#Western yard art

[retroappaloosa]

new top ten (i suck)

1. quitting quitting smoking

2. getting drunk off of one singular glass of red wine

3. springsteening it up in a 24/7h diner (wearing jean shorts and scrawling in a notebook)

4. finally watching euphoria years after it was cool

5. chobani pumpkin spice creamer that might kill me down the line

6. charles bukowski

7. surrendering to the fact that i find the basement yard funny

8. storing my notebook on the cistern for mid-pee epiphanies

9. 97.1 The River

10. rooting for Timber on Alone

[eternalyardsale]

It's finally time to tell Thistle's story.

The Ballad of Thistle McKelly is the newest storytelling experience from noted lunatic, Iris Jade Grimm. Following in the footsteps of EYS: Vengeance at Sea, Thistle's ballad will be told over the course of the next few weeks through a series of images. But this time, an unsealable "flap" will contain a story synopsis, a song recommendation, and other details and insight into the life and times of Thistle. Veteran Salers ($3 tier) and up will get the unsealed versions.

Act I begins this week and contains seven pages, including this cover. After a weeklong intermission, Act II will begin.

There will be a raft of bonus content with this new story for Salers including an exclusive story page (for Grizzled Salers and up), Act Wrap-up/Playlist pages, and wallpapers that will show up during intermissions.

So if you want the full story, become a Saler today!

https://patreon.com/cityofeminence

[hometoursandotherstuff]

The late owner of this unique 1929 home in Ventura, CA was an artist. The first to note is the art, mosaics made from vintage travel dishes and a large sphere in the front yard. The 2bd, 2ba home needs renovation and the asking price is $$799,900.

The floor in the foyer features some commemorative coins.

There's a little fireplace and a built-in bench in the living room. The carpet needs replacing, also.

There are lovely stained glass windows.

This looks like a dining room.

And, here is the kitchen.

It's got some cute vintage tile.

And look at this gem. people actually go to antique stove dealers for stoves like this.

This is a similar one, and of course, when you buy from a dealer, they're reconditioned. It's a 1950s Western Holly 2. By the looks of the one in the house, I'd say it's an even earlier model.

This is an eat-in kitchen with plenty of room for expansion.

Bedroom & bath #1.

Looks like there's some water pooled on the floor in the next room.

I don't know what this room is.

Bath #2.

Maybe this is a laundry room.

In the back of the home there're work spaces.

If someone wants to invest in the property, there's room for expansion.

This looks like newer construction.

It appears that the home was put together w/o any permits.

The lot is 6,000 sq ft.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/539-Howard-St-Ventura-CA-93003/16327743_zpid/?

[localcuttlefish]

A Theoretical Lore Bible of Caesar’s Legion as a Nation

Hello good citizens of Tumblr! I’ve been on a Fallout: New Vegas kick lately, and I recently graduated college with a bachelors degree (major illustration, minor history of art and western civilization). So now that I’m certified to draw dick AND talk about Ancient Rome, I have things to yap about.

Have you ever looked at Caesar’s Legion and wondered how the more intricate aspects of their society model after the Roman Empire? Because I have! And because of those very musings, I have come up with a little dumb idiot theoretical lore Bible on how The Legion might function as a more developed nation, using my back knowledge of western civ and Roman art and culture. Nomenclature, societal structure, industries, imports and exports, the whole nine yards!

DISCLAIMERS: I have not looked through the writers’/directors’ social media accounts thoroughly enough yet to confirm if any of the information I’m bringing to the table is already solidly canonical or solidly non-canonical in the lore of Fallout: New Vegas. There is a nonzero chance I may say something that someone in charge has already said, or something that’s already been disproven or denied. If you catch something I don’t, let me know! I like worldbuilding for fun like this, and I want to keep everything as lore-cohesive as possible to challenge myself. I’ll come back to edit this every now and then if I come up with more cohesive lore pieces, or if you guys have any suggestions that would tie in the lore better. In addition, Caesar’s Legion is an inherently totalitarian nation that supports itself on some pretty sexist and bigoted social structures. There is no universe in which I support, condone, or otherwise encourage any of the ideologies of Caesar’s Legion in real life. Don’t become a tyrant dictator of a military slave nation, kids!

CONTENT WARNINGS: Discussion of slavery, sexism, physical and verbal violence, unsafe medical practices, brainwashing/psychological abuse, and death.

Without further ado, the absolute wall of text that is the theoretical lore Bible of Caesar’s Legion. Enjoyyyyy!!

CHAPTERS:

I: Citizenship

- How To Become a Citizen

- Social Castes

- Names

II: Everyday Life

- Common Social Customs

- Household Structure

- Settlement/Town Structure

- Clothing, Hair, and Accessories

- Languages

III: Industry

- Jobs

- Imports and Exports

IV: Politics, Education, and Religion

- What Senate?

- In The Unlikely Event of a Transfer of Power

- Common Political Beliefs

- Male vs Female Education Standards

Walk and talk with me about the ways The Legion mirrors, juxtaposes, and takes inspiration from Ancient Roman society in a post-apocalyptic setting.

The first time I encountered Caesar’s Legion in game, my initial thought was “What about the American West makes these people think this is the perfect spot to reinvent Italy?” it’s a barren, land-locked desert with only one or two significant water access points. Italy is a peninsula in a temperate climate with high mountain ranges and verdant forests. Most of this was a jokey thought, but then it struck me that a phalanx would actually be an insanely powerful force in a flat landscape. It all started coming together from there in a most dreadful shape

I: Citizenship

- How to Become a Citizen

Caesar’s Legion is a colonialist nation. They gain land through conquest, typically, and have a tendency to try and homogenize the culture to their liking. Generally speaking, after a town has been conquered, people who willingly surrender or submit to The Legion are given an opportunity for citizenship. Any survivors of conquest that aren’t willing to surrender are either executed or sold into slavery. Slaves are not considered citizens, because the rights and freedoms of a slave do not reflect the rights and freedoms that The Legion offers to those who can be put to better use or are complacent with the mission of The Legion.

Once one is offered a chance for citizenship, the highest ranking general in whatever battalion just took over that person’s land will evaluate if the person can be put to work, put on the battlefield, or is generally useless. Remember, an offer isn’t a guarantee. There is a chance someone who is offered citizenship may be evaluated as useless and sold into slavery regardless of their complacency. Protesting the verdict typically increases the chance of spontaneously being executed, or, if one doesn’t like their proposed role of worker or soldier, being demoted from potential citizen to slave.

If the general regards one as fit to work or fit for the battlefield, these “half-citizens” (media populi for plural, and media persona for singular) will be assigned a new legal name after a record of all new media populi is sent from the general to the regional Vilicus (overseer ;) we’ll elaborate more on this in chapter II), and given the task of minimum 400 hours of what we would understand as “community service” before the Vilicus confirms their citizenship. This “community service” is called pentimento, or repentance. It’s a form of brainwashing in which The Legion is in a position to repeatedly reaffirm that the media persona has more value here helping The Legion than they ever did as a free settler in New Vegas before, and instills dynamics that empower and encourage violence against people of “lower status” (slaves and women, usually). Kinda like a Stanford Prison Experiment that’s purposely designed to cause power dynamics instead of accidentally stumbling to the conclusion. Pentimento may include anything from helping re-pave and clear trade routes in Legion territory, to catching runaway slaves. Each media persona is given a number of tasks to complete per month, and each failed task results in more hours being added onto the total pentimento before citizenship is granted. The number of initial hours of pentimento a media persona needs to do may vary depending on the whims of the Vilicus, how much they resisted Legion control in the past, how many tasks of pentimento they leave incomplete per month, and whether they are masculine or feminine presenting, but is never less than 400 to start. Most media populi end up with starting numbers in the 600s or 700s.

Once the pentimento hours are complete and approved by the Vilicus, the media persona becomes a citizen and is expected to continue the service to the growing empire through either the trade they work in, or through service in the army. However, there is a several-month-long window of time in which spies occasionally visit the new citizens’ homes to monitor them for suspicious activity. In this window of time, spies may be looking for signs that indicate the new citizen is an agent from a rival faction sent to infiltrate The Legion. Only high-ranking officials know about this window. One can lose their citizenship and be returned back to status of media persona if they show suspicious behavior during this time, or worse, be demoted from citizen to slave. In cases where there is undeniable evidence that a new citizen is an agent for a rival faction, the citizen is immediately put to death, and their citizenship is revoked (though revoking the citizenship of someone being put to death is a little redundant).

A baby born into a family of two Legion citizens is automatically also a citizen, and must be given a name in line with Legion naming conventions (which will be discussed next segment). A baby born into a family in which the mother is not a citizen and the father is a citizen will also be considered a citizen. A baby born into a family in which the mother is a citizen and the father is not a citizen will not be considered a citizen at birth. A baby born to a family of two media populi or two slaves will not be considered a citizen at birth.

A person who willingly enters Legion territory and requests citizenship will follow the same steps as how a person from a conquered land would be evaluated for citizenship.

- Social Castes

Social Castes in Caesar’s Legion are determined by how useful one is to the empire, and whether one is male or female. The more sexist aspects of the caste system stem from the fact that women in The Legion can’t serve in the military, and the military is a notably higher status than most other castes since Caesar’s Legion is a military state.

Of course, Caesar is the highest on the social pyramid, followed by his chosen officials (take Lanius for example), then chosen guards (praetorian guard). The military comes next, with the social hierarchy of the military following that which was established in the Roman Empire in the early establishment of Caligula’s reign. After that, religious officials (which act as pseudo-indoctrinators into The Legion, and therefore are pretty essential to brainwashing the next generation of Legionnaires). Then, the Vilici, the overseers of each region/settlement. Next, the average male citizen and then, the average female citizen. Media populi come next, and following that social caste is performers (which serve very little purpose in the eyes of Caesar and the goal of conquest), with male performers having marginally more respect among the populous than female performers. Second to last is slaves, once again with males being just a little more respected than females, but what does that matter when both are going to be abused by the upper castes anyways. At the very bottom of the social ladder is outsiders and criminals, which need to be broken before earning even a sliver of humanity in the eyes of The Legion.

Caesar > Chosen Officials > Chosen Guard > Military (with sub-hierarchy of Ancient Roman military) > Religious Officials > Vilici > Average Citizen > Media Populi > Performers > Slaves > Outsiders and Criminals

- Names

The average citizen in Legion territory wouldn’t need to immediately use their new assigned name (since there’s not enough force immediately available to actually push that, the nation is still growing), but The Legion will give them a “legal” name that they’ll be addressed by formally, and in the best case scenario, the original name will be effectively waned out because it simply doesn’t matter in comparison to the new one.

A praenomen acts effectively as a first name one uses around close friends and family, while a nomen (while acting as a last name) becomes what one is more commonly known by in public. The average citizen will usually have a nomen at least, and a male citizen will have a praenomen and nomen.

- MASCULINE: A classical Latin praenomen will be assigned equivalent to the meaning or phonetics of the new citizen’s first name. The nomen will be determined based on either phonetic/meaning equivalent of the last name, or based on the new citizen’s occupation.

- FEMININE: No praenomen will be assigned. The citizen’s title will be a feminized variation of their father’s nomen, differentiated in generation by number nomenclature (Major, Minor, Tertia, etc). If they have no father, they will assume the feminized nomen of a living male partner that is already a Legion citizen. If they have no living Legion family, they will be assigned the name “Romana” and likely be either sold into slavery or auctioned to a bachelor to gain a proper nomen.

For example: Marcus Gaius has two daughters. The eldest daughter is Gaia Major. The youngest daughter is Gaia Minor. Gaia Minor meets Decimus Junius, and they get married. Now Gaia Minor is named Junia. Gaia Major remains unchanged.

Legion soldiers have more dignity in society, and therefore have all the previous conventions, plus a cognomen. Since all Legion soldiers are masculine, differentiation between masc and fem naming conventions is irrelevant from this point forward. The nomen of a soldier may be akin to the structure of how an average citizen’s would be given, or if the soldier shows exceptional prestige and has no remaining male family, a nomen referencing warfare or combat will be assigned to them (Marcus, Augustus, Drusus, etc.).

A Legion cognomen acts effectively as a Roman military callsign. Cognomens follow classical Roman conventions. The cognomen will be used most frequently in a military setting.

II: Everyday Life

- Common Social Customs

Many Roman social customs are adopted into Legion life. For example, the entertainment at the colosseum is mimicked in the tourneys in the various arenas scattered throughout Legion territory. However, because of the key difference in that The Legion isn’t even pretending not to be a totalitarian dictatorship, there are a number of drastic differences between Roman social customs and Legion social customs.

Because of how respected the military is in Legion society, it is commonplace to show soldiers with utmost reverence. It’s customary to allow soldiers to stay in a citizen’s place of residence if the soldier requests it, and it’s customary to refer to the soldier by their military rank, not their nomen or cognomen (especially if the soldier in question is on duty). It’s considered rude or inappropriate to question the motives of a soldier, or prevent a soldier from accessing areas of a citizen’s property. Such transgressions can potentially be met with violence.

One may frequently see slaves struggling to keep up with workloads. It’s taboo, but not punishable to help them, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the productivity of one’s own work. After all, The Legion gains nothing from incomplete work. If helping a slave means increasing efficiency, then it’s appropriate, but a citizen may get strange looks from others for doing so.

Utilitarianism is the ideal philosophy under which everyone should function in an ideal Legion society, but this is clearly not the case nor the environment to foster it. Social norms are based strongly on class, and in most cases, selfishness prevails because selflessness can be seen as weak (or worse, suspicious) by trigger-happy soldiers and spies.

But hey, at least sex isn’t considered a super taboo topic or activity in Legion society. Got that much going for them. Granted, it’s seen more like a conquest, but at least it’s not seen as a sin. Woohoo? Lets go? Kinda? One step forward two steps back.

- Household Structure

A household in Legion territory for a citizen of average means will likely be similar to any other household in New Vegas (with the addition of slaves in wealthier households). Where things start to get confusing is the aforementioned situation of soldiers being allowed to invade households at will. Psychologically, these soldiers are deprived of a lot of comforts the average citizen may have. There is a decidedly nonzero chance that soldiers can show up like stray cats and keep coming back in the event that a citizen is interesting enough to them. Soldiers sometimes “claim” houses or small patches of territory they frequent as a substitute for the emotional interaction they lack. Humans are social creatures. The soldiers might not know why they want to keep coming back, but they do keep coming back. Parasocial.

Generally, a woman’s domain is the household in Legion territory. While the society is by no means matriarchal, it’s customary for a woman to maintain control over most happenings within a household. This often means a woman will need to interact with stray soldiers more frequently. Among female citizens in Legion territory, these soldiers are called catuli (singular catulus) for their presence and tendencies, though this is always in secret due to the harsh punishment of misrepresenting a soldier’s status to his face. A household can sometimes have up to three catuli claim it before fights start to break out among them about perceived territory.

It is expected for a couple in a household to have children. Cultivating multiple generations of soldiers is part of how The Legion grows most efficiently, because children are impressionable enough to instill Legion values without struggle. If a household does not have a child after several years of partnership, it is considered suspicious and the male of the partnership is encouraged to be unfaithful or open the relationship. While there are no consequences for not having children, there is intense pressure to do so.

- Settlement/Town Structure

As mentioned before, the equivalent of a mayor in each region is called a Vilicus, or an overseer. The Vilicus is responsible for tallying the census, assigning names to media populi, approving the pentimento of media populi, keeping track of production rates of resources from citizens, keeping a lookout for disease outbreak so a region can be quarantined if needed, and monitoring the citizens in each region for minor suspicious activity to report to those higher in status. Each town is also occupied by a heavy military presence, to intimidate citizens into productivity and complacency.

Most of the time, Legion towns are made of the previously conquered settlements now added to Legion territories. Building more houses is an avoidable expenditure if they just repurpose the structures already there with a few modifications. Despite the multiple depictions in-game of Caesar’s Legion showing little to no care about what damage they cause, it would make sense that the depictions in the gameplay are actually the outliers in the situation, since it’s far more efficient to leave the settlements intact and just gut and reconfigure the purpose.

There are also multitudes of mobile scout settlements, mostly made of fabric, tarp, and hide tents that can be easily condensed and moved in the event that the camp is compromised. In many cases, these camps are set up as a base to return to in order to stage an invasion of new territories. If possible, The Legion sets them up close to large landmasses like plateaus or mountains for additional cover in the event of an ambush. If that’s not available, The Legion makes settlements like this close to preexisting towns in order to make the wordless threat of “push us back, and innocents die”. Generally, very few citizens are taken on these excursions, but if the plan is to stay out longer, citizens who are medics may be involuntarily drafted into going with the scout team.

- Clothing, Hair, and Accessories

The Legion isn’t a necessarily materialistic society that allows a lot of room for personal expression. Since the goal is to create a homogenous society and culture, self expression through visual cues is often muted at best and absent at normal. Makeup, perfumes, and hair styling products are prohibited if they have any synthetic qualities or materials. In many cases, beauty products are exclusively reserved for performers, and even still, only natural pigments and materials would be permitted. Think the same pigments Ancient Egyptians would make for their makeup.

Protective updo hairstyles are common for long hair, both for practical purposes and for purposes of keeping hair out of reach and harder to pull. Efficiency is key, so in the event of a raid or a threat, everyone is expected to be able to hold their own to some extent. Part of that standard is remaining on guard, so keeping hair up while out of the house is customary.

In the military, hair is expected to be cut short, again, for efficiency. Any soldiers with long hair are expected to keep it in tight braids or cornrows to maintain the same level of efficiency. As long as it stays out of the face.

Most clothing is dull, salvaged from the wastelands. The only exception is clothing reserved for high ranking officials and Caesar, which is quite literally dyed in blood of enemies. Because blood fades to a blackish-red hue over time, high ranking officials will often appear to be wearing darker colors, when in actuality they’re wearing clothes that were soaked in blood as a symbol of power and debt paid to the gods (namely Mars).

Widows are permitted to wear part of their fallen husband’s bloodsoaked clothes through the mourning process, if The Legion can recover and identity the body. With this in mind, as soon as the widow finds a new husband, the bloodsoaked garment piece is burned.

Slaves are deprived of all aspects of individuality, given rags or scraps to wear and marked with red paint. A citizen may give finer clothes to a slave voluntarily, but those clothes must also be marked with red paint.

Jewelry, while rare, is often made of scrap metal salvaged and re-forged from battlefields or old weapons without any further use. Which is why jewelry is so rare. There is seldom ever an instance in which metal can’t become a weapon, so making jewelry is a waste of time and energy.

- Languages

Basically any language can be spoken in Legion territory as it stands, because as The Legion is currently, it doesn’t have enough power or force to totally instill a whole new language system. With that in mind, the groundwork is being laid for an eventual push to make Latin the official language of Caesar’s Legion. Between the commonly used Latin terminology to address people and the Roman theming of The Legion, it’s primed to eventually enforce Latin as the primary language. Highly educated citizens may be fluent in Latin, and most soldiers know commands and codes in Latin.

III: Industry

- Jobs

There are two types of jobs in The Legion, excluding military and slavery. One can either be a worker or a performer. Medics and nurses are highly valued, both on the battlefield and off, since chemical substances are prohibited in The Legion. Carpenters, metalworkers and blacksmiths, engineers, and tanners are some of the more important standard worker jobs, since all of them play directly into expanding the empire more efficiently, making more weapons and armor, or repurposing old material to make new. Tailors, glassworkers, weavers, technicians, and chemists are less valuable to The Legion to some extent because they either involve industries less geared towards conquest, or involve industries beyond the scope of what The Legion finds socially acceptable. Despite the amount of emphasis Roman polytheism puts on naturalistic sculpture, The Legion actually doesn’t find the arts very useful in the immediate future of the empire. What’s most important is conquest, not expression.

On the topic of the arts, performers were seen in a very poor light in The Legion, often oversexualized into objectification or framed as clowns. Most performance art is often seen as a waste of time or an avoidable expense, but it does keep soldier morale up since it gives them something to target that isn’t their fellow man. Being a performer in The Legion is marginally better than slavery, because one can at least have a house as a performer, but the physical and verbal abuse is often daily and unrelenting.

- Imports and Exports

The Legion is definitely not known for being friendly to neighboring factions, so any concept of import and export is often very loosely based in barter (namely, The Legion demanding tithe to barter for leaving a region alone, similar to how some mafias demand payment in exchange for protection from themselves). The Legion has a semi-steady stream of imports from their commonwealths which they pressure into helping them in trade for leaving their towns unburned and their people free from enslavement. However, this is decidedly not a permanent arrangement. This is a way to bide time to grow the nation a bit more before making moves on settlements and regions with more useful resources.

They export nothing unless it’s a strategic play. They pressure neighboring regions into paying them, even though they honestly don’t need it as much as they want the general population of other factions to think they do. Middle school bully nation.

IV: Politics, Education, and Religion

- What Senate?

The big difference between Rome and The Legion is that The Legion doesn’t try to pretend it’s not a dictatorship. There is no senate, there is no board of people to vote, no forum. The only voice that matters is Caesar’s, and it shows in every aspect of how the society is structured, from the strict rules on self expression, to the patriarchal hierarchy of Legion society. Ultimately, this makes the nation weaker, because in the event of Caesar’s death, it creates a power vacuum. No, I don’t think there’s a secret senate. No, I don’t think there is a solid backup plan. I think the closest thing there was to a senate was the two-man power-team that was Edward Sallow and Joshua Graham. We all know how well that worked out. And I think Caesar’s been running on fumes ever since that point, taking this as a sign to expand the nation faster before anyone sees him bleed. Hubristic in nature.

The closest thing there is to a senate are higher officials (such as Lanius) that Caesar hand-picked from Legion ranks to be his personal cabinet that all agrees with him. There is a distinct instability of power when recreating Rome without a senate, and there is the distinct air of trying to hide that open wound.

- In the Unlikely Event of a Transfer of Power

Let’s say, hypothetically, Caesar, the praetorian guard, and all his higher officials suddenly died. The role of Caesar would be up for grabs. In the event that there is no clear successor to Caesar, there is no real backup plan aside from an arena battle between the generals that could potentially succeed Caesar. A simple solution that will clearly show who can spill the most blood for Mars without hesitation or question.

With this in mind, there is one thing distinctly Roman about the potential of a transfer of power. There is always a nonzero chance that Caesar’s killer, be they foreigner or Legion, could become the next emperor. All that matters is who can devote themself to Mars in a way that would honor the fallen Caesar.

- Common Political Beliefs

Politics and religion go hand in hand for Caesar’s Legion because of the cultish way Caesar built the nation. The idea of Mars being the patron deity of The Legion instills a level of gratuitous and overzealous love of warfare among the people. Military expenditures are met with great support, and very little infrastructure on public service is supported as adamantly because of the instilled value of “we are all independent cogs working in a well oiled machine, we don’t need help”. Then again, it’s not like any other voice mattered anyways, since Caesar is the be all end all of political power.

There is a generally nationwide extremism when it comes to dealing with criminals, however. Criminal activity in The Legion is more often than not punished by torture and death, and nobody seems to really protest it to the degree that other factions do. As many of the travelers and traders in Fallout: New Vegas have said, the roads in Legion territories are incredibly safe. There is a level of patriotism in The Legion specifically regarding how safe their lands are, but in exchange, those lands also have an active military presence.

Conquest is also a pretty intrinsic pillar of Legion political beliefs, since the motivation to create a homogeneous society and usher in a new era of perceived piece may make some people accept the totalitarian power for what it is and hope it pans out right.

- Male vs Female Education Standards

Due to the intrinsic divide between male and female Legion citizens, the education of male and female Legion children is vastly different with the only exception being the uniform brainwashing. Male and female children are not only educated on different topics, they are also educated in different locations.

Similar to Spartan men, most male children (even including orphans from freshly raided towns) are give combat training just about as soon as they can hold a stick and swing it. The male children that show combat proficiency continue to become soldiers, and the male children who aren’t strong, but are intelligent are instead divided into training as either spies or medics, depending on the specifics of their skill sets. Male children who aren’t good at any of that end up becoming armigeri (singular armiger), the people who sharpen weapons and tend to the needs of more proficient soldiers. It’s a social tragedy to become what is essentially a pathetic sidekick to some far better soldier. Thankfully, since most of these children are trained from an incredibly young age to be strong, cunning, fast, and durable, very few people end up becoming armigeri. Generally speaking, no boy in The Legion goes without military training. The Legion can capture their blacksmiths and carpenters, there’s no need to train them in-house.

Female Legion children are not given formal education. They are expected to grow up to be housekeepers and produce the next generation of warlords. However, a family still has the liberty to educate a daughter at home with a tutor so long as it doesn’t interfere with the family’s productivity. Usually, female children are given medical teachings more oriented towards patching the injuries of their future husbands. However, girls aren’t left entirely defenseless. Girls are taught how to use ranged weapons and how to escape grapples in the event of an emergency. In addition, girls are given more of an education on finances and practical skills that tie into long-term survival, such as how to use every part of a killed animal for resources, how to patch clothes, and how to cultivate plants.

A Thank You And Some Concluding Comments

Hello hello to anyone who’s made it this far through my ludicrous ramblings! Thank you for reading! This is really just me throwing nonsense in the air and seeing what floats, and most of what I’ve written here will probably be subject to edits every now and then to keep building up what I’ve already put down.

Feel free to use this lore for any fan fictions, fan art, original characters, or whatever else! Please keep building on it!

I hope y’all enjoyed my insane chattering!

[thomasbeyond]

Thomas: Beyond! Lost Test Archive (2022)

So, I might as well share this. Back in 2022, I wrote a script for a hypothetical first issue of Thomas Beyond, and illustrated a couple of pages to get a feel for the art style I wanted. Sketches were done in Toon Boon Harmony and Inked/colored in Photoshop. Unfortunately, I wasn’t very satisfied with what I had made, and decided to rework the script and delete the pages I had already done. Looking back I really regret doing that, but I have a couple of archived screenshots (albeit VERY cropped) that I sent to some friends for their advice.

The Issue was titled “Mystery of the Mail”.

One night, Percy is tasked with his usual run with the mail train, retrieving Sodor’s outward-going mail for an express post train bound for the mainland. However, after dropping his mail vans off in their designated siding at the big station, he is shocked to find out they had vanished in the middle of the night, and the train had to depart the Island of Sodor without collecting them. While most initially assume it was yet another instance of Percy’s clumsiness, tensions grow even higher after Sir Topham Hatt reveals one of the mail vans contained a special delivery of stock meant for a bank. With the police beginning to thoroughly investigate the North Western Railway, and all of staff questioned, it becomes evident to all that the NWR fell victim to a train robbery. Percy is shunned by most of the other engines for being so careless, with some even suspecting he and his crew were somehow involved in the heist despite pleading their innocence. Percy is utterly distraught, and becomes a disgrace. Not one for wanting to see his best friend’s reputation sink further down, Thomas (with the help of his driver, Bob) vows to solve the mystery of the mail and clear Percy’s name.

Thomas and Bob’s mishaps and hijinks in detective work end up distracting them from their usual jobs on Thomas’ branch line. Sir Topham Hatt reprimands Thomas for his immaturity, and Bob for knowing better than to give into Thomas’ shenanigans. The next day, the two are tasked with assisting the Sodor Ironworks in dumping their molten slag (this is where the conversation in the first image occurs). During their stay there, Thomas and Bob discover that the Ironworks orchestrated the heist, having sent Iron Bert out to retrieve the cars. Bert’s crew stuck off the main line as much as possible to avoid drawing any attention from the signal boxes. Upon retrieving the vans, Bert flew the express headlamps to disguise himself as the post train in the dark. Edward comes forward and swears he heard 2 trains pass by his yard at night, adding an extra layer of truth to the story. The police grow suspicious and obtain a warrant to search the Ironworks’ premises. Sure enough, tucked away in a shed, the vans are recovered, with several crowbars pathetically still pried upon the completely-locked doors.

Percy’s name is finally cleared-up, and he is welcomed back by everyone. As for the Ironworks? Well, the manager was VERY conveniently not present the day the mail vans were found… or the day after… and the next one after that. Many suspect that he ether successfully fled the country, or those whom he had “connections” with caught-on that his mission had failed, and were the ones to “hold him accountable” rather than the law. Just one more layer to this mystery that may NEVER be solved.

I have issues with this plot. Everyone is so quick to dogpile on Percy, including Sir Topham Hatt. Also, while I do remember that Bob does butt-heads with Thomas a lot of the time in small dialogue bits, I feel like he DOES give into Thomas’ whole detective bit wayyy too easily. I characterize him as being a lot more level-headed and dry in order to bounce off of Thomas’ impulsivity and eccentricity. Also, bleh. Of COURSE the Ironworks are the bad guys! Who could’ve guessed that it WASN'T them after the moment they became apart of this? Also, I pulled the whole “The Ironworks may or may not have ties to the criminal underworld” way too early. I like that idea, it’s funny and provides a genuinely good force for our heroes to combat against, but idk. It came and went wayyy too quickly. I’m much prouder of the narrative I have going on now for Sudric Storm, I feel it’s a better introduction to the Thomas series in the form of a comic, and provides a much more enriching story for these characters to play around in.

Welp, that was a blast from the past. Hope you enjoyed! (Also, 14 hours? Thomas… that’s… literally nothing. That’s a pretty average amount of time for being awake on a given day, what??? Amateur.)

[ananxiousgenz]

hey guys how are we feeling about more cowboy au??? it's 4am and this is the last thing i'm posting before i go to sleep lmaooo

@percymawce-arts (along with @ellamenop and @izel-reblogs bc i saw your tags before and figured y'all would want more lol)

When he opened his eyes again, constellations were twinkling like fireflies in the navy blue sky above him, and the last blue-gray remnants of sunlight lingered on the western horizon. He could see the faint traces of firelight blossoming up past his feet, several yards away from where he was laid out on the ground and smell some sort of food cooking over it. His side was still in a dull, throbbing pain, blood slowly weeping out of it and into the ground. He could die here. Such a beautiful place to leave behind, John thought through the mist clouding his mind. 

Then the mist turned into a prairie fire as something poked into his injured side.

He screamed through his teeth . There was something in his mouth keeping his teeth from grinding together, something tough and leathery. He slowly realized it was a belt, folded and wedged into his mouth to keep him from cracking his teeth open.

“Ah, shit, sorry, sorry, sorry!” a distant voice said. It sounded vaguely familiar, a foreign accent he was almost sure he knew. He couldn’t tell from where.

John spit out the belt, pushed himself up, and tried to scramble away, but found weight on top of his hips, pressing him down to the ground. He collapsed again, moaning in pain from the effort.

“Jesus fucking Christ, would you stop moving? I have to take the bullet out of your stomach, and I can’t do that if you keep squirming.”

“It hurts,” John said thickly. “It hurts so much…”

“I know, I know. It’s going to be alright. Just let me get the bullet out, then I can cauterize the wound and bandage it up, okay?”

Through the tears blurring his eyes, John saw the man pinning him down was none other than the Sheriff whose partner he had killed hours earlier. Confusion settled over his mind like a blanket. Why was he here? Why was he helping him?

The Sheriff was a sharp, thin man, with a pointed nose and angular jaw but kind dark eyes, and wavy auburn hair that was slightly disheveled. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a chest coated with scars, and the corner of a bandage over his left shoulder, a red stained hole in his shirt over the same spot. From where you shot him. John blinked a few times to clear his sight and tried to fit the pieces of this strange puzzle together.

“But I- you… you’re helping me?” he asked, voice soft and far more vulnerable than he wanted it to be.

The Sheriff nodded. “I’m trying to. But you need to work with me, okay? I need you to stay still while I get the bullet out.”

John hated that he felt so weak, that he had to entrust his safety and his life to that of a stranger who, for all he knew, wanted him dead. But what other options did he have? He was too weak to fight, and in even less condition to run. He needed help, for the time being. So he nodded his head, and tried to stay as still as possible as this man wedged the belt back between his teeth.

The Sheriff placed a pair of sharp metal tweezers back into the wound. Tears began to stream from John’s eyes the moment they made contact. He couldn’t help the pained whimper that escaped his throat.

“Shhhhh, sh sh sh,” the Sheriff murmured. “I know, I know it hurts. I’m so sorry. Just a second longer…”

John nodded and gritted his teeth against the leather belt. The tweezers tapped against the bullet, lodged deep in his guts, and he let out a small yelp in anticipation of the pain.

“Ah, okay, there it is. Give me a second.”

The tweezers closed around the bullet. And it was agonizing. It was fucking agonizing. Despite his will, another scream was building in his throat as the Sheriff slowly, gently pulled the bullet out of John's wound.

“Almost… almost… there! Got it!”

There was a small plink of metal bouncing off metal as the bullet made contact with a tray at the man’s side. John let out a small whimper as his body went limp. His breathing was hoarse and ragged now, the stress and tension melting away as a new wave of dull pain washed over him.

“Okay. Alright. Shit. Fuck. How am I supposed to clean this out? Mine wasn’t bad, but yours has been through the dirt,” the Sheriff muttered to himself.

“Chew-pon-iv…” John said between ragged breaths.

“What?”

“Lizard tail. A decoction. In my saddlebag. On… on the left side. The corked bottle. It… it'll smell peppery. Strong.”

The Sheriff nodded, stood from where he had been straddling John, and walked over in Akke’s direction, spurs gently clinking as he moved. John was suddenly conscious of the lack of weight on his body, and he realized he could move again. Even with the waves of pain wracking his body, his mind snapped into clear focus.

The Shoshone camp. The Sheriff’s purpose here. Larson’s mission. 

John realized, with a hard swallow, that he had failed. His aim had been to injure the Sheriff enough that he could take him to Larson without a fight. But now here he was, barely strong enough to ride Akke, completely at the mercy of a man he barely knew. At this rate, he would be dragged back to town to be left with some stupid doctor while the Shoshone camp was decimated. He couldn't take the Sheriff prisoner in this state.

But maybe he could kill him.

His shotgun and revolver were too far away. The Sheriff had made the smart choice to disarm him before attempting to treat his wounds. But… he wiggled his right ankle, knocking it against the inside of his boot. Yes! It was still there! A small, bone-handled knife tucked away in the side of his boot. Not big enough to appear as any serious threat, but certainly sharp enough to cause some damage. And if placed correctly- temple, throat, lungs, heart- then John could kill him in one strike.

John breathed in and out shakily.

By the time the Sheriff had retrieved the small bottle of chew-pon-iv from Akke’s saddlebag, John had stumbled to his feet despite the shooting pains in his side, knife in a death grip in his left hand. The Sheriff looked… bewildered. John wasn’t sure what emotions he was expecting to cross his face, but confusion and concern were not one of them.

“Might I ask what you’re doing?”

“I,” John said, trying to breathe through the pain, “am going to kill you.”

The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Well, you certainly did an excellent job of that before.”

“That was a mistake. A mistake I intend to correct.”

“Mmm. I’m sure. I look forward to seeing you try.”

John coughed, then hissed through his teeth at the jolt it brought. He could feel his temper rising up through his chest and face. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough. I know you’re a fairly good shot, and that you were hired to kill myself and my Deputy. I know you were only successful in one of those murders. I also know that you’re in a bit too much pain to try anything right now, so why don’t you lie back down and tell me how I can clean out your wound with this?” the Sheriff asked, holding up the bottle and shaking it lightly.

John didn’t respond, just glared daggers at the man standing across the campfire from him, who in turn, sighed, walked up to him, and pushed him back onto the ground. John was furious. He was about to try standing again, but dizziness hit him like a stampede, and he stayed put. The Sheriff sat down on the ground beside him, moving his shirt out of the way to pour the decoction over the bullet wound.  John hissed.

The Sheriff sighed. “Look, I’m trying to help, alright? Despite the fact that you clearly want me dead. Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s just start over again. My name is Lester. Arthur Lester. I’m the Sheriff of Mountain City.”

“I know that,” John spat, fire and venom burning behind every word. “I know all about you and your kind. That’s why I need to kill you.”

The Sheriff- Arthur- looked confused again. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“The Shoshone camp.”

Arthur tilted his head slightly. “The what?”

John let out a frustrated huff.  “Jesus fucking Christ, the Shoshone camp! The one a few days from here? The one you and your precious Deputy were sent to destroy?”

There was a silence in the conversation, interrupted only by the chirping of distant crickets and the crackle-pops of the fire. Arthur simply stared, but John could see wheels beginning to click into place behind his eyes.

“Wait. You mean- oh. Oh! You think we were going to destroy an Indian encampment? Is that what you were told?”

“Yes, god-fucking-dammit!”

“I see.” Arthur stared in the direction of the fire for a moment, before throwing some metal coins into the hot coals at its edges. There were more gears turning behind those dark eyes, but the nature of them was something John couldn’t say. He began to get the sense that for all his tricks and cleverness, Arthur could still run laps around him.

"It's not true. Parker and I were heading to investigate a stagecoach that was due in Mountain City several days ago that never showed up. It had a large amount of money with it, and some women and children from what we understood. I never even knew there was a Shoshone encampment in this direction."

John was silent as he processed this information. There was a war happening in his mind now, one side saying that Larson lied about his assignments and one saying that this man was lying to spare his rotten, murdering neck. John didn't know which to believe.

After a long moment, Arthur raised his head again and stared out across the plains. “Can I ask who told you that? Or are you not permitted to tell me?”

“I don’t-” John sighed, finally letting his head hit the ground as he stared at the sky overhead. “I don’t know his real name. All I know is that he calls himself ‘The King’.”

“You know, you’re a terrible liar.”

“How do you know I’m lying?”

“I can hear it in your voice. It caught in your throat when you said the word ‘don’t’.”

John rolled his eyes. “I didn’t realize this had turned into a fucking interrogation.”

“I’m a sheriff. It’s my job to know when people aren’t telling the truth.”

“And you can decipher that from voice alone?”

“Well, I can’t exactly decipher it any other way, now that you killed my partner!”

“What do you-” John’s pain-addled mind finally put the pieces together. The lack of focus in Arthur’s eyes, his panic at losing his Deputy, the lack of eye contact during their conversation, his shock when John said he’d been shot…

Arthur Lester, Sheriff of Mountain City, was blind.

“Oh fucking hell,” John breathed, eyes wide in shock.

“Finally caught on, did you?” Arthur said softly, mouth twisted into a sour shape.

“I’m so-”

“If you say you’re sorry, I promise you, I will shoot you here and now and leave your body behind for the vultures. I don’t need pity.”

John bobbed his head. He had felt the same way when Yellow tried to ask about his past at the boarding school, the first time they met. The only difference between that conversation and this was that one had ended with Yellow getting a black eye.

“How did it happen? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It, um. An eye infection. When I was a teenager. Doctors discovered it too late, and by the time they started giving me medication to treat it, my eyesight was already…” Arthur gently moved his hand through the air and whistled, mimicking a leaf being blown by the wind. 

“Damn.”

“Yeah. But that’s besides the point. What’s your story? I don’t even know your name,” Arthur said with a sheepish smile. “Not to mention, you’ve still got an open bullet wound in your side I need to close up.”

Almost in response to Arthur’s words, John’s side spasmed with pain. “Yeah, that’s true,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he sat up and turned to face the man next to him. “You can call me John. John Doe.”

“John Doe. That’s a curious name,” Arthur said, holding his hand out for a shake, which John returned swiftly and firmly.

“I didn’t have any say in the matter, unfortunately. The boarding school chose it for me. I don’t… I can’t remember what my name was before.”

“Ah. I see,” Arthur replied, in a way that made John suspect he had just received confirmation for something he had been thinking about for a while. He waited for John to continue.

John was silent for a moment. He still didn't know who to trust. Larson or the law? Regardless of sides, this strange man had showed him compassion when he was vulnerable and shared an important piece of his story. John decided it was only fair that he shared a little of his own in return.

"About my... employer." John cleared his throat and looked at the sky again. "His real name is Larson. He runs a sort of gang of people like me. Native kids who got shipped off to boarding school and are now too white to go back to our tribes but still too Native to exist in white society.

"He.... offered us a purpose. Something we could do to help our peoples, even if we couldn't go home to them. All we had to do was kill who he asked, rob when he asked, and we would be saving their lives. I guess we thought we were heroes or something."

Arthur's brow was furrowed in thought. "Not Wallace Larson? He's a wanted man, John! Parker and I were trying to track him down for years."

"I don't know his first name. Only the last."

A thoughtful pause stretched between them until a particularly loud pop from the fire seemed to startle Arthur out of his reverie.

“Oh, I think the coins should be hot enough now. Could you, uh…”

“Of course.” John craned his neck to see into the coals. “There’s one resting near the edge of your boot. Slightly to the left. Yes, right there. You’ve got it in the tweezers now.”

“Right. You might want to put the belt back in your mouth, John. This is going to hurt.”

[v-cain]

"Christmas Morning"

A/N: merry fucking christmas *tears down calendar that says it's June* sorry to everyone who requested fics that i blatantly ignored, i have had an excruciatingly stressful year, and i feel like if i wrote said requests they wouldnt turn out the best they could be. ENJOY!!!!! (also fucking finally got around to writing erik omg yaayyyy)

Fandom: X-men

Warnings: Swearing (probably), Dogs, Brief joke about murder, Mentions of alcohol (let me know if i missed any)

Pairings: (All Platonic) Logan Howlett x gn!teen!reader, Hank McCoy x gn!teen!reader, Scott Summers x gn!teen!reader, Kurt Wagner x gn!teen!reader, Jean Grey x gn!teen!reader, Jubilation Lee x gn!teen!reader, Charles Xavier x gn!teen!reader, Erik Lenhsherr x gn!teen!reader

----

It was early on Christmas morning. Scott had woken you up at 6am and dragged you down the stairs to open presents with the rest of your friends. You decided that your present to him this Christmas was not murdering him for this act of treachery (and a small painting of Scott depicted as one of Snow White's dwarves).

You curled up on the couch with your loving dog Edo, half asleep, as everyone exchanged gifts. A pile of presents and wrapping paper were slowly building up on the floor. So far, you had received a pair of fuzzy socks that Kurt had crocheted, the Twilight book series from Jean, a Snow White colouring book from Scott, and a new glitter-pen stationery set from Jubilee. Among those gifts you also had a thick leather-bound notebook from Professor McCoy, "The Art Of War" by Sun-Tzu from Erik, and a pair of novelty dice from the Professor. You weren't sure why you got that last one but you appreciated it all the same. As the group surrounding you chattered and joked, your gaze drifted towards the door. Logan had gone on a trip a few weeks ago, with the promise of being back before Christmas. So far he had yet to make an appearance, which was worrying you, but you tried to focus your thoughts back to your friends.

----

As the day went on, you found yourself glancing over to the door every few minutes, hoping Logan would walk in at any minute. You were currently trying to distract yourself by playing with Edo outdoors in the garden, despite the freezing cold. It wasn't working as well as you had hoped, as your mind still wandered and worried about Logan. Plus, your hands were getting numb.

As you throw a ball for Edo to catch, you hear someone walking up behind you. You turn, and are greeted with the site of Erik Lenhsherr, who has a mixture of a kind look and a "What the fuck are you doing out here in the freezing cold on Christmas?" look on his face. You knew Erik pretty well, despite the fact he had only moved into the mansion a few months ago, and the pair of you shared many pleasant conversations (which were all almost entirely about philosophy, western literature and cat memes.) You turn back around and watch as Edo runs up to you, a happy expression adorning his features.

"Might I ask why you aren't inside with everyone else?" Erik asked, watching Edo drop the ball in front of you, before his gaze turns to you. You pick up the slimy ball and pelt it across the yard. You watch Edo sprint after it, then deciding to say "Just thought I should appreciate nature at it's finest, s'all." You hear Erik sigh, and you turn back around to face him. His smile was gone now, instead replaced by creased eyebrows and a downturned mouth.

Erik shifted his shoulders, pondering what he should say, then sighed again. "I know you miss Logan, Y/N." Your gaze turns to the frost tipped grass as Erik continues, "And I know it's hard not having him here with you on Christmas." Erik pauses before saying "But I also know that if Logan were here, he wouldn't want you outside in the freezing cold, especially not alone." He paused again, then simply said with a small bit of worry evident in his voice "Come back inside, Y/N." You watch as Edo drops the ball further away and chases a bird around. You bite your the inside of your cheek, thinking for a moment, before agreeing "Ok." Erik smiled and patted you on the shoulder. "I'll see you inside." He turned and started walking away, then called after him "And put some gloves on!" You huff a small laugh and then whistle for Edo to come over. 

----

It was now the late evening. Most of the younger kids had gone off to bed a while ago, so the living had the older kids and some of the teachers inside. An old re-run of 'Home Alone' was playing on the crappy TV that looked like it was around longer than Logan. Edo was curled up beside the fireplace, a content look on his face. Jean and Scott were leaning against each other on the couch, talking quietly amongst themselves. Jubilee and Kurt had gone to bed as they both apparently wanted to keep on track with their "sleep schedule", and wouldn't stay up for just another half hour. What a bunch of losers, you thought as you pulled on the socks Kurt crocheted for you.

You walk out of the living room, wandering down the hall towarss the main entrance. As you round the corner, you see the door open and Logan step in, covered in snow and rain. Your once bored expression turns into one of pure glee as you shout "LOGAN!" before barrelling into the man. Logan lets out a small 'oof' as you hug him, you wings wrapped around him. He hugs you back and says in his usual gruff manner "Missed you too, kid." You release him from your death grip and grin up at him, bouncing on the balls of your feet. "I have a present for you!" Logan raises an eyebrow, but before he can question the gift, you grab his hand and start dragging him towards the living room. As you walk, you ask Logan about where he went, and what it was like, and did he see any cute dogs, and did he take any photographs. He tried to keep up with your rapid fire questioning- that he was somewhat used to, after over a year of knowing you- when you arrive in the living room.

As the rest of the room greet Logan and make conversation with him, you walk over to the far corner of the room where you stashed your present for him during the morning. You fished out the present from behind a few books, which was brightly wrapped in pink wrapping paper, and had a pink bow stuck on top. As you turned around (nearly knocking over a vase with your tail due to your enthusiasm) you caught Erik throwing a questioning look at the present. In return you stuck your tongue out at him, to which he rolled his eyes and turned back around to Charles. You walked back over to Logan, who was standing near the fireplace, and stood in front of him. Logan looked down at you and raised an eyebrow when he spotted the present.

You thrust the present into his hands before holding your own behind your back. You smiled, slightly nervous, and said cheerfully "Open it!". Logan carefully unwrapped it, to reveal a mug. He turned the mug around and read the print on it, and laughed heartily. You grinned and laughed a bit yourself. "I'll use it everyday." Logan said, smiling down at the mug. The mug in question read; 'May contain Whiskey, Vodka and/or Beer' You had found it in a novelty gift shop a few months prior and thought it was perfect for Logan.

As you two talked, Logan thought about how grateful he was to have a little brat like you in his life. Sure, you could be a pain in the ass- especially when he was trying to teach you Maths- but you were a sweet kid. He didn't know where he'd be without you, his reminder to keep going and stick around. Meanwhile, you thought about how your life had been tipped upside down like a glass of water when you first entered the school, and then how quickly it was refilled. Your life had become so much better as you built your new home, your new family, that you loved so dearly. You were eternally grateful for your family, and hoped it would stay this way forever- filled with hugs, dogs, jokes, happiness and cat memes. Though, as you were surrounded by your loved ones chattering away, you had the dreading sense of feeling it wouldn't.

[scotianostra]

24th June 1488 saw the coronation at the age of 15 of King James IV arguably the first effective monarch of the House of Stewart.

Young James had been a pawn in the forces that had brought down his father, and was said to have warn an iron belt around his waist in penance.

James was a Renaissance King who spoke several languages including Gaelic, English and French and was keen on arts and learning. Aberdeen University was founded, the printing press came to Scotland and education was made compulsory for barons and wealthy landowners. He spent lavishly on the court and built new halls in Edinburgh and Stirling castles. Edinburgh became main burgh and centre of government and justice.

He successfully settled major feuds between his nobles and between the Highland clans, and ended the hold of the MacDonald who had semi-independently ruled the Western Isles. He supported the Yorkist pretender Perkin Warbeck which provoked a military response from his Henry VII of England. However this was patched up in a truce ‘of perpetual peace‘ in 1502, and his marriage to Margaret Tudor, daughter of Henry VII, in the following year was to ultimately bring the thrones of Scotland and England together.

By 1513 Henry VIII was on the throne of England and fighting in France. Encouraged by Louis XII of France under the ‘Auld Alliance’ James invaded England but the Scots were massacred by the English forces under the Earl of Surrey at the Battle of Flodden Field in Northumberland on 9 September 1513.

Like many of Scotland's nobility, James was killed, there have been many theories about what happened to his body the most likely outcome is after the battle it was taken to Berwick, where it was embalmed and placed in a lead coffin before being transported to London.

The recipient of this gory package was said to have been Catherine of Aragon, first wife of Henry VIII, and in charge of the family business while the English king fought in France.

She, in turn, sent the dead king's surcoat, blood-stained and slashed, to her husband with the recommendation that he use it as a war banner.

The body was left in the monastery of Sheen in Richmond upon Thames unburied due to James having been excommunicated by The Pope for breaking The Treaty of Perpetual Peace. The Monastry was eventually demolished, but nothing is known of what happened to our King.

Legend has it that the skull was removed and used as a football before the master glazier to Elizabeth I took it as a souvenir. Legend also has it that the skull was eventually handed over to the Great St. Michael's Church in Wood Street in the City of London and buried there. The church is long gone, as is the church yard, the latter now occupied by a pub by the name of the Red Herring.

David Ross, historian and convener of The Society of William Wallace must have believed this as he, along with some London friends, had plans to install a plaque to James IV somewhere in Wood Street London. Sadly, big Davie passed away unexpectedly before ambition was never realised.

Other unlikely theories go that James had survived and had gone into exile, or that his body was buried in Scotland. Two castles in the Scottish Borders are claimed as his resting place. The legend ran that, before the Scots charge at Flodden, James had ripped off his royal surcoat to show his nobles that he was prepared to fight as an ordinary man at arms. Robert Lindsay of Pitscottie, writing in the 1570s, claimed that a convicted criminal offered to show him the Kings grave ten years after the battle, but Albany refused.

If David Ross believed it was in London that's good enough for me, but anyone wishing to reflect on this much loved King best go to Flodden Field and pay your respects to all that died there.

[suitov]

Magi birth '24!

Shen Qingqiu threw down what he'd been reading (amateur poetry, ugh -- didn't this shit world have any manhua?) and stared at the wall in stunned, belated realisation. He'd only been followed obsessively around for a whole entire week. How had he not pieced things together sooner?...

🍃

Novice Binghe was meticulous about his chores. If something was worth doing, it was worth doing mindfully. This was why he'd developed a pattern that let him pretend to sweep the entire courtyard diligently, while maximising the time he could spend with his master's window in his line of sight. Just in case Shizun needed anything! Some snacks, some tea, encouragement for bothersome visitors to leave! No task was too small for Shizun's most faithful disciple!

"Oi, Binghe!" bellowed Shizun handsomely from inside. Luo Binghe threw down his broom, starry-eyed.

🍃

The little creep showed up so fast he'd probably been lurking right outside. Shen Qingqiu growled at him to shut the door. He had no plan of attack here. He might as well come out and say it.

"I know it's you, you awful girl."

Luo Binghe smiled blankly up at him. The protagonist's bloody damn halo painted him with an innocent twinkle.

"You can cut the crap. I don't know how you found out about Neo World, let alone got it running before we even finished it, but your little game's up."

He swiped away yet another of those annoying text boxes. The only status message he was interested in was the shutdown confirmation and he knew what that looked like. If someone thought they had a message SO important they could interrupt him about it, that meant he definitely wasn't going to read it.

Luo Binghe's smile was shading into a look of concern.

"Don't give me those big ol' eyes, you harpy! You better tell me what you're up to in here right now or so help me..." He hoped nobody asked him to finish that sentence. Actually, didn't his character have a sword somewhere? He slapped away another warning prompt. Yeah, everyone here was some kind of martial arts monk, right?

He wondered who the hell had introduced the pestering witch to xianxia. She was usually more into trashy Western movies. But that wasn't the point.

"Shizun... is suffering a qi deviation?" asked Binghe, whose lower lip was now distinctly wobbling.

"I, uh, yeah, whatever that is! Medical emergency. So shut down the simulation right now, before I get even more deviant, or whatever."

"This disciple will get help!" squeaked Binghe, already scampering off.

"Hey, wait! Get back here, you damn--!" Shen Qingqiu set out after him, giving up after a couple of steps. "Dammit, hold it, Ryoko!"

Gnashing his teeth, and ignoring the sudden commotion heading his way, Shen Qingqiu flung his fan across the half-swept yard and wished it were a scalpel.

[withlovewriting]

All I Ever Knew, Only You 1: Bye Bye, Benny

Chapter One.

You were riding your bike to the sound of ‘It’s No Big Deal’, And you’re trying to lift off the ground on those old two wheels, Nothing ‘bout the way that you were treated ever seemed especially alarming till now, So you tie up your hair and you smile like it’s no big deal.

Summary: Hawkins was your typical quaint, mid-western town where nothing ever happened. People were born here, lived their entire lives within the town limits and eventually died here, peacefully in their sleep. But one cold November evening in 1983 would change everything. 

Despite a child with psychokinetic abilities, and ravenous monsters that lacked faces, stranger things had definitely happened in the small town in Indiana. One of them being your reluctant and slightly imposed friendship with Hawkins High’s own King Bee, Steve Harrington.

Characters: Steve Harrington x Non-descriptive F!Reader (eventual)

Words: 4,983

Chapter Warnings: Strong language, alcohol abuse, child abuse, mentions of possible mental health disorders, typical season 1 mean-girl Steve and his little gang of assholes. An offensive term to specific religion, i guess. Also apologies, first chapters are awkward and just plot building but there ya go.

Series Warnings: Strong language, mentions of underage drinking, mentions of drug use, canon-typical violence, mentions of alcohol abuse, mentions of possible mental health disorders, child abuse, slow burn, kinda enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, I like to call it ‘two idiots who begrudgingly befriend each other only to realize... ‘wait a damn minute...’, eventual sexual content, canon-typical time-period bullshit. 18+. Minors DNI.

Next Chapter

Masterlist

(art)

Chapter One: Bye Bye, Benny.

Your legs moved faster than ever before, calves crying out in pain as your lungs burned, feeling like you hadn’t taken a proper breath in forever. But you still continued to push forward, dodging the oncoming vehicle and pedestrians as best you could. A car slammed on their breaks, horn blaring through the bustling streets during the late evening causing you to wobble slightly, hands gripping the handle bars of your bike so tightly you were sure you’d be able to pull them off completely.

Once you had regained your balance, you held up a hand, a silent sorry to the passing car as the driver shouted obscenities that you didn’t have time to be offended by. Just as you passed the coroners office, a loud whoop, whoop sounded behind you, the red and blue lights lighting up the ever darkening evening.

Shit, you mumbled to yourself, head darting around to watch as the officer stuck his hand out of the window, flagging you down. Well, you were definitely going to be late now.

Stopping alongside the side walk, one dirty converse perched on the curb to balance yourself, you waited as he slowly approached you, taking his sweet time. Of course, it wouldn’t be Callahan, the man gullible enough that you could easily spin a tale and get yourself out of this quickly, or even officer Powell, the man much more commanding than the former yet still not as assertive — or nosy — as the man in the unsightly beige uniform that was walking towards you.

“Kid, do you know how recklessly you were riding?”

Tilting your head backwards, face scrunched up slightly, you tried to suppress the annoyance that was bound to seep through your voice, “Hop, listen-”

“You almost caused two separate road traffic accidents, and don’t even think I didn’t see you almost wipe out Mrs. Lloyd.”

“Hopper, I-”

“I should take this damn thing off you, throw it in the junk yard where it belongs. Looks like this piece of shit is falling apart.”

“Are you gonna give me a ticket? Because if you are, can we speed this thing along and maybe save the whole responsibility talk for next time.”

Raising a brow, Jim sent you an incredulous look, “Next time?”

Rolling your eyes, you finally released the pent up, frustrated sigh, “ You know what I mean.”

Mumbling under his breath, Jim took off his slightly off-color hat before gripping his leather belt, hands firm on his hips, “Look, kid. You’re on a bike, which means you’re not gonna win any fight you decide to pick that day with a car. You might not give a shit, but I could really do without the extra paperwork. So stop riding like you’ve just robbed a bank.”

Nodding along with the man, you hoped your silent agreement would make this exchange go by at least a little quicker.

“I’m giving you a verbal warning, alright? If I have even one more complaint about a delinquent teenage cyclist bowling over old ladies in the street, I’ll personally arrest you myself and make you fill out the complaints paperwork. Got it?”

“Got it, chief.”

You couldn’t help but imagine how boring his job must be — especially since moving back from New York — to even bother with a cycling non-incident.

“Now, grab you bike and throw it in the back, if you’re in such a rush my car will get you there a lot quicker than that rusted piece of junk.”

Doing as he said, you then joined him in the car, the man glaring at you until you remembered to buckle your seat belt. Eventually, he pulled away, and you directed him towards Oak street.

“So, hows your Mom doing?”

His comment was meant to come off as flippant, uninterested in your actual answer and just trying to fill the silence. But you’d had your fair share of interactions with Jim Hopper since he crawled back to Hawkins in 1979, as had your mother.

He’d vehemently deny it if he was ever asked, but Jim Hopper — in all of his gruff, cynical glory — had a soft underbelly. He didn’t care about much any more. Not his job, not himself, nor any family, but in the few months he’d had some kind of relationship with your mother, he had unwittingly taken on a role in your life that had been missing for so, so long. So, what did it matter if he checked in every now and then?

Shuffling uncomfortably, you peered out of the passenger window, hoping he wouldn’t push too hard, “She’s fine. Got a cold, at the moment, so…Can’t exactly make it into work right now.”

“You’re covering for her again? You really shouldn’t be out late, and especially not on a school night-”

“She’s not well, Hop. A lecture won’t pay the bills.”

Despite reading between the lines, Hopper shut his mouth, even for just a moment before changing the subject, “No car tonight?”

“Mom forgot to get gas after work last night.”

“I thought she was too ill to work.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you couldn’t have been more happy to see the shitty, run down bar you’d be spending the next couple of hours. Barely letting the man come to a full stop, you hopped out of the car before struggling to pull your bike out of the trunk without scuffing the police vehicle,

“Thanks for the ride, Hop.”

As if it took him a moment to realize you’d even exited the car, he quickly rolled down his window, “You’re not even old enough to be in there-”

It was safe to say your ride home from covering your mother’s shift wasn’t as fast paced, or exciting, as your previous journey.

You felt exhausted after a long day working at the arcade, revising for a stupid chemistry test that Mr. Kaminsky seemed determined to make half of the class fail, and then rushing like a mad man toward The Hideout, a long 6 hour shift bussing tables for old men who seemingly had boundary issues when it came to teenage girls. If it wasn’t for Thomas, the owner, you might’ve had another run in with the chief, certain you’d of stuck a fork through one of Mr Hanson’s wandering hands.

Turning down Morehead Street, you were almost relieved to be home. Almost.

All you wanted to do was shower off the smell of stale beer and greasy burgers and flop into bed. This wasn’t exactly how you’d wanted to spend your Sunday.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the lurking feeling of uneasiness crawled up your throat, the familiar, yet uncertain apprehension causing you to slow to a stop outside of the large, blue house that sat at the other end of your street. Hauntingly intimidating, the formidable house had sat abandoned since before you were even born. Children would often dare each other to play ding-dong-ditch, especially around Halloween, but nobody to your knowledge had actually made it much further than the path that led toward the rotten porch stairs. It had been boarded up since before you could remember, and nobody seemed all that bothered to disrupt it, the memories of what happened there more than two decades ago settled like the dust that was sure to line the floorboards inside.

Despite the desolate appearance in the daytime, the house only looked even more daunting in the shadows that lingered in the night, crawling their way over the house to leave it in almost total darkness.

Swallowing down the lump of uneasiness, you placed your foot back onto the pedal, ready to push off when you heard something. Your head swiveled back toward the large house, eyes wide and inquisitive, certain you’d heard voices.

Maybe the teenagers of Hawkins had finally become brave enough to step forth into the house, or maybe it was the ghosts of the slain family. Either way, you weren’t hanging around to find out, cycling home a little faster than before as you willed yourself to not peer back at the house for one last look, too worried about what, or who, you might find staring back.

Leaving your bike in the front yard — it was Hawkins, after all and the only thing more boring than the teenagers in this town, was the workload, or lack thereof, for the police — you quietly made your way up the creaky, half-rotten porch steps, all too aware of the television blaring so loudly from the living room that you could hear it from outside.

After taking a moment to prepare yourself, you finally pushed the door open, silently grumbling about how your mother always left it unlocked, regardless the time of day. Creeping toward the archway leading to the living room, you caught sight of your mother slumped on the sofa, eyes heavy from more than just sleep, but somehow still conscious. Stepping into the room, you called out for her, hoping she’d hear you over the loud laughter from whatever bullshit show she was half-watching.

“Mom?”

Her head turned, eyebrows raised as if she was surprised anyone had entered the house at all, before her glossed over eyes narrowed, pointing the empty bottle in her hand in your direction, “Where the hell have you been?”

It took everything in you not to release a frustrated sigh, telling her that you had in fact been covering her shift in order to guarantee you’d be able to keep the heating on this month. Winter in Indiana was a bitch and you were certain neither of you would survive another year without at least a mildly-warm house.

“I was working, Mom. C’mon, lets get you to bed-”

“Were you late? Cause you know they dock my wage by a whole hour if you’re even a fuckin’ minute late.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shook your head, avoiding her eyes, “No, Mom. I wasn’t late. I-”

“Fuckin’ liar!” Standing, your mother wobbled on uncertain legs much like a newborn foal as she stumbled toward the telephone, where the answering machine blinked a devious, betraying red. Your mother almost looked too happy that she’d caught you in a lie as her clumsy pointer finger pushed hard at the button, playing the message out loud,

‘Rebecca, this is Thomas. You’re late for your shift, again. You better be on your way, I swear to god, this is the last fucking time. And you better not send your kid, again. I’m sick of it, Bec. So unless your face-down in your own vomit somewhere, you better be in work within the next 10 minutes, or- Oh, hey sweetheart-’

Bottle still in hand, your mother floundered toward you, nose scrunched in annoyance and distrust, as if you’d lied to her about something so much worse, like smashing up the car, or god forbid, pouring one of her beloved bottles down the kitchen sink.

Thankfully, by the time she reached you, she’d not only half forgotten what she was mad about, but wouldn’t be able to work out which one of you she saw to swing at. So instead, you took her gently by the shoulders, ushering her toward her bedroom. She collapsed onto her bed face-first and rather ungraciously her fingertips still gripping the empty bottle as if her life depended on it, and by the time you’d placed a throw blanket over her body, soft snores were already escaping her.

Despite your mother now being out cold, you still closed your bedroom door as quietly as possible, the fear that you’d manage to wake her up too ingrained in you to do anything but.

Keeping the light off, you sprawled out onto your own bed, deciding to forgo the shower and overflowing laundry basket that had been calling out to you most of the week.

Deciding to shower when you awoke in the morning, you didn’t have a choice but to drive your mother’s old Fiat Brava to school, knowing you’d be late otherwise.

Grumbling at yourself for not finding time to do the laundry, you dug deep into your drawers, trying to find something both suitable for school, knowing half of the clothes were creeping up on being too small for you. But money was sparse in your household, and an oversized jacket that you were yet to grow into had sufficed so far.

Pulling out a blue blouse that you absolutely knew was too small, meaning you would be pulling down the sleeves all day in an attempt to stop them ending up halfway up your forearm, you knew it would have to do. 

Leaving with barely enough time to fill up the coffee pot in hopes your mother would be drawn to the bitter smell rather than the temptation of the alcohol cupboard, you remained just under the speed limit, gnawing at your lip for the entirety of the drive.

School was dragging by, every minute feeling like an hour, and you knew clock-watching wouldn’t help, the gentle tick, tick, tick lulling you into a drowsy mess as you tried your best to keep your attention on your school work.

Making your way toward your locker, ready to dump half of your books out and enjoy your free period sleeping in the library, you saw Barb staring off down the hallway, her eyebrows pulled together as she watched Nancy turn the corner in a hurry.

“Everything OK?” You asked, causing her to jump slightly, head whipping toward you.

Relaxing as she realized it was you, she released an annoyed sigh, “It’s like he calls and she goes running. Literally.”

“You mean Harrington?”

“She’s still denying they’re even a thing.”

Your eyes remained in the direction of where Nancy had disappeared to, the hallways clearing out as people prepared for their next lesson, “Nancy’s a smart girl. She knows what he’s like.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Barb sighed, pushing her glasses to sit a little higher on the bridge of her nose, “He’s gonna use her, and dump her, and she’ll end up hurt. Just like every other girl he’s dated.”

“Dated is a very loose term,” you joked, Converse heel digging into the hard floor when Barb didn’t quite appreciate the joke, “He’ll get bored eventually, alright? He always does. But Nancy’s not an idiot. I highly doubt she really thinks he’s gonna be the love of her life, or even her date to prom if his reputation is anything to go by.”

When Barb remained silent, her top teeth worrying at her bottom lip you sighed, “Hey, if he hurts her, we can always key his car. Or set his hair on fire. God knows it’s got enough product in it to go up like a bonfire.”

That, at least, caused a smile to pull at Barb’s lips. Feeling satisfied that you’d at least kind of cheered the girl up, you left your friend with a reassuring pat on the shoulder before making your way down the long hallway.

Pushing the bathroom door open, you came to a halt almost right away, body colliding with the same person you’d just been shit talking for the last five minutes.

“Watch where you’re going-”

Scoffing at the boy, you pushed him away slightly, “This is the girl’s restroom, nimrod. You watch where you’re going.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve lent back against the wall slightly, hands grasped at his hips, “Nice shirt, but I think you’re shopping in the wrong age department of the Goodwill.”

“Says the person wearing a polo. Mommy pick it out at the GAP?”

Your stand off would’ve continued for much longer, had the second bell not have rung. Grabbing his yellow gym bag from the floor, he brushed past you with an annoyed glare, “It’s a vintage H R Robinson’s.”

God, he was such an ass.

Word about Will Byers’ disappearance had spread around town quicker than the time Mrs. Hunt’s husband had been caught balls deep in his receptionist at the local car dealership.

After returning home, your mother was nowhere to be found and to say you spent your night pacing around and doing absolutely anything to take your mind off the fact she was gone, was an understatement.

Your laundry was washed, dried and shoved back into your drawers, homework finished in record time and by 9pm you were certain you were a chemistry master. At least, you would’ve been, had any of the information stuck in your brain, instead using your notes as nothing more than a distraction.

So when the sound of shoes kicking up rocks and unsettling the gravel on your driveway roused you from your light sleep, you felt your heart finally settle back down to a normal speed as your mother carelessly stumbled down the path, slamming the front door shut behind her — still not learning to lock it — before making her way to her own bedroom.

Peering at your clock, the illuminating numbers spelled out 4am, causing you to release a long sigh before rolling over, hoping that you wouldn’t sleep through your alarm, less so for the fear of being late to school, and more-so for the fear of your mother’s hungover wrath if it woke her up instead.

Shoving a few books into your locker, you felt too mentally drained to even bother with the chemistry test, and if it didn’t count for half of your grade that semester, then you probably would’ve skipped.

The doors at the end of the corridor opened, the cool November wind slipping in behind a head of brown, scraggly hair, and you felt your heart plummet. Closing your locker, you heaved your half-empty messenger bag over your body and made your way towards the boy,

“Hey, Jonathan.”

The boy peered back at you, a strained smile on his face as he struggled holding everything in his hands and attempting to pin one of the papers to the board, “Oh, hey.”

Taking the papers from under his arm, you tried to send him a reassuring smile, “I, uh… I heard about Will. He’s a smart kid… He’ll be back soon, he’s probably just… hiding out, you know.”

Jonathan’s smile grew meeker, “Yeah… Yeah, I’m sure he will. It’s just not like him, you know? He’s not the kind of kid to just run off.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, eyes peering down at one of the many sheets you held for him, the boy’s smile wide and genuine. You didn’t know, though. You felt like you barely knew Jonathan, let alone Will. The eldest of the siblings, you’d met during your quick stint working at the cinema down town. You had similar music taste, bonding over your disdain for the popular kids in school, and he’d even taught you how to properly change the pump for the buttered popcorn. Your job there had only lasted a few months, but your friendship with Jonathan had lasted a lot longer. But it wasn’t like you two sat around braiding each others hair.

He was quiet and meek, whilst you were indifferent and aberrant. At least, that’s what your mother had always called you. You had perfected the art of acting like you didn’t care, and Jonathan seemed to not care at all. He kept to himself, and that’s how he liked it. You had bulldozed your way into his life, pouring flat half-cups of Coca-Cola and stale barely buttered popcorn and given him no real chance but to accept your sudden appearance. He took it in his stride, at least. But he remained quiet and shy, nonetheless.

“Hey,” a small, familiar voice called from behind you. Turning, you both send Nancy a small smile. Handing the papers back to the boy, you gave them space to talk, ready to make your way towards Kaminsky’s classroom in hopes of looking over your notes one last time.

Barb, however, had another idea, her arm halting you mid-stride before you could pass, “How is he?”

Before you could answer, you could hear the snickering of the three people to your left, “Yeah, hows he doing? Heard guilt can really tear a person down from the inside, out.”

Watching as Tommy’s face broke out into a large grin, the boy finding himself all too funny, your eyebrows pulled together in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about, Hagan?”

“He’s talking about the rumor that your boyfriend over there had something to do with his brother’s disappearance,” Steve explained, his eyes still set on his girlfriend, “Might wanna be careful. I wouldn’t be in any rooms alone with him.”

Scoffing, you crossed your arms over your chest, eyes darting toward Jonathan, Nancy, their eyes soft and sweet, and then back to Steve, an insolent smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, “I think if anyone needs to be worried, it’s you, Harrington.”

Steve’s dark eyes darted toward you, and you made a point of looking back at his girlfriend, eyebrows raised as the smile broke onto your face. Deciding you’d had enough, you strolled down the hallway, ignoring Steve’s confused calls of your name.

“Absolutely not,” you shook your head, sucking in a deep inhale of smoke, trying your best to aim it away from your friend as you blew it out, “The last thing I intend to do tonight is go to a lame-ass party at Harrington’s house. I’d rather fry my own eyeballs.”

Barb pouted, her eyes widening as they silently pleaded with you, causing you to turn your attention to the cigarette between your fingers,

“You have to come, please. I really, really don’t want to the the 3rd wheel tonight.”

Rolling your eyes at the girl’s dramatics, you sucked in another deep breath, the smoke burning your lungs slightly, “You won’t be a 3rd anything, Carol and Tommy will be there, too.”

“Ugh, 5th wheel, then. Please? I really don’t want to spend my entire evening there alone.”

“And I don’t want to spend even a second of my time there, at all. Why don’t you just tell Nancy no, for once? Put your foot down? I mean, she’ll be swapping spit with Harrington all night either way.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Barb send you an exasperated sigh, “You know I can’t do that.”

Your hand halted mid-way to your mouth, cigarette burning right down to the end, leaving you only faintly aware of the slight pain, but your eyes were focused on Barb. Of course, you knew Barb couldn’t — and wouldn’t — let Nancy go to this party alone. And you knew why, too. But that didn’t mean you had to be dragged along too, did it?

Dropping the butt of your cigarette onto the floor and crushing it with your worn sneaker, you frowned, forehead creasing as you sighed, staring off into the distance, “Oh my god, fine. I’ll go. But only for an hour, and then I’m out.”

Barb had never looked more grateful, pulling you into a strong hug and thanking you a million times.

Unable to not smile back at the girl, you shook your head, “Who even has a party on a Tuesday night?”

The plan was for Barb to pick you up at 8pm, along with Nancy. The girls had told their parents that you would all be studying at the library before sleeping over Nancy’s house. It was only a half-truth at best, and one that needn’t be repeated for your own mother.

Around 5pm you drove out towards Randolph lane, deciding to grab some burgers for yourself and your mother, hoping that it would at least sober her up whenever she wandered in that evening. Grumbling, you realized you still hadn’t topped up on gas, and decided that after you’d hit the gas station before heading home, hoping you still had some change in the car.

Pulling into the parking lot, a frown pulled at your features, dipping your brows towards each other. The lights were shut off, and as you approached the door, you almost bounced right off it, realizing a little too late that it was locked. Jiggling the door handle a few times, you knocked on the glass. Sure, Benny could’ve closed up early… But Benny never closed up early. Not even on week nights. He was always open for the evening rush normally fueled by hungry teens and loitering pre-teens.

“Benny? You in there?” Rasping your knuckles against the door one last time, you huffed, annoyed that your plan of an easy dinner and been thwarted. Before you turned to return to your car, something through the darkened window caught your eye.

It was definitely a figure at the table, but not quiet sat… More-so slumped. Backing away from the window a little too quickly, you stumbled off the deep curb, falling backwards onto the concrete. Eyes wide as you pushed yourself back, you managed to heave yourself up before taking off across the road, heading into the gas station.

The bell rang as the door bounced off the wall, hinges squeaking as the owner, Earl, turned his annoyed glare in your direction, “Careful with the damn door-”

Upon seeing your panicked face, Earl quickly made his way around the counter, brows pulled together in a frown as he held his hands out, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“I think… I think something’s wrong with Benny-”

“Benny? Benny Hammond? I saw him yesterday, he’s fine-”

Shaking your head, your eyes whipped back toward the diner, “No, I… I don’t know. I came to get dinner, but it’s closed, so I looked through the window and I think… I think I can see him.”

Earl’s eyes darted between yourself and the diner, concern and skepticism evident on his features, “Right. I’m gonna go check it out, you get on the phone to the Sheriff. But I swear to God kid, if this is some stupid teenage prank-”

Perched on the wall just outside the diner, your leg bounced erratically as you waited for Hopper to return from inside. He’d arrived within 30 minutes, Powell to his left and Callahan to his right, and a face stormier than a rain cloud.

It didn’t take 10 minutes after his arrival for the fire department and ambulance to turn up, backdoor open as they carried out a stretcher.

“What happened, kid?” Hopper’s once dour expression had melted away, smoothing out into something slightly softer, though his frown remained. Maybe, after so many years, his face was stuck like that, you wondered.

Shrugging, your teeth worried at your bottom lip for a moment, “I came to get dinner. The door was locked and… Benny never shuts this early.”

Nodding, Hopper scribbled something down on his notepad before turning his attention back to you, swallowing uncomfortably at your tremulous voice, “Then what?”

“I thought it was weird… Knocked on the door a few times, but I didn’t get a response. So I looked through the gap in the curtains and… I don’t know. I saw someone leaning over a table. I didn’t know what was going on so I went and got Earl. He said to call you guys.”

“Alright. Look, I’ll have to take an official statement, but that can wait until tomorrow. Why don’t you-”

Before Hopper could finish his sentence, your attention was pulled away by the door opening, the familiar bell above it ringing like it always did. Two paramedics rolled out the stretcher, a large white sheet stretched across a white, zipped bag. A body bag.

Feeling your stomach lurch half-way up your throat whilst your heart dropped the other way, you couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath, body all but toppling off the wall and thankfully into the arms of Hopper.

Sure, he’d seen a lot of shit during his time in New York, but they had all been strangers and that seemed much easier to disassociate from and get the job done. But Benny… Well, they went way back. They were friends.

Despite Hop’s insistence to not look, you couldn’t help but turn your head, watching as they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance and carted off toward the morgue.

The last suicide in Hawkins had been in October of 1961, and despite not even being born then, you knew all too well about it. It had been your Grandmother, after all.

Crazy old Colette, the town had so lovingly referred to her as. Lost her husband in the war as well as her mind and never got either back. And, of course, instead of helping, the town simply ignored and gossiped, watching as she wandered around town at all hours, jittery and talking to herself, shouting that the ‘end was nigh’.

What was strange, however, was your family weren’t particularly religious. Your mother only worshiped the God she found at the bottom of a bottle, and you couldn’t even guess the last time you’d stepped inside the town’s chapel. Sure, Hawkins had it’s fair share of bible bashers — typically the overprotective PTA moms and their husbands who would frequently break their marriage vows whenever they headed out of town — but your family weren’t exactly known for their love of Jesus Christ. Or any other higher being, for that matter.

You had frequently wondered if that was the start of your mother’s downward spiral, the loss of her father and consequently her mother too, her drinking only exacerbated when your father headed out for a pack of Embassy Gold cigarettes one evening and apparently got lost on his way home, ending up in Georgia, or Colorado, or wherever the hell he was now.

Worse than that, however, was the torment that maybe whatever had caused your Grandmother to lose herself was hereditary, trickling down through the generations of your family right to the very bottom.

To you.

[ghostoffuturespast]

No Friday field notes last week? 🥺👉👈 tell me one cool nature thing you saw last week. Saturday I got to see up close near my porch a robin with a beakful of worms. It's funny how they just kinda hang out and wobble with how they hold them. I also saw a wasp crawling along my sliding glass door so I got to get an up close look at its little face.

Oh! And Friday after my tattoo I heard a common nighthawk!!!!

Hey! Lol, I didn't realize the field notes would be missed so much! 🌿🌱🐣 🧡 Makes my little nature heart happy to hear though.

I try to do the field notes weekly, but there are times when I just might not have the gas to get to them. Summer is the busiest time for me work wise and this past month has been insane. Tail-end of field trip season, so I probably saw several hundred K-12 students in the span of 2 weeks, got sick, and then I've been coordinating installation and maintenance for a native plant garden.

June is gonna be even crazier because I've got back to back weeks of summer day camp (which I still need to put the agendas together for by like tomorrow lmfao), prepping for a booth at a comic-con, planning a community art event, field restoration workdays, more garden stuff, and I'm taking a plant identification course too, but the classes are on one of my days off, so I will technically only have one day off a week for the entire month... I will do my best to keep posting these regularly (because I do love doing them), but if I skip a week, just know it's probably because I passed out and am taking a nap.

Aw, mama Robin with worms! They are very cute when they are out hunting for food and I've seen quite a few out my office window this past spring. Bug faces are so fascinating to see up close, getting them to stay still long enough to get a good look is the hardest part though. Saw a neat metallic green Thread-waisted Wasp the other day (no idea on the species) , striking and beautiful! And a Common Nighthawk! I've yet to see or hear one, so that is very cool that you did.

What else have I seen... Lots of baby Bunnies and Prairie Dogs (all adorable), and the Bald Eagle chicks in the (4?) nests we've been monitoring are all fledging too which is very exciting! They're all getting ready to leave the nests. And the Pronghorn mamas are all about ready to pop, so hopefully we'll be spotting some babies soon.

Late spring flowers are starting to bloom here on the prairie! Rocky Mountain Columbine (Aquilegia caerulea) on the left and Western Wild Rose (Rosa woodsii) on the right. I'm very proud of those Columbines because they were incredibly sad when I planted them last year and they didn't flower. But they bloomed this year!

On my home brew native plant garden project, I'm happy to report I did manage to get 12 out of the 14 species I planted to germinate, with roughly 50% success rate, which is pretty good. (The seeds for the Little Bluestem and the Winterfat I think were blanks unfortunately, so I'll try again next season.) And my vegetable garden is getting there too. Snap peas and zucchini!

But, yeah, getting ready to blow half a paycheck on plant starts for my front yard lol...

[tiktaalic]

im moving to dfw from seattle this summer. impart your wisdom, if you would

It ROCKS to live in a real city. The factory in deep ellum in Dallas is a lovely little music venue. Denton’s a college town so it has a killer music scene. Bishop arts district was lovely when I was a kid idk how it looks in the last decade tho. Whataburger is Fine but the important thing is it’s open at 2 am when you’re drunk. The Fort Worth zoo is better than the Dallas zoo and it’s one of the best in the country. Carshon’s is an awesome Jewish cash only deli over by the zoo. Dallas has the biggest and first half price books store and across the street is a little family owned German restaurant where they play accordion on Friday/sat nights. I never kicked around in Dallas too much but Fort Worth has a pretty robust museum district. The Amon carter ROCKS it’s a free art museum with a bunch of classical exhibits and you only have to pay if you want to see some specific temporary installation. I saw Judith slaying holofernes there (not there anymore) it fucking rocks. Honestly I don’t find the stockyards that impressive I would just spend the $12 bucks on the cowgirl museum or some other western museum there are plenty. The perot is awesome and in Dallas. The stock show is fine it’s like any other little fair/carnival. Good way to kill a weekend if you need to kill a weekend. The state fair is crazy go see that thing. Oh there’s a beautiful on the water sculpture let me find it hold on. The fair park lagoon.

It of course goes without saying that you can’t throw a rock without hitting a restaurant that’ll blow your dick off. Ummmm. If you’re driving in Dallas. Stay safe out there. Anecdotally I’ve seen more drivers weave like assholes in the pnw but Dallas is sometimes a 90 mph minimum in the right lane kind of situation. BUGS ARE REAL ! You will hear cicadas for the first time in your life it’s a beautiful summer experience. Skeeter spray a must if you’re outside after like 5pm. There’ll be like PSAs on billboards or mailing adverts about How To Prevent Mosquitoes. Basically don’t have any standing water in your yard and you’re good. House geckos :-). If you’re in the city you don’t have to worry about ticks or snakes but they do exist and are something to be wary of if you’re ever called to tromp through the woods. You are going to find summers unbearable. Everybody’s gonna have AC you’ll be fine inside but you are going to complain about triple degree summers and how you can’t go outside. Nothing to do about that one except carry around 64 oz ice water to drink and pour on your head. Liquor laws are stricter which means no hard alcohol in gas stations / convenience stores / grocery stores you have to go to a liquor store. Also you can’t buy alcohol before noon on Sunday. Oh my god. The sun. You’re going to see the sun soooooo much. And there’ll be thunderstorms! Also Dallas Fort Worth Are two different cities 45 minutes apart that you have to drive through Other real cities to get to each other through. Seattle on the left DFW on the right. For comparison.

Also like. You know how the i5 corridor is like. Okay I’m driving through the woods for 3 hours and seeing a town every hour I can get gas 10 exits from now. Highways in texas between Dallas and Fort Worth are like ok I’m driving past flat yellow field and there’s a gas station at every exit for the next 30 exits. Different if you leave DFW! You can get empty field stretches coming in and out of houston and on your way to west texas and pretty much any drive longer than an hour that’s not. Straight from Dallas to Fort Worth. I loveeee the local public radio station. KXT I still listen to it in my car daily. Um. That’s my list of #cultural differences. And places to go 👍

[gunkreads]

I sacked the fuck up and watched episode 1 of season 2.

Honestly? It's pretty good. I do agree with the incredibly well-considered and thorough commentary about how incredibly stupid it is to have Nynaeve train with a sword, not to mention how incongruous that scene felt within the show's canon and how pace-breaking it was, but besides that, it was honestly nice! Everyone and everything look(s) great. Acting is stellar as usual.

I definitely had an easier time forgetting to track book divergences than I did in S1, so the complete abandonment of canon was totally chill this time.

That said, there are a couple quick things:

Biggest gripe right up front, and one that is either going to sound INCREDIBLY stupid or VERY salient depending on what your priorities are when reading the books: the fights are too cool. I say this as a huge fan of wuxia, martial arts, and western action movies: I want less visually impressive fights. Jordan was the absolute reigning king of "violence is bad and stupid and scary and incredibly, incredibly uncool". It's a major part of why I like his writing--not only that I like that he sees things that way, but that it means he inverts a lot of tropes by completely disconnecting glory from violence. The show doesn't have that misgiving. The show very much says "stand here and watch this fight." To its immense credit, the show makes the fights very tense, knock-down-drag-out mud fights, leaning on the fear aspect, which is as much as I should hope for in a media landscape that really, really demands cool shit. I still want less effort to be put into making the fights elegantly choreographed and more effort into making them chaotic and scary. No, I don't know how to do that. Yes, I'm making up problems here. Yes, I'm griping "oh the show isn't made exactly the way I want it in my head." However: yes, I think that the portrayal of violence in any Wheel of Time adaptation is an incredibly important litmus test for me to know if the people adapting it have similar priorities to me.

S2E1 has several dialogue lines about how quiet Lan is, which feels very self-contradictory with how chatty he was in S1. Maybe that's still a comparison to book canon, but he was fairly open and talkative in S1, so if they're trying to course-correct that in S2, it's being done in the form of a very light retcon. Which is... fine, whatever, just a little weird.

Perrin's letter threw me off a lot, actually. I couldn't tell how much, if at all, it'd been censored by the Tower, but regardless, the prose in it felt very weird coming from such a physical character who doesn't seem to express much interest in writing or reading. He's read most of the same books as Rand (the Two Rivers' resident literature nerd), yeah, but that's book canon, so show-canon Perrin's written voice being that highfalutin--for lack of a better word--felt off.

Elyas was interesting. Fusing him and Hurin is understandable, but a little sad, if only because I like Hurin and his minor role in the story. It's fine, though. I liked Elyas' thousand-yard-stare--that was a wonderful acting decision. He felt simultaneously calm and jumpy in a very fun and interesting wild-man way.

The lantern scene would've been, in my opinion, a much better (if cliched) place to end the episode.

The one point of book divergence that did kind of catch me, though, was the fight between Lan and the Myrddraal. It felt like two things happened there: one, Myrddral got way easier to kill (mechanically and logistically, cut off their heads and they die style); and two, Lan got way worse at killing them. It's a really weird gripe, since the two functionally cancel each other out, so pay it little mind.

But yeah I had a good time.

[stephensmithuk]

The Empty House

Published in 1903, this was the first Holmes short story for a decade. Doyle had previously released - in a serial format - The Hound of the Baskervilles, which was set before "The Final Problem".

ACD had become Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by this point, honoured in the 1902 Coronation Honours, arguably for a pro-Boer War short work he wrote. That's what he believed in any event.

This is the first story in The Return of Sherlock Holmes and the second that we've covered - we did "The Second Stain" previously because Baring-Gould's chronology puts it quite early.

Park Lane, as I might have mentioned previously, is a highly desirable street and is the equivalent of Park Place on the London Monopoly board.

"Honourable" is the courtesy title used for the younger sons of earls; it's also used by most members of the House of Commons. Insert joke about politicians here.

Carstairs is a village in South Lanarkshire Scotland. It is best known in British railway circles as a major junction and the place where the London to Edinburgh & Glasgow sleeper is split up, a section for each destination.

Expanding bullets were also known as dum-dum bullets after the Indian city of Dum Dum where some of them were made. The hollow point is a more modern version. The nastier injuries that they cause led to their banning from use in warfare in the 1899 Hague Convention, but they remain legal for law enforcement use, it being argued there is less risk of harm to bystanders as the bullet will not pass through.

Baritsu is possibly a typo for Bartitsu, a martial art invented by Edward William Barton-Wright, an engineer who had spent three years living in Japan. Combining elements of boxing, cane fighting, jujitsu and Frence kickboxing, it faded into obscurity during the 20th century before making something of a small comeback in the 21st.

Mecca, then under Ottoman rule, is closed to non-Muslims and the Ahmadiyya movement (seen as heretics). Holmes likely followed some other Westerners by getting in disguised as a Muslim.

The "Khalifa" was Abdallahi ibn Muhammad, a figure who tried to set up an Islamic caliphate in Sudan and the surrounding area at this time (1893). He faced an Anglo-Egyptian invasion in 1896-1899, lost and then engaged in a final stand at the Battle of Umm Diwaykarat in October 1899. To make use of a famous phrase, the other side had Maxim guns and he did not; the battle was massively one-sided, resulting in his death.

The "Jew's harp" is a mouth harp. It's probably from Siberia.

"Journeys end in lovers' meetings" is from Twelfth Night.

A shikari is a big game hunter.

Charasiab was an 1879 battle between the British and Indian Army on one side, with Afghans on the other. The British used Gatling guns for the first time in anger and won, capturing Kabul shortly after.

Despatches refers to the fact that Moran's conduct in the battle was sufficiently brave or high quality to warrant a mention in the official report sent to London and usually published in The London Gazette, the official government journal of record. This still exists and is used to formally announce honours etc. like Arthur Conan Doyle's knighthood. Simply put, it is an official commendation - not a gallantry medal, but one may well follow.

The Scotland Yard Museum, historically known as the Black Museum and now the Crime Museum, is a collection of criminal artefacts used for teaching purposes. Located in the basement of the current New Scotland Yard (the third to use that name) it is not open to the public - only police officers are generally allowed in and need an appointment. The Metropolitan Police has a public museum in Sidcup, but this is also appointment only.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 3/14/2023

one of the good things about the tuesdaypost series is that it reassures me i did actually do things in a particular week, even if the week felt very much like an unmemorable gray blob

listening

Aretha Franklin's Chain of Fools this came on last night as i was making dinner. two (three? let's not think about it) years ago i found the las vegas jazz station bc i wanted something on in the background while i wrote cowboyfic. and now (when i remember internet radio exists) it's in the rotation of things keeping me company while i tend to my databases

-

reading

it's been just over two weeks since philip marlowe has burrowed his way into my brain. i have read through most of The Simple Art of Murder, which contains the titular essay and eight novellas/short stories. if you enjoy reading and thinking about criticism as its own genre/art form, this seven page essay is well worth reading. chandler had extremely strong opinions about his colleagues that he kept to himself with varying degrees of success. aside from a brief catty snit at what we now call "cozy" mysteries, it's a very level look at the challenges and limitations of detective fiction as a genre.

The realistic style is easy to abuse: from haste, from lack of awareness, from inability to bridge the chasm that lies between what a writer would like to be able to say and what he actually knows how to say. It is easy to fake; brutality is not strength, flipness is not wit, edge-of-the-chair writing can be as boring as flat writing; dalliance with promiscuous blondes can be very dull stuff when described by goaty young men with no other purpose in mind than to describe dalliance with promiscuous blondes. There has been so much of this sort of thing that if a character in a detective story says, "Yeah," the author is automatically a Hammett imitator. And there are still quite a few people around who say that Hammett did not write detective stories at all, merely hardboiled chronicles of mean streets with a perfunctory mystery element dropped in like the olive in a martini.

i had a tremendous amount of fun reading through the novellas and picking out elements he reused and expanded upon in later full novels.

im yoinking this example from wikipedia but this sequence in The Big Sleep:

The room was too big, the ceiling was too high, the doors were too tall, and the white carpet that went from wall to wall looked like a fresh fall of snow at Lake Arrowhead. There were full-length mirrors and crystal doodads all over the place. The ivory furniture had chromium on it, and the enormous ivory drapes lay tumbled on the white carpet a yard from the windows. The white made the ivory look dirty and the ivory made the white look bled out. The windows stared towards the darkening foothills. It was going to rain soon. There was pressure in the air already.

first appeared in the short story The Curtain:

This room had a white carpet from wall to wall. Ivory drapes of immense height lay tumbled casually on the white carpet inside the many windows, which stared towards the dark foot-hills. The air beyond the glass was dark too. It had not started to rain, yet there was a feeling of pressure in the atmosphere.

when you are an exacting self-editor who will spend five months on one short story i imagine it's quite easy to go back and expand on a previous framework? it is fun to see how the sausage gets made

-

watching

the westerner (1940, dir. Wyler). really had me thinking about the Types of westerns i like. this is a perfectly adequate, well-acted little open range vs. homesteaders film with an impressive prairie fire sequence. walter brennan (a guy i love to see) more than deserves his oscar. gary cooper is great as a quick-thinking drifter who scams his way out of a noose. our heroine looks very much like olivia de haviland around the eyes. the original nyt review points out that cooper is very much overshadowed, and cooper only did the movie under duress bc he was worried about this very thing (p. 138-140).

between the fact that the movie thinks cooper should be the lead but brennan steals every scene he's in, this movie does not grab me by the lapels and shake me like some others i could name. part of it is that i do not like brennan's character. he is a self-appointed judge with a 100% hanging rate. i also think this is a totally different movie if you are not a woman, bc his character is INCREDIBLY weird about women. the ending tried very hard and failed to make me go "aw he was all right deep down anyway huh".

the other part of why this movie does not work for me: it starts off as my favorite genre "Some Guy has an incredibly fucked up day" but most of it is about good bible-thumping homesteaders enacting the american dream. what if we all got along??? america's big enough for everyone isn't it?? this movie really pulls its fuckin punches re: any sort of a theme, and i do not like cooper as an actor or brennan's character enough to say i had a good time. this movie does not delve into an aspect of the cowboy western mythos i am particularly interested in, but it is on kanopy, and it is part of my goal to watch every western on kanopy in order to convince the boston public library to add more westerns.

-

playing

man i wish fallou/t 4 was good. ive really got to fucking suck it up and start rdr2 even though i know it will consume my life in a time where i do not have a ton of time to spare

-

making

chicken fajitas. no pics all gone.

also: 6/10 baby blanket repeats. im trying to get this out by midapril so if i decide to fly down and look at apartments in person i can deliver it in person. so far i am happy with this rate of progress. i am going to frown about the edging for a while when im done knitting the body but that's a problem for future kay

[quotesoutofseason]

What can Japan be proud of? Until recently, parents and kids have been able to easily answer, "nature and the seasonal beauty," but no one can say that anymore. Those of us who live in Japan-and who are indeed Japanese-shun [the reality of] our country, where animation is a form of escapism. Is this country that awful, so devoid of hope now?

Even in this global age, it's the most local things that can have a worldwide effect. Yet why doesn't anyone make a delightful and wonderful film set in Japan?

We need a new method and sense of discovery to be up to the task. Rather than be sentimental, the film must be a joyful.

entertaining film.

The forgotten.

The ignored.

Those that are considered lost.

Yet I made My Neighbor Totoro with the firm belief that these things still exist

What is Totoro?

It is the name that our protagonist, the four-year-old Mei, gives these creatures. No one knows what their real name is.

They dwelled in the forests here a long, long time ago, when the country was nearly uninhabited. Apparently they live over a thousand years. The large Totoro is over two meters tall. Big and furry, not unlike a big owl, beast, or bear, this animal might be considered a monster, but it never attacks people. These serene, carefree creatures have dwelled in forest caves or old tree holes, away from humans, but somehow the sisters Satsuki and Mei manage to find them.

The Totoros don't want any commotion, and although this is their first contact with humans, they've opened up to Satsuki and Mei.

Initial Concept Sketches

The film My Neighbor Totoro was based on a children's book Miyazaki conceptualized while working on the TV series 3000 Miles in Search of Mother (1976). Some of these initial concept sketches for the children's book ended up in the film, while others were left out. These images provide us a glimpse of the "other" My Neighbor Totoro Miyazaki had envisioned.



The Art of Animated Films

This is a collection of concept sketches, storyboards, concept art, cel art, and film images that tell the story of My Neighbor Totoro, an animated film conceived, scripted, and directed by Hayao Miyazaki. All concept sketches and storyboards are by Hayao Miyazaki. Concept art is by the art direction supervisor, Kazuo Oga. The commentary has been excerpted from interviews conducted with Hayao Miyazaki and Kazuo Oga published in Romance Album and Storyboard Collection.

Note: Unprocessed cel art may deviate from corresponding animation shots.

"It's supposed to be 1955, but we weren't terribly thorough in our research. What we had in mind was 'a recent past' that everyone can relate to." (Miyazaki)

"We first imagined what an ideal house would look like.

The staff came up with the idea, and then everyone looked at the rushes. Instead of being impressed by Satsuki and Mei's movements, they all said, 'I want to live there.' Without wanting to lower their standard of living, they wanted to live in that kind of house." (Miyazaki)

"It would be pointless to explain how the 'soot sprites are born or where they reside. We present them just as soot sprites. They just suddenly van-ish, and that's enough. It's pointless to elaborate any further than that." (Miyazaki)



"Many Japanese homes used to have Western-style additions.

Actually, this house is only half built.

The yard was supposed to be well kept, but the house was

abandoned. The previous occupant was ill and died there. It was a villa built as a retreat for a tuberculosis patient. The house languished after the patient died. That's the story behind the house." (Miyazaki)







"I wanted Totoro to be massive. It wouldn't work if he had a long neck, so we made him pudgy. He's not a spirit; he's only an animal. I believe he lives on acorns. He's supposedly the forest keeper, but that's only a half-baked idea, a rough approximation. It would be more accurate to consider him a creature that modern Japanese had to make up out of desperation." (Miyazaki)

"The Cat Bus is always grinning. As long as it's running. it's happy [laughs]. The Cat Bus once assumed the shape of a rickshaw carrier, but the sight of a bus rumbling by excited it so much it turned itself into one." (Miyazaki)

"At first, we were thinking of a dug-out hollow with a wooden grain, but it just didn't look right. What Miyazaki had in mind was a clean cave, like an arts and crafts room. When wood looks smooth in a drawing, the grain has to be clear, so it ends up looking like new building material. So we ended up abandoning that idea. Instead, we decided to add moss. But you know how moist moss is. The Totoros probably wouldn't find that very enticing, so we illuminated the interior to get rid of the musky feel, adding pretty flowers in bloom, and created a different world. That's how that scene evolved." (Oga)

"When Totoro stays behind as Satsuki rides the Cat Bus toward the end, some people said, 'That's harsh. But it wouldn't have worked if it rode with them, consoled her, and joined them in looking through the hospital window. Totoro can't be too touchy-feely with them. It can't be too giving. The rest is up to the Cat Bus." (Miyazaki)