#colorado street bridge

[oldshowbiz]

Pasadena's famous Colorado Street Bridge plays Nazi Germany in Wake Me When the War is Over (1969).

[thefarfield-s5s]

View from a bridge

[rabbitcruiser]

National Take a Walk in the Park Day

When cities are being designed one of the primary things they ensure  to make space for is city parks. From small parks the size of just a  couple of blocks to large ones that cover acres of land, city planners  know the importance of providing green areas for people to go.

National Take a Walk in the Park Day celebrates these small  excursions and the differences they can make to our mental, physical,  and emotional health.

History of National Take a Walk in the Park Day

This day was founded to help people reconnect with the wilder spaces  within our civilized world. Thousands of people all over the country  walk in local parks, exploring the wildlife and beauty of the natural  world around them.

During these walks many opt to bring cameras so they can take  pictures of the beauty they find, others opt to bring a book and enjoy  the peace of the natural space. Jogging, playing games, drawing pictures  from nature, all of these are things people do when they go out and  enjoy time in the park.

Getting out into nature has been proven to have a number of  therapeutic effects on those who take the time to do it. Their stress  levels go down, their heart and mind feel refreshed, their creativity  gets inspired, and they become more productive at work. All of this  doesn’t even include the physical health benefits they get from walking  in the park.

Keeping our bodies in motion and remaining active are important parts  of our long term health. Daily walks help keep joints healthy, our  muscles limber, and our hearts beating steadily. Every day you walk  walking gets to be just a little bit easier and you’ll find yourself  less tired than the day before. National Take a Walk in the Park Day  encourages you to get out and do that, every day of the year.

How To Celebrate National Take a Walk in the Park Day

Celebrating this holiday is as simple as doing what it says on the  tin, go take a walk in the park! Everyday people take walks as an easy  way to get exercise and reconnect with nature, and that’s been proven to  have a positive effect on our sense of well-being.

Taking a walk can relieve stress, ease worries, and otherwise make  every day just a little bit better. If you’re lucky enough to have  multiple parks in your area, why not try a new one every day! While  you’re at it, bring a friend!

Source

[simonh]

Graffiti Train Bridge And Skyline, Austin, Texas by Randy von Liski Via Flickr: This view of downtown Austin shows the Graffiti Train Bridge across Lady Bird Lake. The plate girder-style bridge was constructed in 1936, but it sits on the stone piers of a previous bridge. Over the years, multiple layers of artwork and graffiti have been painted on its sides. The graffiti offers a unique and ever-changing perspective, adding a vibrant touch to a view showcasing Austin's ever-evolving skyline.

[in-sightjournal]

Ask A Genius 987: A Silty River, the Fraser River and Colorado

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: I was mentioning how the cemetery was a place I used to walk around, and you mentioned you go there with your poodle, the mental. There’s another part of my town with the Fraser River running through it. It’s a silty river, thick, cloudy, and muddy. People used to jump off the bridge all the time; I did when I was 16. I remember there were a couple of benches along the…

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Cardigan

Summary: Spencer Reid x Fe!Reader (BAU Agent) -> A case, a cardigan and a life time of memories help both you and Spencer realise something about yourselves.

Disclaimer: Not proof read. Mentions of Criminal Minds level violence. 16+. Fluff, pining. Descriptions of being attacked and falling into a river (but ends safely). Garcia sorting out two blind oblivious idiots. Happy Ending.

23:49

Usually, people were asleep close to midnight. Usually, people were dreaming of their favourite TV show and character, imagining a world where they worked alongside them or danced the night away with them in a ballroom that could make a Disney Live-Action movie jealous. 

However, that was not what you were doing. 

Instead, you were opening up your bathroom door and walking back inside your hotel room. The carpet a little rough beneath your feet, you unravelled your hair from the towel and began ringing out what was left of the water from your shower. 

Moving over to your closet, you pulled open the door and found what you were looking for. 

A cardigan. 

The Cardigan. 

The one you wore whenever you were in need of a little comfort because, despite owning it and washing it multiple times over the years, it was still him. 

One touch of the fabric and it was like being transported back to the day he gave it to you. Or, at least, let you borrow it then proceed to keep it. 

The case had been in Colorado. 

Four female students had gone missing in the space of two months. And, as much as it could be considered a coincidence, they all matched the same description and had last been seen at a convenience store, with fresh spray paint of their single initial. 

And, on the fourth night of the case, you were at such a place. 

All it had been for was a snack run for yourself, JJ and Morgan. However, as you began walking back down the street, you heard the shake of a spray-paint can and, the minute the stranger found your eyes, they set off running. 

And so did you. 

Making a call on your way, you shared your location with Garcia who patched in Morgan and Reid from the precinct. 

“Hey, wait! Stop!”

Round a back alley corner, you lost them. You walked further up to see if you could find a trail, however, all you found was a small bridge and a river. 

And as you looked around, from behind you, you felt someone try and run you down and it became a struggle. 

Fighting back and forth until he took hold of your jacket and pulled you over the edge with him. 

Disorientated from the fall, you struggled to find your way back up to the surface and when you did, you were only dragged back down. 

However, in all the commotion, a light came from the bridge and your attacker suddenly let go and, from the waves of the water, began swimming away as fast as he could. 

Coughing up the last of the water, you pulled yourself up the edge of the riverbank, laying on your back until your heart rate slowed down enough for you to catch a decent breath. 

“Hey, hey! Y/n! Look at me.”

Turning on your side, you tiredly pushed Morgan’s hand down from your face. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Do you think you can stand it?”

You nodded. “Just give me a minute.”

“What the hell happened?”

“You mean other than me being dragged into a river giving me flashbacks of college?”

“Y/n!? Y/n?! Are you okay?”

“She’s fine, pretty boy.” Morgan called back up the riverbank as Reid made his way down. 

“Are you sure?!”

“I’m fine, Spencer. I swear.”

Having made his way to your side, he kneeled down a little, checking you over. Only when he touched your skin did you realise you must have hit your head under the water on something because it was stinging from an open cut. 

“Sorry,” Spencer said as you hissed. 

“It’s okay, Just…help me up.”

Spencer did as he was told and Morgan led the way back up the bank. 

By the time you made it back to the precinct, considering it was closer than the hospital and they already had a paramedic waiting, JJ and some other officers had found the Spray Paint runner, and had pictures taken of the job he had done outside of the store. 

Having taken a shower in the locker room, Emily passed you through some of your spare clothes which consisted of a black t-shirt and some grey joggers. You were sitting in the hallway, your hair was damp and still dripping a little around your shoulders. Meanwhile, in your hands lay one of the pictures the CSI had taken. 

It could have been a coincidence, but more than likely it wasn’t. 

It was your initial. 

A shiver had taken hold of your body, whether from the truth or the cold you didn’t know. 

“Hey, here.”

From down the hall, Spencer approached you and removed his cardigan. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine, Spence.”

“You fell in a river and now have washed, wet hair in a building filled with AC. You’re cold. Here.”

With a slight smile, you took the cardigan from him and in almost an instant, it warmed you. It had been warmed by him and now it was warming you. 

“Thank you.”

Spencer smiled, looking around before picking up the towel that was laid over the back of your chair. 

“Here.”

Slowly pulling your hair around to one side, Spencer rang out the last of the water with the towel. 

“Did they get him?”

Your voice was quieter than usual. 

“The spray painter? Yes. Hotch has him in interrogation right now. Morgan and Emily are out looking for the guy who attacked you.”

You just nodded, part of your brain reliving the attack. 

From the back of your neck, Spencer could see a large bruise. It wasn’t too bad, but he knew it still hurt you considering whenever you moved in your seat, it seemed a struggle. 

“But I don’t match the MO.” 

This was something you couldn’t wrap your head around. You were out of college age range. The girls kidnapped didn’t have the same features. Similar, perhaps. But not the same. You hadn’t been in any similar places, other than the convenience store. 

“We’re thinking that perhaps he revisited some of the old sites.”

“And I’m the one that is closest to his victims…”

Spencer nodded and you took a deep breath, handing him the picture. “I can’t keep looking at that.”

You both sat in silence for a few minutes until Spencer finished and placed the towel down on the back of the chair again. 

“I was thinking about picking up some food, how about you come with me?”

Taking in a breath, you collapsed your hands between your knees and stood. “Yeah. Let me just use the bathroom.”

Spencer nodded, watching you push the door to the ladies room open, before Hotch walked over. 

“You’re taking her out?”

“Yeah, I thought it would be best.”

Hotch nodded. “Maybe try and get her to talk about it. See what she remembers. Anything that can help us track down the attacker.”

“Ready to go?” Spencer said, watching as you came out of the bathroom door. 

“Yeah.”

Sitting in the passenger seat, Spencer drove through the small town, and a little down the highway towards the only decent diner close to the town. 

In the passenger seat, you kept your eyes fixed on the scenery outside the window whilst the scent from Spencer’s cardigan blocked out the scent from the cheap shampoo one of the officers had found in a locker. 

Every now and again Spencer would glance over at you, that swirling feeling in his stomach getting stronger and stronger. When Garcia had patched the call through, he had heard your voice and something dropped in his stomach. He tried his best to remain calm, asking where you were and what you saw but when you went quiet, just before he heard a grunt in pain, his heart dropped. 

Spencer had met you in the Academy. 

Like himself, you too had been a child prodigy of sorts so you were around his age, too. Often, you found yourself in the same circles, however a small part of each of you seemed to compete against one another. 

An exam, a race, a training course. 

However, neither of you were too focused on your small rivalry to not help when the other needed it. 

After all, after Hotch, you were the one to help Spencer continue to hold his gun licence. 

And he was the one to help you finish up paperwork on those late nights. 

And when he saw your body unmoving on the side of the riverbank, it felt like his heart was shattering. 

It felt like you had been there for most of his life and you had, at least, for his adult life. And the thought that you wouldn’t be there for the rest of it brought such pain to him…he didn’t know what to do other than try his best to remember your voice and the way your hand fit into his as he helped you up from the grass and how you felt, leaning against him on the drive back. 

He didn’t want to let you go, so when Hotch said someone should watch you, he was the first to say yes. 

He’d known you the longest and, for what it was worth, he knew you trusted him enough that if you wanted to open up, it, in one way or another, would have been to him. 

And he was right, by the time he pulled up outside of the diner, you explained all that you could remember to him. From the turnings you took, to the feeling of being under the water and having a split second of thinking you wouldn’t make it back to the surface. 

And when you cried, wiping away the tears on your cheeks with the sleeve of his cardigan, Spencer unbuckled his belt and reached over, hugging you so tight it was like if he ever let go, he would stop breathing. 

You thought back to that night as you slipped your arms through the sleeves. 

There had been a couple of different nights after that, that you thought of when you took in the feel and smell of The Cardigan. 

One such night had been when Spencer and JJ had been out in the field. You had stayed back with Garcia, however that same feeling of having someone pull your heart so far back in your chest it began to hurt your spine, washed over you again. 

The only thing that helped settle it was wearing his cardigan. 

It was rare you did wear it, however when you did it was often for comfort and to settle your nerves from whatever was happening. 

Garcia didn’t say anything, but she smiled. 

She’d seen you wear The Cardigan when you came back from the Colorado case, and when you were stuck in the office late at night a few months later, and whenever she called someone on the jet when you fell asleep on Spencer’s shoulder, his head resting on yours. 

But this was the confirmation she needed. 

Both against you, and Spencer. 

So, when nightfall came and you had decided to wait for the rest of the team to get back, she finally said something. 

You had been sitting at your desk, leaning back in your chair, a pencil poked through your hair whilst a pen twirled in your hand. 

“You should talk to him.”

“What?”

Garcia smiled. “Reid. You should talk to him.”

“Why?” your stomach dropped. “Is everything okay? He’s not-”

Garcia shook her head. “He’s okay. But, you should talk to him.”

“Why?”

Penelope placed a hand on your shoulder, the soft wool of the cardigan under her palm. 

“This is his.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. 

“If you're worried he doesn’t feel the same?” Garcia pinched the fabric and shook it a little. “This is proof he does.”

“What are you-”

“For being a top profiler, you guys sure don’t know how to read a love story when it’s right in front of you.”

“Pen-”

Garcia just smiled again. “Talk to him. You’ll be surprised.”

She took her leave from there, calling out her goodbyes from the entrance door. Not too long after that, the rest of the team walked back through the door to collect the rest of their things, and if you weren’t mistaken, they all seemed to have a quiet smile on their face when they spotted what you were wearing. 

However, in the end, it was just you and Spencer. And Garcia’s words kept circling around in your head. 

“Hey, Spence?”

He turned around. 

And you chickened out. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I- it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, okay. Well…goodnight.”

“Night.”

What you didn’t notice as Spencer left was when he took another look. You had your back to him, so he could take a slightly longer look. The feeling in his heart grew a little more as he took in the memory of you in his cardigan. 

You had tried to give it back, sneakily. However, he thinked you looked better in it. And, due to the feeling in his heart, it would forever be yours. So, he made sure to be out of the office before you one night so, when you found it looped through your bag, you had no other option but to keep it. 

And now, with it holding your body. Holding your soul. You took in its scent. 

You had been in love with Spencer since shortly after you had both joined the BAU. He was the first familiar face you saw when you landed in the office. He’d already been there at least five years, maybe bordering on six when you joined. And all it had taken was a simple coffee order. 

You had changed your coffee order since you’d both been graduates since the Academy, however, despite the change…Spencer didn’t have to ask. 

He turned up at the door of your apartment, holding out the cup for you when you opened the door to let him inside. 

All he did was stand in your apartment and look around, whilst you drank him in. You’d both changed over the years and of course you had liked him, ever since you first met him. Anyone that took the time to know him, liked him, too. 

But there was something. 

Maybe it was his confidence. 

Maybe it was the fact he knew your favourite coffee order after six years of not seeing one another. 

But either way, you knew. 

You knew you loved him. 

A familiar knock came to the door of your hotel room, knocking you out of your memories and back into reality. 

An hour later, you were sitting downstairs with the others, examining all the old case files, begging for something to jump out. 

JJ sighed and threw one of the finished case files onto the table. “I’m beat. I can’t find anything. I think if I close my eyes, I can see the text written on the back of my eyelids.”

The others felt the same so it wasn’t long before they, one by one, went to bed. 

Leaving just yourself and Spencer by the warming fire. 

As it approached four in the morning, you closed your file and rubbed your eyes. 

“Anything?”

“Nothing.”

“I think I’m gonna go to bed. If I look at this case file much longer, I’m gonna be like JJ.”

However, despite wishing to go to bed, you must have fallen asleep on the sofa as a few moments later, Spencer’s hand was on your shoulder. 

“Hey, you fell asleep.”

“Oh.”

“I would have left you, but you’ll probably wake up with a stiff neck.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Spencer helped you sit up and you watched him tidy away a couple of the case files. They were safe enough in the boxes considering the entire team had all the rooms in the hotel booked out. 

Once he had done that, you tidying up a few of the boxes, Spencer fixed the fire guard in front of the diminishing flames when you stood and said;

“Goodnight, or…Good morning or…whichever it is. I’ll see you when I wake up.”

“I love you.”

That stopped you in your tracks and woke you up. 

With you back still to Spencer, you took a moment to breathe. Maybe you had just imagined it. 

You heard Spencer whisper something to himself, a small battle growing large in his head over letting those three words slip. 

Until, he said them again. 

And this time you heard him crystal clear. 

“I love you.”

Turning around slowly, you were soon met with his own back.

“What?”

Your voice, despite how much you thought you had your emotions in check, wavered. 

Spencer turned around to face you. “I-I’m sorry. I-I should just let you-”

“Spencer, wait-”

You practically jumped forward, reaching out for him to stop. And he did. 

“Say it again.”

Standing so close to him, the heat you felt…you couldn’t tell if it was from the diminishing embers or from Spencer himself. 

“I love you.”

“Do you…” you swallowed, looking down for a moment, feeling his fingers trace yours. You finally looked back up to his face. “Do you mean it…as in…”

“M-more than what we are.” 

It was his turn for his voice to shake. 

“Are you…sure that you…”

“Sure enough, like how I know how…how to…breathe. Although, right now I don’t know how much of that is true because…because I don’t know how to-”

You placed a hand on his chest but Spencer’s own hand came to cover yours and moved it over his heart. 

“I’d say you’re breathing.”

Spencer smiled. “Good.”

“I love you. I-I don’t know what this means, or what it will do and, honestly, I didn’t mean to tell you like this but I was thinking and then, I started overthinking and, I don’t know, when you said goodnight, I meant to say it back and then I-”

“Spence. Spencer,” you tried your best to slow him down. His heart was practically beating out of his chest. “I love you, too.”

“You-you love me, too?”

“I do.”

“You do?”

You nodded, holding his face in your hands. “I do. I love you, too, Spencer. I-I always have.”

From your hips, one of Spencer’s hands stopped at your waist, pulling you in just a little bit closer until your body was flushed with his before allowing his other to move further up, brushing the hair from your face and across your back. His finger traced the shape of your face, before settling under your jaw, bringing your face closer to his. 

He took it slow. 

Even despite the fact you had reciprocated his feelings of love, he gave you time to opt out. To say no. to push him away. 

Flicking his eyes from your own, to your lips and back again. The first touch of his lips against yours was soft, barely fleeting. 

Until you kissed back. 

Your relaxed hands pulled him slightly closer, first by his neck, then by the collar of his shirt. All the while, his arms snaked around you, holding you flush against him. 

“I might be a few years late in asking, but,” Spencer said once he finally managed to catch his breath. “Can I take you on a date?”

“Yes. Yes, Spencer. You can take me on a date.”

Years Later...

“Did I ever tell you you look good in this?”

“Your cardigans, you mean?” You smiled as Spencer took hold of your hand and pulled you closer. “Oh, every day. But I don’t mind hearing it again.”

“Well, you do.”

With a smile as he pulled you down and onto his lap, you kissed him, your arms coming around his neck and across his shoulders. 

“Good.”

It had been four years since Spencer had first admitted his feelings for you and, even if life had sent you both through trials and tribulations, you’d both made it alive, together and stronger than ever. 

It hadn’t taken that long for the rest of the team to figure out something had finally happened between you two, however, it still had taken a while. It was only because Morgan recognised a second cardigan that had belonged to Spencer less than a week earlier suddenly wrapped around you one late evening. 

“And speaking of cardigans…” you sat up a little straighter to see Spencer as he leaned his head back to take you in fully. 

He still looked at you with as much love and adoration as he had done that early morning in the hotel. Perhaps even more. 

“We’re gonna need to buy a couple more.”

“Didn’t you just buy one yesterday?”

“Perhaps,” you nodded. “But this one isn’t for you, well…us…exactly.” 

It hadn’t taken long for you to start wearing Spencer’s cardigans on a daily basis, but he was more than agreeable to it considering whenever he saw you in one of his, his heart soared and he knew you felt safe in them, too. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, considering ours might be a little too big…”

Then it clicked for Spencer. 

“You’re…”

From a small pocket in your cardigan, you pulled out a positive pregnancy test. 

“You’re gonna be a dad, Spence.”

Tears already starting to fall from your eyes, you watched as Spencer welled up and with a shaking hand took hold of the test to look at it. 

“You’re pregnant?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“You’re pregnant!”

“I’m pregnant!”

In a sweeping kiss, Spencer pulled you closer as you slid down and lay against his side, your legs still over his. 

“We’re gonna have a baby.” Spencer smiled, turning from the pregnancy test to you with a smile unlike any other you’d ever seen on his face. 

“We’re gonna have a baby.”

[terrence-silver]

Hey could i make a request please. Terry X fem reader, her former abuser comes back into her life to torment her all over again and Terry buts them in their place and destroys them physically, mentally, financially and when it's all over they'll thank him.

Jerry and Terry.

A story of disproportionate revenge; Terry Silver x Fem!Reader in the background (with an appearance from John Kreese).

---

Jerry is a man with a common office job and the accidental assonance of their names never fails to amuse Terry.

Infuriate him some.

Jerry and Terry.

Well, Jeremy, in actuality, just another information in the long mosaic line up covering everything he discovered about this schmuck, as much personally as through his sources, not that it was tremendously difficult seeing as how none of these common civilians were ever too much of a mystery anyway, granting him immense satisfaction in the hunt nonetheless — but the punk’s name might as well be worm or cockroach, because that’s in effect what he was, leaning over Colorado Street, in Pasadena, a two hour drive from LA, the July summer air after midnight still hot, the asphalt seeming to let off steams of a searing, stifling sensation, the cool breeze blown in from the Arroyo barely reaching the isolated steel ledge secluded from the buzz of the traffic; the city long since planned to put to preventive nets over the bridge — Terry should know because he personally funded the project with a generous donation and it was hilarious how life had a weird way of falling into place and connecting in the most bizarre ways on a bridge of occasional suicides where your ex was standing, hands in pockets, staring down into the dark depths of the river below, no such net in sight just yet except for a couple of signs issuing a warming that it was dangerous to lean over the railings, nothing separating him from the flowing abyss below. Him and the Mayor shook hands on the business venture two years ago. The news even reported on it with all the adulation in the world. Terry’s picture was in the paper. He was all over the news — long enough to distract from all his other ventures. But, it was one of those urban landscaping deals that would dawn on the news and then take years, perhaps decades, to be actually realized. Meant that Jerry could jump — and there would be nothing to save him from doing so. No cameras installed for security measures just yet either. Maintenance. Terry knew, because this was Terry’s city.

Terry’s country and State.

Nobody in sight right at this moment.

Merely a narrow concrete path along the bridge for pedestrians.

Terry, the stranger, snug in his leather jacket, not minding the heat, pretending to be an innocent bypasser.

Truth of the matter was, he ruined this man’s life and he developed the progression of the slow decay all along the way with great interest and like a cat eagerly eying a moving red string, Terry’s effortlessly led him here, deliberately, right to this very place, this very spot, on this very night, on this very bridge and the guy never even realized he had no say in any of it or that none of it was an accident. Jeremy got let off of work. Accused of embezzlement. Embroidered in schemes. In debt. Reputation ruined. Social circle gone. All that jazz. All the classics. And Terry did it all. Weaved it all. And it culminated in this. Do a flip, he thought to himself, approaching the man under the headlights, leisurely, acting like someone who accidentally stumbled upon a scene he wasn’t supposed to stumble upon, en route to somewhere else, haunting the city, stopping in his tracks, behind a steel pillar, watching Jerry climb over the ledge; He could say something now. It would've been expected. A hastily thrown in 'Hey, you there! Stop!' or 'Hey, you! Don't do it! Lets talk, man! Life can be good, actually. It can be good when you're not crossing Terry Silver, that is.' Something faux-poignant. Something mean. Something mocking. Something distracting or even infuriating to bait the man into arguing rather than hurting himself. Anything, so long as it distracts and causes the man to hesitate and think twice, but it’s only once Jerry’s heel is slipping over the edge of the pipe he was perched up on does Terry act, allowing himself to smile from where he's standing, seamlessly, feeling his mouth twitch upward, watching the shadow disappear over the railing into the darkness of the night. The next day, there's a suicide report briefly on the news and you never even catch it in the whirlwind of all the other crime circulating in the media. Your asshole ex, identified by his wallet and the documentation found in his soaked interior pocket, fished out by the loading docks. Just another statistic.

-"So, what he’d do?"-

John asked him on one occasion when Terry told him of his plans.

-"Nothing much."- Terry slings his arm over his driver seat leisurely, chuckling. He didn't treat you as well as you deserved? Tried to occasional get in contact with you again and stay on, quote-unquote 'good terms'. What did that even mean? Good terms? Wasn't that enough to warrant execution? Terry thought it was. It was a crappy, mediocre relationship and nobody had to put their hands on you for Terry to be convinced that deserved payback. Not to mention --- the said entanglement wasted your time. Time that would've been better spent with him if you weren't busy wasting it with some Jerry. Revenge. Reason for revenge, right there. They were parked near Griffith Observatory, in the embrace of a forested path, all zig-zags and steep rocks, the skyline of the city visible from a nearby slope, offering them both a view and sufficient privacy to talk. -"I just want him to die."- Terry confess bluntly, nearly cackling as the words rolled off of his tongue, sensing something exciting coil around in his gut like so many butterflies, seeing no reason to hide these things from his Captain after everything they've been through together and John gives him a lopsided, paternal smile, halfway critical, halfway entertained, like he was about to throw in the talk.

-"Terry…"-

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head and Terry instantly protests.

Show mercy!? Why!? Since when were they the mercy-showing types!?

-"What? What!?"-

He finds himself whining slamming the palm of his hand against the backrest of the leather seats, feeling his own face furrow up. -"C’mon, Johnny!"- He sighs profoundly, rolling his eyes, annoyed and exasperated. This was some prime-time bullshit. -"Don’t you dare tell me that you never wanted anyone someone you loved loved before you to just, you know…"- He starts, trailing off, digging his teeth into his lower lip. Savoring the moment. -"Drop dead?"- He says it then, and it tastes so sweet, like caramel coated candy dipped in white powder. Terry knew all about Johnny nearly beating his beloveds Betsy's then-beau halfway to death on the parking lot of the Deli he worked in before the army. They were exactly the same, him and John Kreese. A Cobra doesn't tolerate competition. It's not in it's nature to. John says nothing. Almost as if contemplating that memory himself, looking off into the distance, pulling up the collar of his brown vest jacket on the passenger seat beside him, his face crinkling into a grim smile, not saying yes but not saying no either. Terry has the odd impulse to kick his feet up in the air in a flash of euphoria. -"We could always rough him up. Scare him. Hurt him, make him piss his pants and call it a day. I'm available for that."- John murmurs, the deep rumbling sound emanating from his throat recognized only as a suppressed chuckle. Terry grabs John by the shoulder and shakes him in excitement, halfway hugging him in joy. While kicking that Creature to a pulp did sound exciting it wasn't part of the plan. -"My man! Now we're talking! But, that would only martyr him!"- Terry lifts up his hands, engrossed in his own imagination. He felt more comfortable and content if this guy was just wiped out of existence altogether. Like, hit by a moving bus, perhaps. A guy that put his dick inside of you before being alive and well out there? Yeah. Unacceptable. -"No."- Terry says with a sense of looming doom. -"This is so final. There’s no coming back from it. And what’s best?"- He pauses slightly for dramatic timing, presenting the whole picture to John the way a storyteller would describe the synopsis of his newest magnum opus.

-"I’ll ensure he’ll do to himself."-

Six months into this special project and Terry never once put his hands on Jeremy. Could've. Itched to. But, he didn't. If Jerry deteriorated, it's because he ruined himself. With every drink, every cigarette and every sleepless, stressful night in tow. All Terry did was set events in motion and brought about the right environments for someone to start feeling profoundly unhappy.

-"I've put him through enough pain and now it's time to go to sleep."-

There can be only one, he almost halfway desires to add but he withholds at the last moment once he spots a shift on John's face --- that he didn't need any more convincing. Maybe it was an old habit --- an army habit --- but whenever Terry seriously wanted to end someone, he always came to Johnny first. To discuss the matter. Strategize. Get his greenlight from his Captain to go out into the field and terminate with extreme prejudice. That's how the hierarchy worked. Terry would do whatever he wanted anyway irregardless of John but he supposed he wanted to let him know. For old times sake. Reason why he invited him to meet here today. That and to gloat. -"Alright, Terry. If you say so."- John smiles that gruff smile of his, finally capitulating and Terry finally allows himself to breathe again after what seemed like an eternity of anticipation, letting himself be as jubilant as he wanted, turning the key in the ignition along with the steering wheel almost immediately, ready to get a move on, wasting not a second longer. There was a five star restaurant just down the road with their name on it. -"Of course I say so, Johnny! What I say is best!"- He exclaims, one hand on the wheel and another on the back of his John's neck, patting him triumphantly. Enough talk. Time to crack open the bottles before the big bang. You knew he was out with his oldest friend. You merely didn't know the context, is all. -"Reservations at five. Lets go grab that chow and celebrate!"- Terry practically shouts in euphoria, throwing a joyous glance at John, making a sharp U-turn. -"Ever ate a turkey stuffed with a chicken that's stuffed with a quail!?"- He snickers, knowing for a fact that Johnny would probably need everything in him not to roll his eyes at the option of orders, but regardless, he lived for treating his Captain to the finer things, just like he lived for removing each and every person from your past until nobody but him remains. Him, representing the future. -"I'd prefer plain good old bacon and some beer."- John mutters with a small, fox-like grin just like Terry knew he would, taking a relish in poking and prodding at him anyway. His Captain's wish is his command. They'd have so much to toast for today.

-"Done, baby!"-

Is all Terry says, laughing as he speeds away, down the woodland highway.

---

When you discover the news because he effectively tells you, deciding to control when and how the information reaches and that it might as well reach you from his own mouth, naturally, as expected, your mood turns gloomy. For days. Weeks. More time wasted and he despised it, deciding to immediately take you on a cruise of the Bahamas to distract you from it, but deciding tactically that you just had to ride it out. And you did. Week two on the deck of his yacht, eventually, slumped, looking out to the ocean, knees against your chest sitting on deck, you decide to speak. -"Terry, this will be such a weird thing to say."- You stutter, unsure of yourself and yet he's there, tracking your every movement and expression like a sonar radar. -"Maybe even meanspirited."- Will it now? Good. You were about to get whatever useless thing was still lodged in your system out of yourself. He's by your side, sitting beside you, looking at you intently, not wanting to miss a thing. -"But, I'm oddly glad I got out on time. That I met you."- You confess, holding back tears. Wasn't easy discovering that your ex was practically six figures in debt and wanted on several charges and that if you stayed with him, it would've reflected on you as well. Dragged you down with him. To the bottom of river Arroyo. That's what your pretty little head thought and Terry coos, massaging the edge of your scalp in gentle motions with his fingers, letting that beautiful brain below think whatever he wanted it to think. Oh, he loved you so. You were made for the greenest of pastures. For him. -"He would've destroyed his life as well as my own and I'm relieved the universe moved me out of the way when it did. That it brought me you. Thank you."- Ah. There it was. There were tears in your eyes flowing freely and you were thanking him, never even realizing you were unknowingly expressing gratitude that he effectively crapped all over your ex's life and led him to suicide. Stood by and watched while he did a triple Salto off of a bridge. The blood and the heat shoots down into his cock. How could it not? In any other situation he would've dragged Jerry's waterlogged swollen carcass fished out of the river at your feet and present it to you like a cat presents its owner a dead mouse. -"He was never bad towards me, exactly. But, he was never fully good either, you know? But, definitely not bad enough to deserve this."- Oh, Terry knew alright. It is just that he considered that your ex not being fully good towards you was a capital offense that found it's equivalent payback only in death. So, yeah. Punk deserved it.

Had it long time coming.

-"Is that fucked up and evil of me? To feel relieved I left on time? I feel so awful it's crazy! A man died!"-

A weak, nuisance man died, Terry wants to correct, but instead he settles into the act of collecting your tears with the tip of his fingers, letting none of them escape, feigning outrage, yet partially feeling said emotion in it's most genuine capacity; Jeremy died! Fuck sake, who cares! This guilt would evaporate and you'd find it fading overtime, because he'd be here to ensure it fades; there was almost nothing meaningfully positive for you to vindicate or romanticize and far too much crappy and mediocre to actually mourn or remember fondly. That was the good thing about measly, middle-of-the-road, middling, lukewarm individuals; too grey to be turned into saints and too grey to be turned into devils. The only thing one could do with them, whether one wanted to or not is to forget them. Where he could easily replace them and everyone else you ever trifled with, usurping their very vacancy and every emotion sent their way, be it good or bad. All of it. Only his. -"Fucked up!? Huh!? No way! It's not! Are you even listening to yourself!?"- He shakes his head vigorously, letting his disapproval grow visible, pulling you close, until the side of your body melts with his and you're effectively there, drying up your tears in his embrace, the open sea breeze against you. Terry grabs your face with both hands, making you look at him. -"You wanted a normal, stable life! Of course you did! Who wouldn't!?"- Terry explains, separating his gaze from you for but a second to point the tip of his nose out towards the blue expanse of the sunlit Atlantic.

[nuri148]

Distances in AoT

Or: Yams has no idea of geography and the relationship between distance and travel times in AOT makes no sense.

After a long time in the works, I present to you this 3-part, long af essay about the above statement. Grab your copy of Aot and your calculator and buckle up!

Disclaimer: I’m not a numbers girl. I always struggled with math at school and cannot determine how much each party needs to chip in for a group outing without an excel spreadsheet. And yet the numbers in AoT are so out of proportion that even with my limited math talent I realised what a train wreck they were.

PART ONE: SCALE

The manga, and later the anime, inform us that there are 250 km from the center of the walls to Wall Sina; 130 km from wall Sina to Wall Rose; and 100 km from Wall Rose to Wall Maria.

For the sake of simplicity, I’m going to ignore a few facts that should be painfully obvious in a real-life setting:

1) The walls could never be perfectly circular. Because...

2) Terrain, even in super duper flat places like the Argentine Pampas or the Netherlands1, is never completely flat and never completely uniform. So, even in the Great Plains, the 230 km (equivalent to the distance from Ehrmich to Shiganshina) between Wichita and Oklahoma City, as the crow flies, become 238 km when made in a car – or 256 km on a bike (since bikes can’t take the highway). Likewise, the rougher the terrain, the higher the difference. Salzburg and Linz, in Austria, are merely 100 km away in a straight line, but the shortest route is 124 km.

And bear in mind this distances are on modern roads in modern countries, built with technology that allow us to circumvent geographical accidents such as rivers, canyons or mountains with cool bridges and tunnels. The world in which AoT is set doesn’t have those. If a river is down a canyon, first they’ll need to zig-zag down the canyon, then cross the river (via bridge or ferry at best, fording it at worst), then zig-zag all the way up again. This happens still today, even in our modern whitebread world, in places where the traffic doesn’t justify building a big-ass bridge over the canyon. When I lived in Germany, it was like that to go to the next town.

But, as I said, for the sake of simplicity, I’m going to pretend the walls are perfectly round, the terrain is perfectly flat, and that there is a straigh-ass road, as straight as Argentina’s 22 National Road between Río Colorado and Choele Choel, between each of the Wall Districts. For simplicity reasons too, I won’t be using decimals or taking the thickness of the walls into consideration.

I’m also going to assume (though this is pretty much confirmed by canon), that the only passage between walls is through the Districts.

You’ve likely seen the basic layout plenty of times over the internet.

Well, Let’s start by saying I have a huge problem with this layout. If you bother to separate walls S-R-M to scale with their informed size, the sizes used to depict the Districts are always wildly out of all proportion².

From the several panoramic views of Sigansina, Trost, etc. that are shown in the manga³, and considering the usual sizes of German-style 17th-19th century houses, which is what’s shown from down in the streets (and I’m familiar with from my time living there), the districts seem to be, at the very most, 5 km from the main wall to the district outer wall⁴, with a bridge over the river every 500 m or so. (The walls are usually visible whenever they are in the districts, so you know it’s a small area.) Yet as you’ve seen, most maps show the districts ridiculously large, going to even half the distance between walls. This not only contradicts canon, but defeats the in-canon purpose of building a concentrated, out-jutting urban area to concentrate possible titan attacks there and eliminate the threat more easily.

So in my map, I’ve adjusted the size of the districts to roughly 5 × 5 km. They look almost like dots. That’s another problem of the disproportionate maps that populate the web: it makes you lose sense of just how big the walls are.

Districts of Paradis: Mitras (center); to the East: Stohess, Karanes, Holst (from AotBTF); To the West: Yarkell, Krolva, Quinta (from AotHMOTC); to the South: Ehrmich, Trost, Shiganshina; To the North: Orvud, Utopia, [unknown].

Now, geometry is a wonderful thing. If you know the radius of a circumference, you can calculate all other possible measurements in that circumference. And in this day and age, with computers, you don’t even need to learn formulas or crunch numbers. Yay Math.

So, if radius Mt-S (Mitras-Sina) is 250 km, and wall Rose is 130 km further, and wall Maria 100 km further still, the radius Mt-R is 380 km and the radius Mt-M is 480 km.

The Districts are lined up with the cardinal points. Therefore, to go from a district on the N-S axis (e.g. Ehrmich) to the corresponding one on the W-E axis (e.g. Stohess), you have basically three options:

Route 1) Take roads we know nothing about. The most likely, logical option in a realistic scenario, unfortunately un-checkable. Also slower than the following two hipothetical routes.

Route 2) Ride atop or along the wall. For numbers, I’m assuming a flat wall top. Because we know the radius of the walls, we can calculate the arc length between any two districts (blue in map).

Route 3) Use an imaginary, straigh-ass road between two adjacent districts on a given wall (e.g. Ehrmich-Stohess, Trost-Krolva). Again, because we know the radius of the walls, and the angle of separation of the districts (90°) we can calculate the length of this chord line (brown in map). Note that this solution doesn’t work for districts in Wall Maria, as the resulting chord would intersect wall Rose, and there is no passage there (red in map).

So, how long are these distances? EXTREMELY.

The Arc distance (riding along the wall) between adjacent wall districts is:

Wall Sina (e.g. Ermich-Stohess): 393 km (more or less equivalent to a straight line from Mar del Plata to Buenos Aires).

Wall Rose (e.g. Trost-Karanes): 597 km (Paris-Montpellier).

Wall Maria (e.g. Shiganshina to Quinta): a whooping 754 km (San Diego-Sacramento)

The Chord line distance (straight line between two adjacent wall districts) is shorter, but not by that much (about 10 % less):

Wall Sina: 352 km (Mar del Plata-La Plata)

Wall Rose: 537 km (Paris-Orange)

Wall Maria: 679 km in theory (San Diego-San José) but, as explained, the chord line between Wall Maria districts is interrupted by Wall Rose, so that route is out. The shortest alternative would be to ride in a very slight curve approximating Rose; I couldn’t find a suitable calculator to let my mathematically challenged self get the exact number but I reckon it’s around 700-720 km (San Diego-San Francisco).

The takeout from this is that distances in AoT are HUGE.

Moreover: We know the island of Paradis is based on the island of Madagascar. The diameter of Wall Maria is 960 km (480 × 2), but the island of Madagascar has a maximum width of roughly 590 km.

So we have two scenarios here:

1) The world of AoT happens in a very big planet

2) Yams (and his editors) suck at maths and spacial awareness big time.

Guess which one I’m betting on.

Part 2 Part 3

Notes:

¹ Having grown up in Argentina and living in Europe, but also mindful that many reading this are from the US, I’ve mixed cities from all those locations as real-life examples.

² There is one and one map only, in chapter 5 of the manga, that depicts the walls more or less realistically, but it also shows the geography within the walls as pretty non-flat, non uniform, no straight-roads, so I’m being very generous with my calculations here, borderline delulu.

 ³ I was going to illustrate this with a few shots of the districts, but as I started gathering said shots from the manga I found myself opening yet another can of worms, for the differences in size of a given city between chapters are enough to merit their own post I’m afraid. Not that I can commit to one atm.

⁴ Though, realistically, European medieval walled towns were no larger than 1 km across. Nördlingen, in which Shiganshina is inspired, as well as Rothenburg o.d. Tauber and other partially preserved walled towns are 500 m in diameter.

[pedropascallme]

The Good, the Bad, and the Better

Pairing: gunslinger!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: "You stretched your legs when you got off the train, wondering how so much sitting could make your joints so sore. You had one bag, which was, truthfully, more than enough. You fit your entire life into the handheld leather case, and it felt both freeing and deeply, deeply woeful."

Content: Mentions of death, uuuh US cholera epidemic? gnc!Ellie because I said so. That's all for now. If I missed anything please let me know!

AN: hi I’m trying something new….felt the need to get Joel involved with a sexy lil cowboy AU. Full disclosure this was inspired by @qwimchii and the AMAZING gunslinger!ghost series she’s been writing (go support her work!!). Lmk if you guys want more of this in the future, I have….plans….for this story, to say the least, so treat it as an intro of sorts?

Jefferson Territory (Colorado), September 1847

The executor of your father’s will wore small bifocals, perched gently on the bridge of his nose. You bounced your leg, perhaps unladylike, but it was all you could do to steady your mind in the tight office that smelled of wood and purified alcohol.

You clutched your handkerchief to your chest, fresh out of tears to wring from your eyes and waiting to get the bequeathing over with. With breaths so deep they threatened the lace of your corset, you were able to look up at the executor, who had been kind enough to wait for you to give him the ok to continue.

“Alright, miss?” His voice was nasal, but not condescending. You nodded. “To my daughter, my only child and carrier of my good name, I leave my land in Texas; doing so in the hopes that she will live out her life there, with kin.”

The man stopped reading and looked up at you. That was all he had for you.

You hadn’t been expecting any more. Hadn’t even considered you would be getting any land—an unmarried woman with land, though, was sure to catch the attention of a gentleman, and you’re sure that your father had known that.

“Thank you.” You mumbled to the man, dry lips cracking under the moisture of the tears you had licked up. “Am I meant to sign anything?”

“No, miss.” He seemed sorry for you, and you felt a flare of anger at him in that moment; you were sick of hearing people speak to you so slow and soft, as if the weight of their words would knock you down and bury you along with your parents.

It hadn’t even been one year since the death of your dear mother, the woman who had brought you up like a proper lady, who had taught you your prayers, and the proper way to tie your hair up so that God would smile upon you along with the sweet church-going boy on the ranch next to your own home. Your family had been naïve in thinking that the cholera outbreak wouldn’t reach them in the west. When word first spread in the papers, it was a small number of people in the City of New York; your father was quick to dismiss the cases as God’s wrath upon those who didn’t appreciate the frontier, too busy with their fancy jobs and big-city values to go to church. But your mother fell ill that summer, vomiting and lethargic, and it wasn’t long until you watched the priest say his prayers over her coffin.

You admired your father’s will to keep going, until you didn’t. He kept busy, and you thought he would work himself to death—maybe that’s why he seemed so calm when he got sick, compared to the panic your mother had in her eyes in the days before she died; he knew he wouldn’t be on the mortal plane much longer, soul too deeply intertwined with your mother’s and ready to go where she went even in death.  

So here you sat, in the same mourning clothes you had worn for the past 11 months, listening to this law man explain that he would be taking care of any other business that had to do with your father’s measly estate. You thanked him, giving him a polite curtsey before you exited his office and found your way back onto the street.

You didn’t have much left in Jefferson Territory. You made the short walk back to your family’s home with your head down, ignoring the coaches that passed on their routes and the women who spoke in hushed tones when they saw you walking all by your lonesome. "Poor thing", “just a girl,” “should have been married off sooner.” You wanted to bite back at them, tell them you’d rather die along with your parents than ever abandon your family and run off with some boy just to mother ungrateful children who would in turn run off themselves. You were happy, at least, that your parents had died in your presence; you couldn’t imagine the suffering had you been gone from their home, the pain after being there with them when they took their last breaths was bad enough.

You walked through the door of the house, careful to close the door and lock it how your mother always told you—even without her present, you knew she would appreciate the little things. You appreciated them, too, now, more than you had ever thought you would.

“Auntie?” You called out to your father’s sister, hearing a bustle in the kitchen and smiling for the first time that day; your aunt was a wild woman, never married and never sitting. Her kindness was perhaps the only thing that motivated you to wake up every morning without your parents. You found her kneading dough, moving her whole body over the clay-like clump with a force, upper half covered with flour. “Auntie.”

She turned, noticing you for the first time since you arrived back home. “Welcome home, little one!” She greeted you, and you watched her run a hand over her forehead to combat the sweat running over her eyes, leaving a trail of flour over her brow. “You doing alright?” She turned back to her ball of dough, leaning an elbow into it, anticipating your answer.

You just sighed, pulling up a chair close to her and studying her movements, unsure of how to tell her just how alright you were; it was like you had no emotions left, your heart a husk keeping your body moving with nowhere to go. Not nowhere, maybe.

“I got land in Texas.” You were quiet, and her movements stalled.

“Texas?” She quirked a brow and slapped her hands together, sending flour to stray over her apronless front. “Who got you land in Texas?”

“Papa.”

“Your daddy had land down there?”

You shrugged, “That’s what the lawyer said. Said it’s all mine, now.” You hadn’t yet absorbed the news, unsure of what to do with yourself or your earnings.

“War’s bad, little one,” your aunt huffed, not angrily, but with a concerned look spread over her face, “not much use with Texan land until Mr. Polk can figure out how to appease the folks down south.” You nodded, aware of the conflict and uneager to get anywhere near it. “Still…” Your aunt looked at you now, the black fabric of your dress bunched up over your knees with the specks of white dust she had covered you with.

“Still?” You questioned, feeling a wave of anxiety cross you.

“…Nothing left for you here.” She spoke quietly, barely above a whisper, looking you dead in the eyes.

“You’re here!” You felt trapped, scared, but mostly confused. She of all people would be the only one to condone such an outlandish notion—dropping everything and running off to a war-torn territory away from everything you ever knew—but you had hoped she would appeal to her more realistic side in this particular matter and tell you to forget the whole thing before dinner.

“I’m not staying, little one,” her eyes were pleading, “got my own life, got people in other places to look after.”

You felt tears well in your eyes, appalled that you had any water left in your body to cry out today. “I don’t want to leave…I don’t want you to leave.” You felt yourself begin to cry again.

“I’ll never leave you,” she whispered, the ghost of a smile on her lips, “but I can’t stay in Jefferson Territory…got plans back east.”

“East?” You practically yelled it, offended that she would leave the life your extended family had built in Jefferson Territory despite the unease that churned in your stomach whenever you thought of living out your own life in the same spot you'd known since you could toddle.

“East.” She was calm, balancing your abject terror. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m not exactly cut out for…roughin’ it.” She emphasized the last words, using the accent your father had worn so proudly. “I got friends in New York—going out to be with them…it’s safer there, easier.”

You were enraged; the one final person you trusted was abandoning you for a life you couldn’t ever imagine. It was safe here, you were safe here—with her, and your mother, and your father. “Well, I’m sorry I’m not a big city fool like you!” You felt yourself tremble, “I’m sorry you’d rather have it easy than live the life God gave you!” You were seeing red, standing now to lord yourself over her and make her seem as small as you felt. It didn’t work, and she looked at you now like everybody else did—full of pity.

She let you cry, sobs taking over your body and forcing hiccups up your throat. You shouldn’t be mad at her, you realized, couldn’t be mad at her; she was a grown woman, with wants and needs, and maybe someday you would be, too.

“Take me with you.” You pleaded through sniffles, wiping your nose on your sleeve in a move that your mother would have tutted you for. Your aunt stayed silent, placing a hand on your head to smooth over the hair that had come undone in your rage.

“I would,” she explained, “but I don't think you...I don't think you'd enjoy it any more than you enjoy it here. Not now, at least. Not yet." The pity in her eyes faded to reveal the compassion she had for you, and you nodded into her chest when she pulled you into her, acknowledging the truth she had spoken. You wouldn’t know up from down in a place like New York; too many people, too much smoke and noise. You let her hold you for as long as she would, soothed by the hand she combed through your hair and the way her heartbeat thrummed in your ear. Maybe someday.

“We’ll get you a train ticket,” she murmured above you, chin resting on the crown of your head, “I know a fella in Texas—real gentleman, cross my heart—and I know he’ll have a place for you away from all the ruckus.”

“Cross your heart?” You asked her to promise once more.

“Cross my heart, little one.”

~~~

Texas, October 1847

You stretched your legs when you got off the train, wondering how so much sitting could make your joints so sore. You had one bag, which was, truthfully, more than enough. You fit your entire life into the handheld leather case, and it felt both freeing and deeply, deeply woeful.

Your aunt had arranged for her associates (her words) to pick you up, show you around, and help you to your new home, but she hadn’t given you much of a description; you had no idea who you were looking for, or what they might look like. All she had done was give you a name. You felt small, already sweltering in the Texan heat and feeling out of place in your black mourning gown. Maybe it would be ok, given the circumstances, to forego the entire outfit, and simply wear a veil, but you felt that the only thing grounding you was the way you were dressed, the reminder of why you were here in this dusty sand-and-brick station.

You looked around, not minding the jostling of the people passing you to get to where they needed to go. You tried to identify anybody that might look as if they were waiting on a lonesome orphan, but all you saw was a pool of sweaty businessmen and women in large hats.

Attempting to find a map to get the lay of the land, you turned a corner, and collided into the chest of a tan man with long black hair and a hint of a mustache.

“I’m terribly sorry—” You felt yourself go bright red, already a nuisance and you hadn’t been in Texas for all of ten minutes.

“Woah, there,” the stranger tipped his hat down to you, offering a wink and a toothy grin, “no harm done, ma’am.” He patted down the front of his vest, smoothing out any wrinkles that remained from the collision. “Y’look lost.”

“I am lost,” you straightened your posture, trying not to seem so inconsequential compared to those around you, “Um—I’m looking for…Mr. Joel Miller?”

The man in front of you laughed, and he flashed the same toothy grin again. His laugh came from his stomach, and you watched him take his hat off to fan himself after he calmed down.

“Found her, El!” He called over his shoulder and a shorter, much younger boy appeared; he was wearing the same style of hat but was much paler than the man who had yet to introduce himself. His clothing gave away how young he was—that, and he was shorter than you, with a babyface and nary a whisker on his chin. He looked almost feminine up close, and was clearly quite a few years your junior.

“Oh, I’m sorry—you’re Mr. Miller?” You closed the confused ‘o’ of your mouth to form the question.

“No, no no no—I’m Tommy Miller,” he put his hat back on, “Joel’s my brother.” You nodded, trying to appear as though you understood the series of events that were taking place in front of you. What an odd introduction to the people whose care you were in. You had never questioned the company your aunt kept—she had her life, and you had your own, much more conservative one. Still, you began to think that these men had just as little an idea as to what you were doing here as you did. “’N you’re Tess’s girl.”

“I’m her niece,” you clarified, “my parents are dead.” You winced when the words came out, unsure of why you felt the need to share that with a man you had just met. Surely he must have been aware by now, and if he wasn’t, why would he care?

Tommy let out a low whistle in lieu of an apology. “Best get you goin’ then, girly.” He turned on his heel, encouraging you to hurry after him through the crowds. El grabbed your sleeve in a manner that, although gruff, was clearly meant as reassurance.

“Mine are, too,” he spoke softly, and his voice was similarly feminine to his face. When you gave an inquisitory glance at him, he continued, “My parents. They’re dead, too.”

“Oh,” you tried to think of a way to make the subject more lighthearted, aware of how tiring it got to hear constant apologies for something out of everybody’s control, “so you’re not—”

You didn’t even have to finish your sentence; El had anticipated your question from miles off. “Do we look related?”

“Well…no…” You muttered, embarrassed by how obvious the answer was.

“They’re like…well,” the younger boy mulled over everything he could say, but instead placed his arm in yours and laughed, “you’ll see.”

~~~

The ride back to the Miller’s land was long and bumpy—or maybe it just felt that way with Tommy looking back on you and El to ask various questions and soothe any anxieties, though it wasn’t as much help as he had thought it was. You taught El cat’s cradle with a string you had found in the cart, and it amused you for long enough before you switched to cards instead. El was shocked to hear you didn’t know how to play poker, and tried to teach you blackjack before Tommy reprimanded him for trying to corrupt you; you opted for go fish instead.

The cart came to a short stop in front of a rundown shack. There was a horse tied to a post with three feed bags in front of it—the extra two, you assumed, belonged to the two horses pulling the cart you were in.

Tommy helped you down, and you were careful to pat down the front of your dress when your feet touched the ground, not wanting to look unkept in front of new company. El jumped down behind you, making quick strides towards the door of the cabin. You and Tommy followed suit, with the older man taking your arm to lead the way.

When the door opened, El swore. “Jesus H., Joel!” he jumped backwards when a large figure stepped over the threshold and onto the dirt outside, “Scared the hell out of me!”

“Language, young lady.” The man in the doorway was tall, with a chest and shoulders to match his height. He was older than Tommy, and had the salt in his beard and dark hair to show for it. He wore the same hat, but didn’t have a full outfit on, with only the pants of a gentlemen to go with his undershirt and heavy boots.

So this was Joel Miller.

You were so focused on the new addition to the group that you almost didn’t catch what he had said to El—“young lady.” Tommy, still holding your arm, sensed your confusion.

“Well, cover’s blown,” he laughed, and El rolled his eyes. Taking off his hat, you watched thin, curly locks of hair come down to frame his face, and when you looked under the dirt and grime that coated his skin, you saw a little girl.

“El’s short for Ellie,” El laughed, tossing the hat in the air and catching it before walking past Joel to go inside.

You were almost more confused now than you had been.

“Little girl living with two grown men, wearing men’s clothes?” Tommy read the look on your face, trying to offer an explanation, “she’s a natural at bein’ a boy—‘n it draws less questions.” You nodded.

Joel continued to stare at you, and you couldn’t help but feel exposed to him despite your body being covered in the modest dress you had on. He was riddled in scars, and his tan skin flexed under his white undershirt; he looked so masculine, and it frightened and excited you in a way you decided to repress. He strolled over to you, taking slow steps and examining you with dark eyes that looked like honey under the Texan sun. He stopped in front of you, and you let go of Tommy's arm to curtsy, unsure of what else to do under his gaze.

“You’re Tess’s girl.” He said it with more confidence than Tommy had when he found you. Joel didn't bother returning the friendly gestures of introduction you had extended, shifting his weight on his heels and letting his eyes drag over your face.

“I’m her niece.” You clarified as you had at the train station.

“I know, darlin’.” He smirked down at you, and the way it was painted on his face made him look almost predatory. You offered a weak smile in return, hoping he would mistake the blush creeping up your face as a sunburn. He grunted something that sounded like approval.

Joel turned around and walked in after Ellie, leaving you with Tommy.

“Don’t worry,” Tommy took your arm once more, “he’s like that with everyone.”

You didn’t know if you liked that.

[beardedmrbean]

A group of migrants are refusing to leave an encampment in Denver until the city meets a list of 13 demands.

The demands were sent to Denver Mayor Mike Johnston following a petition by city officials to move the group from the encampment to indoor shelters funded by the city, local TV station KDVR reported. The encampment is under a bridge and near train tracks.

The group said if its demands are met, it will leave the encampment and move to a city shelter. The demands include providing "fresh" and "culturally appropriate" ingredients to cook with, shower access with no time limits, medical visits and housing support.

Newsweek has contacted via email the mayor's office for comment.

The group's complete demands are as follows:

The migrants should be allowed to "cook their own food with fresh, culturally appropriate ingredients," including rice, chicken, flour, tomatoes and onions, instead of being served premade meals. They also want to ensure people are not punished for bringing and eating food from outside the shelters.

Have access to showers at all times and without time limits.

Visits by medical professionals will occur on a regular basis, with referrals for specialty care made as needed.

The group will receive the same housing support offered to others, and city officials will not "kick people out in 30 days without something stable established."

A "clear" and "just" process for removing someone, including verbal, written and final warnings.

Employment support, including work permit applications for those who qualify.

Free consultations with an immigration lawyer, as well as ongoing legal support provided by the city through immigration clinics and transportation to court.

Privacy for families in the shelter.

No verbal, physical or mental abuse by shelter staff and no 24/7 monitoring by law enforcement.

Transportation for children to and from school.

No separation of families, regardless of whether those families have children.

A meeting with the mayor and those involved in running the city's program to support migrants "to discuss further improvements."

All shelter residents will be provided with a document signed by a city official in English and Spanish and containing the list of demands and a number to call to report violations.

Jon Ewing, a spokesman for Denver Human Services, told KDVR that the city is "just trying to get families to leave that camp and come inside."

The city's offer will give families "three square meals a day," and they can cook their own meals if they wish, he said. He also said that the city will try to compromise and determine what assistance the migrants qualify for.

"What might be something that is a feasible path for you to success that is not staying on the streets of Denver?" he said. "We try to figure something out.... At the end of the day, what we do not want is families on the streets of Denver."

Denver is among the U.S. cities that have struggled to manage the rising number of migrants that have been transported from Texas and other states. Last month, Johnston announced the creation of the Denver Asylum Seekers Program, which his office billed as a sustainable response to the city's migrant crisis.

The program will place asylum seekers in apartments for up to six months and provide job and skills training, food assistance and free legal help with asylum applications.

However, the program is limited to those who were in the city's shelters on April 10 and capped at about 1,000 people. Those who arrived in Denver after April 10 will be provided with a short-term stay at a shelter and assistance with onward travel.

Nonprofits are also working to support migrants arriving in Denver and other parts of Colorado. One organization, Hope Has No Borders, is working to pair migrants with host families for short or longer-term stays in Denver and other parts of Colorado.

[educationalporpoises]

Five Summers

Eugene Roe/Joe Liebgott, 1.1k, T

For @searchingfortheuniverse I had a great time writing this summer exchange, I hope you enjoy it!

I.

“We didn’t get storms like this out West,” Joe said, in a rare acknowledgment of his life before the war, before he’d followed Eugene South. He curled into Eugene’s collarbone, reminding Eugene of a kitten, tiny and bristling, nipping with milk teeth. 

Eugene kissed his forehead, his shoulder, held him tight. The thunder crashed overhead, rain shattering on the roof. “It will be okay, my love,” Eugene said. Joe didn’t say anything. 

The thunderstorms scared him, though Joe would never admit it. He assented to tenderness only in the quiet dark of their bedroom, as though every kind thing Eugene did for him laid Joe flat on his back, his pale underbelly showing. 

Eugene had always loved the smell of a summer storm. Copper in the air, the wet earth coming up to meet the sky. Warm rain. As a child he would dance when the sky opened up, and now he collected Joe to his chest, and they would dance together to the rhythm of the thunder and the rain, Joe tense until he finally relaxed, and listened to the storm.

II.

Eugene had never learned how to drive, even in the war, so it was Joe’s sole responsibility to take them West. It was a trip years in the making, empty promises coming true. He pointed the old station wagon towards the sunset, following the dripping sun like a beacon. 

“I’ll show you the Golden Gate Bridge,” He’d expound as they navigated the freeway, “Take you out in the Castro. You can have my mama’s cooking.” 

Eugene looked over. Joe glowed, grinning at his invisible city as they passed hours of cornfields and bluegrass. 

Joe had seen more of the country than Eugene in his journey from California to Toccoa. He had taken a train, then, seven rattling days and nights to get to Georgia. They took a different route, now, along one of the new scenic highways, through Colorado and Wyoming, then back down to California. 

When they reached San Francisco Joe insisted on stopping, pulling the car over to one of the bluffs overlooking the bay. He crowded Eugene up against a railing, kissing him with the Golden Gate in the background. 

Eugene never did get to try Joe’s Mama’s cooking, but while Joe was with his family he explored the hills of the city, rising out of the fog and into the clouds. Joe eventually made it back to their hotel, with wonder on his face, telling Eugene they were fully right in the eyes of the Liebgotts, no sins against them. 

They left the sunset behind them, and went back home, eventually, but with postcards and well wishes, and promises to Joe’s family they would come back again next summer. 

III.

Eugene had always lived a life on the edges, first as a Cajun, then as a gay man. But Joe was committed to dragging him into the light, together. 

“Community. That’s how you survive,” He said, “That’s why we all lived on the same block. You gotta have community.” 

Eugene didn’t ask where Joe went on Friday nights, what corner of the city he found other Jewish folks in. But Joe always seemed lighter when he got back, his soul filled. And Joe never commented on Eugene’s Sunday church mornings, his hair slicked back and his rosary dangling from his fingertips. These were differences they were willing to forgive each other. 

Eugene softened at anything to make Joe feel more at home, “Alright. We can check it out. But I’m not going to any bar where there’s no Cajuns.” 

Joe nodded, “Les Americans,” He muttered. 

The bar they found themselves in was seedy as it came. Dark, no electricity, but lantern light spilling out onto the street. There was no name above the bar, no indicator it was anything, except the raucous laughter that came from within. 

Joe reached out. He took Eugene’s hand, and they stepped in together. 

IV.

The heat cloistered in Louisiana, settling into skin like a thick layer of cream over milk. Joe sweat through his shirts like a stuck fucking pig, sticky and damp from the humidity. Eugene had bought him a nice linen suit last summer, and two shirts to go with it, and he suffered them for the work week, but on the weekends Joe would strip his upper half entirely and lie on the porch, soaking up the sunlight in the long afternoons. Eugene would find him there, skin slick, and would pull off his own shirt and curl up next to him. The air was too hot to sleep together, but they could stand to nap like this, skin against skin, until the sun faded. 

V.

Joe stepped off the train, and saw a dark-haired man waiting for him, in a faded blue shirt and slacks. Not a uniform. He waved, and manhandled his suitcases over to meet Roe (Eugene, Joe reminded himself). It had steadily gotten warmer once the train hit Texas, and he was boiling in his suit. 

“Hey, stranger,” Joe said. 

Roe hummed, and took one of the suitcases, “Hope you like walking,” He called behind him, starting down a narrow street. Joe hurried after him, and they eventually came to an apartment block, similar to the one Joe had left back in San Francisco. They hauled the suitcases up the steps, and Eugene took out two keys. “I got one cut for you.” Joe took it, and thought about this– the train ride, leaving his family, the decision to come back to Eugene. He stepped forward, and pushed the key into the lock. 

“Welcome home,” Eugene said behind him. Joe turned, and saw him silhouetted by the sunlight– it was a profile he’d recognize anywhere, Roe’s outline amongst the trees, running from foxhole to foxhole. 

“Hotter here than in Bastogne,” Joe said, finally pulling off his felt hat. He ran a hand across his forehead, then through his curls. 

Eugene snorted, “Hell frozen over is hotter than that place, Joe. Take off that suit jacket, will you? You’re boiling me half to death.” 

Joe did, and undid his necktie for good measure. Eugene came up next to him, and Joe put a tentative arm around him. He looked around at the little apartment. A cool breeze ran through it, the front windows propped open. The kitchen, with a shiny new icebox next to the door to the bathroom (Eugene had told him on the phone that the apartment had in-unit bathrooms, a luxury to both of them). They were standing in the living room, with a threadbare rag rug and a couch, and behind Eugene was the doors to the bedrooms. 

It was small, but tidy, and on the wall by the kitchen was Eugene’s copy of the company’s picture at Toccoa, all of them lined up together before the jump. 

“Home,” Joe said, and wrapped him arm more firmly, pulling Eugene into him for a peck on the cheek. 

[gumnut-logic]

It was pure chance Virgil was with John that day. He could have said it was unexpected, but it would have been a lie. It was only a matter of time before another attempt was made.

John cursed himself for failing to pay enough attention to the probability algorithm.

But it was John who was there when Virgil was attacked. And as it was the first time, it was John who protected his brother.

That first time when John had defended Virgil from the mechas high in the sky above a beached Two, John had lost his wings.

No, not lost, they had been torn from his body, stolen, and it had been Scott and Kayo who had caught both of them.

It had taken so long for John to not quite recover from that incident. Virgil and Brains had given him back the ability to fly, but his white pinions were forever gone, replaced with the finest technological art his brother could create.

John was different in both form and mind after that.

Virgil, whose injuries were less permanent in a physical sense, had not recovered mentally. Virgil was almost as changed as John, despite the healing of his midnight black wings. Something had snapped inside the gentle engineer. He smiled less and was more fragile of mood. John knew he felt guilt regarding what had happened, but no matter what John said, Virgil’s shoulders still bowed under a weight that hadn’t been there before.

So, to have that same brother attacked in the middle of the street by minions of the man who haunted them…

It was the last straw.

These people had hurt them so much, hurt Virgil, Gordon and John himself, and yet, here they were attempting to take even more as if it was simply sport.

John broke.

They were in New York on Tracy Industries business. John had found an error in the financials and needed to speak in-person to the persons responsible. Virgil offered to fly him out in Two and shorten the trip considerably in the process.

It was a good chance to spend some time together. Scott was obviously envious over comms, attending an incident in Colorado, and John was tempted to invite him and the rest of the family out for an evening when they got back. Perhaps they could fly over to Sydney and watch the sunset over the harbour bridge.

But then Virgil was lured by the scent of the local coffee shop. It wasn’t anything unusual. His brother often grabbed one from that particular café when in town.

Virgil jogged down the street as John turned to enter their building.

Again, it was chance. Perhaps if John had walked faster or Virgil a little slower…

The sudden surprise, pain and oblivion that washed over John in that moment was enough to cause him to stagger on the steps. A woman screamed. He looked over to find several men lifting his unconscious brother off the sidewalk.

A van sat with its door open, halting traffic.

John’s wings lifted without thought. Alarm spread to his younger brother thousands of kilometres away on Tracy Island and as one they moved.

John launched from the steps.

His flight was short and sharp and several thousand dollars’ worth of Berluti’s finest handmade shoes made a significant impact on the nearest assailant.

They went down with a yell as John dropped his full weight on the man. One wing stabilised his balance and the other, no longer vulnerable flesh and bone, now lightweight, cahelium-laced metal, impacted hard on a second man.

Another down.

John retracted that wing and lashed out with the other, taking out a third man, all before any of them could react.

Virgil was tumbling towards the ground, as the men carrying him joined him in unconsciousness, and John grabbed at his brother, drawing him close.

That moment of distraction was enough for a gun to appear.

Clutching Virgil to his chest, John spun, crouched and enveloped both himself and his brother in the circle of his wings. Seven and a half metres of wingspan wrapped around them both as that gun fired.

And ricocheted off cahelium spar.

Perhaps there was a reason he had his wings taken from him.

Perhaps there was a cahelium lining to it all.

The gun fired again and John, felt the sharp vibration sing through artificial bones.

Virgil’s hair caught in his nose.

Hurried footsteps.

Profanity.

Someone grabbed at his wings and screamed. No doubt as his hands started bleeding from the razor-sharp edges of those metal feathers.

He held his big brother just a little tighter for the briefest of seconds before curling him up gently on the ground.

A brief touch of fingertips to his temple. Unconscious, Virgil lacked his usual vibrancy and John didn’t even know what had been done to him yet.

Only that he had been hurt.

Again.

Gentle Virgil.

Sunshine Gordon.

His own pain.

And still they wanted more.

A gun cocked.

No.

John spun as he rose, wings spreading out sharp and horizontal forming no less than a lethal whirling blade.

Cahelium feathers met flesh as he moved. The equations for force, velocity and momentum subconsciously calculating exactly what he needed to do to get the result required.

That woman screamed again as the gun fell clattering to the pavement.

Four bodies of varying health joined it.

Both sound and silence communicated medical needs to the trained responder’s ears.

They were ignored as John straightened.

The van’s tyres squealed as it tore off down the street without its target.

Silence fell over everything. Shock freezing traffic and pedestrians alike. Only the groans of the injured and the out-of-sight rest of the city graced the soundscape.

Red dripped off the ends of John’s feathers as he crouched next to his prone brother. Virgil’s pulse was unsteady and he was sporting a bleeding wound on the back of his head. Whatever they had hit him with, they had hit him hard.

Curling him into his arms, John half-folded and gently scooped his wings under his brother. Lifting him smoothly off the ground, he carried him back towards the entrance to their building.

Just as the roar of Thunderbird One tore into the airspace above the street.

Gordon was buzzing at the back of John’s mind, desperate to know what was going on.

Scott’s aggravation was obvious as he dumped One blocking all traffic in front of Tracy Industries’ New York offices.

John turned and carried his big brother out towards the safety of the Thunderbird.

Her pilot seat lowered and Scott was there, concerned eyes, worried words and questions.

But the questions could wait and a hoverstretcher relieved John of his brother’s weight.

John folded his bloodied wings and let them go.

One’s engines roared as they lifted off, but they didn’t manage to drown out John’s heartbeat. The scanner in his hand told him that Virgil would be okay once he recovered consciousness and worked through the concussion that was brewing…

John’s shoulders dropped and he leant over his brother, his hands gripping the side of the docked stretcher enough to whiten his knuckles.

He screwed his eyes shut ever so tight.

The hand that landed on his arm was gentle, but insistent. “Talk to me, John.”

He didn’t open his eyes. “They tried to take Virgil.” A breath. “I didn’t let them.”

Scott shifted beside him, an arm reached around John and drew him close. His head was nudged to Scott’s shoulder and he let himself be pulled into a full embrace, grateful for the comfort.

Scott’s words were little more than breath. “Thank you.”

John opened his eyes at that and turned enough to set eyes on his unconscious brother. Virgil was ever so pale in the overhead lighting in such contrast to his usual animation.

An indrawn breath.

“Never again.” He let that breath out. “God, never again.”

-o-o-o-

[not-a-disney-prince]

Colorado Street Bridge Endings and Beginnings

Ryder sat on the edge of the Colorado Street Bridge looking down at the rocky depths below, a bottle of Fae liquor sitting beside him as tears rolled down his cheeks. His phone dinged beside him. He looked down at it, another report about his brother and brother in law winning more awards for their latest work and comments in the comments section congratulating him and once again talking about his failures. He sniffles, picking up the bottle and emptying the contents down his throat before tossing it down below. Random Twitter users commenting on how Ryder road on his brothers coat tail and tried to use him to further his unsuccessful career as an artist. "Fuck!" He screams out, more tears rolling down his cheeks as he opens a new message to his twin. "You don't have to worry about me being a burden anymore. Goodbye, brother. I love you." He sniffles as he hits send, tears blinding his view as he threw his phone to the depths below. He stood up on shaky legs, wobbling from the effects of the alcohol and tears. He grabbed one of the posts and pulled himself up onto the railing, choking on a sob as he closed his eyes. "I'm sorry." He whimpers to no one as he steps off the railing onto to be pulled back, landing on top of someone with a grunt. "Why did you stop me?" He sobbed, rolling over to face the person, beating on his chest. "Why did you pull be back? I wanted to die! Why did you stop me?" He breaks down, sobbing hysterically into his chest as he continues to hit the stranger.

[rabbitcruiser]

Downtown Denver (No. 9)

By the mid-twentieth century, what was once a thriving business area had become a skid row. As highways and airports diminished the dominance of passenger railroad transportation, the importance of Union Station, LoDo's most prominent building, waned. 

Wazee St in LoDo The Lower Downtown Historic District, known as LoDo, was created by the enactment of a zoning ordinance by Denver City Council in March 1988. The resolution's intent was to encourage historic preservation and to promote economic and social vitality in Denver's founding neighborhood at a time when it still held significant historic and architectural value. The status granted by this special designation provided protection to the community's archivable resources and to the 127 contributing historic structures that remained after roughly 20% of Lower Downtown's buildings had been demolished through DURA policies in the 1960s and 1970s. LoDo's historic district ordinance includes zoning that restricts building height and encourages mixed-use development. It stipulates strict design guidelines for rehabilitation and new construction. These guidelines have been challenged by out-of-state developers but are vigorously defended by residents.

During this time, the neighborhood began its renaissance and new businesses opened. Gradually LoDo became a destination neighborhood. By the time Coors Field opened on the edge of the LoDo Historic District in 1995, the area had revitalized itself, becoming a new, hip neighborhood filled with clubs, restaurants, art galleries, boutiques, bars, and other businesses. Pepsi Center, located on the other edge of the neighborhood, opened in 1999 and further established the neighborhood as a sport fan's paradise. New residential development came to LoDo, transforming old warehouses into pricey new lofts.

The Oxford Hotel, built in 1891, is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The Cruise Room is a hotel bar with historic art deco interior, that was operated as an illicit speakeasy.

The Wynkoop Brewing Company, a brewpub founded in 1988 by Colorado's 42nd Governor John Hickenlooper with partners Russell Schehrer, Mark Schiffler, and Jerry Williams, sponsors the "Beerdrinker of the Year" competition, which is hosted yearly in one of the banquet halls. The Wynkoop has a large billiards hall on its top floor. 

Source: Wikipedia    

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Daniel Villarreal at LGBTQ Nation:

During New York City Pride last Sunday, pro-Palestinian protestors blocked the parade route, spraying red paint onto a truck towing the Human Rights Campaign’s (HRC) float. Some protestors began distributing informational leaflets, others smeared themselves in red paint and unfurled Palestinian flags, and several sat in the street alongside a white banner that read, “No queer liberation without Palestinian liberation.” “Free, Free Palestine!” they chanted, and “Shut it down!”

“By taking blood money from arms manufacturers, @HRC has become complicit in the genocide of the Palestinian people,” wrote the protest organizer, Writers Against the War on Gaza (WAWOG), in an X post alongside a video of the action. “Stop arming Zionism. Free Palestine.” New York City police quickly cleared the area of photographers while onlookers repeatedly shouted, “Shame!” Officers then zip-tied the protestors, arresting 10 and charging seven with disorderly conduct, told Gay City News reported. Pro-Palestinian protestors had criticized the HRC last February for accepting a “platinum” financial sponsorship from Northrop Grumman, a weapons manufacturer that supplies the Israeli military. HRC has issued previous statements sympathizing with those harmed by the conflict.

But WAWOG wasn’t the only group who disrupted a Pride event this year to protest for Palestine. In Boston, Massachusetts, over 100 protestors blocked the parade route, and over 60 pro-Palestinian organizations signed a letter calling on the parade’s organizers to stop accepting money from companies with financial ties to Israel. In Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, pro-Palestinian protestors blocked the parade, facing off against a drumline. In Denver, Colorado, pro-Palestinian protestors interrupted a ska band performing on the PrideFest main stage to explain that the same conservative Christian nationalists who support the bombing of Palestine also regularly encourage violence against LGBTQ+ people. In San Francisco, California, over 1,000 people boycotted the main parade to attend a “No Pride in Genocide” Palestinian solidarity march, co-organized by Queers Undermining Israeli Terrorism (QUIT) and a local chapter of Jewish Voices for Peace. The march’s organizers accused SF Pride of accepting sponsorships from corporations “actively involved in the genocide of the people of Gaza” while noting Israel’s human rights abuses against Palestinian queers.

“Palestinian queer people do not have the right of return, are subject to the dehumanizing and violent treatment Israel gives to all Palestinians at its numerous checkpoints, often do not have the ability to enter into Israel, even if in a relationship with an Israeli, and suffer the same persecution as all Palestinians,” a QUIT spokesperson said to LGBTQ Nation in a statement. Israel’s treatment of Palestine has long divided the LGBTQ+ community. Israel has spent millions to tout itself internationally as the most LGBTQ+-friendly nation in the Middle East. Meanwhile, Palestine grants nearly no civil rights to its own LGBTQ+ citizens. Pro-Palestinian protestors have long accused Israel of using its LGBTQ+-inclusive policies to “pinkwash” its human rights violations against Palestinians. As a result, anti-queer conservatives in the U.S. often resort to “homonationalism,” citing Muslim-majority countries’ anti-LGBTQ+ policies as a pretext for racism, Islamophobia, and violence against Muslims.

[...] Some members of the queer community, like Ethan Felson, executive director of A Wider Bridge, a nonprofit that connects LGBTQ+ communities in North America and Israel, say that the pro-Palestinian protests have made some Jewish queers feel unsafe and unwelcome at this year’s Pride events. Felson’s sentiments have been echoed by out gay Rep. Ritchie Torres (D-NY), who has taken a very pro-Israel stance in the conflict.

“The anti-Israel wing of the LGBTQ community is essentially telling pro-Israel Jews that if you wish to be a part of the LGBTQ community, then you have to be in the closet about your Zionism, you have to be ashamed of your Zionism,” Torres told NBC News, referring to the movement to establish a Jewish homeland. “That to me is not Pride. That’s a perversion of Pride.” But the stakes of not speaking up have never been higher. While Biden’s policies have upset pro-Palestinian queers, other LGBTQ+ people have also pointed out that Trump doesn’t support Palestine either. As president, Trump drafted a “peace plan” for the region without any Palestinian input. He also defunded the UN’s agency for Palestinian refugees and moved the U.S. Embassy in Israel to Jerusalem while closing the U.S. mission to Palestine in the same city, both of which heightened tensions in the region. Additionally, Trump has said he will reinstate his Muslim travel ban and oversee mass deportations of immigrants in the U.S., having accused immigrants of “poisoning the blood of our country.” Overall, his stances threaten undocumented Arab families living in the U.S., increase hostility towards Arab Americans, and remove any pretense of the U.S. being a mediating force in Middle Eastern peace talks.

Pride Parades across the nation, including New York City, San Francisco, Philadelphia, and St. Louis, have had pro-Palestinian protesters blocking and disrupting parades to protest sponsors of Israel Apartheid State’s genocide campaign in Gaza and their pinkwashing campaign against LGBTQ+ Palestinians.

[blueangeldreamland]

upcoming protests: free Palestine

update oct. 27, 2023

-i found information from online (websites listed) pls make sure to double check a protest is available!! as I don’t follow specific accounts that post protests. * feel free to correct me on info *

-take note of days you are available to go and protests near you

-bookmark pages if you want more reliable updates and info

-SEPARATED BY WEBSITE THEN DATES!!!

via answercoalition.org posted oct. 7, 2023

Saturday, October 28

Brainerd, MN

1:00 p.m.

Intersection of Sixth and Washington Streets (Across from the Historic Brainerd Water Tower)

Sponsored by: Brainerd Area Coalition for Peace (BACP), Brainerd Lakes United Environmentalists (BLUE), and Brainerd Lakes Area Democratic Socialists of America (BLA DSA)

Portland, OR

2:00 p.m.

Lownsdale Square

Sponsored by: AntiwarMN, SJP, AMP

Sunday, October 29

Worcester, MA

3:30 p.m.

Worcester City Hall (455 Main St.)

Sponsored by: JVP Western Mass, Palestinian Youth Movement

via uscpr.org unsure date updated

Friday, October 27

HOUSTON, TX | Friday, October 27th at 4PM at John P McGovern Commons 6550 Bertner Ave

OMAHA, NE | Friday, October 27th at 4PM at 72nd & Dodge

PHOENIX, AZ | Friday, October 27th at 4PM at State Capitol Building 1700 W Washington St.

BOSTON, MA | Friday, October 27th at 4PM at Brewer Fountain, Boston Commons

ALBANY, NY | Friday, October 27th at 4PM at West Capital Park

NEW YORK, NY | Friday, October 27th at 6PM at Midtown Manhattan (register for exact location)

DENTON, TX | Friday, October 27th at 7PM at Denton Courthouse-on-the-Square

Saturday, October 28

HARTFORD, CT | Saturday, October 28th at 12PM at 800 Main St.

SAN FRANCISCO, CA | Saturday, October 28th at 1PM at Harry Bridges Plaza (Embarcadero)

DALLAS, TX | Saturday, October 28th at 1:30PM at Civic Garden 1014 Main St.

ROSEBURG, OR | Saturday, October 28th at 2PM at Fred Meyers on Harvard

MILWAUKEE, WI | Saturday, October 28th at 2:30PM at 920 North Water St.

NEW YORK, NY | Saturday, October 28th at 3PM at Brooklyn Museum, 200 Eastern Pkwy

PORTLAND, OR | Saturday, October 28th at 3PM at 121 SW Salmon St.

ATLANTA, GA | Saturday, October 28th at 3PM at Georgia State Capitol (East Steps)

Sunday, October 29

NEWARK, NJ | Sunday, October 29th at 1:30PM at Newark City Hall 920 Broad St.

DENVER, CO | Sunday, October 29th at 2PM State Capitol West Steps 200 E Colfax Ave

COLORADO SPRINGS, CO | Sunday, October 29th at 2PM at CO Springs City Hall, 107 N Nevada Ave

AUSTIN, TX | Sunday, October 29th at 3PM at Texas Capitol

WATERBURY, CT | Sunday, October 29th at 3PM at City Hall 235 Grand St.

Saturday, November 4

NATIONAL MARCH ON WASHINGTON | Washington DC, November 4th, 2 PM. Freedom Plaza. Cosponsored by USCPR and other organizations.

cont. (The file is too big to show as a list)

dates protests for 10/28, 10/29, 10/30, 11/4 (my list updated to ones that are now available)

MAKE SURE TO DOUBLE CHECK ON WEBSITE FOR CORRECT DATES, TIMES, AND CITIES + LINKS (underlined cities have links to their info!!!!)

separated by major city and then date (some differences)

by major city

Washington, D.C. MARCH ON WASHINGTON 11/4 -- London, UK 10/28 -- Toronto, ON -- NEW YORK CITY 10/28 -- Austin, TX 10/29 -- San Francisco, CA 10/28 -- Portland, OR 10/28

by date

10/28 SATURDAY

Atlanta, GA -- Dallas, TX -- Champaign, IL -- Roseburg, OR -- London, UK -- NEW YORK CITY -- Orono, ME -- Portland, OR -- San Francisco, CA -- Vancouver, BC -- Roseburg, OR

10/29 SUNDAY

Newark, NJ -- Austin, TX 10/29 TEXAS CAPITOL -- Colorado Springs, CO -- Denver, CO -- Irvine, CA -- London, UK -- McAllen, TX -- Orlando, FL -- Ottawa, ON -- Salinas, CA -- San Antonio, TX --Scranton, PA -- Toronto, ON -- Worcester, MA

10/30 MONDAY

Baltimore, MD --Manhattan, KS -- Albany, NY

11/4 NEXT SATURDAY

Washington, D.C. MARCH ON WASHINGTON

Resources

https://actionnetwork.org/letters/tell-congress-ceasefire-now

https://www.kufiya.org/

https://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2020/06/why-protests-work/613420/

boycott starbucks, mcdonald's, disney+ to support palestine

no buying day (economy free) nov. 18th worldwide boycott to free palestine