#exhumation records

[sinceileftyoublog]

Olivia Rodrigo Album Review: GUTS

(Geffen)

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Olivia Rodrigo had wanted to title her second album "GUTS" since she was making her debut, SOUR, because she was interested in the various colloquial contexts in which we use the word. No, you're not going to find the singer-songwriter's second album on the shelf next to Exhumed's back catalog--referring to entrails is about the only meaning Rodrigo doesn't conjure from the word. She mentions "spill your guts," and the album certainly has the same diaristic quality as her first record. She also brings up the phrase "hate your guts;" lo and behold, at times on GUTS, Rodrigo foregoes the sarcasm and facetiousness of SOUR for full-on diatribes and revenge fantasies. But the connotation that stands out most to me, listening to the record for months after it's now come out, is one of courage. Simply, it takes a lot of guts to make an album like this.

From the start, Rodrigo sets up the unrealistic expectations she's under, physical and behavioral, both as a young woman and as a celebrity. On the Joan Didion-inspired, dynamic and choral "all-american bitch", she sings "I'm grateful all the time / I'm sexy, and I'm kind / I'm pretty when I cry," fully aware that she's encapsulating a caricature more than a real character. Appropriately, she spends the rest of the album contradicting the idea of the ideal feminine. Knowingly regretful, she hooks up with an ex on the stuttering power pop jam "bad idea right?" She's jealous of a "dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate" on the layered and ghostly "lacy", her vocals and producer Dan Nigro's synthesizer skyward before they come crashing to a painful, realized whisper. On piano and strings ballad "the grudge", she posits that while "It takes strength to forgive...I don't feel strong." Rodrigo swims in imperfection.

Rodrigo's deep dive into her own humanity, though, sets her up for longer lasting strength. For every lambast of "bloodsucker" and "fame fucker," iconic as they are, there's a line like on "logical" where she sings, "I know I'm half responsible / And that makes me feel horrible." Synth rock standout "love is embarrassing" is especially impressive, as Rodrigo collates all the cringiest things she's ever done--the type that would keep most people up at night--and turns them into a singular anthem of teenage awkwardness. On "making the bed", she realizes that as much as she's resentful of certain aspects of her life, from the toxicity of the music industry to her penchant for social errors due to homeschooling, she has the ultimate agency to change things. She's stated the song was the hardest on the album to write, and the delicate balance between blame and acceptance is palpable. There are even multiple layers to "get him back!" Sure, Rodrigo wants "to meet his mom and tell her her son sucks," but she also wants to reconnect. Otherwise, why would she care?

Ultimately, GUTS has proved to be one of the most rewarding pop records of the year due to its sheer humanism. You can find solidarity in a song like "pretty isn't pretty", a shimmering dream pop standout instrumentally wedged between "1979" and Alvvays, one that decries the extent to which capitalism promotes unrealistic standards, beauty or otherwise. But it's closer "teenage dream" that ensures the album ends not on a bang, but on a relatable wince. Small moments, like the pseudo "you're not from around here" record scratch after the first chorus, build up the unease to emphasize Rodrigo's final moment of self doubt: "They say it gets better / But what if I don't?" Kudos to Rodrigo for putting to words and music what we're all thinking all the time.

[danieldukeauthor]

Book Trailer: 'The Mysterious Life and Faked Death of Jesse James' by Daniel J. Duke and Teresa F. Duke

A deep investigation into historical documents that prove the notorious outlaw Jesse James faked his own death • Presents the legend of Jesse James and counters it with the real story, based on family records • Provides photographic evidence, a journal of Jesse James’s, and historical records that prove James faked his death, verified by experts and civic authorities • Debunks the 1995 DNA…

[cthene]

Is Fox Mulder the most comically-brutalized protagonist in television history? Not only is he shot and beaten up on a regular basis, but the list of extreme and exotic injuries he accrues over the course of the series has got to be some kind of TV cop record. The man is mind-wiped by the military in only the second episode. For any other TV cop, that would be a career-defining event, but it’s just a day in the life of Agent Spooky.

Bro was cocooned by carnivorous insects, thrown out of a nuclear submarine into the Alaskan tundra by an alien bounty hunter, beaten up by an invisible gorilla. He was experimented on in a Siberian gulag, drowned in the Bermuda Triangle, tortured by Neo-Nazis. I wonder what getting Freaky Friday-ed by a malfunctioning UFO cloaking device does to your gonads. How much radiation has he been exposed to? Someone test this man’s hair follicles. How many mysterious bodily fluids has he dipped his finger in and tasted at crime scenes? Dear God, someone test him for HIV. Imagine being the FBI doctor who administers his physicals.

Remember when the Shadow Government was putting LSD in Mulder’s water tank? Our boy got blown up in an underground train car and resurrected in a Navajo healing ceremony, and that’s not even the last train car he would get blown up in. One time, his lungs were filled with mutated tobacco beetles. Hoss let a quack doctor give him ketamine and drill a hole in his goddamn skull. In an unrelated incident, he had a chunk of his brain stolen. He was locked in a padded cell, trapped inside of a video game, and— of course —abducted by aliens. Fox Mulder was fully dead, and then came back to life after being exhumed, and nobody even seemed that surprised when he rolled up at the J. Edgar Hoover building like nothing had happened.

Am I missing anything? How is this man still alive? His body must be like a pillowcase full of broken lightbulbs. Every time he moves, you just hear crunching.

[kraken17]

Enid: So, are you enjoying your birthday, Weds?

Wednesday: I confess to being in a state of unhealthy bliss, mia lupa.

Enid: How's your present working out for you?

Wednesday: This new shovel is wonderful. At this rate I will soon beat my exhumation record with this corpse.

Enid: Speaking of which, since we're in the middle of nowhere and not in the cemetery... How did you know there was a body buried here?

Wednesday: ...

Enid: Wednesday, how did you know there was a body buried here?

Wednesday: They spoke ill of you.

[beat]

Enid: ...

Enid: Okay, fair enough.

[allthecanadianpolitics]

A British Columbia First Nation says at least 55 children died or disappeared while attending a residential school near Williams Lake — more than triple the number recorded for the institution in the National Centre for Truth and Reconciliation memorial register. The higher figure is contained in an interim report by the Williams Lake First Nation into the St. Joseph's Mission Indian Residential School. The report says investigators will finalize ground-penetrating radar surveys this year and hold meetings on potential excavation, exhumation, repatriation, DNA testing and genealogical mapping before any decision on digging up possible graves is made.  There are currently "no definitive processes planned" for excavation, it says.

Continue Reading

Tagging: @newsfromstolenland

[chamomiletealeaf]

Sweet as Pie

Chapter 3

a/n: I'm having such bad writers block for this story guys but I kinda like this idea. It's just more of Simon being in awe of you from afar because I'm not sure how to move on with the story yet so this is kind of a filler chapter I guess? Idk, but hope you guys enjoy it anyway!

-

Simon found himself falling asleep faster, easier, and more soundly each night, and he didn't know why. It definitely wasn't because his mind is filled with thoughts of you rather than the horrors he's witnessed on the battlefield, right? No, that would be crazy. It's not like he had a little big crush on you or anything... Right?

Simon decided to take a walk the morning after you visited him to learn more about the area. It was truly beautiful. The lake was sound and quiet and there was a light breeze swaying the trees above him. In a way the lake was like Simon. Dark, looks dangerous and cold from afar, but once you get your feet in the water it's warmer than it ever could have appeared. The area was nice. Simon can't remember the last time he enjoyed what he was looking at, other than yesterday and the day before that when he first saw you.

With his hands in his jacket pocket, he slowly and carefully roamed the area by his house. He found a hiking trail and decided to follow it, purposely taking the direction he knew your house was by, but he would never admit that to himself.

As he followed the narrow dirt path, he heard a faint sound coming from nearby where your house would be. His curious ears perked up and followed the sound cautiously. As he inched further up the road, he heard that the sounds coming from your house was music. This part of the road passed right behind your house, which gave him the perfect view of your living room, where you were watering your house plants and singing your heart out to whatever song you had on your record player. He didn't care whether or not you were good or bad at singing. What mattered to him was that he was looking at you. Simon had tunnel vision take over him as his eyes softened and lips parted slightly in awe. You seemed to have that effect on him.

His honey-colored eyes fixated on the way you swayed to the music while you reached up with a green mini watering can to water the plants you seemed to treat as your own children. He watched you through the window standing in the middle of the narrow dirt road as if he was in a trance as you smiled and sang along, looking so peaceful, warm, and joyful. You were so unreal. So genuine. So, sweet. And he wanted nothing more than to feel that warmth you exhumed infiltrate his cold soul like an infection, lighting up every shadowed corner of his heart in a way he never thought possible.

Simon only saw you through your tiny, cracked open living room window, and he never wanted to look at anything else ever again. As you continued to dance and sing along to your music, you turned your body to face the plants by the window, preparing to water them next, and you froze when you saw Simon outside standing on the dirt road.

Simon snapped out of his hypnotic state when you made eye contact with him and felt a chill run down his spine from realization.

Fuck, what am I doing? I probably look like a creep he thought, and he turned his head down to look at his feet as he tried to hurry on his way.

You noticed his sudden movement and watched him fade from view from where he stood in the frame of the window. You quickly placed the watering can down and ran to the window. You quickly threw it open and called out to him, trying to catch him before he got too far away.

"Hey honey bunch! Where you off to?" You called out to him, leaning out the window with that smile he loved so much that melted him like a popsicle on black pavement in the middle of July.

Honey bunch, Simon thought to himself.

He turned around and looked at you, then immediately looked away, feeling his cheeks heat up and turn into that shade of pink you always seemed to cause. God why was this happening to him? Why is he blushing like a school girl?

"Oh hey, uh, sorry I didn't mean to stare at you like that." He apologized softly, bringing his hand up to rub his neck as he avoided your eyes.

"Oh don't you worry about that. Anyone would stare at a crazy girl like me frolickin' around like that." You reassured him with a laugh.

The soft wind kissed your skin and caused your hair to blow so angelically. It nearly made Simon sick. You looked straight out of a fairy tale with the way you leaned out the window frame and the way the strap of your dress was centimeters away from falling down your shoulder.

You stared at each other for a second in comfortable silence with the faint sounds of your record player playing as white noise in the moment. It felt so easy with you.

"You know, a little bit further down to the left on the bank of the lake, there's the biggest, most gorgeous willow tree you'll ever see. Can't miss it. It's been there for lord knows how long. Makes a real nice sittin' spot." You inform him, hoping to make his walk a little more interesting. But little do you know, nothing will be more interesting to him than you.

"That sounds nice, thank you." He says.

"You want me to show you?" You ask with a smile.

Simon wants to say no. He's not used to company. He likes being alone. But there's something about you he just can't resist.

After a pause of silence between you two, you retreat a little and start to move out of the window frame.

"It's ok if not-" You start to say, embarrassed of your boldness, but Simon cuts you off.

"I'd love that." He says a bit too enthusiastically, realizing he's scaring you off.

You lean back out the window and smile at him.

"Ok. One sec. Wait right there." You say, and then you were gone from the window.

Simon stands there waiting patiently for you, and then he straightens up when he sees you appear from behind your house, walking towards him on the path.

And of course, you had on your white cardigan he loved on you so much.

You caught up to him and he got a whiff of your hair. You smelled like fresh peaches and apples, which had just in this moment become Simon's favorite fruits, because he associated them with you now.

You walked up to his side and smiled, and he smiled back down at you. God you were so cute.

"C'mon hun, right down here." You motion to the road in front of you, and Simon secretly hoped that this would be the first of many walks you two would take together.

And as the two of you conversed and laughed on the way to the willow tree, and as hands occasionally brushed against each other, Simon found himself feeling something he hadn't felt in years.

Simon Riley felt joy.

taglist: @pussypinkbarbie @thatonepupkai

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: you hadn't been sure what to feel after demanding Ajay bring the others. bring everyone. it'd been reckless, stupid. Wally you had figured had been fine, perhaps even Ajay too, but everyone? it had either been the dumbest thing you'd ever done or the smartest. thankfully, you'd learned enough about the others to know what topics to avoid and which to use to your advantage...

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.22

You sat in the dining room, the French doors closed for privacy. Your family was in various positions around you as they helped you study the pile of file folders your mother had exhumed from the enormous wooden chest in the basement.

The dining room itself was large yet cozy, eclectic, lived in; it was where your mother brought her clients for readings and spiritual counsel. A round table took up the middle of the room; a tea tray and plates of finger foods were placed in the center where a hokey crystal ball normally sat. Shelves along the back wall were stuffed with books from the Barnes & Noble witchcraft section, boasting titles like, "A Witch's Guide to Garden Magick," and, "Spells & Incantations for a Better Life."

The plum-colored ceiling was decorated in constellations that Andrew had painted the week before your mother began marketing herself, and the wood floor was covered in a layer of Persian rugs thrown here and there that had absorbed the heavy musk of the incense your mother burned during sessions.

It was a beautiful room, to be sure, and you hated every inch of it. All the frivolous bits and bobs that encouraged people to believe a lie mocking you from their perches. Portraits of people who meant nothing to your family; taxidermized crows and owls and foxes. A mounted stag's head, because why not? It added to the rustic, sorcerous atmosphere.

"What about Rhonda Botezatu?" Ginny inquired around the stem of her cigarette holder. She was done up in a silk kimono, purple hair peeking out from beneath a bronze turban. An homage to Old Hollywood starlets who'd aged into roles they'd rather die than assume. Her thin fingers and wrists were bedazzled with chunky costume jewelry, but her neck remained bare. Apart, of course, from the delicate silver pendant she rarely removed.

You couldn't help smiling at her. She was absolutely marvelous.

"Rhonda..." You began, trying not to peer down at the notes. "Died April 1964. Murdered by Alfons Manfredo, the guidance counselor. She was really into Beatnik Culture and was going to study Engineering at UC Berkeley." You wilted, looking down at the yearbook photo paperclipped to Rhonda Botezatu's dossier. Rhonda stared up at you, the hint of a smile on her lips, clever eyes bright beneath layers of eyeliner and mascara. Your heart lurched.

"I used to watch her and her younger sister, Daria, when she was a child. Her parents were neighbors." Ginny divulged, using her cigarette holder to point out the window as if to indicate the exact house. "Her older sister, Yetta, was a pain. Refused to babysit; too busy husband-hunting, but Rhonda was a hoot. Questioned everything." Ginny chuckled, rolling her eyes, "Pecked at me all day, asking this and that. Couldn't shut her up unless I put on a record and let her dance out all that energy." Her eyes went distant, a fond expression settling into her features. "Precocious. Would've changed the world if she'd been given the chance."

Your mother huffed, hovering over you as she rifled through the mound of documentation. "You skipped Janet Hamilton."

"Ooh, that idiot," Ginny slumped forward dramatically, an impression of being utterly disgusted by something. Your mother cleared her throat with intention, eyes narrowed in distaste. Ginny sighed and rolled her hand regally in your direction, "Alright, chicken, tell us what you know about her."

You stifled a giggle into the back of your hand, sharing a fond look with Andrew at Ginny's antics. "Okay, Janet. She died in 1960, but...I didn't see how...did I miss that?" You asked, scanning the sheet of paper you'd pulled from the dossier.

"No, sweetheart," Nanna assured, "There's no record of it that I ever found. Of course, by the time I started gathering information, a lot of time had passed." You could tell she was trying very hard to search her memory. Unfortunately, however, it seemed she kept finding only blank spaces.

"It was an accident of some sort," Ginny piped up. "Broke her neck somehow. Falling down the stairs, I think."

Nanna frowned, shaking her head at herself, "I vaguely recall some mention of it...honestly, you'd think I'd remember." The laugh that bubbled out of her was strained, tinged with disbelief. "She was my math tutor." A glance at Ginny to confirm, "I could've sworn it happened right before I started middle school."

"Don't look at me," Ginny scoffed, "Maybe you should scribble it down before you forget to again." She looked at Andrew, roping him into the joke, "You need to get your mother checked out, Drew, before she starts forgetting your birthday."

Positioning her reading glasses just above the tip of her nose, Nanna plucked the paper from your hand, adding, in beautiful cursive, a note about Janet's death. "You did forget his birthday last year..."

Ginny took a quick sip of her sherry, rushing to defend, "Oh pish, I did not. I told you, the gift was delayed." And then, as a side note, "Poor Reggie really is losing his mind," though she didn't sound worried about her old friend cum antique dealer. Rather, it was a pitying statement of fact, said in the manner most elderly people use when discussing each other's senility. She put her sifter down and whipped a taunting stare at Nanna, "You know, Babbigail, had either of you listened when I suggested you try the Sudoku, you wouldn't be losing your marbles quite so early."

"Oh, baldercrap," Nanna retaliated, "I'm just as sharp as I've always been!" She narrowed her eyes, mock-accusing, and presented to the room, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were cheating."

"Cheating?"

"I wouldn't put it past you to use spells all willy-nilly for your benefit."

Nanna winked at you when Ginny scoffed, outraged, straightening her spine and puffing out her chest, "Oh, how very dare you! My own sister!? Implying I would ever turn my back on the Circle!" She lifted the back of her bejeweled wrist to her brow, "Judas!"

You and Andrew dissolved into fits of laughter at the theatrics. Ginny and Nanna bickered often, always making a show of it for everyone's entertainment. It was one of many reasons that you were glad you were all under the same roof, even when it got crowded sometimes.

Behind you, your mother wasn't as amused by the performance, scoffing as she patted your head, reminding you to, "Focus, sweetheart, you only have two days to memorize all of this." She flashed an annoyed look between Nanna and Ginny, "If you two are finished, maybe we could get back to it?"

Ginny sagged sideways against the back of the chaise longue, waving dismissively with her cigarette holder, "No need to get worked up, Alice. The girl has plenty of time to sort all this out." Still, she gestured for you to move on to the next student.

Bernadette King, died in 1969 after tragically falling from a height in the old gymnasium. Then Dawn Burton, died in 1972 by accidental electrocution. Next was Yuri Vyarheychyk, a transplanted Belarussian boy who'd somehow fallen head-first into a kiln during a pottery lesson in 1978, succumbing to severe burns before the ambulance had arrived.

"Are you guys sure I should go there?" You asked, face twisted in concern as you absorbed the seemingly endless pile of information on the table, evidence that too many awful things had transpired at Split River High before now. "It sounds kinda dangerous."

"You'll be just fine," Ginny said, "You're too important. The Awen won't let anything happen to you." It sounded like something a great-aunt was obligated to say, those reassurances that you were the 'most specialist of special children.' In a world where you'd witnessed something profoundly horrific take someone you'd considered more special than yourself, your great-aunt's statement was of little comfort.

Nanna reached across the table and petted your hand affectionately, tacking on, "You have nothing to worry about. We've all attended and we're just fine. Your sister actually really enjoyed herself."

You gave her a tight smile, "If you say so," then accepted the next dossier Andrew pulled out of the pile.

"We're getting into the 80s, now." He informed, eyes twinkling as he stared over your head at your mother. "Starting with the totally hunky football star—"

"Don't start," Your mother warned. You could feel the look on her face, something eye-twitchy and vexed.

Andrew snickered, rising to the challenge, and tapped his finger on the photo clipped to the front of the folder. It drew your attention down to a face that—your breath caught, an unusual warmth blossoming within you as you took in the young man grinning up at you from the photo. The print in the top right corner said his name was 'Walker Clark'. He was...hot. Like center-of-the-sun hot. Soulful, brown eyes, kissable lips, hair swept back in a perfect 80s poof.

Andrew whistled, long and punctuating, forcing a blush to rise on the arches of your cheeks. "I think girly's got a crush," He ruffled your hair obnoxiously, "Aurora had the same reaction when we put her through the paces. 'He's so hot, oh my god,'" He mimicked in a high falsetto, "'If I could see ghosts, I'd literally ask him out, I don't care.'"

"Rory had to do this too?" You wondered, eyes never wavering from Wally's handsome face.

"Of course she did, chicken. Everyone has to. Even your grandmother had to and she can't see ghosts." Ginny explained.

"But why? If Nanna and Rory can't see ghosts, what does it matter?"

Nanna smiled sweetly at you, "Understand, dear, abilities don't always manifest fully at an early age like yours did. Before Aurora entered high school, her empathy was very subtle. Then, in her junior year, out of the blue, she could identify each ghost without batting an eye. If the Ciorcal of the Craft allowed it, I bet she would've had whole conversations with them without needing to see or hear them."

You knew Aurora's empathy was acute, how she could wield it like a weapon or a gift depending on her mood. You'd never tell her, but you found it pretty remarkable. Almost envied her for it. Your life would be much easier if you couldn't see the dead.

"That's why we do this, chicken. It's a contingency, just in case our powers manifest late or they mature faster than we have time to do something about it." Ginny elaborated and it made sense. Similar to Aurora and Nana, Andrew hadn't had any indication that he would develop Connectedness until much later, but now he gleaned incredible things from objects on command.

You didn't realize you'd been staring at Wally's photo the whole time, not once looking up to acknowledge those around you, until Nanna leaned over and voiced, "He was very handsome, wasn't he," obviously having been observing your predicament, "And so respectful. His mother and I were in a book club together with some of the other moms from the school." Suddenly, her tone shifted, turning solemn, "Bea was hard on him, though. Drove him to be the best." She sighed, "I really felt for him."

You listened with half an ear, more interested in pondering what Wally had felt about the pressure his mother supposedly put on him. Had he been equally as motivated? Or had he buckled under the weight of expectation? A tiny sliver of your soul yearned to have the chance to ask him, ignoring for the moment the Rule that your whole family lived by.

"Come on, sweetheart," Your mother's voice interrupted your thoughts, "we have a lot to go through and 2004 is going to be tricky." She flipped open Wally's folder, thus forcefully removing his face from your line of sight, doing for you what you hadn't been able to do for yourself. You exhaled a shivery breath, swallowing thickly as you accepted the first of three typewriter-typed pages. Your mother pointed to the third line of the second paragraph, "Alright, let's start here..."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Ajay had smuggled you into the school and up to the roof, managing to keep you from being caught. There had been one close call when Barry had treaded around a corner, flashlight up, demanding to know if anyone was there when your sneaker had squeaked against the linoleum. You'd watched in fascination as Ajay had manipulated his ghostliness to his advantage. He'd marched right up to Barry who, as a living person, had been unconsciously driven to avoid the invisible obstacle, his brain having fed him some rationalization or excuse that had sent him on his way. Piece of cake.

Presently, you stood near the roof's edge, fidgeting nervously as Ajay helped two people over the raised side of the portal, one after the other. You gulped, your heart beating faster and your palms clammy as you took in who they were. Rhonda Botezatu and Charley Morino. Fuck...shit... Instantly, you regretted telling Ajay to bring everyone. God, could you get more stupid!? This was such a bad idea, your mother's voice reverberating inside your skull threats of squalls and storms and ill-fated summonings. Despite the desire to stand your ground and do this for Simon, your soul trembled in despair, unable to shake the feeling of failure after years and years of being told not to let them know you can see.

You squirmed under Rhonda and Charley's attention, your eyes flicking up to their faces and then back down to your shoes as your nerves began to fray. God, Simon, you fretted, I hope it's worth it. 'It' being all the possible repercussions you could face should anyone discover what you'd done. And the more who knew what you could do, the more it was likely that someone would find out.

As you contemplated your friend, a shadow flickered over Rhonda's shoulder. A there-and-gone impression of movement that had wobbled like hot air rising from a desert road. You squeezed your eyes shut and opened them again, seeing nothing to indicate what you'd witnessed had ever occurred.

"Isn't that the chick Wally was hung up on a couple of years ago?" You heard Rhonda ask Charley as they approached. Strangely, they moved as if they intended to make room for someone else between them, but, as you checked on Ajay's progress at the portal, you didn't see anyone else emerge.

"I'm not sure..." Charley answered her, openly studying you through slitted eyes; suspicious, cautious, clearly unsure what he thought about you. Still, he emanated a warmer, more welcoming aura than Rhonda who was all attitude and cool eyes. "If it is, we owe him a massive apology."

Rhonda didn't seem to agree, "She'd better make it up to him. Took him forever to stop sulking."

You were both pleased that Wally's friends had his back and cowed at the reminder that you'd basically gaslighted him in sophomore year, and Rhonda seemed keen to hold that against you. Surreptitiously, you kept peeking behind Rhonda and Charley, willing the universe to be kind and deliver Wally's fortifying presence to you. With him beside you, you felt you could handle Rhonda's cutting remarks and Charley's weighted stare.

As if on cue, the connection began to rumble and roll inside you, rising with more interest as you felt Wally get closer, and your heart started to pound for an entirely different reason.

"So," Rhonda started as she stopped two feet in front of you, arms crossed and expression tightly controlled, "You can see us."

You didn't know what else to say apart from, "Yep," wincing as it fell out of your mouth.

Rhonda's glare turned lethal, "And you didn't think that maybe you should try and help us?"

"I—"

"Oh, no, wait, that's right, you decided to help Ajay and leave the rest of us to rot, is that it?"

Charley reached out and touched her arm, sending her an expression of warning before returning his attention to you. "I am curious about why you decided now was a good time for a big reveal?" He asked in a roundabout way, tone sprinkled lightly with denigration.

That, at least, was a simple answer. "Simon's in trouble and I want to help get him out of it."

"Right," Charley looked at Rhonda, briefly seeming to cast behind her, then looked back at you, "The o t h e r living person who can see ghosts. Are you guys part of the same coven or...?"

As sarcastic as he sounded, you sensed his genuine interest and decided to expand on—wait, "Simon can what?"

Ajay's words from earlier flew out of the ether and into your head: "Everyone just got over Charley keeping Simon a secret." Well, fuck me sideways. At the time, you'd been too distracted by the fact that Ajay knew about you and Wally. Then that, of course, had been eclipsed by Ajay's purported friendship with Aurora that she'd never bothered to disclose. With all those thoughts vying for attention, your brain had swiftly filled in the blanks about Charley and Simon with something that made enough sense to keep you from poking at it. Charley, you'd guessed, had kept Simon a secret like most teenagers keep their crush a secret from their friend group. To avoid getting teased.

Thinking about it now, you realized that was the second-most idiotic thing you'd ever come up with after encouraging Ajay to give you an audience with a bunch of ghosts you were supposed to avoid like the plague.

"Are. you. fucking. k i d d i n g. me!?" You dropped into a crouch, top half folded over your knees as you dug your fingers into the back of your head, wholly and utterly defeated by the endless siege of fuckery that had been unleashed since last Friday.

"We'll take that as a 'no'," Rhonda remarked, sounding as though she was checking her cuticles. "So, what are you? A necromancer or something?"

"No," You said miserably into your knees. You rose, rubbing your temples as you tried to process everything while simultaneously explaining, "And I'm not a witch, either, so you can forget about that coven bullshit."

You were getting riled up, angry, confused; Simon could see ghosts, too? Seriously? That could have made the conversation you and he had had on the swings a helluva lot easier, dammit. But, nooo, he'd kept that to himself. And, honestly, fuck Aurora, too, because you'd spent the last three years of your life on edge and constantly alert when you could've, maybe, given fewer shits?!

Another odd, shadowy flicker distorted the air almost directly in front of you but you ignored it, your frustration gaining momentum because, fine, yeah, you hadn't said anything to Simon either, but what the fuck anyway—!

Just as you were about to scream into the void, a warm, calming sensation swept over you, the familiar scent of Wally's cologne and the pomade he used in his hair curling under your nose like a cartoon wafteron. You tilted your head up, eyes immediately locking on his, and the tension seeped out of your muscles. Wally's steps were measured, his jaw tight, shoulders squared as if he was fighting to control himself from jumping on you.

Right. Ajay had insisted that you and Wally act as if you'd never interacted. Earlier, it'd been easy to agree, the connection subtle and at ease; now, you weren't so sure. The syrupy-slick sensation lulled you into a dreamlike fog, transfixed by Wally's closeness. You watched Wally's throat bob when he swallowed, eyes drifting to his lips before slowly tracking back up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze.

"Hi..." You said, voice catching as Wally neared.

The others observed with assorted expressions of confusion and intrigue, Rhonda asking, "Whaaat the hell is happening?" to which Charley replied, "I have no idea..."

Ajay explained on your behalf, tone entirely put-upon, "It's the cRaZiEsT tHiNg. I noticed it before. Like they have some kind of mYsTeRiOuS cOnNeCtiOn drawing them together..." Glimpsing at him, you saw Ajay's features had flattened, his demeanor projecting exactly how done with everything he was, yet you couldn't find it within yourself to care. Wally was right there, gazing at you with soft eyes and a lopsided smile.

The flicker appeared again, though, unlike before, an almost physical energy came with it, arcing outward from its source into your front, forcing you back a step. A look of alarm spooked Wally's face. He lurched forward a step, simultaneously bringing his hand up as if to place it on something.

What happened next happened so quickly that you almost didn't catch it. As soon as Wally's hand made contact, a featureless silhouette popped into existence. You couldn't make out who they were, could hardly register anything as you stumbled backward another step in surprise, the back of your leg hitting the low ledge that lined the roof. From there, gravity took over, pulling you down as you teetered precariously over the wrong side of the ledge. Everyone reacted at once, Rhonda and Charley reaching out, Ajay yelling and grabbing the silhouette, and Wally—

"No!" Wally shouted as he leapt forward, grabbed you by the front of your sweater, and hauled you tightly against him before you plummeted several meters down onto the concrete below. He whirled around, planting himself between you and the ledge, his nose in your hair, heart hammering under your palm, panting from the adrenaline rush. His embrace was viselike, keeping you together as a jolt of fear shot through you.

"Are you okay?" He asked, eyes the size of saucers as he cradled your face in his big hands.

You peeked helplessly up at him, a lump in your throat and pressure behind your eyes, Jesus Christ, you'd almost joined them in the afterlife...but that wasn't the thought that blared in your head like an air raid siren.

"Do it again." You commanded, breathless, gripping Wally's arms and encouraging him to turn around. "Touch whatever you just touched again."

He blinked at you, dumbfounded, obviously not understanding what the hell you were on about.

"Whatever you just did," You instructed, "do it again," placing your hand on his shoulder to show him what you meant. Although he continued to stare at you like you'd grown a second head, he released you and moved back. You marveled as he stepped forward a few feet, picked his hand up, and then placed it down seemingly in midair. Except it wasn't midair. It was a shoulder that became visible under the weight of Wally's hand.

He shot you a peculiar expression, eyebrows drawn in doubt, "Uh...like this?" And then he stepped aside.

You gasped, going very, very still as your mouth fell open and your eyes bulged, a single, quivering utterance tumbling out of you. "Holy shit."

Everyone, including Wally, watched you in wonder, completely oblivious to the miracle that had just occurred. Everyone including—

"Maddie!?"

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-ONE - PART TWENTY-THREE

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[pillowprincessherbertwest]

idk, I'm cookin'. I really liked that story XD

transcsribed from @rippleberries generous recording of the Exhumed Fest Retrospective

[radiojamming]

My apologies if you've already answered this somewhere, but do we know what Charles Hartnell did for a living/what his life was like after losing his older brothers?

Hi there!

Charles Hartnell trained at Chatham Dockyard for several years and ended up becoming a shipwright like his father, grandfather, great-grandfather etc. At one point, in the 1881 census, he was a lead shipwright at the yard.

He married Hannah Owen in 1852 when he was 24 years old and had five children with her, including his son Thomas (!!) who worked as a steam engine draftsman at Chatham. In the census records, it shows that all of his children were educated (listed as 'scholars') and one of his daughters became a schoolteacher. I've heard that Charles seemed to prize education and was insistent on his children being literate and making something of themselves.

As to what his life was like after his brothers' deaths, it's hard to say. I do know he wrote quite a few letters to the Admiralty which are currently held by his family and not available to the public. The letter declaring John's death and debt was delivered to him personally, and Thomas' Arctic service medal was also delivered to him. He seemed to be the most insistent on preserving their memory, as his descendant Donald Bray was the one who provided the "may we be spared to meet on earth" letter to researchers and his other descendant Brian Spenceley was the one who served as photographer to his great-great uncle's exhumation and provided a painting of Charles as an adult.

(HARTNELL NOSE! REDDISH HAIR! YEAH!!!!!)

Here's an article from 2014 about Spenceley talking about his family and seeing John Hartnell's body in person, as well as showing the picture of Charles.

I do wish we knew more about him and his thoughts and feelings about his brothers. All we currently have are a few comments from his now-famous letter (which includes a phonetic spelling of his Kentish dialect!):

Dear Brothers  This comes with my kind love to you hoping it find you both in good health as thank god it leaves me at present. It is nearly three years since we parted but I hope it will not be that time before we meet again. There has [written as 'their as’!] been great changes taken place since then. [...] But if I tell you all the news now I shall have none to tell you when you come home which I hope will not be long as three long years have nearly passed away[.] [...] I wish you a prosperous passage to return safe home as no more at present from Your Affectionate Brother Charles Hartnell

[mariacallous]

Like a lot of us, Carlo Acutis spent an ungodly amount of his life staring at screens. Born in London in 1991, he grew up an only child in a newly connected world. He wore sweatshirts and Nike trainers. He played Halo and taught himself to code. But that’s where the similarities end—because next year, Acutis will officially be named a saint.

As well as the internet, Acutis revered another institution: the Catholic Church. From a young age, he was acutely interested in Eucharistic miracles—extraordinary events which, according to Catholics, see consecrated bread or wine suddenly become the actual body or blood of Christ. “To always be united to Jesus: This is my life plan,” he told his mother after his First Communion.

In 2004, Acutis started to research Eucharistic miracles from around the world, developing a website to document them. His aim was to connect with other young Catholics. “He was personally convinced that the scientific evidence would help people … come back to Mass,” says Courtney Mares, author of Blessed Carlo Acutis: A Saint in Sneakers and Rome correspondent for the Catholic News Agency.

The online archive was unveiled in October 2006, a simple build with cursive text and religious imagery. But just a few days after it launched, Acutis fell ill. He was diagnosed with leukemia, with little chance of recovery. “Death has become the passage towards life,” he told his mother, before falling into a coma, suffering a brain hemorrhage, and passing away. He was just 15.

His spirit lived on. The website he’d built helped introduce Eucharistic miracles to a mass audience across the globe and was translated into 17 languages. A physical exhibition linked to Acutis’ work has toured internationally, being shown in thousands of parishes worldwide. It’s still touring now. Acutis is revered not just for his use of technology, but also his dedication to living virtuously. “I think that prayer was truly the great secret of his saintly life,” Mares says. But the website was key to creating a halo effect, heightening his reputation as a blessed figure.

In 2012, the Archdiocese of Milan—where Acutis’ family had moved when he was a child—started a cause for canonization, paving the way for sainthood. Unbeknown to most secular folk, saints are still made regularly; Pope Francis has recognized a record 912 since 2013. But becoming one, as the cliché goes, requires patience. The original petitioner appoints a postulator to collect evidence of the candidate’s sacred work (the “devil’s advocate” used to be a real antithesis to this occupation, arguing against sainthood).

“The process of identifying someone as a saint is long and careful and quite bureaucratic,” says Tim Hutchings, associate professor of religious ethics at the University of Nottingham. “It starts when some Catholics decide that they really think someone should be a saint. They start a campaign to prove to their local bishop that this person lived an incredibly holy life, or died for their faith.”

After being named a "Servant of God" in 2013, Acutis reached the second rung on the ladder to sainthood when he was venerated by Pope Francis in 2018. His body was exhumed and brought to a tomb in Assisi where he still lies today, dressed in his trademark '90s teenager garb. “It’s a beautiful thing that for the first time in history you can see a saint dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. That’s a great message,” Father Carlos Acácio Gonçalves Ferreira, the shrine’s rector, said at the time. A Franciscan monk based at the tomb, noted that “many young people” were visiting.

Next, Acutis and his followers needed a literal miracle—one he had performed himself. “It has to be something which can't be scientifically explained, so proving this is difficult. For example, this might require doctors to confirm that they can't explain how a healing has occurred,” Hutchings says. In 2013 a woman in Brazil claimed that praying to Acutis had helped heal her son’s pancreatic defect. In 2020 Pope Francis authenticated the miracle and Acutis was beatified, culminating in a ceremony celebrating his virtuous life. “According to Google Trends, more people were searching for information about Carlo Acutis than about the Pope,” Mares notes.

Then, in May 2024, a second miracle was recognized, involving the healing of a 21-year-old girl from Costa Rica injured in a bike accident. In 2022, her mother had knelt at Acutis' grave and prayed for his help. Her daughter then miraculously resumed breathing without support and made a full recovery. The Pope approved Acutis’ canonization in July—with an official ceremony set for 2025.

It’s rare for a saint to be so young and unheard of, and still reach this lofty status so soon after their death. “It is remarkable that Carlo Acutis will be canonized so close to the date that he was born. For context, of the 912 saints canonized by Pope Francis, the next most recent birth date was in 1926,” Mares says. It makes him the first ever millennial saint and, as some Catholics have put it, “God’s influencer” and the “patron saint of the internet.”

Meanwhile, the cult of Carlos Acutis is continuing to spread across the world. Relics, including a piece of the sheet that shrouded his corpse, a fragment of one of his sweatshirts, and his actual heart, have toured internationally, recently coming to the UK for the New Dawn Catholic Pilgrimage. Online, you can buy Carlo Acutis figurines, rosary beads, posters, and commemorative keychains. In North Lanarkshire, Scotland, a life-size statue of Acutis has been erected at Carfin Grotto, and there’s a stained-glass window in Wiltshire to attract young churchgoers.

There's even a comic book telling his story, and a VR experience offering players a chance to step into Acutis’ sneakers. And, for Catholics who are unable to pay their respects in person, his tomb can be visited (and donated to) virtually through an always-on livestream.

The Church doesn’t pick saints—campaigns start with the Catholic community—but Acutis’ popularity meshes with its desire for a young role model. It also highlights the Church’s embrace of tech. “The Pope has been making an annual lecture about communications technology for 58 years,” says Hutchings. “It absolutely makes sense for Catholics to look for a saint of the internet who represents the godly and faithful use of technology.”

There is, of course, still a stigma surrounding the internet’s potential for blasphemous behavior. “The Pope has warned that today’s digital age constantly tempts young people to ‘self-absorption, isolation, and empty pleasure,’” Mares says. And some devout Catholics are still struggling with temptation. “With technology changing at such a rapid pace today, many Christians are still grappling with how best to live out their faith in the world of laptops, cell phones, and social media,” Mares says.

But the Pope also called the internet a “gift from God” in 2014, and he recognizes its potential for spreading the word of Christ—it just depends on how it is applied. And in the case of Acutis, tech was used in a pious way. “Acutis used the new technology in exactly the way that the Church wants to see it used: to promote commitment to Catholic teaching, virtuous living, and devotion to the rituals of the local church,” Hutchings explains. The Church will hope that the relatable “saint in sneakers” who watched cartoons and surfed the web will resonate with a community looking for an idol.

[ancient-rome-au]

new usurper just dropped

The ‘Roman emperor��� Sponsian is known only from an assemblage of coins allegedly found in Transylvania (Romania) in 1713. They are very unlike regular Roman coins in style and manufacture, with various enigmatic features including bungled legends and historically mixed motifs, and have long been dismissed as poorly made forgeries. Here we present non-destructive imaging and spectroscopic results that show features indicative of authenticity. Deep micro-abrasion patterns suggest extensive circulation-wear. Superficial patches of soil minerals bound by authigenic cement and overlain by oxidation products indicate a history of prolonged burial then exhumation. These observations force a re-evaluation of Sponsian as a historical personage. Combining evidence from the coins with the historical record, we suggest he was most likely an army commander in the isolated Roman Province of Dacia during the military crisis of the 260s CE, and that his crudely manufactured coins supported a functioning monetary economy that persisted locally for an appreciable period.

[link to article]

[timetravellingkitty]

hi!! I just found out about tumblr having an anti-hindutva tag and I shall be making myself comfortable here! just found your account like a few mins ago and if it’s ok, i wanted to ask some questions (you absolutely don't have to answer if you don't like any of them or even if you don't feel like answering :) ) (edit added, this ask got way too long lol. feel free to skip it! also, you're kinda super cool lol)

I'm Indian, currently outside India, and I've only started learning about the shitshow going on in my 'mahaan bharat' since November (specifically since finding out that we are Irahell's biggest weapons buyer). and the more I find out the more shocked and heartbroken I feel...

like this week i learnt about the immigration ban in US against Chinese women that existed a few decades ago, and the ongoing discrimination against Palestinians in Canadian immigration services... and both the times I was so disgusted and there was this subconscious feeling that India should never be like that. but then an hour ago I learnt about the 2019 CAA and wtf!?

another example being that currently we're seeing israhell's continuous bombing of heritage sites of great cultural and religious significance, that also held so many centuries old records and histories... and learning about how they are bulldozing over graveyards and exhuming them...

and then today I learnt about Akhonji Masjid and Gyanvapi Masjid and of course have known about Babri Masjid for a few weeks now...

and only learnt about Kashmir in november...

and I feel like my whole worldview has shifted from a previous foundation, except it's so drastic and I still don't have a new foundation...

I try to talk to members of my family about this but they're the Indian equivalent of the U.S. liberals, and every single time they'll tell me "whatever news you're hearing is propaganda written by Pakistan/China/U.S./Russia. trust me I have Muslim friends and they're very happy. you just don't know the situation cause you're not in India" and like it sometimes make me think maybe I'm the one losing my mind...

I even read some places about free Punjab and that confused the fuck out of me cause I'm Punjabi (who does not live in Punjab) and I don't have any clue what it's about... I asked my fam, but they just gave me a weird look and told me to stay away from anyone that mentions Khalistan😭💀

(this got way longer than I expected, so sorry) but would you have any recommendations for any blogs/articles/books/podcast resources or any personal recommendations for news publications that are reliable (finding God would probably be easier than finding such publications lmao) like I thought Al-Jazeera is super credible, but then read that they're super credible when it comes to Palestine, not when it's global...

like where tf do I go from here lol

hello nonnie! some news sites I'd recommend are newslaundry (they have a youtube channel too), the wire, scroll.in and newsclick. maktoob media is mostly focused on minority rights in india. hindutvawatch.org is about hindu fascist violence committed against minorities. I still think you should stick to al-jazeera at least when it comes to palestine (they have journalists on the ground there, shireen abu akleh was one of them)

this is a good introduction to anyone wanting to learn about hindutva, this and this are about how india is becoming increasingly unsafe for minorites and is undergoing a democratic backsliding. this and this are about the rss link to nazism

hostile homelands by azad essa is about india's historical relationship with israel and the parallels between hindutva and zionism. the brown history podcast has an episode about how india went from the first non-arab state to recognise palestine to its largest buyer of weapons, featuring azad essa (x). you can also read colonising kashmir by hafsa kanjwal about how india came to militarily occupy kashmir. if you want to learn more about kashmir there are the blogs kashmiraction.org and standwithkashmir (which is um. blocked in india. i wonder why)

i have not read khaki shorts and saffron flags yet but this one is about the history of the rss. i also suggest watching the documentaries ram ke naam and jai bhim, comrade which are about the hindutva mobilisation in the 1980s

for me free punjab is very ?? the indian government is beyond evil as they continue to spy on sikhs abroad (and ofc, the 1984 sikh genocide) but i don't think liberation will be achieved through a religious ethnostate. any state formed on the basis of religion will inevitably turn out to be a disaster. i do encourage you to read lost in history: 1984 reconstructed by gunisha kaur, which is about the human rights violations committed against sikhs during this time and why operation bluestar was in fact not about freeing sri harmandir sahib from "terrorists." all i can say is to stand with sikhs unapologetically as our shitass government continues to commit more and more human rights violations against them

in general, i'd tell you to observe the language used by different news outlets and question it (eg. american news referring to israelis below the age of 18 as children but the same courtesy is not extended to palestinians) and check their sources. if it's from whatsapp university don't even bother

[holycatsandrabbits]

Hey, y’all, it’s Weird Wednesday! Where on some Wednesdays, I blog about weird stuff and give writing prompts.

Today: The Greenbrier Ghost: Testimony from Beyond the Grave

In October 1896, Elva Zona Heaster (called Zona) married Erasmus (or Edward) Stribbling Trout Shue after a brief courtship. Zona was found dead in their home the following January. The family doctor recorded “childbirth” (presumably meaning miscarriage) as the cause of death. However, Zona’s mother, Mary Jane Heaster, was sure her daughter had been murdered by her new husband. Her proof? Zona told her so. After she died.

To be fair, the whole thing was a bit suspicious. A whirlwind romance and marriage to a near stranger, then a death within months. It turned out Shue had an ex-wife who accused him of abuse and a second wife who also died suddenly after marriage in an accident. Oh, and Shue was quite protective of Zona’s body, and would let no one examine her, especially the neck.

After Zona’s burial, Mrs. Heaster claimed she was visited four times by her daughter’s ghost, who said her husband had broken her neck in a rage over dinner being delayed.

It is, of course, possible that Mrs. Heaster made up the story to put pressure on the law to act. But even without the ghost’s account, prosecutor John Alfred Preston agreed there was enough reason to exhume the body and perform an autopsy.

Check out the blog post for the whole story and some ghostly writing prompts, such as: 

Liar, liar. So let's say your ghost character appears and names their murderer, but the person they talk to purposefully misreports it for their own reasons. What recourse would a ghost have in this case? They might try appearing to someone else. Or they might try forcing the witness to tell the truth—maybe scaring them into it, or enlisting the help of Something Awful from beyond the grave.

DannyeChase.com ~ AO3 ~ Linktree ~ Weird Wednesday writing prompts blog ~ Resources for Writers 

Image credit

[jwolf85]

(SPOILERS for The Fall of the House of Usher)

My one minor critique about the Fall of the House of Usher is really just a big pet peeve of mine that I've seen in other stories: the entire narrative is Roderick confessing to Auggie about everything that has happened, going through all sorts of crimes and how each person has died, But then after everything, Auggie just decides not to do anything with the recording??? We went through this huge story and the answers to so many issues die with the Ushers?

Not taking it to evidence to exhume Griswold, not closing other various cold cases that the confessions may have solved, not sharing it to the world to give everyone else effected by the Ushers a sense of justice, not giving any of the spouses or significant others connected to the family a sense of closure of what the hell happened, and most importantly and ....most heinously... not telling Morrie about why her innocent hero of a daughter is dead.

I get the intended conclusion is that Auggie is finally at peace and saw justice served, but isn't the story a lot bigger than just him? At the very least, I like to think he told Morrie, Jules, and Bill off screen. What's the point of recording the story if it's not going to go anywhere? Like he couldn't in good conscience just leave a dead body buried underneath Fortunato? They could've just had Auggie accidentally leave the recording in the house when it got destroyed or like to see if before he made it out and made the split decision to leave it - giving at least some sort of dramatic satisfaction to his choice.

Maybe I'm missing something, lemme know if anyone has any other thoughts.

[lovesongbracket]

Reminder: Vote based on the song, not the artist or specific recording! The tracks referenced are the original artist, aside from a few rare cases where a cover is the most widely known.

Lyrics, videos, info, and notable covers under the cut. (Spotify playlist available in pinned post)

Like Real People Do

Written By: Hozier

Artist: Hozier

Released: 2014

Alternate version included: Live in America, 2015

This song is a metaphor. Hozier uses “bog bodies” in Ireland, bodies which are exhumed after centuries of natural mummification, to describe a new relationship.

[Verse 1] I had a thought, dear, however scary About that night, the bugs and the dirt Why were you digging? What did you bury Before those hands pulled me from the earth? [Chorus] I will not ask you where you came from I will not ask and neither should you Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips We should just kiss like real people do [Verse 2] I knew that look, dear: eyes always seeking Was there in someone that dug long ago So I will not ask you why you were creeping In some sad way, I already know [Chorus] So I will not ask you where you came from I would not ask and neither would you Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips We should just kiss like real people do [Chorus] I could not ask you where you came from I could not ask and neither could you Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips We could just kiss like real people do

At Last

Written By: Henry Warren & Mack Gordon

Artist: Etta James

Released: 1960

Originally recorded by: Glenn Miller and His Orchestra feat. Pat Friday & John Payne, 1941

A song originally written in 1941 by Mack Gordon and Harry Warren and originally performed by Glenn Miller and His Orchestra for the 1941 movie Sun Valley Serenade, this ballad found its greatest success in the hands of the late Etta James in this 1960 recording. The tune became James' signature song. The song is featured on several “best of” lists, including inclusion in the Library of Congress' National Recording Registry and induction into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 1999.

[Verse 1] At last My love has come along My lonely days are over And life is like a song (Oh, yeah, yeah) [Verse 2] At last The skies above are blue My heart was wrapped up in clover The night I looked at you [Bridge] I found a dream that I could speak to A dream that I can call my own I found a thrill to press my cheek to A thrill that I've never known (Oh, yeah, yeah) [Verse 3] You smiled, you smiled Oh, and then the spell was cast And here we are in heaven For you are mine at last