#my great grandfather who fought in the war turning in his grave hearing that i wanna look like a blue eyed blonde haired german man

[fewtrell]

Nico rosberg? Thots and prayers?

definitely thots a little less prayers i am one of those freaks (affectionate) out here that are kinda drawn to him despite him being. well. the way he is. and also im trans and i want to wear his skin even if it involves going all hannibal on him. just normal stuff. 1/2 brocedes doesnt make it any better either

ask me my opinion on Anything

[useless-catalanfacts]

I remember exactly what my thoughts were when I first learned what had happened to my great-grandfathers. I used to talk to one of them —the survivor, who lived in Venezuela— on the phone when I was a kid, so I had always known he had had to "leave after the war" (Spanish Civil War), in a very vague sense. When I was in primary school, another class of the last year was studying the Second World War and my mother volunteered to share the letters we still keep that my (other) great-grandfather had sent from the refugee camp and from the front. So I guess it's just normal that at that point they also shared the "secret" with me. Like hundreds of thousands more, and like at least one person in most families in Catalonia, they fought during the war but feared what came after even more than the suffering of war itself. When the fascists won the war in 1939, they crossed the Pyrenee mountains by foot to cross the border with France (they cross into Northern Catalonia, the little bit of Catalonia that was annexed by France centuries ago) and escape the persecution that was mass-murdering antifascists. But when they crossed the border with France, the French authorities locked them in the refugee camps on the beach (my great-grandfathers were in Argelers beach camp), where they had barely any food or drink, no houses besides little tents they made themselves out of reels they could find on the beach, and very little clothes for the winter. Many people died of cold and hunger, particularly the children. When children were born, the mothers buried them under the sand because it was the only way they could think to keep them a bit warm. The humid sand of the beach.

And as I was hearing all of this, my only thought was: how did people let this happen? Why did the French government lock them to make them suffer like this? Why did the guards steal from them and mistreat them the way they did? Why did the people who lived near not give them food or jackets?

And to be fair, many people helped in some way. That's why the Swiss nurse Elizabeth Eidenbenz is a national hero for us Catalans. One of my great-grandfathers managed to escape the camp by being given work by a local man. However, a new war started in Europe (WW2) and the Nazis seemed to be coming near, and Franco (the fascist dictator of Spain) had given orders to the Nazis that any person who had gone on exile from Spain was stateless and could be killed (stateless: the blue triangle in concentration camp prisoners' clothes). My great-grandfather found a way to get to a ship to Venezuela and Mexico —thanks to the open borders of these two countries, thousands of people were saved and started a new life in safety. My other great-grandfather, however, used the only other way to escape the camps: when WW2 came, he enlisted in the foreign legion of the French army to continue the work of fighting fascism. His legion was eventually captured, his friend he had enlisted with was taken to a castle where the Nazis used him for experimenting, and my great-grandfather was taken to Mauthausen concentration camp and later killed in a gas chamber in Gusen camp at the very end of the war. And still, growing up I always heard that we are a lucky family, because at least we know what happened to him. Hundreds of thousands of people are still missing, buried in mass graves. The state of Spain (including Catalonia) is the 2nd country in the world with the highest amount of unfound people, after Cambodia, because of all the massacres of the fascists and the bodies under roadside ditches.

And for all these years I have always had in my mind: how could people do that? And how could people see it and allow it?

Now, we are all like the people of France with a choice of helping or letting it happen. The internet connects the world and we are all witnessing how Israel is committing genocide on the Palestinian people. After having turned Gaza in an open-air concentration camp for decades, now they have decided to completely wipe out its people, homes, cultural heritage, schools, hospitals, universities, shops, streets, sewage system— everything. And just like the people back then, we have the opportunity to help Palestinian people survive.

We cannot save our relatives, but we can do what we wished someone had done for them. If you would have wanted help for your family, if you would have helped mine, please if you can make a donation for Palestinian people.

Here's a list of Palestinian people who are raising funds to escape. Israel has made it impossible for Palestinians to leave the heavily-bombed Gaza strip except for the Rafah crossing (to Egypt); and then Israel went and destroyed the Rafah crossing, too. But the Rafah crossing opens every so often and the people with an Egyptian travel agency permission can cross. To get the permission, they must pay 5000$ each person over 16 years old and 2500$ each child under 16, and this doesn't cover transport nor living expenses. You can collaborate to saving a family by donating to their GoFundMe campaigns. Every donation can make a difference. Click each person's name to go to their GFM page, where you'll find more details of their story.

Yahya Ahmad: 20-year-old Pharmacy student from Gaza wants to evacuate his family including his sick father and young brother, after their house was destroyed and they lost everything. (Verification link) @yahyaahmed5

Mahmoud Khalaf: a PhD student from Gaza in Ireland asks our help to raise funds to get his family out of Gaza. (Verification link: number 151) @mahmoudkhalafff

Muhammad Shehab: Israeli bombs destroyed their home and killed relatives and friends, his family has already been displaced 9 times. They want to escape Gaza and apply to become asylum seekers anywhere possible. (Verification link) @mohammedshehab2

Mahmoud AlBalawi: this family needs help to evacuate for the safety of all and particularly the children who suffer of malnutrition. (Verification link) @elbalawi

Palestine Jad Al-Haq: Palestine gave birth during the war but there aren't medicines nor needed materials to raise a healthy child, her mother is also ill and everyone risks illness as a result of the situation created by Israel (destroying the sewage system, not allowing food and medicine, bombing the hospitals, etc). The whole family wants to escape. (Verification link) @falestine-yousef

Fadi Ayyad: 18-year-old whose family's home has been destroyed, he's taking care of his family including younger relatives. They are very close to reaching their goal!! (Verification link) @aymanayyad82

Abdelrahman: 22-year-old Abdelrahman and his mother. They lost their home and Abdelrahman lost his school where he was studying. They are also quite close to reaching their goal. (Verification link) @anqar

Aziz Zaqout: Heba is a pregnant mother of five, faced a health crisis that took her to seek treatment outside Gaza right before the war started. She was separated from her 1-year-old baby and the rest of her children, leaving them in the care of their father, your donation can help them reunite and save the children and father. (Verification link) @azizzaqout

Abd Alhadi Aburass: the war destroyed his home and advocacy bureau, needs money to save his family and provide healthcare for his children. (Verification link) @abdalhadiaburas

Aya Alanqar: for Aya, her husband and their three children (2, 5 and 7 years old), displaced 13 times after their home was destroyed. (Verification link) @ayaanqarsblog

The children Kareem and Carmen: Yousef Hussein is raising money for his nephews Kareem and Carmen after their family of 8, including their mother, were killed when their house was bombed. They are displaced in a refugee camp with other relatives, they want to evacuate and join their uncle Yousef in the USA. (Verification link) @adham-89

Samer Aburass: Samer, his wife and their 3 children lost their home and businesses, and their children (particularly the youngest one, 1 and a half year old) suffer malnutrition. They want to evacuate for a safe future. (Verification link: number 196) @samerpal

Also consider donating to the Municipality of Gaza's fundraiser to fix the water and sewage system: Gaza Water Project.

These are only a few people, who had contacted me on this blog or on my main blog (with less followers, so it's better to post here), but there are many more. You can also check this spreadsheet of verified fundraisers like this one, follow the Palestinian blogger @90-ghost who verifies fundraisers, or use the site gazafunds.com (every visit shows a different verified fundraiser).

Visca els pobles i visca Palestina lliure 🇵🇸🕊️

[doctolka]

The Council of Dembirom

::: This is one of the chapters from my WIP, that I wrote the other day... it'd be nice if people could read through and give feedback... but if you don't feel like it, I do hope you enjoy it :::

A Guide to my world building...

Indistinct voices rebounded off the walls as they approached the council chambers. Vevien had found her knight, and the two walked just ahead of Edlaise, arm-in-arm.

While she did not envy them their attraction—to put it mildly—but she did think it had a time and a place. The fact that her consort was a Menatan was no help. It would be far better, and far more proper, for her to chose a member of their own race.

But, you do have to admit he’s a damn fine warrior, she told herself, watching the large man walk, dwarfing her sister. Yes. He was a good fighter. He didn’t use modern Elatan techniques, so when he fought it seemed foreign, and poor quality. But it certainly got results.

It would do them credit to have two of the fiercest warriors on their side of the argument—and the added benefit or royalty.

“Listen here, Locraou! We don’t need that. It would just see the womenfolk killed and the men demoralized! There’s no need for an army, and most certainly no need for it to incorporate—”

“Ahem,” Vevien cleared her throat. Always proper, she was. Never wanted to get an ill-gotten gain over her political opponents. Even if it would save everyone involved a great deal of time and trouble.

“Ah. Princess Vevien, Sir Halifax. Lady Edlaise. Won’t you come in? We were just thinking of getting started without you,” Tuvaulle said, standing and bowing. The rest of their allies, Montre, Libua, Selette and Jacques followed suit. Their opposition remained dutifully seated, frozen under Bedour’s sharp glare.

“It seems to as though you had already started without us, Mr. Tuvaulle,” Halifax said, helping Vevien into her seat. He knew to allow Edlaise to seat herself, thank you very much.

“Listen here, Menat,” Bedour scowled, “you are a guest, and so have no place here but by our leave. You will hold a civilized tongue or you shall be dismissed!”

“Oh, leave off Bedour,” Edlaise said, cutting of Halifax’s reply, “He was stating a simple fact, based on a simple observation! If you take such offense to fact, then perhaps you would like to explain something that does not offend you, such as the fairyland you live in, in which we do not need a standing army to defend ourselves.”

“I—”

“Enough, the both of you!” Tuvaulle interjected, cutting of the beet-faced Bedour. “This is not our business here today, to call names at each other! That’s what we did all last cycle, and I tire of it. As moderator of this session of the Council of Dembirom, I move that we review the arguments on the topic of the defensive army, and of the power of the crown over said army, and then come to a vote. Mr. Bedour, since you are currently the offended party, would you like to begin?”

“I would indeed, Mr. Moderator,” Bedour said coolly, collecting himself as his face bled down to its usual brown.

“Ahem. As you all know, Dembirom has not had a standing army since our grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s time. It has been over a quarter a millennium since last we had need of an armed force besides our own city guard, which is perfectly capable of defending even our most remote of settlements from the predations of the lawless and of wolves. It goes without saying, therefore, that we really have no need of an army, of a military, because we have no one to wage war against, and no one who is waging war against us!

“So why does the most recent generation of the royal family demand, incessantly, that we have grave need of a large force of armed men, who will obey only them? I mean not to sound concerned, gentlemen,” he said, pointedly ignoring the three women in the room, “that the royal family seeks to disband this great council of justice and fair law! I do not mean that in the slightest, since we all know the royals are such firm, just people, with no ulterior motives given into their heads by foreigners! But if someone were to—say—dupe the royal family, through criminal wiles and snake-like charm, why, they could gain control very easily of new army, answerable only to the king or queen, or prince or princess, and turn them against us! Why, such a person could weaken us considerably by disbanding this council by force, and open the way for greedy, foreign dictators to thrust their way into this grand city of light, and desecrate our way of life!

“I mean not to sound hysterical, friends. I beg that you do not take me for some lunatic for my very real fears. But I do fear. I fear what it might mean for us, for our people, if the army is used as a mechanism to displace us! I worry, true, about foreign invasions! But do not let lies of Other-Kin and tales of Twisted Children within the borders of this vale reach your ears! They are mechanisms by which a foreign power might seek to placate us, make us think that we must raise an army for the crown to defend our lands, to deal with this non-existent threat!

“Please, gentlemen. I beg of you. Do not allow this Menatan spy to harry your ears with tales of dangerous monsters from children’s stories. The real danger, the very real danger, is that this man gets an army raised which he can swiftly swoop in to control. He seeks a coup with our own people. He seeks to subjugate us to endless years of slavery under the grip of the cruel Menatan kings. We must not give in. We must not allow our people to suffer.

“That is my plea, good gentlemen,” he said softly, burying his face dramatically in his hands, “I pray to Alimis that what I say does not come to pass….”

“Thank you, Mr. Bedour. Do you cede the floor?”

“I do.”

“Very good. Princess, do you care to submit your claim?”

“I do, Mr. Moderator,” Vevien stated slowly, “but first I would like to call witnesses. Sir Jason Halifax, Knight of the Cloud?”

“That is… acceptable,” Tuvaulle said as the knight took to his feet, Bedour mouthing obscenities. “Sir Knight, do you swear to give not false testimony, upon your honor as a knight and a gentleman?”

“I do, Mr. Moderator.”

“Very good, then. We will hear your story.”

“Thank you, Mr. Moderator, Council of Dembirom,” he started, “I am no eloquent speaker. I am no politician, seeking to do with slight of words that which I cannot do with slight of hand. I would like to state, before I begin my testimony, that I detest the slander which the Honorable Mr. Bedour has lain against me, and were I in a Menatan Kingdom I would ask for justice by the blade, for my honor is cleaner than a fresh slate.

“However, being not in a Menatan Kingdom, and perhaps being unfamiliar with the ways of the Esteemed Elatan people, I will forgive this slight, and pay it no heed. Now, onto my account.

“I arrived here, in this Vale of Dembirom nigh on one year ago, following the beckoning of our Lord, Alimis, king of the Sky and husband of the Earth. I was, you see, following in the footsteps of my ancestors, knights in their own right, who did strive to rid this world of the most vile of Other-Kin. I make no game of it, that I was in ill being at the time which I entered this valley of light. It had been several months of tracking this monster through the wilderness, herding it this way and that, trying to keep it away from Menatan settlements, and the homes of innocent Second Children.

“But imagine my surprise, when I reached the heights of this vale, and saw within the gleaming gemstone that is Dembirom, though I knew it not at the time. What I did know, however, was that before me lay a relic, which must not become sullied by the hands of violent Other-Kin, or extremist Second Children, or at worst a Twisted Child!

“And so I harried no more, but sought to end the foul beast which I was tracking. I am sure that many of you have heard this portion of the story before, and so I shall be brief in its accounting. The beast was, in fact, an ogre, with large, protruding teeth and a stubbed nose, spade ears and a balding scalp. It was several men high, and thrice the weight of a horse, and its hue was a wash-out violet.

“I came upon it as Alimis neared his apex, and as it drew close to your grand city, the many mirrors flashed out in divine light, blinding the creature. This is the moment which I took to strike. There is little honor to be had in striking a fellow man when he is blinded, or when he has fallen, but none—save for the foolhardy or cruel—would pass up such an opportunity when there may be a single innocent life yet to be spared.

“Our battle was furious, despite my advantages—my blade was sharp, my plate and will rock-solid, and not to mention my clear vision. The brute was terribly strong, and its great, sweeping blows rent my armor in places. My ribs, I will freely admit, still ache from that day.

“But my conviction was sound, and though I took many a wound, I finally dismembered the beast, and fell to my knees in the bloodied snow, exhausted. And I felt that surely, this must be the end, for I was in no condition to make the long trek back to my fellow Menatans!

“But lo! Alimis was in a kindly mood, and looking down upon me, he sent out an angel, a woman who I took at first to be one of Aorynan, and she helped me to my feet, ignorant of the chill of the wind and the blood which fell from my rent armor, and she supported me as I entered this haven in the mountains.

“And here, I have remained since. I would not eschew such a grand debt to betray your people. I fear that such a notion would only occur to one who would. I cannot stress to you, most Honorable councilmen and women, the need for a large, well-trained military force, even if it is as small as a simple militia. For you were in luck that day that I arrived, and have been in luck since that these beasts have not returned. Or perhaps I should say, have not returned often.

“I urge you to consider this threat seriously, and my word seriously, though I be not one of you venerable subjects. I finish my accounting, and my plea, Mr. Moderator,” Halifax said, bowing sharply to Tuvaulle, “and I thank the Council for hearing it.”

“Very good, Sir Halifax. Thank you for your testimony,” Tuvaulle said, returning the bow in a short manner, “Princess Vevien, do you now wish to make you claim?”

“If it pleases you Mr. Moderator, I would like the council to hear another accounting, today.”

“This is most irregular, Princess. It would have been prudent of you to notify the council before your opposition made its claim known.”

“Prudent, perhaps, Mr. Moderator. But it also would have been prudent for the council to have waited until my arrival—and the arrival of my entourage—to begin their debating.”

“I… suppose that is amenable. Very well,” Tuvaulle said, with a twitch of his lip toward Vevien—he had to know their plan, now, “your second witness may make their testimony, should they take their vows to honesty”

“Thank you for you curtesy, Mr. Moderator. Lady Edlaise?”

“Of course, Princess. Good Lady, do you swear to hold to the truth on your honor as a Lady and representative of the Royal House?”

“I do, Mr. Moderator.”

“Very good. The council will now hear your testimony.”

“Thank you, Mr. Moderator, councilmembers. As you all know, I am the second-born of our king, Jon Lo’Bourelle, and so am free to pursue whichever career I deem fit, so long as the eldest of us lives.

“I have chosen, in no small part because I enjoy working actively to help our people directly, to pursue a warding career, to keep our borders free of all sorts of dangerous creatures, whether they be ordinary wolves or bears, or Other-Kin or even, dare I say, Twisted Children.

“These past cycles have seen to it that I have been increasingly busy, in this regard. Within the past cycle alone, I have killed six Other-Kin that have strayed into our borders. The first five of these were but Greatwolves—which are not beasts to laugh at—and I slew each of them, though it was no simple task.

“Today, I encounter the sixth of these intruding Other-Kin,” she continued. How many times had she rehearsed this speech in her head an in the mirror and to Vevien and Sir Halifax as they prepared for this meeting? It must have been at least a few hundred. “It was nota Greatwolf, much as I might wish that it was. No, this was not something so simple. Today, I slew an ogre.

“Now I see that some of you gawk, and mutter that a woman could never manage such a thing. In this you are wrong. I would gladly bring you to the corpse later, or send for it to be brought here immediately, if you wish. No? Are you certain? Very well.

“Here I must describe the beast for you. It was much as Sir Halifax has described his own ogre—it was quite large, of course, many times the bulk and weight of a bull, with large, flappy ears and tusk-like teeth which jutted from its jaw—but I must say that I would call its coloring more of a purple-gray.

“Regardless of the description of the beast, I fell upon it in the woods south of the village Giros with a swift array of arrows, which did enrage and confuse it. As it thrashed about in the copse, I jabbed at its face from the brush with my spear. I retreated when it finally saw me, smashing the bushes behind which I had hid with one great paw.

“I danced backward, unafraid of tripping—for I know that terrain well, it seems that is the general area that most of these monsters come from—and continued jabbing at its eyes, slipping about it as it charged my.

“I do believe that I managed to blind it—at least partially—before it managed to bat away my thrusting spear and disarm me. But I did still have my trusty sidearm, this arming sword you see here, and I closed on the beast as it clutched at its face.

“Quickly, I scampered up its frame, leaping from bent knee to the thing’s shoulder, where I took a mighty swing at its long neck, clutching my blade in both hands, and severed its spine with a sharp blow. I must admit that I may have been… hasty in my next actions.

“The beast had collapsed—surely dead—but I was afraid enough that I needed to be sure. So I—and I beg your pardon, councilmembers, for the vulgarity and goriness of this—hacked at its neck until the head departed the body, leaving but a long, ragged stump where once the head had sat.

“Now, unlike the Honorable Sir Halifax, I cannot verify where this monstrosity came from initially, nor can I claim that its intent was indeed to do damage to our people and property. But what I feel I must do is to implore you to take this threat seriously. I was not given this scratch be a child’s fairytale, after all!” she said, rolling up her sleeve and unwinding the bandage upon her arm, “and nor was my spear shattered, nor my armor damaged by one!

“The threat is dire, my friends. Currently, you only have two people who have survived a clash with a greater Other-Kin. Many are our friends and neighbors who have fallen prey to even the least of these abominations on a dark night! With an army—or as Sir Halifax suggested—a simple militia, we could secure our borders, and prevent anyone else from being caught unaware, alone and afraid in the night!

“I feel that it is but a small thing to ask. After all, were you not each elected to see to the best interests of you constituents? To see that they are safe? Unafraid? I urge you all to vote to confirm this movement. I, for one, would rather fight with a friend at my side.”

“…Have you completed your testament, Lady Edlaise?” Tuvaulle asked tentatively. She was known for dramatic pauses. I did that once!

“I have, Mr. Moderator. Thank you. Thank you, councilmembers,” she said, bowing slightly to both sides of the council as she took her seat.

“That was great, Edlaise!” Vevien whispered to her, “You should be the one in politics!”

“Princess Vevien? Do you wish to offer your own remarks?”

“All I wish to say, Mr. Moderator, is that any who do not see the truth in the stories of Sir Halifax and Lady Edlaise are blind fools, and that, despite whatever action they might take, these two exemplary individuals will continue to strive to keep them safe from any and all threats to their wellbeing.”

“Very well then, Princess Vevien,” he said, turning back to the court, “Now that these testaments and arguments of both registered sides have been heard, I must ask each of you to dismiss any attendants or witnesses to wait in the hall outside for the duration of the vote.”

:::

The hallway was perfectly silent as Edlaise waited with Halifax and the rest of the various scribes and advisors. No one so much as coughed, or wiped there nose. There was no sound emanating from the council chambers—the time of verbal debate was over. Now it was time for each member to come to their own decision. According to law, speaking during this time could potentially see the speaker’s vote nullified. Edlaise hoped that Bedour attempted to say something.

But he wouldn’t. As much as she disliked the man, and enjoyed insulting his intelligence, he was no idiot. He was the most important person in the coalition against the raising of an army, and he knew it.

Edlaise stared straight ahead as the rainbows filtering through the prism windows changed, stretching, thinning, rising up the wall as the sun began to sink toward the mountains. She stifled a yawn. When were they going to finish up? Surely it didn’t take hours to come to a decision!

A brief murmur from within the council chambers quieted her anxiety, or least, part of it. Would now the verdict be released? Would it be favorable? Had their statements swayed the unswayable?

“Ladies, gentlemen? If you would like to resume your seats?” Tuvaulle said, popping open one the the large double-doors. “I do believe that we have come to our conclusion. If you would bear witness…” he trailed off as the somber—yet contradictorily excited—crowd of courtiers filed into the chamber.

“Now then,” he resumed, “As you all know, today we met with the goal of deciding whether or not to raise a standing army, and if that was done, whether or not the king would have supreme control over the forces. Well, we have done so.

“Miss Cavette? If you would hand me the first ballot box? Thank you, dear. Now. I will proceed to open this box, and, as moderator, shall read out each declaration. I will be clear and concise in my wording so that there may be now confusion. I ask that each of you keep your own tallies regarding the number in favor of each clause, those being as follows: those against the raising of an armed force, and those for the raising of an armed force. I shall begin presently.

“In disfavor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military…” Edlaise crept to the edge of her seat, keeping tally. So far, they were tied, “In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military… and…. In favor of a military…” Edlaise almost leaped from her chair. The first part’s done with! Now to just get it away from the bureaucrats!

“By my own count, ladies and gentlemen, that comes to eleven in favor of raising an army, and ten against. Are there any objections?” he asked. There almost never were, especially when Tuvaulle was moderating—the man very rarely made a mistake. “No? Very good then. The second ballot box, if you please? Thank you, Miss Cavette.

“Now for the matter of who is to be in control of this newly levied military of ours, and who is responsible for determining its actions. I will ask that the members of the council place their slips into the ballot box as it comes about—you have all had much more than the requisite amount of time to decide, after all—and we will take the count presently.”

“You can’t do that, Tuvaulle!” Bedour shouted, standing abruptly with another of his flushed faces, “This goes against all protocol! I make a motion that Tuvaulle be replaced by an impartial moderator!”

“Motion noted, and rejected, Mr. Bedour,” Tuvaulle said coolly, turning toward him. “I did remind every member of this court of the time restraints upon the vote for each clause—which we exceeded by no less than two hours and twelve minutes, which in turn is forty-two minutes longer than was agreed upon. Therefore, we have already used the voting time for the second portion of the vote.”

“Well why didn’t you give warning!”

“Mr. Bedour. This is not a schoolhouse. You should not be in need of warnings to be able to tell the time. But if it would please you, perhaps the next vote could be upon whether or not to bring alarm clocks to our meetings in the future,” Tuvaulle said scathingly, “Now, hurry along with the ballot box.”

“I move that this vote be re-enacted!”

“Silence, Mr. Bedour! Once more and you shall not have a vote at all! Or need I remind you of the rules of voting, as well as the amount of time allotted for said voting?”

Bedour scowled, but sat down again, his round face a lovely shade of burgundy.

“Thank you, Mr. Bedour. It seems the box has reached you. Has every councilmember had his or her say? Yes? Very good.

“I shall count off in the same manner as before. The outcomes are clear, once again—pro-royal control or anti-royal control. If everyone would keep tally, so as not to waste time… thank you. Let us begin.

“Pro! Pro! Anti! Pro! Anti! Anti! Anti! Pro! Anti! Pro! Pro! Pro! Pro! Anti! Anti! Anti! Anti! Anti! Pro! Pro! And… Pro! I stand at eleven pro-royal command and ten against. Do I hear any objections to this count?”

“I—” Bedour started, raising his hand, but then stopped. Dissenting simply to attempt a forced recount could see the dissenter barred from voting on the next bill. And even if it was as simple as whether time keepers should be implemented, Bedour wasn’t the type to risk it. “No objection, Mr. Moderator,” he seethed.

“Very good then. Princess Vevien?” he said, turning to their coalition, “Would you like the honor of informing your father of his newest responsibility?”

“I would be honored, Mr. Tuvaulle,” she replied. Now that the voting was over, there was no need to be overly formal. “and I thank you for this honor.”

“Very well, I trust you to it. If you would also extend an invitation for him to come to our next engagement, the council will discuss the manner in which we shall levee the troops, and the limits to the power that the king shall have.”

“Of course I shall do so, Mr. Tuvaulle. And thank you, again,” Vevien said, rising to leave. Edlaise heard the strain in her voice, the readiness to be off and be done with this political wish-wash.

“Well?” Edlaise demanded as they left the chambers, “When do I get appointed Grand-General?”

“You don’t. That’s Father’s job. You can be a… private!”

“What? But that’s the literal lowest rank, right?” she gasped, feigning injury, “How could you do such a thing?”

“Come now, Lady Edlaise,” Sir Halifax said from his post behind them—what he called the ‘honor guard.’ From any of the lechers from the Council, she might have felt uncomfortable. Halifax was too honorable for such vulgarity. “Surely, since you are easily one of the best—if not the best—combatant Dembirom has to offer, you will see yourself attain at least sergeant! Of course, you will also likely spend your time training recruits…”

“What? No, I won’t! And I’ll stuff anyone who tries to make me!”

“Ha!” Vevien barked in a most un-princess-like fashion, “I’d like to see a pig like Bedour try to keep you out of the army!”

“I might just stuff that one, anyhow.”

“I might pay to see that. But come, Father is waiting.”

[talesofafangirlwithadvr]

JULY PICKS

What emotions I experienced this month! Does the CW understand that they can’t have TWO series finales happen on back to back days? It’s hard enough to say goodbye to one show. From binge-watching to theater going there’s a lot to talk about; so let’s get started!

Are you really shocked that there’s a SPOILER warning? 

STRANGER THINGS

We’ll start with one of the first watches of the month: the third season of Stranger Things. I teased at the end of last months wrap up that I might do an entire post just on this last season, but time got away from me. Nonetheless, I’ll try to keep it short. (Or try) ;)

THIS IS ANOTHER SPOILER WARNING!! DO NOT CONTINUE IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THE THIRD SEASON OF STRANGER THINGS!! But I’m sure you have already. 

Don’t watch the finale at 12:30 in the morning or later, unless you want to cry. That was just me...okay. But seriously, why Hopper? Now I know since it was released everyone has theories that Hopper’s not gone for good. We didn’t see him turn to ash like those Russians. There was a look but not enough to warrant this is the end. And of course the notorious, “The American” line during the after the credits scene. I just hope this isn’t TOO overly obvious making it not true because that will really upset me...A LOT.  I love the fact that El is staying with Joyce. (It makes complete sense that she would.) Don’t love that she doesn’t have her powers. I thought it was interesting in the end how Mike and El are like ‘See ya later,’ because they’re moving, but Jonathan and Nancy feel like they’ll never see each other again. I don’t know if that’s supposed to be because El and Mike are kids and their love isn’t as deep? Either way I really hope this isn’t the end of Jonathan and Nancy. Big fan of Steve (as usual) and Robin and honestly just the whole Scoops crew (”It’s not America without Erica!”). They were definitely one of my favorite story lines of this season (and there were many). I feel bad that Steve is without love again this season, but I love his relationship with Robin and I think they did a great job introducing her character. I’m excited to see what happens next season with her. Overall, just really like all the relationships this season. Of course Dustin’s girlfriend is real and yes I haven’t been able to get that song out of my head since. Big fan of El and Max getting some girl time. El exploring the mall was one of my favorite scenes. It was also great to see so many old stores (shout out to Sam Goody!). While this season was definitely the darkest so far, I really liked the energy it brought and am excited to see what’s next. My only big suggestion is to give Will more actions than just touching his neck when something bad happens. We know he’s capable of so much more after season 2 and I’m upset he didn’t do more this season. Oh and always make sure to give us a cool team up scene where they circle around each other ready to attack. (See below--it’s the best one I could find, but you know what I’m talking about.)

Jane the Virgin

One of the two series finales I’ve watched this month. It’s so bittersweet when a show is over. You hope they do it right and don’t want any loose ends, and at the same time you’re so sad it’s over. (Or you have that weird feeling where you’re in denial and expect another new episode next week.) Jane the Virgin was a show that I started bingeing this year and I knew would be upsetting when it ended. (I mean I was upset when I had no new episodes to watch.) But I am really happy (and satisfied) with how they ended it. The hour long special prior to the finale was a nice touch looking back on the show and talking about how revolutionary it was for the time period (especially when it started). There still is nothing else like it on TV and I’m not sure anything ever will be like it again. I loved all the magical realism they included in it and how despite all the crazy moments (”speaking of telenovelas..”), it was so relate-able. As someone who was Team Michael from the beginning, I grew to really love Jane and Rafael. So the start of this season when Michael came back with his amnesia and then when he got his memories back was extremely frustrating and I wasn’t always excited to watch it. But once that plot was resolved it became more entertaining for me. I love Matteo and the girls. Petra’s character development was HUGE and she has become one of my favorites-especially her sisterhood with Jane. Xo and Ro, Alba and Jorge. It’s really sad to say good-bye to all of these characters. I might have to re-watch some old episodes...     

iZombie

Wednesday was Jane the Virgin’s series finale and Thursday was iZombie. Like I said earlier: really CW? After a “minor” hiccup of the episode not taping (Okay, I was really upset about the fact I had to wait to watch it on demand), I watched it the next day. This season there was SO MUCH going on from the Dead enders, to Fillmore Graves, and then Liv’s dad. As we were quickly approaching the end, I wasn’t sure how they were going to address everything and then I was really hoping that they weren’t going to drop the ball on anything. But the finale really delivered (as all seasons did). All of these story-lines came to a head and Seattle saw its war on zombism that was bound to happen. There were casualties and people becoming zombies that I didn’t see coming, but in the end the cure was FINALLY created. Lots of twists and turns to get there and then we jumped ten years. I liked looking into the future and hearing from Clive, Ravi and Peyton. Deep down I knew Liv couldn’t be dead, but they did have me worried for a little bit. Or for the fact that they didn’t know she was alive. So it was a really nice touch in the last few minutes where Liv and Major spoke with them. (Btw super happy that they were endgame. I desperately wanted it this season and they didn’t have too many scenes until the last few episodes, so I didn’t believe, but PHEW!) One question I still have is what is Seattle like now? Do only zombies live there now or is Liv’s family the only remaining zombies? It was a little confusing to me. Let me know if you better understood it.  

The 100

Disclaimer: I have not watched the finale..yet. I’m sorry. But this is relating to all the episodes leading up to it. 

Something I’m noticing with a lot of the shows this summer season is that the second half is more intriguing. I tend to save up a lot of episodes and then when a certain plot line starts to pick up I feel more invested. This season of the 100 has been like that for me. But since the group (or should I say Bellamy) discovered that Clarke was alive and then she fought with Josephine, I have found it really entertaining. I like the transformation that Octavia has gone through, Echo has really grown on me (believe it or not) especially since watching her backstory, and as usual Murphy is one of my favorites. In the last episode I watched when Clarke goes back and pretends to be Josephine I love how we got to see who Murphy was truly loyal to. And then when Clarke talks with them and he says Josephine called him John. So good. The only part I’m really not a fan of his Maddie’s story-line. i just feel like we’ve got so much other stuff going on that it feels forced. But then again it will probably play a big part in the finale. 

As a huge Bellarke fan since day one I have been taking in all of these moments between them these past couple of episodes and seriously feel like if they don’t get together next season (which is their last) it will be a mistake. Bellamy’s face when Clarke was dying...He needs her and her him. Come on Jason! (Okay rant over. If you want more Bellarke see my page: Lydia-yougowith-Stiles.)    

KRYPTON

I know this SYFY original started its second season back in June, but I truly didn’t start to catch up until July. (Like A LOT were saved on my DVR and I did seriously think about cutting it loose.) I enjoyed the first season and the story of Superman’s grandfather and was interested to see what would happen in season two. The beginning of this season felt slow for me though. I just wanted most of the characters reunited and to know that Seg was alive. I had a feeling Brainiac would somehow be in him because it would be too easy if the villain was gone. Once people started interacting with each other it held more of my attention and then once SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER.......  Lyta “died.” (It’s really only on a scifi show that you can put “died” in quotes.) That really through me off. I didn’t think she’d die. So was I completely shocked when it was revealed that she didn’t die and her clone did instead- a little? I was more upset. I felt like for her character to die would work because characters would transform and react in a way that would stir up the show. Like I said this was one of the reasons why I stayed tuned in. I mean there’s still a chance (haven’t watched the last episode of this either) that she will die, but I have a feeling she won’t. I like seeing Val alive and present on the show rather than just a hologram in the fortress. Seeing Dev and Jayna team up has been really great. I always enjoy Nyssa and Seg’s relationship and just about jumped up and down when JOR-EL GOT HIS NAME!!! You knew it had to be him all along, but at the same time I was like when is it going to happen? It was so epic with the dramatic pause and the Superman theme playing in the background. One of the best parts of this season (in my opinion). Now they just have to get him back. 

PANDORA

I feel like I’m watching a lot in the Sci-Fi genre this summer. This CW show was one that I hadn’t heard of before the first episode aired. It grabbed me because there were so many familiar faces in the cast. (If you’ve watched shows like The Librarians, Ride or Free Rein you’ll know what I mean.) It follows Jax who lived on one of Earth’s colonies called New Portland, which was recently bombed. She was the only survivor. As she makes her way to Earth, to live with her Uncle and attend the academy, she is on a mission to solve her parents’ death and discover what truly happened. This is VERY Sci-Fi (which shouldn’t come as a shock I know). It’s cast of characters include humans, telepaths, aliens, clones, and part cyborgs. In the first episode you’re introduced to A LOT of characters, so it’s a little information overload. I also find that when I start a new episode it often feels like you’ve missed a previous one or that you started midway. I think it’s because of the styling of the episodes. They often jump a lot of time without telling you, or think you understand a definition, but really don’t. (There’s something involving Jax’s past that I still don’t 100% get.) But there’s something about this show that has me actually caught up with episodes. Right now it feels very much like a first season because the episodes are (not to use the same word) episodic. Something happens and then is solved the same episode. There’s an overarching plot, but it’s just in the background (probably until the finale). With the large cast of characters there are also a lot of ships and almost everyone interactions lead you to believe they could be a couple, so i feel very conflicted. RIght now though I keep getting drawn back to Jax and Xander. 

The Outpost

This CW Fantasy debuted its second season not too long ago. (I feel like I group it with Pandora because 1) they’re both summer shows and 2) not your typical CW style. I like the representation of Fantasy and Sci-Fi on the network.) I enjoyed the first season last summer, but it is REALLY hard for me to get into this season. I usually put this show off for a couple weeks and watch it when I have nothing else to watch. I think it’s because of the new black blood as well as Gwynn’s plot. Maybe it’s because last season there was already so much action and looking at this season we are trying to get more names and summon a demon army for Gwynn who awaits the Prime Order. And that’s been going on for about 3 out of 4 episodes? (Wow there’s only been 4 episodes?) Last episode with the return of Garret I found myself liking it more. I also like how Dred isn’t the head villain. We now know who he answers to. So that will be interesting to explore. I just hope the show picks up a little more. 

AT THE MOVIES

Yesterday

I was very excited for this movie to come to theaters. I thought the concept was great-strange but great. What if you knew all the Beatles songs, but no one else did? Jack Malik is a struggling musician who just can’t get his big break, so when he gets hits by a car and is the only one who remembers the band he does what anyone else would: play the songs as if they were his. I enjoyed most of the movie (and the inclusion of others who also remembered the Beatles), but did not like the ending. It brought down the movie for me. I’ll be good with this one and not give much away, but after you watch it let me know what you think. 

Spider man Far From Home

Another movie that I was very excited to see in theaters and it did not disappoint. I was a fan of Homecoming and was interested to see Tom Holland as the webslinger once more. Great dynamics with the cast. Loved Ned and Betty’s relationship. Zendaya’s MJ is one of my favorites and I liked her awkward interactions with Peter and how she was suspicious of him. All the echos back to Tony made me tear up. The scene in the plane when Peter is making his suit and the same song from Ironman plays and he’s basically doing the same moves. It hurts to just think about it now. I didn’t know about Mysterio before going into the movie, but it still wasn’t a shock what his true motives were. Especially because it seemed solved so early in the film. I think his reasonings make complete sense, which made him an entertaining villain. When first seeing the trailer I didn’t know how I felt about Jake Gyllenhaal, but I really liked him (and all the interviews he did promoting the movie, especially this one:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3FcCz2y2mM. Watch it. You’ll like it!) That first after credits scene was CRAZY! First I was dying at the return of J.K. Simmons and then the reveal! Can’t wait for it to come out so I can watch it again and again. 

*************************************************************************************

That’s a wrap! Any of my picks yours? If not what did you watch this month? Let me know in the comments!         

[specswritesstuff]

Home is where..The heart is..?

A little something I just wanted to write @armadaderaj ;)

“Papa? Where are we going..?” Matthew asked tiredly from the back seat, stuffed bear squeezed against his chest. The back seat was crowded, two suitcases full of Matthews clothes and a few blankets back there with him, another Louis Vuitton suitcase in the trunk full of clothes and toiletries and whatever else that could be shoved in there. Francis was driving aimlessly around the streets, hiding his tears from his son in the dark.

“Somewhere...” the Frenchman tried to keep his voice steady “We will see if there are any hotels open” but Francis knew damn well that there would be no hotel rooms around here...London was always crowded. And at one in the morning? It would be even less likely.

“I wanna go home...I don’t wanna go on a vacation at nighttime”

“This is not a vacation, bebe, it’s just somewhere to stay” Francis pushed his hair back from his face, hands shakey

“Papa? Why were you and daddy yelling?” Matthew shifted around to rest his head on his suitcase, pulling his blanket over himself tightly “You shoulda been in bed..”

“Ce n’est pas grave...It’s just adult stuff” he tried to brush it off, to seem as if he was not upset. Francis hated that Alfred and Matthew had to hear all of that...It broke his heart

“Very loud adult stuff...” Matthew muttered half to himself “When are we gonna get there? You passed two hotels! Just now! Turn around!”

“Matthieu, don’t use that tone please...We can’t go to those hotels, the sign says they are full..” It took a half an hour for them to find one. It wasn’t fancy and it didn’t have a pool, much to Matthew’s dissapointment.

The two settled down in room 467 on the fourth floor, their stuff still in suitcases, Matthew in his pajamas still. “Papa...I wish you brought Alfred too”

“Your father has him...” Francis sighed, rubbing Matthews back soothingly “Go to sleep...I’m sorry we woke you”

“S’okay...Love you Papa...”

“I love you too” Francis whispered, waiting until he was sure that his son had fallen asleep to cry

---

Francis woke up earlier than he usually did. The curtains in the hotel were too thin, then didn’t block he light out at all. Matthew was still sound asleep, his face smushed into the pristine, white pillow case.

Francis’ phone had twenty notification. Sure some were games, candy crush was begging him to play, and a handful were from Gilbert and Antonio ‘Hey! So are we going out on Saturday or what?’ But the majority were from Arthur... Twelve missed calls with voice messages attatched, three texts

‘Bring back my fucking son’, received 1:30am, today

‘Dammit Francis, come back’, received 2:00am, today

‘I’m sorry’, received 3:45am, today

Francis couldn’t find the energy to respond, tossing his phone to the other side of the bed, curling back up with his son with a sad sigh.

It had all started for no real reason. They had just put the kids to bed, Arthur got a call from work. Francis had made a comment that admittedly sparked the whole thing but at the moment, he denied it. ‘I’m surprised they need you again, as if you haven’t been there for ten hours already. It’s almost as if that police station is your husband and not me’

Arthur’s temper was easy to ignite, they both knew it...

‘Oh yeah? At least I have a real damn job. How’s the artist business going? How many paintings have you sold as of late?’ Arthur stood and started to pace around 

‘You know I’m going to culinary school! Fuck off, I’m still bringing money in!’ Francis gestured to his stack of books on the coffee table, cook books and kitchen equipment manuals. He had an exam next week

‘Not as quick as you’re spending it on your frivolous ingredients and candles and conditioner! College isn’t cheap either, bastard!’

‘Well I’m sorry! I found a new passion, okay? I did not know that you were the fun police too!’ Francis was standing now, pointing a finger at him. Arthur snarled and grabbed his hand, holding it away

‘This isn’t about fun! You should have stuck to your teaching job instead of quitting the second you decided you were bored with it! Fuck, I’m working ten hours because of you!’

It was all a red, angry blur. Francis shoving Arthur’s hand off, the two yelling louder and louder, the subject as hand mattering less and less as they took their stress out on eachother. Francis had slapped his wedding ring into Arthur’s hand as he shoved clothes in his bag, stomping across the hall to get Matthew

‘You’re not taking my kid! Get back here!’ But Francis was a passionate man. When he was upset, he would let his husband know it. He scooped up his son, kissing his cheek ‘Lets go Matthieu, pick out some clothes, you and I are going on a little trip’

‘Francis I swear to god-‘ ‘Papa? Why are we leaving?-‘ ‘Just pack, bebe-‘ ‘Papa? Where are you taking Mattie?’

Francis carried Matthew to the car, buckling him in gently and kissing his forehead ‘Everything is going to be okay...’ Francis whispered, crying to reassure himself more than his son. Arthur stood on their porch, still in his work clothes, absolutely fuming as Francis pulled out of the driveway, his tires screeching as he sped down the street. They just drove...And drove...

And here they were 

“Papa? Papa get off of me...You’re makin me all sweaty..” Thats right. Matthew needs it to be practically freezing to be able to sleep peacefully

“My apologies, mon ange...”

Matthew sat up and stretched his stiff shoulders with a little yawn “So now that its the morning, does that mean we get to go home now?” He was only six, growing like a weed. Lord, he was taller than Alfred and everything “I wanna watch cartoons with Al...”

Francis sighed and reached over, grabbing the remote and turning on SpongeBob Squarepants. Matthew groaned and frowned at his father “Papa, I wanna watch with Al! You don't know who anybody is and I gotta tell you all the time” He complained, crossing his arms and flopping back against his dog shaped pillow pet with a huff. 

Francis huffed a bit too. He knew this was all at his fault and his son’s anger was directed at him. But what was worse than anger? Tears...

Matthew was so much like Francis. He strived to speak basic French, only being six. He refused to cut his hairs he could look like his papa, through Francis would still trim it so it wouldn't look unkept. Matthew acted a lot like Francis, they both laughed loudly and cried when they needed to. Apparently, this was Matthews time. They boy rolled over to turn his back to his father so he could cry but of course, Francis knew better. he pulled his son into his lap and kissed his forehead 

“Why are you crying, mon chou?”

“Cause!” Matthew sniffled and wiped his snot on his arm, which Francis hated “Cause you don't love daddy anymore!”

“That...That isn't true. You know that we love each other very much” 

“Yeah, well if you did, you wouldn't have yelled at him like that” Francis sighed and jus chose to ignore that, staring ahead at the stupid, yellow, happy sponge on the screen. The squid man reminded him of Arthur...

---

Thirty missed calls. Thats how many he had. Francis chose to ignore them, scoffing softy each time his phone buzzed until a certain message caught his eye...So he opened it. 

‘Francis, I need you to come back. I have to go in to work’, received 9:30am today

Francis got up, his scoliosis ridden back aching, his eyes stingin. He stepped out onto the hotel room’s balcony, calling his husband back. Arthur picked up on the second ring.

“Francis...”

“What. What do you want?” Francis pushed his hair back, wishing he had. cigarette but he gave that up years ago 

“I...I have to go to work. Commander Lewis called, I cannot...We...Uh...”

“Get on with it”

“I can't take Alfred to work with me. How far away are you?”

“Fuck...Arthur, why do I always have to stop what I'm doing to save your ass?” he huffed “I can be there in a half hour” 

“As if you're doing anything! I don't have a half an hour! I have to get there-”

“Is it an emergency, Arthur? Is someone dying, dead, crashing?”

“No, but-”

“Goodbye then. I will see you in a half hour or less” And with that, Francis hung up. It felt so strange to not tell Arthur he loved him before shoving his phone in his pocket...He always did

Just last week, he told his Englishman that he loved him nearly every hour, maybe more...The words slipped right off his tongue, easy to say since they were so true. He did love his husband. Since he had met Arthur in high school, Arthur has always wanted to work in law enforcement. Arthur’s father was a cop, his grandfather was a soldier and his great grandfather had fought in not one, but two wars. Arthur has always been proud to be English. he's wanted to protect Englishmen,women and children from danger. It was in his blood. Francis remembers endless nights helping him study, going on tortuous jogs with him to encourage him to stay in shape, made him stay up late less and getting into the habit of waking a bit earlier. Francis has been by his side all of these years, even sitting in the crowd as Arthur graduated from the police academy, his heart swelling with pride as Arthur shook hands with his instructors for the last time. 

Francis has always told Arthur that he loved him. and every time, it was true. It hurt so much to fight with him. They are both so passionate, arguing isn't uncommon by any means but disputes are usually settles by hugs and kisses, the rule of ‘no one goes to bed angry’ has held up for over a decade, as long as they have been dating or married...What happened? Francis’ heart felt like it was being squeezed, like someone was putting rubber bands around it. His whole chest ached but he refused to apologize first. He always apologized first.

He gave himself a minute to compose himself before heading back into the hotel room “Matthieu...Put your shoes on, we are going home now” His son grinned and threw his covers off, dashing to the corner where their bags were, far more eager to go home than Francis was. 

((Uhhh I would love to finish this now but it would be easier to make it two parts ;) until next time~

[pikelanette]

A Pirate’s Life For Me (chapter 3)

Pairing: pikelan Words: 2172 Rated: M (for language) Link: ao3 Chapter 1: tumblr / ao3 Chapter 2: tumblr / ao3

a multi-chapter pikelan pirate AU - chapter 3

Pike woke him up a couple of hours later so he would still be able to sleep that night. Scanlan was as groggy as he came after a few-hour long nap in the middle of the evening. His head ached like a fucker and he immediately said as much.

Pike shook her head with a smile on her face and reached out to stroke his head a few times. As she did, the rush of power came over him again and the headache subsided. He sighed in relief.

“Thanks. There’s nothing I hate more than headaches.”

“Nothing?”

“Almost nothing.”

“Well, you’re welcome.”

For a while, they just went about their business separately. Pike was frowning and staring at her symbol of Sarenrae again, and Scanlan fiddled with his pan flute for a bit. He wasn’t trying to get some more work done on the glyph – that would be extremely bad for his health, and he knew it. Even if he had a resident cleric at hand, too much magic wasn’t something to play around with in his experience.

Eventually, in the middle of doing nothing, Pike started humming that tune again. She had part of the blankets in her lap and was pulling at a thread on it, as if she couldn’t stop herself. Scanlan froze in his tracks.

His movement must have been abrupt, because Pike looked up at him immediately and stopped humming. “Scanlan?”

“I’m fine,” he told her, “It’s just… What song is that?”

“Ah.” Pike thought about that for a moment. “I’m not sure, actually. Papa Wilhand used to sing it to me. You reminded me of it.”

“I did?”

She nodded. “I don’t know why. It’s not like your arcane magic is in gnomish.” She looked up at him. “Do you know it as well?”

“Vaguely…”

His voice drifted off and he caught himself, looking back up at her. She had her head tilted a little, and was looking at him curiously.

He tried for a grin. “It’s been a long time since I heard that kind of song.”

The spark of curiosity in her eyes brightened. “How old are you?”

He tutted. “Now, now, never ask a gnome his age.”

She laughed. “Fine, then. Did your parents sing it to you?”

Scanlan turned away from her a little so she couldn’t see his face. “My mom,” he said casually.

“Ah,” Pike said.

She sounded so understanding that he was momentarily annoyed.

“What?” he snapped.

“Nothing.”

Pike hesitated for a moment. “What was her name?”

Scanlan stared at the wood in front of him, felt the swaying of the ship on the calm waves, listened to the creaking of the ship.

“Juniper,” he then said.

“Pretty name,” Pike responded quietly.

Scanlan looked at her again. He shouldn’t have snapped at her.

“What’s your mother’s name?” he asked.

“Maxime.”

“Good name as well.”

Pike snorted.

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she blushed lightly when she saw.

“It’s just,” she stammered, “My mom… Well, we didn’t keep in touch.”

“How so?”

“She’s not a good person. Not that my dad is a good person… Really, there’s probably a grand total of two good people in my family. Wilhand and Grog.”

“Wilhand isn’t your father?”

She shook her head. “He’s my great-great-grandfather. And Grog is adopted. Sort of.”

“Wow.” Scanlan leaned back against the wall. “And what about the rest of them?”

Pike shrugged her shoulders. “They’re off somewhere or other. Cheating people out of their purses.”

“Charlatans?”

“That’s one word for it. It’s how I got my name.”

“Pike?”

She looked at him weirdly for a moment. “What? Oh! No. My last name. Trickfoot.”

“Trickfoot,” he muttered. Didn’t sound familiar.

He nodded slowly. Not the best part of her life, then. That made sense. Pike didn’t seem like the charlatan type.

“At least they’re not pirates,” he joked, before he could stop himself.

Pike nodded. “That’s true. Not like these bastards.” She glared at the ceiling once more.

Scanlan was quiet for a moment. He flicked his wrist a few times, making his flute appear and disappear. He kept his eyes on the familiar carved wood, the tiny flowery swirls that Keyleth had added to it when she made it for him.

“Have you dealt with pirates much?” he asked.

Pike shook her head. “No. Just once or twice. We usually fought them off pretty easily. They’re not that powerful, usually.”

He smiled a little at that. “Not compared to Pike the War Cleric.”

“Exactly.” She smiled at him. “Have you come across pirates before?”

“Sure,” he said, “But… I don’t know, they can be very different from each other.”

Pike nodded contemplatively at that. “That’s true. Some pirates don’t even attack merchant’s vessels.”

“True. They keep to the crown’s ships.” A tiny smile formed around his lips. “Or other pirates.”

“Now that sounds like fun,” Pike said.

Scanlan almost dropped his flute mid-wrist flick, but he managed to keep control of his magic. “You think so?”

Pike hummed emphatically. “Paying guys like these back? You can’t say that’s not tempting.”

“Oh, no, I agree. I guess I just wasn’t sure you would. I mean, there’s privateers who do the same thing without being outlaws.”

She nodded again. “Sure. But…” She hesitated for a moment, but then seemed to catch herself. They were in the belly of a pirate’s ship: the only person who could hear what she was saying was Scanlan. She looked him over for a moment, frowning a little, as if trying to gauge what his reaction would be.

“The people in charge…” she said finally, “They’re not always the smartest.”

“True.”

“And, well…” She pursed her lips. “I’m not the person for politics. At all. But if I would get my hands on all the money pirates have stolen for the crown and distribute it amongst the people of Tal’Dorei myself… Well, there’s a lot of good that can be done with that kind of money, you know? Privateers… They have to just hand everything back over to the same people who lost it.”

Scanlan frowned a little and thought that over. “I hadn’t really considered that,” he muttered, “That could be really interesting.”

“Right? I feel like… I don’t know, you can do the right thing without being legal per se. Or even in charge. If you have enough balls, and enough heart, you can change the world for the better without getting caught up in endless rules and paperwork.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot,” he stated, sounding a little surprise.

Another one of Pike’s little blushes appeared on her cheeks. They were quickly becoming his favourite thing in the world.

“Well, I had a few weeks of down-time,” she said.

As if that thought triggered another, she immediately started frowning again.

“There he is again.”

She looked up at him. “What?”

“You’re thinking about your brother.”

She blinked. “How did you know?”

He moved up to her and pressed his finger onto her forehead, right where it crinkled when she frowned. “You have a tell,” he told her with a teasing smile.

Pike swatted his hand away in embarrassment. “You’re perceptive,” she mumbled.

Scanlan sat back and sent her a smug grin. “Quite.”

She shook her head at him again, but there wasn’t anything disapproving about it.

“What were you thinking now?” he asked, and he nudged her gently.

Pike sighed. “Just… I really miss Grog.”

Scanlan nodded. “That makes sense. I mean, I don’t have any siblings, but… Well. I have some people who come close, I guess. I guess I miss them too. A little.”

Pike got very quiet for a moment and when he looked up at her, she was staring at the floor, one hand clasped tightly around her holy symbol. “Were they on the ship with you?”

Oh. She thought they were…

“No,” he assured her, “No, I took this trip alone. I was on my way back to them.”

Visible relief overtook her expression. “Good.” Her gaze turned quizzical. “What kind of trip were you taking anyway?”

“Oh, just… boring stuff.” Scanlan fumbled for words, trying to find something. And since they had just talked about her family, to his greatest surprise the thing that came out eventually was: “I visited my mother’s grave site for the anniversary of her death. We lived in Wildemount.”

Pike startled and looked at him wide-eyed. “Oh, I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t be.” He smiled at her, feeling mildly guilty. “It was a long time ago.”

She hesitated. “What happened?”

Why had he brought this up?

Still, even though usually the topic of his mother made him clam up and leave as soon as possible, he found that he was actually pretty comfortable with telling Pike. Especially with the way she was sitting beside him, looking up at him with eyes that were endlessly gentle.

“There was a goblin invasion of our village.” His voice stayed soft, as if he was relaying bad news to her. “She didn’t make it.”

“I’m so sorry, Scanlan.”

He attempted another smile. “Like I said, it’s been a long time. I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Have you?”

This time, Scanlan was the one who startled. He stared at her, and Pike stared straight back at him. He wondered how she could go from gentle to not-taking-emotional-prisoners in such a short amount of time.

Pike gave him time to reboot his brain, and when he did, he frowned. “Well. Maybe not. It’s hard to make your peace with something like that, I guess.”

‘”Definitely,” Pike nodded, “I would even say almost impossible.”

Scanlan nodded slowly as well. “Well, that’s an insight into myself I hadn’t had before.”

Pike laughed. “Look at me casually changing your life.”

He looked at her. “Yeah,” he said softly, “Look at you.”

Pike’s brain had already moved on, and she looked off into the distance. “I almost lost Wilhand to a sort of invasion, you know. But he made it. I can’t believe how lucky I am sometimes.”

She seemed startled by her own words and looked back at Scanlan. “Oh shit, was that super insensitive?”

Scanlan smiled at her. “No. I’m glad you got that chance. Goblins too?”

“Goliaths. But one of them stood up against the others and saved him.” A wide smile appeared on her face. “Grog.”

“Your brother is a goliath?”

“Adopted,” Pike clarified again quickly.

“Still.”

He’d never worked with a goliath before. Could be real interesting. They definitely had their uses.

“What a peculiar family unit,” he said with a half-smile playing around his lips, “Ancient gnome. Gorgeous gnome. Towering goliath.”

Pike laughed again, but she was blushing as well. “It’s interesting, that’s for sure. What’s your family like? If you count those people you talked about before as siblings, that is.”

“Oh, well… Also varied, I suppose. A couple of half-elves. A human.”

Pike nodded understandingly. “Tall people.”

Scanlan laughed and nudged her. “Yeah, you have no idea how nice it is to talk to someone who’s on my level for once.”

“It makes you forget you’re small, doesn’t it?”

He grinned. “Sure does. Although I refuse that let my stature limit me in life.”

“Very admirable.”

“Well, you must understand, miss war cleric.”

“Fair enough,” she laughed.

He had to say, he really hadn’t expected his time aboard this ship to be quite this… pleasant. He was enjoying himself.

And as if Pike could read his mind, she said: “I know it’s mean, but I’m really glad you showed up, Scanlan.”

He smiled and shook his head at her. “No, no, I get it.”

Scanlan laid back on the one blanket they shared at night, his hands behind his head and his eyes closed. He was starting to get sleepy again – this glyph really took its toll on him.

“It’s been a long time since I made a friend,” he said.

Pike chuckled. “I can’t say the same. But I don’t think I had a friend like you before.”

The two of them looked at each other and then laughed a little. Pike came towards him and laid down beside him on the blanket.

“This whole situation is ridiculous,” she sighed.

“Tell me about it.”

She sighed once more. “We should go to sleep. If we wake up early there’s less chance that they’ll catch us while you’re making the circle.”

Scanlan nodded. “Yeah. And I’m ready to doze off again anyway.”

“Should I wake you up?”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best. If I’m a bitch in the morning, I’m sorry. Not a morning person.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

She huddled up closer to him, laying her head on his chest. Scanlan brought down one of his arms so he could rest his hand on her shoulder. It wasn’t any less strange than the night before, laying here with her like this. It was still sort of miraculous, and it made him feel warm.

On the cold floor of the darkened ship, that was all he really needed.

[bryancroidragon]

Finding Maggie and Sams

My fifth Artventure Noir story features neither Maggie or Sams in person. Actually, it is probably because of that this might be the worst story I have written for Artventure Noir yet. Besides Kitkat, most of the characters who appear in this are OCs so I’m not sure how people will feel about this. here is hoping the people at @internetremix like it.

It was a fine Tuesday morning at O’Sullivan Manor, formerly known as “Carthach Manor”, and also known as the O’Sullivan Museum of Egyptology, formerly known as the “Carthach Museum of Egyptology.” Edwin O’Sullivan and his wife Audrey were enjoying breakfast on the veranda of the manor.

Audrey was a young woman the same age as her husband. She was a thin woman with light skin, reddish-brown eyes and straight long hair. She was wearing a blue dress just as Edwin was wearing a red blazer.

Edwin was looking at a letter he had received from the Internet City Zoo. It said they had managed to acquire a young male caracal from the Cairo Zoo and wanted Internet City’s very own Egyptologist to name him.

“I have a few names considered, Audrey” Said Edwin.

“May I hear them, dear?” asked Audrey.

“Akhenaten, Tutankhamen, Ramses, Alexander, Augustus, Caligula and Nero.”

“I’d remove ‘Caligula’ and ‘Nero.’” Said Audrey, stirring her tea with a spoon. “Caligula was, well, Caligula and Nero was the Antichrist. I’m not sure those are the most inviting names.”

“Noted.” Edwin said, nodding. “I should probably remove ‘Ramses’ from the list too since that DeMille picture came out and portrayed Ramses the Great as the Pharaoh of the Exodus.”

“You aren’t removing ‘Augustus’ for how he is often portrayed?” asked Audrey.

“No, I think Robert Graves’ novels will really turn things around and people will view him as a great hero! I am keeping him on the list!”

“So, we have three names that start with the letter ‘A’…” Audrey tapped her teaspoon on her teacup.

“Yeah, looks like we are going with Tutankhamen.” Stated Edwin. “No, wait! Merneptah!”

“For goodness sake, Edwin! Not everyone in Internet City is an Egyptologist! They won’t know that Merneptah was Ramses the Great’s successor and thirteenth son!”

“Of course they will! He was in that Austrian film ‘The Moon of Israel!’”

The subject of the caracal’s name came abruptly to an end as two gremlins came running onto the veranda. One was obviously Kitkat, the gremlin that Sam McSams had abducted but the other was a smaller one that only came up to the bottom of Kitkat’s neck, had a stubby left leg, a right shoulder that was higher than the left and was wearing a top hat.

“Hello, Kitkat. What brings you here?” asked Audrey. “And who is your adorable little friend?”

“He’s Algae Cake!” replied Kitkat. “Maggie was grabbed at the cemetery when she was visiting Leon’s grave!”

“Oh! By who?”

“By cops!” answered Algae Cake. “She was handcuffed by them and then gagged after she bit the nose of this old guy!”

“And they got Sams too!” exclaimed Kitkat. “We went to his place and found the place ransacked! There was a broken bottle and a puddle of blood!”

“What did they say?” asked Edwin. He never was able to understand gremlins they were as intelligible as people who spoke French to him.

“It would seem corrupt policemen have taken Maggie hostage and someone has gotten Sams too.” Answered Audrey. “Oh, Edwin, it is dreadful! You’ve got to do something!” Both Edwin and Audrey were fully capable of managing the museum but only Edwin had ever been a person of action since he had fought in the war of the previous decade.

 “I’ll be home once I’ve found Maggie and Sams, Audrey.” Edwin stood up. “If I don’t come back…” He looked at his wife and Audrey could not bear to look her husband in the eye. “I’ll be back home soon. I promise.”

“I pray that you will, Edwin.” Said Audrey, her voice sounding like she was about to cry. “I pray that you will.”

With his revolver from the war and the two gremlins on his shoulders, Edwin made his way to the Internet City Police Station. Police had taken their own police chief captive? Well then, it was best to start at the viper’s nest itself.

Edwin’s paternal grandfather Charles had been buried beneath the police station. That was an odd wish but even odder was that he dictated that he be buried upside down in a baseball bat shaped coffin. Ever since reverting the name to “O’Sullivan” Edwin had made arrangements to have Charles’ body dug up and buried on the grounds of the O’Sullivan estate. That had been a month ago, they were still digging Charles out.

Entering the police station he walked right to where his gut told him to go: Maggie’s office. The fifty-five year-old Robert McFarlane looked up from his desk as Edwin passed and raised an eyebrow when he saw the gremlins sitting on Edwin’s shoulder. When Edwin entered the office, he saw a policeman who had the appearance of a derelict and a bleeding nose standing before Maggie’s desk. He was ripping a photograph of Sams, Maggie and her late partner Leon to pieces.

“Officer Mark Dean…” said Edwin, causing the middle-aged officer to turn around in surprise.

“Mr. O’Sullivan! It is Chief Mark Dean now.”

“Where is Maggie?”

“Don’t know, must have left town.” Dean looked at Kitkat and then Algae Cake. “Since when do you let goblins ride on your shoulders?” Both gremlins glared at the usurper and began pointing fingers at him while quickly speaking in Edwin’s ear. He did not understand a word they were saying but they were getting across plainly what they were trying to tell him. Dean had been the leader of the cops that had gotten Maggie! Dean paid the gremlins no mind and just picked up Algae Cake by the back of his jacket, saying: “Look at this scrawny little runt! How much do you wanna guess he doesn’t survive being thrown out the window?”

“Where is Maggie?” asked Edwin again. “And you can tell me where Sams is too.”

“I told you I don’t know where she is, as for McSams he is probably drunk is a gutter somewhere.” Dean held Algae Cake up to the light and looked at the little gremlin’s left leg. “Take a look at his stubby leg! With his uneven legs he should have been euthanized!”

 “Put the gremlin down and tell me where Maggie and Sams are. I know that a group of policemen took Maggie captive and that Sams’ home was ransacked, now tell me where they are!”

 Dean tossed Algae Cake onto the desk, the gremlin landing on a pair of handcuffs. “They are with Lorenzo Deutsch, I’m sure you must have met him at the Club Lavender.”

“The sympathizer of that bloc of authoritarians led by the Charlie Chaplin lookalike that sounds like Margaret Hamilton? I’ve met him. Where has he taken them?” Edwin kept his eyes on Dean, he had a feeling the corrupt cop would come at him any moment.

“To that warehouse on the eastside!” Dean laughed. “At eleven Deutsch is going drown them in concrete!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“They will drown! I am not going to be taking orders from a woman ever again and I won’t let some Egyptologist save that damn woman and her goblin-loving boyfriend!” Dean began to charge with a raise fist only to be suddenly stopped. “What the?” He looked down and found his right ankle handcuffed to the leg of Maggie’s desk. Algae Cake was standing there with a smile on his face, waving at Dean. The corrupt cop furled his brow, narrowed his eyes and then kicked the gremlin across the room until he hit the office’s wall. The next thing Dean knew he heard the screams of Kitkat. He turned and saw her flying at him with her saxophone in hand. She ended up bashing her saxophone against Dean’s nose, which had already been in pain enough from Maggie biting it. After screaming, Dean hurled Kitkat across the office only for Edwin to punch him in the face, hitting him right on the nose.

So fell Mark Dean.

With the unconscious cop on the desk, Edwin walked over to Kitkat and picked her up. “You okay?”

Although Edwin could not understand her, Kitkat answered with “I’m okay!” while nodding.

“Great and what about… Uh… Top hat gremlin?”

No sooner did Edwin finish the question did Algae Cake come running over… while holding the top of a mop. “I have the top of a mop!” he said, stating the obvious. “I can flop it on a cop! I can swap it for a top! I can—“

“I think you should stop.” Commented Kitkat with a completely deadpan expression.

Edwin just stared in confusion at this sight. He had seen no mop top so he felt the need to ask Kitkat:” Does Maggie keep a drawer full of mop tops?” Kitkat could only shake her head leading to Edwin sighing: “Okay then…”

The Egyptologist and the two gremlins left the office, leaving the unconscious corrupt cop on the desk with his right ankle handcuffed to the desk’s leg. McFarlane approached the three and said: “I heard everything. Want me to get some men rallied and we’ll go save the chief and McSams?”

“No, stay here and root out the other corrupt cops!” ordered Edwin. “Leave the rescuing of them to us.” Edwin, Kitkat and Algae Cake then left the police station completely.

If only Dean had stayed unconscious longer. No sooner than Edwin and the gremlins left the office, Dean had regained consciousness and took of the phone on Maggie’s desk, turned the dial until he got the number he wanted and said: “Deutsch, it is Dean! You might want to drown those two ahead of time!” 

[ruminativerabbi]

The Interconnectedness of Generations

The passing this week of Irving Roth, one of the truly great Holocaust educators, was a loss for his family and his friends, of course. And it was a loss for our entire community. But it was also a loss for the larger world of Holocaust education, one made all the more terrible by the fact that he will not be replaced, by the fact that the countless young people (and countless really is the right word here) he spoke to in every one of the fifty states and all across the world about his personal experiences at Auschwitz and Buchenwald will collectively constitute the final generation of young people to meet actual Shoah survivors and to hear their stories not on videotape or in books but personally from their own mouths. This is how the world works in other contexts as well, of course—when Albert H. Woolson died in the summer of 1956, there were no remaining veterans of the Union Army left among the living for young people, or any people, to hear speak about the Civil War in terms of their personal experience. (The last living veteran of the Confederate Army had died five years earlier, so Woolson was the very last one on either side.) When Peter Mills died in 1972, there were no more individuals alive who had been slaves in the ante-bellum South. And yet, even though all events far enough back in history must have some specific individual who becomes the last living person to have experienced that specific event in person, there is a certain poignancy to that thought when applied to the Shoah because that what the survivors of the Shoah survived was not a tragic accident like the sinking of the Titanic or a natural disaster like the eruption of Krakatoa, but a well-organized, fully-funded, diabolical plot to murder them and every other Jew in occupied Europe. Given that detail, it feels amazing that there were survivors at all and doubly so that some have managed to live to become nonagenarians or even centenarians. But once they are gone from the world, there will be none left who can counter the kind of demented anti-Semite who insists that the Shoah never really happened with the simple sentences that Irving spoke so easily and so gracefully. I was there. I saw this happen. I knew these people. I was in that place. I remember. I personally was an eye-witness.

But even though every event in the far-enough-past past has logically to have a final witness to it, there is also the way the generations interlink and interconnect to consider.

For my first example, I submit the case of Lyon Tyler Jr., who died at age ninety-five last October and whose grandfather, John Tyler, was our tenth president. Elected to the vice-presidency in 1840, Tyler came to the presidency when William Henry Harrison died in office after serving all of thirty-one days. Tyler was an interesting personality in his own right. Like our forty-fifth president, he ended up serving only one term, but unlike President Trump he failed even to win his own party’s nomination for a second term, let alone actually be returned to the White House by the electorate. (The Whigs nominated Henry Clay instead, who lost to Democrat James K. Polk.) Probably, that was all for the best—Tyler not only owned slaves himself and ended up siding with the Confederacy during the Civil War, but he actually ran for office and was duly elected to the Confederate House of Representatives shortly before his death in 1862. But my question was not how an American President born in the eighteenth century—Tyler was born in 1790—could have ended up working actively against the nation he once led, but how a grandson of his could possibly still have been alive in 2020.

The answer, it turns out, isn’t all that amazing. Tyler was married twice and had fifteen children in all, the youngest of whom, a boy named Lyon, was born in 1854 when his father was sixty-three years old. Lyon, who died in 1935, fathered a son in 1925, Lyon Jr. And it was this Lyon Jr., the grandson of a man born in 1790, who died last October at age ninety-five. (Even more amazing is that he wasn’t the sole surviving grandson of our tenth president—Lyon Jr. had a younger brother named Harrison who was born in 1928 and who is still alive.)

So to think that all three of my granddaughters’ lives overlapped with the life of a man whose grandfather occupied the White House in the 1840s—that collapses history just a bit and makes the past seem—if not really part of the present—then at least intertwined with it in a way that makes events from John Tyler’s eighteenth century childhood somehow linked—at least fancifully—with my twenty-first century granddaughters’.

Of course, to as keen an observer of the human condition as myself, the eighteenth century doesn’t really feel all that distant. I regularly take my youngest granddaughter for a long walk in Ridgewood, Queens, where she lives, in the course of which we follow a route that takes us around the perimeter of two contiguous cemeteries, one of the which, the Linden Hill Cemetery, has some very, very old Jewish graves in it. And on our walk we regularly pass the grave of the late Mrs. Caroline Welsh, who died at age 90 in 1860—so who was therefore born in 1770, a cool six years before the United States even existed as an independent nation. I think about Mrs. Welsh and the others in her row as we walk by their graves, wondering what the corner of Flushing Avenue and Metropolitan Avenue looked like when she was borne to her final resting place…and what that corner might have looked like, assuming it wasn’t still virgin forestland, in the year of her birth. But I also wonder what Mrs. Walsh would make of us, of me and little Josie, as we pass by on our walk all these centuries after her birth. Would she find us indecipherable? Would she look at my cell phone or at Josie’s super-cool Italian stroller and wonder what planet we came to earth from? Or would she see, not something strange or alien but entirely familiar: a man and a baby going for a week on a shady street just as grandfathers have taken their baby granddaughters out for some fresh air since the beginning of time?

I noted two different video clips on youtube the other week that fed into this line of thinking for me.

The one was a clip from the old television show “I’ve Got a Secret,” which aired in its first iteration for fifteen years starting in 1952. For those too young to remember, I’ll explain that the format was very simple: a panel of celebrities was challenged to ask contestants as many questions as they could squeeze into the time allotted in order to figure out the contestants’ “secret.” Most of the time, the secrets were slightly silly. (The lifeguard at a nudist colony sticks in my mind for some reason.) But the two clips I want to write about now weren’t silly at all.

The first aired in February 1956 and featured one Samuel J. Seymour, who at that point was the sole living soul to have been present in Ford’s Theater when President Lincoln was assassinated almost ninety years earlier. He spoke well and clearly, although he didn’t look too well or too healthy. (He died a mere two months later.) I don’t know if readers will respond the way I did (you can take a look by clicking here), but I had that same sense of the past intruding on the present as I watched: it would have been amazing enough to listen to someone who saw or talked to President Lincoln at all, let alone someone who saw him being shot. And yet our lives overlapped: I was a little boy of three and he was a nonagenarian, but we occupied the planet for a while together. And that brought President Lincoln into my life in a way that I would otherwise have found highly unlikely.

The second, also amazing, featured two older women, Delia and Bertie Harris of Knoxville, Tennessee. (Their episode aired in 1961 when both women were in their mid-seventies. To see the clip, click here.) And their “secret” was that their grandfather, Simon Harris, had been a soldier in the Revolutionary War and was with Washington at Valley Forge. How it was possible was also revealed: Simon’s son (the women’s father) was born in 1818 and he became a father when he was in his seventies. And now his daughters were themselves in their seventies…and that is how two women appeared on American television in the 1960s whose grandfather fought under George Washington. And so Washington himself stepped out of the shadows for the eight-year-old me and took his place in my parents’ living room. At eight, I wouldn’t have known to refer to what I was feeling as suggestive of the interconnectedness of the generations. (I heard that. But I was definitely not that precocious.)  In retrospect, though, that is precisely how I felt as I listened to these elderly dames and imagined their grandfather’s ghost flitting past us as we communed with President Washington during their fifteen minutes of fame in TV-land.

Both clips, of course, were meant to entertain rather than to serve as spurs to deeply ruminative thought. But both clips lured me into the same kind of thinking that the story about the death of President Tyler’s grandson inspired: that sense that the past is (pace Faulkner) not only not really gone, it’s not even really past. And that is how I propose we respond to Irving Roth’s death too.

The survivor generation is dwindling. When I came to Shelter Rock, there were literally scores of survivors in our midst. Earlier on, when I was a little boy, our neighborhood was filled to overflowing with survivors. (They were called “refugees” back then before the word “survivor” came into common use.) But we can serve, all of us, as those people’s hooks into future generations. My granddaughters will not know people like Irving personally. But they can know me. And us. And all those who knew these people and listened carefully and can say, slightly derivatively but still meaningfully and sincerely, “I wasn’t there…but I knew a man who was. And this is what he told me, what he saw with his own eyes, what he was an eye-witness to….”

[edc-creations-blog]

The Wicker Diaries

From three generations of diary entries, follow the drama and intrigue in the lives of two families as they look to the future in a sometimes unfair America.

The Coffey family begins with black Civil War soldier Tanin Coffey, and his son, Tanin Jr., who struggled to survive as they came to grips with a postwar South, the failures of reconstruction, and the Great Depression.

The story continues with Darius Coffey, a World War II veteran, who moved to Florida to work for a group smuggling drugs from Latin America to the United States. His wife, Leona Mihan Coffey, reveals her family’s lies and secrets.

Daryl Christopher was raised by his Cuban mother and served in the Vietnam War before returning to Miami. After he becomes involved in organized crime, he meets Darius and Leona’s daughter Valarie and both of their lives are forever changed, as the next generation finds a place in the world, while making sense of their family’s tangled web.

Watch the video introduction for The Wicker Diary by Wil Harris, go here.

    Excerpt: The Wicker Diary by Wil Harris

Hand of the Lord Then he showed me Joshua the high priest standing before the angel of the Lord, and Satan standing at his right side to accuse him. The Lord said to Satan, “The Lord rebuke you Satan! The Lord who has chosen Jerusalem, rebuke you. -Zechariah 3:1-2

  Darius D. Coffey: Part I

My name is Darius D. Coffey, and I was born in the heart of the segregated south on September 12, 1923, in Opelika, Alabama. I entered this world disposed to debt bondage, where acquired liability passed from one generation to the next. My story begins with my granddaddy Tanin Coffey Sr. He signed his name with an X on the contract for a piece of land that he would never own but would finally, one day, rest his body in.

My father always spoke of my granddaddy and the wisdom his life left behind. He was a slave who fled the Alabama cotton fields in 1863 after President Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation left the South in an uproar.

There is no record of his birth, but it is believed he was between fifteen to seventeen years of age when he escaped slavery. He made his way to Ohio by underground trails and safe houses, dodging slave trackers, and Confederate soldiers along the way. After shuffling through northeast Ohio for a few months, he found himself in West Virginia, where he got by on Christian charity and the efforts of a local abolitionist movement.

He slept in a bed for the first time in West Virginia. Before that it had been dirt floors and hay. He never knew his mother and father or any other family. He grew up among other slaves, who all spoke with different dialects from their region of the African continent and who all suffered the lash and worked at the pleasure of their owner. Granddaddy often thought about Boss Tom, who, as the overseer of the plantation in Alabama, was a brutal white man. Described as tall and burley, he had no troubles hanging any slave-man, woman, or child.

As rumor of the Emancipation Proclamation spread, revolt was at hand. More than 130 slaves rose up, including my grandfather, and killed the master and his family. My grandfather would tell the story of the main house going up in flames while white bodies hung burning in the apple orchard by the dozens. It was Boss Tom’s death that brought the most pleasure. He was alive when they castrated him with broken glass. Someone cut out his tongue and shoved his gentiles down his throat with a stick. He was finally hung from a banister of the main house before it was set on fire.

By this time the North was losing the war, and there was talk that President Lincoln would be raising a black regiment. When my granddaddy heard this, it was all he could think of. He reckoned if he and other black men fought bravely to end the war and bring the country back together, they could have a new and equal start in America. It was as though the ancestors were calling to him from the other side of the sun. Though he could not visualize it, he knew that it was there. Freedom. He had no one who had gone before him to prepare the way so his path was a mystery.

In 1864 he joined the all-black Twenty-Seventh US Infantry. My father would speak proudly of the time granddaddy heard Frederick Douglass speak at an army assembly: “Your granddaddy told me that when Frederick Douglass walked into the hall, there was a hush throughout. With his fiery-white hair and beard, he looked like a king. He told those in attendance that now was their time, and the future of all Negros rested on their shoulders. And those words had an effect on your granddaddy and he never forgot it.”

My granddaddy’s initial experience with army life was that of manual labor. In four months he went from cooking to digging graves for slain white soldiers. The carnage and blood he witnessed heightened his eagerness for glory and honor. There was a fear growing among the black soldiers that the North may lose the war before their opportunity to prove themselves would come. There was skepticism among some Northern white soldiers on how their black counterparts would fair in battle. Many said they didn’t have the discipline to stand and fight in an organized way or the sense to take and follow orders. Everyone got their answer in Virginia in 1864. My grandfather’s first skirmish was fought on a hillside.

A fresh snow had fallen the night before, which made it difficult for him to get his footing while shelling from the Confederate guns tore through the tall trees ahead as they advanced. Men were being shot down all around him as he marched forward. A Confederate bullet passed through his shirt, nicking his left side. He went down to one knee as the burning sensation took over. They were ordered to load weapons. He had done the drill hundreds of times but never to the thud of bullets hitting flesh. He tore open the powder and poured it down the rifle shaft. After dropping a single ball, he quickly packed it. “Fire,” the officers ordered, and he did.

There was a pop and flash of fire, which startled him and made him lose his balance and fall. The scene was a worse place than hell he thought. Smoke and gunpowder lingered in the air as a melee of black and white flesh and blood stained the winter snow. Pinned down, he was able to move two dead soldiers between himself and the line of fire. He held his position reloading and firing until he ran out of ammunition. He detached his bayonet and waited for the first Confederate to happen along. The temperature fell to below freezing with a dry wind. He lay there all night as the sounds of rifle bullets peppered the night air. The shots became less frequent and eventually stopped all together. In the darkness the air became quiet except for the moans of the injured. While some men bled to death, others froze.

He regrouped with his company the next morning. They had lost half of their number in the fight though he considered it a sign from providence that he had survived when so many had not. There was no time to mourn the dead. By that afternoon they were marching again. He and so many other black soldiers not only fought for their freedom but also the freedom of future generations for whom they imagined a brighter future. That was the only way they could have done it. They were certain they wouldn’t see it. They needed a driving force and by keeping their eyes to the future, they found it.

After Gen. Tecumseh Sherman offered Savannah, Georgia, as a Christmas gift to President Lincoln in December 1864, the war was all but over. The South surrendered in April 1865, and my granddaddy was discharged a short time later. Having no family he could speak of, he headed back to Alabama and found it smoldering and decimated from the war.

Droves of black people in Alabama, who were once slaves, were all of a sudden turned loose with nowhere to go and only the clothes on their backs. Most had no education and no options. Any hope they held onto was extinguished on April 14, 1865, when John Wilkes Booth, an American actor and racist, murdered President Lincoln at Ford’s Theater in Washington, DC, shooting him in the back of the head. Before this point no president had ever been killed. The news shocked the country, but no one took the news harder than former slaves. Upon hearing the news of Lincoln’s murder, my granddaddy wept. He and so many other black Americans saw President Lincoln as a true friend and in many ways as a Christ-like figure. His murder left so many feeling uncertain in the fulfillment of the promise for black citizenship and the right to vote.

In Alabama soldiers heavily patrolled the streets and tracked down Confederate holdouts and war criminals. America was still coming to grips with the revolutionary idea of civil rights for its black citizens and protecting their newfound rights became the job of the US Army.

The war changed my granddaddy. No longer was he the skinny, runaway kid searching for a purpose. He was now a man who sought to make his own way. With the growing threat of lynching in the south after the war, my grandfather made his way through Alabama as a laborer working on farms as a blacksmith. Work for him was steady, though pay was always meager and less than half of what the white men got. He worked hard nonetheless, only moving on when trouble would arrive. By 1870 he had become tempered by slavery, war, and freedom. He hadn’t yet made it to the proverbial Promised Land but thanked God he was no longer as low as a slave. He always carried a pistol that he had acquired a few years earlier and was not afraid to use it. Since the war, the south had become a killing field for former slaves with the emergence of the Ku Klux Klan.

None of the former Confederates wanted another war. They reckoned what they couldn’t force by might, they would force through an unjust political system. This system, along with the practice of segregation, allowed the exploitation of southern black people by white landowners. Though they couldn’t call it slavery, sharecropping became a new form of slavery through cheap labor. Sharecroppers worked an assigned section of plantation land, while the landowner provided housing, food, seed, fertilizer, and farm equipment from the plantation owner’s company store at high interest rates.

My grandfather would’ve been in his mid-forties in 1895, the year he married my grandmother Rosetta Collier, affectionately known as Rose. She was twenty-three, medium complexioned, and a slender five feet seven inches tall. They had met on the Underwood plantation in Opelika earlier that year.

In April 1897 he made his mark with the Underwood plantation, a family of ex-Confederates who bought lots of land following the Civil War and made investments in sugarcane and tobacco. That year my father, Tanin Coffey Jr., was born under their roof. When my father grew up, he was the spitting image of his father. They were both slender, dark-skinned men, and about six feet two inches tall.

My grandmother was already pregnant with my father when they moved into a two-room house sitting on a twenty-five-acre patch. Fronted by Underwood, my grandfather went to work adding another room and building a small barn, all on his own. The following year he was credited two cows, a dozen chickens, and a mule. My grandfather worked throughout the year and by its end, when it came time for settling with Underwood, he always got little to nothing.

From a combination of hard drinking, a nasty habit he picked up during the war, and his declining health, he finally lost his life to pneumonia on October 8, 1909. My father was only twelve years old when his father died. Underwood always kept track of the monthly calculations. Neither my father nor his mother were properly educated or could properly count, though they knew they were being cheated.

In the summer of 1917 my grandmother was hanging laundry in the backyard when she suffered a heat stroke and died. It was 103 degrees and her body temperature rose so high that it cooked her brain. From there all debt was passed to my father, who was twenty years old. After his mother’s death, my father was grateful just to have a roof over his head. He knew any black family would be willing to take over his land, kicking him off for the opportunity to turn a profit. He reckoned his father had brought him this far, and he would take the torch and carry it even further.

If he were alive today, my father would say the best thing that ever happened to him was my mother. Geraldine Booker was born August, 17, 1901, in Biloxi, Mississippi. She was a light-skinned, plus-sized woman with beautiful green eyes and was the daughter of a preacher. Her family fled Mississippi to Opelika in 1915 after the Klan threatened to lynch her father for preaching at large black gatherings. Before long her entire family was in the Underwood fields, standing for long hours and enduring the brutal summer sun. As the dust and elements began to wear her down, she carried herself with an awareness of self, unheard of for a black woman of her time.

Sometime in 1918 her and my father met at Underwood’s seed and fertilizer store. My father noticed her first and took a liking to the preacher’s daughter, and soon, they were sharing breaks together. After less than two months of courting, my father formally asked for my mother’s hand. He often spoke about the night he went to my mother’s house to speak with her father, Reverend Booker.

“Your momma’s daddy and your granddaddy, Mr. Booker, was a good man. I wish he would’ve been alive after you were born. He would’ve loved you,” he would say. “After I asked his permission to marry your momma, he grabs a jar of shine off a shelf and we sat in his kitchen and drank it all. By the time we reached the bottom of that jar, we had become family, and that was that,” he said.

Before he moved my mother in, he built another room with materials fronted by Underwood. They wanted it all, and they looked positively to the future like their parents before them. They sought out to work the land, turn a profit, and pay down the debt. They saw their freedom in landownership and worked together from five in the morning until seven in the evening in an effort to achieve it.

On a typical day, my mother would wake at four in the morning to make black coffee for my father along with grits and an egg. By five my father would be in the field tending the crops, while my mother took care of the animals and all chores. My mother would also chop wood and fetch water during the day. For him she was the perfect helpmate. She never complained and never said a harsh word.

Though times were hard, she longed to be a mother and she reckoned they had more than enough room for a healthy family. She got her wish on September 12, 1920, after giving birth to me. I was named Darius Coffey after her youngest brother. From the time I was born, I was a mama’s boy. My mother showered me with all the attention and love any child could want. She took her time with me and made sure I had a sense of right from wrong. Whenever you saw my mother, you saw me, though my father wasn’t fond of my mother’s soft-shoe approach to rearing and figured it would spoil me. To him a black boy who thought too much of himself wouldn’t live long in a white man’s country.

My earliest memory is November 6, 1926, the day my twin sisters were born. For an entire month my mother had been bedridden from the swelling in her ankles. That day I could hear her screams and moans from behind her room door. It hurt me to hear her suffer. I hid under a blanket and covered my ears before drifting off into an uncomfortable sleep. I don’t know how long I was asleep when someone shook me by the shoulder. When I opened my eyes, my room was pitch black, and right away, I had a sense that I wasn’t alone. I felt cold, like an evil was in the room with me.

I remember feeling very afraid that something was going to attack me. I jumped out of bed and ran out into the front yard. Struggling to breathe, I looked back at the house and saw with my own two eyes, a dark cloud hovering over the entire house. Inside the cloud I could see twisting and turning of tornadoes and lightning. Dark mist stretched down onto the house like tentacles. A cool breeze slowly caressed my face when the cloud began to move in my direction as though it had sensed me. I felt frozen. I couldn’t move or scream as the cloud moved closer in my direction. My heart beat in my stomach as the hair on the back of my neck rose. I stood barefoot in the dirt transfixed.

“Darius, what are you doing standing out here in the dark boy?” my father asked, snatching me up and into his arms. He paused for a second staring at the menacing cloud before heading back to the house. “I’ve been looking for you. You have to meet your little sister, Francine,” my father shouted with joy.

I was carried into the room by my father. I first saw the midwife. She was from Haiti and had a head wrap covering her head. She was sitting next to my mother in a chair holding my sister Francine in a soiled towel, rocking her gently in an attempt to settle her down. Francine was turning red as she shook to build her energy for a scream. With her head held back she gave out a guttural cry, which shook her small body and made me nervous.

My mother lay in the bed unconscious and sweating heavily. She was strong and her will was all that carried her now. Just as I began to cry and reach for her, the midwife screamed, “She no done, she no done,” and shooed my father and me out of the room. A few minutes later my sister Mandrel was born.

Days passed before I saw my mother again. She stayed locked behind the door with the midwife and the twins. The only sounds of life were the constant crying from the twins. After five days I was finally allowed into the room. The twins were each suckling a breast while my mother sat up in the bed topless with the biggest smile for me as I walked in.

“There’s my little man. You have two little sisters that are going to need a big brother. These are your sisters Fran and Mandy,” she said.

They studied me as they drank from her breast, froth foaming around their mouths. I didn’t like it. To me, it looked as though they were sucking the very life out of her. They watched me with their golden eyes and I stared back. There was a sense I got from them that very moment that I would never shake.

“I think they know who you are, Darius. Look how they watch you, like they know something,” my father joked.

When I tell you my mother was a mighty woman, I mean what I say. She was given only a short window to rest before she and my father had to break the ground by February to be ready for planting. I don’t know how, but she pulled it together, shuffling between a growing family and the farm. My father later told me that year was the last good year he would see.

By the end of the year, they had raised a good crop. Even still, they ended up owing more than they got credit for. As I grew, my mother slowly pulled away from me to make more time for my sisters. By the time the twins were eight, their bond with our mother still hadn’t taken hold. I remember one particular night that my parents were on the front porch talking. Through the screen door I could hear their conversation. Unaware of me, to my father she bared her soul.

“Tanin, I don’t know what else to do. It’s not normal for my babies not to like me. I don’t know who they are. I look into those brown eyes and I don’t see nothing! I don’t feel nothing! The other evening I was outside chopping wood when I could hear them talking from the other side of their window. What I head, Tanin, no children should say,” she said.

“Well, what did you hear?” my father asked.

“I can’t repeat it,” she cried.

“Now, Gerry, you’re worrying yourself for no reason. They’ll come around. They just need a little time. That’s all. They’re still babies. They’ll grow out of it,” my father assured.

My mother and father were good people. They never cheated anyone, and they tried to teach their children as best they saw it. Year after year I watched as they worked that farm, tied to its land and at the mercy of the seasons. It was tough, but it was tough for everyone in their situation. The system wasn’t there for them to grow. As if things weren’t hard enough, in 1929 we experienced the Great Depression along with the rest of the country. As the Depression lingered along with poor weather, it became increasingly harder for them to turn a decent crop.

I turned twelve in 1932, the same year I went to work in Underwood’s tobacco field while the twins attended school four months out of the year. For me, there wasn’t time for school or friends. You grew up fast back then, and life was punishing with ceaseless work, isolation, and the constant threat of sickness and death. I worked so hard in those fields that by the end of the day I was so tired, all I could do was sleep in my shoes and clothes, oftentimes skipping supper, which was usually flour bread and meat.

The freedom my granddaddy had fought for in the Civil War was only replaced by another form of oppression. My father, mother, and I continued to develop the land because that is what we did. We had never known another way. In all actuality we had been conditioned to be dependent on the Underwoods and let them make the decisions for our lives. We were still slaves.

In 1936 a mysterious illness spread through our community and found its way into our home. My mother caught the sickness, and before I could wrap my mind around what was happening, she had rapidly deteriorated. She died in April. That morning, she lay peacefully in her bed just as my father had found her. I looked upon her soft features as she lay there, remembering her before the twins. I felt lethargic as I knelt by her bedside and wept out loud while burning regret hung in my throat like a knot threatening to cut off my air. I felt foolish. In recent years I had begun to pull away from her as she had done to me after the twins were born. I held her hand and I repeated how sorry I was. The love of a mother can never be replaced.

( Continued… )

© 2017 All rights reserved. Book excerpt reprinted by permission of the author, Wil Harris. Do not reproduce, copy or use without the author’s written permission. This excerpt is used for promotional purposes only.

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  Meet the Author Wil Harris, Executive Director: Transformative Coaching, LLC

Mr. Wil Harris has an extensive background in leadership development, public speaking and community organizing. Currently he is the Executive Director of Transformative Coaching, LLC a leadership consulting company that is incorporated in the state of Florida.

Mr. Wil Harris was a Leadership Development Coordinator for YouthBuild Trumbull County in Warren, OH, Prevention Specialist for the Warren Urban Minority Alcoholism & Drug Abuse Outreach Program (UMADAOP), Inc., in Warren, OH, and a Congressional Aid for Congressman Tim Ryan, 17th District, OH.

Contact Wil Harris Facebook: @wilharrisspeaks Email: harris_wil@hotmail.com Website: https://wilharrisnow.com YouTube: https://youtu.be/mblMrs_kykQ

    The Wicker Diary by Wil Harris From three generations of diary entries, follow the drama and intrigue in the lives of two families as they look to the future in a sometimes unfair America.