#national religious freedom day

[murderousink23]

01/16/2025 is National Religious Freedom Day 🌎, National Fig Newton Day 🇺🇸, National Nothing Day 🇺🇸

[mythicalcoolkid]

I will always be somewhat angry that the US gay marriage debate overwhelmingly focused on "well actually the Bible DOES support homosexuality!" instead of "your religion should not dictate whether I have the legal rights granted by marriage"

[mesetacadre]

how do you feel about a heavy portion of communists being ableist? sending disabled people to prison for being physically unable to work and then acting like that didn't happen doesn't make disabled people confident that communism won't hurt them just as bad as capitalism (I'm not saying billions of trillions dies from communism I'm just saying ''those who won't work won't eat'' is fucking evil especially when I see that rhetoric in modern day! You can say 'oh a wheelchair user can do teaching or archiving' but that ignores how many disabled people are bedbound or fully paralyzed!)

ARTICLE 12. In the U.S.S.R. work is a duty and a matter of honour for every able-bodied citizen, in accordance with the principle: "He who does not work, neither shall he eat."

The principle applied in the U.S.S.R. is that of socialism : "From each according to his ability, to each according to his work."

[...]

ARTICLE 120. Citizens of the U.S.S.R. have the right to maintenance in old age and also in the case of sickness or loss of capacity to work.

This right is ensured by the extensive development of social insurance of workers and employees at state expense, free medical service for the working people and the provision of a wide network of health resorts for the use of the working people.

This is the USSR's 1936 consistution, emphasis mine. Not a perfect constitution by any means, but this is very clearly antithetical to what you believe happened. Disabled people in my own country today have less rights and even less guarantees of those rights being respected. Again, the USSR was not perfect and I'm not saying it was. But you're ascribing willful malice that is embedded in marxism to circumstances that were not easily circumvented. The USSR was an imperfect state lacking in sufficient social protections, which came from times of feudalism without any kind of protection in any aspects save for the nobility, and whose collapse led to unparalleled misery and war. "He who does not work shall not eat" never included disabled people. It's a slogan, and slogans are not nuanced. What the USSR never did was enshrine that slogan into law literally, it always explicitly addressed able-bodied people.

Let's also look at a more modern constitution, Cuba's, from 2019

ARTICLE 42. All people are equal before the law, recieve the same protection and treatment from authorities and enjoy the same rights, freedoms and opportunities, without discrimination on the basis of sex, gender, sexual orientation, gender identity, age, ethnic origin, skin color, religious faith, disability, national or territorial origin, or any other condition or personal circumstance that implies a harmful distinction before human dignity.

All have the right to enjoy the same public spaces and establishments.

Likewise, receive the same salary for the same work, without any discrimination.

The violation of the principle of equality is outlawed and is sanctioned by law.

[...]

ARTICLE 64. The right to work is recognized. The person in condition to work has a right to obtain dignified employment, corresponding to their selection, qualification, aptitude, and economic and societal requirements.

ARTICLE 65. Every person has a right for their work to be compensated as a function of its quality and quantity, expression of the socialist principle "from each according to their capacity, to each according to their work".

[...]

ARTICLE 68. The person who works has a right to social security. The State, through the system of social security, guarantees their adequate protection when they are unable to work because of age, maternity, paternity, disability, or illness.

[...]

ARTICLE 70. The State, through social assistance, protects the people without resources or refuge, not capable of working, who lack family members able to bring them help; and to families who, due to the insufficient income they recieve, if they so choose, in accordance with the law

I don't see anywhere a part that says all disabled people are jailed. Cuba definitely does have effective and real protections for all kinds of disabled people, and just like the USSR, the principle of the duty to work is not applied directly to disabled people. It's hard still to find information on the practical application of disability protection that's not funded by Radio Free Whatever, but here's an article about Cuba's:

[youjustgotxfiled]

Condemnations And Salutations

Hi, all. I’m not someone who typically uses my platform for explicitly political content--matter of fact, I usually strive to do the opposite. However, I’m feeling different today, on this seminal Fourth of July Independence Day for my country, the United States Of America. For everyone who usually come here for escape, I suggest covering your eyes and moving elsewhere for today. Take care of yourselves and have a wonderful day. <3

For everyone else, I’d like to raise a special middle-finger salute: to all the hate groups infesting my country who have and would hijack our flag, government, ideals, discourse, and people in the name of celebrating, spreading, and perpetrating the most disgusting type of crimes: those borne of prejudice, hatred, ignorance, and manipulation. To the individuals who are members of these groups, you are traitors and embarrassments to our country who have NO place here or in our Fourth of July celebrations, regardless of what extremity of the political spectrum you hail from. Karma, if not the law and your communities, WILL hold you accountable one day for your reprehensible actions. In summary and to wit:

Fuck you, Act For America.

Fuck you, American Front.

Fuck you, Asatru Folk Assembly.

Fuck you, Center For Self-Governance.

Fuck you, Eagle Forum.

Fuck you, Folks Front & Folkish Resistance Movement.

Fuck you, Fortress Of Faith.

Fuck you, Light Foot Militia (63rd Battalion).

Fuck you, Moms For Liberty.

Fuck you, National Socialist Movement.

Fuck you, Northwest Front.

Fuck you, Pacific Justice Institute.

Fuck you, Parents’ Rights In Education.

Fuck you, Patriot Front.

Fuck you, People’s Rights.

Fuck you, Proud Boys.

Fuck you, Respect Washington.

Fuck you, Sure Foundation Baptist Church.

Fuck you, American State Assembly.

Fuck you, Three Percenters.

Fuck you, Vinland Rebels.

Fuck you, Parents Involved In Education.

Fuck you, Active Club.

Fuck you, American Patriot Party.

Fuck you, American State Nationals (Guide & University).

Fuck you, Constitution Party.

Fuck you, Embassy Of Heaven.

Fuck you, Occidental Observer.

Fuck you, Oregon Statewide Jural Assembly.

Fuck you, Oregonians For Immigration Reform.

Fuck you, Rense Radio Network.

Fuck you, State Of Jefferson.

Fuck you, Timber Unity.

Fuck you, AC Skins.

Fuck you, American Freedom Alliance.

Fuck you, American Freedom Party.

Fuck you, American Patriot Vanguard.

Fuck you, Aryan Nations (Church Of Jesus Christ Christian).

Fuck you, Black Riders Liberation Party.

Fuck you, Brotherhood Of Light Recordings.

Fuck you, California State Militia.

Fuck you, Californians For Population Stabilization.

Fuck you, Chalcedon Foundation.

Fuck you, Chick Publications.

Fuck you, Clockwork Crew.

Fuck you, Constitutional Sheriffs And Peace Officers Association.

Fuck you, Cottonwood Militia.

Fuck you, Counter Jihad Coalition.

Fuck you, Countercurrents Publishing.

Fuck you, David Horowitz Freedom Center.

Fuck you, Educate Yourself.

Fuck you, European-American Evangelistic Crusades.

Fuck you, First Works Baptist Church.

Fuck you, Freedom Coalition.

Fuck you, Glasov Gang Productions.

Fuck you, Gorilla Learning Institute.

Fuck you, Goyim Defense League.

Fuck you, HisAdvocates.org.

Fuck you, Institute For Historical Review.

Fuck you, Jeremiah Films.

Fuck you, “Koschertified?”

Fuck you, Mamalitia.

Fuck you, Mass Resistance.

Fuck you, National Assembly.

Fuck you, New California State.

Fuck you, Official Street Preachers.

Fuck you, Reign Of The Heavens Society.

Fuck you, Republic For The United States Of America.

Fuck you, Save California.

Fuck you, Sicarii 1715.

Fuck you, Sovereignty Education And Defense Ministry.

Fuck you, Tenth Amendment Center.

Fuck you, California Assembly.

Fuck you, Constitution Club.

Fuck you, Foundation.

Fuck you, Healthy American.

Fuck you, Tradition In Action.

Fuck you, True Nation Israelite Congregation.

Fuck you, United States Justice Foundation.

Fuck you, Verity Baptist Church.

Fuck you, Vinland Clothing.

Fuck you, Vinlandic Werewolf Distribution.

Fuck you, We Are Change.

Fuck you, Another Voice Of Warning.

Fuck you, Cowboys Motorcycle Club Idaho.

Fuck you, G416 Patriots.

Fuck you, Idaho Constitutional Sheriffs.

Fuck you, Independent History And Research.

Fuck you, John Birch Society.

Fuck you, Northwest Hammerskins.

Fuck you, Panhandle Patriots Riding Club.

Fuck you, Redoubt News.

Fuck you, Brother Nathaniel Foundation.

Fuck you, Real Three Percenters.

Fuck you, Freedom From Government.

Fuck you, Oath Keepers.

Fuck you, Gideon Knox Group (Mt. Daily Gazette).

Fuck you, Last Chance Patriots.

Fuck you, Radix Journal.

Fuck you, Stand Up For America U.S.

Fuck you, Natural News.

Fuck you, American Patriots (Three Percent).

Fuck you, Freedom Rising Sun.

Fuck you, Liberty News Network.

Fuck you, Liberty Roundtable.

Fuck you, Loving Liberty Network.

Fuck you, Renew America.

Fuck you, Utah Citizens Alarm.

Fuck you, Utah Constitutional Militia.

Fuck you, Utah Patriots.

Fuck you, Alliance Defending Freedom.

Fuck you, American Border Patrol.

Fuck you, Arizona Border Recon.

Fuck you, AZ Patriots.

Fuck you, Black Metal Cult Records.

Fuck you, Bomb Islam.

Fuck you, Faithful Word Baptist Church.

Fuck you, Family Watch International.

Fuck you, Good Citizen Militia.

Fuck you, Life Force Network.

Fuck you, Mayhem Solutions Group.

Fuck you, Protect America Now.

Fuck you, Red Voice Media.

Fuck you, Riders United For A Sovereign America (Corporation).

Fuck you, School Of The West.

Fuck you, Southeast Mesa CA.

Fuck you, Southern Arizona Militia.

Fuck you, Union Of Three-Percenter American Patriots.

Fuck you, United Families International.

Fuck you, United People Of America.

Fuck you, Veterans On Patrol.

Fuck you, American Freedom Network.

Fuck you, American Futurist.

Fuck you, Colorado Alliance For Immigration Reform.

Fuck you, Colorado Jural Assembly.

Fuck you, Faith Education Commerce United.

Fuck you, Family Research Institute.

Fuck you, Freedom First Society.

Fuck you, Generations.

Fuck you, 3% United Patriots.

Fuck you, National Socialist Order.

Fuck you, National Socialist Resistance Front.

Fuck you, Scriptures For America Worldwide Ministries.

Fuck you, Team Law.

Fuck you, Pray In Jesus’ Name Project.

Fuck you, Amerikaner.

Fuck you, Freedom Bound International.

Fuck you, PZG Inc.

Fuck you, Global Faith Institute.

Fuck you, Institute On The Constitution.

Fuck you, Mission To Israel Ministries.

Fuck you, MSR Productions.

Fuck you, National Socialist German Workers Party.

Fuck you, Third Reich Books.

Fuck you, Prophecy Club Resources.

Fuck you, Westboro Baptist Church.

Fuck you, Moms For America.

Fuck you, Reawaken America.

Fuck you, Stedfast Baptist Church.

Fuck you, American Meeting Group.

Fuck you, American National Socialist Party

Fuck you, American Reformation Front.

Fuck you, Aryan Freedom Network.

Fuck you, Border Network News.

Fuck you, CarolynYeager.net.

Fuck you, Christ Or Chaos.

Fuck you, Cold Dead Hands 2nd Amendment Advocacy Group.

Fuck you, Concerned Christian Citizens.

Fuck you, Constitutional Law Group.

Fuck you, Defense Distributed.

Fuck you, Fort Worth-Dallas TX Chapter.

Fuck you, Freedom School.

Fuck you, Global And Theological Trends.

Fuck you, InfoWars LLC.

Fuck you, ISD Records & NS88 Video.

Fuck you, League Of The South.

Fuck you, Mountains Of Israel.

Fuck you, New Black Panther Party.

Fuck you, New Columbia Movement.

Fuck you, News With Views.

Fuck you, Onebody In Yahawashi.

Fuck you, Patriots For America.

Fuck you, Power Of Prophecy.

Fuck you, Probe Ministries.

Fuck you, Protect Texas Kids.

Fuck you, Republic Broadcasting.

Fuck you, Republic Of Texas.

Fuck you, Rule Of Law Radio.

Fuck you, Silver Bear Cafe.

Fuck you, Texans For Immigration Reduction And Enforcement.

Fuck you, Texans4Truth.

Fuck you, Church Of Ben Klassen.

Fuck you, Remembrance Project.

Fuck you, This Is Texas Freedom Force.

Fuck you, Tom Brown Ministries.

Fuck you, True Texas Project.

Fuck you, Truth In Textbooks.

Fuck you, Understanding The Threat.

Fuck you, Will2Rise.

Fuck you, Genesis Communication Network.

Fuck you, Heartland Patriots.

Fuck you, Sons Of Liberty Media/You Can Run, But You Cannot Hide.

Fuck you, Black Sun Tribe Project.

Fuck you, Remnant & Remnant Press.

Fuck you, National Alliance.

Fuck you, We The People For Constitutional Sheriffs.

Fuck you, 2ndAmendmentPatches.com

Fuck you, Army Of Israel.

Fuck you, Church Of Israel.

Fuck you, Council Of Conservative Citizens.

Fuck you, Missouri Militia.

Fuck you, Straight Way Of Grace Ministry.

Fuck you, Vanguard News Network.

Fuck you, Christian Revival Center.

Fuck you, Kingdom Identity Ministries.

Fuck you, Secure Arkansas.

Fuck you, Shieldwall Network.

Fuck you, Tightrope Records.

Fuck you, Empire Washitaw De Dugdahmoundya.

Fuck you, Ruth Institute.

Fuck you, New Order.

Fuck you, Pilgrim’s Covenant Church.

Fuck you, Winter Solace Productions.

Fuck you, Women For Aryan Unity.

Fuck you, American Freedom Law Center.

Fuck you, Christ The King The Reformed Church.

Fuck you, Church Militant/St. Michael’s Media.

Fuck you, U.S. Taxpayers’ Party Of Michigan/Constitution Party.

Fuck you, Michigan Home Guard.

Fuck you, Michigan Liberty Militia.

Fuck you, NS Publications.

Fuck you, Southeast Michigan Volunteer Militia.

Fuck you, Thomas More Law Center.

Fuck you, White Rabbit Radio.

Fuck you, Ambassadors Of Christ.

Fuck you, America First Foundation.

Fuck you, American Defense Skinheads.

Fuck you, Connecting The Dots.

Fuck you, Euro Folk Radio.

Fuck you, Heterosexuals Organized For A Moral Environment.

Fuck you, Illinois Family Institute.

Fuck you, Illinois Sons Of Liberty.

Fuck you, Liberty Baptist Church.

Fuck you, Lion Of Judah Jeshurun Lions.

Fuck you, Nation Of Islam.

Fuck you, Next News Network.

Fuck you, Overpasses For America.

Fuck you, People’s Bureau Of Investigation.

Fuck you, Creativity Alliance.

Fuck you, United States Of America Republic Government.

Fuck you, White Date.

Fuck you, White Power Hour.

Fuck you, World Congress Of Families/International Organization For The Family.

Fuck you, AFA Of Indiana.

Fuck you, Courage Is A Habit.

Fuck you, Culture Wars/Fidelity Press.

Fuck you, Exodus/Americanus.

Fuck you, Hearth And Helm LLC.

Fuck you, Ku Klux Klan.

Fuck you, National Socialist Charitable Coalition/Global Minority Initiative.

Fuck you, Purple For Parents Indiana.

Fuck you, Campus Ministry USA.

Fuck you, What Really Happened.

Fuck you, American Regulators.

Fuck you, American States Assembly.

Fuck you, Americans For Truth About Homosexuality.

Fuck you, Assembly Of Christian Israelites.

Fuck you, Faith2Action.

Fuck you, H8 Propaganda Art.

Fuck you, Heartland Defenders.

Fuck you, Live Up To Freedom.

Fuck you, Mission: America.

Fuck you, National Justice Party.

Fuck you, Northeast Ohio Woodsmen.

Fuck you, Ohio Defense Force Home Guard.

Fuck you, Ohio Militiamen.

Fuck you, Ohio Minutemen Militia.

Fuck you, Ohio Patriots’ Alliance.

Fuck you, Pass The Salt Ministries.

Fuck you, Patriot America.

Fuck you, Patriot Shit Outfitters.

Fuck you, Patriots For Ohio.

Fuck you, Silver Shield XChange.

Fuck you, Southern Ohio Outdoorsmen.

Fuck you, Daily Stormer.

Fuck you, Frontiersmen.

Fuck you, Last Militia.

Fuck you, Voices Against Tyranny.

Fuck you, West Ohio Minutemen.

Fuck you, White Christian Brotherhood.

Fuck you, Church Of Aryanity/Order Of The Western Templar Knights.

Fuck you, Fellowship Of God’s Covenant People.

Fuck you, Revolutionary Black Panther Party.

Fuck you, Tea Party Of Kentucky.

Fuck you, All Scripture Baptist Church.

Fuck you, Blood River Radio.

Fuck you, Dixie Giftshop.

Fuck you, National Constitutional Coalition Of Patriotic Americans.

Fuck you, Old Glory Knights.

Fuck you, Political Islam.

Fuck you, Sacred Truth Publishing And Ministries.

Fuck you, Political Cesspool.

Fuck you, True311.com.

Fuck you, Truth In Love Project.

Fuck you, United Klan Nation.

Fuck you, Warriors For Christ.

Fuck you, American Family Association.

Fuck you, Freedom Yell.

Fuck you, LewRockwell.com.

Fuck you, Medical Kidnap.

Fuck you, Occidental Dissent.

Fuck you, Southern Cultural Center.

Fuck you, Full Haus.

Fuck you, VDare Foundation.

Fuck you, Nationalist Social Club (NSC-131).

Fuck you, Colchester Collection.

Fuck you, American Nazi Party.

Fuck you, GraniteGrok.

Fuck you, Jihad Watch.

Fuck you, New England Minutemen.

Fuck you, Revolt Through Tradition.

Fuck you, Slaves Of The Immaculate Heart Of Mary.

Fuck you, Vermont State Militia.

Fuck you, Citizens Organized To Restore Rights.

Fuck you, Righteous Army.

Fuck you, Scott Lively Ministries.

Fuck you, Super Happy Fun America.

Fuck you, Rhode Island Patriots.

Fuck you, Rise Of The Moors.

Fuck you, TruthRadioShow.com.

Fuck you, Norwich Chapter.

Fuck you, Post And E-Mail.

Fuck you, Atlah Media Network.

Fuck you, Catholic Family News/Catholic Family Ministries, Incorporated.

Fuck you, Center For Family And Human Rights.

Fuck you, Constitutional Coalition For New York State.

Fuck you, Easter Tidings/Carolyn Emerick.

Fuck you, Foundation For Advocating Christian Truth/Acts 17 Apologetics.

Fuck you, Great Millstone.

Fuck you, House Of David.

Fuck you, House Of Israel.

Fuck you, Israel United In Christ.

Fuck you, Israelite School Of Universal Practical Knowledge.

Fuck you, Jewish Task Force.

Fuck you, Long Island Loud Majority.

Fuck you, Long Island Mutual Assistance Group.

Fuck you, Madison’s Militia.

Fuck you, National Liberty Alliance.

Fuck you, New York Militia TM.

Fuck you, Racial Nationalist Party Of America.

Fuck you, Radio Jihad/Global Patriot Radio.

Fuck you, Rair Foundation USA.

Fuck you, Fatima Crusader/International Fatima Rosary Crusade.

Fuck you, Realist Report.

Fuck you, United Sabaeans Worldwide.

Fuck you, United Riot Records.

Fuck you, Watchmen.

Fuck you, Alt-Market.com.

Fuck you, American Christian Dixie Knights.

Fuck you, American Common Law Academy.

Fuck you, American Freedom News.

Fuck you, Antelope Hill Publishing.

Fuck you, Berks County Patriots.

Fuck you, Carlisle Light Infantry.

Fuck you, Catholic Apologetics International.

Fuck you, Committee For Open Debate On The Holocaust.

Fuck you, DNVF Records.

Fuck you, East Coast Knights Of The True Invisible Empire.

Fuck you, Evergreen.

Fuck you, Free PA.

Fuck you, Gun Owners Of America.

Fuck you, Iron City Citizens’ Response Unit.

Fuck you, Keystone United.

Fuck you, Maulitia Motorcycle Club.

Fuck you, No Left Turn In Education.

Fuck you, Pennsylvania Light Foot Militia.

Fuck you, Pennsylvania Patriots United.

Fuck you, Pennsylvania Volunteer Militia.

Fuck you, Proud American Patriot’s Network.

Fuck you, South Central Pennsylvania Patriots.

Fuck you, Right Stuff.

Fuck you, Al Moroccan Empire At New Jersey State Republic.

Fuck you, Garden State 2A Grassroots Organization.

Fuck you, New Jersey European Heritage Association.

Fuck you, Patriotic Dissent Books.

Fuck you, RV Bey Publications.

Fuck you, Sons Of Liberty Survival Outfitters.

Fuck you, United Patriots For America.

Fuck you, United States Of America Republic Government.

Fuck you, America’s Survival Incorporated.

Fuck you, American Free Press.

Fuck you, In The Spirit Of Chartres Committee.

Fuck you, March Of Exodus.

Fuck you, Refugee Resettlement Watch.

Fuck you, RooshV.com.

Fuck you, Barnes Review.

Fuck you, American View.

Fuck you, Watchmen For Israel.

Fuck you, First State Pathfinders.

Fuck you, Patriots For Delaware.

Fuck you, American Immigration Control Foundation/Americans For Immigration Control.

Fuck you, American Police Officers’ Alliance.

Fuck you, American Policy Center.

Fuck you, American Renaissance/New Century Foundation.

Fuck you, Bedford County Militia.

Fuck you, Christian Action Network.

Fuck you, Constitutional Rights PAC.

Fuck you, Israelities Saints Of Christ.

Fuck you, Loyal White Knights.

Fuck you, Parents Against Critical Race Theory LLC.

Fuck you, Parents Defending Education.

Fuck you, Public Advocate Of The United States.

Fuck you, Red Ice.

Fuck you, Fitzgerald Griffin Foundation.

Fuck you, Wolves Of Vinland.

Fuck you, XY Crew.

Fuck you, ActBac NC.

Fuck you, America’s Remedy.

Fuck you, Americans For Legal Immigration.

Fuck you, Camp Constitution.

Fuck you, Confederate Hammerskins.

Fuck you, Education First Alliance.

Fuck you, Free North Carolina.

Fuck you, Identity Dixie.

Fuck you, Masharah Yahsharahla Government Of Israel.

Fuck you, North Carolinians For Immigration Reform And Enforcement.

Fuck you, Stokes County Militia.

Fuck you, Clemens And Blair LLC.

Fuck you, Dixie Republic.

Fuck you, Fight White Genocide.

Fuck you, Patriotic Flags.

Fuck you, Renaissance Horizon.

Fuck you, True Light Pentecost Church.

Fuck you, Affirmative Right.

Fuck you, American Vision.

Fuck you, Covenant People’s Ministry.

Fuck you, Discount Book Distributors/Patriot Depot.

Fuck you, Education Veritas.

Fuck you, 3% Security Force.

Fuck you, Luxor Couture.

Fuck you, Occidental Quarterly/Charles Martel Society.

Fuck you, Sovereign Filing Solutions.

Fuck you, Strong Hold Baptist Church.

Fuck you, Dustin Inman Society.

Fuck you, 1928 Moorish Science Temple Of America.

Fuck you, American College Of Pediatricians.

Fuck you, Bill Keller Ministries.

Fuck you, Christogenia.

Fuck you, Citizens For National Security.

Fuck you, Cultures In Context Incorporated/Turning Point Project.

Fuck you, D. James Kennedy Ministries.

Fuck you, Firm 22.

Fuck you, Florida Family Association.

Fuck you, Freedom Law School.

Fuck you, Insight USA.

Fuck you, Krisanne Hall.

Fuck you, Liberty Counsel.

Fuck you, Liberty First University.

Fuck you, Liberty Hangout.

Fuck you, Melrose Patriots.

Fuck you, Nation Of Kings And Priests.

Fuck you, NatSoc Florida.

Fuck you, Now The End Begins.

Fuck you, NSDAP.

Fuck you, Revival Baptist Church.

Fuck you, Sarasota Patriots.

Fuck you, Statewide Common Law Grand Jury.

Fuck you, Stay In The Light Stay In The Fight.

Fuck you, Stormfront.

Fuck you, Sunshine State Nationalists.

Fuck you, America Project.

Fuck you, United West.

Fuck you, TruNews.

Fuck you, Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children.

Fuck you, United Skinhead Nation.

Fuck you, Vinlanders Social Club.

Fuck you, Wild Bill For America.

Fuck you, Women Fighting For America.

Fuck you, Natural Law Hawaii.

And Fuck you, Occupied Forces Hawaii Army.

For anyone who’s been bullied, harassed, threatened, beaten, or killed by members of these or other as-yet-hidden groups, or know someone who has been bullied, harassed, beaten, and/or killed by members of said groups, for reasons beyond their own control, please know that you have my deepest sympathies, and that these people, contrary to what they say, do, and believe, are NOT “real” Americans or representative of who we collectively are, and continually strive to be, as a country. Rest assured that, broken and/or imperfect though we and our legal system might be, people such as these will NOT win permanently, and that anyone who participates in these groups, or aids these groups in any way, WILL compel someone to come to your side to defend your life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness from their machinations by any legal, moral, and ethical means necessary, no matter how long it takes.  

If you happen to be a resident and/or citizen of the United States, I would like to wish you a very safe, happy, and joyful Fourth Of July holiday--and that, with the exception of the members of the groups listed above, regardless of your background or how you came to this country, you’re ALWAYS welcome to participate in our celebrations (or not, as the case may be), and to feel welcome at our parties and gatherings. 

Happy US Independence Day, look out for and be good to each other, SAY SOMETHING IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, and be careful out there, everyone. Peace, love, and freedom to all. <3 

(Source: https://www.splcenter.org/hate-map) 

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Kickstarting a new Martin Hench novel about the dawn of enshittification

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/07/weird-pcs/#a-mormon-bishop-an-orthodox-rabbi-and-a-catholic-priest-walk-into-a-personal-computing-revolution

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by @wilwheaton:

http://martinhench.com

This is the third Hench novel, following on from the nationally bestselling The Bezzle (2024) and Red Team Blues (2023). I wrote Red Team Blues with a funny conceit: what if I wrote the final volume of a beloved, long-running series, without writing the rest of the series? Turns out, the answer is: "Your editor will buy a whole bunch more books in the series!"

My solution to this happy conundrum? Write the Hench books out of chronological order. After all, Marty Hench is a financial hacker who's been in Silicon Valley since the days of the first PCs, so he's been there for all the weird scams tech bros have dreamed up since Jobs and Woz were laboring in their garage over the Apple I. He's the Zelig of high-tech fraud! Look hard at any computing-related scandal and you'll find Marty Hench in the picture, quietly and competently unraveling the scheme, dodging lawsuits and bullets with equal aplomb.

Which brings me to Picks and Shovels. In this volume, we travel back to Marty's first job, in the 1980s – the weird and heroic era of the PC. Marty ended up in the Bay Area after he flunked out of an MIT computer science degree (he was too busy programming computers to do his classwork), and earning his CPA at a community college.

Silicon Valley in the early eighties was wild: Reaganomics stalked the land, the AIDS crisis was in full swing, the Dead Kennedys played every weekend, and man were the PCs ever weird. This was before the industry crystalized into Mac vs PC, back when no one knew what they were supposed to look like, who was supposed to use them, and what they were for.

Marty's first job is working for one of the weirder companies: Fidelity Computing. They sound like a joke: a computer company run by a Mormon bishop, a Catholic priest and an orthodox rabbi. But the joke's on their customers, because Fidelity Computing is a scam: a pyramid sales cult that exploits religious affinities to sell junk PCs that are designed to lock customers in and squeeze them for every dime. A Fidelity printer only works with Fidelity printer paper (they've gimmicked the sprockets on the tractor-feed). A Fidelity floppy drive only accepts Fidelity floppies (every disk is sold with a single, scratched-out sector and the drives check for an error on that sector every time they run).

Marty figures out he's working for the bad guys when they ask him to destroy Computing Freedom, a scrappy rival startup founded by three women who've escaped from Fidelity Computing's cult: a queer orthodox woman who's been kicked out of her family; a radical nun who's thrown in with the Liberation Theology movement in opposing America's Dirty Wars; and a Mormon woman who's quit the church in disgust at its opposition to the Equal Rights Amendment. The women of Computing Freedom have a (ahem) holy mission: to free every Fidelity customer from the prison they were lured into.

Marty may be young and inexperienced, but he can spot a rebel alliance from a light year away and he knows what side he wants to be on. He joins the women in their mission, and we're deep into a computing war that quickly turns into a shooting war. Turns out the Reverend Sirs of Fidelity Computer aren't just scammers – they're mobbed up, and willing to turn to lethal violence to defend their racket.

This is a rollicking crime thriller, a science fiction novel about the dawn of the computing revolution. It's an archaeological expedition to uncover the fossil record of the first emergence of enshittification, a phenomenon that was born with the PC and its evil twin, the Reagan Revolution.

The book comes out on Feb 15 in hardcover and ebook from Macmillan (US/Canada) and Bloomsbury (UK), but neither publisher is doing the audiobook. That's my department.

Why? Well, I love audiobooks, and I especially love the audiobooks for this series, because they're read by the incredible Wil Wheaton, hands down my favorite audiobook narrator. But that's not why I retain my audiobook rights and produce my own audiobooks. I do that because Amazon's Audible service refuses to carry any of my audiobooks.

Here's how that works: Audible is a division of Amazon, and they've illegally obtained a monopoly over the audiobook market, controlling more than 90% of audiobook sales in many genres. That means that if your book isn't for sale on Audible, it might as well not exist.

But Amazon won't let you sell your books on Audible unless you let them wrap those books in "digital rights management," a kind of encryption that locks them to Audible's authorized players. Under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, it's a felony punishable with a 5-year sentence and a $500k fine to supply you with a tool to remove an audiobook from Audible and play it on a rival app. That applies even if the person who gives you the tool is the creator of the book!

You read that right: if I make an audiobook and then give you the tools to move it out of Amazon's walled garden, I could go to prison for five years! That's a stiffer sentence than you'd face if you were to just pirate the audiobook. It's a harsher penalty than you'd get for shoplifting the book on CD from a truck-stop. It's more draconian than the penalty for hijacking the truck that delivers the CDs!

Amazon knows that every time you buy an audiobook from Audible, you increase the cost you'll have to pay if you switch to a competitor. They use that fact to give readers a worse deal (last year they tried out ads in audiobooks!). But the people who really suffer under this arrangement are the writers, whom Amazon abuses with abandon, knowing they can't afford to leave the service because their readers are locked into it. That's why Amazon felt they could get away with stealing $100 million from indie audiobook creators (and yup, they got away with it):

https://www.audiblegate.com/about

Which is why none of my books can be sold with DRM. And that means that Audible won't carry any of them.

For more than a decade, I've been making my own audiobooks, in partnership with the wonderful studio Skyboat Media and their brilliant director, Gabrielle de Cuir:

https://skyboatmedia.com/

I pay fantastic narrators a fair wage for their work, then I pay John Taylor Williams, the engineer who masters my podcasts, to edit the books and compose bed music for the intro and outro. Then I sell the books at every store in the world – except Audible and Apple, who both have mandatory DRM. Because fuck DRM.

Paying everyone a fair wage is expensive. It's worth it: the books are great. But even though my books are sold at many stores online, being frozen out of Audible means that the sales barely register.

That's why I do these Kickstarter campaigns, to pre-sell thousands of audiobooks in advance of the release. I've done six of these now, and each one was a huge success, inspiring others to strike out on their own, sometimes with spectacular results:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/entertainment/books/2022/04/01/brandon-sanderson-kickstarter-41-million-new-books/7243531001/

Today, I've launched the Kickstarter for Picks and Shovels. I'm selling the audiobook and ebook in DRM-form, without any "terms of service" or "license agreement." That means they're just like a print book: you buy them, you own them. You can read them on any equipment you choose to. You can sell them, give them away, or lend them to friends. Rather than making you submit to 20,000 words of insulting legalese, all I ask of you is that you don't violate copyright law. I trust you!

Speaking of print books: I'm also pre-selling the hardcover of Picks and Shovels and the paperbacks of The Bezzle and Red Team Blues, the other two Marty Hench books. I'll even sign and personalize them for you!

http://martinhench.com

I'm also offering five chances to commission your own Marty Hench story – pick your favorite high-tech finance scam from the past 40 years of tech history, and I'll have Marty bust it in a custom short story. Once the story is published, I'll make sure you get credit. Check out these two cool Little Brother stories my previous Kickstarter backers commissioned:

Spill

https://reactormag.com/spill-cory-doctorow/

Vigilant

https://reactormag.com/vigilant-cory-doctorow/

I'm heading out on tour this winter and spring with the book. I'll be in LA, San Francisco, San Diego, Burbank, Bloomington, Chicago, Richmond VA, Toronto, NYC, Boston, Austin, DC, Baltimore, Seattle, and other dates still added. I've got an incredible roster of conversation partners lined up, too: John Hodgman, Charlie Jane Anders, Dan Savage, Ken Liu, Peter Sagal, Wil Wheaton, and others.

I hope you'll check out this book, and come out to see me on tour and say hi. Before I go, I want to leave you with some words of advance praise for Picks and Shovels:

I hugely enjoyed Picks and Shovels. Cory Doctorow’s reconstruction of the age is note perfect: the detail, the atmosphere, ethos, flavour and smell of the age is perfectly conveyed. I love Marty and Art and all the main characters. The hope and the thrill that marks the opening section. The superb way he tells the story of the rise of Silicon Valley (to use the lazy metonym), inserting the stories of Shockley, IBM vs US Government, the rise of MS – all without turning journalistic or preachy.

The seeds of enshittification are all there… even in the sunlight of that time the shadows are lengthening. AIDS of course, and the coming scum tide of VCs. In Orwellian terms, the pigs are already rising up on two feet and starting to wear trousers. All that hope, all those ideals…

I love too the thesis that San Francisco always has failed and always will fail her suitors.

Despite cultural entropy, enshittification, corruption, greed and all the betrayals there’s a core of hope and honour in the story too.

-Stephen Fry

Cory Doctorow writes as few authors do, with tech world savvy and real world moral clarity. A true storyteller for our times.

-John Scalzi

A crackling, page-turning tumble into an unexpected underworld of queer coders, Mission burritos, and hacker nuns. You will fall in love with the righteous underdogs of Computing Freedom—and feel right at home in the holy place Doctorow has built for them far from Silicon Valley’s grabby, greedy hands."

-Claire Evans, editor of Motherboard Future, author of Broad Band: The Untold Story of the Women Who Made the Internet.

"Wonderful…evokes the hacker spirit of the early personal computer era—and shows how the battle for software freedom is eternal."

-Steven Levy, author of Hackers: Heroes of the Computer Revolution and Facebook: The Inside Story.

What could be better than a Martin Hench thriller set in 1980s San Francisco that mixes punk rock romance with Lotus spreadsheets, dot matrix printers and religious orders? You'll eat this up – I sure did.

-Tim Wu, Special Assistant to the President for Technology and Competition Policy, author of The Master Switch: The Rise and Fall of Information Empires

Captures the look and feel of the PC era. Cory Doctorow draws a portrait of a Silicon Valley and San Francisco before the tech bros showed up — a startup world driven as much by open source ideals as venture capital gold.

-John Markoff, Pulitzer-winning tech columnist for the New York Times and author of What the Doormouse Said: How the Sixties Counterculture Shaped the Personal Computer Industry

You won't put this book down – it's too much fun. I was there when it all began. Doctorow's characters and their story are real.

-Dan'l Lewin, CEO and President of the Computer History Museum

[arijackz]

PICK A CARD: What Era Is Your Beauty From?

☯︎ “A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. I am not suggesting any of these descriptions are cannon to your ancestral history, these are just how my intuition perceived, and then presented your beauty’s energy.

p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4

🂽 Pile One 🂽 (the devil, 2oC rev., ace of cups rev., 4oW, 3oC, king of swords, the tower, the world)

❖ Pile one, I feel like I’m watching the Game of Thrones out of context. Just flashes of people from around the Medieval 1400s living their day-to-day; singing, dancing, eating together, and then… not.

❖ The imagery I got when I asked what era your beauty came from, was very longing in nature. There was a lot of joy and celebration but it felt like I was watching the film through teary eyes and a heavy heart.

❖ The “movie” flashed between a thriving culture sharing tales of triumph and having happy, drunk sing-song moments together; and then those same people under a war-torn regime of a very cruel but powerful man. I sense themes of religious persecution, nationwide government-forced famine, and general desecration of the once-peaceful way of life. The population was going through collective mourning.

❖ People lamented over their unfulfillable desire to reconnect with their homeland and all of their loved ones. With the World card at the end of the spread and the Empress at the bottom of the deck, I get the clear image that your beauty is the physical embodiment of a large collective’s longing for the sanctity of their community. You invoke that feeling people get when they remember a bitter-sweet memory that hums fervor in their chest and gives them the fire they need to push forward.

❖ Your beauty comes from an era where the genuine smile and cheer of a pretty girl sparked a nation’s hope for reformation. You are the last remaining connection to long-lost celebration and the heart of a forgotten city.

How Do You Paint The Divine Image of Hope?

🂽 Pile Two 🂽 (7oC rev., 4oP rev., full moon, leo, sacral chakra)

❖ WHOOOAAaaaaa Ammberrr is the collluuhhhhh of ya enneergyyy!! WHOoaaA, shades of gaawwllddd displayyy naturraalllyyyyyy…..

❖ Just know I was HOLLERING that. This is my hippie pile. My people. Yea that’s right, I’m talking the late 1960s - early 1970s.

❖ Your beauty arose at a time when society desperately needed color (specifically seeing some of you wearing a lot of bright colors or eye-catching jewelry or hairstyles). The world was bleak and the war’s aftermath on the overall mental and emotional welfare of the general public pushed people to radical ideals and birthed a revolution centered around liberation, pleasure, and community.

❖ Your beauty is all sunshine and rainbows. Psychedelics and organic food. The best music in human history (feel free to argue with me, but know that it is going straight out the other ear, mama) and week-long outdoor festivals full of peace, love, and vulnerability with total strangers.

❖ Your beauty brushes people with the chilling winds of shameless pleasure. The taste of unadulterated personal freedom that is almost a societal taboo. Your beauty is so purely liberating.

❖ Lmao, I imagine a guitar riff going off everytime you walk into a room.

❖ You are the physical embodiment of eccentric love and vivacious rebellion.

Play That Funky Music

🂽 Pile Three 🂽 (The lovers rev., the High Priestess rev., Ace of Swords., 4oC. 7)

❖ Revolution is a running theme for all of the piles. This collective’s beauty awakens people.

❖ I’m seeing a brilliant man going mad at the lack of creative intelligence around him and pushing for societal rebirth. A complete cultural shift from the Dark Ages (pile one), to modernity. This is my Renaissance pile.

❖ You embody the mystical fusion of art, religion, architecture, and science. You are all the world’s intrinsic beauty rolled up into one figure. You are the art that attracts painters, inventors, and philosophers alike.

❖ You have the beauty of an all-around muse. You invoke the spirit of creative passion. It is like people see you and get a stroke of inspiration. Something that kicks them in the ass and tells them to go outside and create.

❖ This pile is very romantic. A classical beauty, like red roses and bottle poems. The universal innate desire to dream big.

❖ Shoutout to my Aquarians, 11th housers, and Shatabhisha natives.

The Medieval-Modern Muse

🂽 Pile Four 🂽 (king of pentacles, 2oP, 5oP rev., 9oP)

❖ OKAY PLOTWIST?? I don’t know what era this pile’s beauty is from because it’s set in the future.

❖ It’s funny how the last piles were all set in periods of revolution (putting in the WORK) and your pile, the final pile, is set in a better world full of financial stability, the end of inequality, economic fairness, and universal abundance (the fruits of the labor).

❖ Dude, I was trying to read the message at first and was just scratching my head. I was like, “When has anywhere, literally ever been this good???” Then I saw the ace of wands reversed at the bottom of the deck and saw impending change and it clicked.

❖ I also saw some star semblance, and see that your beauty is a reminder to mankind that the “impossible” is already set in motion. The hell we have created will crumble.

❖ You are a physical embodiment of society’s future triumph. You radiate wealth and fairness. My Venusians, especially Libra. You also look regal, something about you makes people want to stand taller.

❖ You got the pride card, I see that you give people the feeling of victory. You are living proof of future triumph in a better world where greed and sorrow are eradicated.

❖ You are the harbinger of the next era.

Introducing The First Titanium Man On The Moon!

[berriblossom]

Oh, Great Divine!

☆| It's time for a SAGAU, more so a comforting one. Reader's gender is ambiguous and gender neutral, archons adore reader, in this sense the Nahida tag is platonic!|

☆ Tags/warnings! | Socially Aware Genshin AU, archons and people of Teyvat treat the reader as a god or heavenly figure, religious references (cathedral of Mondstat and Narukami/ Sangonomiya Shrines of Inazuma) some minor lore for reader, Reader is referred to as "Their Grace" or "My/Your Grace" and "The Great Divine" ALL PORTRAYALS ARE FICTIONAL!! anyway, enjoy.|

Within the lands or nations of Teyvat, for centuries the practice of worshipping an Archon was beyond common, more so for those who wish not to believe in spiritual practices concerning the gods of each element are more on the rare side to find. However even if such existed, there was one thing to never be doubted within the lands of Teyvat.

The Great Divine's presence over mortals and immortals alike.

The creation of Teyvat in many national mythos credits the sole ideas and creation to the Great Divine. Even the archons and the sources of their celestial names were blessed upon them by their divine grace. Depending on which nation you visit, some may say that their archon is specifically blessed by their grace.

In Mondstat, the nation of wind, song, freedom, wine, and bard's ballads, once every 100 years they celebrate the freedom blessed to them by Barbatos and the Great Divine. A tradition stretching for the last millennial to show the love and deeply routed affection given by its people and archon. Yes, Barbatos, or now the "drunken" bard known as Venti among his people. Every festival of a "New Eve" as they call it, is another 100 years for him to show his affection for his beloved divine. Despite his defiance to Celestia and the natural order placed after your departure, he still fully believes in your care and love for humans and archons alike. To Venti, whispering to the wind like he did with you thousands of years prior, even in his wind-spirit form. You'd sit together where now the great tree at Windrise and speak about the future of Teyvat, something despite having the authority over you simply spoke to him as:

"For what will come, Your nation will prosper and learn the true meaning of freedom and song..."

So to this day, he sits under that tree and thinks of the years since, missing your warmth from curling up in your hands as a wind spirit to laughing and humming beside you in his divine form. He has seen it for the last few hundred years, the art, songs, plays, books, and even food and weapons made in your name, and every hundred years he repeats the same. A small prayer from his soul is whispered into the wind as he tells his deep care and love for his dear grace. And the people of Mondstat no different, all gather at the great Cathedral and warmly sing about the Great Divine and Lord Barbatos as they place to wine, food, and gifts at the altar of your image. When alone Venti will sneak in and sit under your statue, missing the warmth of your hands but relishing the love in your image.

In Liyue, the nation of Geo, contracts, and the adepti, the greats divines are influenced by the first contract Rex Lapis made with them over 7000 years ago, even before Liyue was a fully combined nation. Zhongli remembers the conversation you two had, sharing a simple game of wit and tea. Then he was immature to your influence and power but now he relishes in it. Proudly in his vast historical knowledge, preaching his love and the power the great divine holds. How you could shape the sea with a flick of your wrist, how you've created mountains from your fingertips, how your vast knowledge is spread throughout teyvat as a bible to be studied and read over and over again. But mostly what he and all of Liyue celebrate is the contractable care and affection you give him and the people of Liyue.

This time around Liyue is a time spent every hundred of years a new eve of dawn as it is called, one Zhongli and his fellow adepti never get tired of. A time to give gifts of care to neighbors, friends, and even coworkers in the busy harbor. Even the Northland Bank celebrates by lowering interest on loans!

(But only for this amount of time and by the next New Eve of Dawn the Interest WILL reset)

But mainly it is a way to give worship to the Great Divine and their trust in Rex Lapis and his Adepti to protect and serve Liyue. Everything Zhongli has done was for your gratitude and divine love. So when a New Eve comes, he sits anywhere in Liyue, the mountains, hills, somewhere to overlook the harbor, and enjoys a warm cup of tea. Your favorite while imagining your smile as you talk, the games you'd two play. He watches his disciples and Apeti celebrate with gifts, food, and songs at your altar set around Liyue. He sips his tea and awaits your fated return, happy to share more memories and stories with you.

Within the land of Eternity, formerly transcience, Inazuma's style of celebration differs slightly from some nations. The Grand Narukami Shrine would hold a private ceremony, cleansing the sacred Sakura tree and your statue underneath, barhing the precious stone engravings with crisp clean water. Meanwhile the people if Inazuma would be celebrating on their own occasions, firewroks light into the clear sky, dancing ceremonies at the teahouse fill with guest.

However, the new electro archon herself sits alone at the top of Tebshukaku. Quietly walking down memeory lane in her mind. For the last five centuries of the New Eve of Dawn celebration, she'd sit in her space of Euthymia alone in solitude quietly sulking at the idea of your everlasting figure. How her and Makoto would chat down the lane of inazuma speaking about plans of you, speaking of your visions of the nation of electro, Makoto laughing at how embarrassed Ei used to be around you and your divinity. Now Ei smiles solemnly..

She knows now that she as archon must take the mantle, for in your teachings that it the goal of the heavenly principles you've left. Fated to return, she prays that you'd come to her first. She dreams and imagines in her meditations within her quiet Euthymia that you'd hold her. That her loneliness would be cured indefinitely. But for now she waits, with a plate of dango and some ofdly colored tea, shit eats alone as the fireworks set off atop Narukami island, she whispers a promise to herself and her nation on your honor.

"For it will be fate...my grace...you shall return to us...to eternity...we shall be reunited."

Far off in the lands of eternity, however, the island that formed the resistance sings and dances around the bonfire, the resistance army of Sangonomiya and Watatsumi laugh as they praise the late OmiKami, or the serpent god Orobashi. The fire dances as troops tell stories, shrine maidens sing and laugh, and her priestess sits while holding a book. She smiles softly. Kokomi looks above at the horizon and sees the corpse of their late god, she wishes silently to herself and for her ancestors to below the sea. That once the great spirit of life and forefather of the vishaps would return to bring life to the benevolent serpent. But for now, she sits alongside Gorou as they watch the troops enjoy the holiday.

Within Sumeru, however, and alongside it, Fontaine...the New Eve of Dawn has been on the academic calendar differently, which is how some older nations react. For those in the rainforest, it is a blessing of Lessor Lords Kusanali's birth. For the dessert, it is the bringing of a new promise for the scarlet sand kings doubted return. Within the nation of dendro, it is a holiday of now academic activities, no scholars shrouded in work, but a day off. The people worship by their own will and sit in taverns, bars, and cafes to drink mereily while chatting with friends. Some visit your altar within the Akademiya, and others pray at home.

Nahida sits on a branch of the great tree that houses the knowledge many wish to obtain, in her hands an ancient seed of fate, she herself has no memory or knowledge of where it came but holds ot and teasures its existence. For she has a kindling that it is tied to this divine spirit that is expected to awaken. From her small conversation with Apep, the seed is treasured. Hence, she holds it and feeds the growing plant bits of dendro elemental energy. She sighs as she watches the sun set and the cheers from the streets and grand bazars performances. Nilou must be dancing now, she thinks. She hums a small song while kicking her feet, her hands warm with caution. She may not know you yet, but she knows already... Your spirit and divine will watch for her and her nation. The goddess of wisdom has many questions for the great creator of this world, but for now, she just hums and sits happily, a great birthday gift indeed.

Meanwhile, in Fontaine, similarly, it is deemed a weekend off of work. Many go home, some go to the Opera to catch performances of the holiday, others read tabloids of the steambird that some random person in the court has the great divine in their basment all along. All fiction truthfully. Furina reads her book as she makes another plate of pasta macaroni. For the occasion, she bought extra special ragau to taste amazing. She dances around her kitchen listening to soft music. For years her mind would have doubted and even hated this day, anxious fears of disappointment and disapproval looks from her days as stabding archon. Would you have hated her? Did you think she failed fontaine and you? Was her a cursed human taking title of archon an insult to you? Furina had nightmares even of the prohecy and your return to see fontaine gone and underwater. But now, as the prophecy and fontaine were safe and out of fear, she ate and asked a good question this new century.

"What kind of pasta would their grace like..."

Soft rainfall drops onto the steps of the Palais Mermonia, the evening rain was forcasfed but welcomed, Neuvillette wrote on the papers softly, agreeing to a few celebratory events the Opera wanted to hold. Usually Lady Furina would be jumping for the task but here he was. Dread builded in his soul. This time of year brought many pains to Neuvillette.

A new century meant a new set of hundreds of years he gets to oulive humans, melusines maybe, but also the clock inches closer and closer to your return. Neuvillette spent early years of his lofe researching and discovering his species and kind for decades. Figuring that if you are the forefather and creator of vishaps and the sovereignty. Why was so many things done the way they were? Why ddi the power the gnosis and archons hold come from them? Why can't he understand your implications, even such his ancestors didn't wish to think against? What power do you hold and how did aid Fontaine in the end? He knew Focalor and Egeria spoke to you, even asking for forgiveness before your departure, so why? Neuvillette, places his pen downs and stands to look out the window of his office to look down at the streets of the Court of Fontaine, a glass of crisp water swirls in his hand. He sips slowly and sighs, coming to think.

"In this new century...please with it, may you come along too my grace."

In the nation of fire, victory, war and passion, raors could be heard from the stadium of flames as people of different tribes shouted and cheered the competitions down below. Surfing races, climbing achievements, conbat bouts, even break dancing competitions held. Mavuika sits at her throne above as her people cheer and celebrate, raising glasses, foods, gifts, and money even in your image. She slips away from the fesitivites to be alone in the speakers chambers, past the sacred flame, and into her personal get-away. Now empty, she stares at the famous wheel of the sun, Natlan has held for centuries, the same you blessed the first pyro archon with, as their rules of ruilibg were left in your favor. She smiles as she too holds her head high, similar to her ancestors before her.

She remebers before she was even archon, how her parents would tell stories of the Great divines influence, love, and power. That the spirit of victory belongs to the pyro archon yes, but the strength was given by you as well. She remembered your fave engraved in ancients temples and stones around Natlan and now some statues around the lands too. She knows too well her nation is blessed by your, not only for the peoples cheers and vitcories but the long-lasting stay they've had against the threat of the abyss thus far. Maybe when you return and ward off the abyssal threats for good, she top could ask something of you...for that she won't know until she sees you herself.

"Until we meet my grace...may your memeory burn eternal.. and your power live within my people."

-> Did i go overboard, yes...but eh...hoped you enjoy, and also i may make a small series out of this..who knows..

[luvether]

CHAPTER ONE. HIS BECKONING SALVATION.

SERIES SYNOPSIS, “For his tongue reckon with the beggary and treachery of her.” The narrative of the sun-burnt boy towards the moon-bruised girl, wherein Aeons dare play them both like a sedative, bore them starved for a disastrous relationship.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Sunday x fem!halovian reader. mentions of physical abuse and mutilation, religious metaphors, world-building for Penacony, not canon-compliant to hsr lore. historical + semi-steampunk au! [8.1k wc]

𐔌౨ৎ 、 MASTERLIST ノ NEXT CHAPTER

“Hounds, seize the man in the red tailcoat. The girl is a victim." His young raspy tone coils around the audience like a snake, the pin drop silence, then the haunting allure of your voice comes to a decrepit halt.

Sunday tastes the chaos first before understanding what had happened, what he had just done.

The Hounds were on the move due to his command, undressing clear aggression towards the people in charge of tonight's show. The audience had jumped up from their seats, scattering and fleeing when they recognized the Bloodhound seals on their vest and the muted colors of their uniforms. Gopher Wood doesn't spare another second once his feet touch the stage, his long coat swishing through the cold air.

"In the name of Penacony's esteemed law, I hereby arrest the suspected perpetrators involved in Velvet House's illicit activities of child trafficking."

"Mister Chamberlain, sir!" The man in the red tailcoat stresses out, cries, struggles out of the grasps of a Hound tying him down like a shackle.

"Please have mercy! I was wrong, I was—"

"Your words have no power here." Gopher's tone is ice cold, his crow wings rustling sharply. "Save your pliant cries before the Judges, and pray that your punishment will be in your favor."

"No, please I cannot afford this! Please let me explain myself!"

"Take him away."

Gopher waves a hand at the Hounds, they simply nod their heads, dragging the hysterical man off the stage. Sunday is reluctant as he steps beside the Minister, fingertips trembling from anxious thrill.

"...What will become of him?" He asks.

"The man had committed a heavy crime in the Ménage, if all votes are in favor of punishment then he as well as the folks involved will be sentenced to death—each will take a silver cup of poison wine." Gopher doesn't dare sugarcoat his words, pin needles of guilt pricks at the flesh of Sunday's benign heart.

"And, if the votes go for the latter option?"

Gopher takes a glance at him. "The latter option is seeking atonement for their sins. If the President orders it, they will be exiled to the borders of the Reef where they will spend their remaining days begging for absolution, forced to train as soldiers, they will die valiantly trying to protect our Nation from the remaining Legion."

So death, still.

The guilt within the boy grows thick, enough for bitterness to settle heavy on his tongue. These men will be dead because of his command.

"That's horrible."

"Sunday, I'll speak candidly with you." The young boy is surprised when Gopher drops to a knee in front of him.

"You've done well speaking up." Gopher says. "Cease such sensitivity of yours. Sometimes, there will be a price for freedom. And to fight for goodness, there will be moral conflicts that will be sent to you as a challenge. To protect the weak, we could trample over those who take advantage of the downtrodden ones. It is difficult but it is still our duty, Sunday."

Protect the weak.

The man straightens, then once Sunday's name leaves his lips one last time, without awaiting the response of the young boy he saunters off to deal with the aftermath of the subjugated traffickers, telling Sunday to take a rest if he feels overwhelmed with the situation. What he had said was the truth, after all.

Sunday is not God, he cannot appease everyone, and not everyone will see his beliefs to be absolute, that's why law enforces such as the Hounds still exist even after the civil war—or any war even before that, even when the bold words of Independence happen to be pasted in every billboard and graffitied walls around the Capital—

It was simply just another appeasement.

Another reassurance for the public.

It's like a piece of candy given to a wailing child, if all is devoured and nothing is on their palm, they would whine once more. Greed birthing upon greed like one hurricane of a sinful cycle.

For a war cannot be ceased. No matter how much a pacifist begged and prayed and groveled till their knees bled beneath the stones.

Gopher Wood told him so during one of his studies, don't waste your time clinging to hope that can kill you, even with your selective ignorance on the matter the results will not change.

Even when he had uttered the command to send traffickers to death's door, it was supposed to be an accomplishment.

But Sunday's too bitter and guilt-ridden to feel a huff of pride from his achievement.

An hour has passed then, still, Sunday muddled on his transgression. Thirty minutes later, he pins his back straight; the theatre now is empty of audience, under the jurisdiction of the Bloodhounds, from the report given to them, there are roughly twenty-one children found in the backstage of the building, some former orphans from the war, others trafficked to be laboured as rising singers for on stage performances.

His leg couldn't stop bouncing. Restless, he's so restless all of a sudden. Sunday cannot help but let his thoughts wander to you, the young Halovian on the center stage that had such a grenadine syrup singing voice. He hasn't seen you since your call for help and his command to arrest. Did something happen?

"Would you like a drink, young lord?" A younger Hound had approached, a glass of water in hand.

Sunday takes it silently. "Where will the children go after this?"

"Well, it depends. First, we need to verify their identities before they are taken here. After that, they will be taken to the Great hall where parents with missing kids will come to pick up their kins."

"And, if the children have no parents nor identities?"

The dark cobalts of the Hound's eyes flicker briefly to him. "Then, the Governors will assign them a residence, they will be raised in comfort then trained to be military civil servants."

The young boy couldn't stop himself from feeling so utterly restless, he stood up. "May I ask where they are now?"

There was a brief hesitancy with the young Hound. "I believe they are still backstage, going through individual inspection."

Sunday thanks him and saunters off towards the direction pointed.

Once he opens the heavy flaps of red theatre curtains, he cuts through the small crowd, side-stepping with ease. Big, amber eyes fly quickly—he's trying to find you, a girl with wings and a ringed halo like scattered stars, wearing attire as bare white as sunlight, white ribbons that drag across the stage floor. He remembers your cocktail hat that rests like a crown above your head, the white veil that hides the elusiveness of your eyes, the curve of your lips as you smile. It's daunting to him, he doesn't know you and yet he still seeks you out.

Where could you have gone?

Eight minutes have passed, his footfalls take him to every nook and cranny of the Velvet House until he is certain he has reap the entire place. When the time bleeds five more minutes, his steps turn mild and he's heaving tired breaths, hand pressed against the wall supporting his weight.

For a split moment, he wondered if you ever existed at all—it's like you had vanished like a wisp of dainty smoke when your performance was interrupted prematurely. Sunday dabs his forehead with the edge of his sleeve,

Then, he hears a foreign noise.

It almost sounded like a chair creaking under heavy weight.

When the boy glances up, there's a sliver of moonlight spilling in from one of the open doors on the corridor he was on. Without thinking and with nowhere else to go, he approaches slowly, carefully, the door croaking loud when he pushes it open.

Under the dimly lit room he is greeted with the sight of a girl, standing on her tippy-toes up on a rickety chair, reaching for something that's clearly out of her reach at the top shelf of a bookcase. His sudden presence clearly alerts her and she spins, almost stumbling from her perfect stance—Sunday's eyes fly open and his heart stutters as she starts to lose her balance.

"Hey! Be careful—!"

The chair topples and a heavy thud resounds around the room, along with a few books that fell from its place in the case.

Sunday's chest and entire back blooms with a sudden rush of pain, his face crumpling on a wince.

"Oww..."

His amber eyes peered down and his eyes lock with you as he had you in his embrace to crush the fall of your impact.

The boy diverts his eyes, then looks back at you, clearly at the loss with what to do.

"Uhm." His hands come up to softly hold your shoulders. "Are you okay?"

A second of silence.

"I think so.."

With two of his hands on your own, he helps you up slowly. Then he leans down to brush the dust from your dress.

"Sorry." Sunday goes for an apology. "I didn't mean to startle you, I—"

"Wait a second."

He looks up at your cushiony voice, your eyes seem to hover on the shape of his halo under the candlelight.

Sunday could've sworn he saw wonderment within your eyes.

"You're that halovian boy with the large halo." You say, your enthused tone resting upon his ears and it seemed as if the world had stilled.

Sunday sees the expression on your face and finally he takes every inch of you. Gone was your stylish hat, what remains is a silky dress that seems to ebb and flow around your limbs and legs. Your eyes encased his in orphic merriment.

"Yes, hi." He almost scowls at himself, he hates how that sounded between his teeth. "You're...the one that performed today, your voice is very beautiful."

Your chuckle is feathery and tasted like sweet fruit. You turn away from him to pick up a notebook that fell on the floor, brushing your fingers against its leather cover.

"So why are you in this part of the building, lost?"

"Of that nature, yes."

He doesn't say that he's been looking for you, specifically. He doesn't even know why he felt that way. At the corner of his membrane, he vaguely wanted to ask if you were okay—or inquire why you had asked for his assistance, he wouldn't have made a move if you hadn't done that.

To the boy's misfortune, you see through his white lie.

"You know, if you hadn't called for the Bloodhounds earlier, I would have assumed you were really lost." You tell him with a hardened look. "You're not even supposed to be here in this room."

If you hadn't called for the Bloodhounds.

"So you knew I wasn't just some audience member from the start." He asks you, non-accusatory.

"It doesn't take a genius to see you are different from the rest." You start. "You were in one of the high balconies—only those in high positions are allowed to enter there."

Sunday doesn't know whether you said it as an insult or a compliment. He clears his throat, "Then I wanted to ask you something, why did you ask me to help you?"

Sunday remembers his own humming halo, before hearing your voice in his head. He wonders why you had chosen to converse with him of all people in the audience, you could've called for the Minister instead, but you chose him specifically.

"I just knew you would help." Your gentle smile doesn't leave too much for him to wonder. "I saw it in your eyes."

It takes a long time for you to answer, his amber eyes don't leave you as you brush past him, footsteps thudding softly against wooden planks to stare out the window that acts like a halo around your figure—like performance lights.

Skepticism is sewn between his brows. Everything is quiet now, Sunday doesn't know what to say or do but watch you. The room is too dark to completely see anything but for a split second when the curtains raise to invite street lamps to pour in the room—he notices something.

His heart stutters, then he closes the distance between the two of you. One hand weighs heavy on your shoulder, the other rips the curtains wide so the light has no choice but to cascade in.

Sunday's shock at the sight.

There are deep scars, clumsy and messy, almost like wine blemishes greeting him between the peaks of stylish fabric. Amber eyes then trace along the wounds, it stops closely at the deep scratches where your wings were, like someone had dug red in the root of it.

"What happened to your..."

Your smile is bitter but you dare not answer him. Despite being young and powerless, Sunday's not a fool. He instantly places two together.

The reason for your cry for help, the trafficked children, your injuries...

"You're not from Penacony, are you?" He touches your wrist, pulling you close then closer, breathing almost a whisper in case anyone else was listening.

"You're from New Ebondium."

Sunday's eyes are wide open now, grim and stiff with the revelation—a polar opposite from yours that remains passive, too calm for his liking.

"I guess."

"You guess?"

You chuckle then, it seems like the situation hasn't weighed down on you. Even if it did, you don't seem too concerned with it. "You're smart. I am a foreigner, I was trafficked from New Ebondium. It's easy to exploit a land that was defeated, no?"

Your eyes trail to the window, massaging a tentative finger to your wounded ear wings.

"They tried to cut it off with a pair of rusty old scissors a few days ago." You start, "to them, they didn't care what I am—I'm nothing but a scum from New Ebondium—they said. They also wondered if halovian wings would fetch a high price in the market. That's why I asked for help from you, I thought you'd do something about those bastards and you did."

Sunday's shock turns to fury.

"Blasphemous."

White hot anger rises from his throat and deeper within his veins, a surge of protectiveness. It didn't matter if war ceased three years ago. Whatever the outcome, the victors would always be aligned with honor, breeding pride and prejudice, a slow cycle for the absolute victors and punishment-bearers.

This was not the dream of victory Sunday honors.

Tenderly, the boy brushes your feathers with his knuckles, inspecting closely. From the audience's seats, he didn't notice a single thing wrong about you, but up close, your colored plumages feel stiff and rough beneath his skin, untended and oily and not preened properly—the aspect of a halovian's wings are their basis of pride, divine innocence and most of all, freedom. It's their most cherished possession, ridding one of its feathers means cutting their life to the ground, to be helpless, to die flightless.

It's the fact that your birth-given wings beneath your ears have already been threatened to be chopped off, you haven't even fully grown out your secondary wings yet...

Sunday pulls himself out of his own thoughts when he feels palms lifting his cheeks up.

His eyes lock with yours and for a moment the two of you stay like that, watching the other's folded expression closely.

"You're sad." You concluded after your inspection. "Why are you sad?"

Why were you asking this question?

"You think I shouldn't feel sad about this?"

"No one has." You answer him. "Not the Penaconian folks and definitely not someone like you."

Someone like me, you say. Sunday should feel insulted from such distinctions. But at the back of his head, he knows you're right.

He lets out a shaky exhale.

It's weird. The feeling tickling in his chest is different, there's a tentative pull that he feels towards you but he cannot quite understand why. Aside from Robin no one else had expressed trust in him, a trust that didn't have any basis or solid ground. You had trusted him the moment your eyes met from across the stage, trusted him of your origin and your wounds from harassment that mar the canvas of your body.

You trusted him despite not knowing him.

Sunday doesn't understand.

By the time the inspection was finished, Sunday had to leave the room and you were called back with the other kids. The night was dead and the rain had stopped pouring, mechanical carriages awaited outside as Bloodhounds ushered the children within.

"Where have you run off to?"

Sunday looks up at Gopher, the night rests peacefully upon his face, his arms crossed softly over his chest. The young boy avoids eye contact first, then looks back at his deep eyes, "I just wanted to take a look around the area."

"Hm." Gopher hums. "Next time, take someone from the Bloodhounds with you. You could've run into trouble."

Run into trouble. The man's deep voice invokes doubt, enough to pierce and stumble Sunday's self-morale.

He bites his tongue.

"Of course."

The young boy focuses on the line of children in front of them, he's reminded of you. Sunday knew that if these kids will grow up, they will be like lambs to a slaughter. To be entangled in a more governed and high atrocity the closer they get to the Capital.

And then there's you, a girl from the enemy land, the girl who loves to perform—born to be one. One mishap from you and your life would tumble down like a weed in a garden.

'Oh, aren't you that halovian boy with the large halo?' 'My instincts told me to trust you.' 'Why are you sad?'

Your voice is in Sunday's head, your tone absent of any sort of expectations or contempt.

It felt like petals falling, your voice that is.

Sunday wants to hear it again—he cares.

He felt like he had the responsibility to look after you now after that statement of yours, after relishing briefly in your company, the young boy cannot help but crave for more, like a moth to a flame.

So when you appear from the door, following the line to the carriage—he steps out from his place beside the Minister, he cannot help but reach out and circle your wrist, the line that flowed like a stream suddenly meeting its disturbance, the boy could feel many eyes on him, burning his skin. It almost makes him flush red with embarrassment, but your eyes appear gentle like he'd remember a few moments ago beneath that moonlight, encouraging, so he stills his determination.

"Son?" Gopher questions.

But Sunday's eyes are on you.

You're sad. Why are you sad?

You think I shouldn't feel sad about this?

No one has. Not the Penaconian folks and definitely not someone like you.

"You're wrong because I care." He tells you, he feels the warmth of your wrist, the pulse on his fingertip, pouring at a similar rhythm of his own heartbeat. "Pain is still pain. It does not discriminate, not with rugs or with riches."

From there on, he has made his final decision and turns to his guardian.

"Mr. Gopher Wood." Says Sunday, a tinge of weakness in his tone, he takes another breath, fists clenched.

"I want her." He says. "As a companion for Robin and I."

"Sunday." Gopher's eyes narrow. "If you demand something, speak with a voice of confidence, only then will I listen to you."

Sunday's eyes widened, this was the first time the Minister had given him a chance to explain himself. He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his palm.

He looks at you gingerly. "Will you come with me?"

You seem also shocked by his actions, but you're quick to recover. "Only if you allow it."

"Then, she'll be coming back with me to the Church, Mr. Gopher Wood."

There was a splotch of silence, then a small exhale from the tall man. "Alright then. If you wish for a friend, who am I to refuse my son's request?" Sunday's surprise of Gopher Wood's pliancy on the matter. Sunday beckons you to stand with him and watch as the last remaining kids enter the carriage. The Minister had his final say with some of the Bloodhound officers and Sunday diverted his attention, ready to take you to their carriage.

He stops when he notices you staring up at the Velvet House once more, you squeezed Sunday's hand. "You told me pain is still pain despite rugs or riches."

"Yes, I did."

"Then, do you truly understand my pain?"

Sunday notices the melancholy framing your irises and the lilt of your tone, he tilts his head and says your name for the first time that night. That garners your attention and you look back at him,

He releases your hand only to reach out and hold both your ear wings upon his cupped palms. He feels the feathers once again and remembers its touch of roughness—he hasn't told you this, but there was a time where both he and Robin had smoke rubble and tangy blood caking their feathers. It was such a long time ago, but Sunday would dare not forget his mother's caresses and final words.

He holds your face softly, "My dream will involve everyone. It will be a paradise where the weak will be protected and one day, when we are older, if you wish for a stage to perform I'll build you one, something more grander than Velvet house, where everyone will love you and your voice. Pain and harassment will not be a factor."

You stare dumbfounded at his bold statement, Sunday sees your eyes turn starry-eyed.

"You promise?" You asked him, hopeful.

The boy is still young, doe-eyed and ruddy-cheeked, skin still dewy from any tribulations, with the first touch of the sun on the tip of his tongue when he says,

"I promise you."

“Another dead Halovian, sir.” There is a strain in the officer's tone, the body before them covered with a plain sheet, concealing the corpse.

"She was a widowed baron's wife." Gopher Wood's brows knotted, conflicted. The night lamp from afar provides ample light, glittering the chain hanging from his glasses.

"Are there any leads?"

"The local detectives are on their way here. But it will take about a day or two to gather any concrete evidence."

"What a waste of precious time." the man chastises. "By the time the detectives finish their work, the perpetrator would have escaped the city."

"My apologies, Chamberlain. However with the issues of Lady Constance's funeral preparations, the missing merchants and the suspicious activities of New Ebondium our resources are running incredibly thin."

Gopher Wood cannot help but pinch the bridge of his nose, rarely does he show any pint of irritation but the ongoing problem has been thinning his patience. "I had told those ignoramus Family heads to handle this affair weeks ago. Time and time again they have proven to be incompet—"

He catches himself before insults can spill any further. The atmosphere hushes into silence, merely the humming of lamplight and the distance roars of mechanical gears fill the cracked air.

Gopher barely turns his head, fixing his gloves. "Sunday."

"Yes, Minister?"

"This situation shall be kept hidden from the public and there's nothing more for you to learn today, you may head back to the Church."

The boy tilts his head. "Then, I’ll take my leave."

The night is achingly cold, even with him bundled up in a woolen scarf. His chauffeur guides him back to the awaiting carriage at the end of the alleyway, the young boy gets in and they are set off. When Sunday leans his elbow by the window sill, the radio starts to sputter:

"Convicted suspects of the horrible discovery in the downtown sector of the Velvet House have already been sentenced to their execution a few system hours ago. Their punishment to drink a half-pint of foxglove from a silver goblet, they have been—"

Sunday closes his eyes.

"Coach."

"Yes, young lord?"

"Please turn the radio off."

"Right away, young lord." His eyes remain vacant on the moving road, his fingers thrumming on his lap. Aside from the silence from the lessening radio, he could hear the distant roars of mechanical wirings and cogs from the Industrial Capital, the clips of horses' hooves as his carriage continued to roll by the granite road.

And just like that, after two weeks of hearing about the trials, the judgment, following the Minister around, the people involved with the trafficking had met their tragic end.

Penacony's news and radios had been sputtering about the incident, coupling it with the gasps from passersby and locals of all the sectors that bore witness to such atrocities. Two weeks of nonstop rumors and gossip about the tainted downtowns of deepened black market connections running haywire, and how they had gone radio silent after the crimes had surfaced to the Capital and the Bloodhounds.

In a couple of weeks people will move on from the topic, and days will continue to ebb and flow like clockwork.

That also means it has been exactly two weeks since you came to the Church.

Two weeks since Sunday last spoke to you.

Your schedule doesn't seem to find a crossroad. On the night of your arrival to the Church, the Minister had pulled Sunday aside,

"You've matured, Sunday." Gopher Wood had a different expression on his face. "I will tell the Academy to change your general studies to something more befitting. It's about time you start learning how to be a leader of this Nation."

Sunday should've been more aware of this outcome. The price of the Minister's lack of scolding on the matter concerning you—was Sunday's obedience and devotion to his growing responsibility. And thus, more weight was added on his shoulders.

With more duties on his plate comes the sacrifice of spending less time with his sister or having leisure time for himself.

The carriage stops. "We have arrived, please watch your step when you exit, master."

Sunday straightens, picking up his textbooks and exiting the carriage, what greets him at the entrance of the Church was one of the sisters that raised him, her smile kind, "Welcome back, Sunday. You've done well today, allow me to take your textbooks to your room."

"Thank you but there's no need, Sister Ruth." Sunday hesitates. "Is Robin home already?"

"Yes, she finished her recitals earlier and is now singing for tonight's sermon—ah." Ruth's eyes brighten. "That young girl volunteered to sing tonight as well, both have such lovely voices. Miss Robin and her seem to be enjoying each other's company."

A small smile graces Sunday's lips. "I see."

During the short time busying himself with the Minister's demands, he has found how you and Robin had grown closer to one another each passing day.

It was an instant click of friendship, Robin warmed up to you first after hearing of your circumstances (of course, Sunday hid the fact that you were New Ebondium-borne).

It only took a day or two to realize how similar you two were; she dreamt about being a star one day, you responded kindly to the same notion, your child-like dreams of performance still small and conserved, passion growing like a flavorful fresh fruit. The other day, Sunday saw how Robin had enthusiastically pulled you to join her in her recitals and practices, sometimes during the lukewarm afternoon light, he would hear you both giggling over in Robin's room or he would see you two care for the other children, tidying up the dinette table together, talking and grinning, the kids offering you a wreath to crown your head, the sisters patting your head or cheek affectionately.

It always brings a smile to Sunday's face to see you getting along so well with the others, a little relieved that Robin has another companion of her age whenever the boy is too busy. But at the same time, Sunday cannot help but feel a bit left out, a type of bittersweetness on the duvet of his expression whenever he sees you and the others, a gaping ache of loneliness in his chest that continues to grow a ravine, but he swallows down his own emotions.

"Would you like to join them?" Ruth asks. "I can go ahead and—"

"No, it's alright. I…" Sunday hesitates a second too late. "The Academy is expecting me to do well for the next exams, I have to study. Please send my greetings to those two."

Ruth's smile is softer now, sad. "Okay. Be sure to take breaks in the middle, young lord." The boy feels a warm hand caressing his cheek, almost achingly akin to a mother's touch of concern. "You're still fifteen, you shouldn't be worked up over things like these so early."

"I know." Sunday sends her a kind smile, pivoting in his heel after bidding her a curt farewell.

But he can't help but worry about his future responsibilities as the future successor, too busy worrying to join you and Robin so leisurely,

And his loneliness is quickly filled with matters of the Ménage.

The night is growing colder by the minute and Sunday finds himself leafing through the pages of one of his books—he cannot find it in him to sleep with ease, deprived and muddled with so many troubles. The Academy has high hopes for him to rank one and sooner or later depending on how he performs, he will be introduced as the Chamberlain's successor at the next banquet in the heart of the Ménage.

Sunday closes his eyes for a moment, a headache rampant. It's too much.

He sighs heavily, leaning his head against his arm. A knock on the door pulls him from his own thoughts, he flinches at the unexpected disturbance.

"Who's there?" He calls out softly, his eyes wander to the clock, 2:34am. It's so late for someone to come over. Silence answers him at first, however Sunday could hear the heartbeat of the person on the opposite side of the door, a mellow whisper and a dainty shuffle of feet beneath the wood.

"Sunday?" His breath hitches at your soft voice. "May I come in?"

The chair is dragged back as he stands. When he reaches the door he cannot help but fleet his gaze to the mirror in the corner, he squints beneath the dim light, pressing his shirt flat from creases, making sure his cowlicks are tamed down and presentable; he fusses over his appearance for a while before he cracks the door open.

His eyes sought yours and just like that, his lethargy lessens. You greet him on the other hand, your familiar smile decorating your lips, head tilted to the side.

"Hi."

"Hey." Sunday pauses, eyes looking you up and down, a frown on his lips. "The night is getting chillier, why are you only wearing cotton?"

He reaches out, albeit reluctantly for your hand to tug you in—only to jolt from how icy your fingers feel.

He sighs then. “Take care of yourself.”

His kiss-warmth hands are firm over your own, the boy pulls out a wool blanket from his wardrobe, wrapping it generously around your shoulders. He closes the door to his room and asks you to follow him to the lounge where a fireplace rests. You both sit in front of the hearth as Sunday clumsily cracks fire embers on the wood, it took a minute or two before red crumbs grew bright, licking up charred wood and humming through the empty air.

"Thank you." You let out a puff of breath, inching your cold fingers near the fire, then you turn to him. "Sorry if I'm disturbing you, I just couldn't sleep."

"No, no—" He's quick to clear his throat. "It's alright, really. I couldn't sleep either." His golden eyes drop to the heavy book being cradled to your chest.

"Looks like the two of us have things on our minds."

When Sunday looks back at you, your eyes are tipped upward in a smile.

He looks away immediately.

He hasn't mentioned it but it still feels a little odd to see you walking around the Church like that; hair untied, dressed in a simple cotton fabric—maybe he was used to seeing you in that silk-priced performance dress back at Velvet House but as you walk around, there's something else that seem to change about you.

There's still an air of untouched sophistication about you, your steps feather-like and quiet, sometimes he feels like if there is any form of danger right around the corner you won't hesitate to up and vanish like a smoke. But now, there's grounded reassurance—with the light of the fire, your wings appear preened and fluffier than usual, like it's been taken care more, it susurrates as you flap it. You settle comfortably on the floor beside him, nose buried into the blanket around your shoulder, and Sunday thinks that you look domestic, more like a child now than before.

You open your eyes. "Robin mentioned how much of a scholar you are."

He chuckles. "I'm just alright."

"Really?" You tilt your head. "You seem to like spending more time with books and scriptures than wanting to spend time with us."

Sunday's lips curve into a thin smile, he jots down about your unexpected boldness in his head then he quietly takes the empty space beside you, the floor creaking under his light weight. His wings flap once, twice. peeved and troubled. "I don’t particularly like scriptures as much as you thought." He turns his attention to the book you have. "What do you have there?"

He sees you look at him, down at the book, then up again.

"Oh." Your fingers are tentative over the letters inked onto the book. "This is just a book from the library I found. I was wondering if you knew of this." A pause. "I just didn't know how to approach you."

Sunday shakes his head, then leans in. "What is it? I can teach you if you want."

The boy wasn't expecting you to inch closer to his face, he refrains his wings from expressing his fluster and surprise, tucking it beneath his ears daintily when he sees you cup a palm around your mouth, your voice becoming whispery and hushed on his ear.

"It's about the Reef."

"The Reef,” He echoes. “The one that borders Penacony and separates the land from New Ebondium?" Sunday swallows his bash and answers you in a scholarly tone.

You nod your head. "Yes."

"Why are you curious about it?"

"The folks from the Velvet House mentioned it a couple of times back then." There's a look of adamancy in your expression, something that stirs Sunday. "They mentioned how difficult it is to go through the Reef and cross the border, why is that?"

The young boy thinks about it for a moment, during his travels he finds himself picking up certain information not privy to the public ears—on one of his journey towards the Serenity District, the closest location to the Reef itself—he has heard of Bloodhound officers talking about a creature spotted in that zone, not exactly the Legion but something more sinister.

Sunday spares you a look, his amber eyes glowing beneath the late hour. He leans forward, enough that his lips are brushing the feathers of your wings.

"There's a mimema in there."

"What's a mimema?"

"A meme." He simply says. "A creature as big as the most priced stallions in the high districts, said to have multiple eyes, golden claws and a weird...inky proportion."

He can feel your long silence. Then you ask, "Like a monster almost?"

"Yeah, almost. People have been said to have disappeared whilst crossing the Reef, mostly verified merchants trading to and fro." Sunday pauses. "That's just a myth though."

"I see." Your fingertip runs across the page, tracing the lines of a map on the book. "Then, can you teach me more about Penacony? I barely know anything about it aside from the Velvet House."

Sunday blinks his amber eyes down at you, the fire continues to crackle and burn. "Why me?"

"Why not you?"

"I'm," he looks away, insecurity is quick to well up inside of him as he remembers Mister Gopher Wood’s critique. You still have a lot to learn, son. He told him one time, and the young boy is quick to believe it.

"I'm not that good yet.” He tells you, and a pang coils through the air at the sound of rejection, he readies himself to stand and return to his room. “Forgive me but it’s best if you ask Robin or the Sisters…”

“Sunday, wait.” You catch the palm of his hand in yours, stopping his pace completely.

“Don’t leave yet, you don’t have to if you don’t want to—” You were quick to say, noticing the complicated expression caking his golden eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just been two weeks and I…I have been looking for a reason to approach you, this was the only thing I could come up with.”

Then and there, young Sunday realizes the issue. He starts to piece together your unexpected visit, your sudden interest about Penacony and your request for him to teach you.

Two weeks, he has busied himself with other matters that he hasn’t spoken to you in that long. He thought Robin’s company was enough to satiate you, or the presence of the Sisters and the other children that you don’t need him.

He thought you didn't need him, but here you were, reaching out to him first when he should’ve kept his promise to you the moment he intertwined his hands with yours and offered you to come live with him.

“I just want to spend more time with you.” He finally sees the look of loneliness in your eyes, your hand squeezes his own, a lingering yearning in your own eyes. “You were the one that helped me and took me away from that hell. I just want us to be friends at the very least.”

Sunday cannot help but stare at you simply. There's valiance pooling in your eyes, a shine that dares to overflow it makes his breath hitch. The young boy clears his throat, he turns away—the apple of his cheeks burning and not because of the hearth's warmth—he traces his steps back and occupies the space beside you once again, the action makes your shoulders slump in relief.

His amber eyes are akin to the fire in front of both of you, “You don’t need to say all of that, I already see you as a friend.”

Your eyes seem to sparkle at his reply, your hands are still latched, and the boy is hyper aware of the feel of your cool fingers and the mild calluses written on your palm. He reaches out to brush some rebellious strands from your face, “I should be the one to say sorry, I was the one who brought you here and I never gave you reassurance.”

You shake your head. “I knew there were other things that worried you. I saw it in your eyes when you were talking with that Minister,”

So, even you noticed that.

You continued, “Robin has told me a lot about you.” Sunday cannot help but feel bashful at your confession. “She’s worried about you too, you know. She wants you to lean on her when you feel overwhelmed.”

Sunday’s smiles thin and he replies to your statement, a light-hearted chuckle leaving his lips. The night continues to prolong and ink through the minutes, however the two of you find yourself staying in each other’s company in the lounge. You were an easy person to be around, you were willing to listen as conversation quickly fills the background. Your chatting ranged from random spurts of topics you wish to tell the other—talking about your days in the Church, what you liked and disliked—to in-depth talks about philosophies from Sunday, even if there was a lack of heartfelt conversations tonight, it didn’t matter. The boy had yearned to interact with you since he saw you in Velvet House, being able to chat with ease about anything and everything was all that he needed.

That night, Sunday learned more about you as you did with him. You didn’t realize how long you both lingered and talked that the fire had reached its lifetime, and the dregs of sleep had pulled you both under, conquering your consciousness. The enthusiastic chattering quickly shifts into silence and you both fall asleep on the lounge floor, huddled together with the blanket Sunday had lent you.

By the next morning, the young boy awakens with Robin poking his cheek. His drowsy amber eyes fall to his sister’s sly expression and only then did he realize how he had fallen asleep whilst chatting with you throughout the night, and how he had you close to him, an arm beneath your head to act like a cushion at the absence of a pillow and his other arm draped over the blanket like he’s shielding you from the cold.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Robin coos teasingly. “Seems like the two of you had fun without me last night.”

“It’s not like that.” Robin could only laugh sweetly which made Sunday’s ears brush red yet again. It seems as if his soft skin had melange with rud these days. The boy sits up, cradling your head as you continue to slumber and he looks down at you softly.

Robin sees this and gets up from her crouched position, her dress fluttering “Her room is just across from mine.” She tells him. “I’ll help make breakfast. Take care of her, brother. She’s been through a lot.”

With one last smile in his direction, Robin exits the lounge leaving Sunday to ponder. Take care of her, brother, the sentence resonates through him. Without sparing another second, Sunday winds a hand around your shoulder and the other under your knees to lift you up into his embrace. You seem to unconsciously drift closer to him, your cheek and tucked wing making home on the crook of his neck as Sunday takes you to your own room.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach it, struggling a little with you in his arms and juggling the doorknob open. Sunday hasn’t been inside your own space before, but as soon as he steps inside the boy cannot help but realize how much the room is akin to its owner—he was reminded of the room he found you in at the Velvet House. The honey gold spilling through the thin curtains and melting down the floor looked like performance lights. Your bed is a fluffy nest, with layers of caked beddings and duvets, he spots a vanity, a wardrobe, a desk with a singular notebook tucked by the corner. He diverts his attention and waddles his way to your mattress and slowly sinks you on its comfortable sheets.

He cannot help the smile from invading his lips when you let out a breathy sigh of comfort. His hand inches to brush your hair again but his fingertips stop just as it graces your forehead, “It should be me, thanking you.” He mutters out softly.

“If it weren’t for you…”

Sunday pauses briefly, amber eyes observing your peaceful expression. He ruminates upon his thoughts as the morning continues to float around the room in gentle waves.

Sunday had kept his promise to you. After the whole ordeal with you visiting him and asking him to teach you more about Penacony—he approached you the next few days and was more than willing to give you a few pointers of what he was taught by his tutors and the Academy. Ruth specifically was elated at how you two are getting along now. More importantly, looking at the gentle look Sister Ruth gave Sunday, the boy knew why she was relieved.

Ever since taking private lessons to be the head of the Church at thirteen, Sunday stopped acting like a child and had been making surface-level relationships. Aside from the people within the Church, Robin and Mister Gopher Wood—he never let anyone genuinely in.

You were the first in a long while that Sunday was letting into his life.

Of course, neither Sunday nor Sister Ruth mentioned that fact as he guides you to his room, books already stacked and ready at his desk for topic reviews.

Time passes in a blink of an eye.

After a few slices of moments together, Sunday came to a quick realization that you don't seem to hold a heavy amount of worry about the future like he does, and even if you did, it didn't seem to affect your person.

Bright, glittering, crystalline water—that's what he describes you as. With your grinning eyes, curves of your lips and alluring tone—it's easy for anyone to fall into your own little puddle, you seem to have a talent with that. By the next month since you've arrived in the Church, you have become the sweetheart of many. It's well known how much Robin had considered you her dear friend, or how the younger kids had called you their pretty older sister, or how the Sisters of the Church had called you their darling girl.

And as for Sunday, the young scholar boy continues to fall into the currents of your mannerisms, your bold trajectory, your hauntingly drawn smile, deeper than anyone can sink themselves into.

All those routine nights studying alone through wordy scriptures and heavy proverbs was simply replaced by your presence and the crackle of fire. That one late night visiting Sunday turned to two, then four—to the point the boy doesn’t question when he hears his door open and close because he knows it’s just you, another new book in your arms and questions ready to slip between your tongue.

You were easily Sunday's best student, you were quick to understand certain verses, can make analysis and theories on certain economic and political decisions of the Ménage, get into deep discussions with him in terms of Penaconian history and learn its linguistics. It had quickly become a study session for the two of you—one of the last things on his routine which Sunday favored the most. It was the only time you two got to spend time together since his mornings and afternoons were preoccupied by private tutoring.

"You learned the Penaconian language faster than I expected." Sunday's impressed at your written notes, they are all correct and easy to understand. Then he starts cleaning up the mess of cards and parchments from his room floor. The boy was too busy to notice your long stare. When he gathers up the last remaining notes, he barely sees you reach out your hand until he feels the touch of fingertips grazing the feathers of his wings, touching a nerve.

Sunday jolts back in surprise, curling his wings protectively beneath his gray hair. "...What is it?"

"Oh sorry. It’s nothing, I just..." You seem to be daydreaming, stagnant and saddened all of a sudden. "To Halovians, wings are their lifeline. Scriptures and textbooks have mentioned the divinity and the meaning of wings to Halovians so I still cannot understand why there will be people out there that desire to cut off our wings."

Sunday is quiet for a moment, he cannot help but sigh heavily. "Did you eavesdrop on the passing guards outside of our Church?"

Your silence is almost deafening. "What do you mean?"

"Did you hear about the recent serial murders of Halovians?" He asks. Your expression shifts: shocked, caught, then melancholic.

You nod slowly and the boy's shoulders droop.

A month has passed already, and that meant three more dead Halovians found in ditches and alleyways with no clue of the murderer behind it. The only alarming difference from the first found body—was that the recently murdered Halovians had ripped off wings and missing halos. Maybe the black market networks are finally making a bold move after the execution of their own? Sunday hasn't heard anything from Minister Gopher Wood in awhile since the first case.

The very thought of those mutilated Halovians twists ichor and sickness within Sunday.

Then for a moment, everything seems to stop.

The two of you hear clattering, then the door creaks open, Ruth emerges with a lantern in hand, her expression creased with panic and worry. Something felt wrong.

“What the matter?” Sunday is up on his feet, his pulse is racing.

Ruth is reluctant for a second, then she says. “It’s the young miss.” She says. “We can’t find her anywhere.”

Robin. Sunday felt like his whole world crashed for a momentary second.

𐔌౨ৎ 、 MASTERLIST ノ NEXT CHAPTER

taglist — @kazucee @3lectraheart @cakechase @swivi @justcallmemidnight

[robertreich]

Why Trump Is Partnering With Christian Nationalists

Donald Trump is portraying himself as a religious savior. He says Election Day will be: …”the most important day in the history of our country, and it’s going to be Christian Visibility Day.”

Trump has repeatedly compared his criminal trials to the crucifixion of Jesus, promoted videos calling his reelection “the most important moment in human history,” and that describe him as a divinely appointed ruler.

He claims to be a holy warrior against an imaginary attack on Christianity.

TRUMP: They want to tear down crosses//But no one will be touching the cross of Christ under the Trump administration. I swear to you.

He’s even selling his own version of the Bible.

Trump is playing to a rising white Christian Nationalist movement within the Republican Party.

Christian Nationalists believe that the law of the land is not the Constitution, but instead the law of God as they interpret it. Under this view, atheists and people of other faiths (including Christians of other denominations) are all second-class citizens.

Trump’s supporters are increasingly overt in their calls to replace democracy with a MAGA theocracy.

The idea that the will of voters is irrelevant because God has anointed Trump was a recurring message in the efforts to overturn the 2020 election.

In previous videos, I’ve highlighted how MAGA Republicans have embraced core elements of fascism. They reject democracy, stoke fear of immigrants and minorities, embrace a gender and ethnic hierarchy, and look to a strongman to lead and defend them.

The combination of fascism and Christian Nationalism is called Christofascism, a term first used half a century ago by the theologian Dorothee Sölle. Fascists rise to power by characterizing their opponents as subhuman. Christofascists take it a step further by casting opponents as not just subhuman, but actually demonic.

Framing opponents as enemies of God makes violence against them not only seem justifiable, but divinely sanctioned, and almost inevitable.

Christofascists want to strip away a wide range of rights Americans take for granted. Former Trump staffers involved in developing plans for a second Trump term have called for imposing “Biblical” tests on immigration, overturning marriage equality, and restricting contraception.  

And MAGA-aligned judges are already setting their dogma ahead of the Constitution. In his concurring opinion on the case that declared frozen embryos are people, Alabama Supreme Court Justice Tom Parker cited God more than forty times and quoted the Book of Genesis and other religious texts.

Nothing could be more un-American than the Christian Nationalist vision. So many of America’s founders came here as refugees seeking religious freedom. The framers of the Constitution were adamant that religion had no role in our government. The words “God,” “Jesus,” and “Christ,” don’t appear anywhere in the Constitution. And the very first words of the Bill of Rights are a promise that “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.”

Christofascism, or any religion-based form of government, is a rejection of everything America has aspired to be — a secular, multi-racial society whose inhabitants have come from everywhere, bound together by a faith in equal opportunity, democracy, and the rule of law.

Beware.

[komsomolka]

“How Syria’s ‘diversity-friendly’ jihadists plan on building a state,” runs the headline from an article in Britain’s Daily Telegraph that suggests that Jolani will construct a new Syria, respectful of minority rights. The same newspaper also labeled him a “moderate Jihadist.” The Washington Post described him as a pragmatic and charismatic leader, while CNN portrayed him as a “blazer-wearing revolutionary.” Meanwhile, an in-depth portrait from Rolling Stone describes him as a “ruthlessly pragmatic, astute politician who has renounced ‘global jihad’” and intends to “unite Syria.” [...]

This is a far cry from the first time CNN covered Jolani. In 2013, the network labeled him one of “the world’s 10 most dangerous terrorists,” known for abducting, torturing and slaughtering racial and religious minorities.

Still on the U.S. terrorist list today, the FBI is offering a $10 million reward for information about his whereabouts. Washington and other Western governments consider Jolani’s new organization, Hayʼat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), as one and the same as Al-Qaeda/Al-Nusra.

This poses a serious public relations dilemma for Western nations, who supported the HTS-led overthrow of President Bashar al-Assad. And thus, Politico and others report there is a “huge scramble” in Washington to remove HTS and Jolani from the terrorist list as quickly as possible. [...]

While in Iraq, Jolani fought with ISIS and was even a deputy to its founder. Immediately upon release in 2011, ISIS sent him to Syria with a rumored $1 billion to found the Syrian wing of al-Qaeda and participate in the armed protest movement against Assad that arose out of the Arab Spring.

Realizing the extremely poor reputation al-Qaeda had in the region and across the world, Jolani attempted to rebrand his forces, officially shuttering the al-Nusra Front in January 2017 and, on the same day, founding HTS. He claimed that HTS preaches a very different ideology and that it will respect Syrian diversity. Not everyone is convinced of this, least of all the British government, who immediately proscribed HTS, describing it as merely an alias of Al-Qaeda. “Al-Qaeda/ISIS man didn’t ‘reinvent himself.’ He had the whole propaganda and intelligence apparatus of the ‘West,’ including the BBC, doing it for him,” remarked co-founder of The Electronic Intifada, Ali Abunimah.

The name “al-Jolani” translates to “From the Golan Heights.” And yet, the leader appears distinctly unconcerned with the Israeli invasion of his homeland. [...] Jolani has already said that he has no intention of confronting Israel. “Syria is not ready for war and does not intend to go into another war. The source of concern was the Iranian militias, and Hezbollah, and the danger has passed,” he said – a strange thing to say while Israel is carrying out the largest Air Force operation in its history, pounding military targets all over Syria. Other HTS spokespersons have also categorically refused to comment on Israel’s attack on the country, even when pressed by incredulous Western journalists.

Jolani’s comments, singling out two Shia forces rather than Israel as enemies of the state, will have many concerned that this could signal a return to the process of Shia slaughter ISIS waged over much of Syria and Iraq. In 2016, the U.S. House of Representatives voted 383-0 to classify this process as a genocide. [...]

Statements like these might surprise a casual observer. But the reality is that Israel has been funding, training and arming much of the Syrian opposition since its inception. This includes Al-Qaeda, whose wounded fighters are treated by Israel.

And while radical Islamist forces appeared to be enemies with everyone, the one group they fastidiously avoided any confrontation with was Israel. Indeed, in 2016, ISIS fighters accidentally fired upon an Israeli position in the Golan Heights, thinking they were Syrian government forces, then quickly issued an apology for doing so. [...]

While both journalists and politicians in the U.S. are scrambling to change their opinions on Jolani and HTS, the reality is that, for much of its existence, Washington has enjoyed a very close relationship with al-Qaeda. The organization was born in Afghanistan in the 1980s, thanks in no small part to the CIA. [...] During the 1990s, bin Laden’s relationship with the U.S. soured, and it eventually became a principal target for al-Qaeda, culminating in the infamous September 11, 2001, attacks on New York City and Washington, D.C. The Bush administration would use these attacks as a pretext to invade both Afghanistan and Iraq, claiming that America could never be safe if al-Qaeda were not thoroughly destroyed. [...] And yet, by the 2010s, even as the U.S. was ostensibly at war with al-Qaeda in Iraq and Afghanistan, it was secretly working with it in Syria on a plan to overthrow Assad. The CIA spent around $1 billion per year training and arming a wide network of rebel groups to this end. As National Security Advisor Jake Sullivan told Secretary of State Hillary Clinton in a leaked 2012 email, “AQ [al-Qaeda] is on our side in Syria.”

Thus, while many casual observers may be shocked to see the media and political class embrace the leader of al-Qaeda in Syria as a modern, progressive champion, the reality is that the U.S. relationship with the group is merely reverting to a position it has previously held. Consequently, it appears that the War on Terror will come to an end with the “terrorists” being redesignated as “moderate rebels” and “freedom fighters.”

Of course, many have argued that the U.S. Terrorist List is entirely arbitrary to begin with and is merely a barometer of who is in Washington’s good books at any given time. In 2020, the Trump administration removed Sudan from its state sponsors of terror list in exchange for the country normalizing relations with Israel, proving how transactional the list was. A few months later, it removed the East Turkestan Islamic Movement (a Uyghur militia currently active in Syria) from its list because of its hardening attitude towards China, seeing ETIM as a useful pawn to play against Beijing. Washington also continues to keep Cuba on its terror list despite there being no evidence of the island supporting terror groups. And the U.S. refused to remove Nelson Mandela from its list of the world’s most notorious terrorists until 2008 – 14 years after he became President of South Africa. In comparison, Jolani’s redesignation might take fewer than fourteen days.

[anyab]

Via NasAlSudan

Learn about the Sudanese revolution, the significance of December 19, and a legacy of resistance and resilience.

Join our call to action today and everyday during Sudan Action Week.

December 19 2023

Transcript:

Breaking it down

What is the Sudanese Revolution?

The Sudanese Revolution refers to the popular uprising in Sudan that began on December 19, 2018 and eventually deposed 30-year dictator of Sudan, Omar al-Bashir, on April 11 of 2019.

How did the Revolution begin?

Protests first began in Atbara, a city with historical significance to the labor movement in Sudan, in response to the rising costs of basic supplies such as bread and fuel.

Protestors set fire to the national party headquarters, and the news of their revolt quickly spread, inspiring protestors first in other cities, and then in the capital of Khartoum itself.

Online, the caption #TasgutBas, translating to #JustFall, grew in popularity and helped connect the diaspora to those in Sudan.

Was it really just bread?

No. The rising cost of bread in developing nations is an indicator of how badly the economy is strained, to the point where it impacts members of every social class.

At this point in time in Sudan, subsidies on essential goods had been rolled back, funding for social and state services such as healthcare and education was nearly nonexistent, and it is estimated that nearly 90% of economic activity took place in the informal sector, all while the military budget continually increased.

Transcript:

Who led the charge? Creating a revolution

Group: Sudanese Professional's association (SPA)

Who they are:

Group of labor and trade organizations formed in secret in 2012 and publicly declared in 2016

Backbone of grassroots organizing in Sudan

Role played:

Led action on the street, organized national protests, like the initial march on Khartoum for increased wages before the transition to calls for regime change, and worker strikes.

Group: Local Resistance Committees (LRCS)

Who they are:

Initially formed as groups of students and youth organized together on the more local, neighbourhood basis during the Bashir era

Membership is extremely diverse across socio-economic, ethnic, tribal, religious, and political lines

Role played:

Considered the lifeblood of the revolution, with youth organizing local protests and ensuring safety against governmental repression by standing on the front lines + providing security, food, water, and medication to people

Group: Forces for freedom and change (FFC)

Who they are:

Coalition comprising the SPA, LRCS, the Sudan Revolutionary Front (group of anti-governmental Darfur militias), political parties, and civil society groups

Role played:

Essentially became the political mouthpiece of the revolution and signed onto the transitional government with the military on behalf of Sudanese civilians

It is also crucial to note that from a demographic perspective, it is youth and women that largely led and comprised the Sudanese Revolution.

Trabscript:

How did the revolution succeed?

01. Learning from the Past

Following the Arab Spring wave, Sudan also attempted a revolution in September of 2013

Civilians faced violent crackdowns within the first three days of protest. 200 killed, 800+ arrested

Activists were deterred from mobilization + felt a lot of guilt at the massive loss of life and spent the next 5 years grounding themselves in the study of nonviolent theory and action

02. Building a Movement

Coalition Building and People Power

Diversification of the reach of the movement to make sure all sectors of Sudani society were represented

Decentralization of Activism

Past revolutions in 1964 and 1985 were concentrated in the labor movement and educational elites in Khartoum

This time, experienced nonviolent activists trained those in the capital and ensured ethnic, religious, and tribal diversity

Newly trained activists then taught others locally across the Sudanese states

Transcript:

Why december 19?

On December 19, 1955, the Sudanese parliament unanimously adopted a declaration of independence from the Anglo-Egyptian colonial power.

The declaration went into effect on January 1, 1956, which is why Independence Day is officially January 1, but December 19 is when the Sudanese people were truly liberated from colonial rule.

The flag shown is Sudan's independence flag. The blue is for the Nile, the yellow for the Sahara, and the green for the farmlands.

The current Sudanese flag was adopted in 1970, with the colors used being the Pan-Arab ones.

During the 2019 revolution, protestors often carried the independence flag instead as a form of resistance to the narrative of an exclusive Pan-Arab Sudanese identity.

December 19 is ultimately a tribute to Sudanese strength and resilience. It honors our independence and revolutionary martyrs - not just those of the 2019 revolution, but the democratic revolutions of 1964 and 1985 as well.

Transcript:

Why is the revolution ongoing?

The goal was never just the fall of a dictator. The goal was, and is, to build a better Sudan, one free from military rule. One with equal opportunities for everyone, with economic prosperity and safety and security - the key principles of freedom, peace, and justice that the revolution called for.

Today, though, before we rebuild Sudan, before we free it from foreign interests and military rule and sectarianism, we need to save it. Each day that passes by with war waging on is one where more civilians are killed. More people are displaced. More women are raped. More children go hungry. To live in the conflict zones in Sudan right now - whether that be Khartoum, Darfur, Kordofan, or now, Al Gezira, is to be trapped in a never-ending nightmare, a fight for survival. And to live elsewhere in Sudan is to wonder whether you're next.

Sudan Action Week calls on you to educate yourself and others about Sudan, and then to help the Sudanese people save it, because we can no longer do it alone.

Transcript:

What can you do? Uniting for Al Gezira and North Darfur

As we witness the unfolding events in Al Gezira and North Darfur, the communities of Abu Haraz, Hantoub, Medani, El Fasher, and many others are reaching out for assistance. Sudanese resilience persists to this day, with individuals on platforms like Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok seeking and providing guidance on transportation services, medical care, food, shelter, protection, safe zones, operational markets, and more. This isn't new for the Sudanese community. A legacy of unity emerged, notably during the 2019 revolutions, where nas al Sudan [the people of Sudan], both within the nation and in the diaspora, rallied together to support each other online. Beyond merely sharing stories on social media, this was about strengthening collective action, enhancing mobilizations, and building a resilient community rooted in solidarity. The essence of the Sudanese community lies in people supporting people, notably during the uprising in 2018 and following the events of April 15th, 2023

Swipe to see how you can help.

Transcript:

What can you do?

This week, on a day nearly mirroring Sudanese Independence and the popular 2018 uprising, Sudanese resilience endures as war follows nas al Sudan to Al Gezira and again in North Darfur. Our call to action this week is not just to share; it's a collective effort to uplift one another.

Share Resources:

If you have access to resources that can help such as transportation services, medical assistance, food, shelter, etc., please comment below.

Community Requests:

If you are in Al Gezira or North Darfur and require specific support, please comment on your needs

Connect Individuals:

For those unable to share resources directly, help amplify requests by sharing this information within your personal networks. Your connection may lead to support from individuals who can assist.

Spread the Word:

Share this call to action on your social media platforms to broaden the reach and encourage more people to contribute.

Transcript:

Hanabniho

حنبنيهوا

[We will rebuild]

#keepEyesOnSudan

#SudanActionWeek

[murderousink23]

01/16/2024 is Religious Freedom Day 🌎, National Fig Newton Day 🇺🇸, National Nothing Day 🇺🇸, National Day of Racial Healing 🇺🇸

[reality-detective]

Wake Up! Everything You Believe Is a Carefully Crafted Lie by a Hidden Elite That Owns Your Governments, Banks, and Minds!

The world is under the control of a hidden, powerful elite that has manipulated humanity for thousands of years. Governments, banks, corporations, and even religions are all part of a massive, interconnected system designed to keep the masses in line. You are living in a controlled simulation where every move is calculated, every narrative crafted, and every dissent crushed.

Ancient Rome never fell; it just changed its face. The Vatican is the continuation of the Roman Empire, pulling the strings of global power from the shadows. The Pope is not a religious leader but the CEO of the world’s largest covert operation. Global leaders bow to Rome; every major decision made in Europe, America, and beyond has its roots in this ancient power structure. The so-called “democracies” are just fronts, and the real rulers operate far from the public eye.

The financial system is a tool of enslavement, but its grip is weakening. Central banks, the Federal Reserve, the World Bank, and the IMF have long kept nations in debt and citizens in economic chains. However, their reign is about to end. The Global Economic Security and Reformation Act (GESARA) is poised to trigger the biggest wealth transfer in history, redistributing stolen wealth back to the people.

This is a total overhaul designed to dismantle the corrupt systems that have enslaved humanity for centuries. Trillions of dollars hoarded by the elite will be seized and returned to the people, restoring economic power where it belongs.

This act will expose the financial fraud perpetuated by these institutions, wiping out debts and releasing new technologies that have been suppressed to keep the populace in poverty. The days of the financial overlords are numbered, and GESARA is the catalyst that will break their chains for good, restoring wealth and freedom to the masses.

Education and media are the propaganda arms of this hidden empire. From kindergarten to university, you are fed lies designed to shape your worldview to fit the agenda of the elite. Critical thinking is discouraged because an informed population is a threat. The news you watch, the books you read, and the information you consume are all curated to keep you ignorant, divided, and powerless.

Governments are puppets. Elections are rigged shows to give you the illusion of choice. Presidents, prime ministers, and kings answer to the same hidden masters. Policies, wars, economic collapses—they’re all orchestrated from behind closed doors by a small group of individuals who have no allegiance to any nation but only to their own interests. They decide who wins, who loses, and how the game is played.

Laws are tools of oppression, not justice. The legal system is designed to protect the elite and keep you in line. Roman law still influences modern legal codes, and its principles are used to maintain control over the masses. The courtrooms are theaters where the outcome is predetermined, and the real power lies in the unseen hands that pull the strings.

Corporations are not independent entities—they are branches of the same control network. They push products, policies, and narratives that serve their masters’ agenda. From the food you eat to the technology you use, everything is designed to monitor, influence, and control you. You are not a customer; you are a data point, a resource to be exploited.

The world is not what it seems. Every institution you trust, every leader you admire, every belief you hold has been carefully constructed to keep you obedient and blind to the truth. You are not free; you are a pawn in a game that was rigged long before you were born.

The only way out is to see the truth: that the world is run by a small, powerful group that considers itself above the rest of humanity. They are the masters, and we are the slaves. This is the reality they don’t want you to see. Wake up, or remain a willing participant in your own enslavement.

Escape the Matrix 🤔

[akutasoda]

Hi, love your work!! I’m not part of the q nation, unfortunately😞 my dumb brain can’t brain when I’m trying to learn the q language no matter how hard I try…

can I request- Sunday angst where the reader gets in an accident and gets amnesia? Hurt/ no comfort if thats okay!

if you’re uncomfortable with that, don’t worry about it, I love everything you write anyways!!!! Mwah!!

lead me towards freedom, just for me to forget

synopsis - he loved you. let down all his walls, trust his emotions with you and yet, you can't even remember who he is.

includes - sunday

warnings - gn!reader, reader gets amnesia, slight fluff, angst no comfort, religious imagery?, maybe ooc, wc - 811

a/n: not apart of the q nation? apologies, i cannot write your request /j the q language is not for everyone anon, but if you try hard enough you will get there!! but thank you!! <3

if someone had asked sunday if he ever saw himself in a relationship in the future, he probably would've scoffed at them.

sunday had no such time for those feelings. the bigger picture was much more important to him, granting robin's wish was his number one priority and he didn't want anything to stray him from fulfilling such goals. petty emotions that led to developing romantic relationships were useless to him - not that he even had anyone in his life that he'd ever dare see that way.

relationships only hurt people. they could cut deep into people, causing pain and heartbreak. even uglier emotions that made reality all that much more harsh to those on the receiving end. and that was a possibility that could happen to him.

if he ever found someone he could love romantically, they could see him at his lowest, at his weakest point. they could exploit that. use it against him, rip his heart out, crush it right in front of his very eyes and he wouldn't be able to do anything. he'd love them too much to fight back, they'd open the gates to more emotions that would make him weaker, more vulnerable.

but that was before he met you.

admittedly, when he first met you, he thought you were simply another lost soul that needed saving. the hand of the order to bless you and lead you towards a dream. a world that saved you from the harshness of current reality. and it was his duty to lead you, another sheep among the herd lead towards freedom of reality.

but you weren't a sheep. you were a wolf in sheep's clothing.

yet it remained the same, he wanted to guide you away from suffering and pain. even more so than the rest of the flock.

sunday still denied it. either he couldn't recognise the signs or he simply couldn't believe that such emotions were being evoked from him - the lines were very blurred. either way, it wasn't immediately recognisable to him, willingly or unwillingly. those feelings would only prove meaningless down the line.

but you were persistent. always there in his life. unwavering in your friendly attitude toward him, unrelenting in checking up on him and showing a genuine interest. sunday wanted to push you away. keep you at arm's length and stop you from getting closer than you were already - in his eyes, you were too close, to his emotions and to getting in the way of his goals.

however, somewhere down the line, he let you in. sunday stopped fighting to keep you away, slowly letting down all the guards and walls he had built up around himself. and now. he understood why people took that risk.

relationships could end horribly but they could blossom. they could be filled with hope and sappy feelings that if sunday ever caught himself thinking about, he might have been sick. loving you was sweet. it was like watching birds fly free, a cool breeze on a summer's day. it was refreshing, freeing even.

it felt weird. he'd never felt such emotions for a person before and yet he couldn't help but find his thoughts drifting to you like a lovesick fool. when sunday caught himself, he felt embarrassed. hiding his face behind his wings and trying to compose himself yet again - it wouldn't be the first time his thoughts drifted to you, nor would it be the last.

sunday could look back upon all the memories with you with a fondness that baffled him. they played over and over in his mind like the galaxy's sappiest film, one that was so saccharine that it was sickly. but sunday wouldn't have it any other way.

but sunday soon remembered just why he wanted to stay away.

the day he received the news was the day his world shattered. the harshness of reality he so desperately wanted to help people stray away from had befallen upon him and his feelings. the news of you “accident” caused him to freeze.

was this your reality? had he failed to protect you from the harrowing reality of life?

sunday dropped everything to see you. he needed to know the exact details of your condition, to know if you were okay. but looking back upon this decision, perhaps ignorance was bliss. not knowing would've been better than seeing you in this state.

it shattered him in two when the news of your amnesia was told to him. if only this was a dream. a really bad one at that, a nightmare if he would. he had failed you.

and as you stared at him in confusion, no hints of familiarity found in your gaze for him,

sunday could nearly cry.

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn, @https-sourlimes

[weebsinstash]

I'm genuinely wondering (and scared of) if or when we are going to start seeing authors and content creators get censored or even jailed because like

If the gop is simultaneously trying to eliminate queer identities and sexual freedom from the public eye and ban porn on top of trying to fudge the law to make things like being trans or gay and existing in the presence of a child an actual felony pedophilia charge, I'm just wondering if we are eventually going to see the creators of entirely fictional content be charged with sex crimes because our content can hypothetically be accessed by children, or they'll create some new bullshit religious nonsense like "production of morally unrighteous material" (which, I'm gonna bring up, is something that has already happened in other hostile foreign nations)

I just. There's not enough time in the day to verbalize how their hatred is based on hating that other people are allowed to think and believe differently than they do and they "know" they're "doing the right thing" by trying to literally force you to follow their beliefs, they genuinely believe they are "saving you", and these freaks legitimately want you to die if you're not some heterosexual gender conforming God fearing Christian

Even members of my own extended family want to preach how "all abortion is murder" when they literally tried to bully my grandmother into aborting my mom because it was a baby born out of wedlock

I just wish actual kindness and logic and morality won in America for once instead of us witnessing the rise of American fascism for not even the first time in our country's history

[athymelyreply]

A highly recommended read. Full text of article under cut

On October 7, I was not hiding with my child in the safe room. My house was not burnt to the ground, and my husband didn't blow me a last kiss before his killer fired a fatal bullet.

I was safely at home in London where I have lived for over 30 years when my elderly peace-activist parents, Oded and Yocheved Lifschitz, along with 77 others members of the community, were taken hostage, barefoot and in their pajamas from their homes in the kibbutz where I was born and raised.

Israel's hostages in Gaza: A matter of life and death

Israeli peace activists who lost loved ones in the Hamas massacre stand their ground

What we can learn from released Hamas hostage Yocheved Lifshitz

For the past 229 days, together with the families of the other of hostages taken captive which now number 128, we have taken part in the fight for the lives of our loved ones.

A photo of the writer, Sharone Lifschitz's parents, Yocheved and Oded Lifschitz, who were both kidnapped by Hamas to Gaza on October 7. To date, only Yocheved Lifschitz has returned. Credit: Amiram Oren

In Nir Oz, my family's kibbutz, one in four people (117 in total), were either executed or kidnapped. We are still piecing together the events of that brutal day that Hamas terrorists and some Gazan civilians, perpetrated medieval levels of cruelty, driven by hate and revenge, blinded by radical religious ideology and super-charged with amphetamines.

Last month, at the "Seder in the Streets" event in New York, activist Naomi Klein spoke as if none of that ever took place. Instead, addressing hundreds who gathered for a combination Passover Seder and protest of the war in Gaza, she spoke of what she termed the "False Idol of Zionism", comparing Jewish support of it to the Israelites "worshiping" the golden calf and recalling Moses' rage seeing the spectacle.

Klein's interpretation seems to miss the point: Moses, unlike Klein, did not disengage. He did not give up on his people when they worshipped a false idol. Instead, without compromising his integrity and beliefs, he guided them through the desert for forty more years in their journey to become a nation. Klein, at this dangerous moment in history, is failing to lead her listeners to take responsibility, to engage and work towards a shared future in the region for Jews and Palestinians, one built on the preciousness of life on both sides and an understanding of the original intention of Zionism: the necessity for a safe home for the Jewish people.

"Seder in the Street" was also protesting the heartbreaking and ongoing humanitarian crisis in Gaza and settler violence in the West Bank. Many in Israel, like my parents, would agree. Yet their plight and that of the other hostages – most of them civilians, from a baby boy of one year to a man of 86 - are not mentioned at Seder in the Streets or other gatherings of far-left pro-Palestinian Jewish activists.

My father, Oded Lifschitz, who is 83, and his friends who are also hostages, all in their late 70s and 80s, have worked for peace for decades. My mother, Yocheved Lifschitz, was thankfully released after 17 days of captivity.

Yocheved Lifschitz after being released from 17 days in Hamas captivity, in Tel Aviv, Israel in late October. Credit: Tomer Appelbaum

How much more effective these protests could be if activists abroad could act as a bridge between the pro-Palestinian movement and progressives fighting for peace in Israel?

Hamas, a terrorist organization which has been systematically stripping freedom, women's rights and democracy from the Gaza strip since 2006 are also strangely left out of the discussion. In fact, I see more criticism of the Hamas attack and crimes from moderate Palestinian voices than from prominent Jewish voices of the pro-Palestinian movement in the United States and Europe.

Klein is instead content in disengaging from Israel based on a distorted idea of Zionism and in so doing offers no solidarity with the moderate, progressive Jews living in Israel and for whom rejecting Zionism is irrelevant at this moment. Whether we like our government's policies or hate them as many do, Israel is home. Just as Canada is Klein's home, whether or not she likes the policies of the Canadian government or condones its mistreatment of its Indigenous population.

I consider myself pro-Palestinian. My family has always fought for a shared future for our two peoples, understanding this key point: our fates are interlinked. My parents have advocated for peace and equality for and with the Palestinians since the 1960s. We have united as a family to protest policies of the current Israeli government we find abhorrent. I wish for the Palestinians what I want for my own people: to live without bloodshed, in their own democratic state, as part of a negotiated two-state solution.

The facts are indisputable to Zionists and non-Zionists alike: There are about 7 million Jews and 7 million Palestinians living in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories of the West Bank and Gaza. Jewish Israelis cannot be expected to reject the idea that they can and should have the right to live safely in Israel. Without Israel, where would they go?

Everyone who cares about what's best for the region must strengthen those who are working for a peaceful future. As my father always says, "You make peace with your enemies."

A Palestinian family rides on the back of a donkey-drawn carriage next to damaged buildings in Khan Yunis, in the southern Gaza Strip, in April.Credit: AFP

Thanks to international efforts to formulate a plan for the "day after" the war in Gaza, we are potentially closer to a long-term political agreement to lift us out of conflict than ever before. To help facilitate it, American and European progressives must distinguish between religious fanatics on both sides and those working toward a path of justice and peace for everyone in the region.

We must differentiate the liberal American pro-Palestinian activists from those who justify Hamas atrocities as acts of resistance. The dominant current narrative of the American far left, including the Jews among them, unwittingly aligns with Iran, and with antidemocratic and illiberal forces.

Instead of fostering hate and promoting disengagement from Israel, progressives abroad should help those in the region regain a sense that another future is possible and advocate for a negotiated political agreement that would create a state of Palestine established alongside the state of Israel. It won't be perfect, but it will be a good start.

The work of advocating for a different, sustainable future, must start with a call for the immediate release of hostages as part of a long-term agreement, backed by America and its allies, including moderate Arab states, that has the potential to transform the lives of Palestinians and Israelis by rescuing them from this ongoing tragedy. To fail to do so is to fail not just the hostages and their families, but to throw all the people of the region further into the abyss and undo the inspiring work of moderate forces within Israeli and Palestinian society.

In this, our darkest hour, we ask ourselves, who is our enemy? My enemy is the blind hate that seeks to erase the humanity of the other side. All of us who are horrified by what is unfolding in Gaza should work toward empowering the people of the region to move away from our common enemy. That's not Zionism, but rather the religious fanaticism we have within both our societies – Israeli and Palestinian – that threatens to engulf us all.

Sometimes, I want to shout at the news on TV, to remind people that their indulgent engagement in hatred of one side is so futile, so self-congratulatory. We can do better.

As we bleed and grieve, and in the case of families like my own – hang suspended between hope and despair for the fate of our loved ones, we must seek points of human connection between Jews and Palestinians, we must fight, not against one another, but for a practical solution that dismantles the status quo so that we can all survive – and live in freedom and security.

Sharone Lifschitz is a London-based filmmaker and academic originally from Kibbutz Nir Oz, whose parents were taken hostage on October 7. On Twitter: @Lifschitz_sha