#afghan flood

[queengalaxy]

Afghanistan News

Floods hit Afghanistan, 50 dead in heavy rain!

[neolithicsheep]

I've been meaning to write this down for some time because there are some fundamental errors that people keep making in crowdfunding/sales that shoot their campaigns in the foot. So here's a list of easy principles.

Who am I and why should you listen to me? I am a freelance chaos marketer who has raised well over $100,000 when totaling up various crowdfunding campaigns, mostly for aid to Afghanistan. In addition I've managed to successfully market everything from stuffed plush koalas to hydration salts. Why am I putting this out here for free? Because despite a years long track record of success in social media marketing no one will hire me because I don't have a college degree, so I might as well help people out who can't afford to hire full time marketing. 

If you'd like to hire me to help you evaluate your marketing and sales and teach you better skills on a 1 to 1 basis then hit me up, I am often willing to barter, esp with artists in a variety of mediums! 

Anyway on to HOW TO CONVINCE PEOPLE TO GIVE YOU MONEY:

TL;DR: use positive messaging that humanizes everyone involved and make it as easy as possible for people to give you money.

1. Shame and guilt are demotivators. They will not inspire people to give you money. “Why aren't people helping” “I guess people don't care” “This isn't getting enough shares/donations” etc etc. Online fundraising is often frustrating, heartbreaking, and will make you angry, especially when there's a humanitarian crisis involved. It is critical that if you are raising funds for someone else that you have a place to vent that is not the audience you would like to donate to the cause. 

2. Use motivating messages instead! “You can help!” “Even a small donation is important because it tells Recipient they're not alone, and people care” “We can't fix the whole world, but we can make this one thing right, and that means something”. Emphasize that this is a problem that the reader can help fix with even a small effort. With items for sale, tell a story. "I drew this thinking about how safe I always felt under a tree in my childhood backyard". "I chose the colors in this shawl to remind me of sagebrush and piñon pine in my favorite place."

3. Make it easy for people to give you money. Never talk about your product or cause without a link that leads directly to where people can give you money. They should be able to click one link on your post and land at the fundraiser or your shop. Every required click is going to lose people, so minimize the number of them required. This also means if you have a list of fundraisers for people to choose from the ones at the bottom will be neglected - people will hit the ones at the top. Be sure to take those off when they're met or periodically shuffle the list around to make sure everyone gets a chance to be in the first 5 spots. In online stores people will often only look at the first page or two of items so be sure to shuffle things around and remove out of stock items that are taking up prime real estate.

4. Humanize the recipient - this can be tricksy when raising charitable aid because you don't want to be exploitative. But to use my last Afghan campaign as an example, “We need to raise $500 for an Afghan family” is less effective than “This Afghan family's home was damaged in heavy rains that caused extensive flooding. They only need $500 to repair and rebuild so they can stay in their home and not become displaced.”  If possible, tell as much of the recipient's story as they consent to. Eg “Fred is seven and loves dinosaurs. His favorite is brontosaurus, and he carries a stuffed one with him everywhere. He wants to be a paleontologist when he grows up and discover a complete brontosaurus skeleton that he can give the same name as his stuffed friend. Unfortunately he's also a trans boy living in Texas and his family needs $1500 to rent a Uhaul and get to Colorado so he can grow up in safety and do that.”

5. If you're not the recipient, humanize yourself while you're at it! “I'd be really grateful if you all could share or donate” “This fundraiser really means a lot to me because…” “Thank you so much for any help, whether sharing or donating” 

6. Treat the audience like humans. Speak to them like they are people you're having a conversation with, not ATMs. This ultimately is the goal of not using shame/guilt and humanizing yourself and the recipient. 

7. Set low goals and bump them up when met. One of the weird things about people is they prefer to give to successful fundraisers. Yeah I don't know either. So you're more likely to get the full amount you need if you set a partial goal initially and then raise it when that's met. Raise it in small increments and raise it repeatedly as those goals are hit to keep momentum going. You can't always control this so if you're boosting someone else's fundraiser you can do it artificially via asks like “Hey y'all can we get together and put $500 on this?”

[marimayscarlett]

On Rammstein Store they mention Rammstein Charity, do we know what kind of charity it is? Is it their own or do they donate?

Hi 👋🏻

Rammstein Charity refers to a recurring event where the band members make various awards of theirs available for auction to fans. The proceeds are then donated to various charitable organizations. For example, in 2021, awards for the album 'Reise Reise' were auctioned off, in 2022 they auctioned off their awards for the untitled album and for 'Zeit'.

Some examples for charities which received proceeds in the past:

- Aktion Deutschland hilft (an organization that unites several charities, collecting donations for various causes in Germany, currently focusing on flood victims)

- Afghanischer Frauenverein e.V. (an organization of Afghan women living in Germany that helps people in their homeland)

- Berliner Kältehilfe (a charity that provides homeless people in Berlin with sleeping places, food, and supplies)

- Tafel Deutschland (an organisation which distributes food to people in need)

and many more. Here are some articles about it: x x x x

Here is the link to the official Rammstein Charity page, but nothing has been uploaded for this year yet.

[i-am-still-bb]

FiKi Week by @gatheringfiki - Day 3 - 06.24.24

Never have I known a soul more familiar than yours, more worn into softness, more moulded to the very shame of my fingers, so that they may curl in it and hold you fast and steady. 

A/N: This isn't quite finished, but I'm not going to finish it tonight and I need to get tomorrow's piece done tomorrow... so... I ended it at what felt like a good point. It will continue in a couple of days when I have the other prompts filled. Until then... <3

--

Fast Car AU - Before

Fili’s house was quiet. His mother was out of town for the day. She had driven down to Fresno to see a show with some friends. They were even going to be staying the night in the city. She told Fili that she wouldn’t be back until around noon the next day. She had reminded him to take the bins to the curb in the morning, left $20 dollars on the fridge of pizza, and told him to behave himself. 

“Why would I ruin my choir boy reputation?”

His mother had rolled her eyes with a smile before she backed the SUV out of the driveway. 

//  Want to come over? - FeeD  //

// What’s on cable? - KiliO  //

//  Law and Order. American Dad. Movies featuring spiders. James Bond. The history channel is doing a Roman Empire weekend again. - FeeD  //

//  Hmm… Tempting… I’ll have to check my planner. - KiliO  //

//  Did I mention that the house is empty until tomorrow? And I’ve got pizza money? - FeeD  //

//  You mean that you have garlic bread knots money. - KiliO  //

//  So? Or do you have a better offer? - FeeD  //

//  Now that you mention it Max did say something about having a fifth of tekela… :p - KiliO  //

//  If that’s all it takes… ;) - FeeD  //

//  I’m not _that_ easy. - KiliO  //

//  Don’t I know it :p - FeeD  // 

//  Rude. - KiliO  //

//  Do you need a ride? - FeeD  //

//  I’m at the library. I’ll just bike over when I finish up here. - KiliO  //

//  Can’t wait. - FeeD  //

They had settled for the Law and Order themed reruns. It was warm outside, but the house was dark and cool with the curtains drawn and the A/C running. Kili was stretched out on the chaise lounge of the couch. He was wearing jeans—he hated the way that his legs looked in shorts—and a dark band t-shirt, but he still had an afghan pulled over his legs. He also had a Fili draped over his lap. Fili had stretched out on the main body of the couch. He had his head on Kili’s lap and his arms around Kili’s waist. His face was pressed to Kili’s belly.

A commercial came on flooding the room with light and always being a bit louder than the show. Kili adjusted the volume down and dropped his head back on the couch cushion. He slipped his hand down the next of Fili’s shirt and absently massaged the muscles there.

Fili groaned and shifted to provide better access for Kili.

Kili chuckled. “I thought you were asleep.”

Fili stretched, toes pointing, legs stiffening, back arching before he relaxed again. “I was,” he nuzzled his face against Kili. “That feels nice,” he hunched his shoulders. “Dwalin’s been killing us at practice on the field and in the weight room. I’m just so exhausted. And sore,” he winced when Kili’s fingers worked over a particularly sensitive spot.

“That sounds like a you problem. You chose to do football again this year. You could have been a bum like me and done cross country or nothing.”

Fili grumbled. “And be the guy who didn’t get the pin his senior year?”

Kili rolled his eyes.

“Still sounds like a you problem.”

Fili retaliated by biting Kili’s stomach through the blanket and Kili’s shirt, but Kili still shouted in exaggerated pain.

—

The pizza box was open on the coffee table and the bread bites were balanced on the arm of the couch waiting for an errant arm or leg to knock it over. The two litre bottle of Sprite that they had been sharing sat where the two parts of the couch intersected. It was almost buried by the blanket when it had been pushed aside.

Neither of them knew what was playing on the television anymore.

“I forgot to ask earlier—are you staying the night?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to?” Kili looked uncertain.

“Only if you want to,” Fili assured.

“I didn’t bring any of my stuff.”

Fili shrugged. “We’ve always got spare toothbrushes and stuff in the bathroom.”

“I don’t have clothes for tomorrow or pyjamas.”

“For tomorrow you can just borrow one of my shirts, but for tonight what makes you think you’ll be wearing clothes?” Fili asked with a lopsided grin. He caught his fingers under the exposed waistband of Kili’s underwear and gently snapped it.

Kili’s cheeks flushed even in the dim and flickering light of the television screen. He pulled away from Fili and looked over Fili’s shoulder before asking, “Do I… can I… do I have to…” he looked down. He pushed himself off Fili’s lap. Fili’s eyes were wide with concern.

“Hey…” Fili reached for Kili’s hand.

“Can I wear pyjamas?” Kili asked quietly.

“Of course you can!” the word rushed out of Fili. “I was just teasing. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I—”

“I know you were teasing,” Kili took Fili’s hand. “I just…” he sighed. “I don’t want anyone else to see me… I guess.”

“But we’re the only ones here?”

Kili looked away. “I know. I just…” he shrugged. “What if like your mom came home early or your uncle let himself in or… I don’t know…”

“Pyjamas it is.”

Kili’s smile was weak.

Fili pulled a pleading face. “Will I still get cuddles?”

Kili pushed Fili’s foot with his own. “Only if you let me have the last of the Sprite.”

“Deal.”

—

“Uncle Dwalin, can I ask you something?” Fili asked. He was watching Dwalin work on someone’s second-hand chopper. 

“I’m not letting you skip out on fifty 40s just because I know your uncle,” Dwalin replied without looking up.

“Good to know. But that wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you know if Uncle Thorin is going to be using the cabin this weekend or next?”

“I dunno, why?”

Fili glanced to the open door of the work bay, “I’m just trying to help Kili feel more comfortable with… you know,” Fili lifted his shoulders. “And I thought hanging out at the cabin would help him feel safer, you know, less like his fuckhead dad’s going to walk in any minute.”

Dwalin rubbed a wrench with a rag, checked to see if the dirt had come off before resuming the motion. He looked at Fili. “And why are you asking me instead of Thorin?”

The tips of Fili’s ears turned pink. He stuffed his hands in his jeans. “I just… I figured you would know, I guess…” he kicked at a patch of dirt with his boot. “And thought you’d be less likely to tell my mom?” he finished hopefully.

Dwalin laughed at that. “Kid, your mother busts my balls about that stuff and has given more sex talks to more guys in the club than I can count, she’s not the one I’d be worried about finding out about you using your uncle’s cabin as a love shack.”

Fili’s flush deepened. “It wouldn’t be a love shack,” he said defensively. “Kili’s just a bit jumpy, and I think it’d be nice for him.”

“And you,” Dwalin teased.

Fili scowled.

—

The key for the cabin was hidden in a birdhouse that was shaped like a motorcycle’s fuel tank. 

Kili crossed his arms, his sweatshirt that was at least two sizes too big hung from his sharp shoulders, and looked around. “Why are we up here again?”

Fili shrugged and fiddled with the lock. “I just thought that it’d be nice to get away from everything… everyone for a while.”

“It’s just going to be us up here?”

Fili looked over his shoulder, “Is that alright?” 

“Yeah,” Kili grinned. 

They had been up here many times before, sometimes with just Thorin, sometimes Dis, Thorin and Dwalin, Thorin and Dis, sometimes whole groups of the club. When that happened the area around the cabin would be filled with brightly coloured dome tents. They would roast marshmallows, hotdogs, toasted sandwiches in pie irons, chase each other with sparklers (depending on the fire warnings), play in the trees, and star gaze. All things that they remembered fondly.

“Can you get the cooler?” Fili asked, tossing his bag inside the now open door. “I’m going to open the windows, it smells like Thorin and Dwalin hotboxed it last time they were up here.”

They’d brought some basic sundries for the nearly two full days they’d be here—milk, cereal, materials to make toasties, energy drinks, boxed mac and cheese, chips, and packaged snacks. Kili busied himself putting things in the fridge while Fili did some dusting and pulled out the linens that had been sealed away from the dust.

The cabin was small. You walked onto a small porch before turning into the main living space. There was a couch to the left, a coffee table, and low bookshelves with games. Beyond that was a small kitchen table, the far wall had a fireplace with built-in bookcases. The books were mostly old thrillers, and books about the Sierra Nevada. The two chairs in front of the fireplace were well worn. There was a narrow kitchen, only room for one person, a cramped bathroom, and then a bedroom that was mostly filled with a king sized bed. The cabin often served as a base for hiking and backpacking, but all of that gear was stored in the  shed that was nearly as large as the cabin itself....

TBC

--

Tag List @silvermoon-scrolls @metztlilua @I-am-pinkie @dubhlachen

[tropes-and-tales]

After the thunder wilder than thunder,    after the shudder deep in the glass of the great windows,    after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs,    after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen,    for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo, like a cook’s soul. Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us    about the bristles of God’s beard because God has no face,    soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellations    across the night sky of this city and cities to come.    Alabanza I say, even if God has no face.   

Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan and Kabul    two constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other,    mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue:    Teach me to dance. We have no music here. And the other said with a Spanish tongue:    I will teach you. Music is all we have.

Excerpt from "Alabanza: In Praise of Local 100" by Martín Espada

[crystalbeetle888]

Animal Instinct Pt.1

Charles X reader X Erik

In the wake of losing a friend, you seek out revenge on Sebastian Shaw. However, you are not the only one after him, as a team of meddling mutants try to convince you to join forces. Will you give in to these persuasive outcasts, and join their family? or do it alone as you always have?

Master List Pt.1 - Pt.2

Word Count: 2,289

Content: Violence, swearing, sexual references, possible bigotry it’s the 60s, slow burn, some angst, eventual happy ending, maybe smut?

1932, Western Australia

The summer sun beats down on the curious community. A sign, ‘Miss Miracles’ Marvelous Exhibition and Oddities’, stands proudly in the tall, dry, grass. Eleanor, a tall woman with luscious dark curly locks, and an equally well groomed beard, sits idly in the shade of some gumtrees, sipping on a chilled Cola. The sound of a distant cry interrupts Eleanors' peaceful evening. Looking back towards the rest of the circus performers none of them seem to notice. Another cry sounds out over the grassy field causing Eleanor to stand in concern, leaving her Cola on the dirt. Walking out into the grass, she follows the cries until she finds a small wrapped bundle laying in the weeds. Eleanor quickly scoops up the child, cradling them close as she looks around, hopeful to find their guardian. The field around her is empty, without any sign of life. The baby's cries increase in the midday heat. “Oh there you go” She coos, unwrapping the fragile being, the child's arms springing free from their confines in anger. Eleanor gasps in surprise, tracing the birthmark across their little face. “Oh my” She smiles gently “You’re just like us”.

Walking back towards the trailers and tents Eleanors’ body is flooded with love for the child. And in that moment she decides to raise the very special babe as her very own. 

1962, London

You walk through the dark cobblestone streets, the air is crisp and reeks with the stench on alcohol as you weave through the crowd of drunks. You duck down a skinny alley, stopping at a set of large metal doors. Knocking, the door cracks open to reveal a grumpy old man “You’re late Animal” Richard coughs. “Yeah, I know, I had some shit to deal with” you step inside. He scoffs at you, closing the door behind you both “Yeah well don’t let it happen again, you’re up against Bolt today” Nodding, you take off your Afghan coat and place it on a hook “When?” “Now” he replies before walking off. Sighing, you quickly smear some soot across your eyes and bandage your knuckles before stalking down the hallway. The sound of the roaring crowd is muffled behind the large metal door you stop at. Rolling your shoulder and stretching your neck you ready yourself “For tonight's final battle allow me to introduce to you the young and electrifying Bolt!” The crowd bellows and cheers, loud thunderous zaps echo throughout the building, your hair standing up from static. Patting your hair down, you groan allowing your signature wolf tail to extend from your spine, your ears growing long and pointed, covered in fur. “Our next contendant needs no introduction”

Your fingernails stretch into long sharp claws, your hands and feet elongating into a stretched out sort of paw. “She is the undefeated, the unchallenged, the untamable”

Your eyes honed in and teeth sharpened. You’re ready. “Ladies and Gentlemen give it up for the Animal!”.

The door rolls upwards from the floor and you step through into the blinding lights. The people cheer, shaking and rattling the cage in excitement. In front of you stands a tall, shirtless, sandy haired man, with fingers of electricity crackling from his skin. You roll your eyes and snarl at him ‘They can never keep their clothes on can they?’ you think. Crouching down as you leap towards him, he launches several strikes of lighting towards you in retaliation. “And they’re off folks! Animal makes the first move, but Bolt manages to keep this terrible beast at bay!”

You dodge and roll out of the way as he attacks you, running on all four attempting to get close to him. “It seems like Animal can’t catch a break, Bolts got her successfully locked out!” He keeps you back with his consistent assault. “This doesn't look good for Animal, she may have finally met her match!”

Beyond frustrated, you run to the opposite side of the cage and launch yourself off of the chainmail fence towards him. “But what is this? Animal has finally found an opening! Will Bolt survive the Animals' savage attack?”

Landing on top of him you manage to get in several hard punches to his face before he zaps you off, sending you flying across the cage. “Oh and it looks like the little miss wolf might have bitten off more than she can chew!”

Clutching your chest you groan in pain as the singed flesh regenerates, looking down you notice the front of your shirt fried off revealing some cleavage “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me” you growl. A sudden zap to your back snaps you out of your thoughts. “Oo that’s gonna piss her off, watch out Bolt!” 

Turning around in anger you retract your wolf features and replace them with a large set of tan wings, sharper eyes, and razor sharp bird talons. “It seems like the Animal has a few more tricks up her sleeve”

Flapping your wings you fly across the cage, dodging the lighting strikes and jumping off the fence looking for another opening. Bolts’ moves get sloppier as time passes, he’s clearly getting exhausted ‘It’s only a matter of time’ you think. Thanks to your regenerative powers it takes an incredible amount of physical exertion before you become tired. “And it looks like Bolt might be running out of fuel people, what will he do next?” ‘God I wish he would stop commenting on everything’ you think, irritated.

Finally an opening occurs, Bolt throws himself off balance and stumbles. Leaping on the opportunity, you spring from the fence down into Bolt, throwing him across the cage and knocking him out. “Would you look at that! Animal has done it again!” The crowd goes wild hollering and whistling as you throw both fists above your head in triumph. 

“Well done Animal” Richard pats you firmly on the back before shoving an envelope in your hands “Now put your tits away woman, this isn’t a brothel” he grunts before disappearing once again, leaving you alone in the dark hall. The sound of footsteps approaching from behind causes you to turn, a lone pale man with auburn hair approaches. You take notice of his crisp suit and cigar scent. “You’re not supposed to be back here” You watch him with caution. The man smiles gently, yet no kindness can be found. “I’m only here to talk Y/N” he stops a few metres away. You narrow your eyes “How do you know my name?” You ask. “Dear, I know many things about you, I know you were abandoned to the freaks. I know you’ve suffered through great violence. I also know you’ve taken revenge on those who’ve crossed you-” “Yeah I do” He stares at you with an unreadable expression before chuckling “I think we got off on the wrong foot, my name is Sebatian Shaw and I am here with a once in a lifetime opportunity for you” You raise your eyebrow in question “There is a revolution coming when men will no longer tolerate our kind, not even as entertainment. Each of us will make a choice to be enslaved, or to rise up and rule. You are free to choose however know, if you are not with me, you are against me” 

You stare at the stupid man, wondering how someone could be so presumptuous.“With you leading us?” you ask unimpressed, “Yes” he nods, “So I’m still enslaved to a man” you question. Shaw chuckles clearly not expecting that reaction “I’ll take my chances on my own, now get the fuck out of my way before I mince you” The mans smile flattens as he steps to the side of the hall, allowing you to pass. Walking past him, he places a hand on your shoulder “You will regret this Animal” Turing to face him, you jerk your shoulder out of his grip and lean in close “Fuck off” you spit angrily before striding off down the hallway. Shrugging on your coat, you shove your earnings into your pocket and step back out into the cold night “I thought you’d never show up” A woman's voice calls out in the alley. Looking over, Star stands there hugging herself for warmth, a cigarette in hand. Star is a prostitute you’ve become unlikely friends with, her wild orange hair and intensely freckled face reminds you of home. Outcast by her folks for wanting to be an free-loving artist, Star found herself struggling to find work or friends. Something you could relate to. You have always found it difficult to keep a regular job or bond with well adjusted ‘normal’ people. Star reminded you of the carny folk, free-spirited, kind, accepting, slightly deranged and unhinged. Despite being worlds away from family, Star always made you feel at home.

“Had some shit to deal with first”, she smiles rolling her eyes “You always have shit to deal with” Chuckling you offer your arm to her, “Shall we?” “We shall” she giggles linking her arm with yours. Star likes to wait so the both of you can walk home together after work, given that you both live at the same dingy ass motel. Star rambles about her current clients, recent politics and fashion crazes, you nodding along as you walk down the abandoned streets. Your ears prick at the slightest noise. ‘It’s too quiet’ you note to yourself, the hair on the back of your neck stands on end as the air shifts. You stop walking, head swivelling at your surroundings. “What’s wrong?” Star whispers. You sniff the air, turning your back to her, cigars and heavy cologne, your brows furrow. Suddenly, the air flutters behind you and Star lets out a pained yelp. Spinning around, time seems to slow as you see Star gasping for air, a silver blade sticking out from her chest, blood pooling around it. A menacing red man stands behind her with a dark grin. You attempt to reach him but before you can produce your claws, he vanishes. Star stumbles forward and you catch her in your arms, her breath shudders. “It’s alright, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay” You whisper to her panicked. Sliding the both of you to the ground, you press on the wound, fruitlessly trying to stop the blood from seeping out. “Oh no, oh Star please don’t” You plead as her eyes begin to flutter in and out of focus and her breath shallows. “No, please, no, no” You cry, looking at your red stained hands uselessly. Your body shakes, breath lodged in your throat, as you watch helplessly as the light in Stars’ eyes fades and her body stills. You gasp for air, in shock at the death of your only friend.

“I told you, you would regret it Animal” You look up to see Shaw standing a few metres away, the red devil man standing behind him. “Humans are such fragile things really, and this one, well, I don’t think she could have been lower on the food chain if she tried” He chuckles, hands casually in pockets like he didn’t just take away the one person keeping you grounded. Your blood boils at his words, your claws and teeth quickly growing as you stand. “Such dirty business streetwalking, it’s a shame wasting such a pretty face like that-” You lunge at him with a roar, the devil man teleporting the both of them behind you as you fall and roll to the ground. Turning to face them, Shaw wipes his cheek of blood, you just managed to nick him. “Tsk Tsk, you really are a savage animal aren’t you?” He mocks. You snarl at him ready to lunge again “Don’t bother beasty, we could play cat and mouse all night” You bear your teeth, and tense to jump at him “When you’ve come to your senses I’m sure you’ll be able to find me” 

“I’ll fucking kill you Shaw!” You yell, overwhelmed by anger. He smiles “I seriously doubt that” and with that the two of them disappear once more, leaving you completely and utterly alone in the world. You feel empty, looking down at your friend's bloodied body on the sidewalk. Kneeling down, your hands ghost over her skin, almost afraid to touch her. You gently cup her cheek and brush some of her hair away from her face. You softly graze over her face with your hand, careful not to wipe any blood on her, as you attempt to burn the image of her face into your memory one last time. “Okay, it’s time for me to go Star” you whisper to her, leaning down and kissing her forehead. “I’m so sorry” pulling away you cry before grasping a lock of her hair and cutting it with your claws. Stuffing the hair in your pocket, you wobble to your feet and stubble away from her. You fear if you look back that it would somehow make this all the more real, and you might not be able to leave her body until someone made you. You knew you couldn't risk that. And Star would never want that for you anyway. So you stumble through the streets. You can’t tell how long you've walked for but suddenly you're back at the motel staring at your door. Unlocking it, you shakily step inside before closing the door behind you. You let out a shuttered breath, sliding down the door and onto the floor. Curling in on yourself you hug your head between your arms, letting out a muffled whimper. Your mind is numb and your body aches as you continue to lay huddled on the floor all throughout the night.

[labbaik-ya-hussain-as]

BREAKING: HAMAS LEADER OFFICIAL STATEMENT

Khaled Meshaal:

If the Algerians, Afghans and Vietnamese listened to the advocates of defeatism who demand that we surrender, Algeria, Afghanistan and Vietnam would not have been liberated from colonialism and occupation.

The Al-Aqsa flood inflicted on the occupation psychologically, militarily, and intelligence-wise, and this defeat will be complete soon, God willing.

Oct 7th proved that the terrorist Zionist occupation can be defeated, and it has awakened awareness throughout the world about the justice of the Palestine issue.

The occupation appeared for its barbaric nature when turned into a raging bull that brutalized innocent people and targeted schools, hospitals, mosques, churches, and all aspects of life in our beloved Strip, Gaza.

Why does the Arab & Islamic nation not unite around the resistance? Western countries also rallied to support the Zionist occupation.

After 49 years of terrorist Zionist aggression, the resistance is fine, despite the martyrs among the fighters and some leaders, but our tunnels, ammunition and weapons are still intact, and we are still able to maneuver, launch missiles, and target invading tanks.

We follow the example of our noble Messenger, when he was besieged in the Battle of the Trench and heralding the conquest of the lands of the Romans and Persia.

Our heroic fighters turned tanks that cost millions and are equipped with the latest technology into a “farce,” with a small package attached to their back door and killing the cowards inside.

Hamas leaders lost dozens of their families during the aggression, and we bid farewell to the acting Speaker of the Legislative Council, Dr. Habib, the martyr Ahmed Bahr, and the representative in the Legislative Council, the martyr sister, Jamila Al-Shanti.

The terrorist Zionist occupation failed to achieve its declared goals of eliminating Hamas and displacing the entire population of the Gaza Strip, and the majority of the population of the north remained in the north despite everything that our great steadfast north is exposed to.

Some Western politicians are discussing Gaza after Hamas, and I say to them, save your time, your imagination, and your dreams, and within years, God willing, you will discuss the situation of the region after “Israel.”

We reject the participation of any international or Arab forces in the administration of Gaza, and all these plans will be trampled upon by our heroes in the resistance, led by our victorious Al-Qassam Brigades.

On the first day, we expressed readiness to release detained civilians. Because the objectives of the battle did not include taking them; But the circumstances of the battle, after the collapse of the occupation's Gaza division, led to this, and we released a number of detainees.

When we saw the brutality of the terrorist aggression, we said we must run this card; And to serve the civilians in Gaza and relieve them.

The truce achieves the release of children and women from Zionist occupation prisons, a temporary cessation of aggression, and humanitarian relief for Gaza.

The temporary truce sparked controversy within the entity about the controversy of the war that wants to eliminate Hamas, and then they are forced to negotiate with it indirectly to exchange detained children and women.

Gaza must be supported militarily, and the nation must not be spectators, and must contribute to the outcome of the battle.

We thank everyone who participated in supporting Gaza militarily, and everyone who asks us about the extent of our satisfaction with the participation of some parties, we answer the question: What did you participate in?

Gaza must be supported financially and humanitarianly,the political, popular and public pressure movement must be escalated to stop the aggression.

We showed Israel as it is,weak as a spider’s web, in need of someone to protect it, in addition to its illusory ability to protect others or fight wars on their behalf

[misfitwashere]

Friends,

I would not normally send you anything written by Karl Rove. I’ve always thought of Rove as the evil genius of the Republican Party. He worked for Richard Nixon and was senior advisor and deputy chief of staff to George W. Bush, where he became one of the architects of the Iraq War. 

But the fact that Rove wrote the following piece in today’s Wall Street Journal reveals both what the Republican establishment thinks of Trump and the civil war now brewing inside the Republican Party. I thought you might find it as interesting as I did:

***

A Catastrophic Debate for Trump

Karl Rove

Tuesday’s debate between Kamala Harris and Donald Trump was a train wreck for him, far worse than anything Team Trump could have imagined.

Ms. Harris was often on offense, leaving Mr. Trump visibly rattled as she launched rocket after rocket at him. A New York Times analysis found she spent 46% of her time on the attack while Mr. Trump devoted 29% of his time to going after her. Debates aren’t won on defense.

Ms. Harris pressed Mr. Trump on the economy, the Ukraine war, foreign policy, healthcare, the Jan. 6 attack and especially abortion, leaving him flustered and often incoherent. In return, he criticized her on border security, climate change and the Israel-Hamas war.

Mr. Trump had to know the vice president would try to get him to lose his cool. She did. She went after him on his multiple indictments. She called him “weak” and belittled him as a six-time bankrupt, spoiled inheritor of wealth. She said his former national security adviser thought him, in her words, “dangerous and unfit” for the Oval Office.

As is frequently the case with Mr. Trump, he let his emotions get the better of him. He took the bait almost every time she put it on the hook, offering a pained smile as she did. Rather than dismissing her attacks and launching his strongest counterarguments against her, Mr. Trump got furious. As her attacks continued, his voice rose. He gripped the podium more often and more firmly. He grimaced and shook his head, at times responding with wild and fanciful rhetoric. Short, deft replies and counterpunches would have been effective. He didn’t deliver them.

Mr. Trump did a terrible job at his most important task—tying her to President Biden’s failed policies. He did an even worse job prosecuting the argument that she’s a far-left politician out of sync with America’s values. The Trump campaign’s mid-debate fact-check bulletins that flooded email inboxes were far more substantive and effective than his responses at the podium.

Mr. Trump’s failure wasn’t for a lack of material. He had plenty in the Biden-Harris administration’s record to work with, especially on inflation and the crisis at the border. In one of his strongest moments, he hit hard on the botched Afghan withdrawal. Even then, he got sucked into an argument about his administration’s negotiations with the Taliban.

There was no sustained, specific indictment of her record on almost any issue. Mr. Trump offered angry responses, pursed lips and eyes darting mostly down, seldom looking at her. And what was it with his makeup that left white circles around his eyes? This was his most important opportunity to make an impression of strength and relative stability.

Both candidates made significant misstatements. Ms. Harris said her opponent “left us the worst unemployment since the Great Depression” and Mr. Trump declared inflation under Biden-Harris “probably the worst in our nation’s history.” But his false statements far outnumbered hers by my count.

Mr. Trump had a great comeback to Ms. Harris’s agenda for change. She’s had 3½ years as vice president, he said, so “why hasn’t she done it?” But that was in his closing statement. It should have been the attack he started with, continually repeated, and closed with, undercutting every new policy proposal she offered.

It matters how debating candidates carry themselves. There, it was no contest. Ms. Harris came across as calm, confident, strong and focused on the future. Mr. Trump came across as hot, angry and fixated on the past, especially his own. She mastered the split screen, projecting confidence and wordlessly undercutting him by smiling while shaking her head as he spoke.

Many undecided and swing voters will make up their minds less on any single issue than on their visceral reactions to the candidates. Ms. Harris did herself much good with that crowd Tuesday. Mr. Trump didn’t.

Even more voters wanted to learn something new and reassuring about the candidates in the debate. She provided them plenty, while he didn’t.

Trump enthusiasts will be upset that the ABC interviewers fact-checked the former president far more than they did Ms. Harris. Then again, he gave them plenty of material to work with—such as repeating the bizarre claim that Haitian migrants in Springfield, Ohio, are eating the pets of local residents. That was probably Team Trump’s lowest moment.

Will this debate have an effect? Yes, though perhaps not as much as Team Harris hopes or as much as Team Trump might fear. But there’s no putting lipstick on this pig. Mr. Trump was crushed by a woman he previously dismissed as “dumb as a rock.” Which raises the question: What does that make him?

***

[marlutterianae]

DEMONS OF DISMALIA - Samiginus Samigila, Devil Tyrant of Conquest.

The Chimeric Conquering Tyrant of Dismalia: Samiginus Samigila.

Devil of Conquest indulging in the respite of barbarians. Inhaling the eerie phlegmatic fumes of a Mystic Demon. The harrowing hill conquered yet the craving remains. That ambition to flood the dismal wasteland with the flesh horde of thousands of Chimera riding Grotesques.

Apocalyptic Chimera of the Sanguine Sea, coagulated from primordial gore tides and embraced by the will of the abyssal depths to conquer the lands a flood of flesh. Leading a horde of Grotesques riding their kin, wielding barbaric weapons augmented by spell glands.

The Mystic Brain Pipe was pillaged from one of the many stranded arks in the shallows of the Sanguine Sea Pass, from the temple of siren seers, who after predicting his path to glorious enlargement, he ravaged their treasures. Vagrant, vile and vulgar, the tyrant rejoices.

ARTWORK BY Gaegral. https://linktr.ee/Gaegral https://twitter.com/Gagaegral https://bsky.app/profile/gaegral.bsky.social

I’ll make dinosaurs fight, on my grass green afghan. Again, for I sealed a pact, with Arch-Vile, the infernal brat.

[colleenmurphy]

@aristobun just read your post about Helene and this..this is what Col and Charlie came up with. They think the world of Hel and would love to have her at The Cabin as long as she'd like to stay.

"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to fucking kill him."

Was all Colleen could mutter as she grabbed her car keys and her Afghan coat from their respective hooks. Her pack of three misfit pups that she and Charlie called The Wild Bunch, followed her every move. Except Red, her steadfast protector and wedding gift from Charlie and the most handsome bloodhound Col had ever seen. He was sitting much like a statue perched on his usual spot in the papasan chair Col usually read in the evening by the fireplace.

"C'mon Red, we've got business to tend to."

Was all she said as Red popped up by her right side. Smiling she reached down and scratched him behind the ears. Red was not only loyal but insanely smart, more so than the average hound. Given his working breed size and his ability to respond to commands his training had gone very well. He also loathed Joel Benson as much as she and Charlie did.

"Who's Mama's good boy? You are, Red, you are."

She hooked his leash up to his collar, grabbed her purse and made it out to the Plymouth just Charlie was coming back from the chicken coop as he cocked his head to the side as he spotted Red in the passenger seat of the car that Col used on rescue missions. He had painted it flat black for her and it purred low so it couldn't be detected from a block or two away. After her last run in with that Benson boy, as Charlie had often thought of his wife's best friend's boyfriend, and he had to reinforce her front and back bumpers. She'd done a heap of damage to Joel's Datsun the last time she'd seen him. She herself had done a number on the hood with a crowbar. The Datsun symbol hangs proudly in the recording studio right over the door. A few other bands had added hood ornaments of their own but didn't know the real reason why it was there.

"Georgia...what're you doin'?"

His use of her nickname almost threw from the task at hand. She was angry and it felt she was running out of time.

"I've got something to take care of, he's helping. You can come if you want to."

Charlie knew deep down in his gut what his wife was planning, it was a long time coming but if she felt that now was time, it was the time. The Plymouth roared to life, it almost sounded as if the damn car was growling. He had never seen the look in his wife's eyes, that's when he knew for certain without a doubt that Joel Benson was a marked man tonight. Shooing Red to move over in the bench seat Charlie plopped himself down. She was going to need help bugger lugging the bastard to his final resting place.

"You got a full tank of gas in this thing...right, Georgia?"

"Yes, I do. Buckle up."

She no sooner heard the click of the lap belt and gravel sprayed out behind them as they took off from their piece of paradise on the mountain.

Thirty minutes later Joel Benson was running for his life through the very same holler that they had just left. He had no way knowing that his ex girlfriend's best friend and her husband owned a literal mountain in the middle of nowhere bumblefuck. They were artists or some horseshit. Real hippy dippy pacifist type. They clearly were not, he'd been all knocked out with something heavy and shoved in a trunk. When he'd come to he was laying out in the middle of the dirt road. The only thing that got him to come to was the kick to the ribs he'd gotten from the dopey looking blonde Col was married to.

"G'on and get up, Boy."

"Who the fuck are you calling, boy?"

Church bells and stars flooded his head and vision as Col got a sound smack in with her booted foot. That bitch always seemed to be wearing cowboy boots. Bending down she was eye to eye with him. Enemy to enemy and Joel was tempted to smash her pretty little Irish face in but Col was quicker as she grabbed him by the throat, her nails digging in. Humming softly she sang in his ear

"Hope you got your things together Hope you are quite prepared to die Looks like we're in for nasty weather One eye is taken for an eye"

Goosebumps erupted across his flesh as it hit him. This crazy bitch was going to actually try and kill him.

"You're insane. You're both insane. You'll never get away with this."

"What's insane to me is beating the woman you claim to love. Repeatedly. Now, it's either you get and play by my rules or I put you down right now and leave you."

Joel studied Colleen for a moment. Helene has known her her entire life and had a million tales of how much they had stuck by one another. Maybe this crazy Irish bitch meant it. The way she stood tall and proud, her legs long and lean shoulders back and features schooled hard at him. Her long dark hair whipped by the wind and the white fur trim around her jacket clashed. He watched as she walked around the trunk of her car while her husband went to the back passenger side and grabbed the leash on something massive and red. Colleen came back around this time with a lantern tucked in the crook of her right arm and in her left was a shotgun. Charlie, or at least that's what he thought his name was, lurched forward as the impossibly red dog lunged forward snapped at him teeth barred. Inching backwards Joel got to his feet. Col was passed the leash as Charlie took the lantern and lit it with nimble fingers.

"Oh look! Joel's actually being a good sport about something for once in his life."

"Oh fuck you you crazy bitch."

A warning shot was fired just over his left shoulder, his eyes bugged as he tried to run. Somebody had tied his laces together.

"Good eye on the laces, Wilbury."

A small smile spread across Charlie's face.

"Thought it'd be funny."

"It's fucking not!"

"Is to us. Just like that time when you busted Hel's lip, right?"

Another shot this time by his feet inching him backwards.

"Get up and run like the coward you are, Benson. I feel like hunting for something."

The dog at the end of the leash bayed at the moon and lunged for him again. Teeth snapping at his pants grabbing onto it taking him down at the knees.

"Jesus Christ! Call him off!"

"Only if you run. Feel how she felt."

With a snap of her fingers the hellhound was called off and it and it's owners were back in that god forsaken Plymouth. A low growl was heard as it roared to life. It was coming right straight for him. Doing the only sensible thing his mind knew to do Joel Benson ran in a zig zag pattern but wasn't quick enough as the front bumper clipped him causing him to stumble. The crack of gunshots behind him made his heart hammer and his stomach knot up. All those times he'd come home and caused holy hell in the home he had shared with Helene had now knew. He knew what it was like to be terrified for your own life. Another gunshot, another howl from the dog with it's head hanging out the back driver's side window.

"Jesus Christ I'm sorry."

"Don't go callin' on people that don't know you, Benson!"

Was all he heard before his feet went out underneath him. Of course it just had to be Colleen fucking Murphy's voice. He went airborne for one slow sickening minute and he saw now earth or road beneath his feet.

'This must be how that stupid coyote feels when it's bested by that road runner.'

He thought to himself as he free fell over an open patch of earth and down into the embankment below. He'd no sooner made contact with the ground, excruciatingly so, as he had broken both ankles and dislocated his left knee. He was almost positive he had broken his right arm and hit a rock head first on the way down. His body went limp as it heard footsteps and growls. He was only semi conscious when Red bit down on the hand that tried in vain to strike out at him with a rock.

"You're a real piece of work ain't you?"

"F-ffkk 'oouu."

Those were Joel's last words as he parted ways with the mortal coil he had terrorized for much of his life. He was not searched for, or missed. His disappearance wasn't much of a footnote in time either. Much like his grave, Joel Benson will never be found. Charlie and Colleen made doubly sure of that, right before they donated that little stretch of land to the national park service so it wouldn't be disturbed.

[radiodont]

it's insane how easy it is for people (americans specifically) to accept deaths as long as they're 'in war'. like, i know how we got here. 9/11 propaganda ensured that several generations viewed war as a just and pure method of killing civilians, and terrorism as the worst thing you can ever do. of course the us is justified in going to war in iraq, silly! they did terrorism on us! that means that they gave up their human rights, and any civilians killed by the us are tragic victims in the fight against terrorism.

and thus, of course, we get the public baying for the blood of the palestinian people in the name of "fighting back" against hamas. all they had to do was call it a terrorist organization, and immediately, their deaths were justified. of course they had to bomb a hospital, kill innocents, violate the geneva conventions. they were trying to get the terrorists. don't you see? of course people are dying, they're in a war. what did you expect, for a war to be peaceful?

even the methods of excusing the violence are the same. just as israel claims that there's a "hamas headquarters" under a hospital (below sea level, where any deep underground tunnels would be flooded), the us has done the exact same, claiming that an afghan hospital was hiding taliban militia. they bombed the hospital and shot at the fleeing wounded. it's the exact same song and dance-- and just as vile and dishonest as the first time it was played.

ignore that one side is begging for a ceasefire and dying by the tens of thousands. ignore that the reported casualties have a difference in magnitude of ten times, ignore that the fighting began over the nonstop violence and subjugation of the palestinian people. it's to fight terrorism. that's been the excuse for 20 years, and people have been primed to accept it with little issue.

[beardedmrbean]

SRINAGAR, India — Weapons left behind by U.S. forces during the withdrawal from Afghanistan are surfacing in another conflict, further arming militants in the disputed South Asian region of Kashmir in what experts say could be just the start of the weapons’ global journey.

Authorities in Indian-controlled Kashmir tell NBC News that militants trying to annex the region for Pakistan are carrying M4s, M16s and other U.S.-made arms and ammunition that have rarely been seen in the 30-year conflict. A major reason, they say, is a regional flood of U.S.-funded weapons that fell into the hands of the Taliban when U.S.-led NATO forces withdrew from Afghanistan in 2021.

Most of the weapons recovered so far, officials say, are from Jaish-e-Mohammad (JeM) or Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT), both Pakistan-based militant groups that the U.S. designates as terrorist organizations. In a Twitter post last year, for example, police said they had seized an M4 carbine assault rifle after a gunfight that killed two militants from JeM. 

Militants from both groups had been sent to Afghanistan to fight alongside or train the Taliban before the U.S. withdrawal, said Lt. Col. Emron Musavi, an Indian army spokesperson in Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir.  

“It can be safely assumed that they have access to the weapons left behind,” he said.

Government officials in Afghanistan and Pakistan did not respond to requests for comment.

Kashmir, a Himalayan region known for its beautiful landscapes, shares borders with India, Pakistan, Afghanistan and China. A separatist insurgency in the part of Kashmir controlled by India has killed tens of thousands of people since the 1990s and been a constant source of tension between nuclear powers India and Pakistan. 

The year opened in violence as Kashmir police blamed militants for a Jan. 1 gunfire attack that killed four people in the southern village of Dhangri, followed by an explosion in the same area the next day that killed a 5-year-old boy and a 12-year-old girl. At least six people were injured on Jan. 21 in two explosions in the city of Jammu.

While the U.S.-made weapons are unlikely to shift the balance of power in the Kashmir conflict, they give the Taliban a sizable reservoir of combat power potentially available to those willing and able to purchase it, said Jonathan Schroden, director of the Countering Threats and Challenges Program at the Center for Naval Analyses, a research group based outside Washington.

“When combined with the Taliban’s need for money and extant smuggling networks, that reservoir poses a substantial threat to regional actors for years to come,” he said. 

A trove of weapons

More than $7.1 billion in U.S.-funded military equipment was in the possession of the Afghan government when it fell to the Taliban in August 2021 amid the withdrawal, according to a Defense Department report published last August. Though more than half of it was ground vehicles, it also included more than 316,000 weapons worth almost $512 million, plus ammunition and other accessories.

While large numbers of small arms that had been transferred to Afghan forces most likely ended up in the hands of the Taliban, “it’s important to remember that nearly all weapons and equipment used by U.S. military forces in Afghanistan were either retrograded or destroyed prior to our withdrawal,” Army Lt. Col. Rob Lodewick, a spokesperson for the Pentagon, said in a statement.

The Defense Department report also pointed out that the operational condition of the Afghan army’s equipment was unknown.

Questions around the weapons being used in Kashmir were raised in January 2022, when a video of militants brandishing what appeared to be American-made guns was shared widely on Indian social media. Though the origin of the weapons in such cases can be difficult to verify — some may be modified to look like U.S. weapons, while others may not have been manufactured in the U.S. — the Indian military says it has recovered at least seven that are authentic.

“From the weapons and equipment that we recovered, we realized that there was a spillover of high-tech weapons, night-vision devices and equipment, which were left by the Americans in Afghanistan [and] were now finding their way toward this side,” Maj. Gen. Ajay Chandpuria, an Indian army official, was quoted as saying by Indian media last year.

Jammu and Kashmir Lt. Gov. Manoj Sinha said the government was aware of the issue and that measures were in place to combat the infiltration of U.S. weapons into Kashmir.

“We are monitoring the situation closely and have taken steps accordingly. Our police and army are on the job,” Sinha, the region’s top official, said on the sidelines of a news conference last year at his official residence in Srinagar.

Kashmir police official Vijay Kumar also said authorities were fully capable of countering the militant threat.

“Our forces are tracking down militants on a daily basis,” he said. “We are constantly upgrading our equipment and have the latest weaponry at our disposal.”

The militant groups JeM and LeT could be buying U.S. weapons from the Taliban in Afghanistan, where the United Nations says both groups have bases, or through smugglers in Pakistan, said Ajai Sahni, an author on counterterrorism who serves as executive director of the Institute for Conflict Management, a think tank in New Delhi. 

Militants will struggle to get the upper hand, however, without more advanced weapons that have greater firepower but are more difficult to smuggle into the region, Sahni said.

Schroden said that although he had not seen substantial reports of U.S.-made weapons left behind in Afghanistan appearing outside of Kashmir, it would not be surprising if they eventually began turning up farther away in places such as Yemen, Syria and parts of Africa.

“I suspect there hasn’t yet been enough time for these weapons to percolate out that far,” he said. “It’s also possible that the Taliban have held tightly to most of them thus far as part of their efforts to consolidate power and seek legitimization from the international community.”

Beyond weapons, the Taliban’s victory in Afghanistan gave an ideological boost to radical militants in Kashmir and elsewhere, said Ahmad Shuja Jamal, a former Afghan civil servant living in exile in Australia. 

Such militants, he said, “now see in clear terms the political dividends of long-term violence.”

[faofinn]

DAY 13: forced to hurt a loved one

@febuwhump

This is a continuation of one of Shiv's favourite prompts from Whumptober. Might as well carry it on, right? Famous Last Words

The more Fao coughed, the more he was aware he wasn’t right. He hated it, hated that all of this had happened because of one selfish man who thought he knew best. The injury itself was a pain in of itself, but the situation just made it so much worse. He hated every second in resus, waiting for dhis CT to come back so Hars could bollock him about it before eventually doing something to fix it. He wasn’t looking forward to that either, but there was no getting out of it. At least it would get him home, eventually. 

Fao just couldn’t get comfortable, no matter what he did. Resus was loud and busy, Finn wouldn’t stop fussing, and he was tired. His chest hurt, breathing was a pain, and everyone kept coming to prod him or ask him questions. He knew in reality he wouldn’t be waiting long, but it felt like forever, and he hated it. They’d forced him onto oxygen, too, his sats having dropped below where they’d like them. He had to admit things were easier with the oxygen, but it made his nose and throat feel so dry and horrible, and set him off coughing more. 

Given the urgency of the situation, the CT came back quickly. Unfortunately for Fao, it showed a decently significant pneumothorax, and a couple of broken ribs. Harrison sighed as he read the report and scrolled through the images, the fear rising no matter how hard he tried to suppress it. Memories of Afghan, all those years ago, flooded him, threatening to overwhelm him. Mixed with his own admission, the fear, waking up in the ICU. Any other patient, any other person, and he’d be fine. This was his bread and butter, he loved working in resus, loved the more complicated procedures. But with Fao, he couldn’t think. 

He didn’t have time to mess around though. Fao didn’t have the time for him to mess around. He also couldn't afford for him to mess up, and the weight of that was so, so heavy on his mind. 

Jamie was around, much to Harrison’s relief, and he knew the other man would have his back: there wasn't another nurse he'd ever want. Despite Tai being at work, and Steve looking after the boys, he shot them both a text, a heads up for the all too obvious breakdown coming.

Of course, they hadn't replied before he had to go back, hoping the pain meds they'd given Fao had started to kick in for him. 

With everything set up and prepped, he checked with Fao. "Are you alright for me to numb your ribs up?"

The painkillers were half working, and had done enough to at least make him more comfortable in the way he was lying. They’d explained everything on the CT, so he knew what was coming, not that he liked it much. 

When Hars appeared by his bedside, he frowned. “You’re gonna do it?”

"Done it before, just for old times." He forced a joke, his smile not reaching his eyes.

“You gonna be okay?” 

"I'm fine, I'm the doctor, not the patient. Is Finn staying?"

“If he wants to.” Fao said. “Finn?”

He didn't massively fancy it, but he wasn't going to let Fao go through it alone. "I'm not gonna leave you."

“You don’t have to stay.” Fao said. “If it’s too much.”

"You have to go through it."

“Doesn’t mean you have to.”

"I've seen loads before. Do you want me to stay?" He asked, firmer than he'd intended.

Fao nodded. “You can give Hars pointers.”

"Sounds about right." Harrison murmured. "Let's get you comfortable as we can, and then I'll start local."

“Yeah. Don’t think I’m going to get any more comfortable, honestly.”

"I known it's shit." He murmured. 

Fao shifted a little. “Go for it, whatever you need to do.”

"Alright, just going to adjust you a little."

“Mmhmm.” Fao hummed. Whilst the pain relief had only partially got rid of the pain, it had definitely made him a bit woozy

"Just a sharp scratch, just the local." He murmured. Last time there had been no time for niceties, though it had only been a needle while he was conscious. They’d half knocked him out before they'd - he'd - started the chest drain. 

It stung, and made Fao’s eyes water, but he didn’t move. He just did his best to breathe, looking over at Finn and not at Harrison. He didn’t need any more pressure, and Fao needed some kind of grounding, to remind him this wasn’t like before. This wasn’t the first drain he’d had, and not the first since his accident, but that didn’t make it any easier. 

"That's it, you're doing really well. Keep breathing, Wol-Fao. You're doing great, Fao." Harrison murmured, trying to convince himself he had all the time in the world, that it wasn't as time critical as Fao bleeding out under him.

“Don’t want to stop doing that.” Fao joked weakly. “Don’t you stop either.” 

"You deserve better than that."

“If you keel over, Finn’ll have to do it.” 

Harrison felt a flare of protectiveness over Fao. Finn couldn't do it, he wouldn't do it right.

Fao pressed his lips together, trying to ignore the sting of the anaesthetic and let his mind wander a bit. 

“Ely’s going to kill me.” He mumbled. 

"She better not." Harrison said sharply. 

“And you’ll kill her.” 

"She's not undoing all the hard work."

“Mm, you can tell her that.”

"I will."

“Are you nearly done?” Fao asked impatiently, knowing full well he wasn’t. 

"I need to do it properly." He replied tersely.

"We're better off doing it properly the first time round, right Hars?" Jamie prompted, shooting a frown at the doctor. 

Fao frowned at the other voice. “Jamie, right?” He asked slowly. 

"Yeah, still me. Just making sure Harrison behaves himself." He teased.

“Make sure he’s okay.”

"I'm not the one in resus, am I?"

"We will, don't worry."

"I'm fine." Harrison paused to glare at Jamie. 

Fao managed a smile, looking at the nurse. “Thank you.”

"Pass me the tube?" Harrison muttered, ignoring Fao's comments. 

Jamie passed it across, humming. “There.”

He took it, and started to advance it, trying his best to clear his head. He didn’t miss the flinch of pain from Fao, and he hesitated, his ribs under his hands and his blood over his gloves.

Fao couldn’t help the flinch, trying his best not to fully squirm away from the pain as Harrison pushed the tube in. “Ow, fuck.” 

Finn bit his lip as Fao swore, gripping his brother’s hand tighter. He murmured softly to him, trying to help distract him, but he couldn’t help the worried glance at Harrison. 

He'd reached for some more local, but somehow fumbled. While he managed to grab the syringe filled and ready to go, the rest of the tray went clattering to the floor, echoing around resus. 

If the pain didn’t make Fao flinch properly, the clatter did. He didn’t see it, his head turned away from Harrison, but he startled away from the sound, unexpected and all too loud. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry Wolfie." There was a waver to Harrison’s voice. "I'm sorry."

Fao forced a breath, turning to look at Harrison the best he could in the position he was in. “No harm done.” He murmured. “You know what I’m like.”

"I should have been more careful."

Fao wanted to shrug, but couldn’t. “Jus’ focus on what you’re doing now.” He said, trying to be encouraging. 

"I was, but you were in pain and I couldn't just continue. You're aware this time."

"Yeah, and you'll just numb him up and he'll stop being a dickhead, and he'll be sorted." Finn said, glancing between the two. Harrison’s feelings were almost overwhelming, a confused mix of too much from across the ED bay.

“I’m okay.” Fao murmured. 

"Yeah, of course." Harrison continued. "I'm sorry."

“Can knock me out if you need.”

Harrison struggled to catch his breath, turning away so Finn couldn't see his struggle. He wasn’t so lucky with Jamie, but he narrowed his eyes and dared him to say anything. 

The pain was starting to settle now and Fao glanced back at Harrison, hating the look on his face. “Feels better now.” He murmured. 

"I'm glad. " He murmured, finishing up. The sutures didn't take much longer and soon the tube was secured. He undid the clamp, nausea curling in his stomach as he blood immediately began flooding out. 

He shoved the equipment down, gave Fao another check over and then headed out before he threw up or passed out.

The final bit of the tube going in was still sore, but Fao barely reacted. Soon enough everything was where it was supposed to be, breathing was easier, and Fao closed his eyes, pressing his head into the bed. He was so glad that was over.

[brooklynislandgirl]

An antiqued bulb cast warm, low light on the couple who lay entwined; a tawny leg hooked over a broad, ink-painted shoulder the only sight of them glass and filament could make out from its perch upon a distant, stout armoire. All it knew was that they'd not been there too long, and that something silky and lacy and barely there at all had been thoughtlessly discarded before a head of cropped, jet black hair dipped low and nudged from she who owned the lean appendage draped over that shoulder the most erotic sound.

A purr of equally sensual enjoyment escaped on the breath Ron let out and then drew in again near Beth's skin; his nose and lips at home upon her pubic bone and drifting southwards, kiss by kiss, at a torturously, purposefully languid pace. Nothing bar Beth begging him to would make him rush. He enjoyed worshipping her like this far too much, and he told her so-

"--luv th'taste'a yah"

-in the same sultry tone he'd suggesting retiring early in. Eyes that most thought were black and doll-like, dead of feeling, shone in the inviting dim their natural rich, chocolate brown as Ron gazed between kisses up along Beth's dusky planes; lean and supple and stunning to him, for all it'd taken a little time for him to understand precisely how. A broad hand stroked upwards from her hipbone to the very base of her ribs as he bent his head to continue his worshipping, another of those sensual purrs - encouragement, affection and want shot through it - easing free as his lips parted and he sampled again that taste.

Sense and Sensibility || Accepting

For all the night might be damp and the rain pattering a hymn from far asea against the windows of Cedra Court, it isn't her Mother's embrace that she feels, nor is it that particular dance that sweeps through Ron's soul. The moment is theirs alone and his breath is a sirocco against her own shores. One that raises her back as a perfectly arched question mark, that is paired with a sound that might be carved out of a particularly sinful sultry answering breath. The sole of one small foot flattens against his back ~nebulous ground between scapular muscle and intercostals. Toes curl and dig in to remind him of their presence. She'd been no lamb to the slaughter after supper when she reclined on the far end of the sofa, nimble fingers and slender needles knitting yet another one of the dozens of afghans she'd worked diligently on to donate to Battersea ~he'd mentioned that the walls were slightly cool the last time he'd gone to spend time with the dogs there and she hated the idea of any one of the animals knowing cold~ while Ron'd been reading in his chair as was his wont. She was preternaturally aware when he'd placed his marker and set the tome aside, picked up their cups and placed him into the sink A wink and a heartbeat later, his hands hand rounded against her shoulders. When she tilted her head to the side to better accommodate him, his lips had been at her ear. Her answer was the rush of a smile and the heat that flooded her features. She was certain he could hear her pulse pounding loudly in her ears. His hands had slid her camisole from her body, she'd undone his shirt button by button. Suspenders allowed to hang about his hips. Her skirt had fluttered to the floor before she'd felt the bedding at her back. Felt his hands draw the last barrier of silk and lace from her skin before he'd nestled there. He stokes that ache with his nose, with his mouth, lush lips sliding against sensitive flesh. He'd brought her hips that much closer to his questing tongue by giving one leg up to rest beside his neck. She feels what he says rather than hears it and he most certainly cannot miss the reciprocating slickness that pools within her. She feels like she hovers on the threshold of divinity itself. Her throat is full of broken words, shattered by every pass of a calloused finger or the sweet agony of his tongue, and come out in those fragments of sound, gentled but guttural. She musters a moment when he gives mercy. One hand, previously a claw clutching their sheets in a grip like iron, manages to unclench only to reach down. Nails graze through his shorter locks to leave their spectral passage against his scalp. "Warn ya, Ronnie…I'll exact same same from you because I wan savour ya forevah." No other words see the dim light that gleams against their skin, but neither is she silent either as she writhes beneath him.

[mariacallous]

A common feature at cemeteries outside many midsize Russian cities and towns is a separate necropolis of headstones bearing the names of (mostly) young men who perished sometime between 1991 and 2000. They died during the chaos that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union—victims of crime and violence, mainly, but also of disease, alcoholism, and drug abuse. While these graveyards and the wave of death they represent are the subject of morbid fascination for the rest of the world, in Russia itself they are reminders of an era of national disgrace and humiliation, which Russian President Vladimir Putin has condemned on many occasions. The idea that Putin pulled Russia out of that era is one of his most consistent political campaign messages; his official website, kremlin.ru, contains dozens of derogatory remarks about the chaotic 1990s in Russia. They regularly feature in his state of the union speeches, annual press conferences, and interviews.

Putin’s assumption of power on Dec. 31, 1999, bookended a decade which indeed contained many elements of collapsing statehood. Amid general destitution and growing inequality, criminal anarchy, shootouts between rival gangs, and revenge bombings were a regular occurrence. Life expectancy for Russian men rapidly sank. These and other factors, including mass emigration, contributed to a period of unprecedented demographic decline: Each year between 1994 and 2008, Russia’s population decreased by several hundred thousand people, reaching the nadir of almost 1 million in 2000, Putin first full year in power.

Today, there are fresh graveyard lots across Russia, some covering an area as large as several football fields. Instead of a few kitschy mausoleums, there are dozens and often hundreds of fresh mounds of earth with simple, identical crosses bearing men’s names. Their years of death are the same: 2022 and 2023. Some of them were born in 2000 or later, in the early years of Putin’s reign. The fatality numbers are astonishing: By even the most conservative estimates, in a single year of its invasion of Ukraine, Russia has already lost more men than in the 10-year Soviet-Afghan War and First Chechen War—combined.

The preponderance of death made visible at the country’s cemeteries isn’t the only way Russia is returning to the 1990s. Today’s Russians once again struggle with growing violence, economic instability, and a flood of mentally and physically broken veterans. They once again face a failed war, broken society, and national humiliation. For a leader whose signature claim to power has been the banishment of 1990s-era chaos in Russia—for which the loss of political freedom, in his supporters’ eyes, was a small price to pay—the return of the 1990s could well become a threat to his rule.

Some of the deaths on display at graveyards across Russia won’t be mourned by many people. Those recruited by the Wagner Group from prisons where they were serving sentences for anything from minor narcotics-related offenses to the most depraved murders are seen as politically irrelevant and thus expendable. Most of them have already been written off by society: young men from very poor or broken families, driven to low-key drug dealing and petty theft to sponsor an addiction, or orphans brutalized by Russia’s system of orphanages and foster care.

Those soldiers who have managed to return home alive—and their families—aren’t faring much better. Already, Russian authorities are struggling to take care of at least 750,000 veterans who have served in Ukraine, according to a leaked document from a charity led by a relative of Putin. This number, too, tops the total for Moscow’s most catastrophic and humiliating military defeats of the past 40 years: the Afghan campaign and the First Chechen War. In both, Soviet and then Russian armies were met with fierce resistance from locals who did not want to be conquered, and civilians bore the brunt of brutal retributions. Before the atrocities perpetrated by Russian soldiers in Bucha, Ukraine, there was the mass murder of civilians in Samashki, Chechnya, in 1995. Before that, there were many massacres committed by Soviet troops in Afghanistan. The Kremlin deployed around 600,000 soldiers to the two wars, and many of those who returned were physically and spiritually broken, conditioned to extreme violence, and prone to bouts of depression and suicide. Some found no place for themselves in civilian society and joined one of the many numerous organized crime groups of the early 1990s.

A similar wave is already bubbling up in Russia today. Every day, there are reports about Ukraine veterans engaged in violence—randomly attacking passersby, stabbing their wife to death in a drunken frenzy in front of their children, or other crimes. Others didn’t need a war to be introduced to wanton criminality: Some of Wagner’s most notorious outlaws, convicted for murders and mutilations of incomprehensible cruelty, have been released back into society as the promised reward for shooting Ukrainians, and a few have almost immediately gone on new killing rampages. Just like in the 1990s, there seems to be no plan for any psychological support for soldiers returning from an active war zone. Just like back then, they are mostly left to their own devices. A flood of firearms allegedly being smuggled from Ukraine back to Russia by returning troops isn’t helping to curb outbursts of spontaneous violence.

Many of the contract soldiers and the recently mobilized who perished in Ukraine were fathers and their family’s sole breadwinners, whose sudden, tragic disappearance leaves a gaping hole in the fabric of society. As the 1990s aptly demonstrated, the decline doesn’t stop with the deceased; as families are torn apart, the war’s wounds already transcend generations. Just like social, demographic, and economic decline begot each other in the 1990s, today’s Russian economy suffers, too, as its most active subjects perish en masse due to the war and its attendant socioeconomic factors. Male life expectancy has taken a hit, and the instability discourages childbirth.

Russian men of the generation currently being wiped out in Ukraine were born at the bottom of the previous demographic dip, when Russia’s fertility rate was at its lowest in many decades. Less than one year before the invasion, the demographers at the Russian Economic Development Ministry were already predicting the loss of more than 1.7 million people over four years. Today, the situation looks even grimmer. While Russian officials downplay it as merely “concerning,” independent demographers call it a “catastrophe,” predicting a return next year to a low in the fertility rate not seen since World War II.

Even before the invasion, Russia’s atrocious handling of the COVID-19 pandemic guaranteed that pandemic-era mortality already surpassed the worst demographic dip of the 1990s—the era of chaos instrumentalized by Putin to justify his rule. Add the devastating effects of the war, and Russia is already looking worse than the “wild” decade in many key areas. Except the 1990s, so consistently demonized by Putin, were also a time of great hope and political freedom unseen by many generations before. The Russian State Duma was a place of genuine political debate. A variety of national media mercilessly attacked the government and exposed the horrors of Russia’s wars; there was an explosion of uncensored art. All of these positive sides of the 1990s would be incomprehensible to an 18-year-old coming of age around 2020—when most civil liberties were already wiped out—just to be drafted into the army and killed in Ukraine in 2022.

This is one of many of Putin’s broken promises to Russians. Gone is the social contract between the Kremlin and Russia’s emerging middle class, which traded political participation for social and economic “stability.” Time and time again, Putin invoked the excesses of the 1990s and promised to lead Russians to a better future; instead, he is dragging them toward an unprecedented decline. His newest promise is to “return” Russia’s “historic lands”—but there are simply fewer and fewer Russians to populate them. And fresh grave lots keep growing by the day.