#dr rose north

[missr3n3]

affirmations for when u find urself in a tale of the cabin variety

[entropyvoid]

Golden Hour (+ lineart below cut)

I took a picture of the lines for once and did some basic crappy photo editing on my phone, so you could probably print this out and use it as a coloring page or something if you so wish lol. Do with it what you will.

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Johann Sebastian Bach - Toccata and Fugue in D minor, BWV 565 1700s

The Toccata and Fugue in D minor, BWV 565, is a composition for organ by German composer Johann Sebastian Bach and is one of the most widely recognisable works in the organ repertoire. Although the date of its origin is unknown, scholars have suggested between 1704 and the 1750s. The piece opens with a toccata section followed by a fugue that ends in a coda, and is largely typical of the north German organ school of the Baroque era. Little was known about its early existence until the piece was discovered in an undated manuscript produced by Johannes Ringk. It was first published in 1833 during the early Bach Revival period through the efforts of composer Felix Mendelssohn, who also performed the piece in 1840. It was not until the 20th century that its popularity rose above that of other organ compositions by Bach, as exemplified by its inclusion in Walt Disney's 1940 animated film Fantasia that featured Leopold Stokowski's orchestral transcription from 1927.

BWV 565 was used as film music well before the sound film era, becoming a cliché to illustrate horror and villainy. Its first uses in sound film included the 1931 film Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and the 1934 film The Black Cat. The 1950 film Sunset Boulevard used BWV 565 as a joking reference to the horror genre. The 1962 film adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera used BWV 565 in the suspense and horror sense.

Recordings of BWV 565 that have appeared on popular music charts include rockband Sky's 1980 rock-inspired recording (#83 on Billboard Hot 100, #5 on UK Singles Chart) and Vanessa-Mae's 1994 violin recording (#24 on the Billboard charts). Eurodance music act 2 Unlimited's 1994 hit "The Real Thing" uses BWV 565 and, in a list published by Classic FM and PRS for Music, was revealed to be among the best-selling pop singles to incorporate classical music.

Toccata and Fugue D minor, BWV 565 received a total of 94,7% yes votes! 🎉

[nimuetheseawitch]

SGA Summer Vacation Recs

So, a few weeks ago, a friend asked for longfic recommendations to read while on vacation, and I did not really realize how many I was recommending at the time. Seemed like a good idea to make a post about it.

Time in a Bottle by astolat, 14K (not originally on my list because it was too short, but it's too perfect for a summer reading list, so I added it), McShep, Rated E, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a Wild Flower / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And Eternity in an hour.

The Long Dark (series) by @logicgunn, 141K, McShep, Rated G-E but the first is M, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings An astronomical event causes two strangers to crash land on a remote island in the frozen Canadian north. Cue a fluffy slow burn in a survival setting.

Lord John Sheppard Versus Earth by LitGal, 61K, McShep, Rated M, Graphic Depictions of Violence Canon diverged before Jackson found Atlantis. The IOC stepped in and decided to make things more efficient. A gene testing program brought Major John Sheppard into the program earlier, but budget constraints and international treaties have kept Dr. Jackson out of the antarctic. So now John has to find his own team--and his own geek--or he's in danger of being stuck in the mountain forever as a light switch. However, as the universe changes, fate forces some things to return to proper form, and other things… they get wildly out of control. John isn't sure how he came to be Earth's enemy, but he's going to have to deal with the cards he's dealt.

Teamwork by onthewaters, 24K, McShep and others, Rated E, Graphic Depictions of Violence There is an Earth where things have turned out a little differently, and the people who go to Atlantis aren't quite the ones we know. AKA The one where Rodney is a Mountie.

The Doctor and the Sheppard by @hero-in-waiting, 70K, McShep, Rated E They've been in Pegasus for a year before Rodney is finally allowed to go off-world to meet with the mysterious leader of a group of allies against the wraith. The first meeting goes well, sending them down a path none of them could've foreseen, and leaving Rodney with thoughts of the mysterious leader with his bright eyes and dark hair.

The Hard Prayer by Rheanna, 30K, McShep, Rated M One year after the end of the world, John meets another survivor.

In Sickness and in Health by @a-storm-of-roses, 31K, McShep, Rated E "So I told a little lie, just to get you back to Atlantis. It was the only way, so try not to get too mad. I told them we were married.” When John suffers a major, life-changing injury on Earth, Rodney must pretend to be his husband to ensure his return to Atlantis. As he struggles to navigate recovery and accept his new reality, John must also come to terms with his new role as Rodney's husband and the new dynamics in their relationship. A story of healing, recovery, loss, love, and acceptance.

Enigma by sgamadison, McShep, 32K, McShep, Rated E, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings During an off-world mission, a piece of Ancient technology transports Rodney and John on a one-way trip to a deserted airfield. Working together to get back, it takes a vivid dream to make Rodney realize what's been in front of him all along.

Bridges by bussaiko, 52K, McShep, Rated E Engineer Rodney McKay went to North Carolina's Crystal Coast to help his sister design a series of bridges. He hoped to rebuild his career following a professional disaster; he didn't expect to be drawn into the small community of Athos Island, where he found friendship and perhaps something more with helicopter pilot John Sheppard. But when Rodney tries to learn more about John's past, what he discovers might tear them apart. (non-Stargate AU)

Apocalypse Rising by sian1359, 81K, McShep, Rated M, Graphic Depictions of Violence The Goa'uld are not the only ones who covet Earth.

Zen and the Art of Jumper Maintenance by Indybaggins, 39K, McShep, Rated M The one where Rodney gets sucked in and John… follows. Featuring a quirky John, Rodney in orange robes, crazy Ancient-worship, sheep milking and jumpers that aren't broken but need to be fixed anyway.

Black Helicopters (series) by whizzy, 141K, McShep, Rated T-E but the first is M, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Screw the bet. Rodney was going to prove the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence. Oh, and incidentally, he might just catch the United States Air Force with their pants around their ankles.

Pegasus Purgatorio by MrsHamill, 127K, McShep, Rated E, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings It is difficult to write a paradise when all the superficial indications are that you ought to write an apocalypse. It is obviously much easier to find inhabitants for an inferno or even a purgatorio. (Ezra Pound) Yeah, I'd say that about covers it, Ezra. John and Rodney are left behind when Atlantis (and, by extension, Pegasus) is evacuated. While returning to the Milky Way, they decide to bring a few friends along.

What A Wonderful Bunker You Would Make by ocdindeed, 50K, McShep, Rated M Summary in simple words: Rodney is recluse and John has a kid. Summary in not so simple words: Rodney McKay has given up on the world, living a simple life up on a mountain devoid of people. He likes it that way, at least he did until a kid with a full head of dark hair ambled up his dirt driveway and changed his sequestered life forever. (AU - Set during SG1 & Pre-SGA timeline.)

G******, Tramps, and Thieves* (series) by auburn, 372K, McShep and a whole lot more, Rated T-M, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, later fics Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Vala Mal Doran and her partners, renegades Jehan abd-Ba'al and Meredith McKay, hijack the Tau'ri ship Prometheus and leave the Milky Way behind in search of the Lost City of the Ancients, Atlantis.

*I censored this title due to a common racial slur

[i-cant-sing]

Dr snow hear me out. So I’m North African right now? Ikr so cool anyway if I was in the 12th century I would be a direct descendant of dihya al Kahina and I would be angsty and upset about the loss of my royal status as princess in the matriarchal amazigh society after the Arabs came so I would train and become the best archer in North Africa and look for ways to restore my dignity and honour the matriarchy of my great great great great grandmother. I would wake up one day and get a tanit tattoo on my forehead and then seek help of the one and only in all of the levant….king Baldwin , we would meet in some random setting in the desert , I would ride a camel and he would have a white horse , I would come unarmed fierce and feisty to impress him with my bravery or so he thought because I did in fact have a dagger strapped to my thigh under my royal blue satin dress with a slit that he can’t see so he would never know I truly was armed…He would see an angsty angry upset wretched hurt soul within me instead of the fake strength mask I had put on through his wisdom and imaginable charisma . We would play chess , I would win , he would agree to help me after that . In the end , he would heal my soul from hostility towards Arabs and from the dangers of revenge and I would become a delicate rose with a tempered soul who was truly strong and possessed a lot of wisdom and compassion instead of an angsty reckless impulsive little girl. We would live happily ever after then and throw balls every season.

idk why but the visuals is reminding me of assassin's creed odyssey and im a sucker for AC games

honestly, yes baldwin would help you but he would 1000% know that you are armed and he would NEVER lose a chess game. im sorry but u could be idk magnus carlson, and baldwin would still be able to beat you. the only way youre winning is if baldwin lets you win because you might be a sore loser and ur angsty ass needs a win for once.

baldwin is the embodiment of beauty with brains, and this dude is so wise and smart, most people actually underestimate him because of his age (because they think age = experience) but its also because baldwin often downplays his intelligence. he's not the type to immediately spring into action, no- baldwin likes to observe, likes to set everything into place and let the dominoes fall into place. he's not someone who waits for an opportunity, no hes the one creates an opportunity. only a fool would wait for the circumstances to be in their favour. baldwin makes the circumstances favour him.

[cillianmesoftlyyy]

The Experiment Pt. 1 | Jonathan Crane x Reader

Summary| Jonathan Crane assigns his students a new experimental project: choose a phobia and research methods for coping with or completely overcoming those fears in test subjects. A student approaches Dr. Crane with an interesting project proposition... can he help her overcome her fear?

Warnings| Teacher x student relationship (both are consenting adults), Borderline sexual assault between a bf and gf, Erotophobia, Smutty stuff yk , Masturbation, P in V penetration, Teasing, Semi-public, Unprotected sex, Begging, Experiments. Extensive discussions of sex and intimacy.

"Oh My God"- Ida Maria 🎵

"Lazy Eye"- Silversun Pickups 🎶

"Romantic Lover" Eyedress 🎵

Word count: 3375k

Minors do not interact!!

.............................................................................................................

He leaned back on the desk behind him, his hands flat against the surface and his suit coat spread like grayish wings against his arms. Dr. Crane looked between his students, landing on a female student,  squinting against the projector’s harsh glare in his eyes. She looked back from her seat near the back of the lecture hall, a small twist forming between her eyebrows as she read the text on the screen just above his head. 

“I expect this won’t be much of a surprise to most of you, considering we’ve been working towards this for the greater part of the semester.” He watched the dozens of eyes in his hall blink rapidly in response and swallowed his distaste. 

“Remember that I study phobias- fear- and from the looks on some of your faces, it appears quite a few of you are afraid.” He chuckled darkly and changed the slide, the light flickered against the students’ faces. 

“Choose a phobia, research it, and develop methods of coping or even ways to overcome this phobia. You should have a test subject and a complete study, all of which should be straightforward considering the work you’ve done with me in the past weeks. The research paper you turn in will account for 30% of your final grade. Take this seriously. These are your instructions. Other questions can be directed to the syllabus. Only come to me if you have specific concerns regarding the experiment- I’m doing research of my own and don’t have time to meet with all of you.” He swallowed, scanning the class again and landing on the girl from before. 

Faye Greyson, why is it that her papers are so well written but she contributes nothing to class discussions? She seemed so pathetic sitting up there on the back row with her big doe eyes caught in the headlights of his lectures…he thought briefly and let it slide from his head as he dismissed the class. The college students around him fled from the room, talking quietly to one another as they scrambled out of the room. The girl came down the steps and brushed past him gently. She smelled like generic soap and rose water. He wrinkled his nose slightly, breathing her in. 

“Sorry, professor.” She apologized kindly with a smile that showed too much of her pink gums. 

“Watch it.” He muttered beneath his breath, giving the back of her head a dark glare and turning to pack up his briefcase. He took the rail to his lab on the north side of town, a book open across his lap. He fingered page 16, running his index against the straight edge of the paper and turning it quickly as he read. The doors opened at one of the stops and he glanced up briefly, fixing the horn-rimmed glasses on his face. He rolled his eyes when we saw Faye board the train from the yellowed platform, hand in hand with another student from his class. One of the boys that took the class because they were naturally gifted but did nothing besides attend some classes and depend on their smarts to barely pass. He would have some harsh realities to face by the end of the semester when he saw his final grade, Crane would make sure of that. 

He hated seeing students outside of class, it prompted them to speak to him when he’d rather both parties pretend they didn’t know each other. To be fair, they really didn’t know each other. Crane didn’t find his students very interesting so he wasn’t concerned with getting to know them. The only aspect he could muster some ounce of thoughtful contemplation for was their phobia projects, where he theorized, they would all most likely choose their own phobias. Knowing their phobias was about as interesting as their lives could get for him. Besides that, he could care less. 

The train was full so the girl held onto one of the rubber handles suspended from the ceiling, but because she was so short, she had to stand on her tiptoes to fully grasp the handle, her knuckles turned white in her grip. The boy… maybe Jason White (Crane couldn’t remember exactly) took one of the ceiling bars easily and slipped his arm around the girl’s waist. Their puffy coats slid against one another as they swayed in the fastly moving train car. The boy's hand left her waist and traveled up, somewhat discreetly, to one of her breasts. With her free hand, she swatted him away but he persisted, thinking that it was a game. Faye happened to glance over in Crane’s direction and recognizing him immediately, turned bright red. The boy’s hand slid over her hardened nipple visible through her pink jersey turtleneck. She tried to cover her chest with her arm but as the train shuttered in speed, she had to stabilize herself with her free hand against a plastic partitioner. Crane cleared his throat distastefully and returned to his book.

For some, the absence of fear is a greater disaster than fear itself. To fear nothing is to have no conception of danger, empathy, pain, or love. Do sociopaths fear? Some scientists have sought to answer this question but the evidence is inconclusive on the subject, though it is nearly unanimous among the scientific community that fear is essential to survival and companionship. It is the primal root of our existence and should be a present factor in every major part of our lives. It is how we make connections with others and how we protect ourselves and our own. For sociopaths who may not fear, they lack a basic foundation of complexity that supports an emotionally ‘typical’ person. They lack love, understanding, and hope because they do not feel the fear of potential loss, misunderstanding, and dread in the same situation. 

“Stop it, Jason.” The girl whispered harshly to the boy. 

“No one’s looking.” He whispered back and kissed her neck, the sound causing a wave of communal discomfort amongst the rail riders. 

“Perhaps not but we can still hear.” Crane muttered beneath his breath and raised his eyes to the young couple. The girl looked to be on the verge of tears, her face so pink it nearly matched the hue of her shirt. Crane noticed the small curvature of her breasts still showing through the fabric. 

“Damn the cold.” Faye whispered and covered her chest with her arm with embarrassment and Jason laughed condescendingly. 

“Don’t go blaming that on the cold….” Jason cornered her against the wall of the rail which Crane assumed would have been attractive to someone who wasn’t standing uncomfortably on a moving public train. 

“Can we at least just wait till we get off? I don’t…” She trailed off, making eye contact with the professor who was now thoroughly annoyed. Jason looked over too, finally seeing Crane across the doors. 

“Hello Mr. White.” Crane hissed, showing his deepest displeasure at having to step in for the sake of every passenger on the train.

“Professor.” Jason responded nervously. 

“Miss Greyson.” He nodded in her direction.

“Professor.” She whispered back in a weak mew of a voice. 

Crane stood, slid his book back into his briefcase, and clicked it shut. The doors opened at his stop and he turned around casually saying, ''behave yourselves,” to the two students and stepped down onto the platform. The doors closed behind him. He turned to face the windows cut into the doors, making eye contact with the girl, now visibly crying, overwhelmed and embarrassed. He tipped his head to the side, watching her, and raised an eyebrow as she looked up and met his clear blue eyes. The train shot away from the platform, sailing against the New York City skyline. 

“Hmm,” Crane hummed to himself and walked away, pursuing his chapped lips to whistle a low note.

——-—— 

His class met twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the evening. He commuted to work, taking a train to the college in the morning and working through the day until he could commute back to his lab and then to his small apartment where he slept most nights when he didn’t fall asleep on his pages of research and diagrams. 

Last night was one of those nights, so he wasn’t in a good mood as he boarded a later train than he usually took for his evening lecture. The train’s wheels squealed as they stopped in the station outside NYU. Crane hurried off and squeezed through the mess of people lining the subterranean station. He walked quickly through the station and raced up the stairs to the street level. He was met by the familiar sound of taxis whizzing by and the annoying laughter of students as they passed on their way to classes and dorms. 

He went straight to his corner office and put coffee on, relaxing as the smell of the brewing grounds filled his small office. He scanned his lecture notes on a pad of manilla paper and with a red pen, scribbled additional thoughts in the rigid margins. The coffee maker sputtered to a stop, steaming up the window just behind it. Crane pushed away from his desk and filled a small cup with the hot coffee. As he placed it on his desk, a hesitant knock sounded at the door. He checked his Rolex and muttered beneath his breath. 

“Shit. What the fuck is it now?” He gritted his teeth, “come in!”

His office door opened slowly and a girl stepped inside the room. Faye Greyson wringing her small hands, took a step toward his desk. 

“Good evening, Professor.” She greeted him quietly. Her nose and the tops of her ears were tinged with red. 

“Miss Greyson, what is it?” He sat back at his desk and cleared his throat. 

“Well, I just…” She trailed off pathetically and wrapped her arms around herself. She was wearing a light blue turtleneck this time with dark blue boot-cut jeans. They were low rise and showed the small pouch of her stomach that surrounded her bellybutton. 

He waited for her to finish her sentence but as the seconds dragged on, he sighed. 

“Would you like some coffee?” He asked with a hint of unkindness. 

“Yes, actually. Thank you.” The girl pulled the chair on the other side of the desk back and sat down, dropping her bookbag on the floor beside her. Crane took a second cup and poured her some coffee. She took it carefully and accidentally brushed her thumb against his. She muttered an apology. 

“Why are you here?” Crane asked plainly, removing his glasses and wiping them with a small cloth. 

“I just… well I just wanted…” she started again. 

“Yes I know, you said that before.” He chuckled darkly and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, losing his patience. 

“Right. I just wanted to apologize for the other night, Dr. Crane.” She said finally, exhaling between her lips sharply. 

“Apologize for what?” Crane furrowed his eyebrows and blew on his steaming coffee, trying to remain patient with his student. 

“For what you saw on the train.” She cupped her hands around the mug, her eyes held tightly to the adjacent wall, refusing to meet his. 

“Ah.” He sat back in his chair. “I’d forgotten about it but I still don’t see why you need to apologize. You’re an adult, Miss Greyson. What you do in your personal life doesn’t interest me in the slightest.” He shuffled through his papers again, searching for the scans he had prepped. 

“I’m glad that you see it that way, sir. Why I felt like I needed to apologize for was the whole scene we caused and how you felt responsible to say something when he wouldn’t… stop. So, maybe what I’m trying to do is thank you?” Her voice ended at an odd nasally pitch. 

“Thank me? For what? For telling you and your boyfriend to behave yourselves?” He was getting more and more confused as to why she was in his office talking to him about a train ride that he had almost forgotten about. He checked his watch again and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. 

“Yes, because he stopped after that, so thank you.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs and he could smell that familiar scent of rose water permeating the air inside his office. 

“Alright, you’re welcome.” Crane exhaled tightly and cleared his throat when she didn’t stand or say anything else. “Is there something else?” She nodded and blushed deeper, shifting in her chair. His jaw clenched and his palms were sweaty. Out with it, he wanted to growl. His lecture started in an hour and at this rate, they would both be late.

“I broke up with him.” She said finally as a tear rolled down her face, gliding along the shallow cliff of her cheekbone. He said nothing, restraining himself from saying anything at that point. She sniffled and hiccuped pitifully. He pitched his eyebrows together with his index and thumb, placing his glasses on the desk between them. 

“Why?” He asked finally. 

“Because I was scared of him.” The girl answered, crying softly and playing with her hands in her lap. She looked up at him with wide eyes, red and faintly smudged. His body subconsciously perked up at the mention of fear and he leaned forward on his elbows, his dress jacket’s elbow patches grinding against the wood surface. 

“Well it wasn’t that I was scared of him but rather what I felt like I’d have to do with him.” She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. Crane took a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it begrudgingly. She took it and blotted her nose where snot was leaking down onto her upper lip. He felt a fixture of disgust and surprise arousal. Her long eyelashes stuck together with sticky tears and she but her lip to keep from crying. 

“I’m not sure I follow you.” He pushed his glasses up farther. He lifted his cup of coffee to his lips and drank deeply. 

“I was scared of having sex with him.” She hid her face behind her shaky hand, the white handkerchief wavered in the movement. Crane swallowed loudly and set the cup down, clearing his throat. 

“Well…” He traced his mouth with the edge of his thumb, reaching for words to respond with. 

“It's erotophobia.” She added and hiccuped. 

“Fear of intimacy, interesting.” He scanned his bookshelf for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?” He sighed and rearranged himself in his chair. 

“I want to do my project on erotophobia,” she took a slow sip from her cup of coffee and took a deep breath, “and I want to be the subject too.” She glanced up, testing the durability of their eye contact. He didn’t look away, he was fascinated. 

“I don’t know about that, Miss Greyson.” He answered smoothly and collected his papers into a neat pile, clamping a large binder clip around the papers. He stood and took one last sip of coffee, still looking down at the girl below. 

“I’ve been looking for subjects since I saw this on the syllabus a month ago. There aren’t any, Professor.” She said timidly, sounding almost exhausted.

“That’s impossible, we live in New York City. You must have been able to find someone!" He laughed and collected his things into his arms. 

“And yet,” she stood and clasped a hand around her opposite arm, “I can’t find anyone. To be fair, this sort of thing isn’t easy to find in the population. Other people in the class will choose their own phobias, why can’t I do mine?” She turned as Crane stepped around his desk and went to his office door. 

“This is a very special situation, Miss Greyson. While I find your project topic surprisingly thought provoking, it’s…” He struggled to find an adjective. 

“Inappropriate?” She offered, lowering her head. 

“Perhaps but I don’t really care. I just worry that by you conducting the experiment and being the subject, you are jeopardizing the entire outcome of your research. It's unorthodox to say the least.” He opened the door and stepped out. The girl grabbed her bookbag and followed, standing off to the side while he locked his office door. 

“Yes, I know sir.” 

He walked quickly and she followed, matching his stride even with her shorter legs in tow. At the door of the lecture hall, Crane stopped. 

“We can talk about this later,” he nodded down at the girl and went straight to his desk on the elevated platform. She smiled shyly and climbed the stairs to the middle section of seats and sat, closer to the front that she had been before. Crane saw the old boyfriend in the same seat as before, chewing on the end of a wooden pencil. Exhaling, Crane dropped his briefcase on his desk and began to unpack the papers he needed for the lecture. 

________

After he dismissed class, he repacked his things and snapped his case shut, the sound echoing around him in the large room. The girl waited just behind him, he could feel her presence like an unseen bug hovering out of reach. 

“I-” Faye started but Crane spun around, interrupting her. 

“Have you tried masturbation?” He crossed his arms across his chest and sat on the desk. His student blushed and laughed nervously.

“See this is why I worry about you jeopardizing your own experiment. I asked you about masturbation, will your subject try masterbating to approach correcting her fear of sex?” He inclined his head in her direction. 

“Yes, she’s tried it,  Professor.” She responded short of breath. 

“And it hasn’t helped?” He furrowed his brow. 

“Not exactly.” 

He licked his lips quickly and brushed a hand across his mouth. “And uh, what does the subject think about while she masterbates?” He watched her shift uncomfortably between her feet and bit her lip. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Hmmm.” Crane hummed and stood up from the desk. He stepped down from the platform and stopped right in front of the girl. She looked up at him, her eyes wet and heavy with color. She took a step back prompting a quiet tittering from her teacher who stopped her.

“Ah, ah.” He closed the distance between them, not touching her but getting close enough to smell the residue of generic soap caught on the goosebumps of her skin. 

Crane leaned in, his wide lips brushing her earlobe as he spoke, “does your subject watch pornography?” Her skin warmed beneath his lips. 

“No.” Her breath hitched and Crane could physically feel her discomfort at his intimate proximity, the rush of blood to her… 

“Has she ever had sex?” He whispered, allowing his lips to rest on the ridges of her small ear. She shivered. 

“No.” 

He pulled away. The girl exhaled and looked up to the ceiling. With strong, angular fingers, Crane pulled her chin down to face slightly so that he could see her eyes. They glistened with inklings of fear- fear. 

“Then that’s what it is.” He muttered more to himself than to Faye, smiling. 

“What?” She asked, tears forming in the wells of her eyes. 

“It’s the physical aspect of it, isn’t it? Having to touch someone, be touched… outside of your imagination?” He crossed his arms across his chest proudly. A few moments of silence passed between them, each watching the other in contemplative stillness, charged with suggestive energy. 

“Yes.” She whispered finally and ran one of her hands up the buttons of her professor’s shirt to his neck. She went to kiss him but he stepped away and chuckled roughly. 

“No, no Miss Greyson. Think of the experiment.” He chided and turned her chin gently away, trailing his hands down a tendon in her neck. 

“Tell your subject to try masturbation and pornography. See where it takes her.” He took his briefcase and pushed past her, leaving a residue of rich cologne in the air around her.

---------

end of part 1 :)

[longliveblackness]

Hidden History: The Southbound Path to Freedom

When we think of the history of slavery in Texas, Juneteenth in Galveston often comes to mind. However, historians Samuel Collins Ill and Dr. Juan Govea reveal a deeper story that predates Juneteenth by decades. Long before the Emancipation Proclamation, Hispanic abolitionists played a crucial role in helping enslaved people escape to Mexico.

In Texas, the Underground Railroad didn't just lead north; it also ran south. Mexico, having outlawed slavery, welcomed fugitive slaves, offering them freedom and citizenship.

This lesser-known chapter of history shows that enslaved people were not just waiting to be rescued. Many saved for years to pay for their escape to Mexico, demonstrating immense resilience and determination.

Marriages between Mexican men and enslaved African women further illustrate the deep bonds and solidarity in this fight for freedom.

Some who found freedom in Mexico went on to build successful lives. For example, a former slave of Sam Houston became a barber in Matamoros, while another rose to the rank of officer in the Mexican army.

These stories challenge us to broaden our understanding of the Underground Railroad and recognize the diverse efforts that contributed to the fight against slavery. Let's honor the courage and solidarity of those who took the southbound path to freedom, and those who assisted them.

•••

Historias Escondidas: El camino hacia la libertad en dirección al sur

Cuando pensamos en la historia de la esclavitud en Texas, Juneteenth o el Día de la Liberación es lo primero que cruza nuestras mentes. Sin embargo, los historiadores Samuel Collins Ill y Dr. Juan Govea, revelan una historia que sucedió muchas décadas antes del Día de la Liberación. Mucho antes de la Proclamación de Emancipación, los abolicionistas hispanos jugaron un papel crucial en ayudar a las personas esclavizadas a escapar hacia México.

En Texas, el Ferrocarril Subterráneo no solo se dirigía al norte, también se dirigía al sur. México, al ilegalizar la esclavitud, le daba la bienvenida a fugitivos esclavizados, ofreciéndoles libertad y ciudadanía.

Este capítulo de la historia de cual no muchos saben, demuestra que las personas esclavizadas no solo estaban esperando a ser rescatadas. Muchos ahorraron por años para pagar por su escape hacia México, demostrando que tenían inmensa determinación y resiliencia.

Los matrimonios entre hombres mexicanos y mujeres africanas esclavizadas, demuestran aún más los lazos profundos y la solidaridad en esta lucha por la libertad.

Algunos de los que encontraron libertad en México, construyeron vidas exitosas. Por ejemplo: uno de los antiguos esclavos de Sam Houston se convirtió en barbero estando en Matamoros, mientras que otro ascendió al rango de oficial en el ejército mexicano.

Estas historias nos desafían a ampliar nuestra comprensión sobre el Ferrocarril Subterráneo y a reconocer los diversos esfuerzos que contribuyeron a la lucha contra la esclavitud. Honremos la valentía y la solidaridad de quienes tomaron el camino del sur hacia la libertad y de quienes los ayudaron.

[minjiuhildegard]

Steel Heart

Part 2 of ?

Not my gif.

English is not my native language.

Patrick Jane x Oc! Irina Arkhangelsky.

Summary : Jane continues investigating the murder of Corporal Lucy Greene and makes progress in his personal investigation into the Woman of Steel. Word count : 4.0k

After his conversation with Rose, Jane walked calmly down the hallway of the building, the sound of her footsteps echoing on the smooth floor. He spotted Lisbon, who was sitting on a waiting bench, her body slightly leaning forward and her expression attentive as she scrolled through her phone.

“Cho sent the copy of the emergency call.” Without standing up, she extended the phone to Jane. “Listen.”

Jane took the device with a curious expression, pressing the play button on the audio. He brought the phone close to his ear as he sat next to Teresa on the bench, adjusting himself on the uncomfortable seat.

On the other end, the recording began, and the tension in the man's voice immediately caught both of their attention:

“Doctor! I need a doctor!” the man's voice cried out, desperate. “Lucy is hurt.”

“Calm down, sir. Where are you?” the woman responded, her tone firm yet reassuring.

“I’m…” The hesitation in the man's voice was evident; he stuttered before continuing urgently. “I’m on Wyoga Lake Avenue, 20 meters north of St. Sebastian’s Church. Her throat’s been cut. There’s so much blood,” he said, almost choking on his words from distress.

“Wait. I’ll send a car. Can you stay there?” the operator asked, maintaining her composure despite the severity of the situation.

“Yes, I’ll stay,” he replied immediately, his desperation still palpable in his voice.

“Thank you, sir,” the woman said gently. The recording went silent for a few seconds, making Jane frown as he listened. Suddenly, her voice returned: “Hello, sir? Can you tell me your name?” she asked, but silence answered her. “Hello, sir, are you still there?” The call ended abruptly, leaving an air of mystery behind.

Jane slowly lowered the phone, pensive, while Teresa crossed her arms and stared into the void.

“He knew her, to call her Lucy, and he was worried about her,” Teresa recapped, her voice thoughtful. “But then, it seems he left. That’s strange, isn’t it?”

Jane remained motionless for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on a distant point. Then, his expression shifted slightly, and he responded with conviction:

“He said, ‘20 meters north.’ He’s a soldier,” he stated monotonously. He knew dealing with the military was always a headache. But at this point, he didn’t care at all… truthfully, he had never cared.

The silent hallway felt even more laden with tension after Jane’s conclusion.

Jane followed Teresa into the psychiatric hospital; he felt he would find good clues there. The building was imposing, but its austere façade didn’t hide the wear of years or the constant movement of people. As soon as they entered, they noticed a somber environment, with impeccably clean white walls and a silence interrupted only by the occasional sound of hurried footsteps or the receptionist typing away.

At the main desk, a man in a lab coat was reading medical files attentively, deeply focused. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, analyzing the documents with an expression of absolute concentration.

"Dr. Bowman?" Lisbon called out, her voice authoritative yet cordial.

"Yes?" he replied, not even turning around immediately, giving the two agents their first impression of his reserved nature.

"Teresa Lisbon, Patrick Jane," she introduced herself with a gesture, pointing to herself and then to the blond man beside her, who was observing Bowman with a curious gaze. The doctor finally looked up from the papers and turned to face them, studying them briefly as Teresa continued, “We’re investigating Lucy Greene’s death.”

Bowman didn’t show any obvious surprise. “Of course.” He handed the documents to the receptionist with a calculated motion and turned his full attention to the agents. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward the chairs in the waiting area, where the two sat almost simultaneously with him, who positioned himself across from them, composed.

“It’s terrible,” Bowman began, clasping his hands over his knee after adjusting his posture. “On top of everything, Lucy’s death was a blow to the program. She was essential.” His voice carried a note of sadness, though his expression remained professional.

“What program is that?” Teresa asked, leaning slightly forward, showing interest.

“We treat soldiers who come back with traumatic brain injuries… and other mental illnesses resulting from combat,” he explained in a calm tone, almost rehearsed, like someone who had given this explanation many times before.

“It must be busy,” Patrick commented casually, sitting in a relaxed posture. He crossed one leg over the other, almost carefree, though his eyes carefully analyzed the doctor.

“Unfortunately, it is.” Bowman sighed lightly, nodding affirmatively. “A lot of people come home with serious issues. Even a minor injury can cause insomnia, emotional problems… memory loss.”

“What did Lucy do?” Lisbon asked, her expression fixed on the doctor, catching every nuance in his response.

“She was a fellow in the field,” he replied, adjusting his glasses before continuing. “A doctor who was accompanying a patient in General Irina’s group for treatment. She was great. Very detail-oriented but had a huge heart.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow slightly, his expression a mix of skepticism and curiosity. “You must’ve fought with her. Did you?” he asked, his voice tinged with light irony, as he tried to mimic the stern expression he imagined typical of General Irina.

“Why do you say that?” Bowman frowned, visibly puzzled.

“You’re used to giving orders,” Patrick replied simply, almost as if stating an undeniable fact—and it probably was. “She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. You must’ve fought,” he concluded with a slight, satisfied smile.

“No, we disagreed sometimes,” the doctor sighed, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability. “It happens.”

“You must be very stressed since the divorce,” Patrick continued, his tone casual but full of intent.

Bowman hesitated for a few seconds, visibly surprised by the remark, before asking, “How do you know I’m divorced?”

Teresa turned to Patrick, clearly intrigued by his explanation, as he gestured with his hands, theatrical as always.

“There are several signs.” He widened his eyes dramatically. “The obvious one is the excessive cologne. Maybe you should be less liberal with it. It’s making me tear up.” A faint smile appeared on his lips as he spoke, though his tone remained slightly provocative.

“Thanks for the tip,” Bowman replied, also allowing himself a small smile, more out of politeness than genuine amusement. “It’s been a little over a year. I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

“Great,” the two agents said almost in unison, sharing a brief look before turning their attention back to the doctor.

Suddenly, a robotic voice echoed through the halls:

“Code Red in Building 21A. Code Red in Building 21A. Emergency, please respond.”

The sound of a muffled alarm followed the announcement, creating a tense atmosphere, though the environment remained calm.

“What’s Code Red?” Teresa asked, frowning.

“A fire. It’s in another building,” Bowman replied calmly. “The on-call doctors are first responders… so they notify us here.” He explained before standing up, adjusting his lab coat with a quick gesture. “Anything else? Because I have patients to see.”

He pointed in the direction Patrick assumed led to Building 21A, but he was interrupted by a tall, broad man who approached hurriedly.

“Doctor?” the man began, looking somewhat disoriented. “Help here?”

“Speech and memory class,” Bowman replied immediately, pointing to a path. “Down the hall. Left and left. Want someone to go with you?”

“I’ll go. Thanks,” the man replied, heading in the indicated direction without hesitation.

Patrick, observing the scene, raised the coffee cup he’d been holding and took a sip before asking, “Memory loss?”

“Short-term memory is an issue,” Bowman replied, turning slightly to face Jane. “Things they’ve seen or heard… vanish.” He gestured again, signaling he needed to leave. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Of course.” Jane stood up immediately, discreetly waving his hand to dissipate the strong scent of Bowman’s cologne. He looked toward the hallway where the soldier had gone, seeming to contemplate something, before turning to Lisbon, who was still seated.

“Let’s go,” he gestured with his head, motioning her to follow.

“Why? Where?” she asked, confused.

Jane leaned slightly toward her, his expression now serious.

“The person who called the emergency might not have fled the phone. They might have forgotten. Let’s go.”

Without waiting for further questions, he turned and began walking, following the direction Bowman had indicated to the soldier.

Patrick walked through the wide, silent hospital corridors, following the exact path he had been directed to. The white lights from the ceiling reflected off his well-polished shoes. He stopped in front of a room with a large glass window and curiously peeked inside. There she was. Irina was sitting in a chair larger than the others, surrounded by soldiers he knew suffered from short-term memory loss. Her figure exuded authority, even without the traditional symbols of command.

The grand coat adorned with medals and the military cap were absent. Instead, she wore only black pants paired with well-polished combat boots and a short-sleeved black shirt—clearly her casual uniform. The army insignia was prominently embroidered on her chest, just above her name and blood type, "O+." Patrick made a mental note, his attention quickly captured by another striking detail he hadn't noticed much last time: her perfectly styled military bun.

The hairstyle was voluminous, which was impressive given how simple and securely fastened it was, leading him to conclude that her hair was much longer than he had imagined. Moreover, her curls were flawless, their beauty holding his attention for several seconds. It was only later that he noticed the small net around the bun—a practical detail that added extra stability to the hairstyle.

And then there was an entirely unexpected element—though almost everything about her was—that completed her figure: reading glasses. The frame was thin, black, and rectangular, resting lightly on the tip of her nose. He watched as she pushed them up, a gesture as natural as it was captivating. That, Patrick thought, made her even more alluring than she already was.

Despite it all, Patrick knew Irina was much more than a cold, striking woman or an exemplary commander. She was a complex figure. Beneath her hostile demeanor and rigid military facade, he saw glimpses of something deeper. Proof of this was the scene before him: the general, in a circle of chairs, dedicating her time to assisting soldiers with recent memory loss, helping them improve their speech and cognitive skills.

The interaction was subtle, almost impersonal. But it was evident to Patrick that the soldiers appreciated her presence. They likely knew her well enough to understand that any display of care from her was measured by the time she gave them. However brief, it still meant something coming from her. Patrick himself was beginning to grasp this.

“You know, you shouldn’t obsess over her like this,” said Teresa, interrupting his thoughts. She stood beside him, arms crossed, looking at him sternly. “She made it clear she’s not interested in any kind of advance from you. She seems too serious and perfect to simply agree to go for coffee with someone as talkative and…” Teresa paused, furrowing her brow as she carefully chose her words. “...easygoing as you.”

Patrick shrugged, still keeping his eyes fixed on Irina. A faint smile crossed his face, unfazed by her comment. “Well, I’m not obsessed,” he said. “And she didn’t reject my invitation.”

“She didn’t accept it either,” Teresa retorted, rolling her eyes. “She ignored you, Jane. That’s almost literally a ‘no.’ If you push too hard, you might end up arrested for pestering a military General.”

Patrick’s smile widened as he turned partially toward her. “And I won’t defend you,” Teresa added impatiently, pointing her finger at him and raising her eyebrows.

“You don’t have to be so cautious, Teresa,” he said, still smiling as he gripped the door handle. “It’s not like I’m a love-struck fool or genuinely obsessed. I’m just curious. You know I love a good mystery.”

Teresa raised an eyebrow further and crossed her arms again, watching as he opened the door. As soon as he did, his ears were filled with the sound of her voice—her flawless, melodious accent that he admitted to himself he quite enjoyed. The moment was abruptly interrupted when Irina glanced at the door with an expressionless gaze, drawing the attention of all the soldiers in the room.

Patrick raised his hand in greeting, his smile widening as Irina’s eyes remained fixed on him, clearly waiting for an explanation. He noticed her glance briefly at the watch on her wrist, a signal that her time was calculated and precious.

“Sorry to interrupt, General,” he began. His tone was casual, but it carried his trademark confidence. “I’m Patrick Jane. This is Teresa Lisbon. We’re with the FBI.” He paused briefly, observing the confused, silent reactions in the room before continuing. “We’re investigating the murder of Lucy Greene.”

“How can we help, Miss Lisbon?” Irina asked, adjusting her glasses with a brief, precise motion. She ignored Patrick entirely, which nearly made Teresa burst into laughter. Jane, however, seemed immune to hostility and pressed on.

“We have an audio recording from the night of the crime,” he explained, gesturing toward Teresa. She understood immediately and pulled her phone from her blazer pocket. After increasing the volume, she pressed play on the audio.

Patrick observed each face in the room closely. His analysis lingered a little longer on Irina, who cast a subtle, brief glance at one of the soldiers. He caught the movement. She was quick, almost imperceptible, but Jane didn’t miss the detail.

Before anyone could speak, the soldier in question broke the silence: “That’s my voice. It’s me.”

“What’s your name?” Teresa asked, looking directly at him. He was young, blond, and blue-eyed. He seemed to be in his late twenties at most.

“Pete Coen,” he replied, his voice tinged with confusion and unease. He looked at Irina as if seeking help, and she responded by blinking both eyes—slowly, almost feline-like. The gesture seemed to have a calming effect on him.

“Pete, we need to talk. Can you come with me?” Teresa asked, her tone polite yet firm.

“I guess so,” he said hesitantly, glancing at Irina again. She gave a slight nod, and that seemed enough for him. “Alright.”

Pete stood and followed Teresa out of the room. Patrick, however, lingered for a moment, looking at Irina, whose expression never wavered. With a light, persistent smile, he said, “You still haven’t answered me, General, but I’m patient. Check your uniform pocket when you’re back in it.”

He then winked at her before stepping out after Teresa and Pete, leaving the soldiers bewildered. They chose to ignore the incident, knowing better than to risk provoking the stern general’s anger. They’d never done this before and certainly didn’t want to now.

Patrick, however, quickly returned, sticking his head back through the door. “Thank you. All of you. Really.” His eyes lingered on Irina once more, catching her adjusting her glasses again before he closed the door.

Smiling, he hurried off to catch up with Teresa and Pete, his light, carefree footsteps echoing down the corridor.

She took a deep breath, casting a brief glance at the soldiers around her before returning her attention to the file in her hands. From the moment he invited her for coffee, she knew he would be a source of inconvenience.

"Alright, we have less time now, so let's resume the topic of sleep..."

For exactly 40 minutes, she conducted the "lecture" with precision, dismissing the soldiers afterward. Before leaving, she announced she would return the following week at the same time, urging them not to be late. The group immediately pulled out their phones, noting the reminder in messages, alarms, and calendars. They bid her farewell with respectful nods and even bows as she exited the room and headed to her unit's building. The general still had a long list of tasks to complete before finishing her 36-hour shift and, finally, heading home.

Her already grueling work schedule now felt unbearable. It consisted of 24 hours of work, followed by a day of standard office hours, and then a single day off before repeating the cycle. This was when she wasn’t traveling, with no guarantee of returning home—or at least preserving the fragments of sanity she still had.

The rest of the day dragged on in agonizing slow motion. The stack of documents she had to meticulously read and sign was overwhelming, and while many were trivial, her signature was indispensable.

Irritated, the brunette sighed, removing her reading glasses to check the clock.

"Eight forty-seven," she noted, acknowledging how late it had gotten to finish her shift. It was almost nine at night, and a long drive still separated her from home.

"They’re already asleep," the thought escaped her lips in a sigh, but she quickly shook her head, dismissing the distraction. She stood and began organizing her belongings. With precise movements, she packed everything into her black backpack: items hanging on an improvised rack were carefully folded into the larger pocket. However, when she reached the jacket adorned with medals of honor, she recalled a phrase the agent had mentioned earlier:

"Check the pocket of your uniform when you have it."

Sighing, she placed her glasses into their case and tucked them into the backpack before picking up the uniform again. Running her hand over the inner and outer pockets, she finally found a small folded piece of paper hidden in a pocket sewn on the chest, opposite the medals.

Huffing, she unfolded the paper impatiently, assuming it might have been left there when the uniform was laundered. Still, she knew it was unlikely.

"Since you won’t reply to my invitation with your charming accent, you can answer here."

She read the message, which ended with a sketched arrow. Turning the paper over, she found a phone number scribbled on the back. Without hesitation, she crumpled it and discarded it in her office trash. She packed the uniform, slung the backpack over her shoulders, and left the room, locking it behind her.

In the nearly deserted corridors, she headed toward the base's parking lot. She greeted the few night-shift personnel with curt nods, all of whom were accustomed to seeing her work until and beyond her scheduled hours.

Her black Cadillac, a bulletproof vehicle that resembled a mobile fortress, awaited her. She placed the backpack on the passenger seat, got into the driver’s seat, and started the engine, maintaining her always rigid posture.

Opening the glove compartment, she searched for a CD by Mark Berne, the Russian singer whose music had accompanied her since her childhood in Kaliningrad. As the first notes of Журавли began to play, she was transported back to a time when she got along with her siblings. Being the youngest was never exactly easy in her family, but there were sweet memories from that time.

Leaving the base behind, she prepared for the nearly two-hour drive. As she drove, her mind wandered to the changes of recent years. Things were finally stabilizing. It wasn’t perfect, but she would make it work. She needed to make it work.

Upon entering the narrow dirt road leading to the private village, she passed the large farms that always marked her route. During the day, the scenery was welcoming; at night, it became a mere blur under the car’s lights.

She passed five properties before spotting her home in the distance, unmistakable. It was the only one surrounded by security gates protecting a massive structure with white walls and black details. The external lights were on, a habitual precaution taken by the housekeeper.

As she approached, the night guard swiftly unlocked the padlock and chain on the gate, stepping aside to allow her entry. Through the rearview mirror, she saw the man re-secure the locks behind her.

She accelerated slightly, parking the car in the external garage. Grabbing her backpack, she got out, locked the vehicle, and headed toward the house's entrance.

Her entire body ached, from head to toe. She was exhausted, but there were still tasks to complete before she could finally rest.

Retrieving the keys from her pants pocket, she unlocked the main door and stepped into the one place in the world where she truly wanted to be.

Breathing deeply in the small entry hallway, she removed her boots and placed them in the shoe rack. Hanging her backpack on the wall-mounted hook, she proceeded to the living room, where she heard the faint sound of a TV broadcasting some irrelevant program.

“Miss Abigail,” the general called, her firm voice echoing through the room. The woman glanced away from the screen, visibly startled, though the drowsiness on her face was undeniable.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Abigail quickly responded, though sleepily, turning off the TV and approaching Irina with hurried steps.

“What do you have to report?” Irina asked directly, avoiding unnecessary conversation.

“Well, yesterday Artem cried a lot. I think he missed you. He kept saying ‘Mama’ and barely ate. Today, he seemed quite sad,” Abigail began. Irina sighed upon hearing this but remained impassive as Abigail continued, “Roman was quiet, as usual, but he also cried a little. He ate better than Artem, and they both slept well and on schedule. They really enjoyed those Russian CDs you suggested playing. They’ve picked up a few words, though I wouldn’t know how to pronounce them or what they mean. I’m sure you’ll know.” Abigail smiled as she finished.

“Alright. Anything else I should know?” Irina asked matter-of-factly, and Abigail shook her head no.

“Good. Stay here tonight; it’s too late to go home. Return to your parents' farm in the morning. I’ll call to schedule the next shift. Your payment is in the usual place.” With those words, the general turned and headed upstairs to the second floor, unconcerned with Abigail’s nod of agreement.

The young woman had been working as the twins’ nanny for nearly four years. She was accustomed to Irina’s straightforward demeanor and never took offense. The generous salary also helped maintain a smooth professional relationship.

Irina walked through the silent corridors, noting the closed doors of several rooms. At the end of the hall were two doors: a large black one leading to her own bedroom, and another beside it, housing her children.

Carefully, she opened the door to the children's room, stepping in with light, almost inaudible steps, like a spy on a covert mission. She approached the space between the two small beds and crouched to admire her sleeping twins.

They were beautiful. Their wavy hair betrayed the blend of her curls and Russell’s straight locks, but it was as black as hers. Their pale, delicate skin mirrored hers, as did their noses and cheeks. Theodore would have been delighted to see them; he always said he hoped their children would resemble her. Artem had inherited Russell’s bright, marble-like blue eyes, while Roman had her own dark, intense gaze.

She gently caressed their faces, placing soft kisses on their foreheads. Adjusting the blankets to shield them better from the night’s chill, she left the room as quietly as she had entered.

Walking to her own bedroom, just a few steps away, she removed the firearm from her waist holster and began shedding her day’s attire, placing it in the laundry basket. She let her hair loose, allowing her long curls to cascade down her back. Feeling the day’s weight in every muscle, she headed to the bathroom.

Under the shower, the cold water cascaded over her shoulders, relieving some of the tension built up in her toned, rigid muscles. She sighed, allowing herself to relax as she washed her hair and reflected on the day.

Back in the bedroom, she dried off, brushed her hair, and slipped into a light nightgown before climbing into bed. The soft touch of the mattress against her aching body was a small comfort after such an exhausting day.

Her mind, however, refused to rest. Abigail’s report weighed on her. Knowing that Artem had cried and Roman was becoming increasingly reserved made her feel terrible. Irina wanted to be more present in her children’s lives, especially now, but she also knew she needed to continue ensuring their comfort and safety—even if it consumed her.

With one last sigh, she succumbed to exhaustion. She would make it up to them. Sleep came faster than she expected, silencing her thoughts and temporarily drowning her sorrows.

Previous

Next

[mariacallous]

Mexico and the United States both held presidential elections this year, but along the campaign trail, two different conversations were taking place. In Mexico, Claudia Sheinbaum rallied voters with the catchphrase: “It’s time for women.” She beat her next closest rival, also a woman, by 32 points—nearly 20 million votes. On election night, supporters in the capital’s main square greeted her with shouts of presidenta, celebrating at once her victory and, by using the feminine form of the word, their first woman president.

In the United States, eight years after Hillary Clinton championed the dream of breaking the ultimate glass ceiling, Vice President Kamala Harris avoided the issue altogether as a presidential candidate. As she sought to win over swing state voters, Harris leaned more into emphasizing her career as a prosecutor than the potential of marking a historic milestone, and even deflected when asked directly about it.

But electing a woman president isn’t the only area where the United States lags behind Mexico. The steep rise since 2018 in the number of women in the U.S. Congress has slowed to a standstill. Election results were still being finalized at the time of writing, but only about a quarter of Senate seats will go to women and the House of Representatives still won’t break the 30 percent threshold in this round. Mexico, on the other hand, hit gender parity in both houses of its Congress three years ago. It ranks fourth worldwide when it comes to women’s legislative representation, per the Inter-Parliamentary Union. The United States holds spot 75.

The difference is startling, given that more than three-quarters of Mexicans say their country suffers from machismo. Mexico didn’t even give women the right to vote until 1953, more than three decades after its neighbor to the north. Still, in March, with official campaigning just underway, 61 percent of Mexicans said they would prefer a woman to be their next president, compared with 14 percent who said a man. Meanwhile, only one in four Americans believes it’s very or extremely likely the United States will have a woman president in their lifetime—and that was before Harris lost. Why are attitudes so different between these two neighbors?

The story of how women’s representation skyrocketed in Mexico dates back 30 years and involves tactical lawmaking—not to mention unity across political lines and parties—to build the world’s most sophisticated gender parity laws.

It started at a time when much of Latin America was leaving behind a period of authoritarianism and Mexico itself was shedding the constraints of decades of one-party rule. In 1991, Argentina became the first country in the world to pass a national quota law requiring that 30 percent of parties’ legislative candidates had to be women. Since then, most Latin American countries have passed some form of gender quota reform and at least 10 have upped the ante to gender parity laws. While countries around the world have adopted gender quota measures, “Latin America has always been at the vanguard,” says Dr. Jennifer Piscopo, professor of gender and politics at Royal Holloway University of London, adding that gender quota advocates took advantage of the region’s flurry of electoral reforms in the 1990s and 2000s to incrementally usher through measures in larger reforms.

No Latin American country has passed more reforms expanding women’s representation than Mexico. In 1996, the country started with a measure recommending that at least 30 percent of political parties’ legislative candidates be women. In 2002, it became compulsory, and by 2008, the quota level rose to 40 percent. A 2014 amendment upped the level to gender parity for candidates for federal and local legislative seats. Along the way, a network of women from across civil society, academia, media, and government worked strategically to win support and close loopholes that made it easy for parties to run women candidates in districts they were likely to lose anyway or swapping a man into a post after a woman wins a seat. Mexican women went from having single-digit representation in the national congress 30 years ago to holding an equal number of seats today.

Then came a 2019 constitutional reform backed by women from all major parties and called Paridad en todo: parity in everything. With it, not only is parity mandated across the legislative, executive, and judicial branches at local and federal levels, but 50 percent is a floor—not a ceiling—for women’s political representation.

The reform won unanimous approval, but it’s worth asking why Mexican men would concede power. Patricia Mercado, a federal deputy who ran for president in 2006, questions whether they have. She recalls that one of Mexico’s first women senators in the 1960s lamented that her male peers didn’t treat her as an equal, saying: “They give me the chair, but they don’t give me a space.” Mercado says that women have gained political space, but men still control the halls of power.

Indeed, while Mexico holds spot 14 out of 146 for political empowerment in the World Economic Forum’s latest gender gap report, it ranks 109th for economic participation and opportunity. (The United States ranks in spots 63 and 22, respectively.) When it comes to economic leadership, about 12 percent of corporate board seats are held by women in Mexico, compared with a U.S. rate that, while still low, is 28 percent.

Gender-based violence is an even starker contrast between women’s leadership gains and on-the-ground impact. Over the course of time that Mexico increased gender parity, its congress also passed laws aiming to prevent violence against women. But in Mexico, where only four in 100 crimes are even investigated, the impunity rate for domestic violence runs around 98.6 percent. It’s unsurprising that, in recent years, with roughly 10 women murdered a day in Mexico, a younger generation of women took to the streets with a new demand: Stop killing us.

Passing laws does little good if they’re not enforced. In Mexico, where legislative seats are filled through a combination of direct election and proportional representation, political parties pick their candidates based on internal processes, giving their leaders sway over who gets into office. Where improving rule of law or implementing public policy is complex, parity rules offer parties a chance to say they hit the numeric target. But, says Dr. Lisa Baldez, a professor of government at Dartmouth College, “You’re going to get women who, for the most part, are going to toe the party line.”

More than 130 countries have adopted quotas. That makes the United States, which has not done so, an outlier. It’s also one of a handful of countries that never ratified CEDAW, the United Nations convention on women’s rights, in large part due to polarization between the conservatives and religious groups against it and the progressive rights organizations in favor.

It’s only harder to imagine Washington ratifying such a convention or regulating women’s political presence taking action after an election cycle that saw the winning side belittle Harris as a “DEI hire.” In June, Vice President-elect JD Vance cosponsored legislation to eliminate federal diversity, equality, and inclusion programs, calling DEI “destructive ideology.”

But even if the presidential races led to different outcomes for Harris and Sheinbaum, both women carry the baggage of the men who backed their candidacies, not to mention the kinds of questions about leadership capacity that women leaders tend to face. Harris inherited the weight of President Joe Biden’s low approval and, during a short campaign, faced questions about whether she would carry on his unpopular mandate.

In contrast, Sheinbaum benefited from the high approval of her predecessor, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, or AMLO. But she, too, has faced constant questions about whether she will be able to govern in her own right. Just as campaigns were getting underway, AMLO unveiled a massive reform package that made his legacy her agenda and saddled her government with controversial overhauls to the judiciary, energy sector, security, and more. The victory of Donald Trump, who has pledged to slap tariffs on Mexican goods, only complicates the scenario.

But Sheinbaum has taken steps to make her mark with women’s equality. For one thing, on October 3, just three days into office, she presented a reform package aiming to build substantive gender equality, close the wage gap, and protect women from violence. But, as Dr. Leticia Bonifaz, a professor at the National Autonomous University of Mexico, put it: “Building real equality is a practical matter, not a theoretical one.” The reforms build on existing laws and will take funding and policy to have an impact. Until then, they run the risk of being more words on paper.

Mexico’s congress unanimously approved them.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Mike Stobbe at AP, via HuffPost:

NEW YORK (AP) — U.S. kindergarten vaccination rates dipped last year and the proportion of children with exemptions rose to an all-time high, according to federal data��posted Tuesday. The share of kids exempted from vaccine requirements rose to 3.3%, up from 3% the year before. Meanwhile, 92.7% of kindergartners got their required shots, which is a little lower than the previous two years. Before the COVID-19 pandemic the vaccination rate was 95%, the coverage level that makes it unlikely that a single infection will spark a disease cluster or outbreak. The changes may seem slight but are significant, translating to about 80,000 kids not getting vaccinated, health officials say. The rates help explain a worrisome creep in cases of whooping cough, measles and other vaccine-preventable diseases, said Dr. Raynard Washington, chair of the Big Cities Health Coalition, which represents 35 large metropolitan public health departments. “We all have been challenged with emerging outbreaks ... across the country,” said Washington, the director of the health department serving Charlotte, North Carolina. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention data show that coverage with MMR, DTaP, polio and chickenpox vaccines decreased in more than 30 states among kindergartners for the 2023-2024 school year, Washington noted.

Public health officials focus on vaccination rates for kindergartners because schools can be cauldrons for germs and launching pads for community outbreaks. For years, those rates were high, thanks largely to school attendance mandates that required key vaccinations. All U.S. states and territories require that children attending child care centers and schools be vaccinated against a number of diseases, including, measles, mumps, polio, tetanus, whooping cough and chickenpox. All states allow exemptions for children with medical conditions that prevent them from receiving certain vaccines. And most also permit exemptions for religious or other nonmedical reasons.

Kindergarten vaccine rates dipped to 92.7%, down from the pre-COVID era of 95%. This is due to the increase of exemptions from vaccinations for any non-medical reason, thanks to the anti-vaxxers gaining influence (primarily on the right).

[scarlettscribbles]

prologue

PART OF neither the angels in heaven above, nor the demons by the sea DRABBLE SERIES ↠ masterlist

- Lucy Gray Baird & Daughter!OC, mentioned Lucy Gray Baird x Coriolanus Snow

Summary: 1.7k words - The words were on the tip of her tongue before Coriolanus had let it slip that he'd killed three people.

As Lucy Gray became a ghost lost in the wind, so did her secrets.

a/n: i cannot stop thinking about snowbaird !! inspired by my visenya-verse and also bc i love writing about children being loved :)

also, shout out to PlayingTheGameOfThrones' It's Quiet Uptown! i was reading snowbaird fics and i was so happy to find a secret kid fic. literally squealed in excitement bc i was like, that's what's literally in my brain rn

In truth, Lucy Gray was too young to be doing this. Halfway eighteen, with her heart broken by a man — a boy, really — who almost killed her. Ironically, the suspect of her current predicament was the same person. Oh how Lucy Gray hated it that he still haunted her now.

She had Lucy Gray’s tan skin, her baby girl. The wisps of her hair stuck against her forehead were bright blond. Lucy Gray wondered if her hair would darken eventually.

Annabel Rose Baird was a sickly baby. Her heart was weak and every night, Lucy Gray would have trouble sleeping, afraid that she’d wake up with a cradle gone cold. But she was a survivor, her Annie. Much like her mother. (And father.)

But they could not live on that alone. Lucy Gray, barely recovered from birth, wrapped her baby tight on her back with a sling and took their meager belongings in a bag, setting out to find the community up North Billy Taupe had once talked about. Lucy Gray walked for miles and miles, sometimes wishing she hadn’t left behind that lovely orange scarf her lover gave her. It would’ve made for a more comfortable sleep in their journey. She could’ve given it to Annie as her baby blanket, something to remember her childhood by — the one piece of her father she would ever know or keep. But alas, Lucy Gray had left it behind along with the broken pieces of trust she once thought she could rely on.

Lucy Gray found them eventually. Or rather, they found her. It was in the middle of the night and she’d just put Annie to sleep when flashes of light shone through the gaps between the trees. Cradling her whimpering baby close to her chest, Lucy Gray raised a hand in surrender, hoping that she was saying the right words for them to not shoot her.

They took them to their leader and gave them a small cabin. It was cozy and comfortable but it wasn’t home. Not when their leader, with his calculating eyes and access to Capitol broadcasts, look at her and her baby with such intense scrutiny. Lucy Gray’s paranoia increases every time he “accidentally” chances upon her with questions about the Capitol, about the Hunger Games, about Annie. He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is. Lucy Gray endures his questions, answering casually to alleviate the suspicion upon her. Her heart threatens to beat out of her chest every single time. She could only properly breathe again when she’s back within the four walls of their cabin, with Annie safe in her arms, her little puffs of breath warming Lucy Gray from the inside out.

The one saving grace of the place was Dr. Hartree. She was training under some big shot Capitol doctor when she fled, so she knew more than the District healers did despite the meager hospital equipment she had. She diagnosed Annabel Rose with something called moderate Ventricular Septal Defect; a heart disease she had since birth. Dr. Hartree let her listen to the whooshing sound of her Annie’s heartbeat through the stethoscope. Her baby’s got a hole in her heart. Lucy Gray wept.

Dr. Hartree said that the hole might yet repair itself, that she could look for some medicine that could help strengthen Annie’s heart muscles. But if it did not, Annie would need heart surgery which Dr. Hartree was neither qualified for nor equipped to do. In that scenario, going to the Capitol would be Annie’s best hope, said the doctor. The community’s leader approved Dr. Hartree’s request for getting the medicine. In exchange, Lucy Gray had to take on additional work on top of what she’d already been assigned with to earn her keep. Lucy Gray was both thankful and suspicious. She was no fool, a big favor like that didn’t come without heavier strings. But her baby was alive so Lucy Gray kept her head down. (For the moment, at least.)

Annabel Rose grew up a happy child. She was small for her age but her presence filled the room and her heart was so full of love. Whenever she smiled, a deep dimple showed on her cheek and her warm brown eyes would shine like stars in the night sky. Her baby never did grow out of her blond hair, riotous curls tumbling down her head. She looked like an angel; Lucy Gray’s own angel.

She was truly heaven sent. There were no words to describe how much her daughter made her happy, which was something, coming from a songwriter. Oft Lucy Gray wished the Covey had a chance to know her daughter. Annabel Rose fit in alright with the children of the community, but children can be cruel sometimes. Annie’s body was weak and she ran out of breath fast, making her unable to be included in strenuous physical activities. Lucy Gray was not deaf to the whispers of “runt” that surrounded her daughter, whispers that eventually reached Annie’s ears, causing her to come home tearfully, fisting her mother’s skirt and asking what it meant. Once upon a time, Lucy Gray would have been rearing for a fight but everything was different now. She didn’t have her Covey; her and Annie were alone.

Oh, people were nice enough but, like in District 12, they seemed to be able to sense an otherness in her and Annie that made them unable to accept them fully. It didn’t help that the community leader’s demeanor was like that either. The residents liked and respected him better than the strangers they barely knew anything about, so of course they’d follow his example.

Lucy Gray had been missing her Covey so much that she contemplated going back to District 12, back to her family, when she’d heard that an electric fence was put around it, complete with Peacekeepers patrolling the perimeter. They’d never bothered with that area before, but Lucy Gray had an inkling why they suddenly found it important.

So what else could she do but grit her teeth and bear it? Every night Lucy Gray would sing songs to Annie and tell her stories about the Covey, about her family and the colorful nights and laughter they shared. And Annie’s eyes would shine in the low lamplight, humming along to the tunes.

Lucy Gray did not bring her guitar with her during her journey out of District 12, but she was able to obtain a smaller version — a ukulele — from a traveling salesman. His initial offer nearly took all her saved up money to pay for, but she was able to haggle down to a more reasonable price. At 3-years-old, Annabel Rose learned the basic chords from her mother. The first song she learned was to the tune of Lucy Gray's namesake.

It tugged at Lucy Gray’s heartstrings to hear her Annie’s sweet voice in the warmth of their home. She resolved to write a song for her daughter’s fourth birthday as a gift. Lucy Gray had her song, and so did her Capitol boy. It was only apt that Annabel Rose had one too.

It was the night of Annabel Rose's fourth birthday when everything went wrong. Lucy Gray was humming underneath her breath to the tune of a new song, their tiny kitchen fragrant with the smell of a birthday cake she’d stolen half the ingredients for to bake. She lit up a deformed red candle she attempted to mold from whatever melted wax she could find, cupping the flame between her palms briefly to keep it from being blown out. With a satisfied sigh, she wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the bed to shake her daughter awake.

All Lucy Grey felt was the cold skin of her daughter, her breathing shallow and her skin tinged blue. Her heart dropped to her stomach. With shaking hands, she wrapped Annie in a blanket and lifted her into her arms.

On the way to Dr. Hartree’s cabin, Lucy Gray would not realize that she’d been singing the song she’d written for Annie. And she will sing it under her breath while the good doctor examined her daughter, telling her the heart defect had gotten worse. She’d sing it at the back of her mind while Dr. Hartree tells her that surgery wasn’t an option anymore, that the medicine Annie’ll need is only available in the Capitol, that if she wants her baby to live she’ll need to find some way to get her a heart transplant. She’ll sing it and sing it, hoping the girl she’d written it for would awaken long enough to sing it with her.

She would only stop when Dr. Hartree clasped her hands, telling her in a hushed whisper that she’d found a way to get them to the Capitol discreetly. The doctor’s got family among the Peacekeepers in District 12 who was going to go to the Capitol in two days. Some officer fellow that was high-ranking enough to have his own private train cabin, and kind enough to share it with them. Dr. Hartree had given her temporary antibiotics for Annie with an apology that she couldn’t do anything more. When they arrive in the Capitol, Lucy Gray was on her own. Lucy Gray who had no penny to her name, who would probably be shot on sight once the Capitol had caught wind of her existence.

Her mind was racing on the morn she and a barely-lucid Annie snuck out to the gates. They were met with a heavyset man two heads taller than Lucy Gray, driving a military jeep. Time passed quickly and they encountered no hurdles getting to the train station on time. He lent them warm Capitol-style cloaks so they could blend in upon arrival. He’d even made her a cup of tea, noticing the nervousness in her demeanor. Lucy Gray had not been expecting such kindness from a Peacekeeper, no matter how highly Dr. Hartree spoke of him.

It was nighttime when they arrived, snow falling heavily on the ostentatious buildings. It wasn’t only the cold that made Lucy Gray shiver.

Under the cover of the night, Lucy Gray held her Annabel Rose and rapped on the door of the one she’d hoped would help them. If blood was not an enough reason, she could always appeal to their conscience.

The door swung open.

“Tigris, I need your help.”

[missr3n3]

Augusnippets Day 11

escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound

fandom: cabin tales TW: restrains, implied apocalypse, past child abuse, isolation word count: 600 @augusnippets

What did Brandon have to do to convince Dr. North he was better? At least, better enough to no longer stay at the estate full-time, to no longer be confined to the Room.

No matter how much better they said Brandon was doing, he was always sent back again. Back to his tomb of a bed, to the nightmares, to leather restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. It was surely some form of punishment, just like last time. If only Brandon could figure out what he was doing wrong.

But there was nothing to learn, nothing to witness. Only all-consuming terror. Decaying walls closed in around Brandon's under-stimulated mind. The rodents had returned, skittering in the wall behind his head. For a moment that could've been a few minutes or a few hours, only the pests and Brandon's own whimpering kept him company.

He thought he'd jump out of his skin when a new noise joined the anxiety-inducing cacophony. A sound an awful lot like screaming.

Brandon had enough wiggle room to face the small window above him. Normally, he saw either darkness during his sleepless nights, or pale morning sunlight. He wasn't sure how to process the fiery orange glow creeping into the Room.

Tremors shook through Brandon as the screams grew louder, as an all too familiar, dull heat followed the orange light. His body tried to instinctively curl up, his efforts resulting in rattling chains which only further sent him spiraling.

I tried to be good. I really tried!

Then, a new sound. Somehow even more terrifying than the slew of grim reminders.

Footsteps, heavy footsteps. So heavy Brandon couldn't tell his shaking from that of the Room.

“Please,” Brandon whimpered, as if begging himself to wake up. “Please, please. Someone, help me…”

Much smaller footsteps rapidly approached – not from the window, but from the hall in front of the Room's door. Another victim being dragged down to their demise. Brandon flinched; his eyes squeezed shut with a whimper as the door was thrown open.

“Holy shit,” a voice that definitely wasn't either of his parents gasped.

Brandon's teary eyes snapped open. The familiar owner of the voice flinched as well, their bespectacled, golden eyes darting towards him.

“Dr. North?” Brandon rasped around the lump in his throat. She twitched at his words, as if she were scared too.

But… They're never scared… What’s happening?

Even more unusual, Dr. North was the one backing away from him, as if he were a threat.

But if Dr. North came back, then…

“Please,” Brandon weakly begged. “Save me.”

Dr. North's expression softened. Brandon must've said the right thing, as after another look towards the door, Dr. North slowly approached him.

“B-Brandon…” Dr. North softly spoke as she reached the head of Brandon’s bed. “Do… do you know what's going on out there?”

“N-no?” Brandon muttered, biting back a sigh of relief as Dr. North undid the first leather cuff around his wrist.

“Okay.” Once again, Brandon assumed he gave the correct answer as he watched Dr. North's shoulders relax. “That… Well, it's not completely good. But I can work with this.”

With the last of his limbs freed, Brandon scrambled to sit upright.

“B-but, um… I-I thought… uh, I think I heard something outside,” Brandon tried to explain, tried to warn.

“Yeah, you did…” Brandon's eyes widened at Dr. North's words.

They… believe me?

“But we're gonna find a way out.” Though Dr. North smiled at him, Brandon could sense uncertainty in their misting eyes. “We'll get through this.”

We'll get through this… We will survive this.

[aliciavance4228]

One Hundred Books

Decided to make this list in order to include in one post all the books that I found to be worth reading and would recommend to others. They're not in a specific order:

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

Dubliners by James Joyce

A Jounal of the Plague Year by Daniel Defoe

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier

Art of War by Sun Tzu

The Trial by Kafka

Metamorphosis by Kafka

The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Dracula by Bram Stocker

The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

1984 by George Orwell

Animal Farm by George Orwell

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Lord of the Flies by William Golding

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Dune by Frank Herbert

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

Crime and Punishment by Dostoievski

Notes from the Underground by Dostoievski

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

The Pianist by Władisław Szpilman

Don Quixote by Miquel de Cervantes

East of Eden by John Steinbeck

The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri

Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann

The Idiot by Dostoievski

Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

The Insulted and Humiliated by Dostoievski

Foundation by Isaac Asimov

I, Robot by Isaac Asimov

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

Faust by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

Moby-Dick by Herman Meville

The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoievski

The Call of Cthulhu by Lovecraft

Dagon and other Macabre Tells by Lovecraft

The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli

Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar

The Shining by Stephen King

The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

The Enlightened Cave by Max Blecher

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

The God Factory by Karel Čapek

The Tongue Set Free by Elias Canetti

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream by Harlan Ellison

No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

Selected Poems by Jorge Louis Borges

The Prague Cemetery by Umberto Eco

Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk

The Setting Sun by Osamu Dazai

The Stranger by Albert Camus

The Plague by Albert Camus

Carrie by Stephen King

Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

Notre Dame of Paris by Victor Hugo

Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

The Iliad by Homer

The Odyssey by Homer

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

The Tell-Tale Heart and other Writings by Edgar Allan Poe

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Hercule Poirot's Christmas by Agatha Christie

The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

V for Vendetta by Alan Moore

The Red and the Black by Stendhal

The Queen's Gambit by Walter Tevis

It by Stephen King

Pet Sematary by Stephen King

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

The Death of Ivan Ilych by Leo Tolstoy

La Dame aux Camélias by Alexandre Dumas fils

Pride and Predjudice by Jane Austen

Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

Persuasion by Jane Austen

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen

The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton

North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin

The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien

The Return of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

1Q84 by Haruki Murakami

[inlovewithregencyera]

Transcript under cut : )

Thornfield House

July 8th, 1818

Isabella: Lord have mercy…

Maximilian: *quietly* Happy birthday Mama..

sniffling* You'd be 50 today had you not....

*deeply exhales*

Left us…

I'm not mad at you for leaving...not anymore at least-

In fact, I'm somewhat happy that you're no longer in any pain and Eleanor isn't …. alone.

*eyes well up* She never liked being alone.

*wipes eyes* Pull yourself together Maximilian!

Papa is laughing at me right now, I’m sure.

I doubt I'll make any of you proud in this life....

*softly sobbing*

I’ll never marry. How could I?

I'd make my poor wife miserable with the way I am. Then if I loved her, and God took her before me, I know I'd be worse than Papa...

*sniffling* I hope you'll both underst-

*rose falls*

Maximilian: ….

Eleanor..?

Thornfield House

May 16th, 1811

*loud hysterical sobs*

Maximilian: *taking hat off* Mama...?

Sophia: Maxie.? *wiping eyes aggressively* When did you-

Maximilian: Just now.

Sophia: Your father didn't want you to come.. he wanted you to focus on Univ-

Maximilian: And not see my sister? No, that was never an option. How is she..?

Sophia: They've given her up Maxie, they've given her up. I cried all last night, we just broke the news to poor Bell this mor-

*Isabella starts wailing louder*

Sophia: Morning..

Maximilian: Bell?

Sophia: No use, the poor child can't be consoled. Ellie had a convulsion a little while ago so your Papa went to go get Dr. North. We-...we don't know what to do.

Maximilian: Who’s in there with her right now?

Sophia: No one, because I just took Bell out before Ellie saw her like this..

Maximilian: M-may I be excused to sit with her.?

Sophia: Maxie...you've not seen your dear sister since February. She looks nothing like how she did then. *sighs* She is the image of emaciation.

Maximilian: *voice cracking* Is it truly that bad..?

Sophia: I'm afraid so. She is much paler and it's even hard for me to recognize my own child. Spare yourself my dear, and just come back for the funer-

Maximilian: I'm going to see her and I'll not leave her side. She will be happy to see me. You even wrote to me that she had been asking for m-

Sophia: *stroking Isabella's hair* Maxie, please listen to me. The disease has robbed her of almost everything, dear. She is too weak to walk anymore and can barely speak. You don't want your final image of her to be-

Maximilian: I'll not abandon her. Forgive me, but I must see her. Excuse me.

Isabella: *wails* He never listens!

Sophia: I know dear, I know. I’m not sure what we are to do.

Isabella: I’m surprised how you pulled yourself together when he came in...

Sophia: Yes, well, he can't see us both upset. Your uncle isn't here right now, so someone must be strong. You'll learn in time my dear how to quickly conceal emotions...

Isabella: What if I don’t?

Sophia: When you become a woman dear Bell, you'll have no choice.

[datubooty]

Day 4: Found

for @camilamamaweek 2024

“I found this at the bookstore the other day and got it for you. I know we don’t really know when your birthday is, so maybe think of it more as a belated job-starting gift?”

Camila offers Hunter a small package with pointy corners, definitely a book by the dimensions and heft. He accepts it first with a hug.

“Mom, you didn’t have to do this.” His face wrinkles with emotion, touched that she did. Every gift-giving between them goes this way, especially if it’s spontaneous.

“Mm, but I did! Go on, open it. I think you’ll like it.”

Hunter carefully unsticks the bow and untapes one end of the off-season wrapping paper. Christmas in July is real and Hunter celebrates with the neatest gift extraction the Noceda family has ever seen. The book slides right out.

“Whoa.” He reads the chunky title on the spine. “The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America.”

“That’s a, uh, red-chested nosebeak!” Camila declares with incomplete confidence as she points to the bird depicted mid-chirp on the cover. “Or something like that.”

Hunter gives the compact volume a thumb-through. Pages of winged things he doesn’t have precise names for whiz by, from shorebirds to sparrows. The book is new, but quickly settles open in small surrender in his hand. He’s read enough stiff tomes to recognize someone had kept it positioned like that for a long time. 

Camila gasps first, guilt in her eyes. The illustration of red plumage leaps from the page like a warning flare. Hunter knows what he’s going to see. It’s written above the image like an epitaph:

Northern Cardinal Cardinalis cardinalis

He looks at Camila and takes a breath. She does too. They breathe out in slow unison.

“Look, Hunter, I—” she starts but can’t continue.

“It’s okay, mom,” he says and she believes him. “I would have looked for him too. He was a bird after all.”

“He was. Yeah.” Camila nods, recovering, relieved that she wasn’t alone in her thinking or shamed for her thought.

“Yeah.” Hunter forces too much of a laugh, but there’s no pain knit tight within it anymore.

“So.” Camila moves on from her light misstep. That’s all it was. “I know these are creatures from the human realm, but I’m not doing this to say you should visit more, though you know I wouldn’t say no to that. I just thought, this feels right for Hunter to have.”

“It’s perfect. You know why? So many palismen are human realm creatures. This is a book full of so many people’s future best friends, just like I’m gonna make with Dell. I didn’t know it, but this is just what I wanted!”

He holds the book to his chest, the bird on the cover to his heart.

Camila tries not to cry as she gives him another hug. This is just what she wanted, too.

---

This came to me late last night and I had to write it out. What a great time when the fixations align!

The bird on the cover of the referenced Sibley book is a rose-breasted grosbeak, which is also in the cardinal family. I thought it might be fun for Camila to know the name in Spanish but not English, as they do winter in DR and the Caribbean broadly, but picogrueso pechirrosado is too clearly calque-able and lacks that comedic no sé qué.

[archivist-crow]

On this day:

ODDLY PLACED ALLIGATORS

On May 21, 1911, a two-foot-long alligator fell, with the rain, onto the steps of Mrs. Winchell's home in Evansville, Indiana. When it attempted to crawl into the house, Winchell and her friends killed it with bed slats.

In 1960, Mr. and Mrs. Tucker heard a heavy thump and a loud grunt coming from their backyard in Long Beach, California. Upon investigating, they found a sixty pound, five-foot-long alligator, which they assumed fell from the sky since the reptiles do not live in that region.

In 1892, a large alligator was found near a Wisconsin river bank, frozen to death.

In 1877, six miles north of the Savannah River in South Carolina, Dr. J.L. Smith saw something fall from the sky and crawl toward his tent. It was a small alligator. Seconds later another fell. In all, the doctor found six twelve-inch alligators within two hundred yards.

The most oddly placed alligator appeared in 1934, in a U.S. Navy dirigible called the Macon. Leading Chief "Shaky" Davis was wandering uneasily as the airship was crossing into California when a loud splashing came from overhead in one of the ballast bags. Afraid of a major catastrophe, he scaled the rigging. The splashing grew louder. When he got the bag open, he saw a twenty-four-inch, very excited alligator swimming around.

In 1935, near Harlem River, New York, teenage boys had opened a manhole cover to shovel snow into it. Spying something swimming in the water ten feet below, they made a lasso and hauled a seven-and-a-half-foot, 125-pound alligator to the surface. When it snapped at one of the boys, who was trying to take the rope from its neck, they killed it with their shovels.

Text from: Almanac of the Infamous, the Incredible, and the Ignored by Juanita Rose Violins, published by Weiser Books, 2009