#lotta di classe

[francescosatanassi]

ACCETTALA

Se la storia è ciclica, noi abbiamo beccato la fase di merda. Una fase mai cambiata per chi fatica ad arrivare a fine mese, a trovare lavoro, a cercare di vivere una vita bella. Succede coi governi di destra e coi governi di sinistra. La vera domanda non è perché questa sia la fase di Trump e Meloni, ma perché molte categorie emarginate abbiano iniziato a sentirsi rappresentate da loro. La sinistra ha abbandonato la lotta di classe da anni. Ci hanno fatto credere che il nemico non deve più essere il padrone, ma il collega sfruttato che parla un'altra lingua. Lavoro, istruzione, sanità, ambiente, diritti civili..la lotta va allargata e alimentata senza respiro. L'esempio ce lo danno i giovani che scendono in piazza, schivano i manganelli e prendono denunce, mostrando che fuori dai "palazzi" esiste un cuore che batte e si batte per tutti e per tutte. Ci stanno dicendo che siamo in una fase di merda e dobbiamo "accettarla". Ma non nel senso di prenderne atto, nel senso di spaccarla in due con un'ascia rivoluzionaria. Abbiamo il dovere di seguirli.

[gregor-samsung]

“ La democrazia non si identifica con la sottomissione della minoranza alla maggioranza. La democrazia è uno Stato che riconosce la sottomissione della minoranza alla maggioranza, cioè l'organizzazione della violenza sistematicamente esercitata da una classe contro un'altra, da una parte della popolazione contro l'altra. Noi ci assegniamo come scopo finale la soppressione dello Stato, cioè di ogni violenza organizzata e sistematica, di ogni violenza esercitata contro gli uomini in generale. Noi non auspichiamo l'avvento di un ordinamento sociale in cui non venga applicato il principio della sottomissione della minoranza alla maggioranza. Ma, aspirando al socialismo, abbiamo la convinzione che esso si trasformerà in comunismo, e che scomparirà quindi ogni necessità di ricorrere in generale alla violenza contro gli uomini, alla sottomissione di un uomo a un altro, di una parte della popolazione a un'altra, perché gli uomini si abitueranno a osservare le condizioni elementari della convivenza sociale senza violenza e senza sottomissione. Per mettere in risalto quest'elemento di consuetudine, Engels parla della nuova generazione, « cresciuta in condizioni sociali nuove, libere » e che sarà « in grado di scrollarsi dalle spalle tutto il ciarpame statale », ogni forma di Stato, compresa la repubblica democratica. Per chiarire questo punto dobbiamo analizzare le basi economiche dell'estinzione dello Stato. “

V. I. Lenin, La Comune di Parigi, a cura di Enzo Santarelli, Editori Riuniti (collana Le idee n° 59), 1971¹; p. 131. [Corsivi dell’autore]

 NOTA: Il brano proviene in origine da Stato e rivoluzione, opuscolo di Lenin scritto nell'agosto-settembre del 1917 e pubblicato in Italia a cura di Valentino Gerratana nel 1966 sempre per gli Editori Riuniti.

[the-leegend-99]

Il 30 agosto 5 operai sono morti travolti da un treno a Brandizzo. Lavoravano sui binari, costretti dall'azienda a farlo nonostante il passaggio dei convogli non venisse interrotto, per risparmiare tempo e soldi.

Li chiamano incidenti, ma è una strage continua di lavorator3 in nome del profitto. Ma non siamo impotenti di fronte a questi orrori. Possiamo unirci, convergere per mettere insieme le forze e attaccare questo sistema. L'Unione Sindacale di Base insieme a diverse forze politiche d'alternativa #anticapitalista ha messo in campo una legge di iniziativa popolare per introdurre il reato di omicidio sul lavoro. Potete partecipare alla campagna e sapere dove firmare contattando le organizzazioni del comitato promotore e saperne di più da qui:

[allisgonnabealright-ornot]

Finalmente le ferie!! Tempo di relax, di staccare il cervello, leggerezza, aperitivi, vacanze!!

Io: non ho abbastanza rogna, non so abbastanza, la mia rabbia deve essere guidata, il mio disprezzo non può esimersi dall'essere puntuale.

[b0ringasfuck]

Uteri in affitto, vagine in comodato d'uso, braccia a noleggio e culi gratis

Sono vecchio con l'aggravante di essere stato nerd.

Con certe cose non mi ci trovo troppo a mio agio. Non capisco molto il consumo di droghe e pur ipocritamente aspirando a scopare in giro senza conseguenze, credo mi imbarazzerebbe il "sesso senza aMMore" o magari è pure un alibi per dipingermi una persona migliore.

Ma qua abbiamo da una parte "sedicenti" femministe che dicono che è un mercimonio, trascurando TOTALMENTE la volontà di chi affitterebbe l'utero e dall'altra la tifoseria de "la nipote di Mubarak" che non si fa problemi di fronte a prostitute minorenni, ma che signora mia... l'utero in affitto no.

Per me che sono sostanzialmente un porco, e quindi nella scala delle priorità della vita, metto scopare e mangiare in una posizione imbarazzantemente alta, non riesce nemmeno poi difficile pensare che il "sesso", specialmente grazie ai progressi della contraccezione e della medicina, non abbia poi niente di così speciale e che in fondo la mia incompatibilità (per altro puramente teorica) per il sesso non accompagnato da una relazione affettiva sia una questione prettamente estetica e personale.

Ora, gran parte dei progressi che abbiamo fatto è dovuta alla specializzazione. Non c'è nulla di male ad usufruire del lavoro degli altri. Le visioni autarchiche, bio, naturaliste, artigiane, e ai miei tempi signora mia... sia in salsa hippy che prepper sono minchiate. In ambito sesso poi ogni riferimento ad approcci autarchici fa un po' riderino.

Ora... perchè un edile può essere pagato per cadere da un'impalcatura mentre una donna non può essere pagata per fare un pompino e un'altra per mettere l'utero in affitto in base a ragionamenti moralistici però rimane un mistero. (non è mia intenzione fare il "sessista", ma sarà una pregiudiziale, ma ho il sospetto che il mercato del sesso sia prevalentemente costituito da una domanda maschile e volerlo sottolineare con un'apparente posizione neutra suona un po' come "non tutti gli uomini").

Allora, anzichè proibire all'edile di tirar su edifici, perchè non si legifera perchè lo faccia in condizioni di sicurezza, in un mercato del lavoro che non lo ricatta, libero di scegliere se lavorare a certe condizioni o no, retribuito dignitosamente e in maniera socialmente utile e non per fare castelli a pochi?

E perchè non una legge che vieta alle aziende di sfruttare manodopera all'estero? Quanto sarebbe enforceable? Potremmo parlarne insieme che so all'idea di abolire il reato di tortura... perchè "prima gli italiani".

Ma qua abbiamo gente che si occupa di rave e forestierismi, non gente che lavora per campare e magari avrebbe l'aspirazione a stare meglio.

[mmakeitmakesense]

Pride month 2023

[unita2org]

DISOCCUPAZIONE DI MASSA PER SPOSTARE A DESTRA LE MASSE POPOLARI

di Redazione L’articolo di REMOCONTRO che rilanciamo descrive le condizioni reali in cui si trova il sistema industriale in Europa sotto il dominio capitalista. Ma dove vogliono arrivare veramente i massocapitalisti approfittando della crisi economica in corso? I massocapitalisti occidentali avendo governato la crisi del 1907 e quella del 1929, che hanno portato alla prima e alla seconda guerra…

[drrestlesshate]

[gregor-samsung]

“ «Com'è strano, — pensava Veročka — già le sapevo dentro di me, già le presentivo, tutte le cose che ha detto sulle donne, sui poveri, sull'amore. Dove le ho imparate? Forse nei libri che ho letto? No, non là. In quei libri ci sono tanti dubbi, tante riserve, e ogni cosa sembra insolita, incredibile. Come si trattasse di sogni belli, ma irrealizzabili! A me sembra invece che questi sogni siano semplici, semplicissimi, comuni, che senza di essi non si possa vivere, che si dovranno avverare senz'altro. Eppure, secondo me, questi libri sono ottimi. George Sand; per esempio, è così buona e morigerata, eppure, tutto in lei è sogno! E i nostri? No, nei nostri non si parla di questo. In Dickens, invece, sì, ma tutto è come senza speranza; certo, lui se l'augura, perché è buono, però sa bene che non si avvererà. Come fanno costoro a non sapere che in mancanza di questo non si può vivere e che bisogna darsi da fare, e si lavorerà senz'altro, perché non ci siano più uomini poveri e infelici? Ma che, forse non lo dicono? Dire lo dicono, ma provano solo pietà, mentre pensano che tutto resterà com'è ora: sì, qualcosa migliorerà, ma per il resto. No, essi non dicono le cose che io penso. Se le dicessero, saprei che le persone buone e intelligenti ragionano come me. E invece sinora ho creduto di essere l'unica a pensarla così, perché sono una stupida. Nessuno pensa come me, nessuno si aspetta che le cose cambino realmente. E ora lui assicura che la sua fidanzata ha detto a tutti coloro che l'amano che le cose andranno proprio secondo le mie idee. E ha parlato così chiaramente, dice lui, che tutti già lavorano perché tutto avvenga al più presto. Che donna intelligente! Ma chi è? Lo saprò di certo. E come sarà bello, quando non ci saranno più poveri, quando nessuno sarà costretto a ricorrere agli altri per bisogno, quando tutti saranno allegri, buoni, felici...». Assorta in queste riflessioni, Veročka si addormentò, e dormì profondamente, senza sognare.  “

Nikolaj Gavrilovič Černyševskij, Che fare?, traduzione e cura di Ignazio Ambrogio, Edizioni Studio Tesi (collana Collezione Biblioteca, n° 85), Pordenone, 1990; p. 78.

 NOTA: Il testo originale (Что делать?), che Černyševskij scrisse in prigionia nella fortezza di Pietro e Paolo a San Pietroburgo, cominciò ad essere pubblicato a puntate nel 1863 sul mensile letterario russo Sovremennik sino a quando le autorità sequestrarono l’intera opera, ritenuta sovversiva. Il libro circolò quindi clandestinamente fino alla pubblicazione integrale nel 1905, all’inizio della breve stagione riformista dello zar Nicola II.

[deathshallbenomore]

non può in alcun modo essere amore se io ti mando uno sticker incredibilmente divertente dalla mia riserva e tu non mi mandi uno sticker incredibilmente divertente dalla tua riserva ma invece mi dici “grazie” e basta. dico io,

[skrunksthatwunk]

man i don't even wanna get into it that much but i gotta say this week has been TOO MUCH. AGH. but we're cool(er) now it's just been Non Stop Choice Making And Task Doing

[allisgonnabealright-ornot]

[pier-carlo-universe]

Le parole per capire: Un evento contro la violenza di genere a Novi LigureUn dialogo per la consapevolezza e il cambiamento

Un incontro per riflettere e agire

Un incontro per riflettere e agire Mercoledì 27 novembre 2024, alle ore 17:30, presso la Sala Conferenze della Biblioteca Civica di Novi Ligure (Via Marconi 66), si terrà l’evento “Le parole per capire”, organizzato dalla Consulta Comunale per le Pari Opportunità. L’iniziativa, in occasione della Giornata internazionale per l’eliminazione della violenza contro le donne, rappresenta un momento…

[operaticxskeleton]

terrible news gamers, i am unfortunately back

[unita2org]

SCIOPERO GENERALE 29 NOVEMBRE 2024 CONTRO LA POLITICA ECONOMICO-SOCIALE DEL GOVERNO MELONI

di Redazione I motivi di oggi non sono molto diversi da quelli di ieri, quando uno dei primi studiosi disse che lo sciopero «esprime una protesta e rafforza una richiesta». Lo sciopero è difensivo quando reagisce ad azioni che danneggiano i lavoratori, come licenziamenti, infortuni, tagli salariali, punizioni ingiuste. Landini: il 29 novembre scioperiamo insieme Chi aderisce allo sciopero…

[2demondogs]

Can you do Arthur and BioKid!reader (prob age around 5-7) where Arthur sent his kid to school (around 1870, school began to become free) because even if he knows he could teach his kid the basics, he wants better for them.

As we know, schools back then did physical punishments. If a kid lacked behind their fellow students, teachers often saw it as laziness and would punish the kid.

Arthurs kid, who was very excited to attend school, came back from it sobbing their eyes out because they were canned (hit) on their hands for not understanding math and begging that Arthur doesn't send them back.

Obv Arthur, being an amazing dad, doesn't send them back and taught them stuff himself.

Weirdly enough I had a very similar experience at that age but in ballet class. Are any of us okay?

Historical accuracy was attempted. Though the image of being dropped off at school on a horse is absolutely hilarious to me. "Okay little buddy here's a cigarette for lunch, I'll clip clop back at 4. Daddy's gonna go rob a bank now. Hyah!!"

Arthur's a cigarette mom tbh. Also this took literally like 2 months for me to get to I'm so sorry LOL I wanted some familial comfort so I was finally in the headspace for it.

Words: 3k Tags: AU - canon divergence, pre-canon (circa 1888), hurt/comfort, it takes a village so the gang's all here too, angst but also a lotta fluff Arthur is just being Arthur (aka a killjoy), gender-neutral reader

Few things in his life have brought Arthur as much pride — in someone else, in himself — as the grin plastered on your face the first day of school.

Boadicea disliked the amount of people, the small kids that tried to stroke her legs before being beckoned away by their parents. Most were used to animals like her, but he could tell the city-bred ones from his own kind: brighter faces, slower walks, cleaner nails. It's the same as their parents, dressed well and sometimes in automobiles.

What an odd gathering these schoolrooms make for. He's always thought it'd be funny to have punted John in the direction of one, but he finds he's had a wrong idea about the crowd. Wouldn't have been as satisfying as he imagined when the man was just a boy, wily and jaded and just like all the other farm kids that he saw trudge in and out yesterday. (Of course, when John showed curiosity about it and asked him what the crowd was like, he told him he was far too stupid to dream of going to school. He is a father, but he ain't John's.)

In another life, he might even stick around to converse with the other parents. He'd pondered it that first day, feeding Boadicea an apple for the trip from camp some miles off and to this building on the edge of town. Arthur wondered if he had had you ten years later, and if he were not so much younger than all these parents, and if you were not so—

Well, misplaced in the world. His own fault. He thinks of it everyday.

He studies the bricks while he smokes and waits at the side of the building, now, early as he was yesterday lest he miss something important. What it would be, he doesn't know. Perhaps he just hopes you'll be given back to him sooner today, because he's coming to realize he's grown fond of knowing exactly where you are. After your mother died, the clinginess is a little more souring than he'd like to feel, so he doesn't study it.

Instead, he flicks ash off his cigarette and considers that it's going to get chilly soon. You've grown since last winter, and he ought to make sure you still fit your coat when he brings you home.

He doubts Grimshaw will mind making you another; seems to like you. Pities you, anyways, because your father is the young, dumb oaf Arthur Morgan. That woman drives him insane, sometimes, but he has learned that she cares in her own way ever since you came along. A certain softness came out in her that, rarely but truly, extended to him, too.

The cigarette is replaced by another by the time the kids begin to pour out of the doors. Youngest first, so there's no wait to see you searching for him.

Already, Arthur knows something is wrong. There's no difference from your usual face, besides whatever calm comes over it when you lay eyes on him— but that calm looks more like an ache for comfort that concerns him, even though he can't tell what, precisely, tips him off. He supposes it's the same thing that changed him to the point of considering your winter clothes, whatever thing makes him a father instead of a simple man.

The ground is tough and sandy below his knee when he drops to one to meet your eyes, brows raised in expectance of some explanation. Even your gait is quicker, your hug tighter; you aren't talking like you were yesterday, let alone grinning, and Arthur pinches his cigarette in his teeth to smooth a hand over your head and back.

That smile had made you seem so grown-up, but now you look so young and small. He takes the smoke from his lips and holds the hand to the side to keep it from your face.

"How's your day, buddy?" He asks, anyways, and frowns when you shrink in his arms and press closer. Peeling away to take a look at you, Arthur runs a hand over the side of your head to brush away your hair. He doesn't see any bruises or scrapes, but still asks: "Y'get in a fight or somethin'?"

You shake your head. His hand is large where it lays on your shoulder, firm and comforting. It only takes a moment for you to give up the silence and struggle to explain.

"She called me lazy," you say.

Arthur's brows furrow. "Teacher, you mean?"

You nod, speaking as if it's difficult not to burst into a shout. Around you, the older kids begin to pour out, but he is only focused on your voice. "She smacked me with a ruler."

"What?" He interrupts.

It comes out harsher than he means it to, and he strokes a hand over your head when you flinch. Jesus, you're on edge if you're flinching at him. Anger broils hot and instant in his gut; he knows very well how most people raise their kids and he had talked long and hard with Grimshaw for yanking on your ear one too many times but regardless, it isn't anyone's place to lay a hand on you. It isn't even his — he isn't Lyle, and you're considerably more of an angel than he ever has been himself — but it certainly isn't anyone else's.

"Where?" His eyes pass over you, searching.

Looking over the handsewn clothes Grimshaw had done-up for you, adorned with those gaudy little buttons Dutch had popped off of some nice suit jackets during a gathering he'd infiltrated some months ago, Arthur feels even more anger. Six years of raising you and dressing you in love.

It certainly is not her right to smack his child. Our child, he thinks, and the fondness only feeds the disgust. Suddenly, he wonders what you didn't tell him the first day, and if some of those wailing kids were sad for more than simply missing mother dearest.

You hold out your hands, backs up. A few knuckles are swollen, and you wince when he traces a fingertip over them to test how badly.

He bites back a sigh. He feels like he should've known this would happen, although not a single one of them has been inside a schoolhouse. Maybe Grimshaw, seems the type, but she never spoke of it. Still, Arthur thinks he should've known it the same way he knows you'll grow out of your coat this winter.

Isn't it what fathers do? Know things? Lyle hadn't been much of a father, but he always knew things.

Is Arthur worse off than him?

"Why'd she do this?" He asks.

Your face is growing redder and redder, flushed with embarrassment and shame. He wishes he had the words to soothe that, but he knows a scolding like this always leaves a certain rawness in a child. He'd had plenty of them himself.

"I was bein'... in— inatten..." The frustration of not being able to remember and repeat the word wells tears in your eyes, but Arthur's heard enough.

"Hey, it's a'right," he hushes, shaking his head. Takes a quick drag and blows it to the side. "Let's get'chu home, okay?"

You ignore him, trying to explain: "I was bad at math."

"Shit, I ain't no good with numbers, neither," Arthur says, and then catches himself. "Don't say shit. Okay?" You nod. A small flicker of your lips into a smile makes him feel better, though you still look like a kicked puppy and it makes his heart ache. "Let's get'chu home," he repeats, and this time you listen.

He's never seen Hosea so displeased.

That's untrue; he has, over gunshots and blood-puddles. It feels like a gunshot to see you burst into tears, curled into the man's chest after Arthur tried to encourage you to talk to him about what happened. He had always been better with words, but he remembers while watching him handle your sobbing that Hosea has always been better with comfort, too.

Hardly had the man picked you off your spot hugged to Arthur's front atop Boadicea — did so yesterday too, and if today was just as happy then Arthur would've been glad to see it turn into a habit — before you broke into tears once more. He had quieted you eventually on the ride with the promise of not returning, although he intended to talk it over with the others before he decided once and for all.

Our kid, he thinks warmly, and then: I feel like a kid myself. Some things come naturally when you have a child, he's finding, but so much of it just doesn't.

"Teacher smacked 'em with a ruler. Poor thing's knuckles are all..." Arthur explains, sighing heavily, waving with a hand in the air as if to say: fucked up. Hosea will jump off that crate he's sat on and smack him if he talks that foul in front of you. At least I'm grown enough to take a flick to the nose, he thinks bitterly. "Doesn't wanna go back, now."

Hosea seems to struggle through the same thoughts as he did, prying your hand off his chest to take a look. It's normal for others, though not for them. Not with you, at least. He can almost see the memories of similar punishments in his eyes. Still, Hosea pats your back and picks you off himself to hold your face.

"You think your Daddy knows everything you need to know, anyways, do you?" He asks.

It's a tease, mostly, humor to get you to stop crying. You're too upset to realize, and only nod. Arthur could cry himself at that. I'm still a kid myself, he thinks, in the back of his mind; Hosea only smiles at him, before righting his expression to look at you.

"I figure we all do," he says. Looking to Arthur, he raises his brows. "You intendin' to try again?"

Arthur sighs, shrugs his shoulders. He doesn't feel so dissimilar to you: vaguely ashamed, upset, embarrassed. "I was gon' ask what'chu thought I oughtta do," he admits.

Almost imperceptibly, Hosea's face softens further. "Well," he says, looks back to you to dry your eyes and wipe your nose with the sleeve of his button-up. Natural-born for a man that's never raised kids this young. "I never was in school, 'n' I'd say I'm quite well-educated."

"Never had a class on humbleness, I see," Arthur says.

Hosea snorts. "Don't listen to him," he says without sparing a glance.

"What's humbleness?" You ask, oblivious.

"Oh," Arthur says, steps forward to ruffle the hair atop your head. "Y'see, Uncle Dutch is real humble."

The other man bites his cheek to stave off a smile. "Arthur," he warns, looking up at him.

But it's a good opportunity to send you off and allow the two of them to talk in private, so he leans over to catch your gaze. "If you go tell Dutch he's humble, I'll give you a dollar," he promises, patting your shoulder.

"Is humble mean?" You ask.

"Y'catch on quick," Arthur says, grinning. John has certainly given you coins to say worse to him, though he found it funny each time. Your face is puffy and red, and he finds it sweet that you paused every other thought going through your head to consider it. "No, it ain't mean, sweetheart. Very nice, in fact."

Very mean to lie about, he thinks, and when you turn on your heel to go and earn yourself a dollar, he knows you will be just fine. Hosea laughs only when you've pattered away.

"Odd critters, kids," Arthur says. He sounds far too fond.

It was an easy choice. It had been a stretch to even take you to school, and the adults had all agreed that you'd likely miss most of it, anyways. They could only change so much about their lives, even if it was no way to raise you.

Sometimes Arthur wonders what it'd be like to live a normal life with you. To find someone to help him raise you proper, like a civilized family. He doesn't speak of it, but he's sure they all know that he wonders. Maybe they do, too. He thinks on it less after testing those waters with school, but once in a blue moon, the dream comes back to him.

Arthur ran into a block, as far as teaching you how to read went. He'd sat you on his lap and tried his damnedest to answer the fifty questions that every sentence of Dutch's borrowed book provoked you to ask, but he had run out of answers very quickly despite it being one of the simplest ones he had to offer.

For the last two days, he has been laying awake at night trying to answer why, exactly, bear means both an animal and an action that seemingly makes no sense. Tried and failed to use Hosea's beat-up old Bible to teach you a few words, because by the second verse it was losing him a little, too. That one made him feel quite stupid.

Hosea is better suited for that, they'd decided. He seemed a little tired being asked to teach yet another person to read, but Arthur knows that irritation is only skin-deep and watches it disappear whenever you're around. When Arthur said he wasn't sure where to start with writing, either, Hosea put a hand on his shoulder and told him the alphabet in a tone that told him he was on his own, unless he really got too lost.

It is fair. Arthur wants to teach you as much as he can, too, finds a sort of warmth about it.

The pride he feels watching you copy the alphabet he'd printed out — as steady as he could, admittedly nervous he'd screw it up and somehow damage your intellect forever, is this what being a dad feels like? — was greater than any he'd felt before. Your handwriting is unsteady, and he has to readjust the pencil in your grip more than once, but by all accounts, it is much easier to answer what sound does this make? than what's a garden?

He lets you work. Arthur likes, too, that this way your first writings will be kept in his journal. He already protects it like a sacred thing; now, it'll probably be on his body or in his pocket until you're old enough to marry someone. Even then, if all goes well, he'll have it.

Oh, how the thought of you growing up distresses him. He can't imagine what you might look like older, even though it sneaks up on him every year come your birthday that your eyes and nose are looking more adjusted to your skull, that your face is sharpening out from baby-round. He could hardly picture John as anything but the scraggly little mutt Dutch dragged back into camp when he had. It's a familiar, more intense fear.

Shit, Arthur doesn't even know what he himself will look like come three year's time.

He's twenty-five and still changing. Will he see what your face settles on?

Is this what it is to be a father?

He thinks so. There can't be any other truth, because he's faced this feeling every time you've hit a milestone. He was glad you didn't need to be carried constantly anymore, but so very depressed that you could walk; he was overjoyed when you said his name clear as day for the first time, but he was terrified at the thought that he may one day be Arthur to you.

It's sad, but it makes him smile when you look up and proclaim that your wobbly rendition of the letter W — dubba-yuh, as you say, he won't ever get over how children always sound like they are drunk — looks almost exactly like his.

Grimshaw and Hosea make a fuss, playing cards at the poker table some yards away. You ignore them entirely, absorbed in your own little world, writing at your own pace. With ears that turn off so easily, he worries about how you'll do hunting. He could've heard Grimshaw asking Hosea in exasperation why he's not cheating, you old fool, from a mile away.

Then comes Dutch, after you've scrawled a few more letters. Walking quiet up to the pair of you sat in the grass outside Arthur's tent, observing from above you before he speaks.

"Arthur?" He asks, and he sounds odd, considering that they're doing nothing unusual.

He looks up. "Yeah?"

Dutch points to the open journal. You look between them, then, interested in whatever is going on now that your dad is involved. "Did you forget the letter Z?"

Arthur squints, looks back at the journal. Oh. His ears turn red, but he only clears his throat. "I mean, who uses Z anyways?" He dismisses.

The prospect of being able to show some kind of smartness beyond a full-grown adult's seems to excite you. "Where's Z go?" You ask Dutch.

He kneels, takes the pencil and book from you to write it in after Y. In cursive. Christ, Arthur thinks, but he doesn't say anything.

"Right here, my dear," he says. Handing you the pencil back, he smiles as you skip over the others to add your own interpretation early. "Now, will you cover your ears for me?" Perplexed, but you obey anyways. Arthur is already narrowing his eyes before Dutch turns to him. "You are a goddamn fool, you know that?"

There's no malice in it, only amusement. He looks positively chuffed, which almost irritates Arthur more than if he truly meant to call him an idiot. "Who even uses Z?" He repeats, waves a hand. "It ain't that big'a mistake."

"I don't know," Dutch scoffs. "A zebra?"

"A zebra?" Arthur says, in disbelief. "You ever seen one for y'self?"

Dutch's brows raise. "Are you—?" His face falls into mock graveness. "Arthur Morgan," he says, feigning disappointment. "You can't be serious."

"Well, have you?"

"I ain't gon' dignify that with a response," Dutch says, turns to smile at you. He always smiles at you, at least, Arthur likes that about the man. He plucks one of your hands off your head. "You're good, now, honey. Keep writin'."