#if you put a gun to my head and 6 photographs of white women in front of me and demanded i tell you which one was aunt erin

[anthropwashere]

She pestered an aunt I don't think I've seen in over 20 years to text me to confirm I received these Crucial Amazon Pajamas, amazing

Was briefly baffled by a package I didn't order appearing today and had my suspicions, but blocked voicemails from Mom confirm she bought me pajamas? I'd have preferred if she used that money to pay back whoever she owes most recently. But. Well. She sent 'em.

Honestly Amazon pajamas are a huge step up from the last gift she sent me like 5 years ago that had me genuinely freaked out wondering who the fuck was anonymously sending me soft pornography

[yet-another-fan-girl9]

Different Worlds (6)

Summary: You’re the youngest Winchester, a girl who needs to show her big brothers that she doesn’t need help. Then one day, on a totally normal vampire hunt that you had all under control, three meddling Avengers come barging in.

Warnings: language, violence, canon divergence, slow burn, me making stuff up

Word Count: 2342

A/N: I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much I enjoyed writing it! Please comment your thoughts and if you want to be added to the taglist! 💗💜💙

~*~

Chapter 6: In Which Dean Is an Annoying Cockblock on Earth and in Hell by Fall Out Boy

“You’re back soon.” The words spilled from Jack’s mouth when he saw Bucky.

“Yeah, I just…” Bucky shifted his feet awkwardly. Why did he come here again? He certainly was curious at everything that was going on, but there was something, someone, else.

“Come in.” The young man stepped aside and Bucky stepped into the bunker. “Did you want to see (Y/N)?”

“That would be great.” The ex-assassin did feel more comfortable around (Y/N) rather than her brothers.

They passed the library where the team had learned about the supernatural. Today, the tables were covered in strange items, bowls, and open books. Nobody was doing anything with them at the moment, though.

Jack led Bucky deeper into the bunker which seemed empty at the moment. Bucky studied the man in front of him. He didn’t look like a great fighter, but after everything that was revealed to him, Jack could totally kick his ass. They walked down a hallway before coming to a stop in front of one of the doors.

“Everyone’s getting ready,” Jack explained. Ready for what, Bucky didn’t know and Jack didn’t specify. “This is (Y/N)’s room. You can wait in here.”

He opened the door for Bucky before heading back in the direction they came from. The first thing he noticed was that (Y/N) wasn’t there. Then he saw the other door and heard the sound of running water. She was probably showering.

(Y/N)’s room was clean enough; Bucky knew that it was sometimes hard to gather enough energy to clean up. Her blankets were pulled over her bed, but it was obvious that the action was done haphazardly. Her drawers weren’t closed all the way; a sign of either laziness or being rushed. A few photographs were displayed on the nearby desk that was cluttered with crumpled balls of paper, hair ties, and a couple of knives.

Bucky smirked at the sight of the knives before turning his attention to the photos. The first one showed a group photo. He recognized (Y/N), her brothers, and Cas, but not the two other women or the man in the wheelchair. Everyone, especially (Y/N), looked much younger.

The second picture was another group picture. This time, Jack was in it so it had been taken in the past… how old was Jack? Seven years? That fact still threw Bucky off. He was used to older people looking younger, like Steve and himself, rather than the opposite.

The last photo was much older than the first one. A woman wearing a  sundress and a large sun hat was smiling widely at the camera while holding the hand of a toddler. Bucky came to the quick conclusion that it was (Y/N) and her mother. 

The sound of the en suite’s door opening caused him to whirl around to face (Y/N). Why didn’t he hear the water turn off? The woman looked up and gasped at the sight of the man in her room.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky,” she scolded and placed a hand over her chest. 

That’s when he noticed that she didn’t have a shirt on. She had on jeans and a sports bra, and he saw a tattoo above her left collar bone. Bucky still wasn’t used to seeing women in just bras. Walking down the streets of New York, there were always advertisements for women’s lingerie. It made him uncomfortable, but for some reason, he didn’t feel the same discomfort around her.

As Bucky’s thoughts ran wild, (Y/N) continued swearing.

“You scared the goddamned fucking shit out of me. Don’t do that again or I’ll use you as a sacrifice,” the woman finished her rant. Then a smile broke out on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“Just—I… uh,” the usually suave supersoldier stuttered. He didn’t know what made his brain stop working. Maybe it was because of (Y/N)’s lack of shirt? Or maybe it was just being in her presence that halted all train of thought.

“What’s wrong?” She followed his gaze and looked down before laughing. “Oh, usually I get dressed in the bathroom in case something like this happens but I forgot a shirt this time. Some people living here don’t understand personal space.” Bucky’s face grew red and (Y/N) narrowed her eyes. “Was it Jack or Cas who let you in because I know my brothers wouldn’t even let you close to my room.”

“Jack,” Bucky laughed and felt himself relax. “I didn’t mean to startle you, by the way.” A moment of silence. “Is that your mother?” He gestured towards the photo.

(Y/N) moved closer until they were standing just over a foot away. She glanced at the photo and nodded in confirmation.

“She’s really pretty,” Bucky continued. “You look like her.”

(Y/N) looked at him with a large grin on her face. “Did you just call me pretty, Sarge?” 

He felt his breath hitch as she inched closer to him. Bucky was sure that she could see all the details on his face because he could see every detail of her’s. He could see a small scar near her hairline and another one above her right eyebrow. He could see into her breathtaking eyes. He followed the slope of her nose which led his eyes to her soft lips. They were beckoning to him, parted slightly as (Y/N) studied his face. When had they gotten so close? If he just bent down slightly… 

“(Y/N)!” Dean’s incessant banging on her bedroom door forced them apart. “What’s takin’ so long? Get your ass moving!” Then they heard his footsteps recede.

“I have to go,” (Y/N) sighed.

She slipped on a shirt, grabbed her knives and leather jacket, and walked out of her room. Bucky followed her out and could tell she felt the same way he did at the moment: disappointed. Why did her brother have to knock then?

They emerged into the library. Everyone looked up at their arrival and everyone but Jack did a double-take when they saw Bucky. Sam and Dean’s mouths became straight lines while Rowena, who was bent over a book, smirked.

“I guess you’re the reason she was taking so long,” Cas said.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asked, mostly to (Y/N).

“We’re going to Hell,” Jack smiled.

“Crowley took the Magicae Libro while we all drank beers the other day,” (Y/N) explained. “So we’re going to Hell to take it back from that son of a bitch.”

“Don’t call me a bitch, darling,” Rowena cooed as she added something to a bowl. “Is everyone ready?”

(Y/N) gasped and turned to face Bucky with her eyes wide. “You’re not busy, right? ‘Course you aren’t, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.” She paused for a breath. “Do you wanna come to Hell with us?”

“Are you sure that’s wise, (Y/N)?” Sam asked.

“I’ll come,” Bucky said. “I can handle myself, I’m a supersoldier.” (Y/N) smiled at him and he was glad he said yes.

“I’m only saying okay because we don’t have time to argue,” growled Dean.

Rowena motioned for Sam who walked over to the bowl, cut his hand, and let his blood mix with the other ingredients. He stepped back next to Cas. The man in the trenchcoat nodded to Sam. Cas held his hand, that began to glow, above the taller man’s wounded hand and suddenly Sam’s hand was healed. Bucky watched the interaction with awe, but everyone else seemed used to it.

“Everyone who’s going, put your hand on the bowl,” Rowena ordered. They obliged and Cas moved out of the way.

“Remember, Cas,” said Dean. “Don’t let the fire die, or we’ll be stuck in Hell.”

“I know, Dean.” The angel rolled his eyes.

“Initium ad inferna permittatur,” Rowena read from her book. She picked up a nearby candle and lit the bowl’s content on fire.

The items in the bowl sparked and the flame turned purple. Some wind started to blow through the room causing hair to get into eyes and mouths. The library’s lights flickered as a bright white light filled the room and the purple flame jumped higher. Then everything reached its max and the flame almost reached the ceiling.

Bucky closed his eyes against the light and when he opened them again they were in Hell.

~*~

Once everyone got their bearings, you took out your weapons. You and Sam had angel blades and Dean had his demon-killing knife. Jack had his powers and Rowena had her magic.

“Here.” You nudged Bucky and held out a second angel blade. “Regular guns and knives don’t do shit to fuckers like demons.” He took it in his metal arm and examined it. “It’s called an angel blade. ‘Cause they belong to the angels. We kinda took ‘em, we did take them, but they can kill lots of things.”

Bucky smiled at you. “Thanks.”

“So where do you suppose we are?” Dean looked around.

“Somewhere in the castle,” Sam answered. “Hopefully near the throne room.”

“Looks like Fergus redecorated again,” Rowena sighed.

“Rowena is Crowley’s mom and his name was Fergus,” you whispered to Bucky when you saw his confused expression. “Don’t worry, it gave me a bit of a headache too.”

You walked quietly and cautiously down the castle’s hallways in pairs. Your brothers at the head of the line while you and Bucky lingered in the back. There were no encounters yet. Only seemingly endless doors that you knew held souls that were in line for torture. You remembered your time behind one of those doors. In total, you had spent fifteen earth days in Hell which was more like five years downstairs.

“How are you doing?” you whispered to Bucky. You were getting a bit bored sneaking around. And, of course, being in Hell wasn’t a pleasant experience.

“Fine,” he responded.

Wow, you loved his voice. Even in the literal Hell, Bucky and his voice managed to soothe you. Your mind flashed back to the moment in your bedroom. Only Chuck knew how bad you had wanted to punch your older brother for being a cockblock. Honestly, you still wanted to punch him, but now was definitely not the time.

“There’s just a general feeling of unease and despair,” he continued.

You nodded in agreement. “I never like coming here.”

“So you have been to Hell before?”

“Yep,” you said a bit louder than you intended and Rowena looked back at you with a glare. You lowered your voice and continued, “Been here both as a guest and a soul.”

“When you died,” the blue-eyed man said slowly. “You came to Hell and you were tortured?” You nodded. “I-if you don’t mind me asking, how?”

“Well, there were lots of different ways.” You trained your eyes on the ground before you. “The usual strung up on racks and cut open torture. There was some psychological torture, you know. Making you think that you’re saved, only to be brought to some demon who likes to flay people.”

You felt Bucky’s gaze and looked up to meet it. You weren’t met with pity, but rather a look of understanding. You’ve done your research on Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and you know that he’s been through something like Hell too.

“Apparently, according to Cas, Crowley turned Hell into a giant line that souls had to wait in,” you said trying to lighten the mood.

“Can I ask you another question?”

“You just did,” you smirked at him but told him to ask away.

“You have a tattoo,” he said. “I was just wondering what it was.”

“Not really a question,” you joke. Bucky rolled his eyes, but you couldn’t help yourself. “But it’s an anti-possession tattoo.” You stop in your tracks and pull your shirt collar down to show him. “Kinda puts a damper on things when you have to kill a demon possessing your friend. All hunters get them. If you’re gonna be hangin’ ‘round us, you’re gonna need one too.”

“Can I?” He reached out his right hand and motioned towards the tattoo.

When you gave your nod of approval, he ran his hand over the inked skin, tracing it gently, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You stepped closer and his hand stilled.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“What for?” You bring your empty hand up to his and held it to your chest.

“That you had to be tortured. That you actually went through Hell.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that. Not at all.” You stepped closer. Close enough to feel his body heat. “I’m sorry as well. You basically went through Hell too.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” Bucky repeated.

His lips were so close. If you just moved forward…

The sound of someone loudly and obnoxiously clearing their throat forced you apart once more. You closed your eyes and tried to convince yourself that you shouldn’t resort to murder just because you couldn’t kiss someone. Dean continued to clear his throat until Bucky was at least three feet away from you.

While you were gearing up to kiss Bucky, the four other members of the group had made it to the end of the hallway. You made your way to the group, glaring at your oldest brother the entire way.

“About time,” he snarked and you rolled your eyes.

“I think we’re getting close,” Sam said quickly to change the subject. “Can you guys hear that?” He gestured to the ornate door that had escaped your notice.

You all became silent and the sound of music reached your ears. Everyone glanced around at each other in confusion.

“Is-is that,” you listen for a second longer, “Fall Out Boy?”

It was indeed Fall Out Boy. Dean pushed open the door and you all readied your weapons and defenses. You were met with a long table covered in food. Crowley stood at the head of the table with his arms open wide.

“Welcome to Hell.”

~*~

~*~

~*~

~*~

~*~

Tag List (strike though means tag didn’t work):

@grav3dollie-666 @broco8​

[turning-dreams-into-chaos]

Lost Without Her: Against the World

*Not My Gif*

Summary: It’s been 5 years since half the world was snapped away, 6 months since her mom, Natasha sacrificed herself and the world came back, but how does she handle it after her world flips upside down?

Post Date: 12-10-19

Paring: Peter Parker x Romanoff!Reader

Word Count: 3K

~Lost Without Her Master~

~Master~

Previously...

“We’ll see you around Y/N.” Peter said as you averted your gaze, knowing if you had your way, they wouldn’t see you again. Ever.

“Bye Pete. Bye Clint.” They left without another word and you were left in silence, staring at the front door to your shop as you realize how much you’ve thrown away. You pushed away the team, you moved across the world because you couldn’t handle the world without your mom, you began killing people, and you pushed Peter and Clint away when all they wanted to do was save you.

You broke yourself.

You pulled yourself away from looking at the door, your eyes immediately going straight to your info wall. You needed something, a win, just something to take your mind off Peter and Clint. It took you all of 5 minutes to find the perfect target and within the next couple hours leading up to nightfall, you were prepared, grabbing your gun and knife and heading out of the store to where your next target lived.

His house looked normal, 2 stories, white picket fence, 2 cars parked out front. You parked down the street to make sure no one saw and snuck around the side of the house. Peering in through the window, a man stood in the kitchen drinking a glass of water as you unlocked the window, sliding it open with minimal effort and entering the house. You remained silent, staying in the barely lit living room as he finished up, walking right into the room you were in. He wasn’t looking until he was a few feet in front of you, nearly jumping out of his skin.

“Who the hell are you?” he yelled out as he looked around for something to defend himself. You pulled out your knife, the metal catching the light turned on in the corner as his eyes widened. He started stammering as you took a step towards him. “Please! Have Mercy!”

“Mercy?” You barked out, making him taken back by your voice but not at all less scared. Much different than most you’ve killed. You followed another step, the man taking equal numbers back until he tripped, falling to his knees. “What about the women you sold, the kids you kidnapped, the people YOU killed? Where’s their mercy?”

You brought the knife up to his neck, coming around behind him as you pulled his head back. “W-What? I d-didn’t, I-I ..Please.” He pleaded as you rolled your eyes.

“Goodbye.”

You were about to do it, drag your knife along his throat before light thumping came down the stairs. “Daddy?”

“Sweetheart! Don’t come down!” You dropped the knife, moving away from the man as you looked towards the noise, seeing a young girl rub her eyes as she looked between you and the man she had called her dad. Your lip trembled as she come closer and you hid your knife behind your back.

“Daddy? Who’s that?” She asked as you looked down to the floor, eying her every once in a while.

“Ana, sweetie. Go back upstairs.” He pled as the girl smiled, nodding her head and following directions. You pointed the weapon towards him, narrowing your eyes.

“You have a daughter?”

“Yes. She’s 6. And a son, John. H-He’s only 2.” He stuttered.

Your jaw dropped. “You have... kids?” Your knife fell to your side, watching the man cower in front of you. His eyes were wide as he plead for you to let him go. You took a step back from him, looking around the newly lit room as your heart plummeted in your chest. It looked like a normal house, toys strewn across the floor, scribbled drawings laying on the dining room table and pictures placed on the walls in front of you of a family, husband and wife along with their 2 children. Turning back to the man, he seemed to be able to breathe more, now drawing in breaths slowly as he kept his eyes on you. “Who are you?” You asked him as he just stared at you. You tightened the grip on your knife, bringing it up to his neck and pressing it slightly. “I said, who-“

“My name is Rick Harold, I-I’m a lawyer a-and I don’t want to die!” He screamed as he clasped his eyes closed, tears falling from his redden eyes as you quickly removed your knife, finding your escape as a woman’s footsteps pounded down the stairs.

“Rick?” She yelled down as the man opened his eyes, about to tell his wife not to come down before seeing you were gone. You watched from outside the window as she jumped into her awaiting husbands’ arms and he held her, slightly trembling as their daughter, Ana, joined them, holding John in her tiny arms. Rick knelt, handing John off to his wife as he picked up his daughter, kissing her head and cradling him in his arms.

You couldn’t watch any more. This wasn’t the man you thought he was when you came into his house to kill him. He wasn’t part of any gang, he had a family, a life, and you almost took him from them. You hopped on your bike, riding back to the store in the darkness of the night. You expected the Harold’s to call the police or something, but you didn’t hear anything, and the guilt just pooled in your gut. You pulled over on the side of the road, driving became hard with your head pounding and trying to figure out what was happening.

It was wrong. The info you had was wrong. He wasn’t the guy you were after and all your information was wrong. You took off your jacket, throwing it on the ground as you collapsed on your bike. Trying to keep yourself from crying. You only allowed yourself a few minutes to get through the emotions before you picked up your jacket and drove the rest of the way to your place.

You stared down Rick’s picture on the wall, his name right beside it but the crimes next to them were not his and within a second you were tearing it off the wall, the paper shredding into pieces before you could even stop yourself.

Then you did it again. And again. And again, until the wall was bare, and scraps of paper lined your feet. You felt empty, your fears and worries about whether the others were innocent long defeated as their pictures now held residence on your floor. The darkness was comforting to you as you turned to the store and fell onto the couch, closing your eyes to sleep away this day.

But when you landed onto the dilapidated couch, something flew out from under your body and got trapped by your arm against the cushion. Groaning a little, you pushed yourself up to sit on the couch, grabbing the paper before it fell on the floor. It was hard to see in the dark, but you knew it was a photograph and it wasn’t one of your scraped ones.

It was of your mom and you a couple years before the snap at a restaurant, her arms wrapped around your neck and kissing your head much like Rick had done to Ana earlier. It was almost as if your tears were on autopilot as they fell onto the picture landing on your smiling cheeks and your moms head before sliding to the ground.

You couldn’t breathe as you tried to grasp a breath over and over again, letting the picture fly to the floor, your knees soon following after as you held yourself, pulling your head into your knees as you screamed.

---

“Bye Pete. Bye Clint.”

Peters head spun as he turned around and left the building, left you, with Clint following behind soon after.

“You’re just going to leave her? Really Parker?” Clint called after the boy who didn’t even look back to him.

“Of course not.” Peter shrugs before swinging up into the sky, landing on a building down the block as Clint watches. He sighed, scouting around him before making his way to the building. Peter’s eyes were locked on your store as Clint walked up behind him. Clint stared at Peter, slightly out of breath from all the stairs as he took a seat on the edge of roof next to Peter. Peter gave the man a quick grin before turning back to you.

“So, what’s the plan?” Clint asked after a while of sitting in silence. Peter didn’t answer as he watched you leave, heading down the street before your lights disappeared. Peter turned to Clint, pulling out his wallet before Clint could stop him. “Hey!” Clint grabbed the wallet out of Peter’s hands and shook his head.

Peter just sighed, sticking his hand out. “Just trust me.” He told Clint who, some what reluctantly, handed his wallet to Peter. Peter thumbed through the worn-down leather before coming across what he wanted. He took out the picture of you and Nat that Clint kept in there throughout the years. Peter’s eyes softened as he looked at you and your mom. “She just needs a jump start.” Peter whispered as he stood up, getting ready to swing off the roof.

“Are you sure this a good idea?” Clint asked him as Peter took a second to consider his actions but ultimately, he shrugged.

“What could go wrong?” He said before swinging off the rooftop and putting the photo on the couch where you could see it.

---

“That could go wrong.” Clint pointed out as they both watched you hold yourself, your face turning red as your eyes welded shut. Peter was on his feet in an instant, getting to your side as fast as he could. He pulled your unresponsive body against his chest, cradling your head in the crook of his neck. He smoothed the hair in your face, shushing in your ear as you rocked with him. Peter knew at that moment he messed up in giving you the picture because seeing you like this was not how he wanted this to turn out. Your cries died down to mere whimpers now, but you hadn’t opened your eyes, pressing yourself more into Peter’s warmth.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Y/N.” He whispered into your ear repeatedly as Clint finally entered the building, seeing the young girl he knew break down in her best friend’s arms. He didn’t know what to do but the moment he saw Peter press a soft kiss to your forehead, he knew you were in good hands. The picture discarded on the floor caught his attention as he slowly made his way over to it, picking it up and running the pad of his thumb across the front. You let out a rather loud sob as Clint turned in time to see Peter cup your face, wiping the tears from your cheek with his fingers before picking you up.

“Where are you going?” Clint asked as Peter adjusted his hold on you, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back as he tucked your head into his chest. Peter glanced down at you before looking out the window.

“To get some air.” He whispered back before making his way up to the roof. He sat you both away from the edge, in case your reaction to being outside wasn’t what he expected but to his luck, you didn’t react much more than taking a deep breath, sighing against the sharp air around you. You finally let your eyes open, red and puffy from everything, but Peter saw the Y/E/C in them. You pushed yourself to the ledge, throwing your legs over as you stared out into the city.

Peter swallowed back his fear, “I’m sorry.” He tried to muster out of his mouth but instead of an apology, all that came out was almost a squeak as Peter bit back his own sob. “I’m sorry.” He repeated, only this time the words managed to come out. You didn’t move as he watched you, your eyes unwavering from its spot in the distance. Sighing, Peter crawled over to join you, letting his legs dangle as he kicked against the building.

“I never knew my dad.” You finally spoke, shocking Peter by the topic as he gave you his attention, eyes wet and wide as they focused on you. “It’s been me and my mom for as long as I could remember. Not having her with me is like… not having one of my arms. She’s a part of me.” You looked at Peter, a few tears released from your eyes that Peter instinctively brought his hand up to wipe away. “She was a big part of me.”

Peter nodded his head. “I know how you feel. With my parents, Uncle Ben, then Mr. Stark. It feels like it’s you against the world, just trying to figure out why these things happen, but you can’t. They just happen.” You didn’t realize until Peter had stopped talking that you reached over to grab his hand to comfort him, but when you did realize, you didn’t make any move to let go. In fact, you scooted closer to Peter and leant your head onto his shoulder, the rising of his shoulders with each breath creating a steady rhythm as you let your eyes close.

“I can’t go back Peter. The world doesn’t need my saving.” You whispered as Peter looked down at you resting on his shoulder. Your hair had fallen into your face, sticking to wet tears as you pulled them away. “It’s got you guys.”

“No.” Peter almost yelled as he moved his position to look at you, making you almost fall over before catching yourself. “I need you Y/N. I need you.” His voice crack as he pointed to himself, fingers digging into his chest as if it was the only thing keeping his heart in place. “I... I can’t lose you again Y/N. I really can’t.” His voice cracked as he stared into your eyes, meeting his dark brown ones.

Your next decision wasn’t a planned one. It was something decided strictly on this moment.

Here and now.

You slowly leaned into Peter, the whispers of the air being the only sound in your ears as Peter leaned in as well. He felt like a ghost on your lips for the longest time possible as your lips brushed against each other before you finally closed the distance. Your brain went fuzzy before Peter deepened the kiss, igniting the fire in your brain as you pulled away to catch your breath. Peter was panting as he looked down at you, your eyes darkening with desire as he moved from the edge of building, pulling you with him as you landed in his lap, your legs landing on either side of his and your mouth hitting his quicker than you could say Spider-Man. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against his body as his tongue darted against your bottom lip, his hand coming up to your chin and deepening the kiss in one swift move. You grabbed his chest, the tension between you and him increasing as you tugged his chest up and over his head, yours soon coming after. Peter paused, taking a second to admire your body clad in jeans and bra before you started to unbutton your pants, almost pulling them down before you closed your eyes and stopped.

“I-I can’t.” you admitted, your fragile voice making Peter aware of the situation you both were in. You looked down at him, biting your bottom lip to mask the tingle Peter left as you steady your heavily uneven breathing. Peter didn’t say anything as he nodded his head, his cheeks slightly blushed as you moved off him, sitting down next to him. Everything happened too fast. It was all too fast. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Peter assured you. He didn’t know what happen. He’d never done something like that before, getting as far as that with anyone. And never did he think that it would be you. He reached over and grabbed your hand, staying silent as you squeezed it. “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“The men. Who were they?” you turned to him, furrowing your brows a little as Peter clarified. “The ones you… killed.”

You took a deep breath, nodding your head and licking your now chapped lips. “They weren’t good people. They kidnapped children from families, abducted women for sex trafficking, and killed anyone who got in their way. I caught wind of it a few months ago and next thing I know. I’m here.” Peter couldn’t help but smile and laugh a little at this which just made you stare at him in wonder. “Why is that funny?”

“It’s not. It’s just… you said the world didn’t need your saving, and yet here you are, still saving it.” You frowned, looking at your connecting fingers.

“I almost messed up tonight.” You told him. “I went after a man, I didn’t do much research on, mixed up a bunch of shit, and almost killed someone in the same position of the ones I tried to protect. If his daughter hadn’t came down the stairs, I would’ve ruined a family.”

“But you didn’t.” He pulled your chin to make you look at him, seeing the water pool at the bottom of your eyes. “You didn’t.”

“But I could have. I might’ve to someone else. Who knows what I’ve done.” You put your head back on his shoulder, crossing your legs and letting your and Peters hand lay in your lap as his head rested on yours until daylight.

You thought about everything last night when you sat with Peter, his fingers constantly rubbing your skin as the sun passed across the horizon. “Peter.” You whispered as Peter hummed, coming awake after dozing off. “Peter.” You nudged him, watching as he spurred awake before looking at you, his mouth turning up into a smile when he looked at you.

“Hey.” He yawned and let go of your hand to stretch his arms out.

“Peter.” You repeated once again as he looked towards you, his eyes riddled with sleep as you smiled. “I want to go home.”

Thoughts?

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[newstfionline]

In Rough Rio de Janeiro Neighborhood, Ballet as ‘Anesthetic’ and Escape

By Ernesto Londoño, NY Times, July 17, 2018

RIO DE JANEIRO--The young ballet students walked into the room with red paint--simulated blood stains--smeared all over their leotards.

It was a macabre costume for girls as young as 7 and 8, performing before the mayor and governor.

To understand why their beloved ballet teacher, Daiana Ferreira de Oliveira, put them in those outfits, it helps to go back to a formative day of her own childhood.

Ms. Oliveira was 6 or 7 when her mother first brought her and her two sisters from their home in an impoverished neighborhood in northern Rio de Janeiro to the majestic Municipal Theater downtown for a production of “Swan Lake.”

The family stood out: a black single mother who made a living cleaning homes, guiding her gobsmacked daughters through crowds of mostly white theatergoers and across the gilded entrance of one of the city’s architectural gems for their first ballet.

Her mother, Rosali Ferreira dos Santos, had developed a fascination with art after tagging along with her bosses to art galleries and the theater. She came to see such outings--to a concert, an opera or a play--as essential for her daughters, whenever she could find free or discounted tickets.

“My mother said we needed to have culture,” Ms. Oliveira, 29, said. “For her it wasn’t a matter of being rich or poor.”

Ms. Oliveira said she could have lived without the opera, recalling being horrified at “all those people screaming at each other.”

But dance dazzled her.

“An anesthetic,” she called it. “For people like us, there were no shrinks.”

Since moving to Rio de Janeiro, I’ve been fascinated--and often startled--by the split-screen reality of this megacity.

I grew up in Colombia, where, as in much of South America, stark inequality is so institutionalized it’s easy to become inured to it. But the way splendor and poverty coexist here in Rio makes for a head-snapping contrast.

A dayslong gun battle that locks down tens of thousands at home doesn’t get in the way of an enormous musical festival a few miles away. From the thronged beaches of Ipanema and Copacabana, it is easy to forget that a severe surge in violence in the city prompted the governor in February to plead for, and get, a military intervention.

In the city’s dizzying spectrum between rapture and despair, Manguinhos, the neighborhood where Ms. Oliveira grew up, leans solidly toward the latter.

It is among the patchwork of districts known as favelas, which were settled by squatters decades ago. Traffickers from the powerful drug gang Comando Vermelho, or Red Command, have held sway in the area for many years, wielding more authority than the police.

It is the kind of place where residents don’t expect homicides will be investigated, never mind solved. Drugs are sold in the open, laid out on tables. Garbage is disposed of by burning small piles at a time on sidewalks.

When Ms. Oliveira earned her degree in physical education in 2012, the situation in Brazil was starting to look up.

The country’s economy had been growing at a healthy clip for a decade. Education opportunities for the poor were expanding. Grand plans were drawn up to establish a permanent police presence in, and deliver basic services to, the favelas, as the country prepared for the 2014 World Cup and the 2016 Summer Olympics.

One of the tangible signs of change was a state-financed library in Manguinhos, where Ms. Oliveira began offering free classical ballet lessons in 2014.

She said she tried to be warm but firm toward her students, warning them about unplanned pregnancies and urging them not to date drug traffickers.

“There is no set destiny,” she would tell the girls and young women. “Just because you were born in a favela does not mean your life needs to play out a certain way. You don’t need to end up working as maids.”

The message resonated with Danice Sales, one of her first students, who went on to study Italian literature.

“It was an escape from reality,” said Ms. Sales, 29. “I went through very hard things in my life and the only thing that allowed me to avoid going on medication and sinking into a deep depression was ballet.”

By 2014, optimism gave way to dread as Brazil’s economy began contracting and a giant corruption investigation exposed a systemic pattern of kickbacks among the country’s political and business leaders. State officials in Rio de Janeiro began shutting down government employment centers and initiatives that had been inaugurated during the boom years.

Among those on the chopping block was the library in Manguinhos, which prompted Ms. Oliveira to take her students to protests in 2015.

She and other community activists persuaded the mayor’s office to help pay the bills by repeatedly raising an uncomfortable question: “How can a country hosting the Olympics shut down libraries?”

But a few months after the Games wrapped up, the library and scores of government programs closed. Ms. Oliveira fumed for a few days. Then she came up with a plan.

With the help of a locksmith who refused to charge her, Ms. Oliveira broke into the abandoned library, cleaned it up and installed her own padlock.

Next, a bit of favela diplomacy was in order. Ms. Oliveira sought out a leader of the Red Command and asked him to spare the library from the ransacking that befell other shuttered government buildings. The trafficker, who respected what she was doing, agreed.

Even as violence worsened, and unemployment grew, dozens of parents continued to bring their daughters, and a few sons, to Ms. Oliveira’s classes.

“It was a way for them to understand the outside world, a world that does not exist here,” said Tatiane Ribeiro Barboza, 40, who has two daughters in the troupe. But the main draw was exposing them to Ms. Oliveira. “They see a woman who has no weaknesses,” she said.

Giovana Xavier, an education professor at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, said role models in communities like Manguinhos can have a transformative effect on youth.

“A big challenge is building positive references about what it means to be black,” Ms. Xavier said. “The prevailing notions you see in the media are generally limited to criminality, in the case of men, and hypersexualization, in the case of women.”

Earlier this year, word spread around Manguinhos that the library would reopen and that the building would be renamed to honor Marielle Franco, a black City Council member who was assassinated in March.

Ms. Oliveira was less than elated by the news. The library had opened during an election year and now it would be reopening during another one. Politicians always seemed eager to use photos of her troupe during campaigns, she complained, but did nothing to support her after an election.

So when Ms. Oliveira was asked to prepare a special choreography for the reopening ceremony, which would be attended by Rio de Janeiro Governor Luiz Fernando Pezão and Mayor Marcelo Crivella, she decided to give them a photo opportunity to remember.

“I reflected on all that has been taken from us, the violations, the violence, not just physical but psychological,” she said. “Each day it feels like we die a little because each day something is taken from us, be it a book or a plate of food.”

She did not tell officials about the choreography she had planned.

So, flanked by a gaggle of photographers, the mayor and governor looked ashen when the young dancers streamed into the room, with the red splashes of paint on their costumes, and laid on the floor, playing dead.

Pointing her finger angrily, Ms. Oliveira shouted at the officials.

“We are not votes!” she exclaimed. “If the library closes after the election, we will be back here and we will stay put.”

When she was done, she asked the dancers to rise.

“You are not dead,” she told them. “This was just a way of noting that every day here, we’ve been bleeding.”

[elizacatherinemoore18-blog]

Are there any limits to what can be described as Performance Art?

The Oxford Dictionary definition of Performance Art is; ‘an art form that combines visual art with dramatic performance’. The connotations of the word ‘performance’ suggest an audience. After reading Grayson Perry’s book: Playing in the Gallery.I became fascinated by his statement ‘how do we tell if something is good? What are the criteria by which we judge art made today, and who tells us it is good?’. This allowed me to question myself and I realised, it is difficult to say that something is notart. Taking a shower, drinking water, applying my makeup. Are these performances? Are they performances even though no one but myself is witnessing them? In a world where we are obsessed with self-documentation, and all rely on the use of social media platforms such as Twitter and Facebook. Is it possible that we are all performance artists, as we express ourselves in any way we can in day-to-day life. We are able to record every second of our lives if we wish to. In this essay I hope to explore what qualifies as performance art, and consider the idea that we are all performance artists.

The origin of the Performance art movement began with peaceful rebellion against the violence and hate of World War One, headed by the Dadaist and Futurism movements in the 1910s. Performance art challenged the more traditional methods of creating art such as painting or sculpture. ‘In the post-war period performance became aligned with conceptual art, because of its often immaterial nature’. The horror of the First World War, grew equally powerful and dynamic movements of art, with the Dadaist movement (founded in Zurich) producing poetry, art, and performances all displaying a satirical and negative reactions to War. Hans Arp, a French-German sculptor, painter and poet stated: ‘revolted by the butchery of the 1914 World War, we in Zurich devoted ourselves to the arts. While guns rumbled in the distance, we sang, painted, made collages, and wrote poems with all our might’. The movement questioned and challenged the social climate in the sense that if we as humans could cause so much pain, what was the value of creating art? The movement set out to destroy tradition, and create art with new functions. The Futurism movement ‘celebrated the modern world of industry and technology’, headed by Italian poet Filippo Tommaso Marinetti in 1909. The crux of the movement was separation from the past, specifically Italy’s oppressive one. The Performance art movement began to gain momentum and ‘stricter rules’[1]during the late 1970s, and transformed into a more time-based process, typically art would be made in live performances with people observing it. It is generally seen as an ‘ephemeral event’[2], rather than a stand-alone object, and is often filmed on a camera, or photographed as the event is happening. To me, ephemeral performance art imitates the unpredictability of real life, and the two are interchangeable.

This shows that the function of performance art has always been politically engaging, and has been utilised largely to respond to political events and has been ‘fuelled by many of the activist movements’[3]. The politically turbulent era of the mid 1960s, with the nuclear Cuban Missile Crisis and anti-war protests against the Vietnam War had a soundtrack of ‘folk-inspired protest songs’[4]by the likes of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. David Wojnarowicz’s 1990 film, Silence = Death, made in 1990, the artist can be seen sewing up his mouth. This dark and horrifying imagery was protesting against the underfunding of AIDs research and treatment, which at the time was taking many lives. The lack of awareness was dangerous for many gay men at the time. In Yoko Ono’s 1964 work ‘Cut Piece’was first performed in Japan, in New York in 1965 and then in London. The artist gave the audience a pair of scissors and were encouraged to cut away pieces of her clothing, bit by bit, one by one, until she was in front of them in her underwear. Some members of the audience would cut small items of her clothing away, whereas others would cut away her blouse or bra strap. Yoko Ono remained quiet, still and expressionless throughout the performance. This poignant performance was to challenge the ‘passive role women often played in public spectacles’[5].Conceptually, this work relies on the audience’s willingness to participate in the performance and can be describes as a ‘Instruction Piece’. The blame is passed onto the audience and will reiterate the idea that the female body has been historically and presently viewed as an object. Similarly, at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City in 1985, an exhibition called ‘An International Survey of Painting and Sculpture’ was put on which would display some of the most influential work of the time. Despite the misleading name of the exhibition, all thirteen out of the one hundred and sixty nine artists with work featured in the exhibition were white females. This lack of diversity upset many people, and in response to this exhibition, a group of anonymous female artists, calling themselves the Guerilla Girls stood outside the gallery holding placards with slogans on them such as ‘Do women have to be naked to get into the Met. Museum?’. These slogans questioned female rights and visibility, even in the art world, and posed questions about the importance of the Male gaze. They could be distinguished easily by the gorilla masks they wore to keep their identity a secret. Feminist artist Judy Chicago said ‘Performance can be fuelled by rage in a way that painting and sculpture cannot.’[6]This suggests to me, that performance art takes many forms, and anything can be performance art if it is objecting to an aspect of the political and social climate. However, this poses the question. Is performance art still relevant, even if it is not in response to anything socially or politically? Can we all be performance artists even if we ourselves are not rebelling against anything?

Yves Klein’s live presentations of anthropometries took place on the 9thof March 1960. The artist asked women to be covered in blue paint (Klein Blue). ‘In his anthropometries Klein used models as living brushes. They smeared themselves with blue paint and pressed against a canvas piece of paper to make an imprint, according to his instructions’[7]. This dramatic event is seen as early performance and body art, and does not seem to have any political functions, and in fact in my opinion seems to unnecessarily sexualise the female body. This performance is not protesting against anything, and is generally only showcasing the Klein blue that the artist was so obsessed with. This allows me to consider if this is performance art, also because he instructed the models where to go, it takes away the ephemeral element of performance art and controls the way they move. This performance is solely about the marks made, and the colour of the marks. This causes me to reconsider my view that, perhaps, performance art does not always have to have a political function, and can alternatively be completely concentrated on drawing.

Perceptions of what constitutes performance art will obviously differ from person to person. To me, performance art feels like one of the purest forms of expression, just as dancing is. One’s own performative actions will influence this. For example, perhaps, a dancer could identify a piece of performance art with movement involved, or a chef could argue that cooking is a piece of performance art. For me, someone who studies art, I feel that my time over the past Foundation year has allowed me to reconsider and examine what I think performance art is. For me now, it is the artistic intention behind an action and the desire to be performative in the process of creating the art. To me, the process is equally important to the outcome within my own art, I have been recording each performance on a camera, looking at the way my body moves to different types of music with a range of different sounds within them. The way the music affects the marks I made fascinates me, which lead me to draw while listening to do more abstract sounds with emotional connotations, such as the sound of a waiting room at a Doctor’s surgery or the sound of my Mother’s laugh. This led me to see what marks I would make when there is silence. Similarly, the performative art I have been making seems to be about the concept of the loss of time and nothingness. While I am performing, I sometimes feel as if time moves very fast, and an hour can feel like ten minutes. I am interested by the fact that the more time I put into the performance, the darker and more interesting the image becomes. Currently, the process and what it teaches me is more important than the end result in this year of exploration that I’ve had. Presently, my work does not hold any political function, and is not revolting against anything. It is largely focusing on different types of mark making. Does this lack of protest limit it as protest art?

When reading Viktor Shkolvsky’s work[8], and considering how it related to the artistic process I found myself disagreeing with his fundamental points that art must have artistic intention. I believe that an actress warming up her voice, a private ritual in preparation for her performance, is as valid as the performance with an audience. Additionally, I believe the interpretation of the audience is just as important as the interpretation for the artist. Someone can consider someone else’s actions, as art.

Serbian performance artist writer and art filmmaker, Marina Abramović, in a video created by The Museum of Modern Art specified the difference between theatre and performance. Her work is largely body, endurance and feminist art. She states in the video ‘this is not a theatre. A theatre will repeat’[9]. She also states that ‘Performance is real. In a theatre you can cut with a knife and there is blood. The knife is not real and blood is not real.In performance the blood and the knife and the body of the performer is real.’ She explains that to her, performance is real life and makes reference to the white box of gallery space. I disagree with her argument, that for performance art to occur, there must be a ‘white box’ or ‘gallery space’, and I believe that performance art can occur anywhere. Performance art is an imitation, and perhaps heightened and purer version of the emotions we experience in real life. Marina Abramović states that,‘performance is the kind of unique form of art and is very temporary and comes and goes.’ Our actions in real life are similarly temporary, unpredictable, and all depend on a range of things that inform our choices. In more recent years, the Draw to Perform: An International Community for Drawing Performance, headed by Ram Samocha, holds an annual International Symposium for the world’s most influential and important Performance drawers. This Symposium looks at the links between performance art and drawing.

In addressing the question considered, the range of ways that performative art presents itself shows the limits of what can be described as performance art are not very strong. Although performance art was originally a process that was in response to times of political turbulence, it is clear from both the Draw to Perform International Symposium and Yves Klein’s anthropometries that the idea that politics and rebellion need to be at the heart of all performances, has been challenged. My own work, can be considered performance art, and there are no political intentions behind it at this moment. This has allowed me to see what are the limitations on my own work, and that the limitations exist, but they are flexible.

The idea that performance art is real life, a point which Marina Abramovićmade, and is not like theatre because it cannot be repeated, makes it clear to me this is another limit to what can be described as performance art. Although I previously believed that anything can be performance art. From a dancer stretching their muscles, to a drag queen applying their makeup before a performance, I now see that although I don’t think there needs to be artistic intention behind a performance, I believe someone has to have an audience for it to be perceived as performance art. I believe there has to be an ephemeral quality to all performance art.

[1]https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-performance-art

[2]Bratu Hansen, Miriam. Benjamin and Cinema: Not a One-Way Street. Critical Inquiry, Vol. 25, No. 2, "Angelus Novus": Perspectives on Walter Benjamin (Winter, 1999), pp. 306-343.

[3]https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/p/performance-art/angry-space-politics-and-activism

[4]https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/p/performance-art/angry-space-politics-and-activism

[5]https://www.sleek-mag.com/article/feminist-performance-art/

[6]https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/p/performance-art/angry-space-politics-and-activism

[7]Thames & Hudson, Art the Whole Story, London, Thames and Hudson,pp.498-499, 2010

[8]Shklovsky, Victor,‘Art, as Device’(1917) and Ferdinand de Saussure “excerpts” Course in General Linguistics (1916)

[9]https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/global-culture/conceptual-performance/v/moma-abramovic-what-is-performance-art

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

hunger - chapter 6

Hunger master post

The animal clinic is closed when Stiles sidles up to the door the next night. He knocks, and shoves his hands in his pockets while he waits. Scott opens the door a few minutes later, a grin splitting his face.

“Stiles! I’m really glad you came back, dude!” His expression falls. “I’m sorry about last time, with my mom.”

“S’okay.”

Scott lets him and the dog in, and locks the door behind them. That’s when Stiles realizes they aren’t Scott’s only visitors. Allison appears from behind the counter.

“Stiles!”

“Hey,” he says, and raises his eyebrows. “Am I interrupting something?”

They both go interesting shades of red.

“Uh, no,” Scott says at last. “Allison and I are working on a project, and we figured we could throw some ideas around while I cleaned up and fed the animals.”

“I also wanted to see the kittens,” Allison says, dimples appearing when she smiles. Stiles tries to picture her holding kittens, and figures his brain would melt with how fucking adorable that would be. A part of him wants to tell her that, to make a joke of it, but he doesn’t know her or Scott. Not really. He’s not their friend. He’s a kid who lives on the street. He’s a charity case, which is probably the best he can hope for. 

“Can I use the computer?” he asks, nodding at the one on the front counter.

“You can use mine again.” Allison offers, and tugs her slim laptop out of her bag.

“Thanks.”

Stiles sets up in the waiting room, sitting on the floor and using one of the chairs as a table. The dog flops down beside him and puts his head on his knee.

Allison and Scott leave them to it. Stiles is aware of them talking and laughing in the background. It’s nice, not to have to jump at every sound. It’s nice to be around people he’s not scared of. Scott reappears once and sets down a Tupperware container. Chicken sandwiches.

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Scott’s answering smile falters a little, and Stiles figures he’s not used to that phrase being as literal as it is.

Stiles goes to the Beacon Herald website. He skims the front page story about some animal attack in the Preserve where some guy has been ripped apart by a mountain lion—Stiles will not be wandering out there again—and goes to their search function. Luckily the Herald isn’t one of those newspapers where everything online is behind a paywall. He gets four hits on Kate Argent’s name. Two are related to some incidents she attended—a big traffic crash last year, and the evacuation of the Beacon Hills mall because of a smoke hazard that turned out to be a malfunctioning air conditioner unit. The third hit is one of those soft community stories, where she went to the Kindergarten and gave the kids a talk about stranger danger. The fourth hit is talking about the four new officers employed by the Sheriff’s Department, after what the paper calls the recent corruption scandal.

The article is three years old.

Kate wasn’t a deputy when Stiles’s dad was Sheriff.

Okay. So that explains why he didn’t know her voice.

It doesn’t explain how someone planted those drugs in his office.

Stiles closes his eyes and breathes deep for a moment.

There were drugs found in his dad’s office, and drugs and money found at the house. The house would have been easy enough to break into, Stiles supposes. But his office at the Sheriff’s station? It had to be an inside job. One of the men or women that his dad worked with for years did that to him.

And apparently it wasn’t Kate Argent.

Or Jordan Parrish either. Stiles recognizes him as the earnest fresh-faced deputy from the diner. According to his smiling photograph in the Herald, he was hired at the same time as Kate Argent.

He opens another page and Googles Kate Argent. The links to the Herald are the top hits, and there’s not much in the rest. There’s no listing for her under the white pages or anything. Of course there isn’t. Cops don’t publish their addresses or phone numbers online.

There is a G. Argent in Beacon Hills though, and a C. & V. Argent. Stiles gets a piece of paper from the front desk and writes down their addresses and phone numbers. There’s also a Christopher Argent, probably the same person as C. Argent, who owns something called Argent Tactical Solutions.

From the back room, a ringtone blares out. A moment later, Stiles hears Allison.

“Oh my god, Dad, no! You don’t need to come in and meet Scott! I’ll come out when you get here, okay?” She steps out into the foyer, and rolls her eyes at Stiles. “Because we’re project partners, that’s all! Fine. I’ll see you then. Fine.” She ends the call. “My dad is being a total jerk lately.”

Stiles’s smile wavers, and his heart aches. My dad, he thinks, and wishes those words could fall from his mouth without somehow tearing a gaping hole in the universe. He wants a dad who is a jerk sometimes. He wants a dad who calls him on the phone. He wants a dad who sticks his nose into his business.

He wants a dad.

The dog nips at his fingertips gently.

“He’s coming to pick me up because my mom borrowed my car today, and apparently some guy gets eaten by a mountain lion in the middle of the woods, and my dad suddenly thinks the town is overrun with them.” She sighs. “Ugh.”

Stiles closes her laptop, and climbs to his feet. “It also sounds like he thinks you and Scott aren’t just study buddies.”

Allison gives him a cheeky smile, and lowers her voice. “Right? And if he scares him off too soon, there’s no way we’ll ever be anything more than study buddies!”

Stiles smiles, but he’s out of step with this conversation. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to play the part of a friend or a confidant. Of an equal. This is what this is, right? A confidence? An overture of friendship? Stiles has been to a lot of schools in the past four years, and met a lot of kids, but he’s always been the newcomer, the outsider, the kid who’s there one week and gone the next, forgotten.

Allison’s encouraging smile falters.

Stiles is out of step with friendship. He drops his gaze. He gives Allison her laptop back, and folds his piece of paper up and slips it into his shoe for safekeeping.

 ***

 The wolf pads back and forth in the waiting room of the clinic while Stiles finishes the sandwiches. The wolf is hungry too, but there are rats in the alley that will fill his belly later. His boy should eat now, if he won’t eat the rats later. The wolf wants his boy to be strong. He doesn’t want him to be sick again.

He pads back and forth, listening to his boy talking with Allison and Scott.

Listening to his boy’s heartbeat.

His ears prick when he hears a car outside.

It has a whine in the transmission.

Hunters.

 ***

 The headlights from the car arc across the walls of the waiting room.

“It’s my dad!” Allison announces. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Scott! See you, Stiles!”

She lets herself out the front door.

Scott waves at her. He’s wearing a goofy smile, as endearing at it is awkward, and Stiles thinks it’s lucky that Allison knows what she wants, because Scott is way too awkward to actually make a move.

The dog tugs at Stiles’s sleeve, growling as it tries to tug him away from the open door.

Stiles sees a black SUV parked outside. A man gets out of the driver’s side door as Allison approaches.

He’s in his forties, maybe, but he’s in good shape. Better shape than Stiles, probably. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that pulls tight across his chest as he moves. He has graying hair and a stern expression.

Stiles’s heart clenches.

It’s the man from the Preserve. The one with the tactical gear and the guns. The one who saw Stiles and the dog, and stared at them, before he stepped back into the line of trees.

It’s Allison’s dad.

At the moment his focus in on Allison. He’s watching her approach with a frown, like he doesn’t know what the hell she’s been up to tonight, but he doesn’t approve on principle. 

Stiles steps back from the door before the man sees him.

 ***

 “How do I know I’m not going crazy?” his boy asks as they walk back toward the alley behind the diner. “That’s a thing. Going crazy.”

The wolf’s ears flick as he listens for the hunter’s SUV, but he can’t pick the sound of it from the rest of the distant traffic noise. He and the boy stick to the back streets. A dog barks at them from behind a fence. A cat streaks across the road in front of them. The night smells like cars and people and decay.

“Once is an incident. Twice is a coincidence.” His boy exhales heavily and scrubs his knuckles over his head. “It’s twice. Just twice. Coincidence. Synchronicity. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

The wolf whines.

Hunter.

It means hunter.

But also, I might be going crazy.” His boy chews at the strings of his hoodie. “Might be making connections that aren’t there. Like with the phone call. What if it wasn’t her voice? What if it was just that she happened to say the same thing? It’s not a smoking gun, is it?”

The wolf huffs.

“But also, I shouldn’t ignore instinct, should I?” His boy spits the strings out. “I just need some proof first. Or a confession.” His expression darkens. “But also, she’s a cop. The chances of fucking this up and getting shot are, like, higher than I’d prefer.” He laughs, but the sound is sour.

The wolf growls low in his throat.

“I wish I could call him, you know?” His tone wavers, and his throat clicks as he swallows.

The wolf looks up into the sky. The moon is a tiny sliver of light, riding high above the gray wisps of cloud that trail across the sky. Death is walking with them, silent and pale-faced. She smells of ashes. She has walked so long beside him wearing Laura’s face that the wolf thinks he would mourn her if she left.

But he sees the path that he and his boy are on.

Death will not leave them.

“I have to act,” the wolf’s boy says. “ I have to act.”

The wolf nudges into his side as they walk.

“They lied to me.” His voice belongs to a younger boy now. To a child. “They said he could call me. They said I could visit. They said if I was good, then I could see him.” His mouth twists up. “But then they said, no, you got in a fight at school. No, your counselor says it’s not the right time. No, it will be too upsetting for you. So fuck them, right? Fuck them.”

The wolf whines.

“I just want my dad,” Stiles whispers, and his voice dissolves into tears.

The wolf walks beside him, head hanging.

He and the boy are pack, but they cannot fill all the spaces that their losses have left behind. The wolf’s loss, and the boy’s, has been made by a piercing wound in his heart. It will never heal. It will always ache. Both the wolf and the boy have learned how to breathe through the pain, but it is still there. It is as present as the moon, as the whisper of the wind, as death.

The wolf isn’t sure whose injury is worse. His pack is dead. Dead is gone forever. But his boy’s father? Alive, but kept away from the boy? The wolf understands the light in the boy’s eyes now. He understands the boy’s need to rend and tear, to burn the world down. All that rage, just waiting for a target.

And, he thinks, the boy is very close to finding one.

He will need a wolf at his side then.

The moon was right to lead the wolf to his boy.

The wolf, and death.

[jkottke]

Black brilliance on the Appalachian trail

Rahawa Haile is an Eritrean-American writer who spent most of 2016 as one of a very small number of black women hiking the Appalachian trail. Trail hikers are thought to be between 66 and 75 percent male, and overwhelmingly white; there's also a long history of formal and informal racial exclusion in national parks, wilderness areas, and other outdoor spaces, through statute, violence, and "soft" racism. And in Appalachia, many of the small towns along the trail where hikers stop to get food, mail, clean clothes, and other supplies are often unwelcome or hostile to black people.

Haile brought, photographed, and left behind books by black writers at points along the trail. She explains why in an interview with Atlas Obscura's Sarah Laskow:

In 2015, I started a Twitter project called Short Story of the Day. This was a way to say, "This is the extent that I can participate in literature at this moment." Diversity matters to me. Many of the most celebrated short story collections are by white men, so on Twitter I published one short story a day by underrepresented groups.

When I thought about 2016--how can I participate in literature this year?--I thought, I want to bring these books places no one likely has. I want to document where black brilliance belongs. There's so much talk about where the black body belongs. Most of my hike was saying, this is a black body, and it belongs everywhere. These books were a way of me saying, black intellect belongs here, too. I was hoping that by carrying these books and taking them to these incredible vistas, fellow people of color might say, "If those books can go there, so can I."

Good morning! bell and I climbed 3,326 feet to send you our encouragement from Cheoah Bald. #at2016

A photo posted by Rahawa Haile (@rahawahaile) on Apr 11, 2016 at 6:26am PDT

In an essay for BuzzFeed, Haile lists a remarkable catalogue of the weights she carried on the trip. (Hiking, as I learned this year from Rahawa, is in large part about managing weight):

Pack: 40 ounces. Tent: 26. A pound to "love myself when I am laughing...and then again when I am looking mean and impressive." Seven ounces of James Baldwin. Thirteen of Octavia Butler. Nine violent ounces of home, the from-from, "originally, I mean." 7,628 feet: the elevation of Asmara, Eritrea. Rain jacket: 5.5 ounces. Options for ZZ Packer. Blues for Toni Morrison. Dragons for Langston Hughes. A river for Jamaica Kincaid. Nine ounces, eight ounces, ten ounces, six. Fifteen: the number of years I spent watching my African grandmother die in the flatness of Florida. Gloves: 1.3 ounces. Warsan Shire: 2.4. Keys to a place I call home: none. Colson Whitehead: 1 pound. Assets: zero. Resting mass of light: none. Headlamp: 3.9 ounces. Their names: endless. Trayvon, Renisha, Sandra, Tamir. Spork: 0.6 ounces. Water filter: 3 ounces. Down jacket: seven ounces. Fuel canister: four. Current atmospheric carbon dioxide levels: greater than 400 ppm. Average elevation above sea level in Miami: six feet. Therapists I can no longer afford: one. Kiese Laymon: 9.6 ounces. Amiri Baraka: 1.4 pounds. The amount black women earn for every white male dollar: 63 cents. Bandana: 1.12 ounces. Pack towel: 0.5 ounces. The number of times I've told myself to put a gun to my head between 2013 and 2016: 8,000-10,000. Bear bagging kit: 3 ounces. Aracelis Girmay: 6.4 ounces. Roxane Gay: 4.8. Emergency whistle: 0.14, orange, should I find myself in the midst of hunting season.

The trail, she writes, is "considered a great equalizer in most other respects" -- everyone alike has to deal with rattlesnakes, rainstorms, and sore feet. "A thing I found myself repeatedly explaining to hikers who asked about my books and my experience," she adds, "wasn't that I feared them, but that there was no such thing as freedom from vulnerability for me anywhere in this land. That I might be tolerated in trail towns that didn't expect to see a black hiker, but I'd rarely if ever feel at ease." Nobody else walking the trail would have to carry the same weight.

[gethealthy18-blog]

31 Amazing Gender Reveal Ideas That Will Wow Everyone

New Post has been published on http://healingawerness.com/getting-healthy/getting-healthy-women/31-amazing-gender-reveal-ideas-that-will-wow-everyone/

31 Amazing Gender Reveal Ideas That Will Wow Everyone

Harini Natarajan Hyderabd040-395603080 August 19, 2019

Hey new mama! You have a bundle of joy growing inside you, and the day isn’t far off when you will get to hold him or her. But that’s the real question – is it a baby boy or a girl?

I bet half of your excitement is about finding out which one it is! Don’t be boring, do it in style! Find out the gender of your baby and throw a gala bash to celebrate it. Gather all your loved ones at a place and make beautiful memories that you can share with your little one when they grow up.

But, first things first. It is universally accepted that blue stands for boy, and pink stands for girl. So, whatever you decide on, stick to these colors to avoid mass confusion. You can also go for colors similar to pink and blue if you want something different – like peach and teal, pastel lavender and denim blue.

Someone close to the family, like your best friend, sister, or your partner’s sister or mom has to take care of the preparations so that none of you get to accidentally know what the gender of your bundle of joy is.

Let’s look at some ideas now!

Top 31 Gender Reveal Ideas

1. Bake The Cake

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Ask the baker to bake a pink or blue cake and top it with chocolate or vanilla or some colored frosting that’s not the same as the cake inside it. It has to cover the cake completely so that no one gets a sneak peek, including you!

You could also ask the baker to put blue or pink candies inside that will fall out when you cut the cake. Gather everyone around the table, and you and your partner make that first slice. Tadaaaa – now you know what you are going to have!

This method of revealing gender is cost-effective because the cake can also be served to your guests.

2. Cupcakes Or Cake Pops

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Getting customized cupcakes and cake pops is also a great way to announce the gender of your baby while serving all the guests some yummy sweet treats. Fill the inside of the cupcakes or cake pops with either blue or pink cream/frosting. The guests can all gather around and take a bite from their sweet treat at the same time.

This is actually more fun than the cake idea because everybody gets to participate. You can make it more fun by putting pink and blue icing on the cupcakes and letting the guests guess the gender by choosing one. Later, when they cut the cake, they can check the icing inside and see whether they were correct or not.

3. Unbox The Box

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Get someone trusted to fill a gigantic box with blue or pink helium balloons. You and your partner can pull the string that’s keeping it all in together and release the balloons. Make sure to get photos of the exact moment the balloons escape.

4. Pop The Balloon

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This is kind of a water balloon game. Pour a little blue or pink paint into one of the balloons and let the rest be just water. Secure them to something. Let the guests take a balloon each and see who gets the gender-revealing balloon.

5. Piñata Popping

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This is a super fun way to do a gender reveal. Fill a piñata with pink or blue candies or confetti and let the guests hit it, break it, and reveal the gender. When it breaks, everyone will be showered with the colored confetti or candies, and the gender will be revealed.

6. Holi Reveal

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This gender reveal method allows everyone to know about the gender of the baby, except the parents-to-be. They throw pink or blue holi powder on the parents, surprising them with the gender.

Here’s an even better idea. Keep the theme all-white. Let the guests unbox little containers containing either pink or blue colors and have a fun gender reveal party.

7. Sibling Reveals Gender

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This works if you are having your second baby. Let the guests gather around. Let your child walk in and either hold up a sign revealing the gender of the baby or burst a balloon with blue or pink confetti in it.

8. Take A Guess

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Let the guests choose sides and wear pink or blue ribbons on their wrists. Then, when dinner is done, go outside and use a party popper that either pops blue or pink to reveal the gender. The ones who guessed it right get extra candies as prizes.

9. Catch A Pokemon

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This is a super fun way to do the gender reveal. Let your guests know whether you are having a little Papi or Mami by tossing a poké ball filled with either blue or pink chalk powder on the ground. Let it explode, and celebrate the surprise!

10. Gender Reveal For Harry Potter Lovers

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Are you going to have a little witch or wizard? Well, you have to ask the sorting hat! This is the perfect magical gender reveal idea, especially if you are a Harry Potter fan. Get the guests to gather around the sorting hat. Lift it to find something cute in blue or pink – it could be baby booties or clothing items. You could buy the hat online or get creative and make your own.

11. Football Gender Reveal

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You can host a Team Baby Girl or Team Baby Boy football game for the gender reveal. Besides football, you can also play a game of baseball. Just fill the ball with either blue or pink powder. Make sure to give the ball a good a kick or hit – and BAAAM! You will have your answer.

12. Paint Gun Reveal

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This a super fun one! Wear white to your party and arm your guests with paint guns that are filled with blue or pink paint. As they go crazy on you, the gender gets revealed as well!

13. Balloon Release

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If you want to do something simple, opt for this method. It is easy to arrange and do. Bring out several pink and blue balloons, let the excitement build, and then release the helium balloons that match the gender of the baby.

14. Smoke Bomb Reveal

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This is a great one for the pictures! Let your guests gather around you and your partner in an open space. One of them has to throw a smoke bomb in either pink or blue at your feet. And you have got the answer!

15. Gender Reveal Beverage

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Surprise your guests and reveal the gender by serving them either a blue or a pink drink— try Blue Hawaiian Punch or pink lemonade. Such fun!

16. Confetti Popper Reveal

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Gather all the guests around and pop the confetti. The color will unveil the big surprise – boy or girl. This makes for a great photo op and looks like you are in a parade. You could also hand out the poppers to all your guests, do a back count, and pop them at the same time.

17. Gender Reveal Through Mail

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This is a super cute idea and meant for those who can’t make it to the party. Or maybe you have decided not to throw a party at all but want your loved ones to know the gender. This is what you could do. Send everyone little gift boxes with either blue or pink things in them – according to your baby’s gender. They open it up – and voila! The surprise is revealed.

18. Gender Reveal Scratch-Off Cards

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These are awesome! You can buy ready-made ones or get them designed. Mail them to your loved ones. They can scratch it and get to know the answer.

19. Pop The Belly Boards

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Set up a board outdoors. Get as many balloons as there are guests at your party. Pour a little blue or pink paint into one of the balloons and the rest with water. Blow them up and secure them to the board. Give each of the guests a pin and see who is the one to pop the ‘belly’ first.

20. Sibling Photos Reveal

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Get a photographer and have a photoshoot with your other kid(s) in which you all can model with pink or blue balloons, flowers, or soft toys. Email the pictures to friends and family as a reveal. You could also frame the best one and set it up as a memory forever.

21. Husband Handprinted Tees Reveal

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Let your hubby announce the baby’s gender by walking into the party and putting his handprints on your tummy. For this, someone has to help him color his hands with blue or pink paint and help them to sneak up to you without being noticed. Ideally, you should wear white. It is a super cute way to reveal the baby’s gender.

22. Bath Bomb Reveal

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Plop a bath bomb into a bowl. Ask your guests to gather around. Watch it dissolve and turn the water blue or pink. You can go online and look up ways how to make this bath bomb or simply buy it online. Cute and not messy at all!

23. Guessing Game Reveal

This is a game in which all the guests can participate. Ask them to guess the baby’s gender and write it on a piece of paper. Collect them all, and before the party gets over, announce the winners – then what you are having. The ones who guessed it right win mini prizes.

24. Grand Entrance Reveal

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Make it an all-white party. Then, make an entrance in a dress that is blue or pink. You will not only stand out but also reveal the gender without actually announcing it!

25. Egg Roulette Reveal

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Get 10 eggs and hard boil all but one. Color half of the eggs pink and the other half blue. Dye the egg that is not hard-boiled blue if you are having a boy or pink if you are having a girl. After the guests arrive, have them gather around and watch as you and your husband take turns cracking the eggs on each other’s heads. When it breaks in a runny mess, everyone will know what you are going to have.

26. Pet Photo Reveal

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If you are a doggy mom, you can include your dog in the reveal. Dress your dog up in blue or pink items and have him stand beside a sign that says, ‘I am so excited to meet my new baby brother or sister. Woof woof’ or something else you like. Cute!

27. Prop Photo Reveal

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If you want to do something simple and low key, you can have some fun in private with the entire family. You can use props like a pink bow for a girl or mustaches for a boy. Just pose for pictures and make beautiful memories.

28. Sign Reveal

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If you don’t want any surprises, hang up an ‘It’s a boy/girl’ banner or put up cute signs everywhere. Also, you can have a blue or pink themed party.

29. Cotton Candy Reveal

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This is easier to arrange if you are going to have a baby girl. Hire a cotton candy man and have him hand over the candies with an ‘It’s a girl’ tag to all your guests. Fun + yummy!

30. Treasure Hunt Reveal

This can be a super fun idea. Plan a treasure hunt in which the guests can divide themselves into teams and look for a particular object. The object can be in blue or pink – you can get baby booties or a ball or a teddy bear. The team that uncovers the treasure gets a prize.

31. Baby Cake Reveal

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Get a cute customized cake made. The reveal could be when the cake is wheeled into the room. This is a very nice idea because you can get great pictures of the cake that you can keep forever!

You can tweak any of these ideas to do something that goes with your personality. But the important thing here is to have fun. These are some of the most beautiful moments in your life, so enjoy them and don’t get stressed about anything. All the best, mommy-to-be!

Which of these ideas did you like? Share your feedback in the comments section below.

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Source: https://www.stylecraze.com/articles/gender-reveal-ideas/

[olivierknox]

How the Charleston massacre changed the Confederate flag market

White supremacists carry a shield and Confederate flag as they arrive at a rally in Charlottesville, Va., Aug. 12, 2017. (Photo: Joshua Roberts/Reuters)

Belinda Kennedy’s Alabama Flag and Banner, founded in 1985, had always sold Confederate battle flags. The company had marketed stock that it bought from manufacturers, but it had never been a huge income generator. Custom flags, especially oversize U.S. flags, table covers and banners were more important to the small company’s bottom line.

“In a typical year, I would say, we’d sell maybe in the hundreds [of Confederate flags] — not that many,” she recalled in an interview with Yahoo News. “That was before the shooting in the church.”

By “the shooting,” Kennedy meant the June 2015 day when white supremacist Dylann Roof gunned down nine African-Americans after joining their Bible study at a historically black church in Charleston, S.C. A photograph of Roof clutching a black handgun and holding a small Confederate battle flag fueled a backlash against symbols of the secessionist South. But the backlash also triggered a bonanza for flag sellers like Kennedy.

Belinda Kennedy, owner of Alabama Flag and Banner, stands by Confederate flags in the manufacturing area at her store on April 12, 2016, in Huntsville, Ala. Kennedy said the company, which sells American flags and manufactures Confederate flags, sold around 20,000 flags last year and about 12,000 of those were confederate flags. (Photo: Ty Wright/Getty Images)

The anti-Confederate movement gained new strength this week after neo-Nazi and white supremacist demonstrators, some waving the Confederate battle flag, staged a rally in Charlottesville, Va. One white nationalist allegedly drove his car deliberately into a crowd of peaceful protesters, killing Heather Heyer, 32.

After the violent Charlottesville clashes, cities across the country have started reassessing their monuments to the Confederacy, which formed to protect and maintain the U.S. institution of slavery. Several cities have already opted to remove their Confederate statues.

The Charleston massacre sparked a similar wave of change in the Confederate flag industry. After the mass shooting, major retailers — Amazon, eBay, Sears, WalMart — said they’d stop selling the rebel flag. In the America of 2017, you can’t buy Confederate battle flag bikinis on Amazon, though you can listen to songs about the women who wear them via the company’s streaming service.

The online auction site eBay, which connects individual buyers and sellers, uses a range of tools to keep out the Confederate flag.

“We take proactive measures to identify listings that violate our policies, including but not limited to, keyword filters and automated monitoring tools,” an executive with the company told Yahoo News. “Additionally, every listing has a ‘Report This Item’ link, allowing our community members to alert us to listings for our review and removal.”

But “it’s challenging,” explained the executive, who spoke on condition of anonymity. Some sellers don’t know about the ban. Others take steps to try to circumvent it — on the day Yahoo News spoke to the eBay official, someone was trying to sell a Confederate flag but had put it up in the “Books” category in an apparent attempt to skirt the restrictions.

This undated photo that appeared on Lastrhodesian.com, a website investigated by the FBI in connection with Dylann Roof, shows him posing for a photo holding a Confederate flag. (Photo: Lastrhodesian.com via AP)

The National Park Service joined in, announcing that its gift shops would no longer carry “stand-alone” items that only featured the flag. At the Gettysburg gift shop, this meant pulling just 11 out of 2,600 items sold at the Civil War battle site.

The country’s oldest and largest flag manufacturers also enlisted, opting to stop making the banner.

Annin Flagmakers was founded in 1847 and supplied Union forces with the U.S. flag during the Civil War, according to Mary Repke, the company’s senior vice president of sales and marketing. But until the Charleston shooting, it also had sold some Confederate battle flags, “mostly to Civil War reenactors,” she told Yahoo News.

“It made up, like, 0.00001 percent of our total volume,” Repke said. Annin today sells at least 10 million U.S. flags per year, and 20 million flags total when you add international, military, religious and other banners. But no Confederate battle flags, with the exception of those included in state flags.

“Flags are very powerful symbols, and clearly this flag has become a symbol of a negative aspect of our country’s past,” Repke said. “For some people, it represents something very negative and hateful.”

Dropping the flag was also an easy call for Valley Forge Flag, which had never sold that many anyway, according to Reggie VandenBosch, its vice president of sales.

“It was a fraction of a percent [of revenues]. It was even, like, not even one-tenth of 1 percent,” he told Yahoo News.

Repke and Vandenbosch both told Yahoo News that Chinese flagmakers have largely filled the vacuum.

They’re relatively easy to find via the online retail giant Alibaba, though consumers have to know to search for “Confedrate flag,” not the correctly spelled “Confederate flag,” which turned up no results at the time this story went live.

Two young women wear Confederate flag bikinis during the annual Summer Redneck Games, July 9, 2011, in East Dublin, Ga. (Photo: Richard Ellis/Getty Images)

But most U.S.-based companies that hawk flags online aren’t manufacturing them.

“After U.S.-based manufacturers stopped making them, most of the public, the general public, would buy from [online] sites,” said Repke. “That’s not a domestic flag; that’s usually an import from China or someplace. Mostly China.”

That raises the possibility that some of the self-described nationalists in Charlottesville may have been waving a Confederate flag made in Shanghai.

“With the U.S. flag, the consumer is very concerned that it be made in the United States, understandably,” said VandenBosch. “But with the Confederate flag, the priority for most is to find it as inexpensively as possible.”

That hasn’t deterred some producers. An online search turned up a handful of independent seamstresses who appear to run their businesses out of their homes. One, in South Carolina, sells a 36- by 54-inch battle flag for $325 on her “Dixie Memories” site, where visitors are met with a brass band version of “Dixie,” essentially the South’s anthem.

“I dedicate my work to heroes of all races, including African-Americans, Asians and Hispanic, who wore the gray,” she says on the main page. “We have only love for others whose skin color is different from our own.” (Historians have largely dismissed revisionist accounts claiming that there were significant numbers of nonwhite Confederate soldiers.)

Efforts to reach the Dixie Memories flagmaker were unsuccessful.

But for Kennedy of Alabama Flag and Banner, cheap Chinese flags are part of the problem. “I don’t want to sell a $4 flag,” she said. “Theirs is a lower-quality flag.”

The decision to start producing Confederate battle flags in-house, with a staff of just a dozen seamstresses, came shortly after Roof’s rampage.

“What happened to us was, when Wal-Mart and Amazon took everything with a flag off the shelves, suddenly our inventory emptied. Anything with a Confederate battle flag went out the door,” Kennedy said. Buyers were seemingly worried that items bearing the flag would go extinct.

Employees Lottie Penick, left, and Melissa Hodnett iron stars onto a United States flag at Annin Flagmakers in South Boston, Va., July 6, 2016. (Photo: Gerry Broome/AP)

Seizing the business opportunity, she went to place flag orders with major manufacturers, only to be turned away — they had already decided to stop making the emblem. So she worked out how to make them in-house.

“The response was astronomical,” Kennedy said. “We were shipping to Japan, we were shipping to Canada, to Australia, to all 50 states. During that whole crazy period [in the shooting’s aftermath], we were selling in the thousands.”

In 2017, she’s “back to a normal shipping level,” and though she wouldn’t disclose a precise number, the Confederate banner isn’t a bestseller. “Historical flags are the stepchildren of the flag industry,” she quipped.

Kennedy said making the flag is “all about history” and noted that she had two great-great-grandfathers who fought in the war on the Southern side.

“Taking down monuments and taking down flags, it’s not a solution for fighting racism,” she said. “We need to look at our history, learn from our history, and appreciate where we are now.”

The battle flag wasn’t that popular after the Civil War, according to author and historian David Goldfield, author of several books about the conflict.

It “was used mostly on ceremonial occasions in the South — Confederate Memorial Day, veterans’ reunions, and, occasionally political rallies — for several decades after the Civil War,” he told Yahoo News.

South Carolina Gov. Strom Thurmond raises his hands over his head in response to a tumultuous ovation accorded him by delegates to the Dixiecrats’ States’ Rights Convention in Birmingham, Ala., on July 17, 1948. (Photo: AP)

“The real revival of the flag occurred from 1948 onward. In that year, a group of Southern politicians broke from the Democratic Party’s strong civil rights stance in the Truman administration and established the Dixiecrats,” said Goldfield. “At their convention in Birmingham, Ala., the flag came out in full force, and became even more popular with the advent of the civil rights movement of the 1950s. Clearly, the flag symbolized white supremacy and defiance of the federal government — pretty much what it symbolized during the Civil War.”

Although “some supporters of the flag will tell you it stands for states’ rights or individual freedom, not slavery or white supremacy,” Goldfield said, “these arguments would have come as a surprise to Confederate leaders.”

_____

Read more from Yahoo News:

At service for Charlottesville victim Heather Heyer, a call for ‘righteous action’

Confederate monuments testify to the Union’s unfinished victory

U.S. cuts grant for group that seeks to deradicalize neo-Nazis

‘He’s toxic!’: Trump goes after 2 GOP senators for Charlottesville criticism

Photos: Here are the ‘beautiful’ Confederate monuments Trump wants to stay put

[projeto0038-blog]

Death March: The extraordinary story of the Bosnians who marched 70 horrific miles to escape genocide

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/moslive/article-2021705/Death-March-The-Bosnians-walked-70-horrific-miles-escape-genocide.html Charlotte Eagar. 6 August 2011, 23:06 BST.

In the Srebrenica massacre, 8,000 were slaughtered – but after a terrifying 70-mile march under heavy fire, 3,500 Bosnians, including a Kent taxi driver, escaped to safety…

 The walkers come marching resolutely down the dusty track from the forests, seven and a half thousand of them in bright hiking gear and T-shirts. They are on their way to Srebrenica, an old silver town set in a bowl of rolling, wooded hills. They call themselves the Mars Mira – the peace march – but this is no bunch of weekend revolutionaries. 

There are women, and girls and boys too young to remember the war, but the real heroes of the Mars Mira are the surviving men of Srebrenica, sweaty in the 100-degree heat, clutching the plastic water bottles they wished they had 16 years ago. 

They set off three days and almost 70 miles ago from the village of Nezuk in northern Bosnia and you can only imagine what memories assail them as they walked through those woods. For the Mars Mira follows (in reverse) the route of Srebrenica’s Death March – the Put Smrti – along which these men battled for five days, after their town finally fell to the Serbs on July 11, 1995. 

Srebrenica’s name is now synonymous with the worst single act of genocide in Europe since the Nazi Holocaust, when more than 8,000 Bosnian Muslim men were murdered by the Serbs; the actual number is still uncertain, but more than 5,000 bodies have been found so far and thousands more are still missing. 

But less well known is the extraordinary story of the men who tried to escape the massacre. For although 2,000 wounded and old men did give themselves up and were almost immediately killed, the able-bodied men refused to surrender.

 Instead, they decided to fight their way out. With just a few hundred weapons, and weak from more than three years of being under siege, they fought for five days over densely wooded hills and in gruelling heat. They faced artillery barrages, ambushes and hallucinogenic gas shells, until they finally reached the safety of Bosnian government territory, nearly 70 miles away.

Of the 15,000 men who set off back then, only 3,500 made it through Serb lines. I watched them arrive, an army of ragged ghosts searching for their families in the refugee camp by the UN Tuzla airbase, in July 1995. The rest were either captured and killed or trapped in the woods, some for up to nine months, after Srebrenica fell. 

Huso Bektic was one of those ghosts. Now he’s a taxi driver living with his wife Ramisa in Chatham, Kent, but 16 years ago he was one of the desperate few who managed to reach free Bosnian territory alive. 

‘For six days, from Srebrenica to Tuzla, the Serbs shot at me,’ says Bektic.

‘Whoever they could kill, they killed. They killed my father. We weren’t in the same part of the column and I lost him in the woods.’ 

Until now, Bektic has never spoken publicly about his ordeal. In his mid-forties, with a comfortable paunch, he hardly looks as if he is a survivor of what an SAS officer serving in Bosnia at the time told me was ‘the greatest act of military heroism in Europe since World War II’. 

The remains (that have so far been found) of the bodies of those who died after Srebrenica fell have all been identified by Bosnia’s national DNA programme – their white tombstones carpet Srebrenica’s vast Memorial Cemetery, opposite the old UN base in Potocari. 

Bektic’s father was found and buried here two years ago. Every year those bodies dug up, pieced together and identified are buried in a mass funeral at the Memorial Cemetery on the anniversary of Srebrenica’s fall. 

As the peace march sweeps into the cemetery, past a Bosnian army guard of honour and cheering civilians, 613 green shrouded coffins lie waiting for the annual mass funeral the following day. There are so many graves, so white and shiny, that the hillside looks like a World War I cemetery. Bektic is trying to show me his father’s tombstone, but they all look the same.

‘I was here only yesterday…’ he says, searching the white marble ranks. Then he finds him. Bektic’s father’s dates are 1940-1995, the same death year as every other body in this cemetery. 

Even now Bektic can hardly bear to remember the Death March. 

‘It was all just horrific. I had terrible déjà vu when I walked through the woods last year.’

 Yet every year he drives his taxi from Chatham to Srebrenica for the memorial service. Now he’s staying with his widowed mother. She was deported by the Serbs in 1995 but is now back living in their old family house in the village of Suceska, in the wooded hills above Srebrenica. 

‘I helped rebuild the house,’ he says. ‘The Serbs burned it down after we left.’

The idea for the Mars Mira came from Dr Ilijaz  Pilav, a Srebrenica doctor who ran the field hospital on the Death March. 

‘I wanted to do something to remember my friends and relations who died on the Death Road,’ he says. This year is particularly poignant after the arrest in June of General Ratko Mladic for war crimes.

At the front walks Mujo Gojinovic, a former Bosnian soldier, bearing aloft a banner with the legend: ‘Ejub Golic. Participant. The Breakout ’95.’

‘Golic was my commander. Thousands survived thanks to him,’ says Mujo. Golic, who brought up the rear of the column, rallying the civilians, is regarded as the great hero of the Death March.

‘We survivors carry this banner every year,’ he adds. ‘We often find bones in the wood on the way, or things people dropped, like photographs.’ 

Mevludin Oric’s story is more remarkable still, for he should now be lying in that cemetery. 

Oric, 42, has already testified in war crimes trials at The Hague – and is likely to be a key witness in the genocide case against General Mladic. 

During the war, he  was a junior Special Forces officer and courier, with ten men under his command, and only four guns between them. Now he’s a builder, when he gets the work. Captured by the Serbs two days into the Death March, Oric miraculously survived a brutal mass execution by pretending to be dead.

As the walkers drum past us, below them lies a field. In the middle of the field stands a little orange house where, as Serbs overran the town, Srebrenica’s military commanders debated what they should do. 

‘This is Susnjari, where the column started from,’ says Oric. As the Serbs began to overrun Srebrenica on the afternoon of July 11, he explains, the word was passed through the enclave that all the men who did not want to surrender should come up to this field. 

It was dark by the time Oric arrived. 

‘The field was full of men and boys, 15,000 of us. It looked like a football stadium,’ he says. 

‘Everyone was desperate for the leaders to tell them what to do.’

 Oric was called into the house.

‘They asked me to lead the column,’ he says. ‘Because I was a courier, I knew all the secret tracks. I said no. I told them that to lead 15,000 men through that territory was certain death.’

The decision was finally made to head to Tuzla, and the column set off at 12.30am on July 12. At the front was a team of four scouts, to clear the minefields and check for ambushes, followed by senior commanders and the field hospital.

‘We went in single file,’ recalls Bektic. ‘But there were a lot of us.’ 

The column was more than ten miles long, and the back had yet to leave three hours after the front had set off. Of the 15,000 men, a third were civilians and the rest were soldiers, strung between them, although their military discipline was virtually the only weapon they had.

‘Soldiers!’ laughs Pilav. ‘They didn’t have any weapons. We only had one RPG on the entire column.’ 

From horizon to horizon, a line of scrawny men toiled under the trees. Oric was at the back with Commander Golic, and Oric’s 14-year-old nephew, Mirsa. 

‘He was like a son to me,’ says Oric. ‘I taught him to shoot.’

At first the fighting front made very good time over the steep and wooded hills: 18 miles in the first six hours. The Serbs had been taken by surprise by the exodus. But at dawn the front reached its first big obstacle, the main Tarmac road encircling the enclave.

 Dr Pilav and the fighting front started crossing at about 6am. They were spotted by Serb scouts and orders came down from General Mladic to reinforce the main road with tanks, anti-aircraft guns, and soldiers strung out every 15 yards. At 10am the Bosnian Serb army started shelling the woods where the rest of the column was still trudging along.

‘The single file broke as soon as the shelling started,’ says Bektic. ‘The shells fell everywhere. They weren’t just shelling us, but poisoning us. They fired shells filled with hallucinogenic gas. I was completely dazed. I’ve no idea how I survived.’ 

Hundreds of terrified civilians fled down onto the road where they were swiftly rounded up. In the confusion, Oric lost sight of his father and his nephew. 

‘I never saw either of them again,’ he says. 

The woods were littered with dead bodies and the possessions of those who had either died or fled in terror – rucksacks, books, photographs. Once the artillery stopped, the Serb infantry advanced into the woods: they infiltrated the column in civilian clothes, to lure the survivors to ambushes; they dressed in uniforms they’d taken from the UN soldiers and offered the terrified refugees the chance to surrender; and they booby-trapped the paths the refugees had to take. 

‘They would even mine beehives in case we tried to get the honey,’ says Oric. 

‘I stopped one man blowing us all up. The Chetniks (Serb fighters) scattered those little mines we call pate tins, which jump up and explode at knee height. They set trip wires, which would blow up across your chest. Those killed 15 men or more.’ 

Many of the refugees were shot on sight. The Serbs forced one refugee to call his brother and friends down from the woods, saying it was safe. An eye-witness described how 40 or so men were then tied up with wire and machine-gunned. 

By now the column was split: Dr Pilav and the fighting front had managed to cross the road, but thousands were  still stuck on the Srebrenica side. Over the next 24 hours, between 5,000 and 6,000 men are estimated to have been captured in the woods. All were taken away and killed – some were machine gunned in fields, while the Serbs herded others into school gyms before throwing in hand grenades. 

Oric, by this point unarmed and wearing civilian clothes, was captured the next afternoon, along with his cousin Haris and a dozen others: they were still trying to find a way to cross the road. They were walking through the woods when, says Oric, 

‘Suddenly I felt a gun at my back. None of us had weapons. I’d been at school with one of the Serbs who stopped us.’ 

Oric, Haris and the others were taken to a police station and forced to spend the night sitting upright in a bus, with their hands behind their heads.

  ‘There were about 500 people in several buses,’ he says. ‘All men in civilian clothes.’ 

Throughout the night, the Serbs would call people off by name. 

‘The guy would be taken away. We’d hear the shots and that’s the last we’d see of him,’ says Oric.

On the morning of the 14th, the buses were then driven to a school gym at a place called Orahovac.

‘There must have been about 2,000 of us in the gym,’ says Oric. ‘Buses and trucks kept coming full of people. Then Mladic came. He didn’t say a word. He just looked round the gym and laughed.’

After Mladic had gone, the guards told the prisoners they were being taken to a prisoner exchange. At the door they were given blindfolds. Then they were taken off in trucks in groups of ten or so at a time; after five minutes, the trucks would come back empty.

‘The place they told us they were taking us to was an hour and a half away,’ says Oric, ‘so I realised that they were killing us.’ 

He was on the sixth truckload, with his cousin. 

‘Haris was a big guy,’ says Oric, ‘but I held his hand. When we left the truck I peeped through my blindfold and I could see it was just a field. Haris said, “They’re going to kill us,” but I said, “No they’re not.” Then they got out machine-guns and shot us all.’

Oric was crushed beneath Haris. ‘He shook for three or four seconds, then that was it. Then I realised I hadn’t been hit.’

Oric lay beneath Haris until it was dark. Hundreds more men were taken to the field and shot.

‘I was terrified I’d be hit by a stray bullet. Then they went round finishing off the wounded. The Chetnik shot the guy next to me, I just played dead. I could hear bulldozers digging our grave.’ 

Finally Oric passed out. When he woke up it was dark.

‘I got up and took my blindfold off. I was stunned,  just seeing a field of dead bodies. I started to scream. Then another man got up and asked if I was hurt.  I thought he was a ghost.’

The two men quickly left and started walking through the woods. It took them another week before they finally managed to cross the lines into Bosnian territory.

For Dr Pilav, Bektic and the others, the ordeal continued. For four more days they trekked through the woods, in single file, travelling by night, resting by day; their numbers constantly whittled down by ambushes and artillery barrages. Commander Golic had taken over the column, but they still had no food and very little water. 

So many more would have died, but for three strokes of luck. On the evening of Friday 14, they overheard the Serbs planning an ambush. So when Serb Special Forces captain Zoran Jankovic tried to sneak into the column in civilian clothes, the Bosniaks were waiting. 

They captured Jankovic; with him as a hostage, they had some leverage. But they were still down to their last 500 bullets; then in fierce fighting, they captured a Serb arms dump, including an anti-aircraft gun. 

Using Jankovic’s walkie-talkie, Golic had finally managed to contact Srebrenica’s commander-in-chief, Naser Oric, in Tuzla. They arranged to break through the Serb lines at a village called Baljkovica, and Oric promised to put together a group of volunteers to punch through from the other side.

It was late afternoon when Golic and the front arrived at the woods above the Serb front line.

‘We could see Bosnian territory. We could also see the Serbs fortifying their line,’ says Pilav. ‘It was a fortress: trenches, mines. A double front line facing towards us.’

The situation looked hopeless. Suddenly the heavens opened with hailstones the size of walnuts and sheets of rain. It was the perfect cover. Golic struck. The Bosnians took four tanks before the Serbs knew what had hit them and turned them on the Serbs. ‘We had the tanks for 30 minutes before the Serbs destroyed them,’ says Pilav. 

The fighting continued hard through the night. It was at 6am that relief finally came, when Oric arrived with his volunteers. The Serbs were now on the backfoot, fighting on two fronts. 

It was 1.30pm on July 16 that the column finally broke through to Bosnian territory. The refugees met Naser Oric on the other side but it wasn’t over.

For hours, Naser Oric and the fighters on Dr Pilav’s side fought to keep the corridor open, as the desperate escapees fled through. 

‘It was like being reborn,’ says Bektic. ‘I was just numb,’ adds Pilav. ‘I kept thinking about all my family and friends who had died.’ 

The corridor finally collapsed at 6pm. Only 3,500 of them had made it through. Hundreds had died in the battle for the corridor, and up to a thousand men were still trapped in the Serb-held woods on the other side. Pilav, manning his hospital, was one of the last through. 

Tragically, Commander Golic, who saved so many lives, was killed in the battle for the tanks. His men kept his death secret in order to keep up morale, burying him in the dirt with their knives. He was reburied in Potocari cemetery last year. 

Each year, the woods yield up more bodies. This year, as we watched, 613 more were buried; the roll call of their names took over 45 minutes. 

The survivors of Srebrenica may be scattered all over the world, but more than 30,000 people came to the mass funeral this year and the survivors and their sons carried the coffins shoulder high to their graves. General Mladic may have tried to annihilate the men of Srebrenica, but he failed. 

The town lives on.

 Bosnian Serbs patrol the empty streets of Srebrenica in July 1995.

Bags containing the remains of victims of the Srebrenica massacre.

Mevludin Oric, in tears as he recounts the Serb genocide. Captured by the Serbs two days into the Death March, he miraculously survived a brutal mass execution by pretending to be dead.

Ratko Mladic is believed to be behind the murder of up to 8,000 Muslim men and boys at Srebrenica.

Some of the thousands of photographs of The Missing believed killed during the Srebrenica slaughter.