#display homes south east

[ceilidho]

I’ve been watching Spartacus with my dad and I must share with you the vision I had.

Gladiator 141 and the sweet little thing they got as a reward after a fight well fought.

this is very old:

Sometimes he spends as much as an hour staring at you through the bars of your cell. 

You haven’t yet worked up the nerve to say something to him. Not while he still wears the silver-plated galea that obscures most of his face. You can still see thin lips through the middle slit of his helmet, where the cheek plates don’t meet and the thin strip running down the bridge of his nose gives way to his philtrum, and the barest slivers of dark eyes. 

Apart from his helmet, he wears little else—sometimes the customary leather pteruge around his waist or a simple tunic belted at the waist. Nothing that would hinder his movements. It keeps the bulk of him on display. A prized fighter then, you surmise, as if the helmet weren’t enough to make that known. 

He still gleams bronze from his fights under the sun. Perhaps he’s counted at least a full hand’s worth this week alone. He comes to you sometimes after those very fights, still dripping sweat and prowling the length of your cell like one of the lions kept beneath the arena. You never know what to say to him then. There’s little you can do apart from curl up into yourself in the far corner of this cell you’ve come to know as a temporary home and eye him warily. 

It’s hard to reckon with the size of him. That’s what keeps you wary, watchful of him when he comes to keep you company for reasons unbeknownst to you. He hasn’t made them known yet, in any case. 

There isn’t an augur to warn you the day he chooses to speak. 

“Where'd they take you from, pretty bird?”

You flinch at the sound of his voice. It comes from the pure depths of him, Tartarus deep. You think it would take nine days for it to reach you, like a bronze anvil falling alongside it. In the days that he’s spent at your side, haunting the length of your cell like a sentry bound to his post, you’ve never once heard so much as a whisper.

His words take a moment to register. Across from you, he sits back on his haunches, thick thighs bunched up under the fan of his pteruge. It’s hard to tell how long he’s been there—the hallway outside your cell is relatively dark, the only windows being on the leftmost side of the building, near the door where he must have quietly slipped in. 

“East of here,” you answer hesitantly.

He hums, nods his head. Ruminates on your words. 

In truth, you can only guess—the village where you grew up, where you suckled at your mother’s teat and played with the other children in the glen surrounded by mountains jutting up from the earth and ochre yellow and green wildgrass, the fog sometimes sitting so low in the valley that you could lose yourself in it, is far from here. At least a month’s walk, perhaps more (you lost time along the way). Your feet are still blistered from the march back to Rome, legs still covered in sores and bruises; even now your cell is a poor comfort, the dirt floors harsh on your knees and shins, abrasive to the partially healed skin of your feet. 

You’ve never been very worldly though, never known more than the four walls around your bed. Perhaps the walk wasn’t nearly as long, as treacherous; maybe you came from the west instead, or the south. You can only guess. 

“I came from the north,” he says, breaking the silence again. That startles you somehow. The thought of him under the thumb of another feels inexplicably gut-wrenching; if a man with a virile, sweat-laden chest like his, arms corded with muscle that yours will never see in a thousand years, has been yoked to Rome’s chariot, what hope do you have? 

You wonder for a moment if he’ll tell you more, but he falls silent after that simple revelation. The weight of his gaze still pins you in place.

“…You’re a prisoner then?” you ask, considering briefly whether to say like I, before discarding the thought. Like I, like me. Are you too in a cage, like me?

It’s difficult to suppress the urge to ask him more, but you do. It does you no good to endear yourself to men that move and stare like beasts. There’s something malignant in him, you think, a rot burrowed in deep. You can feel it stir in you too when your eyes dip too low, halted by the muscles of his thighs and the thick slabs packing his arms. You’ve seen beasts copulate; you imagine he’d be much the same. 

He tilts his head, considering your words. Wolf-like, and you’ve seen wolves before. Though the ever-present helmet obstructs most of his face, the sharpness of his eyes pierces through. “They don’t put me in a cage anymore. What would you call that?”

Your chest collapses under his words. Hopes dashed. Does he go in the cage of his own accord then? Does he lock the door himself, deliver the key to the guard standing watch? You think people taken from their homes should see their plight in each other, but the gladiator before you doesn’t look at you like the two of you share a fate. 

“A slave?” you postulate, perhaps too boldly. Worry crawls inside the walls of your belly when his lips flatten, almost imperceptibly.

“Do I look like a slave to you?” he asks, and you can hear it this time. A gentle warning. A rebuke. A question that tells you all that you need to know about this man and how he sees the two of you. 

You remain silent, cowed under his stare and the tone of his voice. Perhaps he’s right, in a way; he’s not the one in the cage. He seems free to come and go as he pleases, his movements unrestricted. Unlike your own. You’ve hardly left this cell once since a faction of the legionaries left you at the gates of the city to be handled by those in charge, watching slave after slave made empticii, helpless, until finally you were dragged to the stand for viewing. 

You flinch when he grabs one of the bars of your cell, thick fingers coiling around the metal and overlapping easily. 

“What did they take you for, pretty bird?” His fingers tighten around the bar, knuckles whitening. “Every day I fight and yet they never offer you as a prize.”

The new scars on his body make sense then, fresh lacerations across his arms and legs that have multiplied by the days since he started visiting you. Why he gleams with fresh sweat every day, correlating with the fights you hear in the arena above you, the cacophonous chants and stamping feet. You can imagine him in front of a crowd frothing at the mouth for blood and gore. 

He comes stained in it sometimes. You hold your breath until he leaves on those days, reminded too much of your village in the aftermath of the plundering. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper, tucking your legs into your chest and trying to get as close to the wall behind you as possible. 

It’s the truth. No one tells you anything. No one told you what would happen when they ransacked your village and burnt it to ash, the bodies of everyone you’ve ever loved still burning char black in the tall grass, whittled down by the flames. No one told you what would happen after they dragged you back a thousand passus to a city scorched in white marble and stone and immaculate gold. They dragged you here and shut the door. 

He seems frustrated at your words, lips thinning like he has to hold back his rage.

“I’ll slaughter a hundred more if that’s your price,” he says, his helmet knocking into the bars with a rough clang and making you jump when he leans in. His chest lifts with his quickened breaths, working himself up at the thought of more bloodshed. “Then give you their hearts. No other man will take you. I’ll rend their limbs if another man tries. Make you taste their blood on my fingers and lap it up when I split you on my—”

Your heel skitters across the ground, digging a small groove into the dirt and scattering small rocks across the cell. “I don’t k-know what they intend—”

You stare at him when he rises back up to his feet, words dying on your tongue. Standing, he towers over you, shoulders rolling back to puff out his chest. 

“You wait, little bird. Flutter your wings. Soon you’ll see the sun.”

You can only imagine what he means. The thought of sunlight on your face fills you with dread for the first time in your life. 

He leaves without another word, heavy footsteps carrying him to the door until you hear him pry it open, sunlight streaming in for a second before it slams shut. The silence in the absence of him feels monstrous, gargantuan. 

All you can do is let out a shuddering breath.

[nctsworld]

golden hour

✩‌ mark x reader | camping au | established relationship | smut | fluff | 2.1k

SUMMARY | in which you make love with mark in a tent during the golden hour. // part of the connection series

WARNINGS | sexual content, (lovey) pwp, unprotected sex, brief impregnation fetish (breeding kink), some praise kink, oral sex (m and f receiving)

RATING | explicit

AUTHOR'S NOTE | inspirations are (besides the connection teaser vid and pics) jvke's golden hour, mark's golden hour, and this picture i stumbled upon

TAGLIST | @neocitycafe @sehunniepot

NORTH

North is home, where you left behind for this short road trip down the coast of California with the love of your life. 

During this trip, home every night has temporarily been your two-person sized tent being dragged around to different campsites.

This stop is more arid than others, with many rocks and cacti surrounding the ecosystem rather than grass and trees. Because of that and it being an off-peak period in the beginning of spring, it is likely why this campsite has no one else besides the two of you.

Although it takes some time, Mark and you finally finish pitching the tent and setting up the inside around the late afternoon. At this point, you mutually decide to take advantage of the area's solitude.

North of your bodies is also where it all starts. 

Mark and you are lip-locked between initial smiles and giggles. The oncoming sunset's rays beam through the translucent tent, creating a natural, ethereal glow around each other's faces.

There's no hurry. Mark usually doesn't hurry his kissing with you; he likes to savour every moment he can—each groan exchanged, each dip of his tongue into your mouth, and each suck you grant to his plump bottom lip.

But at some point, kissing each other's lips just isn't enough to satiate your desires.

EAST

East is where everything rises. 

Passion ascends as his mouth swerves away from yours, and instead captures the right side of your neck. You gasp sharply, eyes fluttering due to the power of that one spot. It's overwhelming, so much that it makes your knees buckle. You're grateful you're sitting on the ground with your sleeping bags laid out comfortably to catch you at the ready.

You return the favour by kissing places that make him weak—the constellation of moles on his face and neck, that one particular section behind his right ear, and right above his clavicle.

He hotly moans in your ear, letting his hands take a mind of their own. Your waist, thighs, and ass are his to squeeze, his to grip roughly. In turn, your hands latch onto Mark's rugged frame and back, admiring the firmness and contours in each muscle. Then, you begin lifting up his white tee, feeling up his fit stomach.

And at this point, because you're now straddling him, you feel his rising desire blatantly against yours.

Clothes are tossed aside to an area of the tent. Mark, now only in his underwear, aids you in stripping every piece from you, except for your panties.

SOUTH

Without a doubt, the absolute sweetest things happen in the south. 

Mark roams downward your body as you lay flat, displayed beautifully in front of him. Your lover lives up to his name, marking you with gentle kisses over your goosebumped skin. It's due to the slight bite of the breeze that enters the tent.

The sun dives further into the horizon, and your being is now enveloped in the golden hour of the hues of red and gold meshing in the sky and radiating over the Earth.

When he reaches your breasts, he imparts small licks upon your hardened tips, along with kneading and thumbing them throughout. Arching your back, you shiver, more so from his aching teasing than the breeze.

Further south, he traverses and his mouth leaves love upon your stomach before he spreads your thighs apart. He lays on his abdomen, his legs positioned awkwardly as a result of the tent's size, but all the while manageable and comfortable enough to continue.

He snakes his arms around your legs, staring up at you with his shiny, starry eyes. Mark chastely kisses your inner thighs, revering the softness of your skin, then kisses you once over your soaked panties. With that mere move, it causes you to lift your hips up in want.

Impishly, he chuckles and pulls aside the fabric to give one slow, extended lick from your centre to your clit. You gasp at the sensation, but Mark is addicted to teasing you. After he drags your underwear off, he simply continues to innocently kisses your thighs. A whine expels from you as you're about to protest, but then he dives in without warning.

Dulcet whimpers fill the air besides the rustling of the tent and the occasional sound of faraway birds. Mark prides in himself in times like this, having you prettily on display and breaking you down. You're all his to have and to hold—all for him to drink and devour to his heart's content.

Not only does he skillfully lap his tongue against your folds, but he sinks it deep into you and thumbs your clit simultaneously. Your fingers' hold tighten onto his hair the more he plays and unfurls you at the seams.

Noticing your body being keyed up by your tight hair gripping and hip thrashing, he takes you to another plane when he slips two fingers in and tongues your bundle of nerves, scissoring you into madness.

After letting you come down from your high, he pulls away and runs a hand through his disheveled hair, giving you his signature tender smile with glistening lips before it quickly fades into a sinful smirk. Just like that, with one look and a couple of minutes to catch your breath, you're ready to have more fun.

Often in the confines of your bedroom, Mark likes to stand by the bed when he watches you take him into your pretty mouth. Due to the tent's spatial constraints, he's gotten used to shimmying off his boxers and opting to do a standing kneel on your sleeping bags instead.

He strokes himself, preparing for what's to come. Inching nearer in a cat-like position with your ass up in the air, you instinctively jut out your tongue, wetting your mouth at the ready, and fixate on his desire gracing you with its presence.

At first, you stroke with him with your hand on top of his, but then he eventually slips it away and lets you do your magic.

We're back to kissing, but all attention is on his length, from the base to the tip. You dab your tongue at his tip leaking with precum, evidently worked up from before. A dab becomes two, then three, and when his tip is wrapped by your mouth, Mark dispels a high-pitched moan. All of his entirety is quickly loved by you.

Amidst the head bobbing, you ensure to also swipe at the underside of his cock, licking at a particular vein that always entices you when you're on your knees for him.

At some point, he raises an arm behind his head while the other weaves through your hair. With his possession still in your mouth, you glance up at him. Although half-lidded, he stares back intently, maneuvering your hair out of your eyes and bunches the rest into a makeshift ponytail.

“Such a good girl,” he grunts, eyes still trained on you.

Although you would never disregard his praise, you don't need him to tell you you're doing well based on how he grasps harder at the root of your hair and from the trickling of choppy, higher moans that compete with your lewd slopping.

Since you don't want it to end just yet, you draw back soon after. Giving him a sugary fleeting kiss, you then go on all fours in front of him. Taking his sopping desire, all thanks to you, he rubs himself against your folds, then eases into you.

You cry out in pleasure, and adjust to his fullness inside of you. Mark goes at a measured pace—fast enough that it gets you to the edge quicker, but slow enough to make you feel all his inches. Out of habit, you press the back of your hand against your mouth, muffling yourself.

“Don’t hold yourself back, baby,” he murmurs. “We’re all alone out here.” 

You nod thoughtlessly and comply, dropping your hand. It's an uncommon feeling to let yourself go, but you relax and try your best. Your soft moans elevate and gain traction in volume with each movement against your body.

“That’s it,” Mark says, reaching forward to caress your hair and sliding his touch downward to the small of your back. “That’s my girl.” 

Preening in the praise, you moan gutturally in response. The deep sensations enrapture you, blooming to every point of your body. Exerting the pleasure, you fall face-forward into your pillow and bunch some of it beside your head.

He continues to pound into you, groaning, “Love it so much when you moan for me...” 

A few moments later, your lover pulls you up by the arms, bringing your body almost parallel to his and picks up the pace. In this position, it's not as buried, but it's still just as satisfying, being filled with his cock like this.

When he slows the pace down, he releases you, having you land on your arms again. Kissing your shoulder from behind, he pants beside your ear, “Do you wanna switch it up?” 

You shake your head. “Don’t care”—at an unexpected thrust, you gasp sharply—“just want you.” 

Turning your head to face him, he follows-up with an ardent kiss. Despite him holding you by your chin, it's more delicate than you expect, unlike the sex so far. Mark takes a few moments to remind you how, no matter how crude it can be, sex with him will always be laced with love.

The sunset continues to fade as he removes himself from you and lovingly pats your hips, signifying you to turn around. Facing him now, you spread your legs once again for him, and you giggle as he drags you closer to him in one smooth move. He grins with his hair sticking to his perspired forehead, and once again, he lines up with your centre before gliding into your perfection.

In tandem, both parties' eyes tremble at the sensation. He fills you deliciously; for him, you squeeze around him like a vice he never wants to detach from. Hands are dragging along everywhere on each other's skin. Lips crash into the other's, then his to your breasts and yours to his shoulder. You're soon tied chest to chest, hearts racing in synchronicity.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Mark mumbles into your neck. “Love seeing you like this for me.” 

He lightly slaps the side of your thigh, causing you to moan further into his ear. Despite not wanting to, he opts to tear away from you. Readjusting your bodies, he draws you closer by a tight yank of your thigh, bottoming himself out in your crevice and uses his other hand to rub your clit.

He's on a mission to take you to the stars.

“Tell me when you’re close.” 

It doesn't take long for you to get there with how long this has been going on, nor with how skillful he is.

“Look at me, beautiful. Open your eyes,” he orders, his voice dripping with carnal assertiveness. “Look at me as I fill you up.”

You obey, snapping your eyes wide open, about to watch him come undone inside of you. You're transfixed on the point where you intersect, where he disappears so deeply in you.

But then, in a split second, you force yourself to stare down your love. Looking up at him, relishing in his pre-climactic image, you're on the verge of screaming, almost as if you're dying from the pleasure. His breathes come quicker, his facial features twisting. However, he dares not to shut his eyes, wanting to see you fulfill his command until the end of his surmise.

“That’s my good girl, such a good girl…” 

A beautiful low, drawn-out moan emits, and ecstasy permeates through the air, intermixed with the much needed cool breeze. Mark's hips jerk, then stiffen as he spills into you, painting your walls with his thick load.

WEST

And in the west, the sun finally sets almost to completion. The golden hour sinking away into the purple and pink hues of the spring sky. 

A sliver of the last light peeks through the tent's opening and lands directly over your face, the last of the golden hour saying hello and good-bye. 

With your respective sleeping bags covering some parts of your bare bodies, Mark tenderly swipes his thumb over your sun-touched cheek, admiring his angel of light that always leads him home. Just like Polaris in the night sky, you’ll always shine and guide his way back home.

You two eventually eat some prepackaged sandwiches for dinner in the comfort of your tent, but not until he kisses your temple and pulls you in for a tight hug, whispering sweet nothings and running his fingers through your hair until the sky becomes completely pitch black.

[kyitsya]

there is something so surreal in looking at destroyed russian military equipment on display and seeing messages written by ukrainians who had to flee their homes in the east and south.

u look at the rusted canon of a tank and u see “severodonetsk is ukraine,” “kherson,” and “this is for nikopol.” u look at a ravaged bmp and there’s “for kramatorsk,” and “this is for donetsk ♡” right on the plates of armor. there are countless messages scribbled on by people from all kinds of cities—big and small—who suffered russia’s wrath, and yet they still cement their cities’ names onto the russian metal to show that they are ukrainian and will remain ukrainian.

[scotianostra]

On October 16th 1516, Alexander Home, 3rd Lord Home and his brother William were executed in Edinburgh.

It's fair to say that those men who held the title Duke of Albany, have been involved in some of the most troublesome intrigue in our long history, the first one, a ruthless politician, was brother of King Robert III and was widely regarded as having caused the murder of his nephew, the Duke of Rothesay, this in turn forced the King to send the future James I to France in 1406, but was captured by pirates and "sold" to the English and held for 18 years, his ambitious uncle ruled as King in all but name until his death in 1420, when the next his son Murdoch, took over as Duke and regent, James I was eventually released in 1425 and Murdoch inevitably lost his head after being found guilty of treason.

Jump forward about 90 years and just after James IV died at Flodden, John Stewart, the latest Duke of Albany took over as Regent to James V was another of the boy Kings, I mentioned in my post earlier about James II.

Lord Home led his horsemen were part of the Scottish force that fought at Flodden, and was one of the few successful charges of that day, his men defeated the right wing of the English army, it's a pity other tactics went horribly wrong. As the battle progressed and the Scots were being slaughtered Lord Home fled the field, he did however stay on in Northumbria and attempted, unsuccessfully to to recapture the taken Scottish artillery some days later.

This story seems to be more about two men who disliked each other than anything else.

Although accepting Albany as Regent things started to go sour when the two had a meeting at Dumbarton Castle, where legend has it, Albany joked about Lord Home's small stature, quoting 'minuit praesentia famam' meaning 'the appearance doesn't live up to report.' Their relationship deteriorated and it seems Home tried to garner influence in England, possibly hoping to seek refuge there, sensing things were not going to end well with the new Regent.

In September 1515 Albany forcibly took Hume Castle, and ordered Home to meet him later that year at the Collegiate Church at Dunglass, where he was arrested and imprisoned at Edinburgh Castle. The keeper of the castle at the time was the Earl of Arran and Home's Brother in Law. Home persuaded Arran to escape with him and take up arms against Albany, they joined another rebel, the Earl of Angus in the Borders.

Moving North they attacked Glasgow capturing ammunition and throwing it down a well, they then headed east and to Dunbar, attacking the castle there and heading south again captured the Chief Herald, the Lord Lyon King of Arms at Coldstream holding him ransom for his mother who was a prisoner of one of Albany's lieutenants.

After offering a pardon, Albany invited Home and his brother William to Holyroodhouse, where he promptly arrested the pair, imprisoning then on the fortified island of Inchgarvie on The Firth of Forth.

Initially they were accused of the trumped charges of the murder of James IV at Flodden, then of failing to prevent English re-fortification at Norham Castle after the battle.

Finally he and William were charged with rebellion against Albany and beheaded, and their heads displayed on the gable of Edinburgh Tolbooth.

In the mid 1520's Albany was overthrown from the Scottish regency, and lived mainly in France until his death in 1536.

The pic is model of the Old Tolbooth exhibited in Edinburgh's Huntly House Museum. The execution platform can be seen projecting from the building. The second pic is a painting by Scottish artist Henry G. Duguid of the Tolbooth and St Giles.

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 Scenes of chaos and horror as bodies lay sprawling in the streets after the Israeli occupation forces bombed civilians gathered in the Al-Sabra neighborhood, south of Gaza City, killing several Palestinian civilians and wounding far more as the Zionist entity's genocide continues in the Gaza Strip. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

269 DAYS OF GENOCIDE IN GAZA: ISRAELI OFFICIALS LOSE THEIR MINDS AFTER DIRECTOR OF AL-SHIFA HOSPITAL RELEASED WITH 50 OTHERS FOLLOWING MONTHS OF TORTURE AND ABUSE, FUEL, MEDICAL SUPPLIES RUNNING OUT AS GAZA'S HOSPITALS FACE COLLAPSE, BOMBING AND SHELLING CONTINUES WITH ONGOING GENOCIDE

On 268th day of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 2 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 23 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 91 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands, of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind when considering the scale of the mass murder.

"Many prisoners were martyred in the interrogation basements, and we left behind thousands of detainees held by the occupation," Director of Al-Shifa Medical Complex, Muhammad Abu Salmiya, recounts his experiences in an Israeli prison following his release from administrative detention after being kidnapped by the Israeli occupation forces during their assault on Al-Shifa hospital in March of 2024.

According to Abu Salmiya, the average prisoner where he was being held lost somewhere around 30kg (66lbs) due to being denied food, in conjunction with near constant abuse by Zionist soldiers, doctors and nurses.

Speaking about his arrest, Abu Salmiya said that "The occupation did not bring any charges against me despite being tried three times. This means that they arrested me for political reasons," going on to add that "We were subjected to severe torture, and the occupation stormed the prisoners' cells and assaulted them on an almost daily basis."

The lack of attention from international institutions and non-governmental organizations (NGOs) was on full display as Israeli soldiers continued their abuse of Palestinian prisoners, described repeatedly in the local media by those released at various points since the October 7th attacks.

"We did not meet with lawyers, nor did any international institution[s] visit us," Al-Shifa's former director said.

Abu Salmiya was released on Monday morning alongside some 50 other Palestinian prisoners arrested since the start of the Israeli occupation's ongoing genocidal war in the Gaza Strip.

Faraj al-Samuni, one of the detainees released from the occupation's prisons, spoke with Palestinian public broadcaster, PalestineTV, describing the "tragic and unbearable conditions" endured by the Zionist entity's prisoners.

Al-Samuni said he was detained beginning on November 16th, kidnapped from his home in Al-Qarara, east of Khan Yunis, in the southern Gaza Strip, before being transferred to the Sde Teiman detention center in the Negev desert, a center known in media circles as "Israel's Guantanamo", where he was placed in a tent with roughly 30 other Palestinian prisoners.

Al-Samuni said that detainees were subjected to varying degrees of torture, abuse and regular assaults, in addition to suffering from diseases that he says have spread widely among the prisoners.

According to lawyer Khaled Muhajna, who visited his client held in the Sde Teiman detention center, the camp's administrators keep Palestinian detainees blindfolded 24-hours a day, while some prisoners were forced to have limbs amputated, and others had Israeli bullets removed from their bodies without anesthesia.

Since the October 7th Resistance attacks, at least 9'450 Palestinians have been detained by the Israeli occupation army from the occupied West Bank territories and occupied Al-Quds, while thousands of others have been kidnapped from the Gaza Strip, including children, and hundreds more have been detained inside the occupied Palestinian territories.

Immediately following the release of Palestinian prisoners, the Israeli fascist right-wing immediately lost their heads.

Writing in an Israeli government WhatsApp group, Fascist extremist leader, Itamar Ben-Gvir, wrote that "It's time to send the head of the Shin Bet home, he does what he wants."

"Releasing the director of the 'Shifa' hospital in Gaza, along with dozens of other terrorists, is security negligence. It is time for the Prime Minister to stop Gallant and the head of the Shin Bet from conducting an independent policy contrary to the position of the cabinet and the government," he added.

In the meantime, in more news on Monday, July 1st, Gaza's few remaining hospitals and healthcare centers are warning they will stop operating within the next 48 hours as desperately needed fuel is expected to run out, leaving hospital generators and oxygen stations disfunctional, according to a statement from Gaza's Health Ministry.

“This situation was expected … because the occupation has restricted the entry of fuel shipments as well as basic supplies such as medicine and food as part of its tight siege on the Strip,” the health ministry said of the situation, going on to add that fuel supplies had begun to run dry due to the harsh measures taken that restrict supplies of fuel, medicines and other medical supplies such as oxygen tanks.

The Ministry appealed to the international community, along with humanitarian organizations, asking them to intervene quickly to provide Gaza's hospitals and medical centers with fuel, electric generators and spare parts for maintenance, before the healthcare system in the Gaza Strip collapses completely.

Meanwhile, the Zionist occupation's war crimes continue unabated with the assistance of the United States, with violent bombing and artillery shelling raining hell down on top of residential homes and shelters across various areas of the Palestinian enclave.

Beginning on Sunday night, the Israeli occupation forces renewed their campaign of destruction, shelling the Al-Waha neighborhood of Beit Lahiya, in the northern Gaza Strip, killing two Palestinians, while two others were killed as a result of an occupation raid on the Al-Tuffah neighborhood, east of Gaza City.

Occupation warplanes also bombed a residential apartment in the Al-Sabra neighborhood of Gaza City, while Israeli armored bulldozers tore up and burned agricultural lands in the northern Gaza Strip.

At the same time, Zionist tanks and armored vehicles penetrated the project area, east of the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, coinciding with intense artillery shelling as occupation bulldozers wrecked civilian homes in the Al-Shakoush area of the city.

Following that series of attacks, later on Sunday evening, occupation warplanes launched several raids targeting the Al-Sabra neighborhood, south of Gaza City, resulting in a number of casualties.

In just one of the raids, Zionist fighter jets bombed a gathering of civilians in the Al-Sabra neighborhood, which led to the deaths of several Palestinians and wounded a number of others.

Similarly, Israeli artillery detatchments shelled the Al-Shaboura Camp, in the vicinity of the Al-Awda Junction in central Rafah, south of Gaza.

Following the attack, an Israeli warplane bombed a house in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood of Gaza City, resulting in the death of one civilian and wounding several others.

By dawn on Monday, with smoke billowing out from a number of buildings in Gaza City, the Israeli occupation forces bombed the area near the Islamic Complex Mosque in the Al-Sabra neighborhood, south of the city, wounding several Palestinians, while at the same time, Zionist artillery shelling pummeled the Al-Shujaiya neighborhood, east of the city.

The occupation army then used explosives to detonate a building in the Shakoush neighborhood, northwest of Rafah City, in the southern Gaza Strip.

Local sources are also reporting that Israeli artillery shelled the town of Al-Khuza'a, east of the city of Khan Yunis, in southern Gaza, killing a civilian and injuring several others who were transferred to the European Gaza Hospital in Khan Yunis.

Additionally, Zionist artillery detatchments shelled Al-Mansoura Street in the Al-Shujaiya neighborhood, east of Gaza City, as well as the areas northwest of the Nuseirat Camp in the central Gaza Strip.

Prior to publishing, Israeli occupation reconnaissance aircraft bombed a civilian vehicle east of the city of Khan Yunis, killing one Palestinian civilian and wounding a number of others.

According to reporting on the incident, an occupation reconnaissance plane bombed a vehicle in the central areas of the town of Bani Suhaila, injuring several people who were taken to the European Hospital in Khan Yunis.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing war of extermination in the Gaza Strip, the infinitely rising death toll now exceeds 37'900 Palestinians killed, including over 15'000 children and upwards of 10'000 women, while another 87'060 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

July 1st, 2024.

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#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[eretzyisrael]

Over 240 Israelis and foreigners, from babies to octogenarians, were kidnapped to Gaza and have been held captive for a month in unknowable conditions, imprisoned by terrorist organizations.

The Red Cross hasn’t seen them.

Their pictures are being ripped off notice boards in the West by people shouting “Free Palestine.”

More than 120,000 Israelis have been ordered to abandon their homes, compelled to become internal refugees. Many have no homes to go back to. They’ve been burned to the ground.

Communities lie in ruins. Hundreds of thousands of Israelis have joined the ranks of the bereaved, the widowed, the orphaned, the broken, the traumatized, the terrified.

These unthinkable numbers, the unbearable loss, and the waves of sorrow and pain that they created stunned us at first. A vast blind rage grew within us, shaking the land from end to end. That anger shaped the first declaration of war, where one goal was defined: the total elimination of the Hamas regime.

And then many sobered up.  And the goal of the war was updated: The total elimination of the Hamas regime, and the return of all the hostages.

Can those two war goals be achieved? Which does the leadership define as more important? There is no answer.

Meanwhile, the air force bombards and the ground forces enter Gaza, and divide its north from its south. More of our soldiers are killed. Hundreds of thousands of Gazans populate tent camps in the south of the Strip.

On foreign TV channels, fresh reports of the ruins in Gaza push aside the atrocities perpetrated against us and further fuel anti-Israel demonstrations and displays of antisemitism in the Middle East, in Europe and in the United States. Jews worldwide report that they have never felt so threatened.

That is in the outside world. We in Israel cannot get past October 7.

The horrors of the outdoor rave where over 260 partygoers were massacred. The families huddling in safe rooms at home as the flames drew closer. The whispers on the telephone to Israeli TV reporters, to

[shifterglitter]

My Waiting Rooms

The Hord

My first waiting room was inspired by the labyrinth, my love for friendly monsters and my need to live inside of a tree like a pixie.

The reason why I named this "The Hord" is because underneath the roots of my tree house is an elaborate cave system that I can access from my library. In those caves lives a Dragon that hordes all of my memories for current, past, and future lives. That dragon is a reflection of my Higher Self should I need any advice.

Around my tree house is a Labyrinth with serval moon doors, these are magical portals that can take me to any DR that I wish at any time.

Several agreeable monsters also call this waiting room their home and have designated territories.

I do have a non human mental health professional here that fits all my needs.

A few of my favorite parental figure characters of other medias also live here for any needed advice. Like Iroh and Genkai for example.

It has a different biome and mode of travel in each cardinal direction that leads to a different Waiting Room. This is the center of all my experiences and should I die in any of my other realities unexpectedly I would immediately shift here.

To the East there is a horse drawn carriage that goes though grasslands that will take you to Barbie's Mansion. To the south, between two forested mountains, there is a train that will bring you to the Dreamweaver station right outside Haven Village. To the West there is a bioluminescent beach with a yacht that will sail you to a Vacation Resort Island. To the North is a garage with a convertible Jeep prepared for your camping trip into the desert. Should you go far enough you will find yourself stopping at a gas station with strange burritos.

One day I'll post a map of everything.

Barbie's Creepy Dream House

Have any of you been to a Meow Wolf location yet? I have. I am obsessed with this string of immersive art experiences in the American south. I also have a wooden barbie doll house that my uncle made me when I was 8 that I am upcycling into a creepy display piece. This was the inspiration for my second waiting room.

In the fields, meadows, and marsh lands that surround the house I can find apparitions of ancestors and other loving entities on my spiritual team should I wish to speak with them directly.

Because I haven't finished the art project I have not solidified this WR, but I'll get to it in a few years.

The Haven

This inspired by the meditation series by The Honest Guys called Haven and Dreamweaver.

Important people (my core chosen family) in each of the realities I end up in will also be here with our collective memories together. This could be from one life as friends; or multiple, like my siblings. The souls here that have lived multiple lives with me can change their body to appear like any of their DR forms at will.

The soul of my "Kiss Me Again" lover lives here as my spouse in my English cottage with a thatched roof.

I often collaborate with my siblings and lover about who they want to be in my next DR, and who they want me to pull here for them to live an eternity with.

All of my past, present, and future pets live here.

Wii Sport Resort

I use to fucking love the Wii Sports games. SO yeah, I am going to play it forever. With tons of Mountain Dew.

And why not on an island with all my friends from every DR.

My OR biological family will also live here, but they will all be idealized healed versions of themselves.

This will have ALL Wii Sports games among other fun vacation activities, and PC Lounges were we can all play video games too.

Desert Skies

Inspired by a after death fictional audio drama podcast called Desert Skies.

I'm still working on the other details, but this will be a solo adventure of self discovery and processing the loss of each lived life.

*these are all waiting rooms because: they have no plot, are unaffected by time, every living thing is immortal, there are no bugs I dislike, no one ever gets dirty, or experiences any sort of discomfort/harm, we all always smell good, what every your want will appear upon your will of thinking it, you don't need to eat sleep or drink water if you don't want to, there are no ill effects to drugs, you can't get sick, and all of everyone's needs are provided for. There is no suffering of any kind.*

[fatehbaz]

Hey I thought you might appreciate a heads up that the yellow-legged hornet (Vespa velutina) has been spotted in Savannah, Georgia. 😞

Nice. Well, not nice news. But glad that you thought of me. Thank you.

(For other people who have yet to fully embrace and explore their innate love of hornets, this Vespa velutina hornet is originally from Southeast Asia. This creature is closely related to Vespa mandarinia, the creature derisively referred to in the US as "murder hornet" or "Asian giant hornet", originally from South/East Asia, which is now apparently established near in the Salish Sea region near Bellingham, Vancouver, and Nanaimo.)

Here's a look at where the giant hornets now live in North America, along with the distribution of some other large hornets which might be mistaken as Vespa manadrinia/velutina:

The map was originally published in 2022 in American Entomologist, displaying distribution range of (non-native) giant hornet; (non-native) European hornet; (native) southern yellowjacket; and (native) eastern cicada killer. The article also identifies a few few other species which might be mistaken for "murder hornets": great golden digger wasp, bald-faced hornet, German yellowjacket, red-legged cannibal fly, and pigeon horntail. (Available to read for free online; article title in the source/caption beneath the map.)

I've had many memorable encounters with large (native) bald-faced hornets in dense cedar-hemlock rainforest-y places. And coincidentally, the Pacific Northwest is also now apparently the North American home/homebase of Vespa mandarinia. So here are some other PNW wasps/hornets in comparison, from Oregon State University Extension Catalog (2022):

From 2020 research on potential dispersal of Vespa mandarinia over a couple of decades (not necessarily a good or realistic representation, not inevitable, kinda just "potential"):

Apparently Vespa mandarinia haven't yet been encountered outside of the general Vancouver area during targeted samples:

I know that you too are fond of wasps/hornets, and are aware of their popular demonization, the way that they're feared, etc. In July 2022, the Entomological Society of America put out an online resource thing that explains why they don't like the name "Asian giant hornet" for Vespa mandarinia and Vespa velutina, instead adopting "northern giant hornet" and "yellow-legged hornet" (which you called the creature, too!) because of the racialized/xenophobic implications. ("Northern Giant Hornet Common Name Toolkit" available at: entsoc.org/publications/common-names/northern-giant-hornet) They say: '"Murder hornet" unnecessarily invokes fear and violence, which impede accurate public understanding of the insect and its biology and behavior. While "Asian" on its own is a neutral descriptor, its association with a pest insect that inspires fear and is targeted for eradication may bolster anti-Asian sentiment in some people - at a time when hate crimes and discrimination against people of Asian descent in the United States are on the rise.'

Which, for me, brings to mind this recent book from Jeannie Shinozuka:

From the publisher's blurb: 'In the late nineteenth century, increasing traffic of transpacific plants, insects, and peoples raised fears of a “biological yellow peril” [...]. Over the next fifty years, these crossings transformed conceptions of race and migration, played a central role in the establishment of the US empire and its government agencies, and shaped the fields of horticulture, invasion biology, entomology, and plant pathology. [...] Shinozuka uncovers the emergence of biological nativism that fueled American imperialism and spurred anti-Asian racism that remains with us today. [...] She shows how the [...] panic about foreign species created a linguistic and conceptual arsenal for anti-immigration movements that flourished in the early twentieth century [...] that defined groups as bio-invasions to be regulated—or annihilated.'

A lot going on at that time with insects, empire, and xenophobia. In the 1890s, the British Empire was desperately searching for a way to halt malaria, and mosquitoes had just been discovered as vectors of malaria. And from Nobel prize podium lectures to popular media newspapers and academic journals, there was all kinds of talk about how "bacteria/viruses/insects are the greatest enemy of the Empire" and whatever. The US was also expanding in the Caribbean, Central America, Pacific islands towards East Asia, etc. Tropical plantations were proliferating, not just in Dutch Java or British India, but also in US administered Central America. And so insects were perceived not just as a threat to the human body of the British soldier or American administrator; insects were also a threat to profits, as insect pests threatened monoculture plantations and agriculture.

That same time period saw the US invasion of the Philippines and exports of products from the islands; the US annexation of Hawai'i, and elevating rivalry with Japan; the 1882 passage of the notorious Chinese Exclusion Act; US control of Cuba and Puerto Rico; expansion of US fruit corporations in Central America and US sugarcane plantations in Cuba/Hawai'i, where insect pests threatened plantation profits; the advent of "Yellow Peril" tropes and fear of invasion in science fiction literature; the detaining of half a million (mostly Chinese) people at the medical quarantine processing center that the US Public Health Service operated at Angel Island in San Francisco; and US insect extermination projects, mosquito control campaigns, and medical policing of local people in Cuba and the Panama Canal Zone (where US authorities detained local people for medical testing).

A lot to consider.

[mesetacadre]

your "no pasaran" posting reminded me of that DDR song about building the wall (the chorus has the phrase)

personally I think it fits in this case, but what do you think? (since the stakes were a bit different)

I haven't heard that song, but there are some key differences between the east/west germany split and the Spanish Civil War which must be pointed out.

As I said in the post, No Pasarán was originally popularized (not invented) for the purpose of the defense of Madrid. Early to mid autumn of 1936 was a very tense period, since the rebels still had the intertia and initiative from coming down from the northwest towards Madrid's east. The International Brigades, -specifically the 11th, 12th and 14th brigades [battalions Edgar André (German), Paris Commune (French and Belgian), Dabrowski (Polish, Hungarian, Yugoslav, Paraguayan), Garibaldi (Italian), and Thaelmann (German)]- played a crucial role in stopping the rebel advance on its tracks, in the early November battles in and around the Eastern Park and Central University Campus. In the outskirts of Madrid, the Brigades also had a decisive role in preventing the envelopment of the city via the south around the Jarama Valley, where the Dabrowski battalion took on most of the rebels' fight, including divisions of fascist Italy.

Even if the SCW was a war fought between the Spanish, the proletarian internationalism and zeal displayed by the brigades in the defense of Madrid gave No Pasarán an undeniable internationalist element. The fall of Madrid was prevented by the inexperienced but decided effort of tens of nationalities, risking not only their lives but their own safety in their home countries, since many punished the brigadiers who managed to return. Those brigadiers were overwhelmingly mere workers who understood the SCW was an opportunity to beat fascism, especially the German and Italian workers who saw in the attempted coup of July 18th what they had experienced in 1922 and 1933, these brigadiers understood that not letting the fascists pass was the first step in defeating them wholly. And they carried on their anti-fascism after Spain fell, providing resistance and guerillas across Europe with the experienced acquired in Spain.

The anti-fascist defense wall, as it was called within the DDR, also had the purpose of preventing the advance of fascist, reactionary or otherwise sabotaging forces within a divided country. But it did lack that element of internationalism, at least at the same level that the defense of Madrid had. I still think the slogan is appropriate in this context, but they aren't identical situations even if the general purpose rhymes with the defense of Madrid. It's not that the stakes were that different, as you say, since a failure to keep those reactionary elements would have ended in disaster, like it ended up happening, it was simply less explicit and a little bit less pressing of an issue in the DDR as it was in the SCW.

[path-of-grass-and-leaves]

Hidden Charm Casting Divination Board

So I've been playing around with charm casting and wanted to make myself a divination board. I didn't want to display it out in the open but I also didn't want to dig through my closet or drawers whenever I wanted to use it.

I decided to make it on the back of a canvas painting. The borders keep the charms in place and when it's not in use I just hang it back up on the wall. The only drawback is that the wood piece in the center does sort of get in the way so I'll have to keep that in mind during readings.

Charms that land closest to the black circle in the center are the most important information. Objects that border the wheel or land toward the edge are outside influences or less important information, depending on the reading. When a charm lands near the border of the canvas it is irrelevant information and should be ignored.

I also designed the wheel to look kind of like a compass and broke it up into quadrants: North (Air), South (Earth), East (Fire), and West (Water). Any charm landing in a specific quadrant will deal with that aspect of the subject/question.

To give a very over-simplified example, a charm landing in the south portion of the wheel will deal with responsibility, finances, the home, etc. West will relate to emotions, interpersonal relationships, and the subconscious. North would be communication, ideas, and travel. East would be passion, courage, and vitality. And so on.

I plan to use this board to experiment with personal readings, spirit work, and energy readings for objects.

[rotworld]

10: Motel Hell

(previous)

desperate to get out of nelton, you make a risky decision and find somewhere to stay along the road.

->contains gore, graphic description of corpses.

.

.

.

Home is west. Northwest now, so far away it feels like the edge of the world. 

You’ve tried to get there a few times. Every now and then, you’ll get lucky. The Drift will have mercy and you’ll end up so close you think you can taste it, the pull urgent but not so taut and uncomfortable. Somehow, it’s always eluded you. You get turned around, your inner compass spinning haywire. The road spits you out just east, too far north, not at all where you mean to go. Lost—that’s what you are. But you never feel that way until you try to find home.

And even if you ever reached it, would it be worth the trouble? Would anyone see you as kin, or would it be a town full of strangers? You don't try anymore. Home is best left abstract and distant.

Night is falling. The shadows grow. The sign seems to lunge through the fog, sudden and vicious. “DRIFT INN. NEXT EXIT.” It’s not close enough to spot off the highway, but you do see a spatter of streetlights and neon. Not enough for a town, just a small place between things for the unlucky and desperate. Anything is good enough for you now. The exit is an uphill zigzag, a silent intersection with a light that takes too long to change. 

You see two long gray slabs with red roofs. Nothing around but concrete and tufts of hardy grass growing in the cracks. The parking lot is sparsely occupied, a couple windows aglow behind drawn curtains. Still, you hesitate. Your recent misfortunes have left you somewhat wary. You consult your map. You’ll make the final push for the University tomorrow, get there by dusk. South, then east? Or start heading east now? For once, you find yourself hoping there’s no town in that vast distance, no unexpected detours. 

Something flits past the window as you’re planning your morning route. It’s gone when you look up but you were sure, for just a second—

And then you see it. Another, drifting silently into your windshield. Landing on the glass and melting to nothing. The sky is the color of a coming storm. Your heart starts to race. 

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: SATURDAY NIGHT BY THE MISFITS]

The automatic doors wheeze open. A single fluorescent tube buzzes overhead. The floor is grimy-looking tile and the walls are off-white. Nobody’s sitting behind the check-in desk. All you can hear is the whirr of an electric fan in the corner and a crackling radio on the counter.

A tiered shelf against the wall displays travel brochures coated in a fine layer of dust, advertising the orchards and public gardens of Green Valley. These must be old. There is no Green Valley anymore—it’s been called the Stillwoods since before you were born, although the occasional antique road sign marooned along the highway might still bear the old name.

The doors open again behind you. There’s a woman standing there, hands in the pockets of a gray peacoat. She’s wearing heels and her hair is meticulously pinned into a neat bun. 

She gives you a quick, appraising look. “Hey there,” she says. “Checking in?” You nod and she slips behind the check-in desk, noticeably keeping her distance and never turning her back towards you. She doesn’t give you a price or ask how you’ll pay, simply reaching for a room key off the back wall and setting it on the desk. You don’t think there was a courier sign on the door. Your visible apprehension makes her grin. “So…I don’t actually work here. But I saw you pull up and thought you might appreciate a hand. There’s four of us here tonight.”

You take the key, the plastic tag attached reading 108. “Is the place abandoned?” you ask. That wouldn’t surprise you. This motel was clearly attached to the Stillwoods once upon a time, but now it’s out here in the middle of nowhere. That happens sometimes, during a particularly violent shift or an anchorware malfunction. That’s how the University became its own city, too.

The woman makes a noncommittal sound. “Not exactly. At least, it wasn’t when I got here. It’s like this, see?” 

She leans back and turns the handle of the door behind the desk. As soon as it’s cracked open, the smell of blood comes rushing out. She opens it just far enough for you to glimpse the back room and the body inside: head so badly bludgeoned that you don’t realize it’s lying face-up for a while, jaw broken and wrenched open so wide the mouth is more like a gaping wound of teeth. There’s blood pooling on the floor and arterial sprays arcing on the walls. Fresh enough to drip. 

The woman yanks the door shut again. She looks unbothered, you think, unusually cheerful considering the situation. She adjusts her small, rectangular glasses on the bridge of her nose. “See what I mean? Kind of a mess. I’d have taken off by now if not for how the sky looks. Rather take my chances here than out in a Drift storm.” The snow is heavier already, a thin layer blanketing the pavement outside. “Anyway, wanna get settled in? 108’s right with the rest of us. Gotta keep an eye on each other, after all. Hard to say who’s a mimic and who’s not.” 

You frown. A mimic wouldn’t waste that much food.

The woman is friendly, at least, and endlessly talkative. She’s a University graduate. She’s been living in Splitrock Junction for the past few years, testing the water and soil for “intrusional particles,” but she’s looking for a career change. “Anchorware! That’s where the money’s at,” she tells you. “That’s the future of the Drift, you know. It’s caught on in all the major industries but it’ll get more affordable later. The lab where they build that stuff makes the University look Stone Age. God, if I could get my hands on some of that equipment…” 

You barely say a word as she leads you outside and across the parking lot to the adjacent building. Four rooms are occupied in a row, lights on, muffled voices coming through the doors. You walk up in time to catch part of a conversation—an argument, more accurately. They’re talking about mimics.

“So you’re telling me the one that’s see-through and foggy like frosted glass isn’t called a glass mimic?” 

“Glass mimics are literally made of glass, man. Or something kind of like it. It shatters if you hit it hard enough.” 

“Kind of like it? So they’re not actually made of glass. They don’t even resemble glass.” 

“I didn’t name them, okay?” 

The woman pauses to knock on 106. “We’ve got another,” she says. 

106 opens just slightly, the door halting on a chain lock. The face that peers out at you is obscured by a surgical mask and a pair of sunglasses. “Shit, Chatterbox made it back in one piece,” he mutters. “So either it left you alone or you’re the mimic.” The doors on either side of him creak open. A man pokes his head outside of 105, looking nonplussed. Nobody comes out of 107 but you hear a quiet huff, a quick exhale of laughter.

“Well, this is all of us,” the woman says. “We’re a little short on trust right now so you’ll have to settle for nicknames. That’s Newbie in 105. He’s from outside. Like, outside, you know?”

“Outside the Drift?” you ask, startled.

Newbie frowns. He’s blond and clean-shaven, wearing an open suit jacket and loosened tie. “Couldn’t we have picked our own nicknames? God, it’s freezing all of the sudden.” 

“This totally normal, not at all suspicious guy lurking in 106 is Glasses.” 

“Bite me,” Glasses snarls. “Half the mimics out here copy faces. You’re not getting mine.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “Shrug is in 107. He’s kinda quiet. Second most likely to be a mimic, if we’re making accusations.” 

107’s door opens slightly wider. The man standing there doesn’t show his face, keeping his head down and his hood up, hands stuffed in the pockets of an oversized sweater. He’s on the shorter side. “Hm,” he says, and shrugs.

“And I guess I’m Chatterbox.” The woman laughs. “I’m in 104. The walls are really, really thin, we mostly just yell at each other. Nobody else around so it’s not like we’re bothering anyone.” 

You unlock 108 and find a small, musty-smelling room. There’s stiff, crusty carpet, a single bed with sheets that feel like packing paper, and a closet-sized bathroom. You put your backpack on the bedside table and add the Drift Inn to your map.

“So what are we calling you, stranger?” Chatterbox yells. She’s right, the walls are really thin. Four rooms down and you can still hear her fairly clearly. 

“Courier,” you say back. 

The wind picks up outside, growing from a whisper to a vicious howl. You peek through your curtains and find your footsteps in the snow have nearly been filled in already as more blows across the motel parking lot. You scan the row of cars parked out front apprehensively. The one you saw in the blizzard was an SUV, you think. Silver. Hard to make out in the haze and all the white. You don’t see it out there now. You’d like to tell yourself that those two things can’t possibly be related, but there’s a corpse behind the check-in desk, beaten so badly the face barely looked human.

You don’t want to think about it. You let the curtains fall back into place and sit on the edge of the bed. “Newbie, you’re from outside the Drift?” you ask. “What made you decide to come here?”

You hear him clear his throat nervously. “I’m doing market research, you could say. There’s a lot of interest in developing the Drift, getting it connected to the rest of the world. You guys are missing out on a lot of things. Phones are only local, right, so you can’t call Prismville from the University. And mail takes forever since you don’t really have a reliable delivery service. Uh. No offense, I mean.” 

“Didn’t some outsider company already try getting a foothold here a while back?” That sounds like Glasses. “Like a decade ago or something. Putting all those cables in the ground, then acting surprised when they got fucked up after a couple shifts.” 

“Ohhh, that’s right! They started growing skin and then they all slithered off,” Chatterbox says.

“Is that what those are?” you ask. “I’ve seen those before. They’re farm pests, mostly. They really like eggs.” 

“Mhm,” Shrug adds.

“Can I ask about that? What’s up with the eggs?” Newbie says. “Why are they everywhere? I keep seeing people eat them raw, shell and all.” 

Chatterbox laughs. “So those aren’t actually eggs.” 

“You’re pulling my leg.” 

“No, I mean, they look just like eggs, right? So we call them eggs.”

“Oh, so these get called by what they look like, huh?”

“Okay, look, there are different kinds of shifts, right? Depending on how things are intersecting, or if they’re intersecting at all, and sometimes—”

The wind shrieks and the windows shake in their frames. Snow drifts under your door, melting on the carpet. Through the space beneath the curtains, all you see is white. “It’s getting bad out there,” Glasses says quietly.

“I, ah, thought the Drift didn’t get snow?” Newbie asks.

“It doesn’t,” Chatterbox says. “Unless the Road Ripper’s around.” 

There’s a pause. You’re holding your breath. Glasses is the first one to speak up again, scoffing, “That shit’s an urban legend. Nobody could live out on the road that long.”

“Hm,” Shrug agrees. Or maybe disagrees. You’re not sure.

“What if he doesn’t, though? What if he does come into town sometimes, drifts in and out before anyone realizes who he is?” Chatterbox insists. “It’d be easy. He could slip out with some couriers and nobody’d know. Maybe he is a courier.”

There’s another, longer pause. “Wh—really?” you say, incredulous. “I’m not a serial killer.”

Chatterbox makes a thoughtful sound. “Well, a serial killer would probably say that.” 

“I was the last one here! How could I have killed somebody?” 

“Not saying you did it, just saying maybe you should leave first in the morning,” Glasses mutters. 

The idea of falling asleep here unnerves you, but your car won’t be warm enough. You consider shoving a chair under the door. It’s flimsy, certainly nothing that’ll deter somebody hellbent on killing on you—somebody with the kind of strength you saw—but you’ll hear it fall over at least. You take a quick shower and crawl into bed, too tired to care how stiff the mattress is. The others are loud but the wind drowns them out after a while and the conversation dies down.

Maybe you won’t sleep, you think. You’ll just lay here on your side, facing the door and the windows. Listening for footsteps in the snow, or a car pulling up.  Just a few hours, you think, checking the clock. A few hours until dawn, at least. Maybe the blizzard will have moved on by then. You try to keep yourself moving, shaking your foot or tapping your fingers. The room is frigid, the heat barely able to keep up with the cold air seeping under the door, but exhaustion is slowly gaining on you. It becomes a struggle to keep your eyes open.

“…I heard that’s a thing he does,” Chatterbox is saying, sounding muffled and far away. “He picks somebody and follows them around for a while, but he lets them go a few times before he actually kills them. And it’s not like he just leaves other people alone, but that’s kind of different. It’s like he’s whetting his appetite or something. Picks off other people so can hold himself back from whoever his main target is. Maybe it’s a mimic thing? Do you think he shapeshifts? I had a friend back at University who specialized in mimics, I think some of them do similar stuff…”

Your eyelids flutter. Just a few hours, you remind yourself. A few hours and then…

You can’t breathe. 

It’s dark, a deeper black than night in every direction, and you can’t breathe. There’s something—something around your neck. Squeezing too tight. Wanting to split you open, wanting to tear into the soft flesh of your throat. It wants to, yet it never does. But even when it lets you go, uncoiling slowly, slinking out of sight, your lungs are on fire. You heave and you choke and you try to scream but you can’t get any air, can’t breathe. You can’t remember how.

There’s something in this darkness with you. You can’t see it but you can hear it breathing in deep, echoing sighs. You can sense its vastness, the crushing weight of its attention. You’re trying to run but your legs are weak and sluggish, flailing, going nowhere. The air ripples and it’s here, above and all around you. Silent. Observing. Your neck throbs where it touched you, skin tender and throbbing with your heartbeat, and still you can’t breathe. 

There is a dark moon above you. It’s a misshapen pearl, a silvery stone with a hole punched through its center. It’s growing as it sinks from the sky. It’s bigger than you, bigger than your car, so close you think you could reach out and touch it.

It blinks.

You gasp and jolt awake. It must be morning. Weak light trickles under the curtains. You’re cold, but not as cold as you were last night. The stench of blood is thick and cloying. Your door is open, the chair you wedged under it knocked aside. 

You sit up slowly. The room is red. Every breath draws in the smell of rust and rot. There’s hardly a surface in the room that hasn’t been spattered in gore. The walls are glistening with it. There are dark red puddles hardening into the carpet. The bedspread is soaked through beside you because there is a body there, posed atop the sheets as though it climbed into bed with you. It doesn’t have a face, just a head so badly bludgeoned that it could be a split pomegranate, soft and gooey and oozing chunks of meat through cracks in its skull. 

It’s wearing a peacoat, gray wool spattered with blotchy red stains. 

You scramble out of bed, lunging for your shoes. The carpet is so saturated it squishes wetly under your steps. There’s another body curled up at the foot of the bed in the same unsightly condition, intact except for the gristly paste where a head should be. Blood and brain matter spill across the floor in a pinkish smear, bits of vertebrae poking through the taut, torn flesh of the neck. Newbie’s tie is half-submerged in the slurry, tightened into an uncomfortably small knot.

The third corpse is propped up against the door, seated with its back against it. You shove it aside. You try not to look. But you see red, you see a scalp split apart and a broken shell of skull fragments underneath, little white slivers floating in a soupy clot. A gush of thick, partially coagulated fluid spurts out when it thunks against the ground in your haste to leave, dislodging the sunglasses folded neatly in its lap. 

The morning air is crisp. It’s just cold enough that some of the snow has stayed, the shallow layer left revealing the spotted prints of snowboots, a trail of blood, and smooth drag marks. Every door is wide open, a mess of red slush inside. The gruesome trail wanders out of your room and then rounds the corner, vanishing into a section of the parking lot you never thought to check. Nothing is parked there now but you still feel nauseous with fear.

Strangely, 107’s snow is clean. You notice as you’re leaving, starting your car, headlights flashing into the open rooms. Everything else is slick and splattered, dark red puddles frozen to the bed, except 107—the room right next to yours. The footprints, you notice, come out of that room clean. They go only in one direction; only leaving. 

You try desperately to remember Shrug’s face but you never saw it. He was careful, keeping his head angled down and his gaze lowered. Maybe it’s just hindsight, fear coloring your memories, but thinking back, you thought he might’ve had a small smile on his face when you looked at him.

(next)

[saintsenara]

Unhinged ships for you: Nagini/ the Basilisk ; Albus Dumbledore / Mrs. Cole ; Hagrid / Aragog. ; Snape / Vernon

cheers, anon. finally, some good fucking food.

nagini/the basilisk

which also got a separate shoutout of its own:

yes.

now, i want to be very clear that i am of the view that nagini is and has only ever been a snake - the tiresome orientalist backstory given for her in the fantastic beasts films is unwelcome in this house.

but nagini is also evidently not one of the two species of snake which is native to britain. the description of her in canon makes her sound like a reticulated python - albeit a reticulated python who is also venomous and fonder of biting than constricting - which means she would have come, were she born in the wild, from somewhere in south or south-east asia.

i very much like the idea of her having been captured from the wild for the exotic pet trade and having been transported thousands of miles from her homeland to the balkan coastline, ready to be sold in western europe, when she manages to escape from her cage and slither off to freedom. except - a stranger in a strange land - she's lost and afraid, and is therefore so very, very grateful to encounter an odd-looking man who can speak to her in her own language...

canon makes a lot of the fact that nagini is voldemort's only friend. the flip-side of this is that voldemort is her only friend too - and, while snakes aren't usually thought of as social creatures... maybe that's just what humans think because we've never actually asked.

we get flashes in canon which allow an author to flesh out nagini's inner life as quite lonely. she gets agitated when voldemort spends too long speaking english, or when the other death eaters are doing things and making noise which she doesn't understand. she doesn't like being back in a cage at the end of deathly hallows. she likes to feel useful - her describing her trip to see the prophecy as "important work" stands out to me, and i think it's lovely. her personal world is quite small - voldemort is not someone who gallivants around, and so she probably spends a lot of time behaving as she does at the start of goblet of fire: drifting around strange houses, homesick and half a world away from a life she once knew.

the basilisk, too, must be quite lonely. after all, if you were a cold-blooded creature, would you enjoy shivering in the dark under a school for a millennium? she too must be far from home - basilisks originate in greece, in canon, and i won't be pulled from the headcanon that slytherin [since salazar is a name from the iberian peninsula] arrives in britain from sunnier shores too.

i always like the idea of the basilisk being genuinely fond of the teenage voldemort - and their relationship mirroring the one his adult self has with nagini, with him popping down to the chamber for a chinwag - because he's presumably the first person she's spoken to in decades, the gaunts clearly having stopped [in the seven-book canon] sending their children to hogwarts as they became poorer and more isolated.

i am also wedded to the idea that basilisks pair-bond for life. but slytherin didn't realise this.

two lonely souls finding each other and making each other less lonely is my poison of choice. even when they're both snakes.

mrs cole/albus dumbledore

dumbledore immediately being willing to start day-drinking - while he's supposed to be working, no less - just because mrs cole displays a basic interest in the things he says has "desperate simp" written all over it.

i reckon he popped back to the orphanage a couple of times with flowers and whisked her off for a night at the pictures, while the assembled orphans gawked from the stairs.

it broke off because dumbledore is terrified of commitment - mrs cole tried to get him to make things official and he responded by wiping her memory [the ultimate ghosting]. despite what he will later tell harry, the real cause of his beef with the young voldemort is that he spends his first time at hogwarts trying to finagle them getting back together.

after all, being prepped to throw hands with an eleven-year-old would be pretty strange, wouldn't it albus?

unless that eleven-year-old was attempting to parent trap you...

rubeus hagrid/aragog

flopping, i'm afraid.

aragog's plausibly into it - he properly gasses up hagrid to harry and ron - but i don't think hagrid's going for it. not because he's not inclined towards a bit of monster-fucking but because he finds aragog - who is generally described in canon using the word "fretful" - to be a bit of fun sponge.

that's why he hooks aragog up with mosag. it makes him feel less guilty...

vernon dursley/severus snape

jesus christ this would be messy...

i think they might end up in some begrudging hate sex following a bit of arguing over whether snape's technique with a wand is more impressive than vernon's knowledge of how to properly wield a drill, and then their mutual loathing of harry sustains them through round two.

but that's it.

vernon's love for his solidly middle-class life is going to turn snape into a trotskyite, and vernon's taste in men is towards authoritative hotties with earrings - which is why him being canonically willing to risk it all for kingsley will never not send me - rather than scrawny goths.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Anonymous

Published: Feb 8, 2023

• An anonymous student speaks out about transgender ideology in her school  • The student, aged 14, attends a state secondary school in South-East England • Claimed teachers say Lady Macbeth non-binary and girls wear breast binders

She’s 14 and attends a co-educational state secondary in South-East England — where she says one in ten children in her year identifies as trans or non-binary. After becoming increasingly upset by the school’s acceptance of transgender ideology, this female student has decided to expose the truth about life in an ongoing culture war.

The other day, I went to the school office to get a new copy of the timetable. The teacher I spoke to used ‘they/them’ pronouns about me, asking another member of staff, ‘they have lost their timetable, can they have a new one?’

He knows me really well and it’s clear that I’m a girl. I felt furious he didn’t just say ‘she’. But it’s not just the odd teacher here or there; I am regularly asked if I am in the process of transitioning.

There is a gender-neutral uniform policy at school and lots of the girls wear trousers. Those of us that do are often asked if we are transgender, especially if we have short hair, as I do.

The fact a girl likes playing video games, or doesn’t like feminine clothes or make-up is enough to be seen as potentially trans. When my mum complained about me being called ‘they’, the teacher apologised but explained he was being cautious in case I was transitioning. He said the teachers are treading on eggshells, scared of being labelled transphobic.

It feels like trans is all anyone talks about. The library has a section devoted to LGBTQQIA+ books and there is a display for Pride in the school entrance, with rainbow flags and words and terms such as ‘non-binary‘, ‘polysexual’, ‘demiboy’, ‘demigirl’ and ‘pansexual’. These words come up in lessons, too. I’m now in Year 10, and the other day a girl in my English class asked if the Greek god Zeus was a man or a woman and the teacher replied that Zeus could have ‘identified as non-binary’.

More recently another teacher said Lady Macbeth was ‘neither a man nor a woman’. I think most parents will have no clue this is what their kids are being taught.

So I’m glad the Education Secretary Gillian Keegan is set to tell schools they must be more open about their handling of trans issues. I would be too scared to say this at school, though. I would lose my friends if I did, as they’re completely intolerant of anything they think is transphobic.

That’s what made me decide to speak out here — without giving my real name.

When I started at my secondary school four years ago, I didn’t even know what ‘transgender’ meant. It hadn’t been talked about in primary school or at home. But within days, we were told by a teacher in our PSHE (personal, social, health and economic education) class that we would be seen as ‘transphobic’ if we used any of the ‘offensive words’ from a long list, which included ‘gender bender’ and ‘butch’.

I had no idea what transphobic meant, but I could tell it was definitely something I didn’t want to be seen as. At that age, when you are told something at school you just believe it. We trusted that what the teachers told us was true. 

But I did ask my mum about it later. She is a feminist and is critical of students being dictated to. She said that often it depends how you use words — that people within queer communities have used ‘gender bender’ as a positive way to describe themselves and that ‘butch’ is used by lesbians to describe other lesbians who are quite masculine in appearance.

While still in my first year, 11-year-old girls in my class began asking to be called ‘he’ or ‘them’.

Soon afterwards a number of others were doing the same. It felt as if they joined in because it meant they were seen as cool.

You get special treatment if you say you are trans or non-binary and suddenly become the centre of attention when you ‘come out’.

As soon as a girl says she is a boy, her name is changed on the school register and students are told to use their chosen boy’s name.

Now, out of 200 students in my year, at least 20 say they’re trans — almost all are girls claiming to be boys or non-binary. Although there is one boy saying he’s a girl, this really is largely about girls saying they are boys. The kids in my year don’t say they are lesbian or gay, because those words are thought to be an insult.

There is a straight boy going out with a straight girl who says she is trans, so he now has to say that he’s bisexual. It’s often said by my schoolmates that trans girls are ‘better’ girls than ‘other girls’. I find this insulting. But the teachers don’t take any action even if they do hear conversations like this.

Recently, I was watching a news item with friends about the changes to the Gender Recognition Act in Scotland and every time a guest on the programme said, ‘this is a threat to sex-based rights’, my friends were sneering and laughing. It made me feel as though girls have no rights and are not respected in my school.

There is constant talk of transphobia and bigotry and many of the students who say they are trans constantly talk about being ‘victims’, with anyone who isn’t trans being the perpetrator.

Coming out as a lesbian or gay doesn’t have the same effect, but barely any students do, in my experience.

My friend Kelley* was ‘affirmed’ [accepted without question] as a boy in Year 7. She has serious mental health issues and is regularly off school as she self-harms.

Kelley socially transitioned without any teacher challenging her. She has a new name and can now use the boys’ changing rooms. All my friends pretty much believe in ‘gender identity’. Girls and boys are referred to by teachers and students as ‘assigned female at birth’ or ‘assigned male at birth’. This is shortened to AFAB and AMAB.

There is also confusing language such as the word for being attracted to non-binary people, ‘skoliosexual’. I find it ridiculous — but can’t say that.

There is a lot of breast-binding going on, too, but we don’t know who might be on puberty blockers because no one talks about that. One trans-identified girl wants to get a breast binder, but was complaining that her parents would not want her to.

I joined the Equalities Club because I believe in equal rights for all, then found it was impossible to talk about any group, other than trans people, that was discriminated against. There’s a rule against wearing badges in school but some students wear trans flag and pronoun badges and nobody tells them off.

Recently, a group of us were watching Prime Minister’s Questions and when MPs talked about maternity care, using the terms ‘birthing partner’ and ‘non-birthing partner’, I wondered out loud why they didn’t just say ‘mother’.

I was told off by a friend who said that not everyone with a cervix is a woman. I didn’t want to disagree because I knew what would happen — I would be publicly humiliated.

Until now, I’ve just gone along with most of it. But there are some things I can’t leave alone. For example, I really like J. K. Rowling but she was called a ‘TERF’ (Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminist) by a friend, who said she was heartbroken to hear that J.K. was ‘anti-trans’.

I asked in what way J.K. was transphobic but this friend couldn’t give me an answer, she just said: ‘I hope all TERFS drop dead.’ I was shocked by her anger.

There have also been violent comments on social media towards ‘transphobes’ with students from the school threatening to strangle them.

That’s why I’m writing this piece anonymously, although I believe I should be able to say these things without fear of attack. I want adults to know what it’s really like in schools like mine now.

*Names have been changed.

==

This confusion, this uncertainty isn't a bug of Queer Theory, it's the explicitly stated intent. When nobody can trust anything about the world, they can't know whether to oppress you or to give you the privileges associated with being an oppressor. No more "systemic" oppression. One of the big problems is that this constantly questioning your own perceptions is a tactic of Malignant Narcissistic Personality Disorder. It's no wonder it attracts narcissists.

https://segm.org/England-ends-gender-affirming-care

The new NHS guidance recognizes social transition as a form of psychosocial intervention and not a neutral act, as it may have significant effects on psychological functioning. The NHS strongly discourages social transition in children, and clarifies that social transition in adolescents should only be pursued in order to alleviate or prevent clinically-significant distress or significant impairment in social functioning, and following an explicit informed consent process.

It's Psych 101 that affirmation solidifies belief, because it wires the amygdala to accept the belief as reality. If you keep telling someone "yes, you are a victim, the world is out to get you," they'll become helpless and incapable. If a therapist actually recommended affirmation therapy for those with anorexia nervosa - "if you think you're overweight, you must be, since you're the expert on you. In fact, you could probably even stand to lose a few more lbs" - we'd know they were incompetent and dangerous.

https://cutdowntree.substack.com/i/54708841/metaphysics-of-marginalization

If those who are born Black or disabled are the chosen, trans people are the converts who have voluntarily accepted Marginalization. They choose to suffer more from their involuntary embodiment. Because of this, they become virtuous. They are saved.

[handeaux]

Special Delivery! Here Are 17 Curious Facts About The Cincinnati Post Office

On The Barrelhead The Cincinnati Post Office was established in 1794 and received soon after its first mail delivery, consisting of sixteen letters, two newspapers and a snuff box. All mail then was “collect on delivery” or COD – recipients paid the postage. Postage for a simple letter was 25 cents. The postmaster displayed all mail on top of a barrel at his house. Anyone wanting to collect mail paid the postmaster.

Returned To Sender Cincinnati’s first postmaster was an attorney and Revolutionary War veteran named Abner Dunn, who ran the local post office out of his house at the corner of Second and Butler streets. Postmaster Dunn died in 1795 after only a year in office and was buried in the backyard of his house, which was also the backyard of the post office. The site is now a parking lot near Sawyer Point Park.

Everybody Knew Your Business From 1799 up until Cincinnati adopted free home delivery in the late 1860s, the Post Office regularly published a list of all letters awaiting collection, so everybody in town knew when you had mail. If you ignored the published list for three months, your mail was sent to the dead letter office. The lists were extensive, occupying, in small type, as much as half a page in the Cincinnati Commercial or Gazette.

Keep It Under Your Hat Cincinnati’s fifth postmaster was an eccentric Methodist minister named William Burke, who served a very long term from 1814 to 1841. Possessed of a deep, guttural voice attributed to his lifelong addiction to chewing tobacco, Burke is remembered for personally delivering mail around town while making social calls. He kept the items to be delivered in his hat. It is said that “Father Burke,” as he was known, also delivered wise counsel to his patrons along with the mail.

Penny For Your Thoughts During the 1840s, Cincinnati experimented with home delivery, but charged for the service. Two “penny postmen” divided the downtown area, with Joseph Haskell taking the route north of Fourth Street, and Hiram Frazer delivering south of Fourth. Recipients, in addition to the standard postage, coughed up a penny for each letter delivered to their front door.

Inaugural Air Mail? The first mail at least partially delivered by air left Cincinnati on Independence Day 1835. Obviously, no airplane was involved. The pilot was the “Prince of Aeronauts,” Richard Clayton, and the vehicle was his renowned balloon, the Star of the West. Clayton ascended from an amphitheater constructed in the middle of Court Street between Race and Elm with, among other cargo, a satchel of mail intended for eastern cities. He crashed 100 miles away in Pike County and had the post office in Waverly, Ohio, send the letters the rest of the way. A trial involving an airplane in 1912 was really a gimmick in which mailbags picked up at Coney Island were dropped at the California Post Office, just 8,000 feet away.

What The Dickens? By 1825, stagecoaches had replaced pack horses as the primary vehicle for transporting mail throughout the Ohio Valley and nascent Midwest. In addition to letters and newspapers, mail coaches carried passengers and were often the most reliable means of travel available outside the East Coast. When Charles Dickens visited Cincinnati in 1842, he arrived by mail coach.

Postmaster Is The ‘Last Man’ On 6 October 1855, Cincinnati Postmaster John L. Vattier sat down to a most unusual dinner. His table was set for seven, but every place setting, excepting one, was empty. Vattier was the last of seven young Cincinnatian men who survived the 1832 cholera epidemic, bought a pricey bottle of wine, and pledged to meet each year for dinner, saving the bottle for the last of them to survive. On that evening, following the funeral of his last colleague, Vattier dined alone and drank the bottle in memory of his friends.

Postal Currency – What A Riot! As the United States struggled to finance the Civil War, an unintended consequence was a shortage of coins. The Post Office stepped up to alleviate the shortage by issuing postal currency in the form of “shinplaster” paper bills in fractions of a dollar. Public demand was so great in Cincinnati that a riot broke out at the distribution center on 5 November 1862. Although no one was seriously injured, federal troops called in to disburse the 2,000 rioters drew swords and attached bayonets to their rifles until calm was restored.

Shillito Becomes A Worthy Investment Cincinnati merchants, notably John Shillito of department store fame, devised creative ways to issue change when coins were scarce. During the coin-scarce Civil War, Shillito noted that his customers often used postage stamps as currency. Shillito crafted special circular cases to contain one-cent, three-cent or five-cent stamps and used them just like coins in providing change to customers. Today, an 1862 Shillito “encased postage” coin can bring as much as $1,250 at auction.

Hier wird Deutsch gesprochen You didn’t have to be German to manage the Cincinnati Post Office, but it didn’t hurt. Between the Civil War and the Twentieth Century, Cincinnati had 10 postmasters and fully half of them were born in Germany. Our Teutonic mail mavens were John C. Baum (1861 to 1864), Frederic John Mayer (1864 to 1866), Gustav Robert Wahle (1874 to 1878), John P. Loge (1878 to 1882) and John Zumstein (1891 to 1895).

Wayward Mail According to the Post [9 July 1891], Cincinnatians were lucky to receive any letters at all because of their incompetence at addressing envelopes. The Cincinnati Post Office reported that year 156,275 incorrectly addressed letters, 15,620 insufficiently addressed letters, 2,632 illegibly addressed letters, and 10,923 incorrectly stamped letters. In all, 279,385 pieces of wayward mail were returned to sender by exasperated Cincinnati postal clerks. The staff specifically assigned to decipher bad addresses were called “Nixie” clerks.

Babies By Mail The United States Post Office introduced parcel-post deliveries in 1913 and boasted that anything – anything at all – under 11 pounds was suitable for shipment. Taking the Post Office at its word, a Clermont County farming couple, Jesse and Matilda Beagle, made history on 25 January 1913 when they packed up their infant son, and shipped him off via parcel post to his grandparent’s house. The Associated Press claimed the Beagles were the first customers to utilize the new parcel post system in this manner.

Potatoes, Too! A Kentucky farmer did the math and determined that parcel post rates were cheaper than hiring a dray to get his potato crop to market. On 28 October 1916, the Cincinnati Post Office found 35 sacks of spuds, weighing 50 pounds each, waiting to be processed and delivered to a Court Street wholesaler. All 1,750 pounds of taters arrived at their appointed destination by mid-afternoon.

Photographic Memory Postal employees were legendary for their ability to accurately deliver mail bearing a minimal address. That skill was tested to an extreme in 1929 when an envelope arrived in Cincinnati bearing only a photograph of a building and the name of the city. A postal clerk recognized the building in the photograph. Sure enough, the letter was intended for Oliver F. Slimp, manager of the Edwards Building at 528 Walnut Street, the building pictured in the photograph pasted on the envelope.

The Porn Stops Here Federal investigators tracing the distribution of obscene materials throughout the Midwest found that most of the pornography was mailed from Cincinnati. On 28 November 1940, postal inspectors struck paydirt in a West Eighth Street warehouse, where they found 28 rolls of motion picture film, 2,000 photographs, 3,000 printed cartoons, a dozen cartons of obscene literature and related printing plates. Two Cincinnati men were arrested as a result of the raid.

End Of The Line Cincinnati’s art-deco styled Main Post Office on Dalton Street was originally constructed in 1933 as the Dalton Annex. The huge building was intentionally located adjacent to railroad lines and the new Union Terminal because so much mail was transported to Cincinnati by train. That advantage disappeared on 17 November 1974 when the iconic track-side facility received the last shipment of mail to arrive in Cincinnati by railroad.

[scotianostra]

Coldingham Priory was founded on 21st June 1098.

Coldingham Priory was a house of Benedictine monks. It lies on the south-east coast of Scotland, in the village of Coldingham, Berwickshire. Coldingham Priory was founded in the reign of David I of Scotland, although his older brother and predecessor King Edgar of Scotland had granted the land of Coldingham to the Church of Durham in 1098 so he gets the official credit for founding it and a church was constructed by him and presented in 1100.

The first prior of Coldingham is on record by the year 1147, although it is likely that the foundation was much earlier. The earlier Columban Abbey founded by St. Æbbe sometime circa 640 AD. Although the monastery was largely destroyed by Oliver Cromwell in 1648, there are still extant remains of the priory. The choir of which forms the present parish church of Coldingham, and is serviced by the Church of Scotland. The model shows how extensive the abbey was in Medieval times, although for me it lacks the grandiose that the border abbeys at Dryburgh, Melrose and Kelso have.

Having said that I the reconstruction doesn’t do it justice, as you can see in the ruinous 18th century drawing they have not incorporated the tower in the model, a shocking omission in my opinion.

The choir is a substantial rectangular building with a fine interior, now used as the parish church. The nave was a massive building with aisles and filled much of what is now the graveyard but is mostly gone, and there was a large tower, rising to 90 foot over the crossing. Some of the domestic buildings are very ruinous but have been cleared and landscaped, and carved fragments and gravestones are on display as well as a transept arch.

As with all the border towns an abbeys it had a turbulent history, the priory was sacked in 1216, 1419 and 1542 by the English, besieged by the Scots in 1544, then attacked again by the English. Mary, Queen of Scots, stayed here in 1566. An ‘abbey place’ is mentioned in 1621, presumably a residence in the priory, but much of the building was damaged by Cromwell’s forces in 1648 (or 1650) after a two-day siege with cannon. The large central tower collapsed in the middle of the 18th century.

The lands of the priory had gone to the Homes after the Reformation, then to the Stewarts, then later to the Homes again, while the choir of the priory was (and is) used as the parish church (Priory Church).

The grand tower collapsed in 1770, apparently revealing the cadaver of a lady who had been sealed up in the walls, and the remains of the church were renovated in the 1850s and 1950s. There are many interesting memorials in the extensive graveyard and pleasant walks around the scenic village. There is a fine beach at Coldingham Bay.

I don't think you get the sheer scale of the Priory until you see something like Andrew Sparatts mock up gif of how it could have looked, as in the animation.

There’s a great timeline of the abbey here

https://www.coldinghamparish.co.uk/.../COLDINGHAM-PRIORY...

[tripthelightfandomtastic]

thinking abt cowboy danny, riding his while he’s wearing a big black cowboy hat, maybe he even has a bit of a southern accent. I NEED IT SO BAD ITS NOT EVEN FUNNY

OH GOD MY SOUTHERN HEART IS GOING TO BE RIPPED TO SHREDS LETS FUCKIN DO IT.

Living with your boyfriend on the road while on tour sounded like a lot of fun, and it is! But it's just the times you are in a place you don't know almost 3 times a week, makes you feel like a fish out of water. The way you've been homesick too as well doesn't help. You almost feel like a baby talking about your home state so much, but Danny and the boys are always interested to hear all about it. Sometimes the boys even tease you for your accent, you don't think it's very thick but being born and raised in the south, it's kinda hard not to. But the accents the boys put on just makes you laugh or roll your eyes from their playful ribbing.

It's not until after the few shows from your home state are over and you are off to the next state, the home sickness is really taking its toll. Sitting at some restaurant in some east coast town, picking at your food you can't help but wish you were back home. Surrounded by the familiar weather, delicious comfort food, and places you knew without having to use a GPS is all you need. Even just hearing a familiar accent would set your mind at ease.

Danny can see the look of despair on your features, silent amongst the ever present chatter of the Kiszka’s. "You okay?" He'd ask softly, not wanting to put all the focus of the table on you. "It's dumb." "Why would you say that?" "Because I miss home and if I do talk about it, I'm going to cry and I don't wanna cry." You mumble pushing the food around your plate. Danny only places a comforting hand on your back, slowly running up and down your back as you try to focus on the conversation at hand.

A few days go by and you finally get to spend the night off the bus and in a hotel, a room with a bed not attached to an engine and wheels, thank god. You ran down stairs to grab a few snacks from the little shop in the lobby, only to return to the room in almost complete darkness besides the lamp in the corner shining on Danny, classic country music playing softly in the background. Danny sits half naked in the armchair in the corner in sunglasses, jeans and a black cowboy hat some fan must've tossed on stage a few shows ago.

"Howdy, little lady." Danny smirks, tilting the brim of the hat to you. The display makes you grin wide, "What's all this?" You ask, setting down the goodies on the dresser. "Wanted to make you feel a little more at home." He smirks as he stands taking his sunglasses off as he makes his way over to you, he holds out your hand, Neon Moon plays in the background making you giggle. "You've always liked this song haven't you? You taught me to two step to this song." He smiles reminiscing on the wedding you two went to, the first time you and Danny had been to together. You take his hand gently, he pulls you close to him, "Mm I've always loved this song. You had two left feet then." You chuckle at the memory. Danny spins you, "That was a while ago, I ain't that bad of a dancer no more." "Okay Danny, darlin, I'm southern, not uneducated." You grin at his attempt. "And do not say it's the same thing or I will not so accidentally step on your foot." You smile making Danny chuckle. "I wouldn't dream of it."

The song fades out and is replaced by some old George Strait tune. "You really do know me, huh?" "Well you are my favorite cowgirl." He smiles, leaning in to kiss your lips. It's a sweet kiss, one that makes you sway to song, "But how 'bout them cowgirls," he sings along with the song holding you close to his warm chest, you smile against him. You kiss at his neck, "You really know how to make a girl feel loved." You smile.

"Because I love ya." He smirks before kissing you again. "Let me make you feel at home, pretty baby." He whispers against your lips, his accent adding a rasp to his voice making your heart flutter.

You kiss him back hard, your hands going to back and holding him closer to you, Danny leans down to you, "Jump." He whispers, you do as he says, letting Danny hold you around his waist. He walks over to the edge of the bed, sitting down to have you in hit lap. It's hot and heavy fast, his hands pulling off your shirt and your bra with ease. Your own hands work at his jeans, "Ya know, most cowboys don't wear their jeans this tight." "Well, my Wranglers were hanging out on the line so." He smiles charmingly against your lips as you lift yourself to get at the fastening of his pants.

Danny pulls down your shorts and underwear until it's just you two and Danny's cowboy hat. He goes to pull it off, "No no." You say in a hurry, a bit quicker than you anticipated. Danny freezes, "Keep it on." You whisper, fixing the hat on his curly head. "Save a horse, ride a cowboy type of thing?" "Yeah, that kinda thing." You say with a blush creeping into your cheeks.

Danny moves the both of you further on to the bed, his back against the wooden bedframe. His erection resting against his stomach, you lower yourself down on to him, slow and carefully until he's fully inside of you. You both groan at the feeling of the other and lean into him holding yourself up by his shoulders. "Come on cowgirl, show me how you ride." He teases with a deepness to his voice and a drawl that makes you clench around him. You begin to move against him, feeling him stretch you out, his hands on your hips helping you move, dull nails digging into your ass.

You moan as he brushes against your gspot as you grind down against him. "Fuck baby." You moan, eyes hooded in pleasure, Danny brings his hand down and runs his fingers over your clit. You can't help but move faster against him, his lips kissing at your chest as you bounce, groans and harsh breaths leaving his pretty pink lips.

Your legs begin shaking from riding him, Danny smirks as he pulls you closer to you, "So close. Come on baby, let me make you cum for me." He whispers in your ear before he begins to slam his hips up into you, his cock slamming deeper and harder inside of you, making you cry out his name and dig your nails into his shoulders.

It doesn't take much longer between Danny's fingers and his cock you are a moaning mess. You cum hard all over Danny's cock, clenching tight all around him, your face buried in the crook of his neck as he moans your name and cums only moments behind you.

You roll off of Danny, gasping for breath, your eyes hardly able to stay open. You let your head roll to the side, taking in the look of a fucked out, blush red and sweating Danny in a black felt cowboy hat. You can't help but smile and laugh to yourself, "Did mighty fine cowboy." You grin, mocking his bad fake accent. Danny chuckles before taking his hat off, placing it on your own head, "Looks better on you anyway." He whispers before running the back of his index finger over your cheek, "I can't wait to take you out dancing again." You smile, "Only if I get cowboy boots first." He teases, "Oh, that can be arranged."