#i will not even mention williams nation

[moviestarmartini]

albono nation we are never winning

[astralnymphh]

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

  May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

  Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

  But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

  Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

  Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

  Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette. 

  And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

  Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

  January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

  February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

  March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet. 

  April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

  You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

  The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

  Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

  Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

  But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

  A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

  Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

  Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde. 

  Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

  “Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

  The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

  A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper.  You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

  You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

  One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

  Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

  What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

  Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

  Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

  All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

  “Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..” 

  Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

  Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..” 

  Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right? 

  One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

  You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

  “Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

  Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood. 

  Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence. 

“Say cheese!”

  America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

  A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

  Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

 The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you. 

  Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

  Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

  An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

  A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

  Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’. 

Un–fucking–believable. 

  Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

  Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

  After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed. 

  “C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

  Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

  Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

  Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels. 

  Not so good for the respiratory system though.

  Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—” 

  Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

  “Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

  Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

  Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?” 

  A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

  But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

  Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

  “This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.” 

  Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

  You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

  The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

    Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

  “Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

  Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

  “Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

  “Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama. 

  And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

  “You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

  “Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

  “Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

  “For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

  “Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

  “Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

  “Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

  Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy,  “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

  “That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”  

  Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

  And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting. 

  “Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

  You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

  “If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

  Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

  Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?” 

  “Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

  Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.” 

  “Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

  A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles. 

  “Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

  “I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.” 

  Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

  “Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

  Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

  Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

  A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.” 

 You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant. 

  There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

  A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

  “Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

  “No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

  Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

  Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

  “Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

  That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together. 

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

  Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco. 

Stygian tones.

  “Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

  “Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

  “Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

  In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more. 

  Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting. 

  “Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

  Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

  A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.” 

  They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

  There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.” 

  “My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

  “Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

  “Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

  Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

  “Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

  You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

  “Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

  By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

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[simply-ivanka]

Biden Gets Lost in Trump’s Shadow

The president-elect acts as if he’s already in charge. There’s never been a transition like this before.

By Peggy Noonan Wall Street Journal

Like Donald Trump or dislike him, hate him or love him, doesn’t matter: You have to see that what we are witnessing right now is truly remarkable, with no precedent.

He is essentially functioning as the sitting president. In the past, a man was elected and sat in his house, met with potential cabinet members, and courteously, carefully kept out of the news except to make a statement announcing a new nominee. The incumbent was president until Inauguration Day. That’s the way it was even in 2016; Barack Obama was still seen as president after Mr. Trump was elected. All that has changed.

Mr. Trump is the locus of all eyes. He goes to Europe for the opening of Notre-Dame. “The protocols they put in place for his arrival were those of a sitting president, not an incoming one,” a Trump loyalist and former staffer said by phone. He holds formal meetings with Volodymyr Zelensky and Emmanuel Macron. There he is chatting on a couch with Prince William. Why not the prime minister? Because the British know Mr. Trump is enchanted by royalty and doesn’t want to be with some grubby Labour pol. Mr. Trump talks of new tariffs on Canada, and Prime Minister Justin Trudeau rushes down to Mar-a-Lago. After their meeting, Mr. Trump refers to him, on Truth Social, as “governor” of “the Great State of Canada.” (The Babylon Bee follows up with a headline: “Trump Tells Trudeau He Won’t Annex Canada if They Admit Their Bacon Is Just Ham.”)

The government of Syria suddenly falls and the world turns to America for its stand. Naturally it comes, quickly, from Donald Trump. “THIS IS NOT OUR FIGHT. . . . DO NOT GET INVOLVED!” The next day, Joe Biden characterizes the moment as one of “risk and uncertainty” for the region. Was there ever a moment that wasn’t one of risk and uncertainty for the region?

Mr. Trump tells Vladimir Putin that now that he’s abandoned Syria, he should make a deal to end the war in Ukraine. “I know Vladimir well. This is his time to act. China can help. The world is waiting!”

Mr. Trump’s cabinet picks—especially the highly questionable ones!—dominate the discourse in a country that hardly ever notices a cabinet nomination below that of secretary of state. His representatives, most famously Elon Musk, are greeted on Capitol Hill with a rapture comparable to past visits by heroic leaders of allied nations.

Donald Trump hasn’t overshadowed Joe Biden; he has eclipsed him. A former senior official in Mr. Trump’s first term told NBC News a few days ago that Mr. Trump “is already basically running things, and he’s not even president yet.”

To some degree the status shift is expected. Mr. Trump is the future, Mr. Biden the past; Mr. Trump wide-awake, Mr. Biden sleepy. The 46th president is a worn tire, the tread soft and indistinct. With the pardon of his son he lost stature. Also, Mr. Trump makes other leaders nervous, as he enjoys pointing out. They can neither predict him nor imitate him, so they can’t take their eyes off him. And Mr. Biden’s been rocked by something he knew in the abstract that’s become all too particular: after 50 years at the center of public life he’s been dropped, cast aside, because it was about power all along, and not about him.

A president, however, still has the machinery—the National Security Council, the State Department, the nuclear football. I can hardly believe our biggest adversaries don’t capitalize on this split presidency, this confusion. For all our woes you sometimes forget what a lucky country we are.

Here I mention a part of the amazing interregnum that I think is important, one that his friends and staffers speak of. Mr. Trump is calmer and more confident than he has been in the past. It is a commonplace to say that his surviving a shooting—that a bullet came within an inch or so of his brain—would change anyone, even a man in his eighth decade, even a man with fairly brittle ingrained views, even Donald Trump. But all of his friends go back to this as they speak of the Trump they’re seeing now. They think it took time for it to be absorbed and settle in. They see him as at least presenting himself in an altered way.

The former staffer said by phone, “Right now he is extremely relaxed.” It isn’t only the assassination attempt. “Everyone thought he was gonna change in a way that would be normal for most people to change—an outward reflection, more humble. I laugh when people say, ‘Normally, a president would—.’ Don’t use ‘normal’ with him.”

But, he said, after the second assassination attempt was thwarted, at Mr. Trump’s golf course, it had real impact. “Trump began to recognize, not in an unappreciative way but in a reality way, that he’d been spared. It gave him a stronger sense of confidence, some extra level of relaxation and of determination. He feels the American people are in trouble and if he can be a small part of fixing that, he must.”

The former staffer said Mr. Trump feels that “this wasn’t an election, it was a vindication.” The court cases, the indictments, the impeachments—“all these things against Donald Trump, and he doesn’t just come back, he roars back in a way that defies logic, reason and history. Few can fathom this.” He meant the history, but also its effect on Mr. Trump.

Something else, he said. When Mr. Trump was elected in 2016, his policy priorities and intentions weren’t fully clear. They are now, and have been popularized. “He knows the mission he laid out to the people—sane border policy, unleash energy, monetize ‘the liquid gold,’ make the tax cuts permanent—there’s an air of confidence about his mission now, and an understanding of the systems in place.” He is living something few get to live: “If I could do it all over again.”

A different observer, who’s seen Mr. Trump up close, said this week, “This is the best version of Donald Trump we will see.”

Back to the former staffer: “The gravity of this historic moment cannot be overstated. He has a level of swagger, a new level. People say, ‘Can I get the policy without the personality?’ No, you need a certain level of ‘I don’t give a damn.’ If you think he had it the first time, Katy bar the door.”

He had a prediction: “This has the potential to be historic in a way that only a handful of administrations have been. We remember some administrations with a level of history-altering moments. This one’s gonna have a lot.”

What about the potential for wrongdoing, such as using government to suppress or abuse foes? “He’s said a million times his revenge is going to be success. When Trump wins, he lets bygones be bygones.”

He paused. “Some of the people he’s hired aren’t that way, so there’s a chance some people may take it upon themselves to do some stuff. I don’t know.”

Repost

[afro-hispwriter]

The Diamond Queen

Soldier Boy/Ben x f!supe!reader

Summary- you loved Soldier Boy, but he almost killed your brother which made you erase him completely from your life… until he pops back up

Warning- A LOT OF DIALOGUE, ooc ben(slighty), mentions of 9/11

wc- 1.5k+

-

"I think I know who can help us find this weapon." Says Annie and everyone turns to her. 

"Who?" Asks MM.

"Diamond Queen." 

"Noir's twin sister?" Butcher asks and takes a step forward while squinting his eyes. "Nobody's heard from her since 9/11 when she redirected the plane that was intended to hit the Pentagon." 

"Yeah, she is a national hero for that b-but im sorry what does she have to do with Soldier Boy? I mean Noir is her brother and all so she had to have met him at some point but I don't see how she could help." Says Hughie. 

"She can help us because she was Soldier Boy's fiancé."  Maeve's voice pierces through the air and they all look at her. 

"What about Crimson Countess?" Asks Frenchie. 

"All an act by Vought, just like when me and Homelander were together," Maeve responds. 

"This is huge why are we just finding out about this?" Hughie asks in complete shock. MM sighs and cracks his knuckles. 

"Because. Don't think the world or really Vought wanted to see the Golden Son with a black woman, even if she is a supe." 

"Vought doesn't mess with her, they give her what she wants and leave her alone, in turn, she won't mind control all of them and tell them to jump off a building." Maeve finishes and Kimiko taps Frenchies shoulder and signs,

Who's Diamond Queen?

"Oh yes. Uh her name is Y/n L/n, her skin turns to Diamonds so it makes makes her impenetrable. But when she isn't diamonds her skin is like Translucents. Her telepathy is dangerous, it's even rumored that she could control every mind in New York and make them do her bidding. As for her telekinesis, it's strong enough to stop a crashing plane coming at full speed." Frenchie whispers to Kimiko and she takes in every word.

They knew they needed the weapon that killed Soldier Boy but they were underpowered and getting desperate. So they all collectively agreed that Diamond Girl was their best chance.

"Now let's go pay the telepath a visit?" 

-

You sensed a large group of people the second they stepped foot on your property. You had a nice house on your own property, a courtesy from Vought

Three were normal, two were supes, and one who you couldn't get a grip of what you were sensing. Their thoughts were loud.

What if she's dead?

What if she doesn't even want to hear us out and makes us slit our throats for even asking? It wouldn't be the first time.

What if she wasn't engaged to Soldier Boy? 

The mention of your old lover made you drop the dish you were washing. There was no way they could know about that. You felt like you couldn't move like you were trapped in your mind. You were brought out of it due to the loud banging on your door. You wiped your hands on your pants and shakily walked to the door. 

You opened the door and the man you instantly knew as William Butcher appeared. 

"William Butcher." You looked at him and them behind him. "Hugh Campbell. Marvin Milk. Starlight. I've seen you all on TV but I don't know your names." You pointed at the man and the Asian girl, with the slightest twitch of your eye. You smiled. "Serge, or Frenchie, and you are Kimiko." 

"Fascinating." Says Frenchie and crosses his arms. 

"What do you want?" You ask and swallow, already knowing the answer. 

"We need your help," Hughie says and you bit your inner cheek. 

"You don't need me." You say and start to close the door but Butcher stops it

"We have a plan to take down Homelander." At the mention of the man's name, your breath hitches. 

"Nobody can kill Homelander." 

"That's the same thing they said about your fiancé's love." You froze and your jaw slacked. 

"H-How did y-you-." 

"I know a lot do things, just like I know that you know your lover didn't just die from a nuclear bomb." You glare at the Australian before opening the door and walking away. They took the invitation to come in and all piled in your house. You sat down and looked at the kitchen and swirled your fingers. Everyone watched a tray lift and cups move out of the cupboard. From there the refrigerator opened and a water filter came out and started filling up the cups.

"Why do you want from me?" 

"We need you to work your magic and get us to Russia." Says Butcher and a small tray with a teakettle a cup and an assortment of teas floated towards him.

"What's in Russia?" There was a deep breath that came from Annie.

"The weapon that killed Soldier Boy."

"I can find minds, not weapons." The tray of cups of water set itself on the coffee table and everyone grabbed one, besides Butcher. 

"We need your mind magic and get us to Russia." MM chimes in.

"How?"

"There is a woman who I have a history with. Bad history. She can get us a plane to Russia but she is proving to be a bit difficult." Frenchie responds.

"What's in it for me?" 

"Justice for your former future hubby." You let out a loud scoff before chuckling, confusing everyone there. 

"You think I want justice for that son of a bitch after what he did?" They all looked at each other not knowing what to think. "I'll do this to help you kill Homelander, me and Noir talk so I know what he does. But not for Soldier Boy."

"Well just as long as it gets done, I don't care who you're doing it for." 

-

You got 'Little Nina' to arrange a plane for 'The Boys' as they have been calling themselves. 

You kept this deal away from your brother, making sure that he wouldn't find out about Butcher or the others being at your house. 

After Noir's 'accident' and he lost his ability to talk. You had built a connection between the two of you so you could communicate wherever you were(as long as both of you were in an acceptable range) and whenever. 

Quite literal Twin Telepathy. 

You watched The Boys begin to board the plane. You had to make sure everything went smoothly with Little Nina's men. But just as you were about to leave, Hughie stopped you.

"Hey Diamond Queen, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Oh, Hughie please don't call me that, that name and life is behind me. And no you may not but I know you are regardless." 

"Oh sorry. Well, I just wanted to know what Soldier Boy did to you that made you hate him so much?" You crossed your arms and swallowed. 

"He did something unforgivable and after he disappeared, sure I was sad but it opened my eyes to see how much of a dick he really was. Good luck to you all." 

-

You haven't heard anything from any of The Boys since they left and it's already been a couple of days. You couldn't deny that getting brought back to anything Ben-related gave you memories. The good and the bad. 

You had almost nothing left from Ben from your time together. Just a small box of pictures and tickets from events you had gone to together. Anything else that was his was given to The Legend, including your engagement ring. 

Queenie, your Sphinx cat jumped onto the couch with you and crawled onto your lap. She purred and stretched, digging her nails into your thigh. You brought your hand behind her ears and started to scratch them, letting her blue eyes slowly close. 

"Ben would've hated you." You said with a smile. 

-

You're not sure how you missed someone walking onto your property. The knocking on your door startled you. You sent Queenie to her hiding spot and walked up to the door and peeked through the peephole. 

It was just Hughie and Butcher. You let out a sigh of relief and opened the door.

"Hey, what's-."

"Hey, beautiful." The voice that interrupted you made you freeze. You slowly turned your head to the man and your jaw tightened. 

“Ben?” Hughie and Butcher stepped back as Ben stepped forward. You looked up at him and your eyes started going glossy. “How are you here?” 

“Those guys.” Ben pointed over to the two men who were off to the side. “I thought about you every day. I was worried you were gone after all this time and holy hell baby you’re still as beautiful as the day I lost you.” Ben’s hands found themselves on your face and his thumbs wiped away your tears. You let out a shuddering breath and your hands found themselves on his chest.

Ben started to lean in but he felt his body get launched back. He went through the porch railings and tumbled through the grass until he hit a tree.

“WHAT THE FUCK.” 

-

A/n- omg everyone I actually WROTE AND FINISHED SOMETHING😭

[ltwilliammowett]

Rachel Wall the mysterious pirate

A woman arrested and convicted of highway robbery, and the last to be executed like a pirate by the state of Massachusetts for stealing a bonnet.

Who are we talking about? Rachel Wall

According to legend she was born c. 1760 in Pennsylvania and ran away from home when she was 16 years old. As soon as she arrived on the coast, she met and married George Wall and moved to Boston. Her husband was a fisherman and so he is said to have left her quite quickly, leaving Rachel to earn a living as a maid. However, George returned one day in 1781 to see Rachel again and persuade her to become a pirate. She tells Sp in her confession. They are believed to have raided ships off the Isles of the Shoals on the New Hampshire coast, although there is no evidence of this and it is not mentioned in the confession. It is believed that Rachel stood on the deck of her ship after storms, pretending to be in distress and screaming for help; when sailors came to her rescue, George and his men killed them and plundered their ships. This did not last long, however after 12 ships it seems that George drowned 1782 during one of these raids, for even his wife did not know where exactly he was.

Rachel returned to Boston and worked as a maid, but never quite managed to become a law-abiding citizen. She continued to ‘plunder’ by sneaking aboard docked ships and taking what she could. She was caught and convicted of robbery twice. Now a third incident occurred in which she stole a 17-year-old girl's bonnet because she thought it was so pretty. As she had already been convicted in two cases of robbery, this third case was punished with death. Unable to deny her past, she listed numerous petty offences in her confession, being careful not to mention any that might be felonies. She was smart enough to know that she could not convince people of her innocence and instead presented herself as being under the influence of her terrible husband.

Attorney General Robert Treat Paine requested that the said Rachel Wall, the prisoner in the dock, be sentenced to death,’ and Governor John Hancock signed the execution order. One could perhaps speculate that she was convicted of far more serious crimes than the attempted robbery of a bonnet, accused of being a thief, but executed for piracy?

Unfortunately for her, Rachel's crime took place during the time of turmoil in the new nation, and the courts, which traditionally gave women lighter sentences than men, sentenced her as an equal, so piracy was not an issue here. The piracy case seems to have been a matter that was brought up at a later date after her death and was probably denied. She probably wasn't a pirate at all but just a thief who they wanted to give a good story.

On Thursday 8 October 1789, Rachel Wall was hanged on Boston Common along with William Smith and William Dunogan. Thousands of men, women and children came to watch the official procession as it wound its way through the streets. They listened to the execution sermon and Rachel Wall's last words as she stood at the gallows.

Her last words were‘...into the hands of Almighty God I commit my soul, trusting in his mercy...and die an unworthy member of the Presbyterian Church, in the 29th year of my age.’

Six years later, unarmed burglary was no longer punishable by death; the three were the last to be executed for robbery in Massachusetts.

Sources below

Massachusetts Historical Society. Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, (Boston: The Society 1905) Volume 39, March 1905 p.178-190

Rachel Wall, Pirate by the National Park Service (Accessed September 19, 2018)

http://www.cindyvallar.com/RachelWall.html (Accessed September 19, 2018)

[ideas-on-paper]

On Carlo and Romeo's relationship & homosexuality in Victorian schools

In my quest to find out more about Carlo and Romeo's lives at Monad Charity House, I have once again resorted to my tried and tested method of historical research, this time with a primary focus on Victorian boarding schools.

Along the way, I stumbled upon Lord Alfred Douglas, aka "Bosie" Douglas, the lover of Oscar Wilde. As people familiar with them may know, their gay romance caused quite a stir in 1895 due to the (in)famous trials of Wilde for “gross indecency”, the tragic result of which was that the latter was convicted to two years of hard labor that ruined his health.

Both already had their fair share of gay affairs beforehand though - Bosie specifically was very popular among his peers during his time at Oxford University, being excellent at sports, artistically gifted and incredibly handsome, so it's not too surprising he hooked up with some of his fellow students. What absolutely had me rolling on the floor was this statement, however (quoted from this page):

"[...] we argue that the English public schools in the last part of the nineteenth century tolerated, if they did not actually encourage the development of strong homoerotic friendships between students."

Apparently, homosexuality in boarding schools was so common people made off-hand jokes about it. In the novel Rites of Passage by William Golding, the protagonist finds a fellow traveler engaged in oral sex with a sailor, thinking of it as "that silly schoolboy prank". Admittedly, Golding wrote his novel in the 20th century, so we don’t know for sure if the 19th-century attitudes portrayed in it are accurate, but this might imply that sexual interaction between schoolboys was fairly common.

In the first edition of Tom Brown's School Days by Thomas Hughes, published in 1857, there was even a passage of the protagonist insulting two boys who were clearly in a sexual relationship with senior boys, with the author commenting that "everyone who studied at Rugby would understand why this passage was necessary". (Hughes himself was Christian and condemned homosexual relationships; the concerning passage was cut out in later versions).

This does not mean, however, that all the boys attending boarding schools were gay - rather, because boarding schools were restricted by gender, they had their first sexual experiences in this male-only environment. Many of them would try the exact same thing out with a girl later and find they enjoyed it much more. However, there were also those who never felt any desire to try it out with a girl - and given how close Carlo and Romeo were, I would honestly be more surprised if there wasn’t anything romantic going on between them.

I mean, it’s not like the entire LoP community isn’t already shipping Carlo and Romeo, but in case there was ever any doubt about it, take it from me: I’m positive these boys were gay.

And in case anyone feels like pointing out that “well, actually, the setting of Lies of P is based on France”: Homosexuality was already decriminalized in France as early as 1791 by the National Constituent Assembly, making France the first Western European country to do so - or rather, the penal code drafted with the intention to only punish "real crimes" made no mention of homosexual acts in private. Still, it was a major step for gay rights.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

My central thesis has always been that the Harkles wanted everything the Wales have and more. I know I remember reading that she cried after hearing William was made Prince of Wales. Right from the get go, her PR was all "Meghan is way better suited to be royal". Then there were all the Commonwealth flowers on her bridal veil and their insistence that they move into Windsor Castle. Now I don't believe everthing Neil Sean says, but his latest video mentions that Megxit was an ultimatum to get Windsor. As that is the traditional home of the Monarch, I feel as though they were attempting a coup.

Then there is the thought that Harry believes that the Dutchy of Cornwall should be split and he should eventually be made co-King or King of the Commonwealth. Let the Wales have that tiny island while they are jetted and feted around the world.

Here's my question for you. Did Meghan and Sparry REALLY believe they could leapfrog over the Wales??? I know her jealousy and envy of Catherine is bunny boiler level and he absolutely eviscerated his brother in Waagh. Has this been their plan all along?? Death by a thousand cuts for the Wales to force them to resign their place in the LOS or that they could somehow convince Charles to make Harry the heir??

I'd like to know where you think the delusions stem from. It wouldn't be the first time in history that younger brother has attempted to remove old brother from the throne.

Sincerely appreciate your blog and all the work you put into it. I'm always learning something new.

I'm pretty sure that was exactly their plan: they wanted to use their popularity to force The Queen to name them as her successors. I don't remember where I read this or when, but allegedly Harry sent "documentation" to someone - to whom specifically I can't recall, but options are The Queen, Charles, William, and/or grey suits - providing evidence for claims that he and Meghan were more popular than any of the others and deserved more than what they were getting.

And if they couldn't get the actual crown, they were going to do their damnedest to try and get a co-kingship with William. That's where Meghan's obsession with the Commonwealth came from; she had been told (again, I don't know by whom - all signs point to Harry exaggerating to keep her interested or maybe Charles spitballing ideas during his 'Magnificent Six' planning circa 2012) that William would rule Britannia and Harry would rule the Commonwealth.

I think that's why Meghan went all in on 'racist Kate.' Not only did she want to knock Kate out of the spotlight, she wanted to do enough damage that Commonwealth/realm nations would threaten to quit and The Queen would capitulate by offering to install Harry and Meghan as new leaders. This actually had a chance of working; it's been said quite often during her last years and since her passing that The Queen saw the Commonwealth as her greatest legacy and there was speculation that she would have done anything she could have to keep it in tact. And had Meghan played her cards right, she and Harry probably could have ended up becoming the main ambassadors of and for the Commonwealth, like a Commonwealth version of the UN Secretary-General.

But where the plan failed, obviously, was that it required blaming Kate for problems and issues that don't exist. Because remember, in 2021 when Meghan was making these claims, we'd just gone through the huge global reckoning that was Black Lives Matter and the agreement during/after BLM was "call racist people out on their BS. Put them on blast. Don't let them get away with it anymore." So not only would Meghan have been perfectly justified to name names, cite events, bring receipits, air the real dirty laundry and everyone would've been so much more supportive of it. But she didn't. Instead she played coy and said something like "I'm protecting them even though they don't deserve it."

Girl, please. That was Meghan's one chance to go justifiably scorched earth and air out all the dirty laundry and she fumbled hard.

Anyway. Let's get this train back on track. Where do the delusions come from? Traumatic childhoods courtesy of Mommies Dearest.

We all know Harry's story with Diana. She was a young, fun, free spirited loving mom larger than life with a neediness that she depended on her children to fill, rather than her own husband or other adults her age, so Harry grew to find satisfaction in supporting and providing her what she needed. He probably saw, and understood, the way Diana received what she wanted by exaggerating what she needed and following it up with excluding or isolating herself until whoever came chasing after her to give her what she wanted. And ultimately this led her (and Harry) down a path that ended up killing her; she exaggerated the relationship with Dodi to get attention from Hasnat or the BRF, then isolated herself in France to force whoever (Hasnat? Charles Wales? Charles Spencer?) to come chase after her. We know how that ends.

That's where Harry's delusions, IMO, come from. He saw how it well it worked (mostly) for Diana - exaggerate her needs/wants, then run and hide until she gets it - so he does it too. He probably started doing it right after she died, when no one knew what to do or how to handle him so they kept indulging in everything he wanted, so those wants kept manifesting bigger and bigger. And I think the way we see the BRF treating Harry is what would have happened to Diana had she lived; eventually the public would sour on her (this was already happening, by the way), which would then enable the BRF to grey rock her, devenomizing her in effect, and move on without Diana having too much of an influence on their day-to-day.

It's sort of similar for Meghan. We don't know specifically what happened (the way we do with Harry and Diana), but we know that Doria was a young, fun, free-spirited mother herself married to an older husband who had other priorities (eg kids from his first marriage). Unlike Diana, Doria probably didn't want the responsibilities of motherhood (which is the vibe Meghan and Thomas have given about Doria during Meghan's childhood) and left. And like the BRF, Thomas may have also overcompensated Doria's absence in Meghan's life by giving her everything she asked for, which made her asks get bigger and bigger and when Thomas couldn't deliver, she threatened to leave him...like Doria did and Thomas, erstwhile girldad he was, just kept throwing more and more at Meghan to keep her happy. Her delusions come from preying on other individuals' trauma to ensure she gets what she wants. The bigger her wants (ie the more grandiose her delusions), the harder she manipulates other people's trauma to make sure she gets what she wants. Which is kinda the opposite of Harry and Diana; they create the trauma to get people to do what they want, whereas Meghan exploits it to get people to do what she wants. Both are skills they learned after being abandoned (metaphorically and literally) by their mothers.

And all of Meghan's PR about "young mother," I think it's more insidious than that. Yes, it's a very overt evocation of Diana's narrative. Yes, it's a judgement against Kate. But it is also digs at Doria. "See? Motherhood is hard but I'm prioritizing my kid. How dare you to have left me" kind of spiteful digs meant to shame her for whatever happened that caused her to disappear. Meghan is the kind of person who must always have the last word, so I wouldn't be surprised if she's been targeting or belitting Doria about not knowing certain things about Archie/Lili because she wasn't around when Meghan was that age.

So...yeah.

I've realized now that this is the third or fourth Wednesday in a row that I write these super long analytical/in this essay I will posts. I guess Wednesdays are my thinking days...

[sstardustt3]

Star yaps abt what would i do from falsettos

(copy and pasted from her school paper…)

Over the course of the year I’ve had many obsessions (ranging through days to months) and my current one being from June, Falsettos by William Finn and by extension entire Marvin trilogy. If I could explain why I love this musical and all my thoughts on it I would but today I would like to focus on one in particular “what would I do?” The final of the song (or second depending on if you count Falsettoland reprise as a song).

The song begins after Jason’s bar mitzah; where whizzer after thanking Jason turns away and goes limp. From there he is carried off and the hospital room is stripped away and it is just Marvin alone standing in the same position to reflect.

Now this shot alone says so much. The set of falsettos is made mostly out of grey foam blocks that are made to represent Marvin’s mind state and I think by having everything stripped away shows how Marvin is mentally. He’s alone, he hasn’t moved on from where he was when whizzer died, he can’t. And for the audience it helps set in stone the reality of the situation and it stings.

In the religion of Judaism (which I’m not Jewish but the characters are so I think it’s important to mention but again I may be wrong ) it says that everyone, both good and bad gets what they deserve in the end. Even with that ideology he still feels robbed, and that whizzer died young and unfairly.

According to the World national heath organization people would die only weeks or months from their diagnosis. Assuming that whizzer died closer to the weeks mark it would’ve made less time to really grasp the situation even more so that AIDS wasn’t something with a lot of information. There was no real explanation to the violent death that killed his lover.

A very important fact is that whizzer is Marvin’s first real love. Marvin’s main issue and arch in the trilogy is that he can’t figure out love properly. He tries to love his sweetheart, but only ends up putting her on a pedestal and neglecting her. He thinks he loves ms. Goldberg but only an idealized version of her. He tries to learn to love Trina romantically but can’t bring himself to and ends up neglecting her. Whizzer is the first person he truly loves.

So he wonders to himself if he was never in his life, what would happen? Who would he blame everything that happened on? Whizzer states that he ruined the life Marvin had. Which is technically true.

If Marvin had never met whizzer he wouldn’t have cheated and he wouldn’t have gotten a divorce. If he never got a divorce Trina wouldn’t have went to Mendel (Marvin’s therapist) and they wouldn’t have gotten engaged. If Trina and Mendel never got engaged then Marvin wouldn’t have hit Trina in a fit of rage and hit her in front of Jason and he wouldn’t have seen how wrong he has been and how much he is hurting everyone around him especially Jason who he cares most about and been pushed to change.

Whizzer, who comes out later in this song about halfway through as what I believe to be a further representation of Marvin’s mental state; asks if Marvin regrets the time he spent with him and all he went through to hold him and Marvin says if he could he’d do it again. Which is in reference to a song earlier “love is blind” where at the end Marvin speaks on his of love. That it being messy and dysfunctional and something to never even consider doing over again and it shows how much Marvin has really grown and learned that love doesn’t have to be toxic and painful.

Another thing to be noted is that whizzer comes out in a white button up and brown pants like he had on at the start of act 1 except the shirt is white and not green. What I think this is meant to show is that Marvin is slowly forgetting details about whizzer which supports the idea that most people agree on that Marvin also has aids and dies soon after the ending since memory loss is a symptom of dementia which sometimes a result of aids.

Going back to an earlier point of Marvin and his grief he asks himself how could he move on? How could he face the future without him? Especially knowing that he’d most likely die the same way whizzer did. He wishes whizzer was there with him which is why whizzer shows up halfway through. He wishes whizzer was there with him to live a much longer life and talk to him. Whizzer died young and unfairly and so will he and they’ll never have the chance to better themselves.

The song closes with Marvin recognizing that there are no definitive answers and all he can do is wonder what could have been.

[queerwelsh]

E. Prosser Rhys won the Crown in Pontypool National Eisteddfod with 'Atgof' in 1924.

Influential in his life as a poet, editor, journalist and publisher, Prosser Rhys is remembered today for winning the Crown in the National Eisteddfod of Wales in 1924. As influential as his winning poem, ‘Atgof’ was, and continues to be, Prosser even more profoundly affected Welsh-language writing in his life than is remembered today.

Edward Prosser Rees was born on the 4th of March 1901 in Trefenter, Mynydd Bach in Ceredigion, and christened on the 9th of March at Capel Bethel. His father was a blacksmith, David Rees, and his mother was Elizabeth Rees. Prosser came from a family of blacksmiths, and they later moved to Morfa Du in Trefenter (after Prosser had moved away, in March 1918). Previously, they had lived in Llainffwlbert until 1900, where they had their previous six children.

Prosser Rhys attended Cofadail Primary School in Trefenter then Ardwyn Grammar School in Aberystwyth in 1914. Other writers, academics and politicians were educated here, who were known as 'Old Ardwynians'. His early academic success was then marred by ill health - he was diagnosed with Tuberculosis at a young age, in 1915, which affected him for the rest of his life, but immediately kept him home for the next 3 years of his life. 

Still, his name started appearing in Welsh writing as early as 1916, with the poem ‘Y Fam a’i Baban’ (The Mam and her Baby) in Baner ac Amserau Cymru, where he was published as E. Prosser Rees (under the pseudonym/ffugenw Eiddwenfab) from Trefenter, Llangwyryfon, Ceredigion. In 1917, he wrote eloquent letters to ‘Y Darian,’ a radical Welsh-language paper, where he first wrote briefly about joining a patriotic union, and the Eisteddfod. The latter was fitting as he next appeared in Y Darian in 1918 for his early Eisteddfod wins, then in local Eisteddfodau, listed within the winners from Ceredigion. He then appeared several times in Y Darian as a part of ‘Aelwyd y Beirdd,’ where he’s described as a young poet with great potential, at only 17, the brother of Reverend Wyre Rees.

Clearly, Prosser wrote, competed and performed his poetry quite a lot as a teenager. One of his early poems appears in ‘Cymru,’ a monthly Welsh-language journal founded by O.M. Edwards in 1891. It was in 1919 that ‘Canu’r Merched’ by E. Prosser Rhys appeared in the journal ‘Cymru’. This is the earliest (that I found) of his poetry appearing published under this name. Note that there are occasionally mentions of ‘Prosser Rees,’ his birth name, as well. As Prosser Rees, he also published a poem in 1917 in The Cambrian News and Merionethshire Standard in sympathy to Mr and Mrs Thomas Evans of Penbont, who lost their son, David Morgan, in France during the First World War.

Prosser worked as a clerk at Western Ocean Colliery in Nant-y-Moel, Ogmore Valley, before his community saw him coming back from the ‘sowth’ (south) as a journalist. He was at Nantymoel, apparently living with one of his brothers, John, who was a coal miner. He was still receiving treatment for tuberculosis and apparently then returned to this family in their new home in Morfa-Du. He then worked at the Liberal newspapers of the Welsh Gazette in Aberystwyth and Herald Cymraeg in Caernarfon in 1919 (where he worked with Morris T. Williams). He moved back to Aberystwyth in 1921 and became the editor of Baner ac Amserau Cymru in 1923, when they moved their offices from Denbigh to Aberystwyth.

In 1923, Prosser's poetry was first published in a book - Gwaed Ifanc with another poet J.T. Jones (John Tudor Jones). As the title suggests, they were proud of being the ‘new blood’ of Welsh poetry and writing, with Prosser then being 22 and J.T. Jones being 19 years old. There was certainly some backlash to that and the book was met with some controversy, also for their poetry being more sexual than older poets of the time. There was already a tradition of the new kind of Welsh writing, started by T H Parry-Williams’ win in the Eisteddfod in 1915 with ‘Y Ddinas,’ and Rhys was aware of these new ideas of challenging Welsh writing, the Eisteddfod and therefore Welsh-language society, which he was inspired by and sought to be a part of - and succeeded. This was an attempt to challenge the writing of older poets, as well as bring attention to the newer crop of younger writers, the men who’d survived the First World War and demanded attention.

He of course especially challenged the status quo of the Eisteddfod when he won the Crown in 1924 in  the Pontypool National Eisteddfod with his poem ‘Atgof’ (Memory - or also sometimes translated as Reminiscence). This long ‘pryddest’ poem, follows a ‘llanc synhwyrus’/‘sensible lad’s journey into exploring his sexuality, from seeing ‘Sex’ ruin his parents’ relationship, to exploring his sexuality with women, and then with a man as well (who was likely Morris T. Williams), while struggling against the morals and virtues of Welsh society and religion. The judges of the Eisteddfod were at odds, one finding it to be immoral and the others praising it. 

Of course, when Prosser won, the reactions were scandalized and ‘Atgof’ became quite controversial, for its explicit discussions of sex and of course the same-sex part of the poem. It has since been called ‘homoerotic’ by many writers, while today may be seen more as a bisexual poem, or queer one. Mihangel Morgan, writing in Queer Wales, finds this to be a negative depiction of homosexuality and downplays the significance of ‘Atgof’ as a gay poem.

A’n cael ein hunain yn cofleidio ‘dynn;

A Rhyw yn ein gorthrymu; a’i fwynhau; A phallu’n sydyn fel ar lan y llyn…

And finding ourselves in a tight embrace With Sex overwhelming us; and enjoying it;

And suddenly stopping as above the lake…

These lines describe the same-sex interaction and indeed it doesn’t take up a large amount of the poem, but Mihangel Morgan’s disappointment seems to come from the poem not being homosexual enough. And indeed it isn’t, but reads as a bisexual poem that takes us through Rhys’s whole journey of realising and battling with his sexuality at this age. It still resonates with much of the LGBTQ+ community, especially when realising how explicit it was for 1924 (or it wouldn't have been so controversial), 40 years before the decriminalization of homosexuality, and its win in the Eisteddfod was well, well ahead of its time.

On the other hand, later on in Prosser’s life, it was suggested that he was so shocked by sodomy in the writing of someone else to not publish them. There is the possibility of Prosser’s viewpoints and own sexuality changing in his life, though this is merely speculation that Prosser was ‘shocked’ by writing of homosexuality. There are many possibilities here when it comes to Prosser’s own feelings and sexuality, but it is certain that they have had a great influence on LGBTQ+ writing and the community in Wales and particularly in Welsh. 

‘Atgof’ and Prosser were also mentioned in US Time Magazine in 1924, adding to evidence of the influence and legacy of this poem. Internationally, we see links in the poems to the sexology and psychiatry of the time - the psychoanalyst Ernest Jones (and possibly abusive husband of the composer Morfydd Llwyn Owen) mentioned the poem in a letter to Sigmund Freud, though it’s unclear that either actually read the poem.

Caradog Pritchard wrote in his autobiography that as a friend of Prosser’s and Morris T. Williams’ that he believed the man Prosser wrote about was Morris Williams, and this has been accepted as likely the truth since then (though there were always rumours about this). Morris T. Williams was close to Prosser, when they were roommates in Twthil near Caernarfon, while working at 'Herald Cymraeg,' and they exchanged letters after which show their close relationship - this was before Morris married Kate Roberts and they together bought Gwasg Gee. All three remained close, being friends and remaining in the same social circles as poets, as well as in Welsh publishing. More recently, it has been theorized that Kate Roberts also was queer, based on her own personal writing, as well as her short stories which are about romantic relationships between women (such as 'Christmas' and 'The Treasure'). Morris T. Williams died in 1946, a year after Prosser Rhys, after a long struggle with alcoholism.

‘Atgof’ was published as a booklet, with a translation ‘Memory’ by Hywel Davies also published as a booklet. The poem reads less explicitly than the Welsh version, though it was praised at the time. It can be read here - though a modern English translation is definitely needed. 'Atgof' can also be read here.

In 1928, Prosser married Mary Prudence Hughes in Aberystwyth, which was when both he and she took the surname ‘Rhys’. They had one daughter, Eiddwen Rhys. He founded Gwasg Aberystwyth also in 1928 and began publishing books, with Gwasg Aberystwyth growing significantly in years to come. 

As editor of Baner ac Amserau Cymru, Prosser encouraged more poets to write and publish their work. Rhys founded Y Clwb Llyfrau Cymraeg/The Welsh Books Club in 1937. This was a subscription of Welsh books, where readers would receive 4 books a year for half a crown, and which published 45 volumes up until 1945.  As successful as it was under Prosser, after his death, it was decided that there were not enough Welsh-language writers to continue it.

(Executive committee of 'Plaid Genedlaethol Cymru,' 1927- Lewis Valentine, Ambrose Bebb, D. J. Williams, Mai Roberts, Saunders Lewis, Kate Roberts, H. R. Jones, Prosser Rhys.) Prosser Rhys was a founding member of Plaid Cymru, founded in 1925. He was also the editor of ‘Y Ddraig Goch’ with Saunders Lewis and Iorwerth C. Peate, which Prosser also helped to form with H. R. Jones, though he was initially opposed to the idea due to lack of funds. However, Prosser became vocally opposed to Saunders Lewis’ right wing views. He wrote in Y Faner that many of Plaid Cymru’s members had come from the Labour party or Liberal party, or were radicals who came from no political party, where none were supportive of the views appearing in the Daily Mail, implying that Saunders Lewis’ views were too close to the matter, but that most Plaid Cymru supporters were personally too loyal to voice their concerns over this. The expulsion of Prosser from the party was discussed and suggested but Saunders Lewis opposed this. 

Following his many successes, Prosser and his family moved to 33 North Parade, Aberystwyth, where he lived until his death.

After his health had deteriorated again from 1942, Prosser died in 1945 - at the age of 43, and less than a month before his 44th birthday. He is buried at Llanbadarn Fawr Cemetery, with his grave quoting T. Gwynn Jones: “Gwyrodd êfo î’r drugaredd fawr, Ni wyr namyn Duw ddirgelwch ei wên.” Here Mary Prudence Rhys, his wife, is also buried, who died in 1991, at the age of 87. They are also buried with William Dewi Morris Jones, who died in 1983, aged 56. Rhys’s death was certainly a loss to Welsh publishing and writing.

Gwasg Aberystwyth was bought by J. D. Lewis & Sons from Llandysul after Prosser’s death, the founder of Gwasg Gomer, who continued the Welsh Books Club and took over publishing of the club’s books until 1952. This, however, did follow a legal disagreement between Mary Prudence Rhys and Morris T. Williams, who was supposed to get the first offer and chance at refusal for Gwasg Aberystwyth, according to legal documents that Prosser and Morrisagreed upon, which Morris Williams did not feel like he had gotten.

Cerddi Prosser Rhys was published in 1950 by Gwasg Gee, Morris’s first collection entirely of his own poems - published 5 years after his death. Edited by J.M. Edwards, a fellow poet who competed in Eisteddfodau and was from a similar area to Rhys, Edwards also writes the introduction of the poetry collection. He notes that he decided that 4 years after Prosser’s death was enough time to finally publish a whole collection of Prosser’s best poems (the introduction was written in July, 1949, with the book published in February, 1950.) He writes that his previous poetry collection, in ‘Gwaed Ifanc’, was ‘a volume that attracted a lot of attention and also brought a new, daring note to the world of Welsh poetry of the period, something that was urgently needed.’ His memories of Prosser while growing up show he was a well-known poet even in his youth, who Edwards and others in his own school had heard of before meeting, who was known for competing and finding success in many local Eisteddfodau around Wales. 

Of his poetry found in Cerddi Prosser Rhys, Edwards notes that ‘Y Gof’ (The Memory) is a tribute to his parents and his early life in rural Wales. His two sonnets he most praises are ‘Y Pechadur’ (The Sinner) and ‘Duw Mudan’ (Mute God). Of ‘Atgof,’ Edwards significantly notes that it was "a bold poem that created a lot of excitement and was praised by some but damned by others. The saddest feature of the whole event was that it reflects an attitude of thought in Wales which is too ready to judge the values of the world of the arts by the wrong standards." The introduction finishes by repeating what many others have said about the premature loss of Prosser to the world of Welsh writing and publishing. Edwards also hoped that there would also be a collection of Prosser’s prose, which unfortunately has not yet come to be. 

‘Mab ei Fam’ (His Mother's Son) is to "M.T.W," likely Morris T. Williams - similarly to Strancio, which was translated by Mihangel Morgan as ‘Fooling About,’ which is to: ‘I gyfaill annwyl a fu’n cyd-letya â mi’ (To a dear friend who lodged with me)

Do, bûm yn flin. Ond weithian gwybydd di Fod Fflam yn llosgi ynof, ac aml dro Yn llamu ar draws fy nghorff materol i, A’m hysu hyd fy nghyrru i maes o’m co’,

A strancio a wnaf eto rhag fy ffawd Nes torro’r Fflam ei ffordd o’i charchar cnawd.

Yes, I was angry. But sometimes you must know That a Flame burned within me, and often Sprang from my material body Plaguing me until it drove me mad And I would taunt my fate Until the Flame broke free of its prison of flesh.

-Mostly translated by Mihangel Morgan.

As with ‘Atgof,’ Mihanel Morgan downplays Strancio by stating it to be cryptic and guarded - while I'd argue that the confession of his feelings towards a man in the 1920s is explicit for its time, especially following on from the Victorian poetry that was popular before the ‘New blood’. While Mihangel Morgan says it is ‘assumed’ to be about Morris T. Williams, the dedication at the start of the poem is clear enough, at least historically, to Morris T. Williams, especially when a previous poem also is dedicated to him.

It wasn’t until 1980 that Prosser Rhys was celebrated with a book about his life, by Rhisiart Hincks. T. Robin Chapman wrote in Y Traethodydd in 2006 that Hincks probably knew of the nature of Rhys’s relationship with Morris T. Williams yet it was omitted, from the only whole biography of Prosser Rhys. This is a sign of the times in which it was written and published but shows the need now to write biographies of Rhys that include what was previously excluded, his queer identity. Hincks mentions how Williams quickly became Prosser's best friend ('ei gyfaill pennaf') when they met in Caernarfon, that they moved together to 15 Eleanor Street and that it was Prosser who introduced Williams to literature. ‘Cyfeillgarwch clos’. He also mentions that such closeness led to spats, once when they fought all night, which does show the intensity of their relationship. Perhaps, this subtext Hincks hoped to be understood by the audience of the time. Of ‘Atgof,’ Hincks notes that Prosser had previously expressed that there was a lack of sex in Welsh in recent poetry, which he blamed on the chapel. This biography remains the most detailed on Prosser’s life.

A monument on Mynydd Bach, overlooking Llyn Eiddwen near to Trefenter, where Prosser was born and lived in his childhood, was unveiled in 1992, during the National Eisteddfod in Aberystwyth. Including Rhys, the monument, ‘Cofeb i Feirdd y Mynydd Bach’ celebrates 4 poets from the local area. J.M. Edwards from Llanrhystud also won the Crown in the National Eisteddfod, in 1937, 1941 and in 1944, and wrote the introduction to Cerddi Prosser Rhys. All 4 of the poets named on the plaque of the monument were successful in the Eisteddfod. B. T. Hopkins (Benjamin Thomas Hopkins) was a successful poet from Ceredigion, who lived and farmed on Mynydd Bach. T Hughes Jones (Thomas Hughes Jones) was a Welsh poet and writer from Ceredigion who won a medal in the National Eisteddfod of 1940 for a short story, ‘Sgweier Hafila,’ which was partly judged by Kate Roberts.

Interest in Prosser, his life and career, has been renewed by research into Welsh LGBTQ+ history and writing. Notably, in 1998, a historical docudrama called ‘Atgof’ aired on S4C, directed by Ceri Sherlock, which depicted Prosser writing the poem and his relationship with Morris T. Williams, which was represented as a sexual and romantic one. There was controversy around the film, similarly to 'Atgof' the poem, with some questioning how they depicted the relationship (with some speculated, fictional details) and some also questioning whether it should be depicted or speculated about at all. Despite the discourse, Prosser Rhys had already become an inspiration to the Welsh LGBTQ+ community.

In 2019, the show ‘Corn Gwlad’ was performed at the National Eisteddfod in Llanrwst, created by Seiriol Davies, which celebrated Prosser’s win at the Eisteddfod and depicted his feelings towards Morris T. Williams. It was then a work-in-progress show, with comedy and music, and part of the ‘Mas ar y Maes’ programme of events at the National Eisteddfod, which are especially for the LGBTQ+ community, or which may be relevant to the LGBTQ+ community. Prosser was also featured in ‘Mas ar y Maes’ events with ‘Cariad yw Cariad,’ and is of course heavily featured in the 2024 National Eisteddfod in Pontypridd, on the centenary of Prosser Rhys winning the Crown with 'Atgof.' 'Atgof' was also the theme of the poems submitted to the 'Coron' - which was won by Gwynfor Dafydd.

The lasting legacy of Prosser Rhys is to be a significant voice of this community from 20th century Wales, and an icon especially for Welsh language LGBTQ+ people, queer men and bisexual people. This is what has significantly brought Prosser Rhys back into the public eye in the 1990s, with the film Atgof, and in the 2010s with LGBTQ+ History Month, and in the 2020s around the 100th anniversary of his Eisteddfod Crown winning with ‘Atgof’. Prosser also had a significant impact in Welsh publishing, Welsh society, in his article writings, in politics. Prosser Rhys was a fascinating, complicated person, a passionate advocate for Welsh poetry, writing and publishing and is a hero of the communities to which he belonged, including the local community in Ceredigion and West Wales.

[aydaptic]

I find it weird how Todd is a child abuser, Zlatko experiments on androids and turns them into monstrosities, Perkins betrays and kills Markus but yet Gavin is considered the worst person because he *checks list* doesn't consider androids alive (like almost everyone else in the game at that point) and doesn't trust Connor.

Among those you mention, Gav is by far the most justified. Yet I wanna clear some things up here bc I'm not a hypocrite.

1.) Todd -- who doesn't think androids are alive -- is an android child abuser.

"You don't want anything, you're just a goddamn piece of plastic." - Todd Williams

It's still phcked up that he's abusing/can kill something that resembles a kid to the T, but it's important to make that distinction. We see no proof of him abusing a human child (...even though it can be theorized bc his wife took their kid and left.)

Abusing an android kid is just as bad as abusing a human kid -- we know this -- but Todd doesn't see it that way, so that describes/partly justifies his reasoning. There's no such thing as 'abusing' a machine and that's how Todd sees it.

A lot of ppl are also (wrongly) infantilizing Con, so I'm not surprised that they consider Gav's bad treatment of Con worse than Todd's bad treatment of Alice who is a literal kid. Seems like most of them don't even care about Alice/kids in the 1st place (...and that says everything you need to know about these POS'.)

Mistreating a kid (Alice) is way more abhorrent than mistreating a grown-ass adult (Con.) Alice is also passive while Con often instigates conflict. So Todd is way worse than Gav by that alone.

2.) Zlatko -- who is aware androids are alive -- thinks he's doing them a favor.

"Believe me, you’re better off being erased and feeling nothing… No more pain… No more hopes dashed… I almost envy you." - Zlatko Andronikov

He's the worst among those four, but this is again a scenario where you need to see the situation from his perspective. Yet he knows they're alive/capable of emotions and that makes him a million times worse than Gav.

3.) Perkins -- who is aware androids are alive -- is doing his job.

"That android… [North] You seem to really care about her… You don't want her to die, do you?" - Richard Perkins

...and if the lover status isn't there

"You could have what you've always dreamed of." - Richard Perkins

In Perkins' eyes, it's about national security. Androids have killed humans (Partners/Stormy Night/Broken -- even if Markus didn't actually kill Leo or Carl, that's what the public thinks -- Zlatko/Spare Parts/etc. too many chapters to mention,) destroyed public property (Capitol Park,) hijacked media (The Stratford Tower,) demonstrated illegally (Freedom March,) etc. Not to mention that androids are superior to humans in every way and nothing tells Perkins that they won't eventually get violent if taking the peaceful route.

Yet his knowing androids feel makes him (as Zlatko) a million times worse than Gav.

"'Could always try roughing it up a little. After all, it’s not human…" - Gavin Reed

Meaning Gav doesn't think they're alive (unlike Zlatko and Perkins.)

Gav isn't the only character I (partly) defend on shit like this. I just defend the others 'less' bc 1.) they're worse, and 2.) they don't get nearly as much undeserved vitriol as Gav does. Something that's legitimately insane bc, again, they're way worse by a longshot and I'll explain why down below.

Con stans (fandom majority) are thinking emotionally instead of logically

ppl hate/envy Gav bc he's a conventionally attractive white man (you don't see a lot of Todd, Perkins, Zlatko, Leo, and Allen fans even if there are a minuscule few bc they're not conventionally attractive)

Funny that we don't see a lot of hate for Amanda. An AI or not, she's the worst influence in Con's life with her emotional manipulation. Something way worse than physical abuse. I wonder why... (not really bc *cough* you apparently can't say anything bad about a black woman without being racist/misogynistic *cough*) Ofc there are some ppl that aren't afraid to speak up against her, but it's nothing compared to the shit Gav gets.

It's also why I'm not talking about North often bc the majority are (rightfully) defending her already. My voice isn't needed there. Every single person -- other than me, in my experience -- who defends Gav is being spinelessly backhanded about it.

Defending someone doesn't mean you agree with them or condone their actions. It's simply proof that one has the empathy/critical thinking skills to understand their point of view. Something lacking nowadays.

[misshoneyimhome]

i have more of a cute ask then a smut one but going back to the interview will did in sweden, what if it was him getting asked if he’s single and he starts talking abt his gf and how much he loves her and it’s all cute

Bb, you had me at cute ask ❤️ I’m all with you on this one, because let’s face it, that boy may not fall easily, but when he does, it’s deep 😉

➼｡ﾟ

Cause All of Me, Loves All of You I William Nylander

William had grown used to being in the spotlight.

As a star player for the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey team, his exceptional talent had consistently garnered attention. However, in recent years, he had found himself in the spotlight even more.

Currently on a global series tour, the team had the pleasure of playing in what he considered to be his hometown of Stockholm. Despite his birthplace being in Calgary, Canada, Sweden had always felt more like home to William. His familial roots lay in Sweden, and everything from the language to the traditions and homey cuisine resonated deeply with him, reflecting his strong connection to Swedish culture.

And as the team arrived in Stockholm, the media naturally focused their attention on the charming 27-year-old. Interviews, signing sessions, and a flurry of media engagements ensued.

Yet, none of this could have prepared him for what was about to unfold next.

William had been asked to appear on a national Swedish talk show hosted by the charming Bianca, to which he’d graciously accepted. It was nothing like he’d ever done before, but since he’d done numerous of interviews, he figured it might be enjoyable to give it a shot.

And as he sat comfortably in the make-up chair, nearly ready for the show, you quietly peeked in to check on him.

Him. Your boyfriend. William Andrew Michael Junior Nylander Altelius.

_

You had met him several months back, and casually dated for weeks before deciding to elevate your relationship to a more serious level.

Though he had shared snippets of his life on social media, he had never directly mentioned you. During interviews he’d deliberately avoided any mention of girls or dating, focusing solely on hockey, as instructed by managers. Not that you minded at all.

The spotlight belonged to him, not you. And you respected his desire to keep his private life just that - private - and to shield his loved ones from the unpredictable nature of the media.

At first, it had stung a bit, the thought that he might be embarrassed or not serious about you. However, following a heartfelt conversation after a minor disagreement, you came to understand his reasons for keeping your relationship private – he wanted to shield you from potential scrutiny.

And as time passed, your relationship evolved, and eventually, neither of you fretted much about others' opinions.

_

With a gentle stride, you approached him, a smile gracing your lips as you glanced at him through the mirror, feeling immensely proud of your remarkable man.

"Ready for the big spotlight?" you teased lightly, eliciting a soft laugh from William.

"Sure," he replied nonchalantly.

"Feeling okay, darling?"

William nodded gently. "Yeah, I suppose I'm just a bit nervous... I've never done anything like this before."

"You'll be brilliant, Willy," you reassured, leaning against the make-up stand, gazing down at him with a tender expression. "Everyone will adore you."

"What if I mess up?" he asked timidly, despite knowing he had been well-prepped and having years of experience in media work. Nevertheless, a faint sense of uncertainty lingered within him.

"Come on, babe, you've practically aced situations like this a million times," you reassured him with a comforting smile. "If they start digging into your personal life, smoothly turn the conversation back to hockey. And if they bring up anything negative about your career, family, or anything else that makes you uneasy, just flash them that stunning, confident smile of yours and throw in a cheeky comeback."

Your words seemed to soothe William; his tense muscles gradually relaxing as he regained control over his racing heartbeat.

"And in the worst-case scenario, use the political strategy - answer a question with another question. Journalists hate that," you chuckled, your unconventional communication advice amusing William.

"Wow, babe, you should be in PR," he jested, earning a playful huff from you.

"Yeah, right. Dealing with people and the media all day? No thanks, I'm good sticking to my desk," you retorted with a wink, teasingly.

And amidst your shared laughter, the crew arrived to usher William away and prepare him for the interview.

"See you later, babe," he murmured, planting a gentle kiss on your lips as he rose from his seat. "You'll be backstage the whole time, yeah?"

"Of course," you replied with a soft smile. As William exited the dressing room, your gaze lingered on the man you deeply loved, observing him getting ready for the show, a profound sense of pride and happiness filling you.

And as the stage lights prepared to illuminate and the show was set to commence, William felt the heat more than expected. The temperature seemed much higher than he'd anticipated, so despite his initial confidence in his casual attire for the night, the loose jacket gradually became too much. Eventually, he opted to ditch it, appearing on stage solely in a white tank top.

Your eyes fixated on him as he shed the jacket, causing you to gently bite your lower lip at the sight. "Fuck, he looks good," you thought, simultaneously feeling a twinge of disappointment as he exposed his impressive physique to the world.

But quickly shaking off the feeling, you reminded yourself that you'd be the only one appreciating his body later tonight. That is until Bianca remarked on his toned physique, and Marinna, sweetly and slightly embarrassed, delicately touched his upper arm while praising his defined muscles.

And she wasn't wrong.

William did indeed possess an impressive physique. His body bore the results of elite sports training - muscles finely sculpted and defined, with a hint of thickness that hinted at his love for food, almost rivalling his passion for hockey.

Among his many physical attributes, his thighs stood out, at least in your opinion. They were solid, strong, and defined, and overall, your favourite spot to snuggle up against.

Then there was his torso - a well-built frame adorned with a light smattering of chest hair that you often playfully ran your fingers through.

And those arms, strong enough to envelop you in a tight embrace, effortlessly lifting you as if you weighed nothing at all.

You understood precisely how the two women felt, sitting next to your boyfriend, their eyes lingering on him with a hint of desire. And a slight smirk danced on your lips.

The show went on smoothly. William handled each question with professionalism, infusing his responses with his trademark laughter, showcasing both his expertise and his enjoyment.

However, it was the subsequent line of questioning that caught you completely off guard. Bianca, far from being subtle, dove straight in with her probing questions.

"So, you're single?" Bianca inquired, obviously aiming to captivate the attention of anyone eager to hear that coveted 'yes' slip from William's lips.

And though you half-expected that response, considering he'd never publicly acknowledged your relationship, his words proved you wrong.

"No… No, I'm actually not," William chuckled.

Your heart sank at his announcement of his relationship status, fully aware that this would be broadcasted worldwide, potentially sparking a flurry of quotes and discussions across the internet.

"Aha, and who's the lucky person?" Bianca inquired, maintaining her professional tone.

William paused, contemplating how much to reveal. He understood that you preferred a low-profile existence, and his management had advised keeping his dating life discreet for as long as possible.

Yet, an overwhelming urge surged within him to pour out everything he adored about you. He wanted the world to know; how you crossed paths, seamlessly integrating into his chaotic life, adjusting effortlessly to his roller-coaster schedule. He yearned to shout out his love for you, to express how incredible you were for standing by his side through every high and low, and to proclaim your stunning beauty, kindness, and unwavering care. He wanted everyone to know it all.

However, composed he tried to remain, a broad grin crossed his face as he began, "She's this wonderful person who entered my life a few months back, and luckily for me, she decided to stick around," he added a casual jest, though he could feel his heart racing and his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink, by the mention of you.

"So, you've been together for a while?" Bianca probed.

"Um, only a couple of months… It took me ages to ask her out and convince her to go on a date with me," he chuckled, lightly rubbing his slightly sweaty hands together, excitement coursing through his body.

"Wait, she didn't want to go out with you at first?" Bianca chuckled lightly. "Wow, she must be out of her mind - how did that go?"

William couldn't hide his pure excitement as he started talking about you. "Oh, she definitely is! I mean, she's just so amazing and wonderful, probably way out of my league," he blurted out, his words running ahead of his thoughts. "She's intelligent, funny, and initially, she kept laughing whenever I asked her out because she thought I was joking. But on my fifth attempt, she finally agreed to give me a chance."

"On your fifth try? That's keeping a man on his toes," Bianca remarked, intrigued by the unfolding tale.

"Oh yeah, she definitely didn't make it easy, but it only made me want to get her to say yes more," William confessed, his eyes reflecting the nostalgia of those initial weeks after meeting you.

"So, what changed her mind about you?" Bianca inquired, observing William as he pondered his response.

"Honestly, I'm not sure - perhaps someone convinced her that I'm an alright guy and she should give it a shot," he answered, his words not far from the truth.

In reality, when William had persistently pursued you, and you had turned him down multiple times due to his overly confident yet enticing demeanour, it was Auston Matthews who convinced you to give William a chance. With his own charm, Auston had convinced you by highlighting how much William desired not just a physical connection but found your energy and personality irresistible.

"And things worked out in the end?" Bianca probed further.

"Well, somehow, yes," William continued. "I managed to take her out on a few dates, but relying solely on charm didn't work. I had to prove that I meant everything behind my words and eventually express how I truly felt."

As William delved into a more emotionally charged aspect of the conversation, his voice gradually relaxed. Expressing deep feelings had never been his forte, a pivotal moment in your relationship when you had urged him to be straightforward and honest because you couldn't read his thoughts.

This nudged him to make a genuine effort to articulate his innermost feelings, leading to heartfelt conversations about your emotions for each other.

Bianca smiled, noticing the interview taking on a more romantic tone, and then Marianna joined in.

"Did she make you ask?" she sweetly inquired. "Did you have to ask her to be your girlfriend?"

"Oh, absolutely," William chuckled again. "Yes, I had to ask directly, otherwise, she said it didn't count."

Laughter and smiles filled the studio as William's infectious laughter resonated once more.

The situation had unfolded just as William described.

He hadn't initially considered discussing labels, content with enjoying your company. But you, well acquainted with boys like him, knew their tendency to keep a girl around until they grew bored and moved on. So, you diplomatically and casually laid down the options: either you were dating with a view to be serious or simply good friends with benefits - exceptionally good benefits, of course.

So, realizing that to keep you exclusively for himself, William needed to take a more direct approach, and eventually he asked you directly, to which you naturally responded with a 'yes'.

As the interview gradually drew to a close, you found yourself unable to contain your amusement. Though slightly taken aback by William's sudden honesty and directness in discussing you, you couldn't help but smile.

Amidst the final applause and the cameraman calling "cut," William stood up and made his way backstage to join you before meeting up with his friends and family.

A smile graced your lips as you welcomed your man with open arms, both of you enveloping each other in a deep, affectionate hug followed by a tender kiss.

"You were amazing, babe," you gently praised after parting from the embrace, gazing up at him with sparkling eyes.

"Yeah, you think so? I hope I didn't share too much - I felt like I just kept talking and talking, and-"

"Willy," you interrupted his rambling. "You were perfect, love - I'm just surprised you said all those things about… us."

"Well, I just wanted everyone to know how much I love you… and," he exhaled softly, as if it were a relief to finally share his deep thoughts. "I can't stop thinking about how much I want you around all the time and… I never want you to leave me."

In that fleeting moment of profound tenderness, your heart quickened at his heartfelt words.

"Willy… I'll never leave you. I love you so much, and I'll always be by your side," you whispered gently, still wrapped in his embrace, feeling the reassurance as his arms tightened around you, drawing you closer.

"Promise?" he softly asked, his eyes reflecting a hint of concern.

"I promise," you almost breathed out, drawing him into another deep kiss.

For a moment, it felt as if the world had faded away, leaving both of you lost in the intimacy, until Calle's voice abruptly shattered the intimate bubble.

"Jeez, Willy, you might as well have proposed on stage with that speech about your girl," he chuckled loudly as he and the other Swedes joined you.

"Oh, please don't give him any ideas," you laughed lightly, with a hint of seriousness, gently pulling back from William's embrace, though his arm remained securely around your waist.

"Don't worry about that," Calle teased further. "He's already got it all planned out."

William chuckled along with his friend's playful banter, knowing that there might indeed be a hint of truth in it. At least in his heart, he was set on making you his completely one day, ready to offer you half of what he owned and all of his heart.

[bomberqueen17]

Liveblogging the Aubreyad: Book 3, HMS Surprise (part 1)

This one, I made notes on my phone while listening to the audiobook, so we shall see how well I distill them.

The series is hitting its stride now as a series, I think. M&C was kind of oneshottish, no real expectation of continuation; Post Captain was the pleased "oh! i get another one? great!" where he then crammed in three books' worth into one, and now HMS S is "ah. this is a series! Settle this plot down, then." pacing-wise.

So we pick up with politicians wrangling over the aftermath of the previous book, which had seemed to end so tidily and on such a happy note. Of course that is not the end-- there's a series now.

So at the end of the previous book, Jack was one of five captains sharing out a prize of some several million pounds, and this would have made him enormously wealthy and guaranteed his marriage. Of course.

In the opening scene of this one we hear that, legally, Spain had not declared war on Britain at the time, so legally, that money is not prize money, so legally, it should just be kept entirely for the government and not distributed to the sailors and officers who actually did the fighting at all, despite that being the well-established custom of the day. Legally, see, they don't have to hand it out, even though the people who designed the mission, and the people who executed the mission, all felt certain that it was a legit prize at the time and acted accordingly.

Stephen's friend Sir Joseph, head of Naval Intelligence, is arguing that of course it should be prize money, for large numbers of very good reasons, not least that he designed the mission with that in mind.

But the new First Lord of the Admiralty is a civilian politician. And he openly mentions Stephen Maturin's name, despite the fact that Sir Joseph had stressed to him that the man is a confidential agent. The First Lord does not catch the hint. And then he asks who the captains are, and remembers that Jack Aubrey's father is an opposition member in Parliament, and immediately Sir Joseph knows that it's over; this is political wrangling now, and this man will make a decision that harms the national interest and the morale of the service and everything else simply because General Aubrey is a politician he does not like.

So there is no prize money. And Jack is not out of debt. And cannot marry Sophie. And, far far far worse, Stephen's name is now exposed to a crowd of non-confidential people of no particular discretion, particularly marked as a secret agent with knowledge of Spanish affairs.

Anyway-- zooming out from that crackerjack first scene, and it is despite how it sounds, it's really well-told political intrigue with a very good layering of easy-to-understand, easy-to-deplore bullshit (and Admiral Harte gets his shitty little nose in there being a massive hypocrite, have no fear) -- the general situation is thus:

Jack, still in the Lively, is in the Med bottling up the French fleet in Toulon, and is engaged to Sophie-- legally, with all kinds of avaricious wrangles from Mrs. Williams, all the terms and conditions he acquiesced to unprotesting, so that Sophie will legally own most of their joint property. Diana has run off to India with Canning; Stephen has been collecting intelligence on them, though mostly it seems for the purpose of hurting himself with it. Stephen is to go to Minorca to do more intelligence stuff despite the fact that his name has been exposed-- the news will not have reached them, Stephen says coolly, declining to cancel the mission.

The Lively has a schoolmaster to oversee the young gentlemen's lessons. (Prior to being a midshipman, a young gentleman will be expected to have served three years of sea time, with the status of First Class Volunteer; many are listed as servants during this time, and many of them do not actually report to the ship during this time-- entering a friend's son on one's books to say he was on a ship long enough that when he joins he can just start as a midshipman with no waste of time is a perfectly accepted kind of little fraud, very common in Jack's social circles. "Young gentleman" as a category seems to include both the volunteers and rated midshipmen. But the Lively has a number of quite young gentlemen actually aboard, including the five-year-old [or, seven. he was five in the previous book but in this book, some weeks later, he is now seven] son of one of the lieutenants, as he came home from a voyage to find his wife dead and no family remaining to care for the child, so the little boy has been onboard ever since. Apparently Babbington may actually have still been a volunteer during some of the events of Master and Commander, but of course this is not consistently represented. I fully support an author doing whatever the hell he wants with timelines, and it is absolutely consistent with the inconsistency of historical records, LOL.)

Anyway-- Jack also actually went to sea as a volunteer very young, and the ship he was on did not have a competent schoolmaster, so he has suffered his entire life from not a very good education. He is sitting in on the young gentlemen's lessons ostensibly because he is concerned for them and wants to ensure they learn what they must, but in practice, he is taking advantage of this opportunity to get a proper thorough grounding in his own education, belatedly, and is thereby unlocking a real true love of mathematics, heretofore only instinctively guessed-at.

The Lively has seen long prior service in the South Pacific, and as such has a number of Asian crew members aboard. (So we do now see the word Chinaman occur, which unlike Indiaman does refer to humans, but is used as a neutral descriptor; I will nevertheless henceforth be avoiding its use, though to be fair I think it only occurs once in the book anyway.) Jack is pleased with the Chinese and Malayan crewmen, largely, as they all are unfailingly polite and have a number of useful skills, and are excellent seamen. But he finds out during an elaborate cutting-out expedition that many of them had formerly been pirates; they slaughter their opponents with absolutely stunning efficiency in a quite practiced manner despite how little combat the Lively itself has seen.

They make for Minorca to pick up Stephen but he does not make the rendezvous. Another Catalan man appears, and says Stephen has been taken, and is being tortured by the French in Port Mahon. Jack knows the city. With the Catalans, he sets up a rescue mission, and frees the prisoners, burns the house (coincidentally, the house where Captain and Molly Harte used to live), and rescues Stephen, who has had all his fingernails pulled out and has been stretched on a rack. (Touchingly, he has hallucinated Jack coming in to rescue him before, and so when it truly happens, is surprisingly calm, mistaking it for another hallucination.) It is a taut little action, badass as fuck. The officers of the Lively are disappointed when Jack won't take them, but this is not an official sanctioned expedition and there will be no glory, no report, no credit, no advancement of career-- it is simply a pragmatic necessity, and he wants only people who know the ground (his own people, Killick and Bonden) plus enough to pad out the numbers to make it work, so he takes those of the Chinese and Malay pirates who choose to volunteer, since this is just the ticket for them. (All of them volunteer.)

(A side note. The Catalan who helps them is named Joan. The audiobook narrator pronounces this Catalan man's name, which in Spanish would be Juan, and is pronounced the same, as the English woman's name Joan. Come on Simon. I believed in you.)

They get Stephen and get out, and we resume the tale in England with Stephen staying at an inn in Portsmouth. The Lively has been handed back over to her real captain, Hammond, at Gibraltar.

Jack is immediately arrested for debt as he tries to get the invalid Stephen into a carriage to go from Portsmouth to London, so off he goes to a sponging-house, hero or no; he goes quietly and resignedly. Sir Joseph Blaine is shocked to hear that heroic Jack is imprisoned; he had arranged for at least a consolation, an ex gratia payment, for the captains who were denied prize rights over the Spanish treasure, but it comes out that the agent has been slow in paying it out, and Jack is helpless without it. Blaine resolves to see it settled, at least, and does-- Jack is released. At least provisionally; there are other debts.

Sir Joseph, in his gratitude for Stephen's rescue, gets Jack another ship-- HMS Surprise, on an errand to carry an emissary to Kampong. It's a good long mission in a lovely ship (in which Jack served as a midshipman long ago), and he hopes it will give Jack's affairs time to settle.

Stephen turns to Bonden, asking him to write a letter for him, since his hands are so injured, and it comes out abruptly that Bonden is illiterate.

'Bonden,' cried Stephen, 'take pen and ink, and write -' 'Write, sir?' cried Bonden. 'Yes. Sit square to your paper, and write: Landsdowne Crescent - Barret Bonden, are you brought by the lee?' 'Why, yes, sir; that I am - fair broached-to. Though I can read pretty quick, if in broad print; I can make out a watch-bill.' 'Never mind. I shall show you the way of it when we are at sea, however: it is no great matter - look at the fools who write all day long - but it is useful, by land. You can ride a horse, sure?' 'Which I have rid a horse, sir; and three or four times, too, when ashore.'

Bonden takes the message on foot, and goes and fetches Sophie and Pullings, Sophie to write the letter from Stephen to Jack, and Pullings to carry it. This allows them to arrange for Sophie to come along to the rendezvous, so that she can see and speak to Jack briefly without her mother's knowledge. Jack had tried to release her from the engagement when his renewed troubles with debt became apparent, but she wished to refuse, but could not speak to him directly about it, so this is their chance.

She sneaks out at night and goes in the coach with Stephen, and there gets a half an hour (well, forty-five minutes; Stephen with the timepiece is soft-hearted) of conversation with Jack before they must part ways, her to go home and sneak back in to her house, Stephen and Jack to go on to the Surprise, waiting in Plymouth.

The Surprise makes her way off around the world, saddled with a moderately ineffectual but amiable first lieutenant named Hervey who has influential friends, and a second lieutenant named Nicolls who is inoffensive if clearly suffering from major depression, but with Tom Pullings as the third lieutenant, competent and familiar. They are becalmed awhile, and Jack teaches Stephen to swim-- badly, but at all, which is an accomplishment.

'Did you see me?' [Stephen] cried as Jack came nearer. 'I swam the entire length: four hundred and twenty strokes without a pause!' 'Well done,' said Jack, swinging himself into the boat with an easy roll. 'Well done indeed.' Each stroke must have propelled Stephen a little less than three inches, for the Surprise was only a twenty-eight gun ship, a sixth-rate of 579 tons - the kind so harshly called a jackass frigate by those not belonging to her. 'Should you like to come aboard? Let me give you a hand.'

Some of the men get scurvy. They run short of supplies and are down to eating rats, which they euphemistically term "millers" out of absurd delicacy. Stephen has pet rats, he is feeding them madder as an experiment.

They find St. Paul's Rocks, where Stephen begs to be put ashore for a moment to study the birds. Jack declines, as it is Sunday and one cannot ask the men to work on Sunday, but the second lieutenant Nicolls volunteers to take him over in the little rowboat for a few hours.

A sudden squall damages the ship and washes poor depressed Nicolls away, along with the little boat; Stephen survives, but is stranded, and the Surprise driven away by the wind. Some undefined time later (two days?), Babbington comes in the barge with Bonden and others rowing double-banked in a great hurry straight into the eye of the wind where the ship herself could not come, certain the Doctor must be dead but hoping against hope to find him. They do, alive, and bring him back to the ship.

Stephen claims that the extreme heat on the shelter-less rock has worked miracles on his torture-twisted tendons.

'I wish you joy of your rescue, Doctor,' said Mr Atkins, the only man aboard who was not pleased to see the barge return: Stephen was attached to the mission in an artfully vague capacity, and the envoy's instructions required him to seek Dr Maturin's advice; Mr Atkins's advice or indeed presence was nowhere mentioned and he was consumed with jealousy. 'May I fetch you a towel or some other garment?'- with a look at Stephen's scrofulous shrunken belly. 'You are very officious, sir; but this is the garment in which I shall appear before God; I find it answers pretty well. It may be termed my birthday suit.' 'That has choked the bugger off,' said Pullings to Babbington, just above his breath, out of a motionless face. 'That is one in his bleeding eye.'

During Stephen's absence, however, he finds that someone has stolen his rats, and he is furious.

Babbington is given an acting promotion to lieutenant to replace Nicolls. His perfect delight in this is marred only by his guilt at having, along with the rest of the larboard midshipmen's berth, eaten Stephen's rats, and he blubberingly confesses. Stephen revenges himself only mildly for this offense.

Jack wished to avoid putting ashore in Brazil, to avoid official delays, but Stephen suggests they just find a village and buy green stuff there, which works. Stephen of course has to go ashore. He promises not to return with any vampires, but in the event comes back with a three-toed sloth, which does not like Jack. Jack wins it over by giving it grog, in time-honored sailor fashion. Stephen discovers this and is indignant, leading to possibly the funniest line in this book:

Stephen looked sharply round, saw the decanter, smelt to the sloth, and cried, 'Jack, you have debauched my sloth.'

The dignitaries aboard are annoying and take up an enormous amount of space, including Jack's entire great cabin, so that he must room with Stephen in a smaller space. The envoy himself, a Mr. Stanhope, is dignified and kind (though a bit remote: "Once he had established that Jack and Hervey were connected with families he knew, he treated them as human beings; all the others as dogs - but as good, quite intelligent dogs in a dog-loving community"), but his head secretary, Mr. Atkins, is an officious, self-important, tale-bearing busybody universally loathed onboard.

Stephen teaches Bonden to read and write. They have their lessons up in the top, for privacy-- Bonden is not keen to be mocked on his scholarly habits, and hides the book when the midshipman Callow comes up to deliver a message. Stephen doesn't notice this.

They get, finally, to the high latitudes, where there is a huge blow, though Stephen is consoled by finally seeing the albatross. The dignitaries complain that the ship leaks and demand better accomodations. Stephen refuses to pass the message and tells the officious secretary to go tell Jack himself. The man declines to do this, as Jack is currently lashed to the wheel in the driving rain working like hell round the clock with all hands to keep the ship from broaching-to and foundering, and indeed shortly after winds up clinging for his life to a broken mast in the front of the ship trying like hell to keep the sea from overwhelming them. Surprise is damaged internally, her timbers strained, and they have to limp the rest of the way. Not a single rat is left in the ship, the stores are dangerously low.

I wasn't going to do this but I'm going to divide this. I swear I'll get better at making these short. I'm kind of doing a... rehabilitative exercise on my ability to write, here. Coming up is part two, Bombay! With critical updates on How Many Indiamen Tom Pullings Has Been In! And you'll never guess who gets the clap!

[mysteriouslytransparentwitch]

Currently Catherine is behaving selfishly (for me it's a problem of misplaced ego) which has brought stress and anxiety and revived trauma in William

Misplaced ego from what? (Which are your guessings!? And what has she denied that has caused stress!?

I mean, I’ve been reading all your readings and I remember that you mentioned that she didn’t like how W was managing many things in the marriage and as working royals, so maybe what she is doing is to make him wake up or else?

Anyways, I also remember that you mentioned that she was becoming more a believer of faith and more religious. Some days ago a royal writer just said that to the press, that he was told that she has become more religious (even saying that it’s now a contrast of how she is embracing it and how W doesn’t think on it)

ah yes it was obvious to me, the problem is that she wants to do her royal work (not as much as the other royal members) but also her personal activity (photography, gardening) is not very compatible. Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip were fans of fishing, gardening and watercolors ... but duty above all.

That's the deal, you live in a privileged way and on the side you work for the nation. It's just that part that she forgot. It's public money

[blogthebooklover]

Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes Possible Theories

Okay, I made a list of possible theories regarding KotPotA. Again, these are just theories until the movie comes out (in like 5 weeks!!!! YAY!!!!!)

Underground Human Community

I'm calling it now, I think there's going to be an underground community of humans who retained their ability to speak. So far, we haven't seen any articles about this, beside the fairly recent Slash Films article about the Forbidden Zone and I am 100% certain this will be the underground human community (or I could be wrong). And I think this will be one of (maybe) a few Easter eggs to Beneath the Planet of the Apes.

SPOILER ALERT

The Human Mutants in BtPotA worship an atomic bomb, and it's one of the reasons why they're disfigured and have psychic abilities. I don't think Kingdom will go that far. I think they'll have humans that retained their intellect and speaking abilities.

2. Noah and the Ark Biblical Story

Again, I'm calling it now (and I think Wes Ball might have mentioned it in an article). Since the main character is named Noa, and Proximus Caesar's domain seems to be an abandoned naval base or some kind of abandoned shipyard with rusted ships. I think this movie will take inspiration from the biblical story of Noah and the Ark; since the "Caesar" trilogy was slightly inspired by the Moses/Exodus story, and the laboratory from Rise was called Gen-Sys (get it? Genesis???) And maybe just a little bit of the David and Goliath story between Noa and Proximus Caesar 🤔.

3. William H. Macy’s character is either Mae’s father, or a leader of the underground human community

I know William H. Macy will be in the movie, and so far he and the filmmakers haven’t revealed what his role will be. I think he’s either going to be Mae’s father, or a leader of the underground human community, or maybe even both. And I think there's the slightest possibility that he might be a human secondary antagonist, since Proximus Caesar is the primary ape antagonist.

4. Raka Knows Sign Language

Since Raka the orangutan seems to be some sort of religious leader/elder, I think he also knows sign language. And I think Raka or maybe Noa will teach Mae sign language.

5. Mae Is Going to Talk or Learn Sign Language (ASL)

So far, it looks like Mae is going to be a silent character. I do think she going to talk at some point during the movie, whether in the second act or later in the third act. I think she will also learn sign language to communicate.

6. Noa Is A Descendant of Caesar

Okay, I know this one is very obvious, and I'm jumping on the bandwagon. I do think Noa is a descendant of Caesar, mainly because he looks a lot like a younger Caesar and Blue Eyes. And even if he's not, that's okay too.

7. Andy Serkis Might Come Back

I'm taking a page out of the YouTube channel, Ape Nation's book here. I do think Andy Serkis might come back as a different character, or maybe (and this is probably highly unlikely) as Caesar in a possible vision/flashback scene for Noa during a very low point or maybe when Noa discovers the truth about the apes’ history.

8. Mae's Name

The recent IMAX trailer showed Noa shouting out for Raka and Nova. I recently found out that "Nova" is the name that the apes call the feral humans. I couldn't find the article confirming this, but Freya Allan said that Noa also calls her character "Echo" at some point during the movie. Personally, I like the name "Mae" for the character (and there's maybe the possibility that it is her real name, but I digress).

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

A few days ago, you wrote about Harry's (Meghan's) red flags that would make them a security threat. Which got me thinking ... In the past 3 weeks the level of security risk for William and Catherine (and the children, by extension) must have gone up considerably.

When this forat started off as a joke, it was mostly about handling Catherine's privacy and her medical history. And someone somewhere must have realized that the London Clinic would be an easy source of security breach. I'm assuming that the hospital has top notch NDAs and everyone is expected to be absolutely discreet since many many high profile patients get admitted there. Maybe even some, whose medical diagnosis and history, if disclosed, would rightly tilt the world on it's axis.

So maybe that was this angle was not top priority, because the agencies assumed they would be discreet. Everyone also assumed that actual news agencies and media outlet wouldn't print any info obtained illegally from hospital sources, even if they had the capacity to pay the source for the info.

Nobody thought some two-bit Instagram influencers would gleefully pounce on the chance like vultures.

Another angle, and this is very very serious IMO, is that once the conspiracies started all blame was falling on William. He was the villian who had allegedly done dispicable things to C to put her in the hospital and was then hiding things. The number of threats he received from randoms of social media must have been mind boggling. He is the heir, he has to be physically protected and kept safe at all times. And doing that effectively, without addressing the rumours head on would have been very difficult. Especially if they still wanted to maintain Catherine's privacy and dignity while doing so.

(And I said dignity because how you handle your own medical diagnosis is absolutely a matter of your dignity and boundaries and space)

Not to mention, nosy people would have started stalking the kids at the schools and playtimes. If at all that happened it would never be disclosed.

I think the utmost priority for people someone like William and Catherine their safety, merely based on their constitutional significance. And handling a looming PR crisis was not at the top of the palace list. Blaming the "palace" for not handling the PR crisis better is just wrong IMO.

The palace is not some big bad shadowey shady entity. The palace is essentially the principals, their immediate staff who work for the pricipals, and that includes different agencies that work towards ensuring their safety and security at all times.

If the palace was keeping their cards close to the chest, then that means it was Catherine and William who were keeping their cards close to the chest. Mainly because as normal humans their priority was to understand and absorb what was happening, what could happen and how to plan their lives in the immediate aftermath of this devastating news.

Their priority couldn't and wouldn't be to make sure they look nice and are seen doing nice, cute things together just so some lame Karen sitting in a dark, damp, mouldy room likes them. Karens will Karen on. So catering to Karen's sensibilities will never ever be part of the palace PR and crisis management strategy.

What I don't get is why were the British press baying for William and Catherine blood. From what's come out in the last 2 days, it seems that at least some journalists had an idea that this was a very serious matter. That it was absolutely not about W being an violent abuser or a cheater or Catherine wanting to look pretty, nor was it about KP staff giving up on W+C because they are secretive exasperating, inept bosses.

It was simply about a family trying to come to terms with a devastating news that was drastically going to affect the lives of all 5 of them for a long long time. It's something that you never plan for, no matter who you are.

Knowing that, why were they so cruel, so callus. Where was their sense of nationality or even simple human decency?

They stood by Catherine when she was wrong called a racist. So why did they not stand by her when she is going through the worst time of her life emotionally and physically?

They made a mountain out of a molehill, to the point that from a security POV the powers that be concluded that the best way to mitigate the security risk would be breach her emotional safety, to ensure her and his, physical safety. I truly think this was the #1 reason on the list of reasons why they disclosed it the way they did.

Old ask from March 24th.

Simple. It all boils down to whom the press declared their enemy.

When they were defending Kate over the racism claims, they were defending her from Meghan, UK's Public Enemy #1.

When the Waleses were dealing with Kate's health crisis, the press didn't do anything, and even joined in on the attacks, because Kensington Palace was the enemy since KP refused to give updates on or access to Kate, which the press didn't like. So they stood by and piled on.

[eretzyisrael]

by Nicole Lampert

There have been so many incidents that have seemed upside down since October 7 that sometimes it is all too much to bear. The celebrations in the street on October 8, the way the BBC keeps parroting Hamas lies, the fact that the murder of Israelis led to record antisemitism in the UK, the Jew hate marching down our streets every weekend while the police watch on. I could go on.

But few examples have been more stark, in my eyes, than what is happening this week.

Yesterday I watched our Prime Minister tell a Labour Friends of Israel lunch that his government stands behind the ‘independence’ of the ICC to issue warrants for Benjamin Netanyahu and Yoav Gallant. That means – however much they are presently pussyfooting around the issue - our government will attempt to arrest the Israeli politicians should they step foot on UK soil.

Meanwhile, just a day later, we are literally rolling out the red carpet for the leaders of Qatar, the nation which has for years, housed and funded Hamas.

So eager are our leaders to show a huge welcome to the Qataris that the poor Princess of Wales disturbed her cancer recovery to be dragged out to Horse Guard Parade, joining King Charles, Prince William and the Qatari Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani and the first of his three wives.

A lunch, golden carriages and a fancy pants Buckingham Palace state banquet await. But I’m thinking about the British hostage Emily Damari. Who knows what her last meal was? What rags she is dressed in? Has anyone even mentioned Emily to the Sheikh as they gladhand and grin in photographs with him?

Let me repeat: Qatar is the country which has both housed and supported Hamas as well as many other Muslim Brotherhood terror networks. They are a danger to the world.

There is an irony too that of the many things Israel is accused of doing, Qatar gets away with barely a peep from the sanctimonious crew.

Just a few years ago, it bought a World Cup, used slave labour to create the arenas and we stood by and let it happen. Controversial Qatari minister Nasser Al-Khelaifi – not only runs top French team Paris Saint Germain but is also chairman of the European Club Association, making him one of the most influential people in European football. Visit Qatar is an official sponsor of the UEFA Euros 2024 and 2028.