowed his eyes from any light, which had lost their spark, anyway. You’d felt bad for asking him after being reminded of his limp, but Alfie didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, he looked rather keen on accompanying you home. Maybe piqued by curiosity. 

“I’ll see you to your door,” Solomons replied, not an ounce of hesitation in his tone. 

He wasn’t up to negotiation.

But you could picture it all too well: Andrew waiting for you at the door, getting upset and threatening to leave again. Living without your husband meant losing your own version of independence. It meant going back to your mother’s and living in shame until the end of your life, because your job didn’t pay enough for the rent and everything that came with it. 

You couldn’t risk your own life for something that might end in a week or two, when he decided that you weren’t worth the trouble. 

So you halted in your steps, and Solomons only noticed it after a second or two. Displeased with the distance between the two of you, he closed it again, his big frame shielding you from the cold. 

“I’m married,” you blurted out, just to make things clear. 

Solomons nodded slowly, waiting for you to add something.

When nothing came out of your mouth, his brow furrowed. “Alright, then. Do I need to list all my marital status now, or can I get you home safe?”

God, you’d never thought he could be such a pain. 

“I’m telling you because I don’t want you ringing me or showing up on my doorstep any time of the day. Or at night, that is.”

“Who’s the lucky one, then?”

You swallowed any retort about his lack of response, mumbling, “We’ve made it through. Still the same fella.”

But not really the same. Although your relationship with Andrew had been a model for others at first, you barely wanted to be with him nowadays. When he wasn’t drunk, he treated you like his own maid. After everything you’d been through to remain somewhat close to him during the war, you’d quickly come to realise that nothing would ever change. The romantic dreams you’d dared to have had been childish and out of reach, no matter how much distance you put between your true self and your desires. You’d even tried to understand how he felt at the beginning, working twice as much to provide for you both and make sure he ate enough. It was never enough. 

“What was his name again?” Solomons asked, walking on. 

You followed, answering in a non-committal mutter and scratching your temple. There was something intimate about all of this, though you couldn’t put your finger on what it was. He spoke like a long-lost friend. 

“Andrew,” Solomons repeated way too loudly. You shot a glance behind you to check that no one was watching. “Yeah. Andrew the wimp, wasn’t it?”

Without thinking, you grabbed him by the sleeve. Instead of stopping right where he stood, the former captain stepped closer to your face. Challenging you. 

“He had it hard, right?” you swallowed, grasping his sleeve like he had held you in place a second after meeting you again. “He may be a twat, but he’s not a fucking wimp.”

Was it about him or some sort of self-reflective thoughts? 

Solomons’ brows narrowed. “A twat, yeah?”

“I don’t think we’re close enough to have this sort of conversation.”

“You used to be funnier, Sadie.”

Before you could walk on again, rolling your eyes at his remark, Solomons had stepped aside to block your way, slightly leaning in. You removed your hand from him, taking your distance as a married woman. You forgot about that way too often; it seemed.

“Listen to me. I’ll step on your doorstep, right, and I’ll wait for you until you come back to the bakery,” he pointed that finger at you. “Every day if I fucking have to, and I swear we’ll be close enough for you to tell me what sort of twat he is.”

You should have been mad, should have defended the man who’d offered you a better life, and yet all you could utter was a pathetic, “Why?”

“Because you, Miss Murray, are the only person who knows me, yeah? And you’ve been out of my sight for too long.” 

You broke eye-contact for a second, so puzzled about the whole thing. One minute he threatened you, and the next he wanted you in his life. 

“I… I don’t think that’s very wise. I’m sure we’re able to meet without you kidnapping me in your office. Like—like normal people meet in the street. Once in a while.”

“We’re not normal people, Miss Murray, are we?”

“Don’t you believe in fate, Mister Solomons?”

A second of silence passed, and his lips twitched. 

“Alfie, yeah?”

You slowly nodded. “Don’t you believe in fate, Alfie?”

The casual way in which you used his name seemed to seize his attention. This wasn’t a new intimacy between the two of you, something you’d have to adjust. You did remember the first time you’d called him by his name. He’d looked so pleased, then. But years had passed, and you weren’t sure on which ground you stood. 

“Do I believe in fate, yeah?” Alfie seemed to lean even closer to you, looking at another couple walking by before gazing back at you, almost unsettling. “That’s a big question now, isn’t it? I didn’t, you see. Not until an hour ago, when you burst into my place out of all London’s places. Now was it fate or just a lucky guess?” 

You swallowed, sheepish under his eyes burning your skin, and decided to ignore his last words. “Trust destiny a bit more and pray to see me again. Don’t force it.”

“Nah, I ain’t going to trust the planets and the stars bullshit. If I want to see you, then I’ll fucking see you. Yeah?”

The wind seemed to pick up. You removed a strand of hair from your mouth, a small shiver running down your spine.

“I won’t stop until I’ve cracked the case of what’s going on in that beautiful head of yours,” Alfie added, the bottom of his coat slightly swaying to the wind as he gently tapped his finger against your temple. 

“You must be desperately bored,” you said, glancing down at his mouth for a fleeting second. “Don’t you have any friends you can be excessively annoying with?”

“None that saved my life,” Alfie deadpanned, and you weren’t sure what to say next.

The look in his eyes made you feel so guilty. Fuck, he might have lost some to the war, and here you were, trying to joke in self-consciousness. 

Still, it made no sense why he would ever want to meet you again. Thinking he might like you this way had been a dream you’d dared to have for a few days before realising this wasn’t real life. 

“Come,” Alfie snapped you out of your thoughts. “Don’t want you freezing over now, do I?”

Nodding numbly, you took the last steps toward home. The curtains of the kitchen fluttered, the only source of light in the building. Andrew must have been waiting for you.

Letting out a long exhale, you and Alfie mounted the stairs together, and the unspoken tension between you reached new levels. A lump formed in your throat at the idea of leaving him now for an undetermined period of time. Would it be days, weeks, before you’d see him again?

“Thank y–”

“I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Monday?” you asked lowly, checking that the door wasn’t slightly opened. Andrew had a thing for peeking into rooms you were in, always suspecting you were writing or talking to other men. You stepped up two stairs and faced Alfie, hoping it would be enough to hide him from wherever Andrew stood. “I–I might work. I don’t know about that yet.”

Resting a hand on the handrail, you watched your finger trace random patterns on the wet steel, connecting two drops of water. Forever one. 

“Andrew might need me home.”

Alfie rubbed his chin, glancing down at your fingers. For the first time since you first met him, his eyes roamed your face without saying anything for more than ten seconds. That was a first. 

Struck by a sudden feeling of self-consciousness and shame, you rushed to say goodbye. 

You weren’t a damsel in distress, but a hero sweeping you off your feet like in those children’s books you’d read could be a good change. Hell, maybe he’d be the one to save your life next. 

“He won’t,” Alfie nodded to himself, stepping up to take your hand into his. You barely had time to wonder what the hell was happening as he had lifted it to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to it. “I’ll see you then, right?”

In four days. 

The kiss on your cool skin settled a warm glow in your middle. Perhaps it was because of the way he stared at you, or the fact that you might not be just the temporary whim of a cocky man who seemed to always get what he wanted. 

It was at this exact moment that the front door opened. Andrew’s great entrance. Your husband cleared his throat warily, making his presence known. 

With your heart pounding in your chest, you removed your hand from Alfie’s grip and inched away, putting space between you both. Now standing in the middle of their staring contest, something Alfie was apparently used to, you tried your best to look calm and over-friendly. 

“Honey,” your voice rose an octave, so ridiculously different. “That’s Alfie. Um, Alfie’s an old friend of mine.”

“Best friend, one could say,” Alfie spoke behind you, and you wished you could have slapped him. 

Which was almost a funny thought, considering a hard punch wouldn’t make him move one bit, even when he probably deserved it most of the time. 

“Yeah? Why’s that I’ve never heard of you before?” Andrew’s eyes narrowed, probably thinking of the last place he’d seen Alfie. 

You hated where this was going. Knowing your husband, he wouldn’t hesitate to try to prove he owned you by any means. Whether it were fists…or knives. 

“He was just walking me home. I’ve had a bit of bad luck this morning with a man.”

Andrew finally saw you. His eyes slightly softened, though it didn’t soothe the fear in your stomach. 

“Are you hurt?” he bracketed your cheeks with his hands, tilting your face to his.

Jesus.

You managed to pull away smoothly, telling him you were fine and grasping his shoulder to make him go back inside. Out of all the things Andrew could have done, putting on a show for Alfie hadn’t been in your plans. Though you doubted Alfie would ever be so much as jealous.

Before closing the door behind you, you peeked outside and had one last look at him. He whipped the hat from his head like you were royalty–though it rather looked like he was mocking than worshipping you–and speared his fingers through his hair. The moon shone brightly into the street, just enough to illuminate him and that beard that suited him well. 

A soft tendril of emotion uncurled in your heart at the sight. 

Did he tremble at night, remembering the hell he’d been through? Did he remember what you’d told him about all the soldiers asking for your hand? 

“Good night, Alfie,” you whispered, offering a small smile. 

He stood there, with a blank look you could have mistaken for a glare. 

“Good night, yeah.”

Although stiff and slightly menacing, Alfie made you wish you were someone else. Someone free, unafraid of the consequences. 

“A friend, is it?” Andrew’s voice boomed through the hallway, though not as loud as his father’s.

You’d barely had time to breathe, and he was already acting like the man he wasn’t. 

“We’ve just bumped into each other,” you half-lied, removing your coat. “We barely had time to talk. He was being polite, is all.”

Andrew scrubbed his face with one hand, stepping in your direction. For a moment there, you saw Alfie looking down at you. Only the face in front of you was beardless, and the eyes much colder. You’d felt small against Alfie, but so empowered and confident. With your husband… you were just small.

Andrew pushed you against the door, wedging his hips between your thighs. 

“Andrew.”

“I love my wife,” he kissed your neck, dragging his lips to your mouth again. “Don’t I?”

That was the thing. He loved his wife. Not you. He hadn’t even asked about what had happened that morning. 

As a response, you gave a quick nod and managed to convince him you needed a bath alone. For once, he wasn’t too pushy about it.

tags: @hoodeddreams13 @justrainandcoffee ⊹₊⟡ (tell me if you’d like to be added!)

[theoriginaltrash]

Love is Blind

There’s an oil painting by Magritte at the MoMA of two people kissing, both of their heads wrapped in some sort of sheet or fabric. It’s a gorgeous surrealist piece of art called The Lovers. I think about it every day since I first saw it.

A fact I know about Magritte is that his mom drowned herself in the Sambre River in 1912, when he was barely a teenager. Her waterlogged nightgown was wrapped around her head when she was pulled out.

People say you can interpret art in whatever way it speaks to you, however it makes you feel. But then they criticize you for missing the point. I do it, too. For artists, musicians, writers, I believe the most heinous things you’ve seen in life must be converted into metaphors, or your pathetically soft soul will give out.

Someone I still love died 18 years ago this week. She, also, robbed her own lungs of oxygen on purpose, just with gas and not river water. But I wasn’t present when they found her, I was about 2600 miles away, in the desert I left her for. I can picture the cornflower blue of her walls, the positioning of every little thing in her room, the bedding she probably died in. I would bet the TV was on. I know exactly where she would have set up the gas tank.

A vision I never had with my own eyes that, if I could paint, I would paint perfectly. For him to reproduce a shrouded face from memory, my guts ache just thinking about it.

Another Magritte fact was that he married in 1922, to a woman who, despite both of their later infidelities, was known to be his muse. The Lovers was completed in 1928. With no details to confirm, of course, it can’t be clear if it is the two of them. Mineral spirits won’t reveal what’s beneath the painted cloth, they simply are what’s obscured, that’s the point.

A common interpretation given to The Lovers is: love is blind. They do seem to love without seeing the other’s faults, that’s true. But they love without seeing each other at all. So, is the statement that, in our own personal fears of masked vulnerability, we are forever doomed to never really know someone else? Knowing ourselves, do we really want to at all?

I knew her then, and she knew me, as deeply as you can without yet knowing yourself particularly well. I met her when I was only 18. Now 18 years without her on this earth, just a handful of feet under it, I have memories of the person I knew. She is misleadingly alive in all of them, remaining the person I knew, though parts that were left out then will remain that way, and I’m sure there are some I’ve forgotten.

Or does Magritte just have some serious baggage? Could you blame him? Imagine if we all took our grief and hung it in the MoMA for casual museum-goers to pick apart its meaning, to overlay their own human experience, while still tucked under the fabric. Imagine if all of it was art. Imagine if, almost a century later, people still aren’t quite sure what they see when they see yours.

My feelings about her decision aren’t complicated. She wanted out, she had her reasons, and it does nothing to dissect them, I’ll never know if I’m right. Could I ever really say that things would have gotten easier for her? With as much certainty as my interpretations of surrealist paintings, my clearest answer is maybe.

The last fact about Magritte. He and his wife, Georgette, met as kids, not terribly long after his mother died. They fell in love instantly, as the story is told, were separated by war, then, by chance, found each other again in the botanical gardens of a new city. First love, enduring, a brief separation for parallel affairs, then reconciling, desperate for each other, him painting her, filming her, adoring her. And she, avowedly clueless about the meaning of his work, was equally enamored, a happily obliging muse.

They knew each other for more of their lives than they didn’t know each other. The painting, then, a litmus test for the rest of us. Love is blind: Do you love them despite their deepest flaws? Or, love is blind: Will you never really know the deepest parts of them at all?

“‘What does it mean?’ It does not mean anything, because mystery means nothing either, it is unknowable.” - René Magritte

[itsnotabouttheapp]

For absolutely no reason at all, here's a fun graphic and associated text from the Council on Foreign Relations from their article titled "What Is Fascism?" (I do suggest reading the whole page if you can.)

Stage one: Emerging out of disillusionment

Mussolini and Hitler rose to prominence in the aftermath of World War I. The respective politicians capitalized on the political and economic fallout of the Great War by inflaming popular dissatisfaction with the countries' leaders. 

Hitler pointed to the harsh and humiliating terms of the Treaty of Versailles as a means to drum up popular support. The treaty forced Germany to accept blame for World War I, give up 13 percent of its European territory and overseas colonies, limit the size of its army and navy, and pay reparations (financial damages) to the war’s winners. In the aftermath of the Great War, Germany was left in economic despair, international embarrassment, and political instability. Hitler would gain followers by promising to tear up the Treaty of Versailles and restore the country’s honor.

Meanwhile, the economic crisis that followed World War I further eroded public confidence in the existing political establishment. In the immediate aftermath of the war, Germany suffered hyperinflation—a situation in which prices skyrocketed so quickly that German currency lost much of its value. Moreover, Italy experienced a two-year period of mass strikes and factory occupations, with millions unemployed.

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Stage two: Establishing legitimacy as a political party

Fascist leaders capitalized on popular disillusionment to source their political power. Mussolini and Hitler created their own political parties to challenge the ruling establishment through the ballot box and, often, violence in the streets.

In 1919, Mussolini created Italy’s Fascist Party, which was unabashedly pro-Italian nationalism and anti-socialism. The group attracted fervent followers who organized armed militias known as the squadrisiti (or “Blackshirts” per their uniforms). These fascist militants often skirmished with Italian socialists in the streets.

Germany’s Nazi Party (originally founded as the National Socialist German Workers’ Party) also emerged in the aftermath of the war, in 1920. With many Germans shocked by the country’s defeat in World War I, the Nazis pushed a narrative that argued Germany could have won the war if not for unrest at home. This myth falsely accused Jewish people and left-wing activists of undermining the country’s war effort. The Nazis also blamed Germany’s new democratic government for abandoning the conflict and accepting harsh peace terms from the Allied Powers. Propelled by this vision, the Nazis went from winning 3 percent of the vote in the 1928 parliamentary elections to 44 percent in 1933. They were also supported by their own paramilitary group known as the Sturmabteilung (or “Brownshirts”). This militant army—like the squadristi—clashed with the party’s rivals.

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Stage three: Gaining power via right-wing partnerships

Interwar Europe primarily featured two political groups: conservatives and socialists. A third option—fascists—would gain power by partnering with conservatives, who advocated for traditional values, including nationalism and law and order. Conservatives recognized that fascists wanted to overthrow the political establishment; however, the two groups found common cause over their shared hatred and fear of socialists. Communist regimes were gaining influence across Europe after first coming to power in Russia in 1917 and were seen as an existential threat to conservative values.

In Italy, conservatives combined forces with Mussolini’s Fascist Party to form a governing majority in parliament following elections in 1921. Meanwhile, in Germany, the country’s conservative leaders allied with the Nazis. Both conservative parties believed a fascist coalition would be a short-term compromise to prevent socialists from taking power. After the Nazis won the largest share of votes in 1932, the country’s president appointed Hitler chancellor of Germany. Even still, conservatives expected to control government affairs while taking advantage of Hitler’s charisma. That expectation, of course, would turn out to be a miscalculation.

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Stage four: Using power to dominate institutions 

Upon rising to power, Fascist parties attempted to consolidate political authority.

Mussolini’s Fascist Party won elections in 1921 as part of a coalition. The following year, the Italian king appointed Mussolini prime minister after a mass fascist demonstration known as the March on Rome. As the Fascist Party gained more power, many feared civil war if Mussolini were denied power. The Fascists, however, did not seize absolute authority, as traditional institutions like the Catholic Church still retained a certain degree of independence.

The Nazis, on the other hand, took total control over government and society. Hitler removed all non-Nazis from government shortly after becoming chancellor in 1933. He would go on to pass laws stripping Jews of citizenship and expelling anti-Nazi professors from universities. To further consolidate Nazi control, Hitler banned rival political parties and enabled himself to rule by decree (meaning he could single-handedly—and without oversight—create future laws). Germany became a one-party country: the Nazis claimed to have won more than 90 percent of the vote in unfree and unfair elections in November 1933. After1938, Germany ceased holding elections altogether.

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Stage five: Implementing radical reforms

With near-total or absolute control over society, fascist leaders exercised their power in increasingly radical ways.

Mussolini’s Italy carried out violent colonial campaigns across Africa. In Libya, colonial troops employed chemical weapons against local resistance movements and imprisoned their members in concentration camps. And in 1935, Italy invaded Abyssinia (now Ethiopia), where virulent racism led to mass instances of rape and the indiscriminate killing of hundreds of thousands of people. Mussolini’s regime did not carry out the same scale of ethnic violence at home. However, his government proclaimed white, Christian Italians to be descendants of the Aryan race and banned Black and Jewish people from marrying them.

Hitler’s Nazi Germany remains the only example of full radicalization of a fascist movement. As Germany’s absolute ruler, or führer, Hitler destroyed all political opposition; ordered the genocide of millions; invaded countries across Europe; and, in partnership with Mussolini, launched World War II—the deadliest conflict in human history. Even seventy-five years after Hitler’s death, his rise to power and Germany’s fall from democracy into fascism serve as frightening reminders. If racism and extremism are left to fester in politics, no liberal democracy is safe.