#in a car with my friends driving through an old civil war battlefield?

[bucky-s-girl-n-stuff]

One Shot [B.B]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Words: 2 226

Summary: Sam gets injured on a mission forcing the team to stop in France where Bucky meets someone unusual.

Rating: G

Warnings: Almost death of a character, mention of injuries (no descriptions), arguing.

Civil War, Infinity War and Endgame never happened, everyone is happy and friends with each other. 

The Avengers had been called to intervene at an old Hydra base that had been active again. The mission was successful and the intel secure. Nevertheless, they had been outnumbered and Sam had gotten badly hurt. He was unconscious, lying on a stretcher in the Quinjet. Bruce was assessing his injuries while everyone was attending their own wounds the best they could. 

"He's not gonna make it..." 

As soon as those words left Bruce mouth, everyone stopped what they were doing. All eyes were directed toward Sam. Each one of them wanting to scream at the thought of losing him. You could see heads churning plans after plans to make it to the medical bay sooner, to heal him right now. But there was nothing to do really, it was almost too late. They were flying over Europe and even with the Quinjet, it would still take hours to arrive at the Tower.

Bucky was the first one to move forward Sam and the only one brave enough to break the silence.

"We have to do something..."

"Buck..." Steve started.

"I know someone," Tony interrupted "Nat, where are we right now?"

"Over Germany, why?" She responded.

"Head over to France. We're saving him and if it's too late... at least we can say we tried our best." Tony gave a small smile at Bucky who nodded thankfully at him. Tony got to the GPS, taping in the new coordinates.

After a few hours, they were on the French soil and thanks to Tony, 3 cars were waiting for them. The drive from the airport was short. The Avengers were in front of a house, in the middle of the Parisian suburbs, at 3 in the morning. The scene would be comical if not for the tragic state of Sam. They were all filthy with mud and dust from the battlefield, still in suits, sheepishly standing in front of a yellow and red house surrounded by a fence and plants for privacy purposes. Tony was the first to enter the property. A man was standing on the terrace, arms crossed, looking angry. The second the Avengers were up the terrace stairs, Tony and the man began to argue. 

"I told you to never come back. I don't want to hear it!" The stranger said to Tony in a heavy french accent.

"And trust me I don't want to be here either but it's a life or death situation!"

"The last time you said that, she was the one who almost died!"

"I know and I promise, it's not going to reach her limits this time!"

"No, she is not going to do this again because you know this time she won't stop that easy. You can't just come here when you need it and use her like that!"

"It's not true! You know it's not like that and that I always make sure she is safe !"

"Like you did last time?"

Tony huffed at the last statement and ran a hand over his face. He was tired from the mission and Sam was going to die if he didn't hurry up.

"Please, (Y/F/N)," as Tony was pleading, he shifted to the right so your father could see Sam being held by Steve and Bucky. "He needs her help...he needs your help." Tony finished with a sigh. (Y/F/N) looked up to the night sky, annoyed and sighed. 

"Fine." He finally said. At those words, the whole team was relieved, even though they still didn't know what that meant. (Y/F/N) led the team inside the house. He put the pillows from the two couches on the dining table before instructing Bucky and Steve to lay Sam down on it. The two executed themselves gently, not to hurt him even more. (Y/F/N) and Tony went up the stairs, leaving them a few minutes.

You were being woken up by gentle shakes and a hand passing through your hair. You opened your eyes, your mind still clouded with sleep. Your father was standing above you, a sad smile on his lips.

"Dad? Is everything okay?" You worried with a groggy voice. 

"Yeah, don't worry sweetheart." He replied. You frowned at his word, clearly sensing that something was wrong. You sat up against your headboard, rubbing off the sleep in your eyes.

"What's going on?" You insisted. Instead of answering, your father looked behind him. Your eyes widened at the sight of Tony entering your room.

"Hi kiddo," Tony said with a small smile. In return, you gave him a wide smile and got off your bed to hug him. 

"I missed you," you said, your voice muffled by Tony's shirt.

"I missed you too," Tony replied. You couldn't see his painful expression from what he was about to ask you."I need your help, sweetheart."

Your eyes slowly opened and you silently sighed. You detached yourself from his embrace and looked in his eyes. When you saw the sorry and fearful look in his eyes, you gave him a small and reassuring smile. 

"Okay." You said. You heard your father sighed behind you. You knew he thought it was too dangerous but how could you let people die when you had the power to save them. Of course, your father agreed with that but what he didn't agree with was what it cost you.

The Team lifted their eyes from Sam to the staircase as they heard people coming down. Bucky's eyes focused on you the minute you got into his visual field. He didn't even notice everyone taking a step back as you approached Sam's body. 

"Buck" Steve whispered to get his attention. As Bucky was about to take a step back too, he was softly stopped by a hand on his metal arm. You didn't flinch at the feeling though.

"You can stay if you want. It'll be nice for him to see a familiar face when he wakes up." You said smiling. You took your hand off of his arm and gave all your attention to Sam. Bucky did as you said and stayed by Sam's side.

You quickly looked at all his injuries, keeping in mind the most important ones. Tony went by your side before you could start.

"Just heal the most important, don't drain yourself, please..." He whispered in your ears. You didn't give him a sign that you had heard him, even though you had. Tony left the room with your father, the two of them far too anxious for the same and different reasons. 

Nat, Bruce, Clint, Wanda and Vision sat down on the couches, exhausted by everything but wanting to keep an eye on what was going on with Sam while Bucky and Steve stayed by his side. 

You closed your eyes to focus and gather the energy you needed to heal the man before you. You were what was called a healer. You could heal, with the energy flowing through your body, anything and anyone you wanted. As it was not in your blood, you were sad at first not to be able to give a cure to the deadliest diseases in this world. But you tried for a while to go on hospital journeys to heal as many people as you could. That's when you understood that this energy in you was not infinite. You had fainted trying to heal a little girl sick with a brain tumour. Some diseases or wounds took way too much energy from you. That's when you met Tony. He was the one to tell you that without this energy you could die and that you would need training to use it to its full capacity. It took less and less time for you to recover from healing someone, your energy regenerating faster. You had succeeded a few years ago to heal this little girl thanks to the training Tony gave you. He was the only one, except for your parents, to know about your powers.

Bucky was fascinated by the scene that was unfolding before him. Your entire being was emanating this yellow and orange energy like flames engulfing your form. Your eyes turned completely white as your hands started to roam Sam's body. At the contact of your energy, bucky saw Sam's wounds close themselves and his skin not sporting a single scar. Bucky continued to admire your work alternating between your face, your hands and Sam. He was pulled back into reality as your warm energy suddenly died down and Sam's jerking up into a sitting position, awake.

"Welcome back, birdie," Bucky said, smiling widely.

"Yeah yeah, I couldn't leave without annoying you some more Elsa," Sam said, trying to get his breath under control. Bucky smiled at his sassy behaviour. Soon enough The avengers had gathered around Sam to ask about how he was feeling. Bucky was the only one to notice you leaving upstairs. 

You felt more than tired after healing that man, Sam. His wounds were deeper than you thought and you hadn't prepared to use this much energy. You discreetly made your way back to your room, leaving them reuniting. It was always overwhelming for you to see a family come together after you healed someone. It reminded you that this power was a gift to give love and happiness in people's lives. You were startled by a knock on your door. When you turned toward the noise, you saw the man from earlier that was standing by Sam.

"Hi," He said, hesitantly taking a step into your bedroom.

"Hi," You responded, looking down at your hands. You couldn't deny that he was a little bit intimidating and the fact that you had felt a metal arm earlier wasn't exactly reassuring. But if your father let him in, it must have meant that he trusted him so you didn't feel scared or threatened.

"I wanted to say thank you for what you did. I'm Bucky, by the way."

"Your welcome Bucky, I'm glad I could help your friend." You responded with a timid smile. When he took another step forward you could feel your chest become heavy.

"You didn't only help Sam back there." He took another step. He was three steps away from you now. "But everyone downstairs." Another step. You couldn't tear your eyes off him. Those blue/grey eyes held so much intensity that it was hard to look anywhere else. Bucky was also sensing this tension in the room. Breathing became much harder and he felt very hot suddenly. He gulped down when you licked your suddenly dry lips. You should have brought up a cup of water. 

"Well, it was my pleasure Bucky." you breathed out.

"You never told be your name," he stated, taking a step forward.

"(Y/N)"

He said it again as if tasting the sound of it in his mouth. The second he said it, you couldn't help your energy from coming out of your body and engulfing your frame. Bucky didn't even budge, but instead took a last step forward reaching his flesh hand out. The second his hand touched your halo of energy, it was like you had been shocked. He pulled back immediately, afraid he had hurt you. Your energy died down then.

"Wow" was all you said. 

"Are you okay?" He asked, still worried.

"Yeah," you let out a small chuckle. "I've never felt better actually. It's like...it's like you gave me all the energy I've ever spent back." You stated confuse at your own words. Bucky didn't say anything after that, he seemed to be thinking about something. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it. You could see what he wanted to do, his hand twitching at his side. This time, it was you who took a step forward and reach for his hand. When you touched nothing happened. You looked up to Bucky to find him already staring at you. 

"Your eyes," He said. You turned your head to look at your reflection in the mirror on your wall. Your eyes were white, exactly like when you were summoning your powers. 

"What's happening?" Bucky asked you, making you look at him again. 

"I'm not sure." You answered. "When I was younger and my powers started to surface, Tony sent me to this witch in the south to help me figure out myself and what I wanted to do now. She was my spiritual guide for 3 years and taught me everything I needed to know about this gift and how to control it. She said I was a Healer. Someone that has a great power of healing anything alive. But she said that I could also if I learned how to take someone's life and turn it into energy that I would take for my regeneration or simply for more power. But to every great power comes a weakness. Someone was made to counterstrike my power. This, someone, was made to be my antithesis to stop me from being consumed by my power or accumulating too much."

"So... what you're saying is...I'm your antithesis?"

"I mean I don't know for sure but with what happened I wouldn't be surprised." You answered sheepishly.

"Your eyes went back to normal," Bucky informed you. You gazed some more into each other eyes until Bucky broke the silence.

"How about we go on a witch hunt?"

[cleverwolfpoetry]

Psycho-pass The movie Novel chpt. 5 complete

In the past I posted this chapter in two parts. As I’m used to link only entire chapters in my index, I have posted here the complete chapter. It looks like ages since I posted the last ones, but I have not dropped the project at all. I’m working on chapters 6 together with case 2 and 3 of PP Sinners of the system and I hope to post something new soon.

here follows the copy&past from the 2 parts I translated, together with the many pictures I posted and the notes at the end. BEWARE: It’s very very...very long.

A particular mention to SEAUn Chairman Han’s name. I have corrected it in Chairman Chuang Hang as it was meant to be this way by the authors. I took notice of it while browsing the Official profiling book nr. 2 and decided to change it in all the chapters.

 Note before reading: sentences in italics represent the character’s thoughts.

1

SEAUn, early morning. The sunrise made Shambala Float shine like a kaleidoscope. Even the surface of the sea surrounding the Float reflected the light, it was just like a waving jewel box. Talking about beauty only, this Shambala Float was extraordinarily beautiful. However, that was on condition that ‘you looked it from afar’. Taking a close-up look, the violent System was crawling everywhere there.

Shambala Float’s high stories. In the courtyard of the National Military Police’s quarters close to the Chairman’s official residence, one military unit, about 60 men, was proceeding with preparation of an attack. Nicholas was the one in command. The number of men was scarce but to counterbalance that, the entire unit was being boosted by military drones of different sizes. 

The largest number consisted of ‘Skanda’ *, antipersonnel combat drones walking on two legs. The appearance of a dodo bird badly done.  They walked in a bobbing way with reverse joints bird legs and were equipped with a minigun, rocket launcher and shotgun. Such Skanda approached an eight wheels armored transport vehicle. This armored transport vehicle was named ‘Agni’*.  Inside one single Agni, ten soldiers in close ranks and twelve Skanda could be taken on board.   

Flying drones also took off from the heliport at the high stories.

The ‘Ganga’ *, helicopter type assault drones. A model with a couple of crossed rotors. After being synchronized not to collide with each other, the blades of the two rotors had been inclined diagonally. As weapons, a machine gun and air-to-ground missiles. As for the repression on the ground, they displayed an overwhelming striking power.                                                                        Then the ‘Parvati’ *, a reconnaissance jet aircraft type drone. The size was small, but it could even exceed the speed of sound at its maximum power. Through the complex sensors of the plane nose and the electronic pods* on both wings used for reconnaissance, it collected data on the battlefield and managed them.

The ‘Mahakala’ *, a jet bomber aircraft type drone. Equipped with intelligent cluster bombs*, it flew at high speed and scattered a large number of guided bombs. 

To control such drones, the ‘Siva’ *, an operational command vehicle. A ten wheels gigantic car. The front part was divided into cockpit and troops transport, in the back part there was the combat information center*. It was equipped with a 40 mm unmanned gun turret and a machine gun. Compared to an ordinary armored vehicle, the communication functions were much more strengthened.                                                          

Nicholas had gotten into the combat information center of the operational command vehicle Siva. The inside of the car was completely covered with monitors and consoles. There were three operators besides Nicholas. Only with this number of people, they could control the one hundred drones nearby in a lump.

“Move out”

A voice command. Nicholas instructed the driving AI. The engine of the operational command car started — however, it stopped immediately.

“What!”

He said checking the camera monitors.

A person was standing in front of the command vehicle. 

The car had had stopped on its own, however what was standing in the way was not an enemy but an important person. It was Tsunemori Akane. The friend or foe system (IFF) was connected to all the drone weapons. Even if such a vehicle could run the enemy over and kill or shoot him dead, the safety system worked automatically on the allies. The number of people dying under the friendly fire on the battlefield was so big to be alarming. A system to prevent it was very important. Tsunemori, who had been sent from the Japanese Ministry of Welfare, had been registered in the IFF system as a VIP.

When Nicholas opened the door, she got into the combat information center.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Her outfit consisted in a Ministry of Welfare’s military uniform she had hardly worn out of duty, a bulletproof vest and an ammunition belt. She had the custom government well secured in the holster mounted directly on the vest* and ammunition spares prepared on her belt. She was asking for permission as a formality, but she had just taken an attitude that gave no choice.

Nicholas frowned with a disagreeing look and yet he apparently payed respect to a VIP.

“…I don’t mind, but when the fight begins please follow our instructions as much as possible. I would appreciate if you stayed away from risk”

“Of course, I understand”

By means of the huge elevator, every single piece of that high-grade mechanical platoon had been transferred exactly as it was until the lowest stories.  

Near the exit, they joined the four-legs tanks — the ‘Ganesha’. 

Their main weapon was a 120 mm smoothbore gun*, the auxiliary weapon a machine gun against air and ground attacks. These armaments also made in Japan for sure. Usually they moved on four crawler belts, but when they entered uneven ground that formation changed, they could even walk on four legs. They were unmanned tanks that dealt with three-tridimensional warfare* amid urban fights.

One Siva.

Four Agni.

A sum of about twenty unmanned aircrafts.  

Then eight Ganesha.

The metallic troops arranged in ranks crossed the bridge over the gate and left for the attack. They passed through the city slums intimidating the population and proceeded with a roaring sound on the roads of the rural area. The weather had gotten quickly worse. Changes in the tropical air were sudden. Large drops of rain hit the armored cars. The roads were a quagmire of mud, the river had flooded, but the military vehicles and drones went on as it was nothing. The unexpected rain stopped suddenly as it formerly had come. Only wet men and thick rain clouds remained.

“What kind of operation is this?”

Tsunemori asked inside the shaking car.

“You know, there is a ghost town that was destroyed during the civil war. There’s a high chance that place has become a base for the anti-government guerrilla”

“The Japanese drones must have been provided to you for the task of the public order maintenance, isn’t it? Are you using them for a purpose other than the defense?”  

“The removal of a latent threat is also a part of the public order maintenance task. This kind of usage doesn’t go against the rules”  

Nicholas went on with the explanation in a detached tone.

“…after all, Shambala Float is nothing but the first step of the climbing. We must make the control exercised by the Sibyl System popular in the entire nation in any case. To do that, it’s necessary that we eliminate the armaments of the resistance forces as quickly as possible and that people accept to have their psycho-pass measured”

2

The old town looked out on a great river, fresh ruins were the scars left by the war. Reddish-brown shacks made of rusty corrugated iron and the desolated ruins were lying one upon another, looking like an immense garbage dump. There were scrapped cars lined up on the road, outdated barricades left in every important point.  

The guerrilla’s operation bases had been built in various places of such an old town. In the shade of the corrugated-iron, in the depths of an abandoned building, there was an area where ammunitions were piled up. A large number of guerrilla soldiers was ready and standing-by, in view of the fight against the government troops of Shambala Float.

Circling over the old town, the reconnaissance drones Parvati scanned the ground and buildings through their high-performance cameras with infrared function and powerful electromagnetic waves radars.  They could seize not only the guerrilla soldiers outside, but also the ones inside roughly to their position. Those data were immediately shared on the monitors of the operational command vehicle on the ground.

The anti-government guerrilla had also noticed the government troops. Some of them had AK rifle* models of the year 2030 at the ready, others were reassembling RPG – 29* divided into two pieces. They put tandem HEAT* anti-tank warhead in the launchers.

A preemptive strike  — four helicopter type drones Ganga, each one with two shots, launched a total of eight air-to-ground missiles. A succession of explosions strong enough to smash the high-rise buildings occurred. The air trembled and the ground shook. A blast of hot air raised a cloud of dust from the ground.

The Parvati was a reconnaissance aircraft, but it carried a minigun in the part under the airplane nose.

Minigun — an electrically driven Gatling gun* with six barrels. Its high rate of fire was 3000 shots per minute of 7,62 mm caliber bullets.  

The minigun breathed fire, the large diameter rifle bullets pierced the ruin walls easily and shot the guerrilla soldiers down.

The guerrilla was helpless in such an attack from the sky.

The human bodies were smashed without difficulty.

The tank drone Ganesha shot with its primary gun on the basis of the data from the sky reconnaissance.

The 120 mm multipurpose antitank grenades made the building crumble with a single blow.

“This is horrible…”

Tsunemori had involuntarily muttered.

“If the cymatic scan detects nothing wrong, the safety is working. The thing is that their crime coefficient reaches the standard level of a latent criminal” Nicholas said.

“There’s no way that a psycho-pass measured in such a condition could give a normal value!”

“Unfortunately, in this country there aren’t facilities to rehabilitate them through the mental care yet. In this renewed SEAUn only the citizen who are needed will be left. These scum… they are, so to speak, the leftovers of our civil war days”

“…”

Fight — the massacre continued.

The four Aguni dropped the loaded Skanda, the drones walking on two legs.

Forty-eight Skanda started to move in search of their preys and stormed into the building. The drones scanned the places they couldn’t cover with unmanned aircrafts and rained the heavy fire of the miniguns on the guerrilla soldiers who had been hiding, shooting to death the men with a clouded hue regardless of their intent to fight. It was irrelevant that they were throwing down arms and begging for their lives. The important thing was the psycho-pass only.

— at the same time.

Kougami Shinya was on the roof of a building 1 km far from the combat zone. Khaki military uniform and a tactical vest full of pouches with weapons.  

A prone shooting position. He was at the ready with a huge anti-material rifle standing on a bipode.

The rifle was a 20 mm caliber. Five armor-piercing ammunitions in the magazine box.

As this was a long-range shot, he really wanted an observer — a spotter, but unfortunately Sem was in command of the troops elsewhere. Thus, he had adjusted the fire control system by himself in place of the spotter.

“…”

The bullets fired from this rifle had the merit of having a muzzle initial velocity* close to three times the speed of sound. They didn’t take a second to reach a target beyond 1 km. It was possible to hit most of the drones except for jet planes.

Through the holographic sight device* that worked together with the portable terminal on his wrist, he corrected the aim while predicting the route of the assault helicopter drone. Battlefield and target were displayed before Kougami’s eyes through the hologram and the place he wanted to shoot at zoomed.

He squeezed the trigger —.

The sound of gunfire — no, should it be called roar of cannon?

Accompanied by the loud sound of the sonic boom*, the 20 mm heavy shell* hit directly the base of the assault helicopter drone making a big hole and throwing off sparks. Kougami ejected the shell with the bolt action* and charged the next bullets. He fired immediately a second and third shot. He centered the impact of the bullets on the origin of the motive power. The rotor instantly emitted fire and was blown off. The assault helicopter drone lost control and fell.

3

Shooting down a helicopter type assault drone was unlikely for a regular guerrilla fight. Tsunemori was not a specialist in that field but she knew the efficiency of Japan-made drones.

The light spots of the drones went out one after another.

Rounding his eyes, “…it’s that guy?!”

Nicholas muttered in an annoyed tone.

This time, Tsunemori sensed Kougami’s presence beyond the monitor.

It’s not that it was a proof at the moment. Only, the presentiment of meeting again had run through her heart as quick as lightning.

Kougami put the antimaterial rifle away in its case, locked it and covered the box with a sheet that blocked the electromagnetic waves. It was too heavy to carry but, being a valuable model of rifle, he had planned to pick it up later.

An entire set of equipment for rappelling* had been arranged on the terrace of that building.  A rappelling rope made of reinforced polyester, able to take a load near the 4 tons, was tied to a steel pipe. Kougami grabbed the rope and threaded it through the carabiner — a ring-like metal fitting used to connect the body to the rope, then attached it to his belt. Without the slightest hesitation, he jumped down from the terrace. With training, men get used even to the fall from a height. Kicking the wall, he fell like he was flying and went to the ground in one go. Unclipped the carabiner, Kougami started to run and got into a light truck parked there in advance. In that vehicle, an assault rifle and a cylinder grenade launcher had been prepared on the passenger seat. While pulling the weapons and taking them on his back, he started the engine. He ran through the ruins at full speed.

While driving, he gave instructions to his comrades through the portable terminal.

“…start the counterattack. Do exactly as I taught you”

Received Kougami’s instructions, an armed guerrilla’s truck started to run towards the government drone units. On the truck bed, there was an ECM* pod retrieved by the bomber aircrafts. A technical expert positioned on the truck turned on the ECM with a laptop. Doing so, powerful jamming electromagnetic waves were emitted.

Because of that influence, the small drones strayed off course. Lost control, the unmanned aircrafts fell.

Inside the operational command vehicle Siva, an operator yelled hysterically.

“The small drones are out of control. It’s a jamming device!”

“It doesn’t matter” Nicholas said with a scowl. “The larger drones are stand-alone. They can’t measure the psycho-pass but they’re good as long as the friend or foe system is working”

“That’s exactly what they must have predicted”

Tsunemori chilled him with her words.

“ ! ” Nicholas glared at Tsunemori with hostility.

A drastic change happened on the monitors. The guerrilla had increased its activity.

After securing a safe route by shooting down the helicopters in the assault, the ECM entered the scene. The timing had been calculated −−−. The armed guerrilla men, who were hiding everywhere behind the ruins, started the counterattack appearing all at once. Once again, the guerrilla reinforcements came running on technical vehicles from the suburbs one after another.

Under the ECM jamming, the four-legs tanks Ganeshas had been separated by the operators’ control. Obeying to the algorithm for military use, they began to move in pseudo-autonomy. They tried to point their main guns to the technical vehicles.

At that moment, several guerrilla men threw grenades from the shadows of the ruins. Ordinary grenades wouldn’t have had effect on a Ganesha, but these ones generated a surge current from a high capacity condenser that short-circuited the electronic parts with an electromagnetic pulse.

After a flash of lightning, the Ganeshas and Skandas movement stopped.

“…what was that?”

Nicholas must have seen this weapon for the first time. A clear agitation was written on his face. Despite having the knowledge of that technology inside his head, he had never seen it used for real and couldn’t react promptly.

“An electromagnetic pulse grenade!” Tsunemori shouted irritated.

Listening to that, Nicholas startled checked the status of the drone troops again.

“There’s an electromagnetic shield on the main parts. Start them again immediately!”

“If you have the chance to start the drones again, it’ll be enough!”

Immediately after the pulse grenades, the guerrilla men had suspended the ECM jamming. Keeping in contact through the radio, they moved to counterattack launching the RPGs, antitank rockets, on the Ganeshas’ joints and top armors. During the restart time, the perfectly still drones became TARGETS* for several seconds. The men detonated IEDs (improvised explosive device), roadside bombs made modifying high-explosive shells, and blew away ten Skandas, making them collapse on the road and block the advancing of the armored cars. By the time the restart finished, the guerrilla men had already started to retreat. It’s been a heavy blow for the drones of the government troops −−− so it’s enough, I guess he’s judged like that. The guerrilla’s tactical advisor −−− the chance it’s Kougami Shinya is high −−− he has truly an excellent judgment, Tsunemori thought.  

“We can’t always end up being beaten. Let’s move to the chase!”

Nicholas said exasperated.

The Skandas hit the back of the retreating guerrilla.

They cornered several of those foolish men in a blind alley. The figures of the men throwing away the weapons and pleading for their lives had been displayed on the monitors of the command operational vehicle too. Watching that, Tsunemori noticed sharply “The opponents aren’t resisting!”, but Nicholas wouldn’t listen.

A light truck dashed there and clashed with all its strength on a Skanda that was about to execute some guerrilla men, thrusting it away.

“−−− !”

Through the cameras of the hit Skanda, the face of the light truck driver could be confirmed. 

Looking at his face, Tsunemori opened the door.

She jumped out of the vehicle.

“What are your intentions?!”

“It’s a criminal investigation!”  

Tsunemori shouted back to Nicholas’ angry voice.

“Don’t walk away from us! Here’s a battlefield!”

Ignoring those words, Tsunemori began to run with all her might.

4

The light truck Kougami had gotten into received the withering fire of the rebooted Skandas. The rear part was blown away in a flash. Kougami jumped off the partially destroyed truck and rolling on the ground, he took position with the grenade launcher at the ready. Shooting a shaped charge* in a prone position, he opened a big hole on a Skanda and destroyed it. He stood up and did it again then ran like a hurricane through the ruins, become a battlefield.

Kougami caught sight of his comrades’ squad leaders at the meeting point. Each of the six leaders was in command of ten subordinates. The faces of these men, who were checking the escape route, lit up upon seeing him. In that hard battlefield, those looks conveyed him the hope of counterattack they had because of his presence.  Kougami himself would have definitely withdrawn from such a burden but the tense situation hadn’t allowed it.

“Listen! I’m luring the enemy, in the meanwhile draw down the troops!” Kougami fired his instructions to the squad leaders. “We are in control now but, if you don’t pay attention they’ll massacre you in no time!”

The leaders nodded and started to move.

Kougami started his solo action. His comrades were worried about it but the will to do dangerous actions alone was Kougami’s natural disposition. After the pulse grenade, a persistent Skanda they had failed to bring down during the restart time was running around chasing the guerrilla men. If I managed to draw it, I’d like to turn it into scrap…

Kougami stepped into a once commercial building. It was a covered shopping arcade with a roof made of toughened glass. Hiding in the shadows, he replenished the ammunitions of the grenade launcher.

At that moment, he heard footsteps.

Someone was getting close rapidly.

It wasn’t a guerrilla man. His other comrades must have all gone for the escaping route. −−− A soldier of the government army? Recently they have started to rely on drones, the chance they have invested soldiers at this timing is low but…

The owner of the footsteps dashed out from the corner.

As a result, Kougami crouched down, ready to ambush. He tried to keep back the grenade launcher he was carrying on his shoulder through a slinger and grabbed his opponent’s arms tightly.

Then — he realized. He knew that person.

Tsunemori Akane.

The instant he had understood that his opponent was Tsunemori Akane, Kougami’s grip loosened. She shook herself free from Kougami’s hands and, turning around, restrained him in a joint lock. Grabbing Kougami’s right arm with both hands, Tsunemori immobilized his elbow. Kougami willingly jumped, escaping from Tsunemori’s technique that had become quite sharp.  

The distance increased.

Tsunemori rapidly pulled out a gun.

“…it’s been a while, Kougami-san”

The voice of a woman concealing her emotions. Kougami unconsciously made a wry smile.

“Truly, I didn’t expect you to come this far…”

“You are under arrest”

“Arrest…? Do you understand the situation?”

“Are you the one who sent terrorists to Japan, Kougami-san?”

The talk had gotten strange.

“What? What do you mean?”

When Kougami grimaced and was about to ask back, Tsunemori also showed confusion.

“Then…”

A bad sign —. Outside the building, the footsteps of one of those tanks with robotic arms. Kougami instantly pounced on Tsunemori. Tsunemori was holding the gun but there’s no way she would have shot him, he was sure of this. Holding Tsunemori tight, he covered her for protection. Then the fire of the Ganesha. The artillery shell flew overhead, and the shock of the impact ran. The window glasses had been smashed to pieces all at once, scattering around, an entire abandoned shopping center demolished.

After that, the Ganesha opened a rapid-fire with the machine-gun. The gunfire shot through the wall was following Kougami and Tsunemori. The aim is not precise, I wonder if it’s thanks to Tsunemori’s presence. She must be registered in the friend or foe system.

“…what are you gonna do, Inspector? Shoot me or let me go? Which one?”

“…I’ll cooperate with you”

“Hey, wait!”

“It’s only temporary. As part of the investigation”

 5

Through the Ganesha’s camera, Tsunemori’s figure had been also ascertained by the operational command vehicle.

“The Japanese girl is moving with a man who looks a guerrilla leader!”

A leading member of the guerrilla −−− a tactical advisor −−− Kougami Shinya. The enforcer escaped from Japan.

“Take out that brat from the friend or foe system…!”

Nicholas yelled loudly. As if he believed the more he made his voice big the more the orders were executed rapidly.

“But…”  the operator hesitated.

“Here’s a battlefield! Strategy takes priority!”

“It’ll take time. We have to send back the system to the headquarters first or it won’t work”

“Shit!”

Destroying the walls which had become cheese-like because of the bullet holes, the Ganesha appeared in the arcade shopping center and ran after Kougami and Tsunemori. As Tsunemori was an “Ally” according to the friend or foe system, Kougami was actually the only one to be recognized as a target.

The two escaped until they reached a plaza with a fountain within the arcade. The plaza covered by a dome had human-shaped bronze statues that looked like great men of this country in the middle and around the statues, an artificial pool with jets of water. Even the plaza that must have been beautiful once, abandoned for many years, seemed to have received stray bullets from the civil war everywhere. The water of the artificial pool with the broken edges had mixed with rainwater in the past days, as a result it was slightly dirty.  

“Jump in”

Kougami said.

Despite a moment of hesitation, Tsunemori obeyed to those words.

She wasn’t good at swimming. −−− unpleasant memories, a past trauma. However, the rainwater pool in that plaza had such a depth that her feet barely touched the bottom and of all things, recently Tsunemori was practicing swimming actively, nevertheless gingerly.  This was a good chance to test the results of her training.

Swimming in the cold water, Kougami and Tsunemori hid in the shadows of the bronze statues. The Ganesha was getting close, leaving deep marks on its path. The damping factor of infrared rays and laser scanning was bigger in water and the drone lost its targets. However, after a revaluation, and the Ganesha switched into body motion detection mode.

Taking advantage of the revaluation moment, the fugitives turned behind the drone back. Kougami, who had stepped out of the rainwater pool, took the grenade launcher on his back and fired at the roof of the plaza dome. Explosive had been placed there as a measure in case of need. A chain detonation burst with a domino effect. The heavy bass sound of multiple impacts −−− . Blown up by the grenade, the roof fell untouched and buried the Ganesha.

To avoid being swallowed up by the collapsing building, Kougami and Tsunemori got out of the arcade in great haste.

After coming out of the Arcade commercial building, they found a small wooded area at a short walking distance. Entered the wooded area, Kougami approached a thick raised bush. In that bush, an infrared intercepting sheet, abundantly concealed by foliage and tree branches, was covering something. Kougami grabbed the sheet and tore it off. Hidden under it, a military jeep equipped with a heavy machine gun.

Kougami jumped on the driving seat and Tsunemori on the passenger seat. The engine started through the fingerprint authentication.

They were running fast on a roadway in a wooded area inside the military jeep.

“…what does it mean? Explain me, please”

“it’s exactly as you see. I’m taking part to the movement for the democratization of this country as a military advisor against the drones”

“This car, where is it headed?”

“There are still some places here and there where the power of government forces is weak. We’re heading in one of those places…by the way, Inspector”

“Stop that, please…”

When he had been told ‘stop that’, for a moment Kougami didn’t understand. After some thought, he realized it. He had called her ‘Inspector’. — That’s the hound behavior, it seems that neither several years abroad could break this habit.

“Tsunemori…don’t you think there’s something off about him? That chairman”

“…eh?”

“He’s rather a good-for-nothing man. I wonder what a dictator’s crime coefficient looks like”

For more translations, visit me at https://cleverwolfpoetry.tumblr.com/

NOTES TO TRANSLATION:

*Skanda:  name of deities popular amongst Hindus and Buddhists.

*Agni: means fire, and connotes the Vedic fire god of Hinduism. Agni also refers to one of the guardian deities of direction, who is typically found in southeast corners of Hindu temples. In classical cosmology of Indian religions, Agni as fire has been one of the five inert impermanent constituents (Dhatus) along with space (Akasa), water (Ap), air (Vayu) and earth (Prithvi), the five combining to form the empirically perceived material existence (Prakriti). (from Wikipedia)

*Ganga: In Hinduism, the river Ganges is considered sacred and is personified as the goddess Gaṅgā. (from Wikipedia)

*Parvati: Hindu goddess of fertility, love and devotion; as well as of divine strength and power. (from Wikipedia)

*electronic pods: pods are external equipment carried on aircrafts to provide or enhance specific capabilities critical to planned missions.  They provide a portable, quickly-fielded means to adapt aircraft to emerging requirements and threats. They can be classified through their primary sensors and their scopes. Pods can have different sensors (optical, electronic, laser, infrared) and different purposes (reconnaissance, surveillance, countermeasures, communication and data links).

*Mahakala: Mahākāla is a deity common to Hinduism, Buddhism and Sikhism. According to Hinduism, Mahākāla is the consort of Hindu Goddess Kali. Mahākāla also appears as a protector deity known as a dharmapala in Vajrayana Buddhism, particularly most Tibetan traditions, in Tangmi (Chinese Esoteric Buddhism) and in Shingon (Japanese Esoteric Buddhism). He is known as Dàhēitiān (大黑天) in Chinese and Daikokuten (大黒天) in Japanese. In Sikhism, Mahākāla is referred to as Kal, who is the governor of Maya. (from Wikipedia)

*cluster bombs: A cluster munition is a form of air-dropped or ground-launched explosive weapon that releases or ejects smaller submunitions. Commonly, it’s a cluster bomb that ejects explosive bomblets that are designed to kill personnel and destroy vehicles. Other cluster munitions are designed to destroy runways or electric power transmission lines, disperse chemical or biological weapons, or to scatter land mines. Some submunition-based weapons can disperse non-munitions, such as leaflets. (from Wikipedia)

*Siva: Śiva is one of the principal deities of Hinduism. He is the Supreme Being within Shaivism, one of the major traditions within contemporary Hinduism.

Śiva is the “destroyer of evil and the transformer” within the Trimurti, the Hindu trinity that includes Brahma and Vishnu. In Shaivism tradition, Śiva is the Supreme being who creates, protects and transforms the universe.

*combat information center: the Operations Room (also known as the Combat Information Center (CIC), or, under the British system, the Action Information Centre) is the tactical center of a warship or AWAC aircraft providing processed information for command and control of the near battlespace or ‘area of operations’. Within other military commands, rooms serving similar functions are called by the similar “Command Information Center” or simply “Command center”; the number of different terms for spaces that serve much the same function may explain why the plain and generally non-descriptive “Operations Center” is a prevalent term.

Regardless of the vessel or command locus, each CIC organizes and processes information into a form more convenient and usable by the commander in authority. Each CIC funnels communications and data received over multiple channels, which is then organized, evaluated, weighted and arranged to provide ordered timely information flow to the battle command staff under the control of the CIC officer and his deputies. (from Wikipedia)

* holster mounted directly on the vest:

The holster is mounted like a pouch on the tactical vest. See picture below for reference. 

*smoothbore gun: a smoothbore weapon is one that has a barrel without rifling. Smoothbores range from handheld firearms to powerful tank guns and large artillery mortars. The majority of shotguns are smoothbores and the term can be synonymous. (from Wikipedia)

*three-dimensional warfare: Three-Dimensional (3D) Tactics Analysis, is a tactical analysis methodology under the concept of Terrorist Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures. The approach is applicable to urban combat, and takes into account mass gatherings of people located in highly complex urban structures, incorporating features such as multi-level buildings, open spaces between buildings, crowd congregation points, and transport hubs.

As an introduction, 3D tactics is defined as tactics in the third dimension which is the space above and below ground level in land and urban operations. (from Wikipedia)

*AK rifle: kalashnikov type rifle.

*RPG–29: The RPG-29 “Vampir” is a shoulder-launched, unguided, tube-style, breech-loading anti-tank rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) launcher with a range of 500 meters. The light weapon is designed to be carried and used by a single soldier. On the top of the launch tube is a 2.7×1P38 optical sight.

Adopted by the Soviet Army in 1989, it was the last RPG to be adopted by the Soviet military before the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991. The RPG-29 has since been supplemented by other rocket-propelled systems, such as the RPG-30 and RPG-32. The RPG-29’s PG-29V tandem-charge warhead is one of the few anti-tank weapons that can penetrate the frontal hulls of Western composite-armored main battle tanks. (from Wikipedia)

*HEAT antitank warhead: A high-explosive anti-tank (HEAT) warhead is a type of shaped charge explosive that uses the Monroe effect to penetrate armor. The warhead functions by having the explosive charge collapse a metal liner to form a high-velocity superplastic jet. This concentrated metal jet is capable of penetrating armor steel to a depth of seven or more times the diameter of the charge (charge diameters, CD) but is usually used to immobilize or destroy tanks. Due to the way they work, they do not have to be fired as fast as an armor piercing shell, allowing less recoil. Contrary to a widespread misconception (possibly resulting from the acronym HEAT), the jet does not melt its way through armor, as its effect is purely kinetic in nature. The HEAT warhead has become less effective against tanks and other armored vehicles due to the use of composite armor and explosive-reactive armor. (from Wikipedia)

*minigun: The M134 Minigun is a 7.62×51mm NATO, six-barrel rotary machine gun with a high rate of fire (2,000 to 6,000 rounds per minute) which can also fire at a high sustained rate. It features Gatling-style rotating barrels with an external power source, normally an electric motor. The “Mini” in the name is in comparison to larger caliber designs that use a rotary barrel design, such as General Electric’s earlier 20-millimeter M61 Vulcan, and “gun” for the use of rifle caliber bullets as opposed to autocannon shells.

“Minigun” refers to a specific model of weapon that General Electric originally produced, but the term “minigun” has popularly come to refer to any externally powered rotary-style gun of rifle caliber. The term is sometimes used loosely to refer to guns of similar rates of fire and configuration regardless of power source and caliber. (from Wikipedia)

*electrically driven Gatling gun: The ancestor to the modern minigun was a hand cranked mechanical device invented in the 1860s by Richard Jordan Gatling. Gatling later replaced the hand-cranked mechanism of a rifle-caliber Gatling gun with an electric motor, a relatively new invention at the time. Even after Gatling slowed down the mechanism, the new electric-powered Gatling gun had a theoretical rate of fire of 3,000 rounds per minute, roughly three times the rate of a typical modern, single-barreled machine gun. Gatling’s electric-powered design received U.S. Patent #502,185 on July 25, 1893. Despite Gatling’s improvements, the Gatling gun fell into disuse after cheaper, lighter-weight, recoil and gas operated machine guns were invented; Gatling himself went bankrupt for a period. (from Wikipedia)

*muzzle initial velocity: Muzzle velocity is the speed of a projectile at the moment it leaves the muzzle of a gun. The velocity of a projectile is highest at the muzzle and drops off steadily because of air resistance. Projectiles traveling less than the speed of sound (about 340 m/s or 1115 feet/s in dry air at sea level) are subsonic, while those traveling faster are supersonic and thus can travel a substantial distance and even hit a target before a nearby observer hears the “bang” of the shot. (from Wikipedia)

*sight device: A sight is an aiming device used to assist in visually aligning ranged weapons, surveying instruments or optical illumination equipments with the intended target. Sights can be a simple set or system of markers that have to be aligned together with the target (such as iron sights on firearms), or optical devices that allow the user to see a sometimes optically enhanced (e.g. magnified) image of the target aligned in the same focus with an aiming point (e.g. telescopic sights, reflector sights and holographic sights). There are also sights that project an aiming point (or a “hot spot”) onto the target itself, such as laser sights and infrared illuminators on some night vision devices. (from Wikipedia)

*sonic boom: A sonic boom is the sound associated with the shock waves created by an object traveling through the air faster than the speed of sound. Sonic booms generate significant amounts of sound energy, sounding much like an explosion to the human ear. The crack of a supersonic bullet passing overhead or the crack of a bullwhip are examples of a sonic boom in miniature.

Contrary to popular belief, a sonic boom does not occur only at the moment an object crosses the speed of sound; and neither is it heard in all directions emanating from the speeding object. Rather the boom is a continuous effect that occurs while the object is travelling at supersonic speeds. But it only affects observers that are positioned at a some point that intersects an imaginary geometrical cone behind the object. As the object moves, this imaginary cone also moves behind it and when the cone passes over the observer, they will briefly experience the boom. (from Wikipedia)

CREDIT FOR THIS NICE IMAGE OF THE SONIC BOOM: By Lookang many thanks to Fu-Kwun Hwang and author of Easy Java Simulation = Francisco Esquembre - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16444999

I liked this gif very much. I could easily imagine the sonic wave accompanying Kougami’s bullet towards the helicopter drone.

*20 mm heavy shell: The 20 mm caliber is a specific size of cannon or autocannon ammunition. Since 20mm is the cutoff point where most nations switch from bullets to shells, it has come to also generally be the cutoff point between weapons classified as a machine gun or a cannon. (from Wikipedia)

*bolt action: Bolt action is a type of repeater firearm action where the handling of cartridges into and out of the weapon’s barrel chamber are operated by manually manipulating the bolt handle, which is most commonly placed on the right-hand side of the weapon (as most users are right-handed). As the handle is operated, the bolt is unlocked and pulled back opening the breech, the spent cartridge case is extracted and ejected, the firing pin within the bolt is cocked (either on opening or closing of the bolt depending on the gun design) and engages the sear, then upon the bolt being pushed back a new cartridge (if available) is loaded into the chamber, and finally the breech is closed tight by the bolt locking against the receiver. (from Wikipedia)

*rappelling: I think images speak by themselves

*ECM: acronym for electronic countermeasures. An electronic countermeasure (ECM) is an electrical or electronic device designed to trick or deceive radar, sonar or other detection systems, like infrared (IR) or lasers. It may be used both offensively and defensively to deny targeting information to an enemy. The system may make many separate targets appear to the enemy, or make the real target appear to disappear or move about randomly. It is used effectively to protect aircraft from guided missiles. Most air forces use ECM to protect their aircraft from attack. It has also been deployed by military ships and recently on some advanced tanks to fool laser/IR guided missiles. It is frequently coupled with stealth advances so that the ECM systems have an easier job. Offensive ECM often takes the form of jamming. Defensive ECM includes using blip enhancement and jamming of missile terminal homers. (from Wikipedia)

*TARGETS: written it in capital letters because in the book this sentence is written with dots above the kanjis.

*shaped charge: A shaped charge is an explosive charge shaped to focus the effect of the explosive’s energy. Various types are used to cut and form metal, initiate nuclear weapons, penetrate armor, and “complete” wells in the oil and gas industry.

[aberzombieandwitch]

Nope Forever Woods by Eek_afreak 🎃👻

Made this account purely to participate because I have a recent weird experience. This story is from about two months ago. I have no clear explanation for what the hell happened and it took me three attempts to work myself up to remembering it in enough detail to write it down. Here goes.

My husband and I are moderately unambitious hikers. As in, we enjoy going for a bit of a hill climb in the morning and then visiting a local brewery or something in the afternoon. In about mid-August of this year we decide to head over to a nearby civil war battlefield (we live in Virginia, about 85% of our parks seem to have been civil war battlefields so this is not considered a strange thing to do at all). A friend of ours and her two kids is visiting from PA so we invite them along.

The group is composed of me, the husband, our friend who I’ll call Sara and her two children. Tyler who is 14 and Alicia, 11. We set off on one of the marked trails but it’s more difficult than we had planned. We scramble up and down about three heavily wooded hills (about 40 degree incline up and down) on trails that are eroding pretty badly thanks to all the recent rain. We stop at the bottom of hill #3 (looking up at hill #4 from a bridge over a creek) to catch our breath. Sara and the husband are both trying to stay positive. Alicia is huffing and starting to whine and Tyler clearly thinks we’re all idiots and wishes he were anywhere else (admittedly he’s a 14 year old boy so he’s always seems on the verge of this attitude).

While Sara and the husband are working to rally the troops I’m retying my boot and craning my neck to see if there’s a secondary trail that’s a bit less vertical we could follow. At which point I see him. Now it should be noted that we have seen no other hikers until this point. That is a little unusual as this park is not far from town (it’s accessible through a neighborhood and we’d seen several dog walkers on the way in). However, we’ve taken what is clearly more of a nature trail than the flatter, better maintained ‘historic’ trail to the battlefield and cemetery. So I’m not initially concerned by the appearance of this new person. Quite the opposite actually. I’ve been worrying for the past 30-40 minutes that we’ve lost the normal hiking trails and have been mistakenly following temporary stream cuts over hill and dale.

In my newfound enthusiasm I wave at the figure, who is too far away from me to make out features except they are wearing what I think are dark long trousers and a long sleeve shirt.

As I do my husband says, honey, who’re you waving at? I turn and say, that guy, pointing at the top of the hill. But he’s no longer visible. I shrug it off, thinking he must have started down the trail.

We finally make it to level ground about 20 minutes later. The trees are even beginning to thin out as we walk along a long ridge. We stop for another breather/water break at the first historical placard we’ve seen in the park. As Sara reads aloud about general whomever and his exploits in 1860-something I notice Tyler standing about five feet away looking back down the path. I wander over to check up on him.

Who’s that? He asks me as I get close, pointing down the trail.

He’s acting weird. Tyler says. I remember feeling my scalp shrink up a bit under my hair as I say, trying to sound unconcerned and like the responsible adult in the situation, weird how?

Tyler says, I think he’s crawling or something. Look.

Now I really, really don’t want to look. But there’s still a possibility that Tyler may be fucking with me because he’s bored and 14. So I look. And I don’t see whomever Tyler is pointing at for a minute. Until I look at the ground near where the trail levels off at the top of the hill. Where there’s a dark, man shaped thing laid out on the ground. Kind of belly crawling. This is the point where I realize two things. 1. I cannot make out any features of this person, not clothes, not a face, nothing. They are just uniformly dark, like they’re perpetually in shadow. Even while they are crawling across the sunnier parts of the trail. 2. We need to not be in the woods anymore.

As I turn to Tyler to tell him to move for the visible battlefield area (where there are also several tour groups and dog walkers visible) my husband, Sara and Alicia suddenly join us, having noticed we were not participating in the historical marker read-along.

The husband asks me what’s up. And I say (quietly so nobody panics), we need to head out, that guy is creeping me out. My husband squints down the trail and says, what guy?

I look. Dude is still there, he’s paused in the belly crawling and is kind of concealed by some brush (also he’s still looks like he’s in shadow) but he’s visible. The guy crawling toward us. I say, sure that this will convince my suddenly unobservant husband that shit is not right. The husband squints right at the guy, clearly does not see him, and looks at me confused.

Tyler, proving that all my bad assumptions about teen boys are wrong in his case, sensibly decides that he’s not going to wait around for the adults to sort this out. He takes his sister’s hand (which I have NEVER seen him do btw and I have known this kid since he was 10) and starts walking quickly toward the sunlight and non-shadow people. Sara follows them immediately without a word to us. At which point the man-shadow starts crawling towards us again.

I’m done, needless to say. The woods, which had been feeling very cool and nice on a hot August day, now seem clammy, cold and inexplicably quiet. I drag my husband along with me without explanation as it’s clear he still isn’t seeing the crawling man or whatever the hell it is.

We make it out into the maintained, sunny battlefield area almost at a run. I do not look back until we are well clear of the woods and in glaring sunlight with many non-shadow people nearby. I cannot see the man in the trees. The tree line we have just emerged from appears extremely dark in contrast with the bright, sunny field.

But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still back there, just past where I can see. I don’t want to freak everyone out more, especially Sara and Alicia(both of them are notorious scared-y cats, like Sara almost threw up in terror on the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World once and Alicia is just like her mom). So I don’t say anything. I just watch the woods very closely as we explore the battlefield.

The biggest problem now is that to get back to the parking lot we have to go back into said woods. Luckily the trail from the historical area is not the one we were on and is much wider, flatter, shorter and full of people. I make the executive decision to behave like a heard animal and manage to chat our way in amongst one of the tours of civil war buffs. We all walk off together toward the parking lot without incident but I do note that Tyler is again sticking close to his mother and sister and is not objecting to having to move at our new groups’ slow pace.

Once we get to the car everything seems fine. The cicadas and peepers have started back up and the oppressive feeling is gone. It’s just the Virginia woods in August again. We wait for most of the group to climb into cars as we say our goodbyes. We’re toward the end of the que following one couple in a big SUV down the one gravel road out of the park. Suddenly the SUV slams on the breaks and we almost rear-end them. And then they sit there in front of us, on the only road out of the park, for no discernable reason, for several minutes. Finally, the chorus of annoyed horns behind us seem to snap them out of it and they start driving again. We follow and, as they exit the park, they pull over.

My husband decides to check and see if they’re okay, because he’s a genuinely nice person. He pulls up and rolls down my window. The driver rolls his down and my husband asks if everything’s okay. Sure, the driver says, but boy that guy crawling across the road about scared the life out of me.

At which point I hear Tyler say hell no from the seat behind me. I can feel sweat popping out along the small of my back despite the A/C.

My husband says, what man? The SUV driver, who I think looks pale and kind of freaked out but that could be me reading into the situation, says, you didn’t see him? A guy in dark clothes army-crawled across the road in front of us, you didn’t see him go into the brush on the other side of the road?

No, says my husband.

I’m on the verge of hyperventilating at this point. Seeing this, my husband wraps up the conversation with a comment like, huh, so weird. Well, if everything’s okay then we’ll just be going. Then he rolls up the window and drives damn fast out of that neighborhood.

We compare notes that afternoon (carefully so as to keep Alicia and Sara calm). Tyler and I saw the shadow man (whom Tyler independently described as a man shaped shadow) crawling toward us on that last ridge. Sara would not admit to seeing anything though she seemed extremely uneasy for the rest of the day and would not let any of us mention it to Alicia (but again, she might have just picked up on the vibe of the rest of the group). My husband didn’t see anything but did note how quiet the woods had been for the last five to ten minutes of our hike.

I have not the slightest clue if what we saw was a very messed up person trying to scare us (if so, mission accomplished) or something supernatural. But I can tell you I will not be hiking that particular park any time soon.

Submitted 2019 scary stories from Jezebel

[winonalakefossils]

The Siege of Chattanooga

In 1903 the newly incorporated Ford Motor Company manufactured and sold its first Model A; The Great Train Robbery, a short silent film, became America's first blockbuster movie; and the Wright brothers flew for the first time in what turned out to be twelve seconds that changed the world! That same auspicious year, the Winona Assembly anticipated its ninth season by designing an ambitious Chautauqua program that advertised the most elaborate Fourth of July celebration in the park's history.

Spring ignited a frenetic effort that lasted through the summer. The park transformed into a veritable little Venice with its man-made lagoons and islands. Work commenced on one hundred new cottages, not to mention the erection of a power plant to provide electricity and heat for year-round habitation. The basement of the big hotel became the site of a new spa where guests could bathe in the waters of Winona's famous mineral springs. The auditorium underwent renovations to double the seating capacity to four thousand. Workers also broke ground for the Winona Agricultural and Technical School, a three-story memorial to the late Governor James Mount.

New buildings went up and old ones came down, among them the gymnasium—a massive, circular structure that had been remodeled, repurposed and repaired multiple times since the Winona Assembly purchased Spring Fountain Park in1895. Finally, the Assembly designated the eyesore for demolition. But in the hearts of some locals, the removal of what they knew as “the old cyclorama building” struck a melancholy note, for they recalled with tremendous pride the Fourth of July fifteen years before when they had waited in line to behold a great spectacle called The Siege of Chattanooga.

                                                   *  *  *

The year was 1888. A steady stream of humanity flowed from the main road to the entrance of Spring Fountain Park for an unprecedented celebration of Independence Day. Elegant carriages, modest buggies, and rickety wagons conveyed excited visitors. Those who arrived by train poured in from the depot. On horseback and on foot, the residents from the nearby city of Warsaw joined the surge that coursed onto the convivial grounds of Indiana’s most popular summer resort.

A few hundred yards from the lake’s shoreline stood the brand new three-story luxury hotel wrapped in a spacious veranda and crowned with an observation room that overlooked the park and the lake. Those who dined there that day proclaimed the menu to be the very best in all the state. Crystal clear ponds, breathtaking flower gardens, rustic bridges, and a spring-fed fountain elicited cries of astonishment. The perfectly manicured lawns were as smooth as a billiard table.

The popular miniature steam train belched thick smoke as it chugged along the narrow tracks to the delight of both cramped passengers and charmed onlookers. Exhilarated shrieks erupted from the switchback, a car with six riders that coasted on wooden waves carried along by the forces of gravity back and forth between two towers. Delighted crowds lingered at the deer park, cheered for contestants competing in the boat races, laughed at the greased pig contest and stopped to watch a baseball game.

The extraordinary experience at Spring Fountain Park led one newspaper reporter to consecrate it as the perfect combination of God-given beauty and human ingenuity. Without a doubt, the lavish surroundings and sundry diversions inspired awe, but the nearly five thousand visitors converging on the park that day had come for one event in particular—their turn to enter the great cyclorama!

Ever since the first boards had been hammered into place two years before in 1886, the locals chattered non-stop about the extravagant new attraction and debated among themselves how much the daring enterprise must have cost the Beyer brothers, the park’s proprietors. They traded stories about America’s first panorama artist, Civil War veteran Harry Kellogg, and speculated about the role of the respected and influential General Reub Williams in bringing a battle panorama to the shores of Eagle Lake.

                                                  *  *  *

All day long a line stretched from the entrance of the cyclorama. Women in tall bonnets opened their parasols or ducked under trees for shade. Children dodged in and out of line playing tag. The men took up conversation with veterans who had been inside and who praised the flawless representation of the legendary military engagements.

Every twenty minutes a man appeared at the cyclorama’s entrance. He gave a shout. On cue, seventy-five excited patrons surrendered their tickets and filed inside the imposing building. Everyone’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness before the group obediently followed its guide down a dimly-lit corridor to a winding staircase.

“Keep to the right!” The man called out repeatedly.

Seventy-five pairs of feet navigated a flight of steps in single file. Audible expressions of surprise reached the ears of those still climbing the stairs, causing hearts to race with anticipation. As the last spectators finally stepped onto the platform and beheld the breathtaking view, it was their turn to gasp and exclaim, for they found themselves standing on the slope of the legendary Missionary Ridge.

Amazed spectators crossed to the pine railing for a closer look. Below were shrubs, a fence, even a stream. They could not discern where the foreground ended and the painting began. They knew they had come to see a panorama painting, yet what met their eyes was so much more. They believed they were seeing soldiers, ammunition wagons, horses, guns and cannon. A host of optical illusions seduced their minds, and they could not un-believe the tricks employed by the clever artist. Three hundred feet of muslin reaching fifty feet high encircled them. A skylight funneled the sun’s rays onto the walls of the rotunda and illuminated the massive canvas.

Observers believed themselves to be in the midst of a Tennessee landscape that stretched for miles in every direction. Above them shone an azure sky strewn with thick, white cumulus clouds and feathery wisps of horsetails. Blazing yellow and red foliage sparkled against the lush greens in the valley where the winding Tennessee River shimmered and the Blue Ridge Mountains rose up in the distance.

This was the magic produced by three tons of paint on a two-ton muslin canvas, five hundred handcrafted papier maché figures and several tons of dirt that had been lugged in by wheelbarrows to form roads, creek banks and hills. The vegetation in the foreground was real, but the horses, wagons and men were not. In fact, none of the figures that beguiled spectators stood more than twelve inches tall.

                                                     *  *  *

“Welcome to Chattanooga, Tennessee!”

It was artist Harry Kellogg.

“The year is 1863 and the War of the Rebellion has reached a critical juncture. Which side will prevail? Relive with me a turning point of the war.”

All eyes were fixed upon the wiry, energetic host.

Kellogg took a step forward, opened his arms wide and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is for me a very emotional moment because the battles I’ve depicted here are those I witnessed as a commissioned Union officer in the Army of the Cumberland.”

He paused dramatically before proclaiming, “This is your chance to hear from one who was there how it really happened!”

Commencing his narrative, Kellogg explained, “Early on the morning of November twenty-fourth, Union troops stormed Lookout Mountain, clawing their way up the sheer cliff. Rock by rock and tree by tree, they made their way in the face of heavy fire. Indeed, the Confederate position was considered unassailable, so what occurred that day was a miracle.”

He paused a moment before calling out, “Look there! Sitting on his white horse is General ‘Fighting Joe’ Hooker shouting at his troops to secure the summit. As his men rushed up the mountain, they and the enemy were engulfed in a cloud of gun powder and thick morning fog.”

“My friends, can’t you hear the deafening explosions that shook the earth as the two armies struggled behind the blinding cloud?”

Kellogg glanced around at his audience.

“It was impossible for those of us watching below to know which side was prevailing. Suddenly, our warriors caught a glimpse through the haze of battle—a flag waved in the distance. But whose flag was it? A loud voice resounded, ‘It’s Old Glory! It’s Old Glory! We did it!’”

“Lookout Mountain had been conquered!” Kellogg announced triumphantly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, do you think the siege has now been broken?”

“No, no, no!” They cried anxiously, shaking their fists. They knew that General Bragg still controlled Missionary Ridge.

“Look here! It is our brave hero General Sherman leading the attack on the ridge where you are right now standing. Alas, General Bragg had reinforced his troops against his advancing fiery, red-haired archenemy. Like an invasion of locusts, Confederate reinforcements quickly swarmed the northern ridge area. After eight hours of vicious fighting, Sherman’s army was undeniably pinned down.”

The spectators, gripped by Sherman’s plight, stared in silent horror at a battlefield strewn with trampled corpses. They thought they heard the screams of the wounded left unattended. Their hearts cringed at the sight of frightened horses wandering about in the decimated forest. Sabers, bayonets, and canteens littered the battlefield. Severed limbs and burning wagons told the harrowing disaster that Sherman’s men had faced.

“Ladies and gentlemen, do you think we could hope that Sherman would finally drive the Rebels from Missionary Ridge?"

They shook their heads.

“Oh, Look!” said Kellogg. “Do you see General Grant on a hill with his binoculars and wearing a look of dismay? And the other man? Who could that be? Why, that’s General Thomas, the Rock of Chicamauga! He, too, looks utterly astonished. What could explain their bewilderment?”

Kellogg pointed to a scene with a ragtag army of ferocious-looking men.

“These men are wretched, aren’t they? The Confederates defeated them at Chicamauga, surrounded them at Chattanooga and waited for them to starve. But what General Sherman could not do, the Army of the Cumberland did! Without orders, and to the shock of Grant and Thomas, these once-humiliated soldiers valiantly charged Missionary Ridge screaming, ‘Remember Chicamauga!’”

The rapt audience smiled at the Rebels retreating in stunned, wild-eyed disbelief, dropping their rifles, and fleeing with their arms raised as General Thomas’ men surged upward fueled by revenge. The enemy was deserting its positions, and in the midst of the Confederate chaos was General Bragg, his face contorted with despair while screaming at his troops to hold the line.

Then Kellogg pronounced with great delight, “Thus did the Army of the Cumberland successfully lift the siege of Chattanooga!”

The crowd erupted in a spontaneous cheer.

As the spectators slowly filed off of the platform to descend the staircase, they did so solemnly, shuffling through the darkened passage to the exit. At the same time that they stepped into the bright July sunshine, they left the Civil War behind. Shielding their eyes, they blinked pensively until they could once again bear the bright light of day. Turning to one another, spirits soaring with pride and wonder, all exclaimed, “It seemed so real!”

                                                  *  *  *

The Siege of Chattanooga ran until 1892 when the Beyer brothers replaced it with a new panorama called The Life of Christ begun by artist E. J. Pine in the spring of 1891. The summer of that year, Spring Fountain Park featured two partial panoramas: the first half of Pine’s biblical epic and a few existing battle scenes from Kellogg’s masterpiece.

Replacing panoramas was common practice. Unsurprisingly, audiences grew weary of one story and longed for fresh entertainment. This expensive demand soon collided with the rapidly advancing technologies of the approaching twentieth century. And just like that, movie theaters, not cyclorama buildings, burgeoned with audiences. The silver screen, not a gigantic canvas, cast its spell.

The cyclorama at Spring Fountain Park featured an extravagant grand opening for the Fourth of July in 1888 and closed permanently six years later. According to J. E. Beyer, Kellogg’s historic tribute to the Civil War became the property of the Winona Assembly when it purchased the park. The fate of that panorama and Pine’s Life of Christ remains unknown. The cyclorama was torn down in 1903, and its usable lumber distributed among various building projects that summer. ::  

[rilenerocks]

Back in the old days, when  I listened to music, except for radio time, I listened to whole albums. This was before the internet, before mp3’s, just plain old before. Over the years, Michael began to compile cassette tapes and then CD’s that were eventually called House Favorites.

They represented the tastes of all of us in our family with something on them for everyone. We listened to these on road trips and eventually, I got used to the order of the songs on them, which replaced the order of songs I expected on the albums from which they’d been extracted. Then the IPod came and along with that was the “shuffle.” So any song could come along at any time until there really wasn’t any order at all, no expectations for that next tune. That was okay. Ultimately Michael loaded 2502 songs on one of those 30 gig early version IPod devices with the scroll wheel which miraculously still works after too many years to count. Although I now have the contents of that IPod on an external hard drive, I don’t think I’ve ever heard all the songs on it. That shuffle just does its random thing.  The summer after Michael died I listened to it every day as I prepared exhibits for his celebration of life.

I discovered Pete Yorn, someone I’d missed during my busy mom and work years. I wound up buying his CD’s which was ironic as we’d sold Michael’s vinyl and CD collection which numbered in the thousands, only the year before. 

He’d saved a few hundred of our absolute favorites but, after listening to the Ipod, I realized that there would be hidden gems I’d discover as I moved through his collection which had burgeoned over time. I actually when to St. Louis to see Pete Yorn this past year, a posthumous gift from Michael to me.

I’ve just returned from a road trip. I’ve set a goal for myself – to see all 50 states in this  country before I die. I only had two left in the eastern portion of this vast space, Alabama and Mississippi. I can’t say I was particularly eager to go these last two as I have really negative feelings about their political persuasions, but a goal is a goal. So I took off with my sister as my companion, along with that trusty Ipod. Recently, I wrote a post about feeling like riding in a car is like zooming along in a time capsule. The only chores you have are focusing on your directions, paying attention to traffic on the road and letting yourself get lost in your mind, often having thoughts stimulated by music. At least if you’re like me. Podcasts and books are also ok, but I like to sing and I like to get carried to the places that music evokes. This trip was about 1400 miles round trip. Lots of places to explore both outside and in your interior. We stopped in the southern part of Illinois and explored part of Shawnee National Park, Garden of the Gods.

There’s no doubt that immersion in nature is soothing to the soul. We ate delicious barbecue and managed to cross both the Mississippi and Tennessee rivers on day one. In Tennessee on day two, I was fascinated to see my first cotton fields in bloom. Some cotton was picked and stored in shiny pastel bales. I had to pull over and grab a few bolls that  had blown away and were caught in the grasses and weeds along the highway. So soft and white, yet emotionally evocative as you could easily imagine slaves with sacks slung across their backs on hot days, picking and picking until their backs and feet  ached and their fingers bled.

The GPS I was using always seemed to direct me to two lane highways, many of which took us off the beaten path, through small towns where you could get a feel for how average people in the state live. Tennessee was supposed to be a pass through state. We were being instructed to make turns on side streets which required some concentration. I was turning right in one such place, when to my left I spotted one of those brown historical markers that said Shiloh National Battlefield. I braked, stopped and checked the distance from where we were and found that we were only 25 miles away.

Shiloh was a hugely significant and bloody battle that occurred in the Civil War’s western theater in 1862.  One of the most talented generals in either army, many of whom were sought by both sides as the war began, was killed at Shiloh – Albert Sidney Johnston. You may think that I’d been doing a little research to come up with this information, but the truth is, I just remembered it. From the time I was about 10 years old, I’d started reading lots of books about Abraham Lincoln and the Civil War.

I can’t specifically recall what the hook was for me, the idea that slavery was allowed and coddled in this country, the fact that fellow citizens and neighbors lined up in the heat and the cold and marched straight into each other’s withering hail of cannonballs, grapeshot and musket fire or the fact that thousands of people did that for four years. I don’t know what it was. But what started when I was a young girl stuck.

All through my life, I read book after book, and did lots of research, not for school or a career, but to try and understand what was for me, an inexplicable waste of human life, when civilized ideas and changes should have worked instead. Over the years, I was lucky enough to go to several battlefields, to feel the ghostly presence of the dead, to imagine the hellish sounds and the chaos and the impossible gore and suffering.

I’ve been to Gettysburg which was almost a religious experience as I’d read dozens of books about the battle and had a strong grasp on the topography of the battlefield. Back in 1980, Michael and I had been trying to get pregnant and my doctor suggested we take a vacation and distract ourselves from that goal. We drove out to Colorado and went to a small town called Redstone to stay in a converted lodge that used to house mine workers. We went on a horseback ride up into the mountains, where I was promptly tossed off my horse, injuring my back.

The next day, I could barely move so I sent Michael off for a hike, while I lay in our bed, reading the book “High Tide at Gettysburg.” Over the years, I continued to read and was able to travel to battlefields in Virginia, Maryland and Georgia. Many of my women friends couldn’t understand my fascination with this war which didn’t seem in keeping with my political leanings. Me neither.

But on it went, the endless fascination. I had always wanted to go to Shiloh. So instead of heading to Tupelo, Mississippi to Elvis Presley’s birthplace, we were on the battlefield. A lot of my memories of what I’d read came flooding back. The countryside is beautiful, wooded and peaceful with deer wandering through the meadows and trees, in between the many monuments and markers which described the progression of the battle. The day was warm and breezy and the atmosphere was remarkably hushed in light of what madness we knew was occuring a mere 157 years ago.

Not very much time has gone by on a relative scale. After a few hours, we left there and moved on to Tupelo where we’d resume our itinerary the next day. But I found myself a bit dazed by that visit and managed to scour the maps to look for more Civil War sites that we could squeeze into our plans. I was happy, excited and grateful that my sister was enjoying the experience as well.

But I was also puzzled. What happened to my war? This interest which had stayed with me for most of my life had gotten away from me. As we drove along, from historical site to historical site, with the redolent music playing in the background, carrying me from memory to memory, I couldn’t find the place in time where this constant preoccupation had slipped into the recesses of my mind. It wasn’t like I never thought about it. But I stopped pursuing my passion. Then I started thinking about other interests that I’ve shunted off to a corner somewhere.

I still have a long way to go in Native American studies even though, again, I’ve read quite a bit. I was an avid college basketball fan and in recent years, I’ve been completely out of that loop. I remember when Michael’s illness blotted out everything. I put all my intellectual energy into cancer, science, studying immunological drugs. Did I lose my focus back then, when my caregiving skills were in high demand by both Michael and my aging mother? I really don’t know. But as I’ve thought about this some more, I realize that I’ve perhaps set aside some valuable tools that might make coping with being a widow more palatable for me. Sometimes things just slip away without you being aware of what’s happening. I want Michael to come back which is an utter impossibility except for the curious otherworldly feelings I get sometimes. But I can get my war back. And who knows what else? I’m going to make another list of  goals. And then I’m going to hit the road again.

Where’d My War Go? Back in the old days, when  I listened to music, except for radio time, I listened to whole albums.

[earlymorningmassacre]

Neutrality Means Little

Hetalia Historically Based (Hopefully correctly)

Genres: Angst, Wartime, Hurt/Comfort, Family and (probably) Drama

Characters: Spain, Netherlands, Romano, Prussia and Belgium 

Summary: The Spanish were neutral in this godforsaken war, they deserved at least that much. But their ties to the Germans... leading soldiers to them. Perhaps they were not as neutral as they’d like to be. None the less, for their warrior’s sacrifice to the German people Spain is given a gift. One filled with memories, pain, and suffering. Yet one he feels obliged to fix. ~ Ffnet ~

It's not unusual for people to come to his house unannounced, everyone seems to do it. It actually seems to be a bit of a trend. France will do it on very rare occasions, Prussia will randomly appear out of thin air, Romano will just kind of materialize in his bed some nights, but fewer times as of late, and Portugal can easily be seen wandering his gardens on an early summer's morning. It didn't seem to matter if he was considered neutral nor did it matter that he was in fact 'isolating' himself from the rest of the world.

Well, technically anyway. But today all he really sees is the beating sun and the shade disappearing from the front side of his house. He doesn't mind the silence most of the time, but the silence can get deafening if he remains in it too long. Especially when his country, his people are so divided, sighing he resigns himself to leaning on the windowsill and watching the day begin.

That's when he notices the shadow appearing at the end of the road. The Spaniard cranes his neck out the window to get a better look. He can barely see it, but it's there. The vague outline of a car just at the far end of the drive, a large dust cloud in the machine's wake. Engine gunned and the tires spitting up the dust and rocks; it reminds him of some sort of beast coming to drag him to hell's gate. But as he watches the machine realizes something.

It's Prussia's car that he's looking at and for a moment or two he's actually excited to have company until he can hear something. A scraping noise, almost as if…as if something is being dragged behind the car. His excitement quickly disperses.

This is not a social visit, this is business. The Spaniard lightly frowns, pulling himself back into the house from the window and tiredly makes his way to the door, only turning the knob and going out when he knows the car is closer. He stands what is left of the shadow in front of his house, watching the vehicle make its way up. The heat wouldn't bother him most days but today he doesn't feel like baring it now.

The car is exactly what he would expect of the Prussian. The underside being a shiny black that seems to shimmer in the light, the upper part the same if not a darker color, and in the middle a thick white line with an unfinished decal painted on the door. Appearing very similar to that of the nation's own flag. The car stops in front of the door and enthusiastically Prussia leaps over the door and window, landing directly in front of the Spaniard. Posing like some kind of hero that the world has yet to know.

"Spain! My isolated friend," Prussia swings his arm over nape of his neck and wraps it around so his arm is resting on the opposing shoulder. Spain doesn't mind it, Prussia is a friend, but he finds it to be rather warm for such a heated day. Nor does he find the physical contact all that friendly but rather threatening as of late.

"Prussia," is all he can really say to greet him. He feels the need to properly greet his old friend but he can't seem to bring himself to do that. He can smell the irony scent of blood, the smoke that's clinging to his skin, the burnt flesh and the decomposition on the Prussian from a mile away. He's been in a battle recently; it will take more than one bath to rid him of the scent. But it's a scent he's well used to by now.

The Germanic laughs, the obnoxious sound filling the quiet air of the later morning. The stench of alcohol under his breath. "Nothing else?"

Spain doesn't even dare look him in the eye. Prussia just grins again and finally removes his arm from behind the Spaniard's head. "I bring gifts!" It's far too joyous as the Prussian swings his arms up in the air and practically dances to the mangled thing that he knows is laying there. There's too much happiness in his eyes as if he doesn't realize what he's done, what he's doing. Spain stares in the opposite direction, Prussia reminds him of a dog he'd seen once, playing with a dead cat long after it had passed. He supposes the dog killed it in a futile attempt to play with it. It apparently thought the cat was still alive and continued on, swinging the corpse around and chasing it. Perhaps at the time, the dog didn't understand the concept of death.

He doesn't want to look at what's been dragged behind the back of the car. He's seen his fair share of war, its carnage, and destruction. He's seen it all before, he was an empire after all and it's how you become such an empire, but he doesn't want to see it now. He's different now, he doesn't… he's done with war…

The Prussian cuts the rope tied to his bumper, grabbing the thing's legs and swings the mangled body at the Spaniard's feet. Spain still doesn't want to look at it. He just wants to admire the garden; this isn't his war. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Prussia bow as he would to any great ruler or king. It's less of a formality and more of a mockery... "It is with my great pleasure, that I, the Awesome Prussia present the Kingdom of Spain with their lost colony! The Netherlands!" The Prussian is laughing his ass off again. He's laughing so hard he can't even breathe. Holding his stomach and keeling over with laughter. Spain convinces himself he's not shaking with some sort of fear and some sort of anger.

"Have fun España!" And with that, the Prussian jumps back into the car, narrowly avoiding the window and almost taking the mirror clean off, and drives off. Still cackling at something he finds so very humorous that Spain doesn't get. No goodbyes or stories to regale, just that, do your job and be done with it.

That was not the Prussia he knew, yes, the nation was vile and a bit of a pervert sometimes but he didn't drag people behind cars on a regular basis. Prussia was part of Nazi Germany now, and they were willing to do anything to get back the all power they had lost and then some. Even if it meant doing things like this, but to do that, they needed allies. Strong allies, not weak allies that were in the middle of recovering from a civil war. But despite that, his boss was still lending troops to the Germans… he hated politics. Therefore, apparently as at token of the Germanic's appreciation he decided to give Spain a 'gift'.

Spain still didn't want to look down or even in the general direction of what was lying before him. He knew what to expect either way but he didn't want to see it. For a brief moment, the thought crossed his mind about leaving Netherlands there and going back inside. Like nothing had ever happened. But even he's not that cold and there was no way he could ever do something like that to anyone… anymore…

Internally wincing, he sucks in a breath and finally looks over and down at his former colony. Netherlands is lying on his stomach, head turned to the side, his normally spiky blond hair muddied and matted, and his eyes pinched shut. But he looks rather unharmed, despite the crimson-tinted mud clinging to his every feature and clothing. He was probably dragged off the battlefield that way and no one bothered to clean him off. They didn't care, it wasn't their problem. He frowns at the very thought of it. To think, that he, was once like that, but aren't they all at some point?

Spain kneels down, brushing bits of dirt off the man's once tan jacket. Netherlands groans in response, cracking an eye open. The Spaniard grins, "Heh, I guess you were just knocked out, you know for a guy who just came out of an all-out war with someone you don't look too bad."

The former colony glares, or winces, one of the two. Spain smiles happily and moves to help the nation up from the dirt. Wrapping an arm under his chest, careful to avoid the scrapes on his shoulders and neck. Lars screams, actually screams, it's short and not very high pitched but a scream nonetheless. It takes the Spaniard a moment or two to actually register exactly why. He doesn't quite remember the dirt being so red earlier, or muddy. Actually, it had been quite dry earlier, and sandy. Spain fully turns Holland over.

He's riddled with bullet holes. He can't even really tell exactly where the bullet holes are, that kind of riddled. His chest probably took a couple and his abdomen looks worse, if the Spaniard had, to be honest with himself it looks like they took him down to a shooting range and used him as the target. Netherlands coughs, blood spattering the untouched spots and smaller droplets onto Spain's pant leg. It continues on for a moment before under the nation's breath he mutters, "Not bad aye?"

Spain swallows, okay, okay, okay, and he ignores the bile that's threatening to make its way up his throat. He really doesn't like blood anymore, blood's messy, blood's part of living beings, blood's blood and there's a lot of it here. Netherlands draws a ragged, wet breath and Antonio wonders how exactly he missed that noise in the first place.

Lars winces and mumbles to himself in Dutch, periodically spitting out or coughing up said accumulated blood. It's even dripping out of his nose. Finally, Spain manages to fully collect himself before reaching for the Dutchman. Moving a bit closer and peeling Netherland's previously blue shirt from his wounds and skin. He barely even touches the fabric before the nation hisses through his teeth. Antonio tries to ignore it, continuing on, but even as he's looking under the tattered fabric he can't even see the injuries very well at all either.

He's not a doctor, nor a physician or even a medic. Spain himself has a very basic idea of battlefield medicine and even that's a bit outdated. It takes him a moment to retrieve any information about treating wounds. He needs to clean them; otherwise, the chance of them getting infected is higher. "Please, tell me you can stand?"

It takes about half a minute for the Dutchman to even understand the words that are coming out of his mouth. "Not well." It sounds more like a choke than actual words, but he can understand them.

"Linkernie geschoten." And we've slipped into two different languages, forget understanding.

"I don't speak Dutch, ehe…" The Dutchman grits his teeth and tries to get his arms underneath himself in a futile attempt to get up.

Spain jumps in to help, immediately taking the arm nearest to him and pulling Netherlands shakily to his feet. The nation grunts as soon as he's up, painfully glancing down at his chest and stomach. Whatever veins that had clotted before seem to have been opened again, he's bleeding more steadily now. Antonio gives a barely audible curse and ushers Lars to move a bit faster but the man is almost dead weight at this point, and he finds it almost impossible. But Netherlands still has his pride and despite everything is, with very little effort, pushing Spain off him. Idiota.

Even though he's not using his left leg no matter what and refuses to place all his trust in the Spaniard to basically drag him inside. In short, it was making the Spaniard's life that much more difficult. Opening the door was a bit of a trick and he didn't even bother closing it after. He barely manages to get Netherlands upstairs to the washroom without falling back down them. He's basically dragging the persona by the time they get up to the second floor.

Spain unhooks Netherland's arm and manages to get him into the empty tub. The Dutchman's head lolling back over the edge despite his boots touching the footer. Spain has officially concluded that the Dutch are just far too tall.

Netherlands continually switched from consciousness to unconsciousness now, once and awhile he'd throw himself forward and choke out an amount of blood Antonio didn't even think was in his body anymore. Then there was the fact that cleaning the wounds in the first place was almost completely fruitless. You'd clean them off and they'd only continue bleeding. He'd managed to remove the sand and the mud though which was at least a small accomplishment.

Clothing was getting to be an issue too; he couldn't really get Lars to take his jacket off, or his scarf, much less his shirt. They'd probably had a pretty one-sided conversation a couple of times about how if Netherlands wanted to keep his human body alive for much longer he'd have to actually be able to treat the wounds properly. He just kind of lay there, eyeing Spain or the wall, mumbling to himself in his strange, harsh language.

Eventually, he did manage to shrug off his jacket, hissing away Spain every time he even looked like he was going to help. The shirt he gave up on and just peeled it off the skin before cleaning around the wounds so Antonio could at least gage where to bandage the persona. God this was a mess. Although only to reveal that the Dutchman's right side was bruised and mildly malformed, probably a couple broken ribs. As if it didn't hurt to breathe already…

Netherlands seemed almost completely out of it after he'd been bandaged. Staring at nothing particularly and now completely limp instead of tense like he had been before. There was a two-minute time frame of where Antonio actually debated about leaving him in the tub and just covering him up with a few blankets. The idea was rejected after a couple moments of consideration.

So, dragging the impossibly-too-tall Dutchman out of the tub and readjusting his position to better suite Spain, they went on. The Spaniard would continue to readjust this position throughout their little 'walk'. But he got the persona to one of the nicer guest rooms of his house. "Alright Netherlands," grunting, Spain eased him onto the bed in a fluid motion that he was quite proud of, "and there we go. You're just lucky that most of those bullet holes had exit wounds otherwise there'd be a lot more pain than what you're feeling now mi amigo."

"Don't call… me… that…"

"Ah… so we're back to English, finally, I was wondering if you'd ever get back to it."

Lars groans, lazily opening his eyes to glare at the Spaniard again. Spain perks up, "Which reminds me," turning around and padding off through the door, he disappears around the corner.

Netherland's just eyes the doorway for less than a moment before letting his head rest again. What'd he say? Which… what does that mean… sleep seemed like it would be a good idea at this point. Not translating, translating takes time. He can't even really tell exactly what's hurt and what's not hurt anymore. It just all hurts, every little movement just makes it worse. He doesn't even really think this body will make it through the night in this state even. So what's the point? What's the point of Spain saving him? It's not like he'd go away forever, it'll be such a pain to heal anyway.

Spain wanders back into the room, small vial in hand and ever-present grin, "This will help with the pain."

Lars rolls his head over to the side and flinches away, bringing on some more undesirable pain with it. He hisses a breath and weekly mutters, "No."

Antonio gives him a perplexed look, "I know you really hate me but I didn't think it was that bad."

Netherlands gives a slow blink, "Not what… I never… hated you…"

The persona relaxes into the far side of the bed, keeping himself a good distance from the Spaniard and the vial. "'ust… keep that away from me."

With half-lidded eyes the Dutchman watches Spain slowly glance at the vial, placing it on a table to the far side of the wall and slowly walk out. "Well, I guess I'll go then."

He doesn't close his eyes until the door is shut before he drifts off into the nothingness that knows him all too well.

…TO BE CONTINUED…

So previously I have been posting on Fanfiction, and continue to do so. But I was advised by some people to post on Tumblr as well, just to get my stuff out there. So basically, I’m going to see how this is received and probably put the chapters up I have done. It’s a tester if anything. So, thanks for checking this out if your reading this. :) 

~EarlyMorningMassacre~

[fiction-non-foto-blog]

Simple is best and other lessons from a road trip with kids

by Jonathan Elderfield

GETTYSBURG, Pa. (AP) — Road trip season is around the corner. Does that fill you with memories of painful car trips stuck between siblings in the backseat? Or do you relish the idea of hitting the road, maybe with your own kids?

I took a 10-day road trip last summer with my sons Max and Henry, then 14 and 10. There were ups and downs as we headed from the Philadelphia suburbs through Western New York to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls, then back home through Ohio. Overall we had fun but some stops were more enjoyable than others. Here are some takeaways.

SOMETIMES SIMPLE IS BEST

The highlight of the trip might just have been one of our first stops: the Circle Drive-In movie theater in Scranton, Pennsylvania, where we watched a double feature from the station wagon while eating candy and drinking soda.

From there, we had a rainy visit to a state park in Watkins Glen, New York, and lunch in nearby Ithaca with a friend.

Next was a biggie: Niagara Falls. But it turned out to be a bit of a letdown. The falls impressed, but the street photographer in me cared more about the crowds oohing and aahing at the sights. My kids just weren't that interested. I guess video games can take the wow out of the natural world.

Later in the trip, we visited Pittsburgh, where I'd gone to college. The Duquesne Incline, an old-fashioned riverfront funicular, and the sandwiches at Primanti Bros., which have French fries and coleslaw between the bread, were bigger hits with the boys than the Carnegie Museum of Natural History.

Takeaways: Don't feel obliged to see touristy places and museums if the kids don't care. Look for unique sites and shorter excursions.

FOOD, LODGING AND SERENDIPITY

I had my first taste of poutine, the Quebecois dish of French fries, cheese curds and gravy, in Canada. But most area restaurants we saw were chains, which I try to avoid. On the spur of the moment we drove to Niagara-on-the-Lake, a picturesque town filled with coffee shops, galleries and real restaurants, for a stroll and genuine meal.

Some of our stops were planned, including tickets for a Columbus Crew soccer match, but I also relied on serendipity and web searches for things to do on the fly. Sophia's, in Buffalo, New York, was an impromptu find for a hearty breakfast on the day of our longest drive from Canada to Ohio.

I limited the kids' screen time on each leg to encourage sightseeing out the window, but I also had some meditative driving time to myself with music cranked as Max and Henry kept their heads bowed to the almighty small screen.

As sole driver, though, I didn't want to spend every minute behind the wheel. This was my vacation, too. So I built in a respite from the road at an Airbnb cottage in Vermillion, Ohio, on the south shore of Lake Erie. We swam, explored small lakeshore towns, and checked off some classic pastimes: soft-serve ice cream from a roadside stand, flattening pennies on freight train tracks and a barbecue.

Driving through farmland and fields, we stopped for lunch in Oberlin, Ohio, and ended up in Columbus for two nights with a friend and his family. The planned soccer game, a few meals out and a trip to the amazing and immense Book Loft book store in German Village and we were ready to head back to Pennsylvania.

I love Gettysburg. The history of the battlefields and the majestic landscape is something I can't get enough of. One kid helped me re-enact a famous Civil War photograph at Devil's Den; the photograph itself was a set-up by Alexander Gardner so it was only fitting that I did the same. We drove and walked at sunset and dawn, enjoying the best light and avoiding midday heat before starting for home.

Takeaways: Don't eat every meal in a restaurant and don't spend every night in a hotel. Find opportunities for fresh food, whether picnics or home cooking. Aim for a few nights in a vacation rental or with friends or family along the way. But bring a blow-up mattress and bedding in case fold-out beds or other makeshift accommodations aren't up to snuff.

THE BALANCING ACT

We had our ups and downs on the trip, the boys and me.

I felt like I was constantly asking them to pay attention to the world around them and get off their screens. On the other hand, I was also glad they had a distraction when I lacked plans for dinner.

Simple things were often the best, like the drive-in or the Pittsburgh incline rather than museums or touristy Niagara Falls. Another big hit: the motel pool. It's a great way to refresh after hours of driving, and you won't have to drag your children off their devices if there's a pool to play in.

A few other pointers: Bring some balls or games. We kicked the soccer ball during a few highway stops. And break up the trip. Instead of highways, take smaller roads, like the one where we saw a covered bridge. Buy tickets and plan for important events, but be spontaneous too. Everyone in the car will be happier if they feel their opinion is being heard.

[cleverwolfpoetry]

Psycho-pass Movie Novel Chpt. 5 - Part 1

Weapons, weapons, weapons. Fights, explosions and weapons again…this is more or less the summary for this first part of chapter 5. There are so many weapon descriptions that I decided to enclose some pictures from the pp profiling book 2, for an easier reading (you can find the full translation of these pictures from the profiling book in the specific index on my blog). There's the full translation there

A particular mention to SEAUn Chairman Han’s name. I have corrected it in Chairman Chuang Hang as it was meant to be this way by the authors. I took notice of it while browsing the Official profiling book nr. 2 and decided to change it in all the chapters.

Last but not least…while working on this chapter I realized that the last year I posted so few translations, thing I am very sorry of. I’ve been too busy and too lazy, so I’ll try to work harder from now on. There are so many things I want to read on psycho-pass world and share with the people who love it.

 Note before reading: sentences in italics represent the character’s thoughts.

1

SEAUn, early morning. The sunrise made Shambala Float shine like a kaleidoscope. Even the surface of the sea surrounding the Float reflected the light, it was just like a waving jewel box. Talking about beauty only, this Shambala Float was extraordinarily beautiful. However, that was on condition that ‘you looked it from afar’. Taking a close-up look, the violent System was crawling everywhere there.

Shambala Float’s high stories. In the courtyard of the National Military Police’s quarters close to the Chairman’s official residence, one military unit, about 60 men, was proceeding with preparation of an attack. Nicholas was the one in command. The number of men was scarce but to counterbalance that, the entire unit was being boosted by military drones of different sizes.

The largest number consisted of ‘Skanda’ *, antipersonnel combat drones walking on two legs. The appearance of a dodo bird badly done.  They walked in a bobbing way with reverse joints bird legs and were equipped with a minigun, rocket launcher and shotgun.

Such Skanda approached an eight wheels armored transport vehicle. This armored transport vehicle was named ‘Agni’*. 

Inside one single Agni, ten soldiers in close ranks and twelve Skanda could be taken on board.     

Flying drones also took off from the heliport at the high stories.

The ‘Ganga’ *, helicopter type assault drones. A model with a couple of crossed rotors. After being synchronized not to collide with each other, the blades of the two rotors had been inclined diagonally. As weapons, a machine gun and air-to-ground missiles. As for the repression on the ground, they displayed an overwhelming striking power.                                                                        Then the ‘Parvati’ *, a reconnaissance jet aircraft type drone. The size was small, but it could even exceed the speed of sound at its maximum power. Through the complex sensors of the plane nose and the electronic pods* on both wings used for reconnaissance, it collected data on the battlefield and managed them.

The ‘Mahakala’ *, a jet bomber aircraft type drone. Equipped with intelligent cluster bombs*, it flew at high speed and scattered a large number of guided bombs.

To control such drones, the ‘Siva’ *, an operational command vehicle. A ten wheels gigantic car. The front part was divided into cockpit and troops transport, in the back part there was the combat information center*. It was equipped with a 40 mm unmanned gun turret and a machine gun. Compared to an ordinary armored vehicle, the communication functions were much more strengthened.                                                          

Nicholas had gotten into the combat information center of the operational command vehicle Siva. The inside of the car was completely covered with monitors and consoles. There were three operators besides Nicholas. Only with this number of people, they could control the one hundred drones nearby in a lump.

“Move out”

A voice command. Nicholas instructed the driving AI. The engine of the operational command car started — however, it stopped immediately.

“What!”

He said checking the camera monitors.

A person was standing in front of the command vehicle. 

The car had had stopped on its own, however what was standing in the way was not an enemy but an important person. It was Tsunemori Akane. The friend or foe system (IFF) was connected to all the drone weapons. Even if such a vehicle could run the enemy over and kill or shoot him dead, the safety system worked automatically on the allies. The number of people dying under the friendly fire on the battlefield was so big to be alarming. A system to prevent it was very important. Tsunemori, who had been sent from the Japanese Ministry of Welfare, had been registered in the IFF system as a VIP.

When Nicholas opened the door, she got into the combat information center.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Her outfit consisted in a Ministry of Welfare’s military uniform she had hardly worn out of duty, a bulletproof vest and an ammunition belt. She had the custom government well secured in the holster mounted directly on the vest* and ammunition spares prepared on her belt. She was asking for permission as a formality, but she had just taken an attitude that gave no choice.

Nicholas frowned with a disagreeing look and yet he apparently payed respect to a VIP.

“…I don’t mind, but when the fight begins please follow our instructions as much as possible. I would appreciate if you stayed away from risk”

“Of course, I understand”

By means of the huge elevator, every single piece of that high-grade mechanical platoon had been transferred exactly as it was until the lowest stories.  

Near the exit, they joined the four-legs tanks — the ‘Ganesha’.

Their main weapon was a 120 mm smoothbore gun*, the auxiliary weapon a machine gun against air and ground attacks. These armaments also made in Japan for sure. Usually they moved on four crawler belts, but when they entered uneven ground that formation changed, they could even walk on four legs. They were unmanned tanks that dealt with three-tridimensional warfare* amid urban fights.

One Siva.

Four Agni.

A sum of about twenty unmanned aircrafts.  

Then eight Ganesha.

The metallic troops arranged in ranks crossed the bridge over the gate and left for the attack. They passed through the city slums intimidating the population and proceeded with a roaring sound on the roads of the rural area. The weather had gotten quickly worse. Changes in the tropical air were sudden. Large drops of rain hit the armored cars. The roads were a quagmire of mud, the river had flooded, but the military vehicles and drones went on as it was nothing. The unexpected rain stopped suddenly as it formerly had come. Only wet men and thick rain clouds remained.

“What kind of operation is this?”

Tsunemori asked inside the shaking car.

“You know, there is a ghost town that was destroyed during the civil war. There’s a high chance that place has become a base for the anti-government guerrilla”

“The Japanese drones must have been provided to you for the task of the public order maintenance, isn’t it? Are you using them for a purpose other than the defense?”  

“The removal of a latent threat is also a part of the public order maintenance task. This kind of usage doesn’t go against the rules”  

Nicholas went on with the explanation in a detached tone.

“…after all, Shambala Float is nothing but the first step of the climbing. We must make the control exercised by the Sibyl System popular in the entire nation in any case. To do that, it’s necessary that we eliminate the armaments of the resistance forces as quickly as possible and that people accept to have their psycho-pass measured”

2

The old town looked out on a great river, fresh ruins were the scars left by the war. Reddish-brown shacks made of rusty corrugated iron and the desolated ruins were lying one upon another, looking like an immense garbage dump. There were scrapped cars lined up on the road, outdated barricades left in every important point.  

The guerrilla’s operation bases had been built in various places of such an old town. In the shade of the corrugated-iron, in the depths of an abandoned building, there was an area where ammunitions were piled up. A large number of guerrilla soldiers was ready and standing-by, in view of the fight against the government troops of Shambala Float.

Circling over the old town, the reconnaissance drones Parvati scanned the ground and buildings through their high-performance cameras with infrared function and powerful electromagnetic waves radars.  They could seize not only the guerrilla soldiers outside, but also the ones inside roughly to their position. Those data were immediately shared on the monitors of the operational command vehicle on the ground.

The anti-government guerrilla had also noticed the government troops. Some of them had AK rifle* models of the year 2030 at the ready, others were reassembling RPG – 29* divided into two pieces. They put tandem HEAT* anti-tank warhead in the launchers.

A preemptive strike  — four helicopter type drones Ganga, each one with two shots, launched a total of eight air-to-ground missiles. A succession of explosions strong enough to smash the high-rise buildings occurred. The air trembled and the ground shook. A blast of hot air raised a cloud of dust from the ground.

The Parvati was a reconnaissance aircraft, but it carried a minigun in the part under the airplane nose.

Minigun — an electrically driven Gatling gun* with six barrels. Its high rate of fire was 3000 shots per minute of 7,62 mm caliber bullets.  

The minigun breathed fire, the large diameter rifle bullets pierced the ruin walls easily and shot the guerrilla soldiers down.

The guerrilla was helpless in such an attack from the sky.

The human bodies were smashed without difficulty.

The tank drone Ganesha shot with its primary gun on the basis of the data from the sky reconnaissance.

The 120 mm multipurpose antitank grenades made the building crumble with a single blow.

“This is horrible…”

Tsunemori had involuntarily muttered.

“If the cymatic scan detects nothing wrong, the safety is working. The thing is that their crime coefficient reaches the standard level of a latent criminal” Nicholas said.

“There’s no way that a psycho-pass measured in such a condition could give a normal value!”

“Unfortunately, in this country there aren’t facilities to rehabilitate them through the mental care yet. In this renewed SEAUn only the citizen who are needed will be left. These scum… they are, so to speak, the leftovers of our civil war days”

“…”

Fight — the massacre continued.

The four Aguni dropped the loaded Skanda, the drones walking on two legs.

Forty-eight Skanda started to move in search of their preys and stormed into the building. The drones scanned the places they couldn’t cover with unmanned aircrafts and rained the heavy fire of the miniguns on the guerrilla soldiers who had been hiding, shooting to death the men with a clouded hue regardless of their intent to fight. It was irrelevant that they were throwing down arms and begging for their lives. The important thing was the psycho-pass only.

— at the same time.

Kougami Shinya was on the roof of a building 1 km far from the combat zone. Khaki military uniform and a tactical vest full of pouches with weapons. 

A prone shooting position. He was at the ready with a huge anti-material rifle standing on a bipode.

The rifle was a 20 mm caliber. Five armor-piercing ammunitions in the magazine box.

As this was a long-range shot, he really wanted an observer — a spotter, but unfortunately Sem was in command of the troops elsewhere. Thus, he had adjusted the fire control system by himself in place of the spotter.

“…”

The bullets fired from this rifle had the merit of having a muzzle initial velocity* close to three times the speed of sound. They didn’t take a second to reach a target beyond 1 km. It was possible to hit most of the drones except for jet planes.

Through the holographic sight device* that worked together with the portable terminal on his wrist, he corrected the aim while predicting the route of the assault helicopter drone. Battlefield and target were displayed before Kougami’s eyes through the hologram and the place he wanted to shoot at zoomed.

He squeezed the trigger —.

The sound of gunfire — no, should it be called roar of cannon?

Accompanied by the loud sound of the sonic boom*, the 20 mm heavy shell* hit directly the base of the assault helicopter drone making a big hole and throwing off sparks. Kougami ejected the shell with the bolt action* and charged the next bullets. He fired immediately a second and third shot. He centered the impact of the bullets on the origin of the motive power. The rotor instantly emitted fire and was blown off. The assault helicopter drone lost control and fell.

NOTES TO TRANSLATION:

*Skanda:  name of deities popular amongst Hindus and Buddhists.

*Agni: means fire, and connotes the Vedic fire god of Hinduism. Agni also refers to one of the guardian deities of direction, who is typically found in southeast corners of Hindu temples. In classical cosmology of Indian religions, Agni as fire has been one of the five inert impermanent constituents (Dhatus) along with space (Akasa), water (Ap), air (Vayu) and earth (Prithvi), the five combining to form the empirically perceived material existence (Prakriti). (from Wikipedia)

*Ganga: In Hinduism, the river Ganges is considered sacred and is personified as the goddess Gaṅgā. (from Wikipedia)

*Parvati: Hindu goddess of fertility, love and devotion; as well as of divine strength and power. (from Wikipedia)

*electronic pods: pods are external equipment carried on aircrafts to provide or enhance specific capabilities critical to planned missions.  They provide a portable, quickly-fielded means to adapt aircraft to emerging requirements and threats. They can be classified through their primary sensors and their scopes. Pods can have different sensors (optical, electronic, laser, infrared) and different purposes (reconnaissance, surveillance, countermeasures, communication and data links).

*Mahakala: Mahākāla is a deity common to Hinduism, Buddhism and Sikhism. According to Hinduism, Mahākāla is the consort of Hindu Goddess Kali. Mahākāla also appears as a protector deity known as a dharmapala in Vajrayana Buddhism, particularly most Tibetan traditions, in Tangmi (Chinese Esoteric Buddhism) and in Shingon (Japanese Esoteric Buddhism). He is known as Dàhēitiān (大黑天) in Chinese and Daikokuten (大黒天) in Japanese. In Sikhism, Mahākāla is referred to as Kal, who is the governor of Maya. (from Wikipedia)

*cluster bombs: A cluster munition is a form of air-dropped or ground-launched explosive weapon that releases or ejects smaller submunitions. Commonly, it’s a cluster bomb that ejects explosive bomblets that are designed to kill personnel and destroy vehicles. Other cluster munitions are designed to destroy runways or electric power transmission lines, disperse chemical or biological weapons, or to scatter land mines. Some submunition-based weapons can disperse non-munitions, such as leaflets. (from Wikipedia)

*Siva: Śiva is one of the principal deities of Hinduism. He is the Supreme Being within Shaivism, one of the major traditions within contemporary Hinduism.

Śiva is the “destroyer of evil and the transformer” within the Trimurti, the Hindu trinity that includes Brahma and Vishnu. In Shaivism tradition, Śiva is the Supreme being who creates, protects and transforms the universe.

*combat information center: the Operations Room (also known as the Combat Information Center (CIC), or, under the British system, the Action Information Centre) is the tactical center of a warship or AWAC aircraft providing processed information for command and control of the near battlespace or ‘area of operations’. Within other military commands, rooms serving similar functions are called by the similar “Command Information Center” or simply “Command center”; the number of different terms for spaces that serve much the same function may explain why the plain and generally non-descriptive “Operations Center” is a prevalent term.

Regardless of the vessel or command locus, each CIC organizes and processes information into a form more convenient and usable by the commander in authority. Each CIC funnels communications and data received over multiple channels, which is then organized, evaluated, weighted and arranged to provide ordered timely information flow to the battle command staff under the control of the CIC officer and his deputies. (from Wikipedia)

* holster mounted directly on the vest:

The holster is mounted like a pouch on the tactical vest. See picture below for reference.

*smoothbore gun: a smoothbore weapon is one that has a barrel without rifling. Smoothbores range from handheld firearms to powerful tank guns and large artillery mortars. The majority of shotguns are smoothbores and the term can be synonymous. (from Wikipedia)

*three-dimensional warfare: Three-Dimensional (3D) Tactics Analysis, is a tactical analysis methodology under the concept of Terrorist Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures. The approach is applicable to urban combat, and takes into account mass gatherings of people located in highly complex urban structures, incorporating features such as multi-level buildings, open spaces between buildings, crowd congregation points, and transport hubs.

As an introduction, 3D tactics is defined as tactics in the third dimension which is the space above and below ground level in land and urban operations. (from Wikipedia)

*AK rifle: kalashnikov type rifle.

*RPG–29: The RPG-29 “Vampir” is a shoulder-launched, unguided, tube-style, breech-loading anti-tank rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) launcher with a range of 500 meters. The light weapon is designed to be carried and used by a single soldier. On the top of the launch tube is a 2.7×1P38 optical sight.

Adopted by the Soviet Army in 1989, it was the last RPG to be adopted by the Soviet military before the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991. The RPG-29 has since been supplemented by other rocket-propelled systems, such as the RPG-30 and RPG-32. The RPG-29’s PG-29V tandem-charge warhead is one of the few anti-tank weapons that can penetrate the frontal hulls of Western composite-armored main battle tanks. (from Wikipedia)

*HEAT antitank warhead: A high-explosive anti-tank (HEAT) warhead is a type of shaped charge explosive that uses the Monroe effect to penetrate armor. The warhead functions by having the explosive charge collapse a metal liner to form a high-velocity superplastic jet. This concentrated metal jet is capable of penetrating armor steel to a depth of seven or more times the diameter of the charge (charge diameters, CD) but is usually used to immobilize or destroy tanks. Due to the way they work, they do not have to be fired as fast as an armor piercing shell, allowing less recoil. Contrary to a widespread misconception (possibly resulting from the acronym HEAT), the jet does not melt its way through armor, as its effect is purely kinetic in nature. The HEAT warhead has become less effective against tanks and other armored vehicles due to the use of composite armor and explosive-reactive armor. (from Wikipedia)

*minigun: The M134 Minigun is a 7.62×51mm NATO, six-barrel rotary machine gun with a high rate of fire (2,000 to 6,000 rounds per minute) which can also fire at a high sustained rate. It features Gatling-style rotating barrels with an external power source, normally an electric motor. The “Mini” in the name is in comparison to larger caliber designs that use a rotary barrel design, such as General Electric’s earlier 20-millimeter M61 Vulcan, and “gun” for the use of rifle caliber bullets as opposed to autocannon shells.

“Minigun” refers to a specific model of weapon that General Electric originally produced, but the term “minigun” has popularly come to refer to any externally powered rotary-style gun of rifle caliber. The term is sometimes used loosely to refer to guns of similar rates of fire and configuration regardless of power source and caliber. (from Wikipedia)

*electrically driven Gatling gun: The ancestor to the modern minigun was a hand cranked mechanical device invented in the 1860s by Richard Jordan Gatling. Gatling later replaced the hand-cranked mechanism of a rifle-caliber Gatling gun with an electric motor, a relatively new invention at the time. Even after Gatling slowed down the mechanism, the new electric-powered Gatling gun had a theoretical rate of fire of 3,000 rounds per minute, roughly three times the rate of a typical modern, single-barreled machine gun. Gatling’s electric-powered design received U.S. Patent #502,185 on July 25, 1893. Despite Gatling’s improvements, the Gatling gun fell into disuse after cheaper, lighter-weight, recoil and gas operated machine guns were invented; Gatling himself went bankrupt for a period. (from Wikipedia)

*muzzle initial velocity: Muzzle velocity is the speed of a projectile at the moment it leaves the muzzle of a gun. The velocity of a projectile is highest at the muzzle and drops off steadily because of air resistance. Projectiles traveling less than the speed of sound (about 340 m/s or 1115 feet/s in dry air at sea level) are subsonic, while those traveling faster are supersonic and thus can travel a substantial distance and even hit a target before a nearby observer hears the “bang” of the shot. (from Wikipedia)

*sight device: A sight is an aiming device used to assist in visually aligning ranged weapons, surveying instruments or optical illumination equipments with the intended target. Sights can be a simple set or system of markers that have to be aligned together with the target (such as iron sights on firearms), or optical devices that allow the user to see a sometimes optically enhanced (e.g. magnified) image of the target aligned in the same focus with an aiming point (e.g. telescopic sights, reflector sights and holographic sights). There are also sights that project an aiming point (or a “hot spot”) onto the target itself, such as laser sights and infrared illuminators on some night vision devices. (from Wikipedia)

*sonic boom: A sonic boom is the sound associated with the shock waves created by an object traveling through the air faster than the speed of sound. Sonic booms generate significant amounts of sound energy, sounding much like an explosion to the human ear. The crack of a supersonic bullet passing overhead or the crack of a bullwhip are examples of a sonic boom in miniature.

Contrary to popular belief, a sonic boom does not occur only at the moment an object crosses the speed of sound; and neither is it heard in all directions emanating from the speeding object. Rather the boom is a continuous effect that occurs while the object is travelling at supersonic speeds. But it only affects observers that are positioned at a some point that intersects an imaginary geometrical cone behind the object. As the object moves, this imaginary cone also moves behind it and when the cone passes over the observer, they will briefly experience the boom. (from Wikipedia)

CREDIT FOR THIS NICE IMAGE OF THE SONIC BOOM: By Lookang many thanks to Fu-Kwun Hwang and author of Easy Java Simulation = Francisco Esquembre - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16444999

I liked this gif very much. I could easily imagine the sonic wave accompanying Kougami’s bullet towards the helicopter drone.

*20 mm heavy shell: The 20 mm caliber is a specific size of cannon or autocannon ammunition. Since 20mm is the cutoff point where most nations switch from bullets to shells, it has come to also generally be the cutoff point between weapons classified as a machine gun or a cannon. (from Wikipedia)

*bolt action: Bolt action is a type of repeater firearm action where the handling of cartridges into and out of the weapon’s barrel chamber are operated by manually manipulating the bolt handle, which is most commonly placed on the right-hand side of the weapon (as most users are right-handed). As the handle is operated, the bolt is unlocked and pulled back opening the breech, the spent cartridge case is extracted and ejected, the firing pin within the bolt is cocked (either on opening or closing of the bolt depending on the gun design) and engages the sear, then upon the bolt being pushed back a new cartridge (if available) is loaded into the chamber, and finally the breech is closed tight by the bolt locking against the receiver. (from Wikipedia)

[rilenerocks]

There are the days when you’ve just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too. That’s the way life goes. Crepey skin, lacking moisture and resilience. Weird hairs growing in the wrong places. I’m a swimmer, and now after 45 years or so of doing the same repetitive motions, my shoulders have begun to ache, the pain and stiffness waking me at night. A pressing sense of urgency pushes me to hurry up and get all those things done that are sitting on various to-do lists and which feel very important. But are they important? Am I important? I can walk down the street wearing an unmistakable cloak of invisibility which I once thought would be a magic power. Not so much any more. To the bustling young people in their invincible minds, I am unseen. I’m exercising and trying to eat right and doing brain exercises. I still remember ridiculous amounts of information about a wide range of topics. So what. The inexorable slide is still happening. For some people with good genes, the process may be slower than it is for others. Some have been forgetful for years. Others, like me, are still able to experience powerful recall. Many older folks do without the intimacy and physicality of their youth.  Lots of people drifted away from sex long ago. Those of us who still have a powerful drive may be stuck without the partner we used to have.

News at home and abroad is lousy and oppressive. You try to do some good where you can but are left feeling insufficient and overwhelmed. Everything feels annoying and you’re muttering stuff to yourself like, “shit rolls downhill,” “what goes around comes around,” and, “ha, you pompous child, one day you’re going to be in the place I am right now – we’ll see how you like it.” The fact is that older women are marginalized, kicked to the curb, both personally and professionally. Everyone just can’t be Jane Goodall, that wonderful person or other famous women who’ve bucked the odds. Lots of us are just regular.  We grew up trying to find ways to navigate societal expectations. Many us found partners who stuck and many found partners who didn’t. Some never found anyone. We went to work and school, had babies and aging parents and balanced full schedules every day for years. Those of certain economic classes, that is. The poor, the victims of domestic and sexual abuse and the uneducated are marginalized all their lives. I won’t forget that truth. I push back. I have my opinions, my morals and my standards and I don’t feel like getting kicked to the curb. When you’ve fought your way through the grief of losing a life partner, your parents, siblings and friends, you want a little attention and empathy. And you want it to be given freely without asking for it. But as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want.

 Yesterday, I wanted my husband to be alive. Of course I always want him to be alive, but some days are harder than others. I wanted something from him that I can’t get anywhere else. I’m pretty warmhearted but I have my boundaries. I don’t like people touching my face. I don’t know why. When I was young, it was okay that my mom did it. She would relax me. But as I got older, I shied away from that. There’s just something really intimate about having a person lay hands on the place where your deepest thoughts and feelings are just underneath your skin. At least that’s   how it works for me. One time, not long ago, my sweet grandson touched my cheek. I sat very still and didn’t jump away from him. But that was a challenge. He doesn’t perceive that invisible wall. I want Michael to touch my face. He would take both hands and shove my hair straight back and stare at me. Ironically, I have widow’s peak. He loved my hairline and looking into my eyes. And I trusted him. I miss that sense of security a lot. Instead there are all these other oppressive and irritating daily struggles that I’d hoped would have been far more improved in these last fifty years. Me, too. Me, too. So what do you do when you just can’t do regular life? For me, it’s hitting the road. My butterflies have flown the coop.

I left too. I set some goal for myself after Michael died. One was to see all 50 states in this country. Just before my knee surgery in July, I got up to 43 visited. Feeling antsy and discontented, I decided to take a few days and knock two others off that list, Mississippi and Alabama. My sister, who retired recently, came along with me. I have to say, these two states aren’t high on my list, mostly because my political stance is diametrically opposed to lots of people in these places. So I tried an itinerary which included nature, a little pop history and maybe some Civil War sites. I don’t talk much about the depth of my interest in that war, but I’ve been obsessed by it for years and have read a few hundred books about it. I still gave trouble fathoming the fact that people from the same country lined themselves up across from each other and blasted themselves into oblivion for four years. I thought I might find a place to ponder that subject on my getaway from reality. We started out by driving to Garden of the Gods in Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois.

  I’ve been there before but it doesn’t get old. Imposing sandstone bluffs that emerged from Pangea as the earth shook itself into pieces are still awesome to experience. Old stands of beautiful birch trees commingle with other species and create a peaceful quiet that is really soothing. No wonder forest walking has become a recommended therapeutic device. I managed to snag a few rocks that had chipped off the large formations. After we wandered through there, with me being grateful to have knees that work again, albeit a little gingerly, we drove to a nearby town for some delicious barbecue and a good night’s rest.

  This morning after breakfast, we took off and headed to Mississippi.  The weather was pleasant, cool and sunny. I’d finally synced Michael’s ancient iPod to the car. As we zipped along, we crossed the Mississippi, heading into Tennessee on our way to Tupelo, birthplace of Elvis Presley. I like bridges and taking photos of them while driving which in turn, drives my sister crazy. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem as risky as texting.

  In any event, I got a few shots and then got interested in fields far different from Illinois’ corn and beans. Cotton fields, some harvested and others in bloom. I realized that random tufts had blown to the edge of the highway so I pulled over to collect a few.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. There are special cotton picking machines which somehow collect the cotton and roll it into brightly colored stretchy plastic bales, like hay. Imagining the backbreaking labor of slaves bent over the plants was disturbing. As we drove through Tennessee, my GPS was sending us off the main highways to shorter routes that took us through small towns and back country. I was just getting ready to make a turn on some side street when I caught sight of a marker pointing toward Shiloh National Battlefield. I’ve always wanted to go there after having read so much about it. Tennessee was considered the Western theater of the Civil War and water throughways there were critical to victory for both sides. Pittsburg Landing located close by, was a crucial port.  The battle was fought over two days in April, 1862. Over one hundred seven thousand soldiers participated with a casualty rate of 21% from both armies.  The fighting raged over terrain that was both heavily wooded and dotted with clearings where people could be mowed down. The amount of artillery was astonishing and caused devastation that astonished the country.

  There are names like the Hornets’ Nest and the Bloody Pond, accurate descriptors for what happened there. There are mass graves in several locations along with peach  orchards and farmer’s fields, those average people whose homes were in  the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Driving through the dense peaceful forest, with deer, squirrels and birds abounding, it was hard to inagine the deafening, smoky, violent madness that occurred there. It’s like traveling with the echoes of ghosts. Two future presidents fought there, Ulysses Grant and James Garfield, as did General Lew Wallace who wrote “Ben Hur.”

  And  then there were the faceless thousands who died, were maimed or survived and went back to their lives. Being on that ground was a moving experience. Times gone by in a flash of chaos.

  We finally made it into Mississippi early tonight, waylaid but glad for the digression. I’ve only been gone for a couple of days but I do feel less annoyed and grumpy about life in general. A little change of scenery can go a long way. I’m already thinking about what comes next.

  Pushing the Margins There are the days when you've just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too.

[rilenerocks]

There are the days when you’ve just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too. That’s the way life goes. Crepey skin, lacking moisture and resilience. Weird hairs growing in the wrong places. I’m a swimmer, and now after 45 years or so of doing the same repetitive motions, my shoulders have begun to ache, the pain and stiffness waking me at night. A pressing sense of urgency pushes me to hurry up and get all those things done that are sitting on various to-do lists and which feel very important. But are they important? Am I important? I can walk down the street wearing an unmistakable cloak of invisibility which I once thought would be a magic power. Not so much any more. To the bustling young people in their invincible minds, I am unseen. I’m exercising and trying to eat right and doing brain exercises. I still remember ridiculous amounts of information about a wide range of topics. So what. The inexorable slide is still happening. For some people with good genes, the process may be slower than it is for others. Some have been forgetful for years. Others, like me, are still able to experience powerful recall. Many older folks do without the intimacy and physicality of their youth.  Lots of people drifted away from sex long ago. Those of us who still have a powerful drive may be stuck without the partner we used to have.

News at home and abroad is lousy and oppressive. You try to do some good where you can but are left feeling insufficient and overwhelmed. Everything feels annoying and you’re muttering stuff to yourself like, “shit rolls downhill,” “what goes around comes around,” and, “ha, you pompous child, one day you’re going to be in the place I am right now – we’ll see how you like it.” The fact is that older women are marginalized, kicked to the curb, both personally and professionally. Everyone just can’t be Jane Goodall, that wonderful person or other famous women who’ve bucked the odds. Lots of us are just regular.  We grew up trying to find ways to navigate societal expectations. Many us found partners who stuck and many found partners who didn’t. Some never found anyone. We went to work and school, had babies and aging parents and balanced full schedules every day for years. Those of certain economic classes, that is. The poor, the victims of domestic and sexual abuse and the uneducated are marginalized all their lives. I won’t forget that truth. I push back. I have my opinions, my morals and my standards and I don’t feel like getting kicked to the curb. When you’ve fought your way through the grief of losing a life partner, your parents, siblings and friends, you want a little attention and empathy. And you want it to be given freely without asking for it. But as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want.

 Yesterday, I wanted my husband to be alive. Of course I always want him to be alive, but some days are harder than others. I wanted something from him that I can’t get anywhere else. I’m pretty warmhearted but I have my boundaries. I don’t like people touching my face. I don’t know why. When I was young, it was okay that my mom did it. She would relax me. But as I got older, I shied away from that. There’s just something really intimate about having a person lay hands on the place where your deepest thoughts and feelings are just underneath your skin. At least that’s   how it works for me. One time, not long ago, my sweet grandson touched my cheek. I sat very still and didn’t jump away from him. But that was a challenge. He doesn’t perceive that invisible wall. I want Michael to touch my face. He would take both hands and shove my hair straight back and stare at me. Ironically, I have widow’s peak. He loved my hairline and looking into my eyes. And I trusted him. I miss that sense of security a lot. Instead there are all these other oppressive and irritating daily struggles that I’d hoped would have been far more improved in these last fifty years. Me, too. Me, too. So what do you do when you just can’t do regular life? For me, it’s hitting the road. My butterflies have flown the coop.

I left too. I set some goal for myself after Michael died. One was to see all 50 states in this country. Just before my knee surgery in July, I got up to 43 visited. Feeling antsy and discontented, I decided to take a few days and knock two others off that list, Mississippi and Alabama. My sister, who retired recently, came along with me. I have to say, these two states aren’t high on my list, mostly because my political stance is diametrically opposed to lots of people in these places. So I tried an itinerary which included nature, a little pop history and maybe some Civil War sites. I don’t talk much about the depth of my interest in that war, but I’ve been obsessed by it for years and have read a few hundred books about it. I still gave trouble fathoming the fact that people from the same country lined themselves up across from each other and blasted themselves into oblivion for four years. I thought I might find a place to ponder that subject on my getaway from reality. We started out by driving to Garden of the Gods in Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois.

I’ve been there before but it doesn’t get old. Imposing sandstone bluffs that emerged from Pangea as the earth shook itself into pieces are still awesome to experience. Old stands of beautiful birch trees commingle with other species and create a peaceful quiet that is really soothing. No wonder forest walking has become a recommended therapeutic device. I managed to snag a few rocks that had chipped off the large formations. After we wandered through there, with me being grateful to have knees that work again, albeit a little gingerly, we drove to a nearby town for some delicious barbecue and a good night’s rest.

This morning after breakfast, we took off and headed to Mississippi.  The weather was pleasant, cool and sunny. I’d finally synced Michael’s ancient iPod to the car. As we zipped along, we crossed the Mississippi, heading into Tennessee on our way to Tupelo, birthplace of Elvis Presley. I like bridges and taking photos of them while driving which in turn, drives my sister crazy. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem as risky as texting.

In any event, I got a few shots and then got interested in fields far different from Illinois’ corn and beans. Cotton fields, some harvested and others in bloom. I realized that random tufts had blown to the edge of the highway so I pulled over to collect a few.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. There are special cotton picking machines which somehow collect the cotton and roll it into brightly colored stretchy plastic bales, like hay. Imagining the backbreaking labor of slaves bent over the plants was disturbing. As we drove through Tennessee, my GPS was sending us off the main highways to shorter routes that took us through small towns and back country. I was just getting ready to make a turn on some side street when I caught sight of a marker pointing toward Shiloh National Battlefield. I’ve always wanted to go there after having read so much about it. Tennessee was considered the Western theater of the Civil War and water throughways there were critical to victory for both sides. Pittsburg Landing located close by, was a crucial port.  The battle was fought over two days in April, 1862. Over one hundred seven thousand soldiers participated with a casualty rate of 21% from both armies.  The fighting raged over terrain that was both heavily wooded and dotted with clearings where people could be mowed down. The amount of artillery was astonishing and caused devastation that astonished the country.

There are names like the Hornets’ Nest and the Bloody Pond, accurate descriptors for what happened there. There are mass graves in several locations along with peach  orchards and farmer’s fields, those average people whose homes were in  the wrong place at the wrong time.

Driving through the dense peaceful forest, with deer, squirrels and birds abounding, it was hard to inagine the deafening, smoky, violent madness that occurred there. It’s like traveling with the echoes of ghosts. Two future presidents fought there, Ulysses Grant and James Garfield, as did General Lew Wallace who wrote “Ben Hur.”

And  then there were the faceless thousands who died, were maimed or survived and went back to their lives. Being on that ground was a moving experience. Times gone by in a flash of chaos.

We finally made it into Mississippi early tonight, waylaid but glad for the digression. I’ve only been gone for a couple of days but I do feel less annoyed and grumpy about life in general. A little change of scenery can go a long way. I’m already thinking about what comes next.

  Pushing the Margins There are the days when you've just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too.

[rilenerocks]

There are the days when you’ve just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too. That’s the way life goes. Crepey skin, lacking moisture and resilience. Weird hairs growing in the wrong places. I’m a swimmer, and now after 45 years or so of doing the same repetitive motions, my shoulders have begun to ache, the pain and stiffness waking me at night. A pressing sense of urgency pushes me to hurry up and get all those things done that are sitting on various to-do lists and which feel very important. But are they important? Am I important? I can walk down the street wearing an unmistakable cloak of invisibility which I once thought would be a magic power. Not so much any more. To the bustling young people in their invincible minds, I am unseen. I’m exercising and trying to eat right and doing brain exercises. I still remember ridiculous amounts of information about a wide range of topics. So what. The inexorable slide is still happening. For some people with good genes, the process may be slower than it is for others. Some have been forgetful for years. Others, like me, are still able to experience powerful recall. Many older folks do without the intimacy and physicality of their youth.  Lots of people drifted away from sex long ago. Those of us who still have a powerful drive may be stuck without the partner we used to have.

News at home and abroad is lousy and oppressive. You try to do some good where you can but are left feeling insufficient and overwhelmed. Everything feels annoying and you’re muttering stuff to yourself like, “shit rolls downhill,” “what goes around comes around,” and, “ha, you pompous child, one day you’re going to be in the place I am right now – we’ll see how you like it.” The fact is that older women are marginalized, kicked to the curb, both personally and professionally. Everyone just can’t be Jane Goodall, that wonderful person or other famous women who’ve bucked the odds. Lots of us are just regular.  We grew up trying to find ways to navigate societal expectations. Many us found partners who stuck and many found partners who didn’t. Some never found anyone. We went to work and school, had babies and aging parents and balanced full schedules every day for years. Those of certain economic classes, that is. The poor, the victims of domestic and sexual abuse and the uneducated are marginalized all their lives. I won’t forget that truth. I push back. I have my opinions, my morals and my standards and I don’t feel like getting kicked to the curb. When you’ve fought your way through the grief of losing a life partner, your parents, siblings and friends, you want a little attention and empathy. And you want it to be given freely without asking for it. But as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want.

 Yesterday, I wanted my husband to be alive. Of course I always want him to be alive, but some days are harder than others. I wanted something from him that I can’t get anywhere else. I’m pretty warmhearted but I have my boundaries. I don’t like people touching my face. I don’t know why. When I was young, it was okay that my mom did it. She would relax me. But as I got older, I shied away from that. There’s just something really intimate about having a person lay hands on the place where your deepest thoughts and feelings are just underneath your skin. At least that’s   how it works for me. One time, not long ago, my sweet grandson touched my cheek. I sat very still and didn’t jump away from him. But that was a challenge. He doesn’t perceive that invisible wall. I want Michael to touch my face. He would take both hands and shove my hair straight back and stare at me. Ironically, I have widow’s peak. He loved my hairline and looking into my eyes. And I trusted him. I miss that sense of security a lot. Instead there are all these other oppressive and irritating daily struggles that I’d hoped would have been far more improved in these last fifty years. Me, too. Me, too. So what do you do when you just can’t do regular life? For me, it’s hitting the road. My butterflies have flown the coop.

I left too. I set some goal for myself after Michael died. One was to see all 50 states in this country. Just before my knee surgery in July, I got up to 43 visited. Feeling antsy and discontented, I decided to take a few days and knock two others off that list, Mississippi and Alabama. My sister, who retired recently, came along with me. I have to say, these two states aren’t high on my list, mostly because my political stance is diametrically opposed to lots of people in these places. So I tried an itinerary which included nature, a little pop history and maybe some Civil War sites. I don’t talk much about the depth of my interest in that war, but I’ve been obsessed by it for years and have read a few hundred books about it. I still gave trouble fathoming the fact that people from the same country lined themselves up across from each other and blasted themselves into oblivion for four years. I thought I might find a place to ponder that subject on my getaway from reality. We started out by driving to Garden of the Gods in Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois.

  I’ve been there before but it doesn’t get old. Imposing sandstone bluffs that emerged from Pangea as the earth shook itself into pieces are still awesome to experience. Old stands of beautiful birch trees commingle with other species and create a peaceful quiet that is really soothing. No wonder forest walking has become a recommended therapeutic device. I managed to snag a few rocks that had chipped off the large formations. After we wandered through there, with me being grateful to have knees that work again, albeit a little gingerly, we drove to a nearby town for some delicious barbecue and a good night’s rest.

  This morning after breakfast, we took off and headed to Mississippi.  The weather was pleasant, cool and sunny. I’d finally synced Michael’s ancient iPod to the car. As we zipped along, we crossed the Mississippi, heading into Tennessee on our way to Tupelo, birthplace of Elvis Presley. I like bridges and taking photos of them while driving which in turn, drives my sister crazy. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem as risky as texting.

  In any event, I got a few shots and then got interested in fields far different from Illinois’ corn and beans. Cotton fields, some harvested and others in bloom. I realized that random tufts had blown to the edge of the highway so I pulled over to collect a few.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. There are special cotton picking machines which somehow collect the cotton and roll it into brightly colored stretchy plastic bales, like hay. Imagining the backbreaking labor of slaves bent over the plants was disturbing. As we drove through Tennessee, my GPS was sending us off the main highways to shorter routes that took us through small towns and back country. I was just getting ready to make a turn on some side street when I caught sight of a marker pointing toward Shiloh National Battlefield. I’ve always wanted to go there after having read so much about it. Tennessee was considered the Western theater of the Civil War and water throughways there were critical to victory for both sides. Pittsburg Landing located close by, was a crucial port.  The battle was fought over two days in April, 1862. Over one hundred seven thousand soldiers participated with a casualty rate of 21% from both armies.  The fighting raged over terrain that was both heavily wooded and dotted with clearings where people could be mowed down. The amount of artillery was astonishing and caused devastation that astonished the country.

  There are names like the Hornets’ Nest and the Bloody Pond, accurate descriptors for what happened there. There are mass graves in several locations along with peach  orchards and farmer’s fields, those average people whose homes were in  the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Driving through the dense peaceful forest, with deer, squirrels and birds abounding, it was hard to inagine the deafening, smoky, violent madness that occurred there. It’s like traveling with the echoes of ghosts. Two future presidents fought there, Ulysses Grant and James Garfield, as did General Lew Wallace who wrote “Ben Hur.”

  And  then there were the faceless thousands who died, were maimed or survived and went back to their lives. Being on that ground was a moving experience. Times gone by in a flash of chaos.

  We finally made it into Mississippi early tonight, waylaid but glad for the digression. I’ve only been gone for a couple of days but I do feel less annoyed and grumpy about life in general. A little change of scenery can go a long way. I’m already thinking about what comes next. 

Pushing the Margins There are the days when you've just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too.

[rilenerocks]

There are the days when you’ve just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too. That’s the way life goes. Crepey skin, lacking moisture and resilience. Weird hairs growing in the wrong places. I’m a swimmer, and now after 45 years or so of doing the same repetitive motions, my shoulders have begun to ache, the pain and stiffness waking me at night. A pressing sense of urgency pushes me to hurry up and get all those things done that are sitting on various to-do lists and which feel very important. But are they important? Am I important? I can walk down the street wearing an unmistakable cloak of invisibility which I once thought would be a magic power. Not so much any more. To the bustling young people in their invincible minds, I am unseen. I’m exercising and trying to eat right and doing brain exercises. I still remember ridiculous amounts of information about a wide range of topics. So what. The inexorable slide is still happening. For some people with good genes, the process may be slower than it is for others. Some have been forgetful for years. Others, like me, are still able to experience powerful recall. Many older folks do without the intimacy and physicality of their youth.  Lots of people drifted away from sex long ago. Those of us who still have a powerful drive may be stuck without the partner we used to have.

News at home and abroad is lousy and oppressive. You try to do some good where you can but are left feeling insufficient and overwhelmed. Everything feels annoying and you’re muttering stuff to yourself like, “shit rolls downhill,” “what goes around comes around,” and, “ha, you pompous child, one day you’re going to be in the place I am right now – we’ll see how you like it.” The fact is that older women are marginalized, kicked to the curb, both personally and professionally. Everyone just can’t be Jane Goodall, that wonderful person or other famous women who’ve bucked the odds. Lots of us are just regular.  We grew up trying to find ways to navigate societal expectations. Many us found partners who stuck and many found partners who didn’t. Some never found anyone. We went to work and school, had babies and aging parents and balanced full schedules every day for years. Those of certain economic classes, that is. The poor, the victims of domestic and sexual abuse and the uneducated are marginalized all their lives. I won’t forget that truth. I push back. I have my opinions, my morals and my standards and I don’t feel like getting kicked to the curb. When you’ve fought your way through the grief of losing a life partner, your parents, siblings and friends, you want a little attention and empathy. And you want it to be given freely without asking for it. But as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want.

 Yesterday, I wanted my husband to be alive. Of course I always want him to be alive, but some days are harder than others. I wanted something from him that I can’t get anywhere else. I’m pretty warmhearted but I have my boundaries. I don’t like people touching my face. I don’t know why. When I was young, it was okay that my mom did it. She would relax me. But as I got older, I shied away from that. There’s just something really intimate about having a person lay hands on the place where your deepest thoughts and feelings are just underneath your skin. At least that’s   how it works for me. One time, not long ago, my sweet grandson touched my cheek. I sat very still and didn’t jump away from him. But that was a challenge. He doesn’t perceive that invisible wall. I want Michael to touch my face. He would take both hands and shove my hair straight back and stare at me. Ironically, I have widow’s peak. He loved my hairline and looking into my eyes. And I trusted him. I miss that sense of security a lot. Instead there are all these other oppressive and irritating daily struggles that I’d hoped would have been far more improved in these last fifty years. Me, too. Me, too. So what do you do when you just can’t do regular life? For me, it’s hitting the road. My butterflies have flown the coop.

I left too. I set some goal for myself after Michael died. One was to see all 50 states in this country. Just before my knee surgery in July, I got up to 43 visited. Feeling antsy and discontented, I decided to take a few days and knock two others off that list, Mississippi and Alabama. My sister, who retired recently, came along with me. I have to say, these two states aren’t high on my list, mostly because my political stance is diametrically opposed to lots of people in these places. So I tried an itinerary which included nature, a little pop history and maybe some Civil War sites. I don’t talk much about the depth of my interest in that war, but I’ve been obsessed by it for years and have read a few hundred books about it. I still gave trouble fathoming the fact that people from the same country lined themselves up across from each other and blasted themselves into oblivion for four years. I thought I might find a place to ponder that subject on my getaway from reality. We started out by driving to Garden of the Gods in Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois.

  I’ve been there before but it doesn’t get old. Imposing sandstone bluffs that emerged from Pangea as the earth shook itself into pieces are still awesome to experience. Old stands of beautiful birch trees commingle with other species and create a peaceful quiet that is really soothing. No wonder forest walking has become a recommended therapeutic device. I managed to snag a few rocks that had chipped off the large formations. After we wandered through there, with me being grateful to have knees that work again, albeit a little gingerly, we drove to a nearby town for some delicious barbecue and a good night’s rest.

  This morning after breakfast, we took off and headed to Mississippi.  The weather was pleasant, cool and sunny. I’d finally synced Michael’s ancient iPod to the car. As we zipped along, we crossed the Mississippi, heading into Tennessee on our way to Tupelo, birthplace of Elvis Presley. I like bridges and taking photos of them while driving which in turn, drives my sister crazy. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem as risky as texting.

  In any event, I got a few shots and then got interested in fields far different from Illinois’ corn and beans. Cotton fields, some harvested and others in bloom. I realized that random tufts had blown to the edge of the highway so I pulled over to collect a few.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. There are special cotton picking machines which somehow collect the cotton and roll it into brightly colored stretchy plastic bales, like hay. Imagining the backbreaking labor of slaves bent over the plants was disturbing. As we drove through Tennessee, my GPS was sending us off the main highways to shorter routes that took us through small towns and back country. I was just getting ready to make a turn on some side street when I caught sight of a marker pointing toward Shiloh National Battlefield. I’ve always wanted to go there after having read so much about it. Tennessee was considered the Western theater of the Civil War and water throughways there were critical to victory for both sides. Pittsburg Landing located close by, was a crucial port.  The battle was fought over two days in April, 1862. Over one hundred seven thousand soldiers participated with a casualty rate of 21% from both armies.  The fighting raged over terrain that was both heavily wooded and dotted with clearings where people could be mowed down. The amount of artillery was astonishing and caused devastation that astonished the country.

  There are names like the Hornets’ Nest and the Bloody Pond, accurate descriptors for what happened there. There are mass graves in several locations along with peach  orchards and farmer’s fields, those average people whose homes were in  the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Driving through the dense peaceful forest, with deer, squirrels and birds abounding, it was hard to inagine the deafening, smoky, violent madness that occurred there. It’s like traveling with the echoes of ghosts. Two future presidents fought there, Ulysses Grant and James Garfield, as did General Lew Wallace who wrote “Ben Hur.”

  And  then there were the faceless thousands who died, were maimed or survived and went back to their lives. Being on that ground was a moving experience. Times gone by in a flash of chaos.

  We finally made it into Mississippi early tonight, waylaid but glad for the digression. I’ve only been gone for a couple of days but I do feel less annoyed and grumpy about life in general. A little change of scenery can go a long way. I’m already thinking about what comes next. 

Pushing the Margins There are the days when you've just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too.

[rilenerocks]

There are the days when you’ve just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too. That’s the way life goes. Crepey skin, lacking moisture and resilience. Weird hairs growing in the wrong places. I’m a swimmer, and now after 45 years or so of doing the same repetitive motions, my shoulders have begun to ache, the pain and stiffness waking me at night. A pressing sense of urgency pushes me to hurry up and get all those things done that are sitting on various to-do lists and which feel very important. But are they important? Am I important? I can walk down the street wearing an unmistakable cloak of invisibility which I once thought would be a magic power. Not so much any more. To the bustling young people in their invincible minds, I am unseen. I’m exercising and trying to eat right and doing brain exercises. I still remember ridiculous amounts of information about a wide range of topics. So what. The inexorable slide is still happening. For some people with good genes, the process may be slower than it is for others. Some have been forgetful for years. Others, like me, are still able to experience powerful recall. Many older folks do without the intimacy and physicality of their youth.  Lots of people drifted away from sex long ago. Those of us who still have a powerful drive may be stuck without the partner we used to have.

News at home and abroad is lousy and oppressive. You try to do some good where you can but are left feeling insufficient and overwhelmed. Everything feels annoying and you’re muttering stuff to yourself like, “shit rolls downhill,” “what goes around comes around,” and, “ha, you pompous child, one day you’re going to be in the place I am right now – we’ll see how you like it.” The fact is that older women are marginalized, kicked to the curb, both personally and professionally. Everyone just can’t be Jane Goodall, that wonderful person or other famous women who’ve bucked the odds. Lots of us are just regular.  We grew up trying to find ways to navigate societal expectations. Many us found partners who stuck and many found partners who didn’t. Some never found anyone. We went to work and school, had babies and aging parents and balanced full schedules every day for years. Those of certain economic classes, that is. The poor, the victims of domestic and sexual abuse and the uneducated are marginalized all their lives. I won’t forget that truth. I push back. I have my opinions, my morals and my standards and I don’t feel like getting kicked to the curb. When you’ve fought your way through the grief of losing a life partner, your parents, siblings and friends, you want a little attention and empathy. And you want it to be given freely without asking for it. But as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want.

 Yesterday, I wanted my husband to be alive. Of course I always want him to be alive, but some days are harder than others. I wanted something from him that I can’t get anywhere else. I’m pretty warmhearted but I have my boundaries. I don’t like people touching my face. I don’t know why. When I was young, it was okay that my mom did it. She would relax me. But as I got older, I shied away from that. There’s just something really intimate about having a person lay hands on the place where your deepest thoughts and feelings are just underneath your skin. At least that’s   how it works for me. One time, not long ago, my sweet grandson touched my cheek. I sat very still and didn’t jump away from him. But that was a challenge. He doesn’t perceive that invisible wall. I want Michael to touch my face. He would take both hands and shove my hair straight back and stare at me. Ironically, I have widow’s peak. He loved my hairline and looking into my eyes. And I trusted him. I miss that sense of security a lot. Instead there are all these other oppressive and irritating daily struggles that I’d hoped would have been far more improved in these last fifty years. Me, too. Me, too. So what do you do when you just can’t do regular life? For me, it’s hitting the road. My butterflies have flown the coop.

I left too. I set some goal for myself after Michael died. One was to see all 50 states in this country. Just before my knee surgery in July, I got up to 43 visited. Feeling antsy and discontented, I decided to take a few days and knock two others off that list, Mississippi and Alabama. My sister, who retired recently, came along with me. I have to say, these two states aren’t high on my list, mostly because my political stance is diametrically opposed to lots of people in these places. So I tried an itinerary which included nature, a little pop history and maybe some Civil War sites. I don’t talk much about the depth of my interest in that war, but I’ve been obsessed by it for years and have read a few hundred books about it. I still gave trouble fathoming the fact that people from the same country lined themselves up across from each other and blasted themselves into oblivion for four years. I thought I might find a place to ponder that subject on my getaway from reality. We started out by driving to Garden of the Gods in Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois.

I’ve been there before but it doesn’t get old. Imposing sandstone bluffs that emerged from Pangea as the earth shook itself into pieces are still awesome to experience. Old stands of beautiful birch trees commingle with other species and create a peaceful quiet that is really soothing. No wonder forest walking has become a recommended therapeutic device. I managed to snag a few rocks that had chipped off the large formations. After we wandered through there, with me being grateful to have knees that work again, albeit a little gingerly, we drove to a nearby town for some delicious barbecue and a good night’s rest.

This morning after breakfast, we took off and headed to Mississippi.  The weather was pleasant, cool and sunny. I’d finally synced Michael’s ancient iPod to the car. As we zipped along, we crossed the Mississippi, heading into Tennessee on our way to Tupelo, birthplace of Elvis Presley. I like bridges and taking photos of them while driving which in turn, drives my sister crazy. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem as risky as texting.

In any event, I got a few shots and then got interested in fields far different from Illinois’ corn and beans. Cotton fields, some harvested and others in bloom. I realized that random tufts had blown to the edge of the highway so I pulled over to collect a few.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. There are special cotton picking machines which somehow collect the cotton and roll it into brightly colored stretchy plastic bales, like hay. Imagining the backbreaking labor of slaves bent over the plants was disturbing. As we drove through Tennessee, my GPS was sending us off the main highways to shorter routes that took us through small towns and back country. I was just getting ready to make a turn on some side street when I caught sight of a marker pointing toward Shiloh National Battlefield. I’ve always wanted to go there after having read so much about it. Tennessee was considered the Western theater of the Civil War and water throughways there were critical to victory for both sides. Pittsburg Landing located close by, was a crucial port.  The battle was fought over two days in April, 1862. Over one hundred seven thousand soldiers participated with a casualty rate of 21% from both armies.  The fighting raged over terrain that was both heavily wooded and dotted with clearings where people could be mowed down. The amount of artillery was astonishing and caused devastation that astonished the country.

There are names like the Hornets’ Nest and the Bloody Pond, accurate descriptors for what happened there. There are mass graves in several locations along with peach  orchards and farmer’s fields, those average people whose homes were in  the wrong place at the wrong time.

Driving through the dense peaceful forest, with deer, squirrels and birds abounding, it was hard to inagine the deafening, smoky, violent madness that occurred there. It’s like traveling with the echoes of ghosts. Two future presidents fought there, Ulysses Grant and James Garfield, as did General Lew Wallace who wrote “Ben Hur.”

And  then there were the faceless thousands who died, were maimed or survived and went back to their lives. Being on that ground was a moving experience. Times gone by in a flash of chaos.

We finally made it into Mississippi early tonight, waylaid but glad for the digression. I’ve only been gone for a couple of days but I do feel less annoyed and grumpy about life in general. A little change of scenery can go a long way. I’m already thinking about what comes next. 

Pushing the Margins There are the days when you've just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too.

[rilenerocks]

There are the days when you’ve just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too. That’s the way life goes. Crepey skin, lacking moisture and resilience. Weird hairs growing in the wrong places. I’m a swimmer, and now after 45 years or so of doing the same repetitive motions, my shoulders have begun to ache, the pain and stiffness waking me at night. A pressing sense of urgency pushes me to hurry up and get all those things done that are sitting on various to-do lists and which feel very important. But are they important? Am I important? I can walk down the street wearing an unmistakable cloak of invisibility which I once thought would be a magic power. Not so much any more. To the bustling young people in their invincible minds, I am unseen. I’m exercising and trying to eat right and doing brain exercises. I still remember ridiculous amounts of information about a wide range of topics. So what. The inexorable slide is still happening. For some people with good genes, the process may be slower than it is for others. Some have been forgetful for years. Others, like me, are still able to experience powerful recall. Many older folks do without the intimacy and physicality of their youth.  Lots of people drifted away from sex long ago. Those of us who still have a powerful drive may be stuck without the partner we used to have.

News at home and abroad is lousy and oppressive. You try to do some good where you can but are left feeling insufficient and overwhelmed. Everything feels annoying and you’re muttering stuff to yourself like, “shit rolls downhill,” “what goes around comes around,” and, “ha, you pompous child, one day you’re going to be in the place I am right now – we’ll see how you like it.” The fact is that older women are marginalized, kicked to the curb, both personally and professionally. Everyone just can’t be Jane Goodall, that wonderful person or other famous women who’ve bucked the odds. Lots of us are just regular.  We grew up trying to find ways to navigate societal expectations. Many us found partners who stuck and many found partners who didn’t. Some never found anyone. We went to work and school, had babies and aging parents and balanced full schedules every day for years. Those of certain economic classes, that is. The poor, the victims of domestic and sexual abuse and the uneducated are marginalized all their lives. I won’t forget that truth. I push back. I have my opinions, my morals and my standards and I don’t feel like getting kicked to the curb. When you’ve fought your way through the grief of losing a life partner, your parents, siblings and friends, you want a little attention and empathy. And you want it to be given freely without asking for it. But as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want.

 Yesterday, I wanted my husband to be alive. Of course I always want him to be alive, but some days are harder than others. I wanted something from him that I can’t get anywhere else. I’m pretty warmhearted but I have my boundaries. I don’t like people touching my face. I don’t know why. When I was young, it was okay that my mom did it. She would relax me. But as I got older, I shied away from that. There’s just something really intimate about having a person lay hands on the place where your deepest thoughts and feelings are just underneath your skin. At least that’s   how it works for me. One time, not long ago, my sweet grandson touched my cheek. I sat very still and didn’t jump away from him. But that was a challenge. He doesn’t perceive that invisible wall. I want Michael to touch my face. He would take both hands and shove my hair straight back and stare at me. Ironically, I have widow’s peak. He loved my hairline and looking into my eyes. And I trusted him. I miss that sense of security a lot. Instead there are all these other oppressive and irritating daily struggles that I’d hoped would have been far more improved in these last fifty years. Me, too. Me, too. So what do you do when you just can’t do regular life? For me, it’s hitting the road. My butterflies have flown the coop.

I left too. I set some goal for myself after Michael died. One was to see all 50 states in this country. Just before my knee surgery in July, I got up to 43 visited. Feeling antsy and discontented, I decided to take a few days and knock two others off that list, Mississippi and Alabama. My sister, who retired recently, came along with me. I have to say, these two states aren’t high on my list, mostly because my political stance is diametrically opposed to lots of people in these places. So I tried an itinerary which included nature, a little pop history and maybe some Civil War sites. I don’t talk much about the depth of my interest in that war, but I’ve been obsessed by it for years and have read a few hundred books about it. I still gave trouble fathoming the fact that people from the same country lined themselves up across from each other and blasted themselves into oblivion for four years. I thought I might find a place to ponder that subject on my getaway from reality. We started out by driving to Garden of the Gods in Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois.

I’ve been there before but it doesn’t get old. Imposing sandstone bluffs that emerged from Pangea as the earth shook itself into pieces are still awesome to experience. Old stands of beautiful birch trees commingle with other species and create a peaceful quiet that is really soothing. No wonder forest walking has become a recommended therapeutic device. I managed to snag a few rocks that had chipped off the large formations. After we wandered through there, with me being grateful to have knees that work again, albeit a little gingerly, we drove to a nearby town for some delicious barbecue and a good night’s rest.

This morning after breakfast, we took off and headed to Mississippi.  The weather was pleasant, cool and sunny. I’d finally synced Michael’s ancient iPod to the car. As we zipped along, we crossed the Mississippi, heading into Tennessee on our way to Tupelo, birthplace of Elvis Presley. I like bridges and taking photos of them while driving which in turn, drives my sister crazy. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem as risky as texting.

In any event, I got a few shots and then got interested in fields far different from Illinois’ corn and beans. Cotton fields, some harvested and others in bloom. I realized that random tufts had blown to the edge of the highway so I pulled over to collect a few.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. There are special cotton picking machines which somehow collect the cotton and roll it into brightly colored stretchy plastic bales, like hay. Imagining the backbreaking labor of slaves bent over the plants was disturbing. As we drove through Tennessee, my GPS was sending us off the main highways to shorter routes that took us through small towns and back country. I was just getting ready to make a turn on some side street when I caught sight of a marker pointing toward Shiloh National Battlefield. I’ve always wanted to go there after having read so much about it. Tennessee was considered the Western theater of the Civil War and water throughways there were critical to victory for both sides. Pittsburg Landing located close by, was a crucial port.  The battle was fought over two days in April, 1862. Over one hundred seven thousand soldiers participated with a casualty rate of 21% from both armies.  The fighting raged over terrain that was both heavily wooded and dotted with clearings where people could be mowed down. The amount of artillery was astonishing and caused devastation that astonished the country.

There are names like the Hornets’ Nest and the Bloody Pond, accurate descriptors for what happened there. There are mass graves in several locations along with peach  orchards and farmer’s fields, those average people whose homes were in  the wrong place at the wrong time.

Driving through the dense peaceful forest, with deer, squirrels and birds abounding, it was hard to inagine the deafening, smoky, violent madness that occurred there. It’s like traveling with the echoes of ghosts. Two future presidents fought there, Ulysses Grant and James Garfield, as did General Lew Wallace who wrote “Ben Hur.”

And  then there were the faceless thousands who died, were maimed or survived and went back to their lives. Being on that ground was a moving experience. Times gone by in a flash of chaos.

We finally made it into Mississippi early tonight, waylaid but glad for the digression. I’ve only been gone for a couple of days but I do feel less annoyed and grumpy about life in general. A little change of scenery can go a long way. I’m already thinking about what comes next. 

Pushing the Margins There are the days when you've just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too.

[rilenerocks]

There are the days when you’ve just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too. That’s the way life goes. Crepey skin, lacking moisture and resilience. Weird hairs growing in the wrong places. I’m a swimmer, and now after 45 years or so of doing the same repetitive motions, my shoulders have begun to ache, the pain and stiffness waking me at night. A pressing sense of urgency pushes me to hurry up and get all those things done that are sitting on various to-do lists and which feel very important. But are they important? Am I important? I can walk down the street wearing an unmistakable cloak of invisibility which I once thought would be a magic power. Not so much any more. To the bustling young people in their invincible minds, I am unseen. I’m exercising and trying to eat right and doing brain exercises. I still remember ridiculous amounts of information about a wide range of topics. So what. The inexorable slide is still happening. For some people with good genes, the process may be slower than it is for others. Some have been forgetful for years. Others, like me, are still able to experience powerful recall. Many older folks do without the intimacy and physicality of their youth.  Lots of people drifted away from sex long ago. Those of us who still have a powerful drive may be stuck without the partner we used to have.

News at home and abroad is lousy and oppressive. You try to do some good where you can but are left feeling insufficient and overwhelmed. Everything feels annoying and you’re muttering stuff to yourself like, “shit rolls downhill,” “what goes around comes around,” and, “ha, you pompous child, one day you’re going to be in the place I am right now – we’ll see how you like it.” The fact is that older women are marginalized, kicked to the curb, both personally and professionally. Everyone just can’t be Jane Goodall, that wonderful person or other famous women who’ve bucked the odds. Lots of us are just regular.  We grew up trying to find ways to navigate societal expectations. Many us found partners who stuck and many found partners who didn’t. Some never found anyone. We went to work and school, had babies and aging parents and balanced full schedules every day for years. Those of certain economic classes, that is. The poor, the victims of domestic and sexual abuse and the uneducated are marginalized all their lives. I won’t forget that truth. I push back. I have my opinions, my morals and my standards and I don’t feel like getting kicked to the curb. When you’ve fought your way through the grief of losing a life partner, your parents, siblings and friends, you want a little attention and empathy. And you want it to be given freely without asking for it. But as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want.

 Yesterday, I wanted my husband to be alive. Of course I always want him to be alive, but some days are harder than others. I wanted something from him that I can’t get anywhere else. I’m pretty warmhearted but I have my boundaries. I don’t like people touching my face. I don’t know why. When I was young, it was okay that my mom did it. She would relax me. But as I got older, I shied away from that. There’s just something really intimate about having a person lay hands on the place where your deepest thoughts and feelings are just underneath your skin. At least that’s   how it works for me. One time, not long ago, my sweet grandson touched my cheek. I sat very still and didn’t jump away from him. But that was a challenge. He doesn’t perceive that invisible wall. I want Michael to touch my face. He would take both hands and shove my hair straight back and stare at me. Ironically, I have widow’s peak. He loved my hairline and looking into my eyes. And I trusted him. I miss that sense of security a lot. Instead there are all these other oppressive and irritating daily struggles that I’d hoped would have been far more improved in these last fifty years. Me, too. Me, too. So what do you do when you just can’t do regular life? For me, it’s hitting the road. My butterflies have flown the coop.

I left too. I set some goal for myself after Michael died. One was to see all 50 states in this country. Just before my knee surgery in July, I got up to 43 visited. Feeling antsy and discontented, I decided to take a few days and knock two others off that list, Mississippi and Alabama. My sister, who retired recently, came along with me. I have to say, these two states aren’t high on my list, mostly because my political stance is diametrically opposed to lots of people in these places. So I tried an itinerary which included nature, a little pop history and maybe some Civil War sites. I don’t talk much about the depth of my interest in that war, but I’ve been obsessed by it for years and have read a few hundred books about it. I still gave trouble fathoming the fact that people from the same country lined themselves up across from each other and blasted themselves into oblivion for four years. I thought I might find a place to ponder that subject on my getaway from reality. We started out by driving to Garden of the Gods in Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois.

I’ve been there before but it doesn’t get old. Imposing sandstone bluffs that emerged from Pangea as the earth shook itself into pieces are still awesome to experience. Old stands of beautiful birch trees commingle with other species and create a peaceful quiet that is really soothing. No wonder forest walking has become a recommended therapeutic device. I managed to snag a few rocks that had chipped off the large formations. After we wandered through there, with me being grateful to have knees that work again, albeit a little gingerly, we drove to a nearby town for some delicious barbecue and a good night’s rest.

This morning after breakfast, we took off and headed to Mississippi.  The weather was pleasant, cool and sunny. I’d finally synced Michael’s ancient iPod to the car. As we zipped along, we crossed the Mississippi, heading into Tennessee on our way to Tupelo, birthplace of Elvis Presley. I like bridges and taking photos of them while driving which in turn, drives my sister crazy. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem as risky as texting.

In any event, I got a few shots and then got interested in fields far different from Illinois’ corn and beans. Cotton fields, some harvested and others in bloom. I realized that random tufts had blown to the edge of the highway so I pulled over to collect a few.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. There are special cotton picking machines which somehow collect the cotton and roll it into brightly colored stretchy plastic bales, like hay. Imagining the backbreaking labor of slaves bent over the plants was disturbing. As we drove through Tennessee, my GPS was sending us off the main highways to shorter routes that took us through small towns and back country. I was just getting ready to make a turn on some side street when I caught sight of a marker pointing toward Shiloh National Battlefield. I’ve always wanted to go there after having read so much about it. Tennessee was considered the Western theater of the Civil War and water throughways there were critical to victory for both sides. Pittsburg Landing located close by, was a crucial port.  The battle was fought over two days in April, 1862. Over one hundred seven thousand soldiers participated with a casualty rate of 21% from both armies.  The fighting raged over terrain that was both heavily wooded and dotted with clearings where people could be mowed down. The amount of artillery was astonishing and caused devastation that astonished the country.

There are names like the Hornets’ Nest and the Bloody Pond, accurate descriptors for what happened there. There are mass graves in several locations along with peach  orchards and farmer’s fields, those average people whose homes were in  the wrong place at the wrong time.

Driving through the dense peaceful forest, with deer, squirrels and birds abounding, it was hard to inagine the deafening, smoky, violent madness that occurred there. It’s like traveling with the echoes of ghosts. Two future presidents fought there, Ulysses Grant and James Garfield, as did General Lew Wallace who wrote “Ben Hur.”

And  then there were the faceless thousands who died, were maimed or survived and went back to their lives. Being on that ground was a moving experience. Times gone by in a flash of chaos.

We finally made it into Mississippi early tonight, waylaid but glad for the digression. I’ve only been gone for a couple of days but I do feel less annoyed and grumpy about life in general. A little change of scenery can go a long way. I’m already thinking about what comes next. 

Pushing the Margins There are the days when you've just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too.

[rilenerocks]

There are the days when you’ve just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too. That’s the way life goes. Crepey skin, lacking moisture and resilience. Weird hairs growing in the wrong places. I’m a swimmer, and now after 45 years or so of doing the same repetitive motions, my shoulders have begun to ache, the pain and stiffness waking me at night. A pressing sense of urgency pushes me to hurry up and get all those things done that are sitting on various to-do lists and which feel very important. But are they important? Am I important? I can walk down the street wearing an unmistakable cloak of invisibility which I once thought would be a magic power. Not so much any more. To the bustling young people in their invincible minds, I am unseen. I’m exercising and trying to eat right and doing brain exercises. I still remember ridiculous amounts of information about a wide range of topics. So what. The inexorable slide is still happening. For some people with good genes, the process may be slower than it is for others. Some have been forgetful for years. Others, like me, are still able to experience powerful recall. Many older folks do without the intimacy and physicality of their youth.  Lots of people drifted away from sex long ago. Those of us who still have a powerful drive may be stuck without the partner we used to have.

News at home and abroad is lousy and oppressive. You try to do some good where you can but are left feeling insufficient and overwhelmed. Everything feels annoying and you’re muttering stuff to yourself like, “shit rolls downhill,” “what goes around comes around,” and, “ha, you pompous child, one day you’re going to be in the place I am right now – we’ll see how you like it.” The fact is that older women are marginalized, kicked to the curb, both personally and professionally. Everyone just can’t be Jane Goodall, that wonderful person or other famous women who’ve bucked the odds. Lots of us are just regular.  We grew up trying to find ways to navigate societal expectations. Many us found partners who stuck and many found partners who didn’t. Some never found anyone. We went to work and school, had babies and aging parents and balanced full schedules every day for years. Those of certain economic classes, that is. The poor, the victims of domestic and sexual abuse and the uneducated are marginalized all their lives. I won’t forget that truth. I push back. I have my opinions, my morals and my standards and I don’t feel like getting kicked to the curb. When you’ve fought your way through the grief of losing a life partner, your parents, siblings and friends, you want a little attention and empathy. And you want it to be given freely without asking for it. But as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want.

 Yesterday, I wanted my husband to be alive. Of course I always want him to be alive, but some days are harder than others. I wanted something from him that I can’t get anywhere else. I’m pretty warmhearted but I have my boundaries. I don’t like people touching my face. I don’t know why. When I was young, it was okay that my mom did it. She would relax me. But as I got older, I shied away from that. There’s just something really intimate about having a person lay hands on the place where your deepest thoughts and feelings are just underneath your skin. At least that’s   how it works for me. One time, not long ago, my sweet grandson touched my cheek. I sat very still and didn’t jump away from him. But that was a challenge. He doesn’t perceive that invisible wall. I want Michael to touch my face. He would take both hands and shove my hair straight back and stare at me. Ironically, I have widow’s peak. He loved my hairline and looking into my eyes. And I trusted him. I miss that sense of security a lot. Instead there are all these other oppressive and irritating daily struggles that I’d hoped would have been far more improved in these last fifty years. Me, too. Me, too. So what do you do when you just can’t do regular life? For me, it’s hitting the road. My butterflies have flown the coop.

I left too. I set some goal for myself after Michael died. One was to see all 50 states in this country. Just before my knee surgery in July, I got up to 43 visited. Feeling antsy and discontented, I decided to take a few days and knock two others off that list, Mississippi and Alabama. My sister, who retired recently, came along with me. I have to say, these two states aren’t high on my list, mostly because my political stance is diametrically opposed to lots of people in these places. So I tried an itinerary which included nature, a little pop history and maybe some Civil War sites. I don’t talk much about the depth of my interest in that war, but I’ve been obsessed by it for years and have read a few hundred books about it. I still gave trouble fathoming the fact that people from the same country lined themselves up across from each other and blasted themselves into oblivion for four years. I thought I might find a place to ponder that subject on my getaway from reality. We started out by driving to Garden of the Gods in Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois.

I’ve been there before but it doesn’t get old. Imposing sandstone bluffs that emerged from Pangea as the earth shook itself into pieces are still awesome to experience. Old stands of beautiful birch trees commingle with other species and create a peaceful quiet that is really soothing. No wonder forest walking has become a recommended therapeutic device. I managed to snag a few rocks that had chipped off the large formations. After we wandered through there, with me being grateful to have knees that work again, albeit a little gingerly, we drove to a nearby town for some delicious barbecue and a good night’s rest.

This morning after breakfast, we took off and headed to Mississippi.  The weather was pleasant, cool and sunny. I’d finally synced Michael’s ancient iPod to the car. As we zipped along, we crossed the Mississippi, heading into Tennessee on our way to Tupelo, birthplace of Elvis Presley. I like bridges and taking photos of them while driving which in turn, drives my sister crazy. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem as risky as texting.

In any event, I got a few shots and then got interested in fields far different from Illinois’ corn and beans. Cotton fields, some harvested and others in bloom. I realized that random tufts had blown to the edge of the highway so I pulled over to collect a few.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. There are special cotton picking machines which somehow collect the cotton and roll it into brightly colored stretchy plastic bales, like hay. Imagining the backbreaking labor of slaves bent over the plants was disturbing. As we drove through Tennessee, my GPS was sending us off the main highways to shorter routes that took us through small towns and back country. I was just getting ready to make a turn on some side street when I caught sight of a marker pointing toward Shiloh National Battlefield. I’ve always wanted to go there after having read so much about it. Tennessee was considered the Western theater of the Civil War and water throughways there were critical to victory for both sides. Pittsburg Landing located close by, was a crucial port.  The battle was fought over two days in April, 1862. Over one hundred seven thousand soldiers participated with a casualty rate of 21% from both armies.  The fighting raged over terrain that was both heavily wooded and dotted with clearings where people could be mowed down. The amount of artillery was astonishing and caused devastation that astonished the country.

There are names like the Hornets’ Nest and the Bloody Pond, accurate descriptors for what happened there. There are mass graves in several locations along with peach  orchards and farmer’s fields, those average people whose homes were in  the wrong place at the wrong time.

Driving through the dense peaceful forest, with deer, squirrels and birds abounding, it was hard to inagine the deafening, smoky, violent madness that occurred there. It’s like traveling with the echoes of ghosts. Two future presidents fought there, Ulysses Grant and James Garfield, as did General Lew Wallace who wrote “Ben Hur.”

And  then there were the faceless thousands who died, were maimed or survived and went back to their lives. Being on that ground was a moving experience. Times gone by in a flash of chaos.

We finally made it into Mississippi early tonight, waylaid but glad for the digression. I’ve only been gone for a couple of days but I do feel less annoyed and grumpy about life in general. A little change of scenery can go a long way. I’m already thinking about what comes next. 

Pushing the Margins There are the days when you've just had it up to here. You feel your aging body and you see it too.