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hd-junglebook · 1 year ago

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The Other Side

Part 1 - Word Count 2463

Crouched on her tree branch overlook, Y/N watched curiously as the group of five approached the cliff's edge. She was intrigued by these strangers, the first new people she had encountered since witnessing the ship crash.

The boy with long hair moved to grab the rope swing first but was interrupted by another wearing steampunk-looking goggles.

After a brief exchange, the long-haired boy moved back, now standing next to a pretty blonde girl. The four of them exchanged weary glances, silently communicating after they switched places.

The goggled boy backed up several paces, then sprinted forward with a leap, launching himself from the cliff. He swung out in a wide arc, whooping excitedly. At the apex of the swing, he released the rope and landed gracefully on the far ledge.

The group stood in silence watching before they erupted in shouts at the Mount Weather sign. She sat for a moment watching the pure joy of these strangers, hesitating, debating whether to reveal herself. Her curiosity was piqued, but she knew little of their motives or intentions.

The commander sent her down here to gather information with Lincoln, both splitting up as he stayed by their camp, performing a headcount.

Y/N was impressed by his bold daring. She studied the other four strangers, wondering about their origins. They appeared around her age, and wore weird clothing, the material all cobbled together. Perhaps they had banded together after some other disaster or tragedy.

Lexa wouldn’t like any of this, dread filled y/n and she reminded herself that they weren’t going to live long after she traveled back to the capital.

Lexa was stuck in the old ways, never straying from harsh and outdated rules placed by their grounder society. Not that Lexa could change anything, if she allowed these invaders to live, her people would see her as weak, and she couldn’t have that.

Y/N couldn't help but smile as she observed the scene from her hidden vantage point among the trees despite her thoughts.

In that fleeting moment, with their guard down, she saw only vibrant youth, not strangers to fear. She remained hidden for now, but hoped someday their paths might properly cross if fate worked in their favor.

But their happiness was short-lived, shattered by the sudden violence that erupted as a spear was hurled at the unsuspecting boy. His friends' screams pierced the air, echoing with terror. She quickly sprang into action, leaping down from the tree with a soft thump.

Her horse, sensing the distress, whinnied softly as she approached, offering a comforting presence in the midst of chaos. With a swift pat on his flank, both of them set off back to civilization.

With a final glance back at the scene unfolding behind her, Y/N urged her horse forward, their hooves pounding against the forest floor as they disappeared into the safety of the woods, leaving the invaders and their violence behind.

…

“Lincoln?” y/n called out, searching the brush for any sign of her friend. “Lincoln it’s me.” She continued, cupping her hands around her mouth.

There was no reply except for the sound of rustling leaves and the echo of his name. She sighed, weighing her options briefly before heading back to her horse, weaving through the twisted trunks and stomping over the bed of fallen leaves and twigs.

The sound of crunching filled the open space, quickly she grabbed her bow, notching an arrow before scanning the tree line again. Lincolns burly figure melted out from behind a massive oak, his face paint smeared haphazardly across his face from the sweat and heat.

“Lincoln!” she breathed out gratefully, loosening her grip on the bow before stepping forward to greet him. Lincoln stood before her, his calm gaze surveying her from beneath the hooded cloak draped over his shoulders. “I was starting to think you forgot I was coming.”

The barest hint of a smile played across the grounder’s lips. "I am well-versed in the ways of these woods.

It is you who makes noise like a stampeding gorilla." y/n rolled her eyes good naturedly at his teasing. “"Well? What did you see? Anything we should be concerned about?"

Lincoln's expression turned serious once more as he relayed his findings. “I counted about 100 of them. A blonde girl she’s their leader.”

After their discussion, Riss gave him a nod farewell. "I should get back before the Commander sends out a search party for me too." With that, she turned and headed back through the shadowy forest, leaving Lincoln to fade back into his camouflaged surroundings like a ghost.

Y/n strolled through the bustling streets of the capital, the cobblestones echoed with the rhythm of her determined steps.

Street vendors peddled their wares, their voices blending into a vibrant cacophony of commerce. The scent of sizzling street food tantalized her senses as she navigated her way through the throngs of people.

Approaching the imposing structure of the commander's building, she felt a surge of anticipation mingled with a hint of apprehension. "State your business," one of the guards demanded, his tone gruff.

She met his gaze with steely determination, her hand resting casually on the hilt of her hidden sword. "I seek an audience with the commander. It's a matter of utmost urgency."

The guards stationed at the entrance scrutinized her with suspicion until she presented the emblem of her authority.

The guard exchanged a wary glance with his companion before nodding reluctantly. "Very well, you may proceed."

With a satisfied smirk playing on her lips, she passed through the threshold and into the hallowed halls beyond, her gaze fixed on her objective: the commander's hall.

Her steps seemed to melt into the background noise of the bustling corridors, her presence almost unnoticed amidst the chatter. With purposeful strides, she approached the ornate door, its imposing frame a gateway to power and intrigue.

With a soft creak, the door swung open, and she stepped into the chamber, greeted by a gentle breeze that whispered through the open terrace door, ruffling her hair. "Commander," she greeted, her voice carrying respect.

Lexa, seated at the head of the room, smiled warmly, her gaze flickering with recognition. With a graceful gesture, she dismissed her companions, who filed out of the room one by one, leaving the two women alone to discuss matters of consequence.

"Ah, it's good to see you," she began, rising gracefully from her chair. The room seemed to hold its breath as she approached Lexa, her steps deliberate and purposeful.

"What brings you back so early?" Her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity.

As Y/N spoke, she couldn't help but notice the subtle tension that crept into the lines of Lexa's face. A furrow appeared between her brows, a silent question hanging in the air. Y/N pressed on, her own resolve mirrored in the unwavering gaze she held with Lexa.

"I spoke with Lincoln," she declared, her voice steady, each word carefully chosen. Lexa leaned forward, her expression a mix of anticipation and apprehension.

The silence stretched, broken only by the soft sound of Y/N's footsteps as she paced the room, the click of her boots echoing the rapid beat of her racing mind.

As she spoke of her findings, the space between them seemed to shrink, the distance bridged by shared secrets and unspoken truths. The dance of words and emotions played out in the quiet expanse of the room, a delicate balance of power and vulnerability.

Once she finished her account, Lexa rose from her seat. Y/N observed the subtle shift in her body language, noting the resolute set of her jaw and the firmness of her posture.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Lexa said. "We must deal with these invaders if we are to protect our city from chaos."

…

Y/N rode on horseback through the lush, green woods, the earthy scent of pine filled her nostrils, mingling with the sweet fragrance of wildflowers.

The sunlight filtered through the forest canopy above, casting a warm, golden glow upon the trail as she journeyed down familiar paths - passing by small villages nestled amongst the trees.

She couldn't help but smile as she passed by, exchanging friendly nods with the villagers who went about their daily tasks. Y/n had been away from home for some time and was eager to return.

The steady clop of hooves marked the miles melting away as the trees thinned. She spotted her modest log cabin in the distance, its weathered exterior a welcoming sight against the backdrop of the forest.

Reaching the edge of the property, y/n hopped down from her steed, her boots sinking into the soft earth beneath her feet. With a gentle pat on her horse's neck, she released him to graze freely, knowing he would find his way back to the stable when he was ready.

Y/N took a moment to close her eyes and breathe deeply, cherishing the scent of pine and wildflowers. It was good to be back. She hitched up her pack and strode towards the front door, the familiar scent of aged wood enveloped her, a comforting embrace that welcomed her home.

Setting her pack aside, she moved with purpose to the corner where her woodworking bench stood. With practiced hands, she began to carve arrows, the rhythmic scrape of the blade against wood echoing in the cozy confines of the cabin.

the moonlight filtering through the canopy above cast eerie shadows on the forest floor. The night was still. Heading out into the night to gather firewood had become a routine for Y/N, a solitary task that allowed her moments of quiet reflection amidst the whispering trees. Tonight, however, a feeling that prickled at the back of her neck as she navigated the winding path.

y/n began to gather the fallen branches, a sudden sound shattered the silence. The unmistakable sound of running feet echoed through the trees, sending a shiver down Y/N's spine. Instinctively, she dropped the firewood and reached for the dagger she always kept strapped to her side.

Moving cautiously towards the source of the noise, Y/N's senses heightened, every rustle and snap of a twig magnified in the stillness of the night.

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest as she approached a clearing, the moonlight revealing a figure hunched over, gasping for breath against a gnarled tree trunk.

Drawing closer, Y/N's eyes widened in surprise as she recognized the figure of a boy, his face contorted in pain and exhaustion. His clothes were torn and dirt-streaked, his hands clutching at the rough bark for support.

"Who are you?" Y/N's voice cut through the night, a mixture of concern and caution lacing her words. The boy looked up, his eyes wide with fear and desperation, a silent plea for help etched in his gaze.

Her body subtly leaned forward, indicating her readiness to assist if needed, while her hands hovered near her sides, poised to react to any sudden movements.

The moonlight bathed them in its silvery glow, Y/N and the mysterious boy stood facing each other in the heart of the forest, the boy steadied himself, before sucking in a breath and speaking.

"I could ask you the same thing.” He replied, the boy's voice was deep and raspy, his words were slow and deliberate, as if he was rehearsing a speech.

Their gaze locked in a silent standoff, a sudden eruption of yells in the trig language pierced the stillness of the woods. Y/N huffed, a hint of sarcasm coloring her tone. "Those your friends?" she quipped, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips. John shook his head.

Undeterred, Y/N pressed on, her voice firm yet tinged with intrigue, the trees towered above her, their branches creaking ominously in the gentle breeze.

"Who are you?" she asked, her curiosity driving her forward. The rustling leaves and distant echoes of the forest seemed to hold their breath, waiting for John's response.

After a moment of hesitation, John relented. "My name is John," he admitted. His voice was calm now, yet his eyes were a little wild. He looked like the man who had been on the verge of being killed, his head bowed in prayer.

"I can help you, John," she said, Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine as she looked into John's eyes. They were deep and piercing, like two black holes that seemed to suck her in. She couldn't look away, even though she knew she should.

John hesitated, unsure if he could trust her. But the thought of surviving in this harsh new world was too tempting to resist. "Okay," he said, his eyes darting between y/n and the area where the voices came from.

"I'll follow you." He approached her cautiously, keeping a safe distance. Y/n nodded, a look of satisfaction on her face. "Good," she said. "Let’s go."

…

Y/N and Murphy made their way back to her cabin, the shadows of the forest casting long, eerie shapes on the path ahead. "I need you to help me gather resources," she said.

"Food, water, weapons. Whatever I need to keep me alive. And in return, I will keep you safe from my people." She stated, looking back at Murphy as she climbed the steps to her door.

John nodded, his heart racing but he knew he had no choice. "Yes," he said, his voice firm. "I'll do it. Whatever it takes." Y/n could tell he wasn’t sure about his own agreement but kept walking anyway, opening the rusty door and entering.

Murphy hesitated at the threshold, his eyes scanning the surroundings warily, a flicker of fear betraying his tough exterior.

Y/N chuckled softly, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "Come on, it's not a trap," she reassured him, her voice warm and inviting. Murphy stepped inside, the cozy interior of the cabin enveloping him in a sense of unexpected comfort.

The aroma of cooking rabbit wafted through the air, a tantalizing scent that stirred memories of simpler times with her family. Y/N moved with practiced ease around the small kitchen, spooning steaming stew into an old wooden bowl before handing it to Murphy.

He accepted the bowl gratefully, the hunger evident in the way he practically inhaled the hearty meal. Y/N watched him silently, her gaze lingering on his worn appearance and the shadows that clouded his eyes.

"What happened to you, John?" she asked, her voice soft yet probing. The question hung in the air, laden with unspoken implications.

Murphy paused, setting down the bowl with a nonchalant shrug. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” he replied through gritted teeth. “Let's just say I've had better days."

…

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deadpresidents · 11 months ago

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Everyone knows about Lincoln and Garfield and McKinley and Kennedy, the quartet of America Presidents who fell victim to assassination. Even the most casual observers of Presidential history can probably name the four Presidents who were murdered while in office, and many even know the names of the four assassins responsible for their deaths: Booth, Guiteau, Czolgosz, and Oswald.

There have also been quite a few (in)famous unsuccessful assassination attempts, where Presidents barely escaped with their lives, that many Americans are familiar with, including (but not limited to):

•Richard Lawrence's miraculously unlucky double misfire on the steps of the U.S. Capitol in 1835 which left Andrew Jackson unharmed but resulted in Lawrence -- who would be found not guilty by reason of insanity -- getting viciously pummeled by the cane-wielding President Jackson until Davy Crockett intervened to save the would-be assassin from the 67-year-old President. •The shooting of former President Theodore Roosevelt in Milwaukee as he sought another term in the White House during the 1912 Presidential election. Despite being shot in the chest, Roosevelt decided to go ahead and deliver his campaign speech before being taken to the hospital where doctors discovered that the bullet lodged inside of TR had first passed through a case for his eyeglasses and the thick pages of his speech in his jacket's pocket, lessening the damage from the gunshot. •The attempted assassination of President-elect Franklin D. Roosevelt in Miami in February 1933, just seventeen days in before FDR's Inauguration, which wounded four people and killed Chicago Mayor Anton Cermak. •The ill-fated 1950 attempt by Puerto Rican nationalists to storm Blair House (the temporary Presidential residence during the renovation of the White House) and kill President Harry S. Truman as he was napping. Truman was not hurt, but a White House Police Officer and one of the two assassins were killed during the wild shootout. •President Gerald Ford's trouble with two California women who separately tried to kill him in Sacramento and then San Francisco just two weeks apart in September 1975. •The shocking shooting of President Ronald Reagan in broad daylight from just a few yards away as he exited the Washington Hilton following a speech in March 1981, which left four people wounded and very nearly killed the 70-year-old Reagan just two months into his Presidency.

But what is amazing is that, in this age of instant information and the constant regurgitation of media coverage via the 24-hour news cycle, very few Americans know that there is a man sitting in prison in the former Soviet Republic of Georgia for attempting to assassinate President George W. Bush. What even less Americans realize is how close Vladimir Arutyunian actually came to accomplishing his task.

On May 10, 2005, President Bush spoke to a large crowd at an outdoor rally in Tbilisi, Georgia. In one of the photos at the top of this post, Bush is seen speaking from the stage in Tbilisi. The other photo is of Arutyunian holding a plaid handkerchief close to his chest. Wrapped in that handkerchief was a live hand grenade.

As President Bush spoke, nearby sat his wife, Laura, Georgian President Mikheil Saakashvili, and the Dutch-born First Lady of Georgia, Sandra Roelofs. They had no idea that, during the speech, Arutyunian tossed his handkerchief-wrapped grenade towards the stage. The grenade landed just 61 feet away from President Bush, well within range of causing serious injury, if not death.

Of course, the grenade did not explode. At first, it was thought to be a dud, but upon closer inspection it was discovered that the only reason the grenade didn't explode was because Arutyunian's handkerchief -- used to conceal the explosive as he stood in the crowd -- was wrapped too tightly around the grenade, preventing the firing pin from deploying. A Georgian security official noticed the grenade, grabbed it quickly and disposed of it as Arutyunian disappeared into the massive crowd and President Bush continued speaking.

After Bush's speech was over and once it was recognized that the President had only narrowly escaped a legitimate attempted assassination, Georgian police worked closely with the United States Secret Service, the FBI, and the U.S. Justice Department to investigate the assassination attempt and find the would-be assassin who seemingly melted into Tbilisi after his brazen, albeit unsuccessful attempt on Bush's life. Using DNA evidence and tips from informants, the Georgian police ultimately tracked down Arutyunian two months later. When they went to arrest Arutyunian, a gunfight broke out and Arutyunian killed Zurab Kvlividze, a top counterterrorism official with Georgia's Interior Ministry. Arutyunian was wounded before finally being captured with the assistance of Georgian Special Forces.

The Georgians tried Arutyunian on the murder of the police officer, as well as the attempted assassinations of President Bush and President Saakshvili. Arutyunian was sentenced to life in prison with no possibility of parole. A federal grand jury in the United States also indicted Arutyunian on the federal charge of the attempted assassination of the President of the United States, which is a felony. The U.S., however, has not attempted nor has any potential plans to extradite the failed assassin from Georgia, and Arutyunian will almost certainly spend the rest of his life in a Georgian prison.

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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This is for those of you who would like to live in an old funeral home. This 1904 home in South Bend, IN is affordable and it's still intact! 6bds, 4ba, (big enough for the whole squad), and only $267K.

Center entrance hall.

You've got a nice living room with a fireplace.

I don't know, they may throw in the setup back there, or least the casket.

Big rooms.

Powder room.

Large office.

This is kind of cute- a small sun porch.

A large kitchen is off the sun porch.

The living room is large.

The primary bedroom. This whole place depresses me and needs a major decor update.

This must be another bedroom.

Down in the basement is the lounge.

And, another powder room.

Delightful.

And, I would call this the "work" room.

The laundry room.

The lift is in here and I would imagine that will stay.

8,712 sq ft lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/403-Lincoln-Way-W-South-Bend-IN-46601/77020393_zpid/

#funeral homes #houses #house tours #home tour

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brian-in-finance · 6 months ago

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Aloha, just saw the comment that Sam was at the taping of Cait's talkshow appearance or was at least in the same area. Why would he have been there? I would give a kidney for the answer.

Interesting message, Anon. Mahalo. 😃 Save your kidney, I’m happy to answer your question.

You’re probably referring to Caitríona’s latest appearance on Live with Kelly & Mark, which was taped on Wednesday the 16th of October, to air on Friday the 18th. Louisa Radcliffe, Outlander’s publicist, certainly had her hands full that day, manoeuvring Caitríona and Sam across Manhattan.

And, perhaps this post led to your question?

Instagram Queen Nurys is one of many celebrity spotters who keep their eyes peeled for announcements of upcoming interviews, appearances, etc. They know where to be, when.

Why would Sam have been in the same area?

Let’s review Wednesday, 16 March 2024.

First, Sam appeared on NBC’s Today Third Hour, which is taped-live-with-delays at 9 a.m. local (New York) time, at Studio 1A, 10 Rockefeller Plaza. (Red Box 1 on the map)

Screenshot from YouTube

Next, Caitríona joined Kelly and Mark at 10 a.m. to tape her Friday appearance at 7 Lincoln Square. (Red Box 2 on the map)

Screenshot: ABC News Live Twitter

After those appointments, and before arriving at the Paley Center, the Outlander leads recorded an interview for ABC News Live Prime at Time Square Studios, 1500 Broadway, which aired later that evening. (Red Box 3 on the map)

Finally, they made it to Paley, for another wardrobe change, the panel presentation, and media interviews at 25 W 52nd Street. (Red Box 4 on the map)

Screenshot: Google Maps / Note: The Red Boxes are more general-area than they are specific-area. Brian is no cartographer… but he has played one on TV.

So, now you know why Sam was there, Anon. 🧭 And where else would he be? It was a big day for Outlander publicity. Best regards to your kidney.

Remember… all publicity is good, except an obituary notice. — Brendan Behan

#Tait rhymes with hat #Good times #Inbox #Anonymous #Outlander #Cast sightings #Publicity #Season 7B #NYC #Asked/Answered 23 October 2024

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jeejyboard · 6 days ago

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11 and, why not, 17 and 22 again!!

11. what do you consider to be romance?

hmmmmm... like as a genre or... i'm guessing this question is asking what I find romantic, which can look v different for many people but imo comes back to attention to detail and curiosity towards/interest in another person. ideally with a lot of agreed on space for playfulness/creative exchanges

17. name 3 things that make you happy

you, rod!!!! B) and also I found someone's shopping list on the ground a few months ago and kept it bc im sentimental about weird stuff like that. also the quantity of mini libraries in my new neighborhood, which i like to stop by on walks and reorganize/see what is the zeitgeist within a 10 block radius. recently: someone either loves john grisham or got very fucking sick of him very fast

22. say 3 things about someone you love

@ursineknight is so much funnier than i'll ever be and no one believes me bc she only gets REALLY wild with it when we're alone. but i have evidence. ask me sometime about what she would say to abraham lincoln in the last 10 seconds of his life. or about her turtle-head weighted blanket idea. i'm this guy

also shes a fabulous cook and her kimchi stew and chicken adobo and snowpea leaves w garlic make me cry!!! also she recreationally organizes her files and metadata for her ebooks and will confess this to you with a very charming look on her face

#i have been out of town for three days and she had the place to herself and you know what she said she was gonna do with her freedom.#with her unadulterated dominion. complete latitude. she was going to pop popcorn on the stovetop #'its noisy!!! i don't want it to bother anyone!!'#ask meme #thank you rod <3

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misfitwashere · 10 days ago

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March 31, 2025

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

APR 1 READ IN APP

On April 1, 1861, Secretary of State William Henry Seward wrote an astonishing letter to President Abraham Lincoln. Less than a month after Lincoln had taken office, Seward had little faith in the apparently uneducated president from the raw West and was angry that the Cabinet had overruled him to provision South Carolina’s Fort Sumter rather than evacuating it. Seward was convinced that he, rather than Lincoln, should lead the administration.

Seward complained that Lincoln had not yet established “a policy either domestic or foreign” and said he had figured out the solution to the nation’s political crisis, in which seven states—South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas—had seceded from the Union in the weeks after Lincoln was elected president but before he took office. “[W]e must,” Seward wrote, “Change the question before the Public from one upon Slavery, or about Slavery for a question upon Union or Disunion.”

The way to do that, he wrote, was to rally Americans around the flag. To do so, he told Lincoln, “I would demand explanations from Spain and France, categorically, at once. I would seek explanations from Great Britain and Russia, and send agents into Canada, Mexico and Central America, to rouse a vigorous continental spirit of independence on this continent against European intervention. And if satisfactory explanations are not received from Spain and France, Would convene Congress and declare war against them.”

Modestly, Seward concluded: “Either the President must do it himself…or Devolve it upon some member of his Cabinet…. It is not in my especial province. But I neither seek to evade nor assume responsibility.”

In other words, Seward proposed taking charge of the U.S. government from the elected president, and then bringing Americans together by starting a war with Spain, France, Great Britain, or Russia—who was on the other side really didn’t matter. A crisis could be created with any of them. The point was to quell dissent at home by turning Americans against another country.

Lincoln spoke directly to Seward about his letter and then dropped the matter, leaving the secretary of state’s preposterous suggestion on the floor like the lead balloon it was. The two went on to forge a strong relationship, with Lincoln as the head of the administration and without starting a war with another country.

But Seward’s missive demonstrated a historical truism: when one country invades another, it usually reflects the problems of the invader’s domestic politics, no matter what the justification for the invasion is.

Although President Donald Trump never mentioned taking over Greenland—or Canada, or Panama, or Mexico—during the 2024 campaign, he has made such takeovers a key objective of his administration. On March 6, Trump addressed “the incredible people of Greenland” during a joint session of Congress, telling them that the U.S. needs Greenland “for national security and even international security…. And I think we’re going to get it. One way or the other, we’re going to get it.” On March 29, Trump told Kristen Welker of NBC News: “We’ll get Greenland. Yeah, 100%.” He said that there’s a “good possibility that we could do it without military force” but that “I don’t take anything off the table.”

On Friday, Vice President J.D. Vance led a delegation to Greenland, an island of about 56,000 people that is a semiautonomous territory of Denmark. As founding members of both the United Nations in 1945 and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) in 1949, Denmark and the United States are allies of long standing. Immediately after World War II, the American military maintained 17 bases and installations in Greenland, with thousands of soldiers, but now it maintains only the Pituffik Space Base on Greenland’s northwest coast with about 200 soldiers. It was there that Vance landed with his wife, as well as disgraced national security advisor Mike Waltz, Secretary of Energy Chris Wright, and Senator Mike Lee (R-UT) on Friday after Greenlanders and Danes opposed a more extended itinerary.

Vance told Denmark it had “underinvested in the people of Greenland, and you have underinvested in the security architecture of this incredible, beautiful landmass filled with incredible people. That has to change.” Danish Prime Minister Mette Fredriksen dismissed Vance’s assertion, saying that Denmark is “a good and strong ally.” Danish foreign minister Løkke Rasmussen noted that a 1951 agreement between the U.S. and Denmark “offers ample opportunity for the United States to have a much stronger military presence in Greenland. If that is what you wish, then let us discuss it.”

Greenland sits between the United States, Europe, and Russia on the Arctic Circle, where melting ice is making the seas more navigable. Climate change also offers access to Greenland’s rare earth minerals that are of strategic importance for modern economies, as well as oil and gas reserves.

The Trump regime wants those resources, but perhaps even more to the point, the U.S. invading another country—any other country, but particularly an ally—demolishes a key founding principle of the post–World War II order: that countries will respect each other’s borders and sovereignty. In seizing Greenland from Denmark, the U.S. would justify Russia’s seizure of Ukrainian territory.

That the United States is even talking about this is bonkers. Leaders from Greenland and Denmark have said the island is not for sale. National security scholar Tom Nichols posted: “The President of the United States just implied he would use force against an ally in an unprovoked war of aggression and conquest—and the entire world is so used to ignoring him like a crazy grandpa in the attic that it’s not the biggest story on the planet.”

A Fox News poll conducted from March 14 to March 17 showed that only 26% of Americans like the idea of taking over Greenland.

Americans also aren’t keen about the regime sweeping up legal U.S. residents in its deportation programs. A CBS News/YouGov survey from March 27–28 showed that 71% of Americans thought it was “not acceptable” for immigration authorities to mistakenly detain legal U.S. residents as part of the regime’s larger deportation program, while only 29% thought it would be acceptable.

And yet, today Nick Miroff of The Atlantic reported that Trump administration attorneys admitted in a court filing that officials from Immigration and Customs Enforcement had seized and deported Kilmar Abrego Garcia by accident. Abrego Garcia fled gang threats in El Salvador when he was 16, and came to the U.S. He has no criminal record, works full time as a union sheet metal apprentice, is married to an American citizen, and is the father of a disabled U.S. citizen. He had been granted legal protected status from return to El Salvador after a judge found he was likely to be targeted by gangs if he was sent back.

The U.S. government did not charge Abrego Garcia with a crime but deported him to El Salvador’s Terrorism Confinement Center (CECOT) because of an administrative error. “This was an oversight,” the government told the court. But, because he is no longer in U.S. custody, the government said it is beyond the reach of U.S. courts to get him back.

Abrego Garcia’s attorney, Simon Sandoval-Moshenberg, told Miroff he had never seen a case where the government ignored protective legal status and deported someone. “They claim that the court is powerless to order any relief,’’ he told Miroff. “If that’s true, the immigration laws are meaningless—all of them—because the government can deport whoever they want, wherever they want, whenever they want, and no court can do anything about it once it’s done.”

Tomorrow, voters will have a chance to weigh in on the government when elections take place in two Florida districts to fill seats vacated by the resignations of Mike Waltz, now national security advisor, and Matt Gaetz. Wisconsin, too, will hold an election, for a ten-year term on the state supreme court. That position will likely determine whether Wisconsin’s congressional maps remain gerrymandered in favor of Republicans, permitting them to pick up more seats than they have earned. Such skewing has made it possible for Republicans to retain control of the House of Representatives, and candidate Susan Crawford is likely to vote in favor of fair maps to replace the gerrymandered ones.

While it is supposed to be a nonpartisan election, President Trump has thrown his weight behind candidate Brad Schimel. Billionaire Elon Musk has thrown his checkbook, putting almost $20 million behind Schimel. On Sunday Musk traveled to Wisconsin, where he said the election could determine “the future of America and Western Civilization,” warning that a court with Crawford on it would redraw the gerrymandered districts and “add seats for Democrats.”

On Sunday, Musk gave away two checks for $1 million each to individuals who attended his rally for Schimel and signed a petition against “activist judges”. Musk got around the Wisconsin law against exchanging an item of value to get someone to vote or not to vote by claiming the checks were for “spokesperson agreements.” But the video recorded by one of the recipients linked her vote to Musk’s check, saying, “I did exactly what Elon Musk told everyone to do: sign the petition, refer friends and family, vote, and now I have a million dollars.”

The other check for a million dollars went to the chair of the Wisconsin College Republicans, who has worked for Republican campaigns.

“Let me talk for a minute or two about my opponent, Elon Musk,” Crawford told supporters on Monday. She announced her candidacy for the race before Trump was elected, and according to Scott Bauer of the Associated Press, she said she never imagined she would be fighting against “the richest man in the world.”

Wisconsin Democratic Party chair Ben Wikler said he thought “people do not want to see Elon Musk buying election after election after election. If it works here, he’s going to do it all over the country.”

Meanwhile Senator Cory Booker (D-NJ) has been speaking on the floor of the Senate since 7:00 tonight because, he said, “I believe sincerely that our country is in crisis.” “These are not normal times in America. And they should not be treated as such in the United States Senate.”

—

#heather cox richardson #letters from an american

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dotcie · 2 years ago

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— BAD DOG. [2]

》 PAIRING: simon 'ghost' riley x f!oc 》 NOTES: taglist is open! please let me know if you want to be added or removed. if you don't care about my OC, you can skip her backstory on ao3. 》 WARNINGS: 18+ | MDNI | hair pulling 》 CHAPTER: 3.9k | 2/? [masterlist] | AO3

Before she met Laswell, Jane did media monitoring for the DISA.

It paid well for a job straight out of undergrad. Had reasonable hours, pleasant enough colleagues. She commuted the twenty minutes from her shitty apartment in Kingman Park to the Pentagon—arrived at seven forty-five with a cream cheese bagel and a skim milk latte. Wrote reports, emails, and memos. Hours and hours of political speeches, barking rifles, and screaming civilians ingrained in her brain.

''Like a fucked up collage of the human greed for oil and retribution,'' she once called it over an almost empty espresso martini. Condensation pearled off the glass's rim and pooled on the table of an overpriced speakeasy bar, so unimpressive it was not worth remembering its name. Her questionable Tinder date had been late, his small-talk rather boring; No, she didn't like her job. Who ever did? But rent was expensive in DC, and Jane had student loans, expensive taste, and maybe eight hundred dollars in her checking account.

She covered newsstreams out of Egypt, Lebanon, and Jordan. Iraq, and Yemen. Algeria. Libya.

Ate lunch at her desk—usually a salad and a protein bar, four busy screens in front of her.

Had meetings with Cairo, Beirut, Amman, Baghdad, Sana'a, Algiers, and Tripoli.

She joined the white-collar crowd on their evening run around the Mall after work. From the Capitol steps to the Lincoln Memorial, around the reflecting pool. Two times, sometimes three. Always depending on the restlessness that hummed in her bones and tingled in her fingertips.

Jane shoved her damp hair up with a clip and hopped on the blue metro line afterwards; sweaty and breathless, body humming with spent energy. She stopped at Whole Foods on her way home; bought dinner-for-one and a four-pack of sugar free Redbull. Put on noise canceling headphones without listening to anything on her way home—spying into warm lit windows and other people's lives.

She ate in bed, crouched over her Macbook, the TV always set to CNN. She practiced Arabic. Scrolled through subreddits about zero-day exploits, but never commented on them. Went to bed late, woke up early. Got up the next day and did it all over again.

Washington is a big city, in a big country, in a big world, and nothing ever changed. Jane just sat in her gunny-covered cubicle and watched whole cities crumble to dust like sandcastles. The local newspapers only covered a watered-down version of the turmoil overseas, but the mental images were always in the back of her head—no matter how loud she turned the TV.

It's all part of a grand plan, she told herself. Just another rung on the ladder, an essential middle-step in her career. It was comfortable and disturbing. Exciting enough, but nothing impactful.

Nothing with an edge.

The job had a sky-high turnover; a bad impact on employees. Turns out, swallowing the documentation of invasions, and civil wars, and an endless flow of American exceptionalism was only manageable for a couple of months. Jane became miserable and angry. Tired and strung-out. When handing in her two-weeks notice without a back-up plan, her supervisor accepted the neatly printed note with tired eyes and an annoyed flick of the wrist.

Her therapist blamed her sense of weightlessness for everything she did afterwards: the thrill-seeking, the risk-taking. All her screw-ups in pursuit of sticking her fingers in better pies. When the agency sent her to the embassy in Urzikstan, Jane canceled her rent-controlled apartment lease early and donated most of her belongings to the Habitat For Humanity in Capitol Hill. Burning the boats, she called it.

For months, no one could get a hold of her.

Analyst positions for counter-terrorism overseas will chew you up and spit out your bones, a friend in the IOC had warned her. Jane was up for it anyway—of course she was. She had witnessed a few horrendous things through screens in Washington, but nothing compared to the situation in Sakhra. Like most soul-crushing things in life, it all wasn't real until it was.

The first time she experienced the ruthlessness of the real world, a local contractor whose family was killed by American soldiers blew up half a base with some DIY C4. 12 soldiers dead, 24 injured. If not for Laswell yanking her into the shadows behind a M1A2 when panic erupted, she would have been trampled to death under the burning afternoon sun.

Instead, Jane heaved, and coughed, then sank to the dusty ground with ringing ears. Kate towered over her with a drawn P890, yelling all-too-calmly over the wailing of sirens: You have twenty seconds to get it together.

They made her take time off two years later, after a black site she was stationed at suffered another, similar attack. Jane was resentful of it, but she wanted to keep her clearance, so she left with the next supply plane and said what she needed to say to pass the psych evaluation.

She considered moving back into her grandparents ranch in Arizona. Maybe traveling through Europe, starting a new hobby (rock climbing, pottery, crocheting); but there was no real drive or push behind it. Instead, she bled in secret. Fucked strangers on her frameless king-size mattress and worked out too much in her unfurnished apartment. She got offers; a few private-sector contracts she knew she couldn't entertain. Jane wanted to stick it out with the agency—and Laswell. Especially with Laswell.

The first question Shepherd asked her when she stepped into his office was if she had any family; a partner, kids, siblings. Parents to take care of. The General asked bluntly, but Jane was used to force as the most efficient method to get answers.

She had spent three years interrogating Al-Qatala members and contacts. Trading money, safety, and threats for intelligence. Sleeping through the sound of gunfire, bystanding interrogations, interpreting intelligence, and snooping in places Americans aren't supposed to. Jane had left her old life behind and dove head-first into a tunnel vision.

No. She had no one.

When saying it out loud she almost sounded proud.

Working for the General is different. Non-official cover work for SAD intel suits her better—scratches a certain itch, too. Like finally tasting blood after biting your tongue for years.

Laswell has been helpful, the additional training too; but nothing ever prepared her for the void between long-term missions. When the work is done and restlessness returns in weird jet-lagged hours of the fading days. When there are no objectives to sink her teeth into. No foreign streets to roam under false identities. No predictions to be made, no strings to pull.

She's stuck in Iceland now, attending debrief after debrief. Her target is dead, the missile prototypes returned to the lab, but that isn't enough. They want to know everything. First the higher-ups at the Headquarters, then the Senate Intelligence Committee. They want the process. The months of searching, the people involved, the rules she broke.

She did a good job, she got what she wanted, but she is part of Shepherd's system now, and he didn't approve of her moving forward with the operation.

Since she returned to the lab, he hadn't answered any of her calls.

Ghost is nothing but a silhouette in the low light of the crescent moon; sitting against a weathered wall of heavy concrete, a half-burned cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Insects batter against a naked lightbulb overhead—the light orange and warm against the dark of night, casting long, unproportionate shadows over the smoking area.

The sky hangs bruised and stormy over Vatnajökull, a million stars dotting the night. It's quarter to one, and the grounds of 102 are deadly still—so still, that the sound of a nearby metal door opening and closing shut remind him of gunshots piercing through the air.

Years ago, he would have flinched at the sound, but there is not much left that startles Simon Riley anymore.

Jane tips her head back in annoyance as she steps outside, cradling her phone between ear and shoulder. ''Listen—,'' she scolds into it, patting the outside of her clothes for the pack of cigarettes she bought from one of the kitchen workers yesterday. ''Louise, right? Louise, with all due respect—''

She takes a deep breath of restraint when she finds nothing but a crumbled straw wrapper in the pockets of her leather jacket. Sharp words spill on the other end of the line, and she squeezes her eyes shut, pinches the bridge of her nose. ''I'm not going to argue with some mid-level bureaucrat, get him on the phone— No, no, you listen! I need a black passport, don't— Fuck—''

Jane's grip on the iPhone loosens with the sound of a disconnected call echoing blatantly against her ear. Simon can hear her mutter a spool of curses, the sound of gravel screeching under her feet, and how all sound seizes as she pauses at the sight of him.

The smoking area is dimly lit, but there's no mistaking the broad-shouldered figure with the cramped up skull mask looming in the corner of the building. Simon appeared in her sight so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Jane would not be surprised if he materialized out of thin air. It would suit him; Ghost that he is.

Smoke pools out of the soldier's mouth, the balaclava pulled up to his nose; exposing a sharp chin with a shadow of stubble forming its way up a jaw set tight. He is hunched over, his elbows digging into his thighs. He doesn't look up to see that the expression on her face is one of mute surprise, or that her eyes narrow at the sight of him.

''Thought you'd be gone already,'' she calls over, lounging near the door she slipped out of.

''Change of plans,'' he returns easy and low, eyes glued to the book in his calloused hands.

It's only been a few days, but his voice is as deep and as resonant as Jane remembers; it fills the air and makes her blood rush with the mental images of his fingertips digging into her skin.

There's always a certain quietness after she's been fucked good—the world stands still for a moment, and it helps to quench the thirst, to fill the void.

Jane needs to hold something in her arms sometimes. Something unattainable and distant. Something unwise. Something like him.

''Mind if I bum one?'' She nods to the lit cigarette between his scarred fingers, stepping closer.

For a split second, she thinks he's going to ignore her—then he dog-ears the page he was reading and abandons the book onto his lap.

Simon looks up all casually and unfazed, shakes his head.

''Last one,'' he says, half-lidded stare fixed on her in that particular Ghost sort-of-way. The way he always gets when you rip out the half-assed social niceties and expose the weirdo underneath.

Jane exhales through her nose, leaning against a pole holding up the roof. The urge for frustration refuses to be ignored, so she buckles, comments: ''Of course,'' like she's taking notes on the irony of it all.

''Stop pondering, will ya?'' Inhaling another mouthful of tar, Simon stretches out along the bench, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. The set of dog tags around his neck clink together when he scratches the underside of his chin. "No point in gettin' all antsy."

She shoots him a cold, hard look for it—the one that makes his blood sing, makes him remember the expression in her eyes when she told him she wanted her target dead.

''Thank you, Simon, for your unsolicited wisdom.''

The subtle fuck you isn't boarded in her voice, but it throbs under every word of hers. He doesn't bother scolding her for saying his name again, but the bitter taste of disapproval sure does coat his tongue. He's not foolish enough to argue with her when she's like this; all gutted and pent-up. Ready to hiss, bite, and lunge at his throat.

The familiarity of it all stirs something up in him. For a moment, Ghost almost believes that it's sympathy, maybe—or at least a pinch of pity. A distant part of his mind remembers the dogged woman he faced when they first met; working out of a one-room shithole in a broken-down, brutalist apartment building somewhere in the Balkans. Reviewing surveillance logs, transcripts, and maps in shorts and a sports bra because the AC was utter rubbish. He recalls her hunched figure and unwashed hair as she worked out of the tiny living room—the space a mess of cables and empty microwave meals, her tech always charging. Her curtains always closed, dust dancing in the beams of light that crept their way inside.

Two days after the exfil, he barely recognized her anymore; with fresh clothes, twelve-hours of sleep, and hair neatly cut to a shoulder-length. It was like meeting a stranger, a whole different woman. He was certain, then, that the only way out for her was the same as his: leaving rotten and zipped up in a body bag.

Simon holds his half-smoked cigarette out to her, and she lets her head roll to consider the silent peace-offer. Her expression bleeds into something less angry in the face of him, and she hates that it makes him snort in response.

Jane gives him the illusion of thinking it over before breaking away from her frozen stance and closing the distance between them. She takes the stub, and sinks onto the wooden bench next to him.

''Thanks.'' — ''Mhmh.''

Even with some distance between them, Simon towers over her. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't attempt to embarrass himself with comforting words and distracting small-talk. He's quiet—a man of few words and fewer smiles—but that's what drew her to him in the first place. There's caution behind his eyes, and his words are always cleaved off at the knee. A person weathered and hardy. A man who, just like her, has seen things most wouldn't even believe.

They both fall quiet passing the cigarette back and forth, and for a moment he thinks that the conversation has faded out completely. Simon's eyes return to the book in his lap, trying to find the spot where he left off before she interrupted him, but—

''Do you think I went too far?'' Jane keeps her eyes forward, burying her free hand in the left pocket of her jacket.

Simon hums in response, dark and low. ''Doesn't matter what I think,'' he says in a way that makes it clear he believes it, too.

''But you are somewhat capable of forming opinions, yeah?''

It coaxes a half-huff, half-laugh from him. He gets it. Logically, he gets it. Everybody is somebody's dog, hanging onto a leash; but he's military, and he much prefers to not comment on any of it.

''You ignored authority,'' he starts, then pauses. ''Whether or not it was worth it, all y'can do now is handle the repercussions.''

''That's not an answer.'' Two dimples appear on either side of Jane's frown as she tucks some loose strands of hair behind her ears and leans forward. ''Forget I even—''

''I think," he interrupts calmly, but stern, ''that your self-doubt won't help you.''

Jane keeps her gaze flat, level. Perhaps if she mimics the face of apathy, Simon won't be able to see that she's hanging onto every word of his. What he says resonates; a quiet truth echoing through the air between them. The regret in her chest strikes like a bomb and for a moment, she fears the possibility of Shepherd cutting her TS/SCI clearance once and for all. She's been ignoring the thought, avoiding any evidence of worry that could shape her suspicions into something tangible, something real.

''Just thinking ahead'' she says quietly, scuffing her boot against the pavement below. "Little catastrophizing, worst-case-scenario planning."

"Doomsday prepping?" He offers and gets a little smile for that.

His chest tightens at the sight, an aching warmth interweaving his thoughts with sympathy. He looks away then, trying to collect himself. Seeking control, reaching for reason. Better judgment. Something else.

Jane studies his side profile for a moment, and Simon suddenly feels like she's too close, too comfortable in his presence. It's only a split second, the length of a heartbeat, but it's enough for Jane to take in the way he blinks his intrusive thoughts away.

''Why are you still here, anyway?'' She asks in a change of tone, plucking the cigarette from his fingers.

''Taking a break,'' he drawls, words dripping slowly as molasses from his mouth. There is no further explanation offered, no words wasted on reasons or truths. Simon blinks languidly, his lips pressing together as he closes his book for good.

''Because of Soap?'' There's an off-tone in her voice. ''I thought he is getting better already?"

Simon exhales roughly. ''No,'' he says with a lazy shrug. ''Yes.''

It's short and curt, but she doesn't let his vague hostility deter her. Jane just stares at him, impatience reflecting in her eyes, and he's not used to it; all the questions, the curiosity.

''Do you know,'' he continues slowly, taking the cigarette back to keep his hands busy, ''the number of classifications and regulations I'd have to ignore to tell you shite like this?''

It's easier than admitting that he failed his psych evaluation for a second time in three years.

Price is doing the paperwork for him, because they apparently want to negotiate some kind of terms for him. No rumors, no records, no further questions asked. Simon would be mad about it, if he wasn't so bloody tired.

It's been years of regaining control and gripping bloody bathroom sinks. Endless hours of running, shooting, yelling over comms, and saving Johnny from the stupid, stupid shit he gets up to when nobody's there to keep an eye out for him. Simon is not a reckless man—at least not when he doesn't let his rage blind him—but you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

He's not sure why he hasn't been able to admit to himself that his life has been nothing but fear, rage, vigilance, wanting, and searching, wanting, and never finding what eases the pain.

He knows that Price goes back to a Rosewood desk with whisky and cigars in the upper right drawer, before driving home to a house and a woman that were once his. Laswell has a wife named June and a flourishing garden waiting at home. Gaz goes back to a two-bedroom flat in London, decorated by a girl he met during the siege of the U.S. embassy in Urzikstan. Simon doesn't have anywhere to be—nobody's waiting for him—so he stays. For Soap, he tells himself, and everyone who's paid to listen.

The Scot's injuries happened under his watch, so he might as well play messenger for his moms, sisters and one-thousand nephews until he can travel back home. It's what a good Lieutenant does. It's what Price would do.

''Alright,'' Jane says cold, flatly. ''It's none of my business anyway.''

She declines the last drag of the cigarette when Simon offers it to her, and he can't help but feel like he's been rude; like he just ruined something delicate. A particular flavor of guilt clings to the underside of his tongue, and he's willing to answer whatever her next question might be in order to make it up to her.

He stubs out the cigarette, and it takes a moment or two before he realizes that his guilt is the reason she gave in so quickly in the first place.

''I'm not gonna tell ya,'' he says, prompting a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth; like she doesn't fully believe it, but is willing to play along.

He is too exhausted to not condemn her for it, so he covers himself in heavy silence. Simon doesn't break eye contact, doesn't move—his dark glance intervenes with the amusement in her eyes, and when the quiet stretches on for too long, her eyes dart to his exposed lips shamelessly.

''Anyone ever tell ya' to mind yer' own business, Spade?''

It coaxes a genuine laugh out of her. Simon is not sure he's ever heard her laugh before; the way the sound bubbles out of her throat, limpid and clear, and then almost turns into a snort.

''I like you,'' she says pointedly, with purpose.

"You're just bored.'' — ''And you aren't?"

Simon remains silent, and the glint in her glance grows bright, pinning. Like she just learned a secret; an inside joke.

It's unhealthy, this habit she's developed of digging her fingers in his wounds. She feels like a parasite trying to crawl under his skin, and she should probably feel far more ashamed of how much she enjoys the thrill of it.

She has heard the stories, of course. The legends about the masked, faceless man; the perfect soldier, the silent killer. Everyone affiliated with Shepherd or Shadow Company in the slightest is aware of Ghosts' reputation, and Jane had been curious to meet the man. Dead-eyed, mass of muscle. A walking depiction of death.

The warning signs about him are written in blood, telltale stories, and that half-lidded stare of his; Stay away, they say. Keep your distance.

''Don't—,'' he starts with the exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he is tired and bored of this tedious game. ''Don't look at me like that.''

Jane bats her eyelashes at him. ''Like what?''

''Like you want something from me.''

''Maybe I do—''

"You don't,'' he interrupts, tongue like a blade. ''All bark no bite, last time I fucked you.''

In some twisted ways, his fury excites her. The insistence on his dominance, too, and Jane laughs out loud at words that don't sting. She's practiced; chin tipped up, meeting his disapproving stare with a smirk.

''You ever let anyone kiss you, Lieutenant?''

He looks away, hisses through his teeth in frustration. ''That what you want?''

''I think,'' Jane retorts in a tone both cruel and tender, ''you want it, too.''

The hard look in his eyes lets something uncurl in her. Something satisfied, something real.

''You do,'' she says again, and then he's on her; hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close. His grip on her scalp is not gentle, nothing about him is, and she smiles—shows teeth—at the broad display of it.

Simon stares at her for a long moment, a frustrated hum forming at the back of his throat. She can feel his breath on her face. Almost hears the whir of the wheels turning in his head; calculating, calibrating.

''You don't know what you're getting yourself into,'' he finally says, loosening his grip.

''I've done worse,'' she spits out, pulling away.

It happens somewhere between her leaning back and him not wanting her to. It happens and it's familiar, and new all at once; the way he stops her from turning away, pulls her closer by a fist of hair. He kisses her like he does everything else: a little cocky, a little mean. Their teeth clack together, and Simon kisses Jane long and searching—like he was waiting for it to happen.

Like he means it.

》 Previous Part | Next Part 》 Masterlist.

》 Tag-list: @devcica @glitterypirateduck @queen-ilmaree @widemiffyhappy @cathnoneofyourbusiness

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x f!oc #cod fanfiction #mw2 #simon riley fanfic #simon riley call of duty #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #Simon Riley smut #ghost smut #call of duty mwii #simon riley x oc #call of duty #simon ghost riley x f!oc #simon ghost riley x oc #cod mw3

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thoughtfulfangirling · 3 months ago

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2025 Reads

Another number ticked upward on our clocks, a new list to begin. For previous years' lists, start with 2024's list which links to 2023 and so on.

!Macbeth - Shakespeare

Everything I Never Told You - Celeste Ng

!To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

^All About Me: My Remarkable Life in Show Business - Mel Brooks

^!The Art of War - Sun Tzu translated by Victor Mair

Akata Witch - Nnedi Okorator

~*Nona the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir

^Lies my Teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong - James W. Loewen

^Why Civil Reistance Works: The Strategic Logic of Nonviolent Conflict - Erica Chenoweth & Maria Stephan

!The Left Hand of Darkness - Ursula K Le Guin

^The Indifferent Stars Above: The Harrowing Saga of the Donner Party - Daniel James Brown

Halfling - S.E. Wendel

~!Brave New World - Aldous Huxley

!Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen

~!Murder on the Orient Express - Agatha Christie

Pride & Prejudice - Jane Austen

^Manhunt: The Twelve-Day Chase for Lincoln's Killer - James L Swanson

The Sun and the Void - Gabriela Romero Lacruz

Last updated 3/04

Currently reading: The Ministry for the Future (audio), A (Brief) History of Vice (print), & Brave New World (with Empty)

! = A Classic * = Reread ^ = Nonfiction ~ = Read with Empty

My Goal this year is to read Classics! And get a more rounded feel for the things that have shaped the media we see today!

#furi reads #tfg reads #2025 reading list #silly furi #la de da #I just like to have the list started so I don't have to do all the set up when I have mroe XD #I'm inspired *now*#my reading index

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firefly5000 · 17 days ago

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President George W. Bush's chief

speechwriter, Michael Gerson, has a message for people who are excusing President Trump's racism:

"I had fully intended to ignore President Trump's latest round of racially charged taunts against an African American elected official, and an African American activist, and an African American journalist and a whole city with a lot of African Americans in it. I had every intention of walking past Trump's latest outrages and

writing about the self-destructive

squabbling of the Democratic presidential field, which has chosen to shame former Vice President Joe Biden for the sin of being an electable, moderate liberal.

But I made the mistake of pulling James Cone's 'The Cross and the Lynching Tree off my shelf - a book designed to shatter convenient complacency. Cone recounts the case of a white mob in Valdosta, Ga., in 1918 that lynched an innocent man named

Haynes Turner. Turner's enraged wife Mary, promised justice for the killers. The sheriff responded by arresting her and then turning her over to the mob, which included women and children. According to one source, Mary was 'stripped, hung upside down by the ankles, soaked with gasoline, and roasted to death. In the midst of this torment, a white man opened her swollen belly with a hunting knife and her infant fell to the ground and was

stomped to death.'

God help us. It is hard to write the words. This evil -- the evil of white supremacy resulting in dehumanization, inhumanity and murder - is the worst stain, the greatest crime, of U.S. history. It is the thing that nearly broke the nation. It is the thing that proved generations of Christians to be vicious hypocrites. It is the thing that turned normal people into moral monsters, capable of burning a grieving widow to death and killing her child.

When the President of the United States plays with that fire or takes that beast out for a walk, it is not just another political event, not just a normal day in campaign 2020. It is a cause for shame. It is the violation of martyrs' graves. It is obscene graffiti on the Lincoln Memorial. It is, in the eyes of history, the betrayal, the re-betrayal of Haynes and Mary Turner, and their child. All of this is being done by an ignorant and arrogant narcissist reviving racist tropes for political gain, indifferent to the wreckage he is leaving, the wounds he is ripping open.

- Michael Gerson

#us politics #Trump #donald trump #donald j trump #evil #racisim #hate

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agentoffangirling · 4 months ago

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Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. to Janani K Jha songs, bc why is everything she writes so AoS-coded?

Achilles Heel: Very self explanatory, I feel, a song about being the other's weakness, FitzSimmons

Thanatos (End of Us): Another romance song, being together even if it kills, so very Huntingbird (I think that's the ship name?)

Ms. Protagonist: The loss of innocence from childhood to adulthood, so very s1 Skye to s7 Daisy Johnson. Could also apply to Jemma over the seasons

Library Card: A song about growing up as a nerd? Jemma Simmons

Golden Age: Really could be any woman in the MCU, but since this is more about the hidden and misunderstood women of history, I feel like it's better suited to the "background characters" of S.H.I.E.L.D., for lack of a better word, such as Victoria Hand and Piper

Sunday Crossword: Philinda struggling to convey their feelings, slowly falling out of love and ending as friends

Machine Learning: Fitz. 100% Fitz, oh my god, it's so him. It's literally a song about not knowing how to socialize and always feeling like a robot

Three Specters: Daisy in season 5, feeling lost and thrust into a position of power with little preparation. The song specifically describes being haunted with past memories, which is so her in those moments

Prophecies: Technically a song dedicated to the artist's parents of how they sacrificed everything for her, Daisy's family dynamic w/Coulson and May

Two Roads: Honestly I had a hard time with this since it's about choosing between the safe path and the new one. I'm going with Mack always having to choose between his personal life and S.H.I.E.L.D., especially since he's always threatening to quit (and never does)

Rome (Outro): the collective trauma everyone had by the end of the season and finally taking time for themselves. The song is basically about calming down and taking it slow

Slow Burn: Being in a relationship that just consumes you in all the right ways, that makes the both of you better is so Dousy (OTP frfr)

The Maze: Stuck in a mental/physical maze that you struggle to get out of is perfect for the Framework arc

Hellbent: About literally going through hell, about agency. Melinda May, SPECIFICALLY after the situation in Bahrain

Gladiators: The team fighting any opponent, but the season 7 finale would fit best

Royal We: Staticquake. It's a song on toxic codependent relationships, and I am not loathe to admit (sorry Staticquake fans), that the way Lincoln's death leaves Daisy is quite close to what the song describes

The Siege: Deke Shaw, especially with how much shit the team they gave him later on (May could also apply to this, bc one of the lyrics is "and no cavalry will cave")

Weird Hills: Ward's betrayal on the team; the song is all about trusting someone who called themself a friend only to stab you in the back

Polyxena: A song about sacrifice and being used to further the story. Trip's death

The Judgement (I Think Too Much): The main lyric is "you think too much with your head and not enough with your heart", very Aida becoming Ophelia

Cut the Cord: While it's technically about "dreaming a release from validation" as Janani puts it, I also think this fits well with the whole prophecy subplot of s3b and Daisy trying to subvert it

Nike: Phil Coulson, how his death is always weaponized against him but everyone forgets about him all the other times

Library of Alexandria: the lost innocence of S1, Bus Kids and how we never see them happy following s1

#yes this is a post to tell y'all to listen to janani k jha #when i say her songs are good #if you like nerdy indie pop pls listen to her #agents of shield #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#aos #janani k jha #j maya #daisy johnson #fitzsimmons #grant ward #melinda may #phil coulson #deke shaw #alphonso mackenzie #dousy

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 10 days ago

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