#goes halfway across london because its the only other train home

[angelicmemo]

Update: I was not Fine

I'm fine I'm fine I'm going to be fine

[shayanyaan]

Two Eleven Super

“London is very human-scale,” I am quick to pitch for one of my favorite cities in the world. 

Her eyes widen and her face lights up. She nods her head vigorously and points her finger at me, in complete agreement. This is the moment in a conversation when one person articulates perfectly what the other person was thinking but couldn’t quite put into words. B and I have been explaining to each other how both of us are more comfortable living in cities where we can walk or take public transport.

“Oh gosh London, yes! Seeing a London trip on my schedule always fills me with immense warmth. Imagine being able to walk around a city slowly absorbing all that it has to offer, the sights, the sounds, the traditions.”

They say never meet your celebrity heroes because you’ll inevitably find something disappointing. I think the same applies to some of the great cities of the world. But both of us conclude hands down that London does not fall in this category. 

“Actually London is not even a celebrity. London is a reliable old friend. A friend that has not lost their sense of culture and tradition. The monuments, the churches ...”

“.....and the bridges across the Thames - each one steeped in history.” We are finishing each other's sentences now. “The railway stations. The tube - a subterranean metropolis beneath a metropolis. The Mind the Gap jokes.” 

“And what about the black cabs and then … and then the red double decker buses. Oh the red buses - what an icon! They say tourists take the tube but real Londoners take the bus.”

“Aha! You’re probably right. Flocks of pigeons on Trafalgar square, the shops on Oxford Street.”

“And you can’t forget the ever present murky skies, steady rain, rippled puddles, umbrella bearing pedestrians.”

“Of course you just had to mention the Great British weather!” A disapproving look is thrown. The entire body of humor surrounding the British weather is a road we agree not to go down. 

---

I continue to quiz B on some of the other cities that she thought would fit the human-scale bill. New York inevitably comes up as a place she has not only travelled to but lived in. I am glad she brought up New York. Now New York is not an old friend. New York is a person you know you shouldn’t fall for, but you do anyway. There is something about the pace and the madness that sets New York apart from the rest of the US. Something about the people, coming from all corners of the world. To make a living, or even half a living. American dream and all that. 

In New York you are acutely aware of the class divide that exists in society. New York is dirty. The subway is full of creaking old trains. New York has JFK and LaGuardia both of which are dismal at best and soul destroying at worst. Oh and Penn Station. Never has there been a more classic case of the mighty having fallen. A complete and utter hell hole out of some post apocalyptic world. 

But somehow it all works. Barely. And that is where New York absolutely has you. As you walk around the city, you peel back the layers and beneath all the flaws and scars, you will find a genuinely captivating person. A person that knows how to push your buttons and make you forget the pandemonium, if only for a split second. Through the dollar pizzas on the street corners. Through the sheer magic of Central Park and the museums. Through the Manhattan skyline; hands down the best skyline in the world. Standing next to the Hudson, under the Brooklyn Bridge, with Lady Liberty keeping a quiet watch from a distance, you will be powerless as New York sucks you in. One glittering high rise at a time. Dreamy eyed, you cannot help but stare in wonderment. Hundreds of floors, thousands of windows. What goes on inside? And the lights! Yes so many lights. What could be a better tribute to Tesla, Faraday and the like?

“In general, the east coast of the United States is on a much more human-scale. Relatively small states with trains taking you across borders within a couple of hours at the most.”

“Going west of maybe Illinois, they started drawing great big rectangles for states.”

“And then there’s Texas. Vast open skies in an almost revolting shade of blue. Just as vast are the expanses of highway, further than the eye could see, or care to see. Wide, long and monotonous. Not a single human-scale building in sight”

“And who the hell builds highways passing through the center of a city!? Makes going to get some milk feel like a great expedition to the other side of the world.”

More chuckles. 

Then a brief silence, during which I am suddenly reminded of where I am - in a lounge on the upper deck of an A380. A massive ship hurtling through the ether, pushing the speed of sound. A big TV screen near where I am standing silently glares back at me indicating that -50 degrees is but a mere 10 meters from where I am standing. Yet here we are, B and I, chatting like two friends catching up over coffee. 

But of course, we are not friends. Not even acquaintances. She is on the Emirates cabin crew. And I am just a passenger. 

---

Back at my seat, halfway through an episode of Chernobyl, I pause to stare out of the window. Beyond the wing, which seems to stretch out to eternity, a smudge of orange is forcing its way through the royal blue of the sky. I can hear the muffled yet reassuring boom from the four Rolls Royce engines. It is then that I realize that there is nothing about the A380 that is human-scale. There is nothing about the skies which she inhabits that is human-scale. I've travelled on the beloved Super dozens of times. Yet I continue to be amazed at the size and scale with which she operates. Devouring continents and swallowing oceans. Bringing the other side of the world just a little closer to home. 

A friend of mine often describes journeys on the A380 as the closest we can get to the long sea voyages on gigantic ocean liners in the 1930s. And he is right. Two decks with so much space to stretch out. Bars, lounges, showers - no expense spared in ensuring luxury. Imagine peering out of the window from your first class cabin on the Queen Mary and seeing nothing but vast open sea. Right now I am doing exactly the same. Only from 36000 feet above the Earth, and all I can see is the vast open sky. Far below, Moscow and St Petersburg slip behind us. Scandinavia and the Atlantic Ocean lie ahead. As we burn more fuel, over North America, we will eventually settle in the exclusive airspace of flight level 410. 

The Boeing 747 is a work of art. Sheer poetry. The Airbus A380 however, is a lesson in outsmarting the laws of Physics. It is an absolute whale of a plane that looks like it should never leave the surface of the Earth in the first place. But somehow it does, through the most languid and sluggish of take offs.  Once up at cruising altitude though, it is steady ship all the way to your destination. The ability to punch through the sky without even the faintest of trembles is simply unmatched. I continue to stare wistfully out of the window, thinking about how much I’ll miss the A380 when she’s gone. She’s right up there with the Concorde in that nothing like this will ever be built in my lifetime.  

---

Resting my head on one of the fluffiest pillows ever to have taken flight, I gaze at the roof of the cabin - tiny twinkling stars gently coaxing me to drift off into a deep sleep. And frankly, it is not hard to. The bed is completely flat and the mattress is more comfortable than the one I have at home. The blanket is ever so soft. The fake gold and wood around the windows is not something I’d furnish my home with, yet up here in the sky, it somehow adds to the coziness. From my own little cocoon, I can see neither the aisle nor other TV screens. Not a single window shade in the cabin is raised. I don’t remember the last time I fell asleep on a plane without an eye mask.  All I can hear are the engines whirling away, and the hushed sound of the air beating against the fuselage - no more than a relaxing white noise. 

In the moments between lying down and falling asleep, I am thinking about the countless journeys I’ve made with Emirates over the last two decades. Leaving home as often as I’ve had to, I’ve come to really treasure the sense of familiarity that an Emirates flight brings to me. I’ve never stopped to think about it before but there is a certain warmth and tenderness you feel when you have an old faithful travel companion to share your journeys with. And Emirates has been that companion for me, helping me wipe away the homesickness. Slowly at first, then all at once. The boarding music that says “Hello Tomorrow”. The inflight announcements that say “Tayaran Al Emarat”. The reassuring voice of Sir Tim Clark answering questions on the default podcast channel. The wavy curves on the cabin wallpaper. The cabin crew with their brown blazers and their red hats.  When choosing an airline to fly, it is hard to look past this comfort of familiarity resulting from a bond first formed unwittingly, many years ago. And strengthened over numerous journeys from one side of the planet to the other, including this one. Before I can process any more thoughts, I slip into a happy and peaceful sleep. We are probably somewhere over the North Atlantic. But in this moment, it hardly matters. 

---

Six hours have passed. B is on hand to wake me for dinner. It seems the crew has saved the best meal till the very end. Three courses this evening, starting with a chick-pea salad that doesn’t make you hate your life with its dreariness. I politely refuse the alcohol but ask for a piece of garlic bread on the side. Which is brought to me, warm, from a basket lined with cloth. The main course is served with the Jeera rice cooked in just the right amount of butter. The ratio of jeera to rice - perfect. The Rajma has the power to rival any dhaba in North India and along with it is a second curry made with melt-in-your-mouth soft paneer. Actual phulkas to go on the side, instead of pita. 

And if you're going to go full North Indian with your meal, you need some achaar. Which obviously is on my tray as well. Emirates just knows how to serve Indian food. If I had any doubts about this, they are well and truly shattered when B brings the dessert. Four of the finest pieces of Rasgulla. Sometimes you have a meal so sublime that you are moved to shedding a tear or two. This AVML has been one such. 

I call B over one last time to thank her for everything. She passes me a brownie, one very similar to those I’d been wolfing down earlier while talking to her in the lounge. This of course, brings the widest of smiles to my face. Not because I like brownies. But most certainly because of the fact that she had noticed. And remembered. The crew has been absolutely stellar on this flight. 

---

Business class. A crew that knows how to pronounce your ridiculously long last name. A crew that has time to engage in conversations with you. Meals served on crisp white table cloths. Meals that come in courses. Flat beds to stretch your legs. Flat beds to rest your weary soul. On a grueling ultra long haul flight across 10 time zones, almost anything that seeks to make you feel more earthly is highly appreciated. 

This has been Emirates Two Eleven Super - Dubai to Houston in just under seventeen hours, albeit the best seventeen hours of my life. 

[joulethieves]

springtime in paris, balthier thinks, is not so different than springtime in london, or perhaps, springtime anywhere, really.

rain. and a lot of it.

grey mornings give way to grey afternoons which fade silently into grey nights, day after day, and the streets flood into the seine. even something about the fog reminds balthier of home. he remembers thinking grimly that he was never aware there could be so much grey before london. now he realizes, like everything about this city, paris shows up london even in that regard as well. 

it’s another one of these grey nights-turned-mornings now. the transition of the day behind the haze of rain is so subtle that he only realizes the night has passed when the old hag’s scrappy dog yips at the paper boy like it does every day. outside his top-floor window, balthier peers down at the sleepy street, and rubs at his ruddy eyes.

it’s still dense and dark. were there no clouds, perhaps the sun would just begin its grand pastel arc of colours across the slanted, jagged horizon of paris. but this is not one of those days.

night-whiskers pepper his jawline and he scratches at the bone, unimpressed at the hour presented coupled with the half-blank page staring at him; it’s nestled mockingly in his typewriter, as if daring him to write one more word only to change his mind, mar it further with unsightly x’s that seem to bore their way into the backs of his eyelids when he rubs at them.

if it’s morning already, and the dog is yipping, and the paper boy is here, then balthier knows his ritual by now. he pushes back from his desk and lets the chair scrape along the scarred floorboards, purposefully heedless of his neighbors below. if they deem it so necessary to practice their cacophanous violin during his sleeping hours he may as well wake them early for it. 

he dresses for the weather accordingly: a wool peacoat, a matching black scarf, and an umbrella. balthier likes the black after long nights like these, when ink still stains the pads of his fingers and the smears are lost in the coal threads of his scarf. the weather isn’t making him feel particularly colorful anyway, and the coat is already outfitted with the necessities: his keys, his pocketwatch, and his cigarets. 

that’s all he needs, and balthier heads out into the rain.

la nocturne is a cafe nestled in its own quiet little orbit on a cobbled street not a ten minute walk from balthier’s apartment. he enters the familiar doors, into the yellow-dimness and redolence of espresso. nary a soul is there at this hour, and fran sits at the corner of the bar. she looks up from her book as he approaches.

‘off soon?’ he asks, taking a seat where he always does. 

fran rises from her seat behind the bar to pour him a cup. she does not leave room for cream. ‘yes,’ she offers simply. balthier notes that there is someone in the cafe, tucked away in a booth: a woman and her notebook, hunched and scribbling away. 

‘care to walk along the river, then?’ he asks over the rim of his mug. fran smiles in that way balthier has learned comes mostly from her eyes, and nods.

‘i’d like that.’

under their shared umbrella, they are two timeless spectres floating along the flooded streets, though fran knows which to avoid on their way to the river to make it less harrowing on his good leather shoes. her company is a pleasant one, her company is, in fact, not unlike a rainy spring morning. quiet, with a lush promise of warmth after a long winter. 

(he thinks to write that down for her; perhaps it will make a nice card for her birthday.)

as they walk, the last dregs of night fade silently into morning. shutters open, dogs bark, and every now and then an early-rising commuter glides their bike down a lane, perfectly content to be a stubborn sod on two wheels despite the weather. together, balthier and fran watch the world wake.

there is some sort of perverse satisfaction about seeing the wrong side of the sunrise. balthier is a creature of the night and finds he quite likes it that way, bidding farewell to the day when the world wakes up to greet it. under the shelter of his umbrella, balthier lights fran’s cigaret and then his own. it hits a spot that words still struggle to form, and thankfully in fran’s presence, there is no need for them.

‘how goes your tale?’ she asks eventually, when they’ve reached a side of the riverwalk on a slight incline. 

balthier exhales his smoke in a sigh. ‘at the rate i’m going, i may just be three times dead before it’s halfway told.’ he stops in their amble to watch the river’s flow, grey as stone and alive with the patter of raindrops, until his eyes climb the eiffel tower. he’d never say it aloud, as fran would mock him relentlessly, but he’s yet to be sick of looking at it. 

‘your story will come to you,” fran says kindly, flicking the ash of her cigaret into the puddle at their feet. “of this, i am sure.’

balthier makes a noise of distaste. ‘maybe that’s the problem; i’ve gone and high-tailed it here all the way from london on a train to find it.’

‘she may like playing hard to get,’ fran offers, a playful lilt to her voice that lights the monochrome morning in a brief flicker of light. balthier laughs.

‘oh, it’s a she then, is it? that may be the problem.’ he tsks good-naturedly, and flicks his finished cigaret into the overflow.

fran looks up at the sky, tilting her umbrella back and letting the rain hit her face. in the muted sunlight veiled behind layers of clouds, she looks beautiful. 

‘jests aside,’ she begins, ‘if it has called you here, then here it will be. perhaps it is looking for you too; hiding in alleys, prowling on rooftops, crossing bridges in the fog. it is not a lost cause yet.’

‘or worse,’ balthier adds. ‘maybe she’s a morning person.’ when fran nudges him playfully, the author shrugs. ‘it’s been nigh on a year since i’ve arrived and i’ve barely a thing to show for it.’

‘six hundred pages is not for naught,’ fran chides.

‘six hundred written. sixty saved.’

‘they would be easier to save, i think, if you did not burn them.’

‘well, it was one way to stay warm in this dreadful winter.’

talk of his writing makes his hands itch and balthier lights another cigaret, because why not, dammit.

‘spring has come, and with it, warm air. now, you have little excuse to burn your stories. mayhaps the changing of season will bring out your elusive tale."

a boat glides across the river, and balthier watches her watch it as he finishes his smoke.

they part ways at the corner, and bid each other good night, making brief plans to meet upon waking for dinner.

for now, it’s another grey-night-turned-morning, like the one yesterday, and the one before that, and likely the same as the one tomorrow, but balthier is no weatherman. he simply has learned what to anticipate after twenty-seven years of spring.

rain, and a lot of it.

[loverofallthatarestories]

Teen Wolf 6b Alternate Ending

In the midst of madness Scott, Malia and Lydia sharply turn their heads towards the familiar screech of an old jeep approaching. They immediately know who’s coming their way. A soft knowing smile slowly forms across Scott’s face. Malia with her typical concerned brows furrowed and mouth slightly open look. Lydia’s eyes grow wide in anticipation and an instant soft smile stretches across her rosy red lips.  She is the first to run toward the jeep that is making a sudden stop right in front of them. Malia and Scott trail slightly behind. Even with their supernatural abilities Lydia is always the first to get to Stiles. There he is with one hand on the wheel and the other hanging outside of the window. He says with slight annoyance in his voice, “You didn’t think you were going to do this without me did you?” Then to their surprise a tall, dark and handsome Derek pops around the side of the jeep and says, “Without us?” 

Lydia’s reaction to him every time is automatic she can’t help but smile every time she sees his goofy grin and kind brown eyes especially since she almost lost him. Stiles sees her and knows he could never stay mad at her for not telling him what was going on. He melts with one look into those beautiful green eyes. As Scott gives Derek a brotherly hug with tears almost forming in his eyes, Stiles hops out of the driver's seat slamming the door shut thinking it would give him more speed to get to Lydia. 

He finally wraps his arms around her waist picking her up and spinning her around as his muffled voice in her thick hair says, “Hey babe, I missed you.” She giggles and blushes with her arms wrapped tightly around his neck for support. He lightly puts her back on the ground. When she catches her breath she says, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” He half smiles and replies, “I can’t believe you thought you were going to do this without me. Lydia, the reason why we are still alive is because we always find our way back to each other. I can’t lose you.” Lydia with concern looks down at their feet and says, “That’s exactly what I was a afraid of. I can’t lose you. Not again.” He then understands taking in a deep breath while moving a chunk of her hair out of her eyes while bringing her eyes back up to meet his. He keeps his finger tangled in her wavy hair as his thumb wipes a single tear that strays from her left eye. He says with confidence, “You aren’t going to lose me again we will keep each other safe. The only way we can do that is by handling these things together.” She sighs in relief and says, “You’re right. Next time I’ll call you.” He replies, “Promise?” She laughs whilst grabbing a chunk of his flannel from his chest in her hand to pull him closer and answers, “Promise. Now kiss me FBI Agent Stilinski.” 

He does as he’s told pulling her lips to his with the hand that is still locked in her thick strawberry blonde locks. His other hand finds its way under the hem of her shirt to press into her hip so that there’s even less space between the two of them. She takes that as an opportunity to move one hand to grab onto the back of his hair and the other wraps around his waist like a coiling snake. She moves her nose to the other side of his to deepen the kiss. Both of them fully explore the other’s mouth with their tongues. Lydia subtly licks his upper lip causing him to smile before he goes back in returning her lick with a bit to her bottom lip. Lydia doesn’t smile she just grabs tighter to his hair and presses her whole body to his intensifying the kiss. Scott then decides to fake cough in order to remind them that they are not alone. Stiles suddenly turns his head to Scott keeping his hands firmly on lydia’s cheek and hip leaving Lydia with a dazed look on her face, eyes halfway open and mouth still open with wet, slightly pursed lips as Stiles says to Scott, “I’ve been waiting nine years for this I think you can wait a few more seconds.” He turns back to Lydia smiling at the dazed yet hungry for more look on her face. He pulls her back in with a tender slow kiss. She moves her hands to the small of his back to pull him close and he moves his left hand to copy his right cupping her face so softly. They reluctantly pull away slowly like their first kiss, but this time when they lock eyes they both whisper at the same time, “I love you.” Their forwards act like magnets and they breathe each other in before they turn back to the pressing matter at hand. When they turn back to Scott and Malia. They notice that they have interlocked their hands. Stiles at first has a confused look on his face, but it quickly turns into a unsurprised smile. He looks to Scott gives him a look as if asking for approval. Stiles replies, “Scott it’s ok I hope you guys are happy together. Besides I’m with Lydia now.” Stiles smiles at Lydia and she returns the same genuinely happy smile. Scott breaks away from Malia to pull Stiles in for a hug lovingly patting him hard on the back. Maila puts her arm around Lydia as they look at their boys, their hug starts to turn into play fighting. Malia cuts in by saying, “Alright guys we have to go meet up with the rest of the pack so we can ya know not be killed by the hunters.” Scott pushes Stiles away in a joking way and says, “sorry you’re right, come on Stiles lets see what that FBI training has done for ya.” They laugh and head off to find the rest of the pack each boy with their arms around their girls. 

They are facing the most experienced, ruthless threat than ever before. Hunters with years of training, an endless supply of lethal weapons and an army driven by the powerful beast that is fear. The five of them head into the school on this dark and cloudy night to meet up with the rest of the pack. They find Liam, Mason, Theo, Peter and Argent in a huddle no doubt planning out their attack. Peter and Derek at first eye each other up still unsure if they can fully trust each other, but they both come to their senses and collapse into a rough hug. Peter then sees Malia and Scott holding hands and quickly walks over to them crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow to Scott. Scott releases Malia’s hand in awkwardness. Malia looks down at his hand and says, “No. Dad back off Scott is my boyfriend now.” Scott surprised turns to Malia and says, “Boyfriend?” She has that classic look of confusion and says, “Well, yeah. I mean that’s what people like you and me are, right?” Scott then draws some confidence grabbing her hand and says, “Yes, that’s what I’d call it.” He gives her a genuine Scott smile then looks to Peter and adds with some sass, “Yeah so deal with it.” Peter then tilts his head to the side as he glows his blue eyes in an attempt to frighten Scott, but he doesn’t budge. Peter sighs and says, “Okay, fine. Be good to my baby girl.” He places a kiss on top of Malia’s head as he flings an arm around her shoulders. She rolls her eyes at him as they rejoin the rest of the pack.

Mason and Stiles are quickly forming a plan to utilize everyone’s special talents. Then the doors to the school fly open. To everyone’s surprise in walk Jackson and Ethan. As everyone looks at them with shocked faces they both give each other a satisfied smirk. Lydia quickly puts her arm around Stiles’ waist grabbing a handful of his shirt for support and in return Stiles places his hand on her shoulder giving her a squeeze of reassurance. Jackson looks to Lydia first as Ethan goes for Scott to give him a hug. Jackson says, “Long time no see.”  He leans in to give her a hug and she only offers half of her body because she refuses to let go of Stiles. Jackson leans back as he looks awkwardly at the two of them attached to each other like magnets not sure exactly what to say. All he can think to say is, “It’s about damn time you noticed him.” She replies with a half smile and looks lovingly towards Stiles as she grabs tighter to his side. He says for the both of them, “Thanks, Jackson. That was surprisingly pleasant. Looks like London turned you into a softy.” Ethan then reappears back at Jackson’s side slowly putting his arm around him overhearing the conversation and says, “More like I brought out that side of him.” He places a kiss on Jackson’s cheek. None of them seemed shocked by this revelation, especially Lydia. She is the first to speak saying, “It all makes sense now. I’m just glad you found someone to love other than yourself.” Jackson laughs and says, “Ouch, yep I deserve that. Now how can we help?”

They all (mainly Stiles and Mason) decide it’s best to draw them to the lacrosse field for home field advantage. Argent will arrange a meeting between the hunters through Gerard. He would never refuse an opportunity to try to verbally manipulate Scott McCall, but this time Scott will be ready. Scott and Liam will meet them in the middle of the field. Argent and Stiles will have their snipers locked on Argent and the new hunter, Tamora in case things go south to the left of them. Under the cover of the tree line that enters into the woods. Theo, Jackson, Ethan, Derek and Peter will approach the meeting from behind the hunters in order to surround them from all sides. Mason goes to the electrical box to turn on the lights and will stay there in case he needs to cut them. Lydia with her new skill of being able to hone in on certain groups of people and knock them out with her scream will be to the right of Scott with Malia at her side using the bleaches as their cover. As soon as Scott and Liam have their attention Lydia is to knock out their army leaving Gerard and his new protege to negotiation alone.

Scott and Liam approach the field slowly Liam giving him a concerned look and Scott replying with a nod of assurance. As they make their way to their position, drops of rain start to fall to the ground giving it a glossy look. Gerard and his new protege approach with a handful of their army fully armed and loaded. Gerard is the first to break the tension by saying, “This will be the last time I will meet you without the spray of bullets aimed towards your head Scott. The people of Beacon Hills are tired of being afraid and are finally ready to end the cause of their fear.” Scott shakes his head, “We are not your enemy. We have only ever tried to protect you from the supernaturals who seek to hurt humans. It’s hard to have a conversation with you pointing guns at our heads.” He then looks to Lydia. She takes that as her cue. She appears from behind the bleaches and is able to scream just enough to knock out the hunters standing behind Gerard and Tamora, but suddenly her mouth is covered by a familiar hand. 

She looks at the face behind her out of the corner of her eye, it’s jackson. His eyes have turned yellow like they did when he was a kanima. Gerard and Tamora smile at the sight. Gerard says with delight, “You may have turned him into a wolf, but can never break the bond of a kanima and it’s master.” Scott looks shocked and terrified he never thought that would be possible, but then again it is Beacon Hills. He turns to Jackson who is bringing Lydia toward Gerard and Tamora and says, “Jackson please you are stronger than this.” Jackson’s face doesn’t change. Stiles’s heart stops as he watches this from the woods. He starts to move toward the field but Argent grabs his arm and says, “Don’t, I have a plan.” 

Gerard gives Jackson a look as if telling him it’s time to end this. Losing Lydia would break the pack she’s been the glue that holds them together and Gerard knows it. Jackson with a flick of his fingers reveals his claws. He slowly starts moving them towards Lydia’s neck as she squirms beneath his tight grip. Stiles is suppose to aim to injure Tamora and Argent is locked on his father. At the last minute as Stiles sees Jackson’s claws inching closer to Lydia’s throat he aims at Jackson’s head and they both fire. 

The bullet misses just slightly as Jackson is thrown to the ground. Corey lying on top of him. He had been hiding in the grass the whole time. Gerard falls to the ground with the bullet that was supposed to be stuck in his leg made a red ring of blood around his heart. He falls face down. Derek grabs Tamora from behind, but she doesn’t struggle. She has a sense of relief and is no longer afraid. Where Gerard’s body was supposed to be, lies the body of the faceless man. It was Gerard. Ever since he was bitten by Scott he has survived by fear turning him into the monster he’s always been. 

Stiles runs to Lydia sliding on his knees to catch her just as she is about to fall to the ground. The light rain comes down harder as he places the bridge of his nose on her closed eyes. He breathes in deeply relieved as he feels her hands grab onto his strong arms. They open their eyes and look at each other with such intensity. He says, “I thought I was going to lose you.” She moves her left hand to the back of his neck and says with such confidence, “I knew you were never going to let them happen.” His lips turn into a pout and his eyes look at her the same way he did after she stopped his panic attack with a kiss. He is overwhelmed by the love he feels for her and the love he knows she reciprocates. 

As he brings them both to their feet he can’t help it and finds himself lowering down to one knee. She places her hands over her mouth in disbelief. He grabs a small box from out of his pocket and opens it. He displays a beautiful yet simple diamond ring proudly for Lydia to see with one hand and reaches for her left hand with the other. She happily places her hand in his with her other hand pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. He says, “Lydia I knew since the third grade that some day I would be right here, in front of you, down on one knee. I can’t stand being alive one more second without you being all mine.” She smiles so sweetly looking into those brown eyes as she takes in every word coming out of his mouth as tears form in her own green eyes. He continues, “Lydia Martin will you marry me?” He can barely get it out before she says, “Yes!” Stiles’s mouth forms the biggest grin he asks, “Really? Because you do realize that now you’ll be Mrs. Stilinski doesn’t exactly roll of the tongue.” She laughs and says, “ Yes! Now kiss me before I change my mind.” He smirks and says, “Yes ma’am.” He scoops her up crashing his lips to hers as he spins her around. When he returns her to the ground their kiss only deepens. The rain coming down adds even more passion to their kiss. Their wet lips able to explore each other mouth’s easier. Stiles tenderly slides his hands to the small of her back to pull her even closer to him leaving no space in between them. Lydia grabs a handful of his wet hair with the other hand grabbing tightly to his strong jaw. The ring shining brightly with the rain and the field lights. They reluctantly pull away for air breathing each other in with their foreheads together and their eyes locked. Lydia jokingly says, “Now who says I’m going to change my name?” Stiles smiles and says, “I don’t care what your name is as long as you’re my wife.” She laughs and says, “I love you.” He replies now more serious, “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment.” She softly smiles and says, “No more waiting I promise.” She pulls him in for one more kiss while the rest of the pack huddle around them with hugs and congrats. Scott claps Stiles on the shoulder and says, “You did it man.” Stiles smirks at him and says, “Yeah I did.” Then Stiles sees Jackson and makes his way over to him passing Lydia showing the ring to Malia and Ethan. Stiles says to Jackson as he looks down at his feet, “I’m sorry man. I didn’t know what else to do.” Jackson half smiles grabbing his shoulder encouraging Stiles to look up at him and replies, “It’s okay, I would have done the same thing.” Stiles returns the smile and they embrace in a brief hug. Stiles then rushes over to Lydia’s glowing face. He scooped her up in his arms and says, “Sorry guys, but we’d like to celebrate alone.” Lydia laughs putting her arms around his neck with ease as he rushes them to his jeep placing her in the passenger seat. When he gets in he says, “Where to?” She slyly replies, “How about the closest empty parking lot.” He raises an eyebrow in disbelief, but sees the honesty in her eyes and replies with a smile spreading across his face, “You don’t have to tell me twice.” He flings the jeep into reverse and they’re gone.

[letdecemberburninflames]

Top of Our Class

Chapter 9: Seventh Year (Part 1)

Fic Type: Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter Crossover, (half)Elf!Reader, Slytherin!Reader, Draco Malfoy x Reader

Warnings: Torture, but nothing to extreme. Long ass chapter. Like over three thousand words.

Dumbledore was dead and your father was an Auror so he had to stay, but your mother wanted to leave to escape Voldemort's clutches, but you wanted to remain. You told your mother to leave, that you and father would join her in Mirkwood as soon as your last year of school was over, as soon as your N.E.W.Ts were finished. Then you received a letter from Hogwarts. It contained the usual supplies list and ticket. But that was not all the letter contained. You were shocked to discover that you had been made Head Girl. This was a huge honor of course, so you knew for sure you had to return to Hogwarts. They reluctantly agreed after many arguments that they would stay at your home on the beach while your father fought the Death Eaters. So you returned to Hogwarts utterly alone. You had given Tundra to your mother, to look after him while you were away. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and various other Muggle-borns had left the school, and many, the country. On the train you did your duties, instructing the Prefects, and so on.

When you returned to school, Professor Snape was the new headmaster, and many Death Eaters were the teachers. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was running the school. You felt sick and wished that you had taken up your parents offer; you hadn't expected things to become this bad at all. Then you received a letter from Snape. You where the new Quidditch captain! When you sat across from Draco Malfoy for breakfast the next morning (the breakfast lacking its usual happiness), he gave you an angry but worried look, like he was trying to chide you for coming back. But you didn't come back for him. The Death Eaters didn't like you because you were from a non-Death Eater family and your father was an Auror, but you were also from a Pure-Blood family and your parents weren't part of the Order of the Phoenix, so they weren't too concerned with you either. You were just another doll that they would try and convert. After the first month or so, you were recruited by the Death Eaters, but you knew were your loyalties truly lay, with Dumbledore and the school, so you refused. Draco then asked you to join the Death Eaters, and when you refused him he told you to stay at school were he said you'd be safe. You had organized one of the best Quidditch teams the Slytherins' had ever had, but despite your team was winning every match they played, your heart just wasn't in it. You often neglected your Head Girl duties, to busy studying for N.E.W.T's and planning strategies for the upcoming Quidditch matches. Not that anybody cared of course.

---

Halfway through the school year you decided that you wanted to leave school. All the Slytherins were Death Eaters or had parents that were, so you were subject to horrible tricks and jokes. Blaise had tried to force you to sleep with him again, and you had barely escaped. No one from the other houses would talk to you because you were a Slytherin; Molly, Mary Beth, and Emma had already left. Your grades were just passing, not really Head Girl worthy at all. You weren't having fun playing Quidditch, no one on the team would talk to you either, other than to discuss the strategies during practice.

You kept holding out, wanting to get your N.E.W.T's, until you got a letter from the Ministry of Magic. Your mother, not being human, was dead. She had been executed by the Ministry; she was accused of "stealing magic" because she wasn't human, even though Mirkwood Elves had their own brand of magic. Your father was a Pureblood wizard whose genealogy could be traced back to Merlin, so he was safe, other than the fact he was an Auror and they and their families were basically never safe. You instantly knew that they would come looking for you, even though by definition you were a Pureblood. Soon after you got that letter you began packing. For your birthday last year Hermione had enchanted your school book bag to hold an infinite amount of objects on the inside while still weighing as much as it usually did. You filled the bag with all your books, some clothes, non-perishable food, and other various and helpful items. The next night you snuck off the school grounds. Once out of bounds of the enchantments placed on the school you apparated home immediately. It was nighttime so you wrote your father a letter explaining what happened, gathered some things from your room, said good bye to Tundra, and took off for the countryside.

---

You moved from place to place often, never staying anywhere over a week. It was cold and dreary weather wherever you went, and you were often exhausted from walking, gathering firewood, food, and water. One night while you were sleeping in a tent by the Thames River outside of London you heard voices outside. You pulled yourself up from your bed, which was warm despite the soggy ground. You step out of your tent wondering where the voices came from, wand at the ready. Suddenly everything went dark.

Someone grabbed you, forcing you close to them. A gruff voice coming from your captor says, "You'll fetch me handsome price, sweetie. You must be something special if Miss Bellatrix is looking for you!" around you voices laugh, his hand around your neck. Then a wolf-like howl and the person holding you loosened his grip, howling in pain. You break free and back away, only to be grabbed by one of his accomplices, and you begin to feel the familiar tugging sensation of apparition and you see a bright light before everything goes black.

---

You awake suddenly and find yourself sitting in a high-backed chair in a dimly lit drawing room. As your eyes focus you see a lady you recognize as Bellatrix Lestrange standing over you.

She laughs, "Lucky I want you, otherwise you would have made a delicious dinner for Greyback." She gestures to a man standing nearby. Greyback. He was one of the Death Eaters your father had told you about, and he was a werewolf. That explained why he loosened his grip when he touched your neck, you were wearing the silver necklace Draco had given you. His height and laugh hint that he was your kidnapper.

"What do you want?" you groan, head throbbing.

"Why, I thought you knew? Lucius wants rid of all distractions. Besides, we happen to know that you were friends with Granger. Master wants to know her whereabouts." She smiles evilly again. Lucius. You had heard that name before, why did you know that name? Then you remember. Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy was Draco's dad. But she couldn't possibly mean....

"And how exactly am I a distraction?" you ask.

"I will be asking the questions, blood-traitor!" she shouts raising her wand, and you cringe. "Ah, but you do not know?" she smiles again, her insane smile tainted with amusement. "To bad, you shall die with no recollection of the trouble you've caused. But first you will tell me where Harry Potter is." She mutters a spell and you are hit with excruciating pain, the Cruciatus Curse. You scream out in agony while Bellatrix laughs maniacally. You had seen Moody perform this curse on a spider, you had never liked spiders but now you felt sincerely sorry for it. Nearby Greyback is licking his chops, but all you can think about is the pain searing your body. You have no idea where Harry Potter is, he, Hermione, and Ron never returned to school. She was going to torture you to death and when you finally died Greyback would devour your lifeless corpse. The immense torment stopped suddenly.

You gasp for breath and glance up at Bellatrix and smirk weakly. "Is that the best you can do?" She walks closer to you, and you spit the blood dripping from your lips at her, and it splatters on her black dress.

"No, but I want you to live in agony for as long as possible." She laughs, running a small, sharp knife along your neck, leaving a crimson line of blood in its wake. "What is this?" she runs her finger along the silver chain of your locket.

"A gift." You twitch.

"From whom?" she sounds more intrigued than angry.

"None of your business."

"Very well." She grabs hold of your hair and pulls you towards a door, pushing you roughly into a dark cellar-like room, but not before magicking ropes tight around your wrists. You moan in pain as you lie on the damp floor of the cellar in the dark, pain still twisting around your body like pulsing invisible ropes. You try unsuccessfully to pull yourself up from the floor when you hear a sound.

"Who's there?" you murmur, still dizzy from pain.

"Ollivander, the wandmaker from Diagon Alley." Replies the voice. "I have a nail I can use to cut you free." You hear him move near to you and feel him begin to saw the ropes binding your wrists together. "Who are you?" he asks. You can barely see his face in the light coming from under the door.

"My name is F/N L/N." You reply quietly.

"Ah, (Insert your wand wood, core, and length here), yes?"

You nod, surprised he remembers you, his wide light eyes glint like full moons despite the darkness.

"Why are you here?" he inquires.

"I don't know. She said I was a distraction to someone, but I'm not sure who or how. And they want to know were Hermione Granger is." You rub your wrists; Ollivander had finished his task of cutting the bonds.

"You were young when I first met you, but wise for your age like your mother." He says. You look up.

"You knew my mother?"

"Why yes, of course. Her wand was Holly, Unicorn core, ten inches. Many thought she was part Veela."

You look down at your shoes, tears in your eyes. "No, she was a Mirkwood Elf. They said she stole magic. They said..." your voice breaks off. "She's dead. I don't want to believe it, but she is. I never got to say goodbye. That's why I left, because I would be considered a Mudblood, a thief."

Ollivander nodded somberly. The conversation ceased after that.

---

Day after day Bellatrix would take you and torture you to the point of passing out, throw you back in the cellar, then, once conscious drag you out and begin the process again, each time asking you where Potter was. You were given only water and Ollivander gave you half of whatever he was given; they didn't want to kill him. As the days past you found out that you were being held captive in the Malfoy Manor, the new Death Eater headquarters. At night you drifted in and out of dreams, hunger, exhaustion, and pain overwhelming you. Until one day Bellatrix didn't come at all. She left you in the cellar and it wasn't until well, you didn't actually know, being locked in a cellar kind of messed up your sense of time.

When she did arrive she spoke in a whisper. "Come, quickly! He must not see you." She dragged you to a guest-room that you assumed she stayed in. "If you make so much as a squeak, I will break every bone in your body." She snarled as she threw you on the floor. 

The extra time you had not being tortured had renewed some of your strength, though not much. She began her usual excursions, breaking bones then repairing them, driving nails into your skin till the blood came, and all the sorts of excruciating pain she could think of. She obviously had an inspiration, because she pulled you roughly up from the floor and pushed you into a chair. 

"Open your mouth." She commanded, a grin spreading across her shadowy face. "Such nice teeth, shame you're about to lose them!" she said in a sing-song voice. 

Your eyes widened in fear, and she smiled cruelly at your expression. She flicked her wand lazily and two of your back teeth soared into her outstretched hand. In the same moment, your index fingers' fingernails were wrenched from your skin. You forgot what she said about not making a sound, your hand flew to your mouth and you screamed as blood oozed over your tongue and from your fingerips. Bellatrix hit you so hard across the face you thought you had lost another tooth as stars swam before your eyes.

---

The last thing you could remember were footsteps pounding down the hall, the door bursting open, then everything going black. The days of little to no food, the agony of over a week of torture, and the sadness of losing everyone you loved had caught up to you, not to mention the blow you had just took to the head. But no, you had to stay alive. You were not going to die like this, you had important things to do, and death could wait. You could hear shouting in the next room. Only one of the voices sounded vaguely familiar. It was Draco's voice; this was his house after all.

You pull yourself up and listen to the voices, "...You can't just..." then a woman's voice, "...It was for your own good, Lucius and I..." the voices faded in and out, oblivious to your waking.

Then you realize that you're in bed. A proper bed. You hadn't slept in a proper bed for months. You let your head fall back onto the feather pillow and you run your hand across the silk comforter and stare up at the canopy above. You slide your tongue along your teeth till you come to the gaps that once held your back molars. The place is still tender and tastes like blood. You examine your hands, the place where your nails used to be on your index fingers bloody stumps. The bedroom door opens and in walks Draco accompanied by two people who you assumed were his parents.

Before you can stop yourself the words come tumbling over your tongue. "Why am I here? What did I do? Why...?"

Mrs. Malfoy held up her hand. "First, introductions. I am Narcissa Malfoy. And you are?"

"F/N L/N."

"Ah, yes, I believe we had the pleasure of dining at your home once. Secondly, I would like to know why you are still here. You obviously don't know anything; most adults don't survive this long under Bellatrix's hand."

"Yeah, well you could say I have a stubborn streak." You glare at her.

Lucius speaks. "She was a distraction. We can't afford distractions right now. You-Know-Who wants to know where Harry Potter is, and she was friends with the Granger girl."

"Excuse me, but how am I a distraction?" you say glaring up at him, "Besides, I haven't seen Hermione since before the end of last school year. I have no idea where she or Potter is!"

"She is telling the truth." Narcissa looks over at Draco, who seems to be suddenly very interested in the carpet. Suddenly it all makes sense. You had been kidnapped because you were friends with Draco, and you were not a Death Eater. You were deterring him from what he and his parents believed was his destiny. Besides that, it was dangerous. You were the daughter of an Auror, their sworn enemies. But that still was no reason for you to be tortured to death.

"I understand." You say, "But you could have just told me never to talk to him again."

"We had to be sure." Says Lucius coldly.

"Yeah, but you could have just Avada Kedavera-d me. You didn't have to torture me."

"Mrs. Lestrange was needed information, and we wanted you dead. It was a perfect trade off." 

"Okay, I want a word with Draco. Alone." You say, nodding in his direction. He looks up at you and for a split second and you catch his eye.

"Absolutely not!" exclaims Mr. Malfoy.

"Lucius, I want a word with you as well." Narcissa takes his arm and leads him from the room, closing the door behind her. Draco walks across to you and sits tentatively on the edge of the bed. He looks at you, and you see something in his cold grey eyes. Was it remorse or fury?

"I told you to stay at the school were you were safe." He looks angry, you decide.

"Draco you know I don't usually do what I'm told. And I wasn't safe, my mother is an Elf, you know that. They..." you drop his gaze, "They killed her. They would have hunted me down immediately and I would have been expelled from school anyway. My father is an Auror, I had no choice. The other Slytherins...they hate me. Blaise..."

Draco's head jerks up at the name. "Y/N, I'm sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't but I had no choice, I had to leave." You look up at him, tears in your eyes and he pulls you into a hug.

"I'm so scared." You whisper into his shoulder.

"I know you are, I am too. I only wanted you safe. You-Know-Who threatened to have you killed since I failed to murder Dumbledore, and you were the daughter of an Auror. My father figured if you were already dead under mysterious circumstances then I wouldn't have to worry about you." He runs his hand though your tangled hair and you look up at him, wiping the tears from your eyes.

"I have a question for you." You say quietly.

"Yes?"

"What did the Amortentia potion smell like to you?" Before he can get a chance to answer the door to your room slams open, Lucius and Narcissa come in, and you pull away from Draco.

Before you can get a word in Narcissa speaks. "We are going to send you back to your parents, and you are going to stay with them till this is over. You are to have no contact with anyone." 

She holds out your wand and satchel. You nod silently and take your things. You look up defiantly at Lucius, who gives you a deep piercing look. You realize with a start that he was pushing into your memories, Legilimency. Scenes from your childhood flashed through your mind, and Lucius could see all of it. He watched as you rode horses with Legolas, swam in the ocean, and received your Hogwarts letter. Your years at Hogwarts, 1,2,3,4, everything, every memory you had played before him. Your whole body tensed, and he smirked, at the memory of Blaise Zabini forcing you to comply with his demands. Then you reached the memory of your night under the stars with Draco, curled up in his cloak, your head in his lap, staring up into the sky, and Lucius's eyes narrowed. You tried desperately to stop him from seeing the next memory, but to no avail. The scene of Draco kissing you on Platform 9 and ¾. Lucius watched wordlessly as his son slipped the silver locket into your hand, and as you sat crying alone in a dark corner of the Slytherin common room.

He glared at you and you could hear his voice echoing in your head before he pulled out of your mind. "Draco was told that the locket you currently have fastened around your filthy blood-traitor neck was to be given to the person he loves the most. It was enchanted to protect whomever it was given to by his great-great-great-grandfather. He does not care for you; he made a mistake in giving it to you." You tilt your head and glare at him before turning back to Narcissa.

"I only have one request." You say.

"And what's that?" says Lucius sharply.

"That I can take a bath before I leave." You say, gesturing to the cuts, scars, and dirt on your body.

Narcissa cracks a small smile; it was a nice look on her face. "Of course."

---

After your bath you return to your room to find your clothes clean and folded on your bed, along with your bag and wand. As you pull on your Converse you glance around the room. You always knew the Malfoy's were rich, but you never imagined this. Just as you had finished pulling on your jacket a knock sounded on the door.

"Door's unlocked." you call. Draco walks in, closing the door behind him.

"I just wanted to say goodbye." He smiles at you, but you see the hint of pain glinting there like the secret he hid for so long. "You have always been there when others weren't." You look up, surprised.

"Thanks. I didn't know you cared." Is all you can think to say as you remember of all the times he had gotten you in trouble, and a sad smile spreads over your face.

He walks towards you and pulls you into a hug. "Goodbye." He looks you in the eyes before locking lips with you for the last time. "Goodbye." You disapparate.

[jakehallen-blog]

Spring Break: UK + Ireland

Just when I thought I could sit down and relax, I was wrong! What a week it has been! You’re probably thinking, well it’s about time that we get to read another blog post. I know, I know, it has been ages! As the saying goes, good things take time. This applies to my absence from posting within the past couple of weeks. So let’s get right to it! As my fellow peers and friends jetted off to warm places such as Italy, Greece, and Spain, I, along with my good friend Bridget, decided to be different and I’m so glad we did. Bridget and I met each other during our freshman year of college at Fisher. We were ecstatic when we both found out that we were accepted into the AIFS Study Abroad program back in September. Fast forward to now, and we have awesome memories to share with you all regarding our week-long Spring Break trip to Scotland, Northern Ireland, Ireland, and Wales. So we embarked on our 9-day journey by taking a 6-hour train ride from London to Edinburgh, Scotland. As I looked out the window when we arrived in Scotland, all I could see were hoards of sheep, and I mean a lot of sheep. Along with livestock were luscious green landscapes and seeing that reminded me of home, in other words, a nice change of scenery from the London cityscape. We arrived in Edinburgh around 7PM and stayed two nights at a church, which had been converted into a hostel. A hostel is a location, which provides inexpensive food and lodging typically for students or travelers who are trying to budget their money. To some this may not seem very appealing, it wasn’t to me at first but I eventually warmed up to it. While the sleeping arrangements typically had 4, 6, or 12 roommates, it was an awesome way to meet new people and learn about different cultures and experiences that others were able to share. At the Edinburgh hostel, Bridget and I met three high school students from Northern Scotland. They were very kind and gave us suggestions on sites to see. They shared their insight on Scottish culture, more specifically the education system. This conversation occurred mainly because they were high school students and wanted to know about our studies. So the next day we got up early and set out to explore the city. At our first stop, we visited the Elephant House Café which was where the famous Author of Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling, sat and found inspiration for the Harry Potter book series while she sipped on coffee and tea and stared out the back window, which faced the Edinburgh Castle.

Pictured at top: Me atop of Arthur’s Seat

Pictured: The Elephant House Café

Next, we visited a nearby cemetery of famous philosophers, writers, and poets who were born or resided in Edinburgh. The cemetery also inspired J.K. Rowling so much that she named some characters in the books after names on tombstones within the cemetery. As we walked down the Royal Mile, the main road of the city, we walked by a scarf shop where I decided to go in and buy a lambswool scarf to keep me warm for the rest of the trip. Every place I go I buy at least one souvenir specifically tailored to each city. One of Edinburgh’s major exports is lambswool and I’ve always wanted a nice scarf so I thought, why not. Next, we headed to climb Arthur’s Seat, the main mountain in Edinburgh, which was at one time a volcano and gets its name from King Arthur. The views of the city from the top were absolutely breathtaking and worth the exhaustion from the climb. Remember the scarf I bought prior, yeah, that beautiful accessory came off pretty quickly as I climbed the mountain nearly about to sweat to death and pass out. If anyone knows me well enough, they know that I tend to avoid lots of physical activity.

Pictured: View from Arthur’s Seat

Pictured: Bridget and me atop of Arthur’s Seat

We definitely got our steps in for that day and even trekked over to the castle to get an up-close view. An interesting fact about the castle is that a royal castle has been at that same location since the 12th century and archeologists have concluded that human occupancy of the location dates back to 2nd century AD. Needless to say, it is definitely an amazing place to visit for sure and I highly recommend it.

Pictured: Edinburgh Castle

Pictured: Scottish Bagpiper

Pictured: Edinburgh’s most expensive apartment building (my favorite in terms of architecture-I have expensive taste)

The next day we departed Edinburgh and traveled by plane to Belfast, Northern Ireland. We arrived in the evening and ventured out into the city to the main area where shops, pubs, and restaurants were located. We grabbed dinner and strolled the streets looking at the art sculptures.

Pictured: The Spirit of Belfast

We spent one night in Belfast at a hostel, which appeared to be an old college dorm building. Bridget and I came to such a conclusion due to the fact that one of Belfast’s largest University’s was directly behind the building we were staying in. Luckily, the room we stayed in only had two extra people. Our roommates for the night were two young men, one from France and the other from Switzerland. We talked with them for a while and actually learned that the French guy had recently moved to London and in fact lives only two tube stops away from us. As for the Swiss guy, we learned that he lived in a small village where most of the people who reside there only speak Swiss-German. At that point in the trip, I began to realize that staying in hostels is actually quite interesting. The next day we caught a bus to the picturesque Belfast Castle, located just North of the city. The original Belfast Castle was actually built in the center of the city but unfortunately burned down in 1708 and was later rebuilt in 1811 at its present location and was designed by a Scottish man.

Pictured: Belfast Castle

Pictured: Me in front of Belfast Castle sporting my new scarf

Later that day we journeyed down to the bay area and visited the Titanic Museum. The exhibit was incredible. I learned that at the time, Belfast was home to the largest port and ship export in the UK and most of Europe. During the Great Famine of Ireland, many people flocked to Belfast in search of work, ultimately building the Titanic quickly because of the influx of migrant workers.

Pictured: Titanic Museum (Titanic Belfast)

Pictured: Sign outside the Museum

After visiting the museum we headed to the train station where we boarded our train heading towards Dublin, Ireland. We arrived in Dublin around dinner time needed to switch trains in order to head to Galway, Ireland for a couple of days. Now remember, I usually do not like too much physical activity but somehow Bridget convinced me to walk 45 minutes from one train station to the other. Mind you, I had a 50lb duffle bag on my shoulder and it began to downpour halfway through the walk. It was then that I regretted not hopping in a cab to take me to the other side of town to catch the train. When we got to the train station I found a minute to breathe and also discovered a “Supermacs” which is the Irish version of McDonald’s. I thought to myself, ya know, I deserve to be rewarded with a crispy chicken sandwich, large fry, and a tasty coke. Even though I am abroad and have grown as a person, I haven’t changed at all! So we arrived in Galway in the later evening and headed directly for the hostel. We checked in and whipped open the door of our room and as if the night couldn’t get more stressful, we discovered that we would have to room the next two nights with an entire men’s rugby team. Oh my heavens did that room ever smell. On the bright side, we signed up for a tour the next day and had to get up early for to catch the bus. So at least we only were in the room to sleep and get ready in the morning. The next day we set out for the Cliffs of Moher. The tour lasted all day and our tour guide as amazing. A very intelligent older man who has been a tour guide for over 30 years taught us everything from the history of castles to the significance behind the concept of roof thatching on homes all across Ireland. We visited the first castle in Ireland but unfortunately weren’t able to go inside it because it was closed. Nevertheless, it was absolutely stunning.

Pictured: Dunguaire Castle

Pictured: Home with a thatched roof

We arrived at the Cliffs of Moher in the afternoon and had a couple of hours to walk around the cliffs. I, of course, needed a full-blown photo shoot and forced Bridget to take lots of photos of me on my camera. I got very close to the edge and even sat on it. I’m still here and alive so that’s a great sign.

Pictured: Cliffs of Moher

Pictured: Me atop of the Cliffs of Moher

Pictured: Galway Bay

While walking along the cliffs we talked with a guy by the name of Adam who was also on vacation and on the tour as well. We introduced ourselves and talked quite a bit throughout the remainder of the trip. We learned that he was in his mid-twenties, originally from Florida, and had recently moved to Germany to work as a mechanic for the U.S. Air Force. When we arrived back in Galway that evening we exchanged social media profiles. Later that night he messaged us and invited us to meet up with him for dinner, we thought why not. So we went and had a great time. We went to a local pub and I even tried Guinness for the first time. It was really good. I also had fish n chips for dinner. When we were finished Adam was so generous that he offered to pay and we politely tried to tell him that it wasn’t necessary but he insisted. It’s truly a great feeling to realize that there are still very kind people out there these days. The next day we departed from Galway by train back to Dublin to spend the next two nights in another hostel. While in Dublin we visited St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin Castle, Trinity College, and even had dinner at the Celt Bar where there was live music. We also visited the Kilmainham Gaol, which was a prison that held leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising and also was the location of their executions. On a lighter note, during our last night in Dublin, Adam messaged us on Facebook and told us that he had just arrived in Dublin and had extra tickets to the Country to Country Music Festival which was going on that night. He offered them to us and didn’t expect us to pay him back. Once again he insisted we join him, so we did. It was an amazing time. The major performers of the night were the Zac Brown Band. If you ever get the chance to see them, I highly recommend, they were very good live. While at the concert we introduced ourselves to the group of people who stood next do us during the concert. We learned that the couple were originally from Sydney, Australia and had moved to London for work. The other two people in the group were from Germany and were clearly major fans of not only country music but also the band performing. We danced with them, jammed out all night, and had an awesome time.  

Pictured: Dublin Castle

Pictured: Trinity College

Pictured: Me in the Irish Modern Art Museum Gardens

Pictured: Kilmainham Gaol

Pictured: St. Patrick’s Cathedral

Pictured: The three of us at the concert

Pictured: Performers at the Celt Bar

The next day we left Dublin and traveled by plane to Cardiff, Wales for our last stop on our trip. When we arrived I instantly got a feeling that I would adore the city. A small seaside city, Cardiff gained its wealth due to the major amounts of coal that were mined and exported there. The hostel we stayed at for the night was so charming that I also highly recommend staying there. Originally built as an office building the inside of the building has original staircases, dark wood molding, and eye-catching wallpaper. The entire place was decorated with antiques, so basically very similar to my taste in decorating. It clearly makes sense as to why I loved it so much. So the next day, Bridget and I decided to part ways because she wanted to visit the Doctor Who Museum and I wanted to visit Cardiff Castle and knew we wouldn’t be able to fit in both since our train left that night. I visited the castle and toured the inside of the Keep, or the tower on the hill which over looks the castle. Luckily, I was able to visit the inside of the castle, which was so incredible. The photos fail to give it justice but I absolutely loved it.

Pictured: The Keep

Pictured: Cardiff Castle

Pictured: The inside of the castle

In the afternoon, Bridget and I met up at Cardiff Bay and spend the afternoon there and grabbed some great food and took in the beauty of the parks and water. We also went inside of the Pierhead building, often referred to as the “Big Ben of Cardiff,” naturally, I adored it.

Pictured: Cardiff Bay

Pictured: Pierhead Building

Pictured: Me in front of the Pierhead Building

Reflecting on my Spring break adventure, I realize that I am beyond blessed and am so thankful to have such amazing opportunities to see this beautiful world and discover all that it has to offer. During my trip I often found myself thinking long and hard about all the things that make me happy and it is my hope that I can in return give back by making others happy in everything that I do. I enjoy sharing my adventures with everyone and truly appreciate the support and kindness that I have received throughout my life. I’ll keep on continuing to smile and I hope you do as well. Keep following along. Itchy Feet is on the move!! Much love. XX

[theconservativebrief]

When Christel Wallace found a piece of paper folded up at the bottom of her purse in March 2017, she threw it in the trash. She hadn’t yet used the maroon bag, made by Walmart and purchased from one of its Arizona stores months ago.

But after a few minutes, she got curious. She took the paper out of the wastebasket, unfolding the sheet to reveal a message scrawled in Mandarin Chinese.

Translated, it read: Inmates in China’s Yingshan Prison work 14 hours a day and are not allowed to rest at noon. We have to work overtime until midnight. People are beaten for not finishing their work. There’s no salt and oil in our meals. The boss pays 2,000 yuan every month for the prison to offer better food, but the food is all consumed by the prison guards. Sick inmates have to pay for their own pills. Prisons in China cannot be compared to prisons in the United States. Horse, cow, goat, pig, dog.

Christel’s daughter-in-law Laura Wallace posted a photo of the note to Facebook on April 23. The post first went viral locally, getting shared and liked several hundred times, mostly by fellow Arizonans. After a few days, local media outlets picked up the story; a week or so after that, dozens of mainstream publications like USA Today and HuffPost followed suit. One video report on the incident accumulated 2.9 million views.

Shares of the note provoked shock and outrage. Even those who were skeptical of the note’s provenance were incensed, pointing to a wider issue. “Who cares if it’s a marketing stunt?” read one comment on Facebook. “If it made five people rethink buying cheap crap, then it’s a success.”

At the time, a Walmart spokesperson told a reporter in Arizona it was unable to comment because it had “no way to verify the origin of the letter.”

You may remember this story or one like it. It follows a long line of SOS-style notes found by shoppers. They crop up a few times a year, and each story follows the same beats.

First, a shopper in the US or Europe finds a note in the pocket or on a tag of a product from a big retailer — Walmart, Saks, Zara. The note claims the product had been made using forced labor or under poor working conditions. The writer of the note also claims to be in a faraway country, usually China. The shopper takes a photo of the note and posts it to social media. It’s reported on by all sorts of publications from Reuters to Refinery29, where the articles reach millions of readers.

Then the hysteria cools, and the story falls into the viral news abyss. There’s no real attempt at verification. There’s no meaningful corporate gesture. There’s no grand reckoning with the system of global production from which this cry for help is said to have emerged.

As for Christel’s particular Walmart note, there are a number of possibilities regarding who wrote and hid it, and its contents are difficult to fact-check. A Chinese prison called Yingshan may exist, or it may not. Forced labor may be practiced there, or it may not. A prisoner in China may have written the note, or maybe a Chinese activist did, or maybe an American activist instead. The note may have been placed in the bag in a prison factory, or somewhere else along the supply chain in China, or perhaps in Arizona.

The only way to make sense of this puzzle — one with actual human stakes that can help explain how what we buy is made — is to try to trace the journey backward, from the moment a note goes viral to its potential place of origin. Which is how I find myself in rural China, outside of a local prison, 7,522 miles away from where Christel first opened her purse.

Guilin is a city in the Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region of southern China, and a tourist haven, renowned for the tooth-like karst peaks that rise from the banks of the Li River. Its limpid lakes and limestone caves draw tens of millions of visitors every year.

To reach Guilin, it takes me two international flights, two taxis, a one-hour bus ride through border control, and three hours on a high-speed train. I travel from London through Hong Kong on to Shenzhen and then Guilin via the Guangshen Railway. There, I meet Channing, a local reporter hired to help me find the prison.

We’re in Guilin because of the first and only concrete lead in the Walmart note: the name of the prison. The note writer says the prison is called Yingshan, and several weeks of research has led me to believe it’s located in China’s Guangxi region, home to many manufacturing factories because of the area’s cheap labor and low taxes.

The very few details I can find about Yingshan prison come from a 10-year-old report on prisons across China written by a human rights group. The report suggests the prison may be in the suburbs of east Guilin, and so the plan is to explore the neighborhood, talk to locals, and look for signs — barbed wire, security cameras, anything.

But before we embark on our prison scouting, we have something else on the agenda: a visit to the city’s only Walmart store. It feels important, given the note was found in a Walmart, albeit one on the other side of the globe. Perhaps a Chinese Walmart close to where the note supposedly originated can provide clues, or at least context.

The Guilin Walmart is a 10-minute drive from the center of the city, spread across two floors in a shopping mall, on a road lined with scooter repair shops. Walmart is the world’s biggest retailer; it owns 11,700 retail units in 27 countries around the world, including Brazil and South Africa, under various banner names. In China, Walmart owns 389 Walmart Supercenters, in addition to 21 Sam’s Clubs and 15 Hypermarkets.

A note on Walmart’s Chinese site reads: “Walmart China firmly believes in local sourcing. We have established partnerships with more than seven thousand suppliers in China. Over 95% of the merchandise in our stores in China is sourced locally.”

The Guilin Walmart sells athletic shorts made in Vietnam, girls’ T-shirts made in Bangladesh, and sports jackets made in Cambodia. But for the most part, the store’s clothing is made in China, some of it just a few hours away. There are England football shirts and women’s purses from Guangdong, World Cup Russia sandals from Fujian, Frozen and Mickey Mouse tees from Shanghai, and baseball jerseys and Peppa Pig sun hats from Jiangxi.

Countries the world over encourage citizens to “buy local,” so why would China be any different? Still, necessarily, what is local to one place — local practice, local perspective — is foreign to all others. To those in the country, “made in China” means items produced by their fellow Chinese that contribute to the robust economy. Elsewhere in the world, particularly in the US, the phrase draws ire, conjuring images of goods mass-produced in factories with questionable conditions by workers who have supplanted their own country’s workforce.

Walmart in the US has tried and tested the homemade idea. In 1985, founder Sam Walton voiced a commitment to “made in America” products, launching a program called “Bring It Home to the USA” to buy more US-made goods. Around that time, according to reporter Bob Ortega’s book In Sam We Trust, Walton estimated 6 percent of his company’s total sales came from imports; a Frontline report found that number may have been closer to 40 percent. Bill Clinton, then the governor of Walmart’s home state of Arkansas, described “Bring It Home to the USA” as an “act of patriotism.” The program failed.

It’s easy to understand why. The “made in America” ideal comes second to finding the cheapest sources of production — this was true in the ’80s, and it’s true now. A study released in 2016 found that three in four Americans say they would like to buy US-made goods but consider those items too costly or difficult to find. When asked if they’d buy an $85 pair of pants made in the US or a $50 pair made in a different country, 67 percent chose the latter.

To those in the country, “made in China” means items produced by their fellow Chinese that contribute to the robust economy

Today, Walmart outsources the majority of its production around the world. According to a 2011 report in the Atlantic, Chinese suppliers are believed to account for around 70 percent of the company’s merchandise. A 2015 analysis from the Economic Institute, a progressive think tank, found that Walmart’s trade with China may have eliminated 400,000 jobs in the US between 2001 and 2013.

This is something Walmart says it’s trying to change. In its 2014 annual report, the company pledged to spend an additional $250 billion on US-made goods by 2023, saying it believes “we can drive cost savings by sourcing closer to the point of consumption.” Research from Boston Consulting Group projected this could create a million new US jobs.

At the initiative’s 2018 halfway point, though, it’s unclear how many jobs have been created or how much money has actually been spent. Additionally, in 2015, the Federal Trade Commission initiated a probe into Walmart’s mislabeling of foreign goods as “Made in the USA.” Walmart took action by removing inaccurate logos and making its disclosures more transparent, only to come under fire for deceptive “Made in the USA” labels yet again the very next year.

Forced labor is commonly practiced in the Chinese prison system, which the Chinese Communist Party first established countrywide in 1949, modeling it on Soviet gulags. The kind of crimes that land someone in the Chinese penal system range widely, from murder and bribery to saying anything remotely bad about the government. Freedom of speech isn’t a reality for Chinese citizens, who can face decades in prison for publishing articles about human rights online.

A tenet of the Chinese justice system is that labor inside prisons is good for the country. The government, as well as many of its citizens, believes it helps reform corrupted people — and China is far from the only country to use prison labor. The US legally benefits from labor in its prison system, and while not every US prison practices penal labor, hundreds of thousands of American inmates work jobs that include making furniture and fighting fires. In August of this year, prisoners from 17 states went on strike to protest being forced to work, characterizing the practice as “modern slavery.”

Peter E. Müller, a leading specialist at the Laogai Research Foundation, and his team extensively document the human rights abuses inside China’s prison system. This work includes identifying prisons and camps that employ forced labor, tracking the inmate population, and gathering personal testimony from those who have experienced forced labor.

He says prisoners in China, the US, and elsewhere are sometimes paid for their labor. (In the Walmart note, the writer describes forced labor and beatings, as well as low pay for long hours and health care deducted from payment.) The amount depends on the financial situation of the prison; the average pay in American state prisons is 20 cents an hour. Müller says the monthly salary specified in the note (2,000 yuan, or $295) is “unusually high,” but speculates that it may be because the prison “makes good money because of high-quality workers.”

Human rights organizations, such as the Laogai Research Foundation and China Labor Watch, say the biggest problem in stopping the export of products made in prisons is that the supply lines are “almost untraceable.” Supply lines, in general, are very difficult to trace due to the enormous complexity of supplier networks, a lack of communication between actors, and a general dearth of data that can be shared in the first place. The result is a frustratingly opaque global system of production.

Li Qiang, the founder and executive director of China Labor Watch, explains that American companies that manufacture abroad place their orders directly with factories or sourcing companies, and that those factories and companies can transfer the orders to prisons without the company’s knowledge. In fact, some of these relationships are formalized to the point where prisons that use forced labor have a sister factory that coordinates the prison manufacturing.

It’s essentially a front, as sister factories will use a commercial name for outside trade, intentionally mislabeling products that are made in prisons. Prisoners are never physically sent to the sister factories; the main bulk of the production happens on prison grounds. Once nearly complete, items are then sent to the sister factories, where they are prepared and labeled for international delivery. This system isn’t easy for companies to monitor. Suppliers conceal these practices from clients, and supplier checks are not frequent, especially for large corporations like Walmart, which use a large number of suppliers and subcontractors.

Qiang says the issue can feel intractable. “Even if shoppers in the US understand that the items are being made under poor working conditions, there is nothing they can really do,” he says. “Multinational corporations will not invest in improving their supply chain if there are few laws to protect workers whose rights are being violated, and no successful lawsuits against brands, companies, or their factories for violating them.”

On a Tuesday morning in late May, Channing and I sit at a table in our hotel lobby. We browse message boards on Baidu, one of the country’s most popular search engines and social networking sites, to see if the issue of prison labor is discussed on Chinese social media, or if it’s a subject the government censors.

In a matter of seconds, Channing is able to find discussion boards filled with suppliers looking to outsource labor to prisons. The conversations are quite ordinary — there is no coded language, and full addresses and contact numbers are included in postings. We also find dozens of posts from people offering the services of prisons they work with to mass-produce items for overseas companies, including “electronic accessories, bracelets, necklace bead processing, toy assembly, and shirt processing.”

One post in Chinese reads: “Because our processing personnel are from prison, it has the following advantages. The prison personnel are centralized and stable, and they are managed by the prison. There is no need to worry about the flow of people and the shortage of labor. The processing price is low: Since the processing location is in prison, there is no need for manufacturers to provide space and accommodation; and the prison works in the principle of serving the people, so the processing price is guaranteed to be absolutely lower than the market price. If your company needs it, please contact!”

In an effort to verify not only that Yingshan prison exists but also that it’s one of many Chinese factories that use forced labor and contract with manufacturers, Channing and I drive toward the suburbs in the eastern part of Guilin.

Channing asks our driver to drop us at a high school so we can remain undetected. Nearby, I’d marked a spot where I believed the prison to be according to the human rights report I’d found before arriving in China. But the prison isn’t there. In its place is a crossing, though there’s reason to believe the prison is closed — a dilapidated sign pointing left reads: Yingshan.

We walk down the road and find the area under heavy surveillance. Security cameras are hitched onto poles on every corner of the pathway. The farther we walk, the more literal the warnings that we shouldn’t be there. Three different signs hammered into a tree read: “DO NOT APPROACH.”

Yingshan prison, described in a note found in a Walmart handbag thousands of miles away in the US, does exist — and we are standing in front of it.

Though it had been difficult to find, it actually doesn’t seem so hidden after all. It is integrated into the neighborhood, just around the corner from a driving school, near leafy streets and apartment blocks.

The prison doesn’t look like an archetypal prison you’d see in the US. If it weren’t for the two security watchtowers, Yingshan could be mistaken for a modern residential building. Thick bushes cover dark blue metal fences lined with barbed wire. The high walls are painted cream with decorative white lines demarcating each of the building’s five floors. Each window has a neat white frame, with a metal air vent attached.

Several guards in uniform are standing in the parking lot of the building next door. We don’t approach them for fear of being detained. The Chinese government treats both domestic and foreign journalists hostilely. Reporters are often banned from entering the country, and they have also been detained for their work. Our safest bet for gathering information is to speak to people in the area who may have ties to the prison.

Walking down a second pathway that runs alongside Yingshan, the village of Sanjia comes into view. Sanjia is a small village that abuts the prison grounds. In the village, crumbling homes stand alongside gated, modern ones painted gold. Locals say this is because the land is being bought out, and that the village is grappling with redevelopment.

Each person we speak to has a personal connection to the prison. They know people imprisoned, have a family member working inside, or have worked inside themselves. They tell us that guards who work in Yingshan are housed with their families in an apartment complex next to the prison. We realize this is the building with the parking lot filled with uniformed guards.

Zhenzhu, who asked that her surname not be used for fear of retribution from the government, can see the prison from her front door. A jovial woman, she has lived in the village for 14 years, moving to the area right after she was married. As we talk, we hear pigs squealing. Zhenzhu explains that those are her pigs, 100 of them, next door in a slaughterhouse she runs with her husband.

When the building of the prison commenced in 2007, Zhenzhu was three months pregnant, and her husband was employed as a construction worker on the project. By the time their daughter turned 3, the building was complete. Zhenzhu has visited the prison before, to see an inmate; Yingshan allows visits from family members under heavy security. She says its walls are buried so deep into the ground that “even if the prisoners want to break out by digging an underground tunnel, they can’t dig through.”

Yingshan prison, described in a note found in a Walmart handbag thousands of miles away in the US, does exist — and we are standing in front of it

Zhenzhu recounts much of what her husband told her about his experience at Yingshan. For years following the construction, he would visit for maintenance checks and additional building; trucks were always driving fabric in and out of the prison. The trucks, he told Zhenzhu, were from factories located in the Guangdong province. Guangdong is home to an estimated 60,000 factories, which produce around a third of the world’s shoes and much of its textiles, apparel, and toys.

Everyone we speak to, Zhenzhu included, says they’ve seen labor inside the prison or have been told about it directly by inmates. None were familiar with Walmart goods being produced there, but some could confirm that women’s fashion is manufactured inside.

To those in the village, prison labor is not just common knowledge; it’s also necessary. They consider the prisoners “bad guys” who have committed horrible crimes. In their eyes, the labor is a good thing: It helps rehabilitate inmates and gets them to understand the value of work. But that work can come at a great cost. According to local hearsay and furthered by a published account from a woman who was married to a Yingshan prison guard, inmates have been known to kill themselves because of the poor conditions and forced labor.

Zhenzhu leads us around the edge of the village, to get a side view of the prison. She points to the building we first passed and tells us that’s where the inmates eat and sleep. She then points to a building farther in the distance on the left that looks almost exactly the same. It’s also painted cream, but with slightly larger white window frames; a yard obscured behind the prison wall separates the structures. The second building, she tells us, is for “the work.”

The Walmart note followed a tradition of hidden messages found by shoppers. In 2014, shoppers found labels stitched into several items of clothing in Primark stores across the UK. The labels, written in English, read: “forced to work exhausting hours” and “degrading sweatshop conditions.”

As the notes spread across social media, the fast-fashion company conducted an investigation and found the labels were fake. The company said the items were all made by different suppliers, in different factories, on different continents. They stressed it was impossible that the same labels, especially those written in English, would appear on all the items and that they believed the labels were part of an activist stunt carried out in the UK.

Though no one claimed credit for the labels, activist groups had been waging campaigns to protest Primark’s labor practices in the time leading up to their discovery. War on Want led a 2013 campaign against the company after more than 1,100 people died as a result of the Rana Plaza collapse. Primark, along with J.C. Penney and Joe Fresh, was among the retailers whose products were made in the Bangladeshi complex.

Almost all the messages that have been found in stores have come under public scrutiny, as they’re often suspected of being written and planted by activists. The handwriting, the language, and even the paper used for notes have pointed to activist work. For example, several notes and labels, like the Primark ones, were written in English. Many inmates and factory workers in China, as well as Bangladesh, come from poor backgrounds and are unlikely to have had the chance to learn English in school.

There have been, however, at least two instances in which actual workers have claimed the notes. In 2011, a shopper bought a box of Halloween decorations at an Oregon Kmart. She found a note inside the box, allegedly from a prisoner in China explaining that he had made the item under forced labor conditions.

Two years later, Zhang — a man who asked newsrooms to only use his surname for fear of being arrested and imprisoned again — claimed to be the writer of the note. He said he planted 20 such notes during the two years he spent in prison, with hopes they would reach American stores. His handwriting and modest English language proficiency matched those of the note, but even then, it wasn’t feasible to fully corroborate his story. As the New York Times wrote, “it was impossible to know for sure whether there were perhaps other letter writers, one of whose messages might have reached Oregon.”

The second instance came in 2014, when a shopper in New York found a note in a Saks shopping bag she received when purchasing a pair of Hunter rain boots two years earlier. The note, written in English, claimed to have been written by a man in a Chinese prison; it also included his email address, photo, and name, which led to the finding of the alleged author, Tohnain Emmanuel Njong. Originally from Cameroon, he said he’d been teaching English in China when he was arrested in May 2011 and wrongly jailed for fraud charges.

In both cases, the final step of verification would be to confirm with the prisons mentioned in the notes that Zhang and Njong served sentences at their facilities and that forced labor occurs there. But since Chinese prisons refuse to provide comment on such stories, there’s little way of definitively confirming the prisoners’ accounts.

In 2017, the validity of hidden notes came into question yet again. Shoppers in Istanbul found tags inside clothing items in a Zara store that read: “I made this item you are going to buy, but I didn’t get paid for it.”

It turned out Turkish workers, who produced the clothing for Zara in an Istanbul factory, planted the notes in protest. The factory where they had been employed closed down overnight, leaving them suddenly without jobs or a source of income. The workers wrote notes urging shoppers to pressure Zara into giving them the back pay they were owed. They then went to a Zara store in the center of Istanbul and hid the notes in the pockets of clothing being sold inside.

“When we think we’re not getting movement from companies, we turn to confrontational tactics like this”

The Turkish workers didn’t come up with the idea of the notes on their own. The Clean Clothes Campaign and its alliance partner Labour Behind the Label (LBL), an organization that campaigns for garment workers’ rights, helped plan the action.

LBL and other campaign groups have organized “note droppings” like this in retail stores like Zara for many years. The notes describe how poor labor practices are behind the store’s items; LBL gathers information about these practices through its own reports and interviews.

“Dropping notes is an extension of leaving leaflets in stores,” says LBL’s director of policy Dominique Muller. “When we think we’re not getting movement from companies, we turn to confrontational tactics like this.”

LBL doesn’t worry that the notes they plant in stores could overshadow any potentially real notes found in stores. “These notes are just a drop in the ocean. They’re still new” — as an activism tool, that is — “and they will continue to have an impact.”

As of this June, the Turkish workers had only received partial payment.

Finding Yingshan brought some answers about the validity of the note. For one, the prison named in the Walmart note exists. We heard firsthand accounts from locals who said forced labor does occur inside the prison as the note described. What we were told about the work is that the hours are long, the work is done indoors, and the labor involves manufacturing fashion items, which might include bags like the purse Christel bought in Arizona.

After Walmart issued its statement about there being “no way to verify the origin of the letter,” the company launched an internal investigation. It was found that the factory that made the purse didn’t adhere to Walmart’s standards, which stress the need for “labor to be voluntary” and state that “slave, child, underage, forced, bonded, or indentured labor will not be tolerated.” As a result, the company cut ties with the supplier, a decision the company only disclosed after it was contacted for this story. Walmart declined to clarify whether the supplier in question had contracted with Yingshan prison.

In a statement to Vox, a Walmart spokesperson wrote: “Walmart has strict standards for our suppliers, and they must tell us where our products are being made. Through our investigation into this matter, we found the supplier’s factory sent purses to be made at other factories in the region that were not disclosed to us. The supplier failed to follow our standards, so we stopped doing business with them. We take allegations like this seriously, and we are committed to a responsible and transparent supply chain. There are consequences for our suppliers when our standards are not followed.”

One last question did remain unanswered. Was the note written by an actual prisoner, or by an activist with knowledge of the conditions that produced the bag? Müller of the Laogai Research Foundation believes the note is indeed real.

The description and details referenced in the note, he says, mirror much of what he’s heard in interviews with former prisoners. He says the language, the style of writing, and the use of the phrase “horse cow goat pig dog” — a common expression in China that compares the treatment of prisoners to that of animals — add to its authenticity. He believes the writer of the note certainly risked his life to send his message.

Even if the note is real, though, what’s come to light during the reporting of this story is that the Walmart note won’t end forced labor in China. The government is not going to release a public statement condemning human rights abuses inside its prisons because of stories like this one. It doesn’t see forced labor as a human rights abuse; Chinese citizens who don’t support the practices risk arrest if they speak out, and so most won’t.

The pitfall of pinning reform on awareness is expecting a bad thing to end if enough people know about it. Very rarely does mass attention on an issue result in a tangible shift in how things work. If merely sharing information were enough, the countless viral stories about forced labor recounted here would have already resulted in widespread reform.

Still, the incremental change the Walmart note led to — however impossibly small, however seemingly inconsequential — is a step. It has to be.

Additional reporting by Channing Huang.

Original Source -> You buy a purse at Walmart. There’s a note inside from a “Chinese prisoner.” Now what?

via The Conservative Brief