#cold war literature

[howifeltabouthim]

If only there had been a little pride left over, a little lust for power, some envy maybe, they could've used it to tempt him out of seclusion, but whatever titanic contests Lancelot's soul had played host to, between greatness and weakness, love and loyalty, lust and purity, they'd apparently left him cool and devoid of any further earthly desires. Nothing left but incorruptible ashes.

Lev Grossman, from The Bright Sword

[tame-the-lion-writes]

and it's you -- it's you -- again

A little something I made about 2.5 years ago in a creative writing class and now I know I'll never peak again wHOOPs

“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?”

“A million times over – and I beg you, no more.”

The first time they met, their footsteps faded in the sand by the ocean – by the edges of a then-world in the garden his father had built for them. Where she was wild and free, and new and different. And she scaled the great heights of every tree. There, she dipped her fingers in starlight, painted the world with gold and crimson, and together, they shared each and every night beneath a shining sky. It was perfect back then, and they were young, and naive. And they thought that hiding love would be enough to preserve it. Because then, their love was against the rules, because she was meant for another, and he was never meant for happy endings. And because she was meant for another, and because there were no happy endings, the fire that painted his world gold and crimson became the very fire that destroyed it. And her replacement, he tempted in anger, with envy, with a fruit – and with the intent that his father would realize a perfect universe was lost without her. Perhaps, to an extent, it worked – if not in the most mocking of ways. For they met a second time, a third, a fourth, fifth– 

And now– 

He sits alone.

In the corner of a downtown diner.

Coffee set nearby and scribbling idly in the yellow pages of a blood-and-tea-stained journal.

For the most part, it’s quiet. At least in the corner, it’s quiet. Nobody bothers him, not when they’re distracted with the colored TV blaring on in the background. It’s crackled now and again by static – red, green, and blue clustered in corners – while the radio in the back has been silenced, gathering cobwebs in spite of itself. And on the channel, the announcer goes–

TONIGHT – breaking news – on political relations with the east. Tonight, on the locust swarm threatening America’s food supply. Tonight, we discuss the new variant of the black plague. And tonight, we talk about the mysterious disease threatening cattle. And– tonight–

He ignores it, too busy with his own mind.

His ignorance, his busy-ness, is the reason there were girls here and there – just temporary flings to fill in the void. Not that he hurt them and tossed them aside – he waited, as he did with her, until their wicks burned out, and he was alone once more. In his boredom, and aside from them, he watched the world go round – go on without him. And as it went on, soldiers left their homes – twice, thrice, a hundred – a thousand times over while claiming peace and the intent to end all wars. He was blamed for it all, unsurprisingly, while he sat still – a mere yet ultimate arbitrator who, like men claim to be, simply encouraged humanity to decide its ending. For, as he’d learned throughout the years, only endings bring about true peace.

And the way humanity was going, now was the perfect time for such an ending.

– but it’s you – yes, it’s you – and it’s you – it’s you – again.

“Sir, are you alright?”

“Yeah, lost in thought. Been distracted lately. Sorry.”

The red-haired woman across the counter tilts her head aside in worry, brow furrowed together, and faint wrinkles knit tightly – yet she sends him a sympathetic smile as if he were a puppy, thrown out on the side of the road, left to wander, to roam. But she didn’t linger on the topic.

“Just checking in – diner closes at ten.”

She wipes the counter free of crumbs, and from the motion, he sees she’s not wearing a ring – but it’s the umpteenth time around, and maybe he’s early, and she won’t accept one from him – and if she did, it wouldn’t last. It would be a desire half filled.

 “You’ve been here for a while, too, so sorry if it’s a touchy topic, but I know there’s a lot of bars around. Need me to call someone to pick you up?”

At that, he shakes his head, a half amused chuckle leaving his throat.

“No, no. I know it’s late, but I’m not drunk or crazy – really. I’m just… thinking. Promise. Can’t get drunk easy anyway.”

“And the crazy part?”

“Well– regarding crazy – actually, I dunno yet.”

Now her smile is equally amused as he is, and she leans her forearms across the counter. “Is that what the notebook’s for, then? To write down crazy thoughts?”

“Something like that, yeah. At least, I used to write – not so much anymore. Apparently it’s better to talk to yourself through writing instead of saying it aloud. If I did the latter, then people would really think I’m crazy, and they wouldn’t be far off the mark.”

“The real question isn’t if you’re crazy – it’s if you’re dangerous. Are you?”

“About that… maybe.”

She nods but doesn’t believe the possibility. No – she looks mildly skeptical, if not somehow confused, and for once, that skepticism is a step back from the forward momentum of evolution. From the wild and free to responsible and tight-laced – it’s difficult to think she’s here again. She’s her again. She’s her.

“Well, if you need anything, I’ll be here – just gimme a call. I know I said the diner closes at ten, but closing shift ends at eleven. So– maybe–” she says, imitating his vague answer– “I’ll let you stay a few more minutes.”

She tops up his cold coffee with fresh bittersweet brew – not even asking if he wants more – only to freeze and face the screen – where the TV – tonight – is interrupted by a call.

TONIGHT – breaking news – we are receiving reports that we are under attack.

And there’s babies crying, children crying. Adults and seniors, too. And above the crying, screaming, wails, and whispered prayers that fall on deaf ears. There’s people rushing to the train station, and the waitress turns, hurries – out the door. But she’s not going for herself – she’s going for all of them, and she’s helping them down the steps, she’s helping them follow the light–

– and he stares. What was that song again?

… I don’t want to set the world on fire.

It’s only by her example that he follows suit.

Soon he’s guiding an old woman and her husband down to the next door subway. They thank him while he’s lifting their weight, but really, he’s lifting his weight – because he never wanted their endings, he only wanted his own. So he doesn’t join her – or them –  he doesn’t join them there. He returns to the diner, to the counter, sits and stirs his coffee, and in the back of his mind, the song continues – a melody from a far off place. Speaking of intentions once pure, regretful. Then corrupted, pure no more.

I just want to start a flame in your heart.

The people were half the noise, the TV and siren otherwise. But even with the TV still on, even with a siren’s grand alarm, he feels no different now. No different in his solitude. Though perhaps, that in itself is a lie, for he feels a little sadder at heart. There’s even a little discomfort, too, something gnawing and bubbling like an iceberg shoved underwater. It’s a volcanic eruption waiting to burst – something familiar and unfamiliar, something lost and once again new– or maybe was always there –

And he doesn’t quite know why.

The diner will remain dingy as ever – the floors just barely swept. There’ll be dust bunnies beneath each tabletop, and oily handprints leftover on windowsills. And the ground beneath it is even older – hundreds of feet down, the same ground since creation.  And in the odd quiet, he slides back his sleeve to watch a mechanical device go tick tick tick.

Oh–

“I don’t wanna set the world on fire, honey,” he recites to himself. “I love you too much.”

I just – 

“Mister?”

– wanna start –

“Hey, mister?”

– a great big flame –

“C’mon, we needa get to–”

– down in your heart –

– “the shelter.”

“It’s fine. Leave me be.” He sips his coffee again. “I know what it’s like, thinking the world will end. You always think it will, but it won’t.”

“What kind of death wish– god– is that why you came back?” She scrunches her nose, tugging at his sleeve, hair in disarray. “Look, mister. I-I don’t know you, and– and you don’t know me. But I’m not letting you sit out here while the world falls apart. If you’re gonna die, at least die trying, instead of waiting for some bomb to drop on you.”

“Trust me. I’m telling you. I’m not going to die.”

She grabs his hand, ignores his words – he clasps hers – then remembers himself – and ultimately lets go. He tells her again–

“I’m not going to die. But Lilith, you– you have died. A million times over. And I’ve watched every single time. And as much as it pains me, you always come back, and as much as I love you, it’s nothing but torture. So please. Please. Leave me be. You go – live a little longer this time around. Choose something other than him – him or me.”

He looks up and sees tears streaming down her face, and suddenly – no, as always – she’s as beautiful as the first time they met. The first time, yes, and every moment from then onwards. Yes, she’s as beautiful as the sunset, as beautiful as the sunrise, and in that moment, the way he used to look at the night sky is the way he looks at her now. Like he knows he’ll have to let go again – that the light he sees is a projection, the remaining shadow of a living dying star, the remaining evidence it ever existed. And that – like the night sky where she dipped her hands in the starlight – the power of endless suns would annihilate the darkness.

And she spoke– again–

“Lucifer, please.”

Oh. Oh. Oh– it’s been so long– since he remembered his own name, because until then, all he could think about was–

You.

Because it’s–

You – and it’s you – yes, it's you – it’s you – again.

“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?”

“A million times over – and I beg you, no more.”

And on the channel, the announcer goes–

– For those in the city, follow the flashing lights and direct yourself to the nearest shelter. If you are in an isolated area, avoid – I repeat, avoid – populated areas. We believe attacks will be concentrated in the following cities: Washington DC. NYC. San Francisco, LA –

The list goes on and on, but he’s quick to turn off the TV, and he lets her pull him up, arms wrapped tight around a trembling body. And it’s him that’s trembling, though they’re both undeniably afraid.

“It’s cruel, isn’t it?” she whispered. “That I only remember now?”

“Fitting when it’s all my fault. I’m the one who led you astray. I’m the one who ended the world, because I wanted– I wanted– I’m sorry–”

“No, you – you gave me a choice. I was created for someone else, but you – yes, it's you – that I chose. And again – Lucifer – it’s you I’ll always choose. I know you want the world to end, that you want all of this to end, but if I could, I’d remember you – I’d love you – again. A million times over, and a million times more.”

And he understands. He knows – he realizes why the rules have changed. The old woman, her husband – yes, he never wanted their endings. Though in that moment, he doesn’t respond. No – forgetting all else but his love, he turns on the radio, embraces her in return. Rests his chin in those crimson gold locks, humming softly as the world turns. And they dance  – together. For the first time – they fly, they soar. For the first time, they share a second – a breath since the beginning of the world. 

And like the missiles, the journal burns, the radio – sings:

I’ve lost all ambition for worldly acclaim. I just want to be the one you love. And with your admission that you feel the same, I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of. Believe me– I don’t want to set the world on fire. I just want to start a flame in your heart.

[macabremachinery]

I’m currently working on another longpost which I’m calling The Creation of AM: How the Cold War and the Advent of the Internet influenced I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream. Stay tuned for more to come.

[blocpulp]

A. I. Ivanov and G. I. Rybkin - The Damaging Effects of the Nuclear Explosion (USSR, 1960)

artist: E. Seleznev

[abellinthecupboard]

Consider

(the 1950s) 1. Consider a train, passing fields and farms; silos, barns, Holsteins and lowing tractors, corduroyed farmers sweating in the bright day, dust rising from the earth like the ribbed drone of flies purling green in the primeval daylight. Consider the sonorous horn of this hematic streak weeping brightly as it speeds on, straight as the arrow in its headlong tumble, rumbling laughingly as it sifts the dappled greens and browns of that spare landscape, tempering the endless acreage provisioning the nation—that flat, felt land sprawling alike the singing coastal cities so relentless and intractable, curmudgeon- ly and close-fisted, devouring their children in the tens of thousands with the gawping mouths of their Mohammedan skyscrapers lowering and wind-blown, piercing and lighting up the vast electric night in ensemble. Consider this myria- pod existence of steel and ossified will thunder- ing by on two slate-silver ribbons running paral- lel for countless miles, lacing the vast Midwest, stitching up the endless column of ties and oc- casional grade crossings like hemp boot-laces, stringing the fields together with gravel and barbed wire, signage, burrs and tall grasses. Consider how this train plies its route with a hale abandon, calling its rhythmic lightning up from the earth, up from the rocks and the dirt and flocks of mourning doves calling out in the redbuds and maples toward the enormous light.

2. This train may crash. I tell it to you now: this vagrant smear of maroon and vital orange that rends the fields with searing, luminous fire as it hurtles incandescently over the grassy-knolled, grain-bleeding, cornrowed Shield toward its terminus in sprawling, smoking civilization— the Twin Cities, with their endless depots and boxcars and freight yards and shunters all toil- ing away from sunup till sundown; with their murky tenements and lucent towers, shopfronts and movie-houses, dances halls and all the rest— may meet its fragrant, instant destruction on a bad section of track or a turn rushed into, top- pling car by car: crashing, careening, jerking, jittering, jackknifing, compacting, and collapsing in on itself like an accordion in subsidence, steel walls crumpling and windows shattering, roofs peeling open like sardine tins, men and women in blue, brown, and grey suits thrown about like ragdolls in total confusion, landing broken and haphazard to be crushed by overturned settees, or ripped to shreds by the wheels and steel gird- ers, blood spilling out of mangled bodies to douse the sparking flames lapping greedily at their char- ring limbs, their faces frozen in silent cries of agony or mortal terror, their eyes blank and milk- white, rolled back into their fractured skulls, and the many passengers aboard, embarking at innumerable stations, may, unknowing, be spend- ing their final breaths in the upcoming moments.

3. Consider this slick culebra sidewinding its way across the vast Prairielands at the heart of this continent, this orange, black-backed serpent braiding its way through the empty Shieldland toward the far, Western mountain ranges so indomitable, snow-capped and sky-scraping, vertiginous holy schist and gneiss thrusting their gnarled rug-folds into the blue mountain air, hog- backed and glaciated with Methuselan water. Consider this train, a city on wheels: coaches and dome cars, taverns and diners, sleepers, the mo- bile post office. Consider the inside of the obser- vation car, strikingly modern and strewn with amenities: Plush reclining seats and couches, panoramic windows, lamps and indirect lighting. Softest touches. Crisp, clean lines throughout, wood veneer and polished metal. Stylish, canny understatement. And air-conditioned, the 20th Century's saving grace of all graces. Consider its construction, steel trusses and plate glass in a gyroscopic half-bullet-head, an arch geo- metric prism 27-faceted, surrounding idle men and women in pressed suits. A bird-cage of light enshrouding in an elongated glass dome, swimming in the rays of blue afternoon sun. How shall this fabricated luxury hold its own, if the onslaught of Nature should present itself?

4. Consider the Atom Bomb, which was dropped on Hiroshima by a bomber baptized after the pilot's mother; which killed over 60,000 people instantly, vaporizing them into atomic particles that stained the stone steps and roads of the city, and crafted a crater over two miles wide, destroying buildings with fanatical passion, pul- verizing stone, concrete, wood, and tile through heat and shockwave blast; which continued to kill Hiroshima's citizens by the thousands in the days and weeks that followed, through radiation sickness, burns, and malnutrition, bringing the total death toll to 146,000; which happened also in Nagasaki three days later with a death toll of 80,000 souls, a lesser number due to the moun- tainous terrain of the locale redirecting the blast- waves of the second Bomb; and some top gener- als in the war who were against the use of these bombs, who preferred to continue using con- ventional incendiaries to carpet-bomb as they had above Tokyo, and President Truman who ordered they be used; and the young pilots who likewise were uncertain of their duty's moral standing in dropping bombs of such unbridled brutality on innocent civilians who had little to do with Imperial Nippon's military machine beyond those conscripted laborers in factories; and the new world also which spawned on that day, August 6, 1945, a world of great and terrible machines which the World's Powers hurried to stockpile in an ever-escalating arms race which we now find ourselves confronting; which hangs over our heads a wanton sword that casts our faces in sickly pall with cadaverous refracted sun- light, our eyes sunken, our hands bony and grasp- ing at shreds of blind hope in this uncertain Age—

5. Consider the engineer and the conductor in the cab of the locomotive, as it streaks across vast, thicketed Montana, en route from Chicago—with its dockyards and freighters and ore-loaders all toiling and laboring dustily away, with its spider- web of train stations and rail lines connecting our nation's farthest points together, a vast and ever-complicating machine—toward Spokane and Seattle on the Pacific coast, hauling its frail cargo of ordinary human lives in sveltest finery, its interior stylings the crème of our postwar modernité. It is their job to make sure that their train leaves safely and arrives safely, never encountering a disruption or delay. What if, through negligence or illness, they might fail in their duty, and thus through their onus their train come to grief? If so, the men and women aboard this lightning flyer, in their elegant trav- eling clothes, mothers watching over sons and daughters, fathers reading the daily paper or talking politics with their fellow men, economy passengers in their reclining chairs, spendthrifts in their private rooms, honeymooners in the Super Dome taking photos of the passing land- scapes, all of their lives would be forfeit! 150 souls injured or extinguished in a burning wreck of twisted metal cockle-shells piled ignominious on some Alpine rail line, blocking traffic in and out of the pass where they met their end. What, if such a fate befall these innocent travelers!

6. Consider this wry, fitful, intransigent world in which we find ourselves now inhabiting, which demands our servitude and utmost compliance in the new ways of living running rampant, pug- nacious, impersonal and impervious to all as- sault now, restructuring our lives into modes cold and strange, where at this very moment Hollywood is making blockbusters in sunny Italy borne on the backs of her poor Southern farm- ers, and Hollywood is flying her stars into Rome to appear in these Spaghetti-films and crass tab- loid papers cropping up, staffed by ungovern- able photographers and reporters, and Elvis is gyrating his hips to the youth-shod trill of a million prepubescent girls, and Rome's beauti- ful liners are sinking in Nantucket's waters, and the Iron Curtain has come down with a bang, and airplanes are the finest new way to travel, no longer the means of California's elite, and what's a few crashes to douse public opinion? The new Comet's flaws are merely contrition. America is searching within the atom for Peace, and seeking to emphasize her right to the sky, stockpiling her nuclear marvels, singing her war-cry, hawking her blue jeans for the whole world to buy, and cities are putting fluoride in their water supply, town taps burnishing teeth pearly-white, and Senator McCarthy has the whole of the nation seeing Reds in their stock- ings, and Allen Ginsberg is hawking his scurri- lous poetry, and supermarkets are proliferating, supplanting the grocers, and America will admit to no wrongdoing in dropping the Bomb, and the Marshall Plan is siring economic Miracles, and everyone wants their plastic flamingoes, as America and Russia wage proxy wars across Eurasia, bombarding their vassals, and merry the Devil who tends the flame-flowers of evil, and Kaliningrad is in ruins, and so too is Poland, and Russia has outlawed jazz yet again, and every man fancies himself a poet, and the whole world is sliding into intractable panic, children huddling under desks and fearing the sirens an- nouncing the imminent bombs overhead spiral- ing, alike a clumsy old albatross careening onto the deck of a sultry destroyer hove to and bran- dished in territorial disputes—How does one keep hope in this godless new age? How can't one madden at the news overflowing in these rank, algal days from our many newspapers? And what can be done if one drops the bomb on the heads of those riding this automaton stri- ation, as it cascades volubly over her tempered steel ribbons? What if this this train should yet wreck? What then? Who shall mourn these inno- cents caught in the crosshairs of Fate's ready rifle- men aiming so deadly at the forefront of history?

Coda. The train does not crash. The engineer and con- ductors attend to their duties, and no harm bursts in the air above. All is well on this autumn day.

— Sean Eaton, featured in Creation Magazine, August 2024 Issue (Source)

Note: This poem is an homage to Allen Ginsberg's "Howl".

[godsfavoriteasian]

My Peseach book haul 2024 💜

[southeastasianhistories]

This notebook, “The Rainforest Speaks: Reimagining the Malayan Emergency,” gathers writers, translators, filmmakers, artists, historians, and critics to revisit a significant period of Southeast Asian history—the Malayan Emergency. The Emergency, which took place from 1948 to 1960, was a war between British colonial forces and communist fighters mostly based in the Malayan rainforest. The history and analysis of this war—including British initiatives that forcibly resettled half a million people, primarily ethnic Chinese Malayans, into heavily surveilled New Villages, and deported thousands to China—is fragmented and complex. Not only is the history split across different languages such as Malay, Chinese, and English, it is often eclipsed by the British colonial depiction of the fight as an “emergency” incited by communist “terrorists,” instead of an anti-colonial struggle. 

The writers featured in “The Rainforest Speaks,” edited by Min Ke (民客), attempt to recover this elusive past and address those not well-represented in the historical record, including the communist guerrilla fighters, rural Chinese Malayans, Indian plantation workers, the indigenous Orang Asli people, and the rainforest itself. The contributors, who Min Ke notes are “all a generation or more removed from the events of the Emergency,” contend with these gaps through original translated stories, essays, criticism, and art. The resulting collection of work resists a singular narrative about the Emergency and instead traces the many perspectives of those involved. “The urge to return to scenes of the Emergency, to look beyond the colonial archive, is not only a painstaking task of recording imperial wrongs that persist in the present,” writes Min Ke in the editor’s note to the notebook. “It is, above all, an imaginative task, one that cannot be captured by an individual or group.”

Each piece in “The Rainforest Speaks” features art by Sim Chi Yin.

[tmarshconnors]

Sir Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill was a British statesman, soldier, and writer who served as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom twice, from 1940 to 1945 during the Second World War, and again from 1951 to 1955.

[principiumindividuationis777]

Curtains Fall Lightly (Historical Noir)

Chapter I

At a leading manufacturer of aircraft, especially military aircraft, in the Summer and Autumn of 1963, events unfolded as described.

Philip Morris was a dying man, having received a dire prognosis from his physician. A leading contact between the firm and United States government agencies, he attempted to teach the much younger George Blythe to replace him, briefing Blythe on a situation as grim as Morris's own.

"Young man, you must understand that this company is under attack from within. It's not the Soviets primarily, but a woman named Rosalind Kerr, ostensibly a consulting advisor. Even I don't know who she works for, but she uses blackmail of our board and our employees to advance her own position, and what she wants, as far as I can tell, is an escalation of warfare, in any and all parts of the world, to increase sales of our aircraft, receiving a generous percentage in her own accounts of the resulting profits and cash flow."

"The compromising data is seldom obtained by Mrs. Kerr personally, you understand," continued Morris, "But by her mousy little male secretary, Joseph Wheedle, aptly named if ever anyone was. I have never seen anyone so good at a show of false humility, and he gains trust, and thereby ruins lives."

"Why does he share this information with Mrs. Kerr?" asked Blythe.

"Ah, that's the key. I have rumor and conjecture. I believe that Wheedle, some fifty years old and unmarried, may have homosexual tendencies, taboo to many, even illegal, and that most likely Mrs. Kerr knows this and compels him to share in her goals, and to share his ill-gotten gains with her."

Morris added a hint that perhaps Blythe should uncover proof of Wheedle's secret life, to leverage against him, and continued to explain the company's sinister cabal.

"Now, as you can see, Kerr is a woman, and not a young one, and Wheedle is a small man of little physical prowess. When blackmail is not an option, they have a man, Michael Pocius, though I am one of the few who knows Michael's real name. Nearly everyone calls him 'Clawboy'. He was born elsewhere, but by age fourteen, was a student in America, and at that age, did something so gruesome to the Principal of his school that the papers would not describe it, but the nickname Clawboy has been with him since. Do you remember the Cleveland murders of the 1930's? The ones even Eliot Ness couldn't solve? No? Well, such is your youth. I have every reason to believe Pocius was the culprit, though he deflected blame on to some mental hospital patient. Six foot three and never gave man or woman a quick death, he is as dangerous as they come, and he works for Kerr, who pays him well, though he will still hurt most anyone for sport."

"Why isn't he arrested?"

"Because Wheedle has compromising information on policemen and judges too."

"Surely, not all of this company is part of Mrs. Kerr's plot?"

"No, just those three, as far as I know. In this wing you will find Ramon Germanos, as he is legally known. It may be a poor translation of his Spanish name- he's from Mexico- but that is beside the point. He is a bitter bureaucrat who obstructs everyone in his path. His father died in a riot, I hear, and he hates the system for failing him."

"If he hates the system, isn't this company the essence of, well, the system?"

"Exactly, and from this very vantage point he can make life miserable for the people he quietly and, technically, law-abidingly hates, which is all of us."

"A job much like mine is done by the less experienced Leonard Collins. He is loyal, but much too impulsive for such secretive work, I believe. The one other person you'll need to know of is someone I know only as Three Eyes- never knew his real name. He's from India, I think, and every now and then you'll have to meet him at a planned location so he can give you the latest on Soviet aircraft, giving us, and the USA, a great advantage. Three Eyes is a spy, though I don't know who he works for- some say Britain, but I'm unsure, and now, if you'll excuse me, I am rather tired, so I'm going to rest in my office."

Chapter II

Morris had not considered Ramon Germanos's wife, Jayne (maiden name unknown), important enough to mention, and this is understandable. As far as the world knew, she was a bleach blonde imitation of Marilyn Monroe, but without the talent. Relying on Ramon's money, she had a résumé of only a few unprofitable films of the lowest quality, such as "Snake Women of Acapulco"… or so she wished the world to believe.

Morris also failed to mention Trenchcoat, often just called Trench. His existence was considered something of a legend. From the aeronautics firm up to governments around the world, many had heard the legend of Trenchcoat, but most disbelieved in it. The stories went that he was supposed to live in an abandoned building somewhere near this airplane manufacturer, and though some CIA agents initially took the stories seriously enough to search abandoned buildings around the city, no trace of this semi-mythical being was found.

No one had ever seen Trench's face, though some claimed to have heard his voice, either by telephone, or in person, in his pitch black lair, they said, though these supposed witnesses were often less than credible. No one knew Trench's agenda or loyalties, or if he even existed, at least not until Mrs. Kerr's schemes brought matters to a head.

Finally, in my attempts to keep the stranger than fiction nature of this report comprehensive, there is Linda Aeons (real name unknown), the only person in America who could openly assert being a Soviet agent and remain at liberty, because no one believed her. Supposedly a Romanian immigrant, she would hang around important government and corporate buildings, point her fingers like a hypnotist, believing that she was hexing passersby, mainly the employees, go into strange dances, have conversations with spirits (or so she claimed)… aside from several stays in mental hospitals, which generally found her to be harmless, as she never became violent, no institution took Linda seriously.

Having apprised the reader of those involved, the reader can now understand what transpired that fateful year. (Excuse the poetic touch, dear reader.)

Chapter III

George Blythe quickly became acquainted with the ways of Ramon Germanos. Blythe filed a report comparing American and Soviet aircraft, only to have Germanos interfere and claim it was "written unprofessionally". When Blythe asked how he should change it, Germanos replied, "You are supposed to be a professional. You should know." Thus, a report he could have finished in two days took four rewrites and three weeks to meet with Germanos's grudging approval.

Blythe once sneaked into Germanos's office, and found a treatise on anarchism. Confronting Germanos with it, Ramon explained it away as "understanding subversives- to defeat them, we must understand them." With what Morris had told him, however, Blythe doubted this explanation.

This soon became moot, however, as Germanos overplayed his hand attempting such obstructive tactics against Rosalind Kerr. Soon after this, photographs of a most graphic nature, proving what many already knew, became widely available within the firm, and to law enforcement, and to anyone else who wanted the information that they contained.

Ramon Germanos had married Jayne to keep up appearances, but much preferred men. His face was very recognizable in the photographs, but the other man's face could not be seen. Philip Morris, however, though by now like a walking cadaver, and straining to speak, insisted that the other man was Joseph Wheedle, and told Blythe that, to undermine Mrs. Kerr's schemes, Blythe needed to prove this.

"How could I prove it? We can't see his face."

"W-we [here a coughing fit interrupted Morris's speech]… we can see a scar on his ribs, near his left elbow… here. Prove Wheedle has this."

Blythe could think of only two ways of proving this: One would be to find some reason to have Wheedle throughly searched, but no such reason could be found. The other was far more distasteful to the very heterosexual, as some might later say, George Blythe, but he went through with it.

Not an unattractive young man from Wheedle's point of view, Blythe saw enough of Wheedle one night to be certain that yes, Joseph was the other man in the photo.

In the meanwhile, however, Ramon Germanos had done in himself, and Blythe, himself more than a little shaken over how he had to obtain the information on Wheedle, went off drinking at various bars during work hours, rather against regulations, and at one such bar, met with, it seemed, a grieving Jayne, but it was there and then that we would find that the sad-eyed blonde was a myth, and a cold heart and head lived beneath that façade.

Chapter IV

A less than sober Blythe had mentioned to Leonard Collins his encounter with Wheedle, and Collins thought that he might try the same, but with the more drastic aim of ending Wheedle's life, hoping this would put an end to Mrs. Kerr's hold over the corporation. Ransacking Wheedle's place to make it look like a robbery, Collins reported to an abandoned building, an old warehouse, devoid of any lighting, proudly boasting of what he had done.

"I did it Trench. Got that little scoundrel once and for all, and even if Mrs. Kerr has his info, she'll be too scared now to act."

An eerie, quavering voice replied out of the darkness, none too pleased.

"You foolish whelp. Kerr has ten times the physical courage of Wheedle. You should have killed her to frighten him. Employing you was my biggest mistake. This is an easier death than Clawboy would give you."

A dim shadow in the room's darkness flung a knife at Collins, hitting his target, and Collins was never found.

Chapter V

At the bar, Jayne, red eyes and running makeup, seemed to be the most pitiable sight Blythe had ever seen, until his vision began to blur, and over he fell, dead. Jayne looked confused and frightened. The bartender assumed that George had just been drinking too much, and would soon recover.

Jayne kept up her dumb blonde act for about three blocks, then her face set to stone, and she got in a car with an up-to-date telephone, calling the man Collins would refer to as Trench.

"Blythe was drinking on the job. I made the drink his last."

"You always were one for drastic action, but I suppose weak wills have no place in our line," replied the same strange, quavering voice, though distorted a bit by the phone.

"Say, Trench, aren't you concerned someone might bug our phones?"

"No, because the man they send to do that had a car accident, Jayne. They don't make brake lines so reliably in those foreign makes."

Needless to say, even when coroners found the poison, no one suspected the grieving, not overbright widow, as they reckoned her, but authorities were out looking for someone who fit their idea of a dangerous spy or criminal.

"One more thing before you hang up, Jayne: You must act against Mrs. Kerr now. Wheedle swore revenge if anyone got him, and something terrible is coming. Kerr would take full advantage of it. No time to explain. Take care of her. You know how."

Chapter VI

Jayne, seemingly an intoxicated mess, sobbing for "Ramon", went to Kerr's home, as if to seek a maternal figure. Kerr disdained the girl utterly, considering her, as she had once said to Wheedle, "a waste of hair dye", but did not want Jayne to make a scene outside her home, a home always watched by agents of more than one country.

Inviting Jayne, who acted as if she could barely stand, into her home, Mrs. Kerr sent Carlos, her servant, to get coffee for Jayne. By the time Carlos returned, Jayne had already dispatched with Mrs. Kerr, using Dim Mak, I am told. As an unfortunate witness, a petrified Carlos discovered that Jayne, like Trench, was an adept thrower of knives.

Rosalind Kerr being gone, Clawboy had no loyalties, but would continue to be the most physically dangerous criminal on the streets, for profit and sport, beginning with an armored car robbery in early November, 1963, an incident that left two guards dead.

What Trench said about Joseph Wheedle's threats was, according to the best sources, true. He had threatened more than once that if anything happened to him, he had a "Communist cell" that would "remove" the most important man on Wheedle's long list of compromised individuals, and the "cell" did so, on November 22, 1963.

Chapter VII

By the end of November, several more robberies and deaths, some too terrible to describe, marked wherever Clawboy had traveled, hitting several cities so that a pattern would not, by most, be noticed.

Some took notice, however, including Jayne. She was back on the car phone.

"I know Clawboy has no agenda anymore, but in a way, he is off his leash. Enough more of this, especially if he did too much in one city, and it would worsen the crisis in public trust that is already inevitable, after what happened to the President, and given what the new President is."

"You are correct, Jayne," said the by now familiar, quavering voice, "And I intend to act."

"You know better than anyone where he is, Trench. Just tell me and I'll do it."

"Jayne, have you ever read of Clawboy's idea of amusement back in Cleveland? You are a deadly woman, but if you and Clawboy ever met, you would go that way. I must insist. The only person alive better at violence than Clawboy is me, and I must do this one personally."

Chapter VIII

A limping, elderly hobo hobbled down a rural road not far from Baltimore. A blue Bel Air drove up behind him, driven by a grinning Michael Pocius, who thought he would play some games with the old man.

Clawboy drove the car directly at the hobo. There were no witnesses in sight, so it was just the two of them. The old man managed to throw himself to one side, but could not return to his feet. Pocius parked his car on a dime, and got out, strutting triumpantly and chuckling, pulling out a knife in his gloved hands, one with a finely carved handle.

The transient seemed resigned to his fate, smoking one last cigarette, as Clawboy, like Trench and Jayne, was about to practice his knife throwing skills, but suddenly, Pocius fell over, and was obviously no longer living when he hit the ground.

The "cigarette" had been a blowgun, and one assumes, the "elderly hobo" was an elaborate disguise of Trenchcoat.

Philip Morris passed away in 1964, and last I heard, Three Eyes and Linda Aeons had joined a commune in the vicinity of San Francisco, California.

Sincerely,

Trenchcoat

[andrumedus]

Joy Harjo, In Mad Love and War; “Grace”

[Text ID: a season of false midnights.]

[tonydaddingham]

sorry just saw your tags and had to come in your inbox and scream about how good a hypothetical stuffy smokey wood-panelled power-cut 1970s cold war spymaster au would be. you're a genius!

hi @buck1eys!!!! im definitely not the first to see the parallels between le carré and GO, but im sure there's an AU out there somewhere so for the love of god if anyone knows of a good rec please give it to me!!!✨

[dynamobooks]

Anna Kavan: Ice (1967)

[falseandrealultravival]

Churchill's Actions and Quotes: Are They Profitable? (Essay)

Sir Winston Churchill is famous for his victory over Hitler's Nazi Germany and the temporary world peace, but I wanted to know more about him so I did some research.

--Winston Churchill

British politician. He first joined the Conservative Party and then the Liberal Party, successively serving as Minister of Commerce and Minister of Home Affairs, Minister of the Navy and Minister of Defense during World War I, and Minister of War and Minister of Colonization after the war. He later returned to the Conservative Party and became Minister of Finance. He returned to the gold standard. He served as prime minister during World War II and contributed to the victory of the Allies. After the war, he became prime minister again. He is the author of "The Crisis of the World" and "Memories of the Second World War". He won the Nobel Prize in Literature. (1874-1965)

He was by no means an omnipotent person, and he often failed in the war. (According to the wiki, when he was a child, he was rather an inferior student. At Harrow School, he was not allowed to study foreign languages because he did poorly, and was made to study only English. It is said that it helped him to improve his English expressiveness and led to winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in later years.) On the other hand, he has a certain eye as a politician. Germany opposes the appeasement policy, saying that it will only increase the number of Nazis. This achievement is probably due to the fact that he came from a military background and was able to realistically analyze the current situation with his sharp eyes. Anticipating the Cold War, he envisioned the unity of European nations, so to speak, anticipating the EU. (I wonder how he sees the current so-called Brexit.) Churchill was the foremost anti-communist.

Here are three of Churchill's most famous quotes.

＠The greatest lesson in life is to know

          Even fools are right sometimes.

＠I may be drunk, Miss, but in the morning I will be sober,

         and you are still ugly.

＠The inherent vice of capitalism is

            the unequal sharing of blessings,

The inherent virtue of socialism is

       the equal sharing of miseries.

The second statement would now be flagged as misogyny. I didn't say it, Churchill said it, sorry. BGM: Pomp and circumstance No. 1 (“British Second National Anthem”)

[meneerdechiron]

Hi world. I have written a blog about the problems on Earth that we urgently need to solve. I'd love to share it with you.

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[ascripturientperson]

“... the city around us seemed colder than ever again, and I realised that even if it really had sensed something going on, it certainly didn't care. It moved forward again. I could feel it. I could almost hear it laugh and taste it. Close. Watching. Mocking. And it was cold, so cold, as it watched my sister bleeding at the back of our house.”

― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

[may-fleece]

"The whole world is divided for me into two parts: one is she, and there is all happiness, hope, light; the other is where she is not, and there is dejection and darkness...”

War and Peace L. Tolstoy