#pulitzer center

[endimpunityday]

SESSION II: Safety of Journalists in environmental crises and disasters: Defending the defenders.

Session II: International Day to End Impunity for Crimes Against Journalists 2024.

10:15 - 10:35 am.

- Mr. Kunda Dixit, Journalist, Editor and co-publisher, Himalmedia

- Ms. Meera Selva, CEO Internews Europe

- Ms. Madeleine Ngeunga, Africa Editor, Pulitzer Center.

[beenasarwar]

Global community screenings of 'Democracy in Debt' conclude the first phase with enthusiastic engagement

The documentary has resonated far beyond Sri Lanka, with nearly 50 screenings in 14 countries across five continents. From bustling urban venues to intimate community gatherings, the screenings have sparked critical conversations on governance, transparency, and democracy. By Pragyan Srivastava/Sapan News The Pulitzer Center-supported documentary ‘Democracy in Debt: Sri Lanka Beyond the…

[fictionadventurer]

Everything I learn about Rose Wilder Lane makes me more and more aware that she was a hilariously outrageous person who needs a movie made about her immediately.

After leaving Missouri, she moves to California and marries a real-estate guy who once tried to get her to help him con the railroad.

She gets hired at a San Francisco newspaper known for its yellow journalism, where she does things like writing a series of columns featuring the "real-life stories of a police detective" who, in real life, was a high-end jewel thief.

Her first book is a first-person "autobiography" of Charlie Chaplin that she (after a few interviews with Chaplin) completely made up, and that Charlie Chaplin immediately threatened to sue her publisher for.

Her second book is a biography of Jack London, which his wife only reluctantly allowed her to write because Rose presented herself as "someone who had never written for the newspapers before and needs a chance to break into the magazines." This book was also almost entirely fictional, and her publisher also almost got sued over it.

Third biography is the first-ever biography of Herbert Hoover, also a heavily-fictionalized account. (Doesn't seem to have been sued for this one. Steps in the right direction!)

Traveled as a reporter through Europe (to places like Albania and Poland) post-WWI. (If we want to talk about legal things that she did).

Wrote a book based on Laura's late-childhood pioneer experiences while Laura was writing the early books of the Little House series, and did not tell Laura about it. (Laura was ticked off).

Kept trying to insert a story into Laura's memoirs (and Little House on the Prairie) casting Pa as a member of a posse that hunted down the infamous (and never-caught) serial-killing Bender family (despite the fact that this was historically impossible). (It got to the point that Laura herself told this story to the public as an example of "a true story I couldn't out in my children's book." Despite the fact, I say again, that this was historically impossible).

During WWII, endured a minor incident (it involved one cop coming to her house) where the FBI investigated her as a potential communist based on a postcard she sent that was critical of the government. Turned this into a short story that presented herself as the righteously-outraged American citizen fighting against an oppressive government, and used this to whip up a nationwide media campaign against J. Edgar Hoover for spying on American citizens.

Flew to Vietnam as a war reporter when she was in her seventies.

[muserepeats]

The Last of Us: Season 1, Episode 3.

[danlous]

71-year-old pulitzer finalist Eric Bogosian being on tiktok is already funny but 'toxic old man yaoi' being in the center of this post and the only one he liked is killing me

[mariasont]

Please, Don't Prove 'Em Right - A.H

a/n: my girl sabrina can do no wrong and i have been listening to this song on repeat since it came out so i just absolutely needed to write a fic about it

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: aaron hotchner is a busy man and he tends to disappoint you by missing important events

warnings: angst (sorry in advance), aaron is like not a great husband, reader is also an imperfect character, reader is a girl boss though

wc: 1.2k

You were in your best dress. More expensive than you'd ever think about buying for yourself, but it had been a gift from Aaron. You had fought him on it, scolding him for spending so much on a dress you were sure to only wear once. But he had insisted, telling you that this opportunity was once in a lifetime and that it would be a sin for it to not be celebrated with a dress that made you shine like a ruby.

He was right, partly, you were shining--glowing, sparkling, glittering--as you moved through the library. It was beautiful, to say the least--all opulence and history that was almost too much to absorb. The marble floors almost seemed to amplify the conversations around you, the clinking of glasses, the swish of overpriced gowns and tuxedos.

Your eyes settled on the tiered desks fitted with bronze reading lamps, now repurposed as a station for hors d'oeuvres and champagne. The circular arrangement of desks, once centered around knowledge, now facilitated hushed gossip and the discreet laughter of society's finest.

You could almost hear what they were thinking: there she is again without her husband, that poor thing always by herself, and your personal favorite—does he even exist?

You wanted to be angry, to scold their prying eyes, for putting their noses into something that had nothing to do with them whatsoever. But could you really blame them? Every event you attended you told the same story--my husband is a busy man with an important job--a line you had grown tired of repeating. 

And that was all true. He devoted most of his time to saving lives--how could you find fault in that? How could you complain to having a husband whose very essence was self-sacrifice and heroism?

This evening was set to be an exception; he was in New York for a case, and the Pulitzer Prize ceremony was not something he would miss. He had given you his word.

You understood his passion for his job, completely, because you held that same passion for your own. You dedicated years of your life to your journalism, investigating corruption at its highest levels. This is exactly how you ended up here tonight, nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for that very work. A Pulitzer Prize.

The term once seemed like a fantastical concept to you, a lofty accolade reserved for the likes of JFK, Bob Dylan, Robert Frost--icons, not someone as ordinary as you. Yet, against all odds, you find yourself among the select few, a nominee for an honor that has only been won by 1,512 individuals since 1917, a fact Spencer had supplied you with.

Someone was speaking to you, saying your name. Almost without thinking, your hand found a flute of champagne, taking a generous sip before turning to face them.

"You look stunning, and a well-deserved congratulations are in order. Everyone back at the office is cheering for you." It was your boss, her stilettos adding inches to her already imposing frame.

The flattery didn't quite mask her usual coldness, it was all too artificial. She wasn't your biggest fan, and she had made that clear from your first day. Still, you mustered a smile and thanked her anyway, taking another sip of champagne, hoping to drown away her nauseating voice.

"It's too bad your husband couldn't be here," she began, and you had to resist the urge to rip out her extensions. "This is an incredible accomplishment, but he's quite the busy man, as you say."

"Yes, he is busy, but he'll be here tonight," you replied, flashing her your best smile as you smoothed the red fabric that suddenly felt too tight. "He's actually here in New York on a case."

"Oh, how great. I can't wait to put a face to the name." You could tell by the look she shot her own husband that she didn't believe a word from your mouth. "Anyway, I have to go speak with an academy representative, but I'll see you and your husband at the ceremony?"

You responded with a nod, not dignifying her with words as she left, her giggles a bitter sound. You hated her. And you were ready to make her eat her words when your husband, who looked absolutely incredibly in a suit, showed up.

But then it was dinner, and you found yourself alone, surrounded by a table of important people whose names you couldn't remember. The seat beside you was empty and suddenly that omnipotent, cloud-nine feeling you had vanished with the time that passed.

The text you sent piled up, feeling a little juvenile, like you were back in high school again getting stood up at prom.

Let me know when you're close!

Is everything going okay?

Call me if you can.

An onslaught of anxious thoughts skyrocketed around your mind as you mechanically chewed the fancy food that only seemed to upset your stomach further. What if something happened? Was he okay? Did the case go wrong? Did he get in a car accident on the way here?

You were a bundle of nerves, gnawing on the inside of your mouth as your heel tapped up and down against the floor. But this wasn't borne from concern for his well-being; deep down, you were certain he was fine. The truth was simpler and sharper: he wasn't coming.

You should have been prepared, should have braced for this, but you were convinced that this time, this occasion would be an exception.

You name was being called, but this time not by someone wanting to extract prying information or stir speculation, no, this time it was carried across the crowed, wrapped in the microphone's static hum.

Your head snapped up, fingers ceasing their fidgeting as you struggled to mask the shock and avoid the gaping, breathless look of a fish out of water.

You had won.

People were clapped, but it seemed far away as you made your way to the stage, hands coming from all directions to offer pats on the back and handshakes of congratulations.

You had won.

Your feet were carrying you up a small set of stairs. You were trying to remember how to walk--left, right, heel, toe. There was a bright light on you now, prompting a slight squint and you worked to keep a smile on your face as you accepted the award.

You had to be dreaming. Had to be. There was no other explanation.

You were on display now, under the intense stage lights. Your body was on autopilot, stepping behind the podium, words flowing out of your mouth--a speech you had rehearsed over and over again in the slim chance that you would win. And here you are.

But the more you spoke the more you seemed to deviate from the script.

You paused, voice catching as you tried your best not to let the tears fall--your makeup was too pristine for smears.

"But tonight, as I accept this honor, I am reminded that while we may seek comfort in the presence of others, our truest strength comes from within." Your eyes dart around the audience, clinging to the slim chance he's there, that he showed up. "It comes from knowing that when we step into the moment, we step in with conviction, with passion, and sometimes, with a singularity that says we are enough."

The final words of your speech hang in the air, a brittle hope that disappears as quickly as it surfaced. He proved them right, and no amount of applause can drown out the sound of your heart breaking just a little.

part 2

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179

[could8963]

[911cast]

juliacunninghaaam: The Jess Cagle Show gets to the bottom of the alleged FIRST EDITION OF THE ILIAD gifted to J.Lo in The Boy Next Door! Journalism. Pulitzer. Kennedy Center Honor. Thank you @/ryanaguzman for being so much fun!

[make-friends-with-the-rats]

Color Symbolism in Newsies

Newsies (1992) is much beloved for it's use of color. From the pastels of the ensemble newsies to Jack's distinctive red bandana, the use of certain colors in the film do an excellent job of helping to tell the story. Exhibit A: the contrast between Jack's bandana and David's blue shirt which creates a visual representation of the contrast between the personalities of our two main characters.

Coupled with historical context and meanings, there are many connections between and insights into characters that can be gained by paying close attention to how Newsies uses color.

For the sake of brevity, I'll just be analyzing the colors in Newsies as they are used in costuming and ignoring set design or we could be here all night.

Red

In political history, red has often stood for revolution and rebellion. It's no wonder then that the leaders of Brooklyn and Manhattan both wear red. Red also indicates passion and bravery, which are key to the strike.

Besides Jack and Spot, Pulitzer wears red when Jack is brought to his study and attempts to bribe Jack to scab. Aka, Pulitzer is dressed in red at the height of exercising his power over Jack.

Center: Jack And The Beanstalk. Illustration for unidentified book of children's nursery literature, with Kronheim illustrations, c 1870

@sarahjacobs has an excellent post that talks about red symbolizing power in Newsies which you can read here.

Another interesting meaning for red comes from Jewish belief where the color red is linked to sin, but also to sacrifice and redemption. Jack scabbing to protect David and his friends after Pulitzer threatens them comes to mind.

You could consider Jack dawning his bandana again during "Once And For All" as symbolic of his redemption and reconciliation with the Jacobs and the newsies.

Red: Uncovering the Historical Significance of a Bold Color - Symbol Sage Political colour, Red - Wikipedia What colors symbolize Jewish culture?, Red

Pink

When most people think of pink, they often associate it with femininity. However, pink being a "girl" color is actually a modern idea which only gained significant popularity in the 1950s. Before this, pink was worn beginning in the 1700s by European aristocrats and became a color of success and class.

This meaning makes pink fitting for Miss Medda Larkson, the Swedish Meadowlark.

In the later half of the 19th century in particular, pink was also tied to youth, which is why we see Sarah and several newsboys alike in the color. As The Art of Dressing Well (1870) dictated, pink "is only fitted for the young. It is a charming color, and those to whom it is suited look very graceful in it."

Because it was also seen as a "paler shade of red", pink had masculine connotations that were also associated with red. Pink therefore occasionally shares the meanings of passion, aggression, and bravery with its parent color.

The first time Sarah wears pink is when she discovers Denton's article and becomes directly involved with and passionate about the strike.

Oscar Delancey, arguably the more aggressive Delancey, wears a pink undershirt. You also have Kid Blink in a pink shirt who is known for being very passionate and short tempered.

The shade of pink that Blink wears is the same shade as Sarah's shawl which she wears when she punches Morris Delancey in the face. Medda too isn't afraid to fight back and speak her mind at the rally. She and Sarah both exhibit bravery.

Refined, rebellious and not just for girls: A cultural history of pink | CNN Tickled pink: colors in the Victorian era - Recollections Blog The complicated gender history of pink | CNN

Blue

You've likely heard the phrase "true blue" before, this is because blue has a reputation stretching far back in history for representing loyalty and trust. Blue also often represents intelligence and tranquility. It's extremely fitting then that David Jacobs is always seen in blue, especially because he values honesty and prefers peaceful means of protest to violence whenever possible.

The color blue, specifically tekhelet or a shade of blue described in the Torah, holds significant weight in Judaism. It is sometimes referred to as the 'color of God’s Glory’ in Rabbinic literature and has been used in ancient and modern Jewish symbolism alike. This connects the color blue to the Jacobs family as a whole.

Even without the association to Judaism, the Jacobs family puts high value in education and truth. After all, it was Mr. Jacobs who taught his children not to lie and who insists on David and Les returning to school.

Left: King David with the Lyre, 18th century Sebastiano Conca (1680-1764)

Left: Tekhelet (תְּכֵלֶת) or "sky blue" tzitzit; Right: King David. Psalterium et horae ad usum Sanctae Capellae Parisiensis, 1360-1400

Because blue was historically both an expensive dye and pigment for painters, blue was worn by and used in art for only the most important subjects. Thus, blue became symbolic of nobility.

To the Renaissance artists, there was no subject more important than the Virgin Mary. While blue had been tied to female figures and goddesses previously across several cultures, Renaissance depictions of Mary led to blue becoming widely associated with humility, grace, and femininity in the Western world.

Left: Periwinkle flower, a symbol of grace and femininity and a Christian symbol of the Virgin Mary

Pastel shades of blue in particular became commonly feminine colors suitable for women and girls in the 18th and 19th centuries. Hence, it makes sense that Sarah would wear blue at the rally.

All You Need to Know About What the Color Blue Symbolizes | Slightly Blue What does blue mean in Judaism? | Slightly Blue The Secret History of the Color Blue — Google Arts & Culture The History of Blue as a Women’s Color

Purple

Because of its rarity in the natural world, and the labor historically needed to create purple dye, purple was highly prized and was considered a symbol of high status and honor.

Spot Conlon is the only member of the our main cast of newsies to wear the color purple, which visually symbolizes the newsboys' respect for him, his reputation, and his involvement in the strike.

The purple detailing on Medda's costume when we first meet and are introduced to her by Jack is also an indication of the respect other characters have for her.

Purple can also denote ambition and independence, characteristics that suit both Spot and Medda well seeing as Spot has "moved up in the world" and Medda owns her own theater.

Why is Purple Considered the Color of Royalty? | HISTORY Purple: Color Meaning, Associations, and Effects

Black and Grey

What about lack of color? In Newsies, we can easily tell our heroes from the villains through the use of color. Or can we?

The villains or "opposing forces" are all dressed in dark greys or black as opposed to the pastels and shades of brown that the newsies and their allies wear. Jack Kelly is an interesting exception, dressed head to toe in dark hues with the one color being the red of his bandana. Visually, Jack could fit into a crowd of newsboys, or of scabs and goons.

Black has long been associated, for obvious reasons, with darkness and secrecy. Similarly, grey is often seen as representing foreboding, moral ambiguity, and evasiveness.

The use of grey and black for Jack clues us into the fact that he is lying about his past and his family and also foreshadows his betrayal of the strike.

Which Colour represents evil?

[whenweallvote]

#OnThisDay in 1993, American novelist Toni Morrison became the first Black woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Morrison was widely acclaimed for her poetic storytelling and centering the Black experience. Throughout her life, she penned 11 novels, in addition to children’s books and essay collections. Her work earned her numerous recognitions, including a Pulitzer Prize in 1988 and a Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2012.

Today, we honor Toni Morrison’s brilliance and dedication to speaking truth to power.

[morbidology]

In the annals of photojournalism, few images have the power to evoke the profound mixture of emotion and reflection as starkly as "The Vulture and the Little Girl." Captured by South African photojournalist Kevin Carter in March 1993, this harrowing photograph became a symbol of the Sudan famine and a stark commentary on the world’s response to human suffering.

In 1993, Sudan was gripped by a severe famine, a result of civil war and drought. The famine devastated the country, leading to widespread starvation and death. To bring global attention to the crisis, Carter, alongside other journalists, traveled to Sudan. It was in a small village near Ayod that Carter took the photograph that would become one of the most iconic and controversial images of the 20th century.

The photograph shows a frail, emaciated child collapsed on the ground, too weak to move, with a vulture ominously perched in the background, seemingly waiting for the child to die.

Published by The New York Times on March 26, 1993, the photograph immediately drew international attention. It became a catalyst for a global outcry and increased awareness of the Sudanese famine. However, the photograph also sparked significant controversy and ethical debate within the field of journalism and beyond.

Critics questioned Carter’s role and responsibilities as a photojournalist. Many were outraged that Carter had taken the photograph without helping the child. The photographer later stated that he waited about 20 minutes, hoping the vulture would fly away, and that he eventually chased the bird off. He left the scene after the child resumed her struggle towards a nearby feeding center.

Nevertheless, the moral dilemma persisted in public discourse: Should Carter have intervened rather than capturing the image?

Carter's photograph won the Pulitzer Prize for Feature Photography in 1994, cementing its place in history. Yet, the acclaim came at a significant personal cost. Haunted by the memories of his experiences in Sudan and the criticism he faced, Carter struggled with depression. On July 27, 1994, just months after receiving the Pulitzer, Carter took his own life.

In his suicide note, Carter wrote about the intense pain he experienced witnessing so much suffering and his inability to reconcile the horrors he documented with his role as an observer.

[wizardshark]

had a chat with @digby-official about a theoretical book about a gameshow-- based on survivor, love island, and sex house-- where the ship loaded up with all the show's supplies and cast and crew gets into a storm and crashes on the island they were going to use. They're cut off from civilization and need to survive on this island that with a proper crew and safety equipment is a fun little romp, but without any of that stuff? These extreme elimination challenges become death traps.

There's a radio transceiver on a wooden platform in the middle of this lake. If we can get to that, we might be able to use it to call for help. Normally you reach the center of the lake after jumping through the American Ninja Warrior challenge and hit the radio and it records your time then someone comes to get you in a boat, but that boat isn't HERE, and we NEED that radio. Now this course is extremely dangerous and any injury you get could be fatal when we don't have a trained medical crew on staff.

The best/worst part? This is a reality show. All of these people were chosen not for their individual survivor skills, but because their personalities will clash and it will create DRAMA. They are barely able to work together under the least stressful of circumstances, and now they're unbelievably stressed and afraid.

The narrative twist is that the first half of the book is in third person, and the second half reveals that the third person was one of the camera men still recording when someone "turns towards me and says you have to have an opinion on this, right?". The camera crew has been rationing batteries and SD cards and a single laptop to record this probably-pulitzer-winning experience; they've even still been doing the reality show interviews. From then on, the story is specifically first person as the camera crew become a second group of characters helping out.

They were supposed to be on the island for 3 months of core photography. Now they're here with no food, half of a dead crew, and no one expecting them back for 3 months. But oh they're not back after 4? Clearly they had to do pickup shots. 5? 6? How long until the ravenous TV industry moves on and they're forgotten?

[floral-ashes]

The Pulitzer Center’s Fighting Words Poetry Contest invites students to write poems in relation articles they have published. One of the finalists wrote on the article by Simón(e) D. Sun and I, and the poem is truly touching! 🥺🏳️‍⚧️

Link to poem.

[willemsragnarsson]

have no idea how to put this in a more coherent manner but i'm kind of obsessed with how they're doing loumandaniel with daniel as the testament of their companionship, their boy being a center between two sides -- louis as his lifeline, his angel and saviour and armand posed as the devil that tortured him, the gentleman death -- that even the words they give him are echoes of each other & those words turning into essentially a prophecy to daniel's future: shitty marriages, estranged daughters and loneliness at the end of his life as armand told him, and yet he's still the journalist with the point of view that always be able to hold a job, winning two pulitzers, as louis says, & now he's back, chasing a story and being led back to another round between these two's stormy romance.

[comicarc]

𝐈 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 (𝐗)

previous • next

"A lonely moon craving for the radiant sun." In which a certain girl catches the attention of a prideful billionaire playboy as they both attempt to find their way in the world. (I haven't seen many fics explore Bruce in his formative years, so I thought I'd share my take on them, of course with romance.)

wc: 3444

Entering the elaborate ballroom at the Manor, y/n was immediately greeted by some politicians hoping they would have the limelight shined on them in her articles. y/n was by no means a stranger to high society, for many people in the room knew of her. It was rather a matter of them never having interacted with her, that had left then unable to make their impressions. With her there to grace them with her presence, a plethora of powerful people began interacting with the girl in hopes of getting her on their payroll or at least to remain in her good graces.  

The Falcone story had sent shockwaves throughout Gotham, for it made the immortal, mortal. The most powerful, richest, influential, and dominating man in all of Gotham was able to be put behind bars by some measly girl’s investigation, so of course, the elite feared what she could do. There was a power in her words, unrivaled by even those Pulitzer prize-winners in Metropolis.

It was her first time attending an event of this grandeur, and so far she was exhausted. In an attempt to catch a break from the nauseating atmosphere, she made her way to the snack bar after politely dismissing ten more people. There, she was met with a familiar face, the only one she had been fearing to see. 

“Ms. y/n, a pleasure to make your acquaintance tonight. I see you’ve taken a liking to the dress I sent you?” Bruce began, plastering his signature smile for all his guests to swoon over.

y/n felt disgusted finally figuring out that the sender had been Bruce. Of course, he wouldn’t have written it was from him, for he knew she would never have worn anything he’d give her.  All of sudden, the dress felt too tight around her shoulders, her arms felt trapped within the sleeves, her waist felt as though it would rip the seams, and she felt as though she was going to collapse from the realization. She felt like a pity case, all over again. 

“Is that Mr. Grayson hiding behind your leg?” She changed the subject, not wanting to dwell on the matter of her dread. “You look quite handsome tonight.” She enthused, as she looked at the shy boy.

Meeting her gaze, the boy immediately moved away from Bruce’s leg to stand in front of her. He seemed so enthusiastic all of a sudden, but y/n simply thought it was because the boy was finally the center of someone’s attention tonight. 

“Don’t I?” He strutted a pose, to which y/n chuckled. Bruce remained all but ignored, as y/n continued to keep the boys company for a little while longer. She needed to interview the play boy billionaire for her article, but kept putting it off for a little longer couldn’t have hurt her.

Sensing the tension between the two adults, Dick Grayson did what any good son would do, he attempted to instigate it further. He wanted the two of them to talk, having never seen y/n or Bruce have a conversation in the whole year he’d been living with billionare. He knew a part of y/n wanted to see the Bruce she once knew again, but there were too many holes in her story for him to piece together why they had an apparent hatred for each other. 

He moved his conversation with her to somewhere private, a corner behind the snack bar that was hidden from the view of others, but not scandalous enough to be the cause of any gossip. Pausing his discussion with her, Dick dragged a startled Bruce to the same corner. “You can conduct your interview now Ms. y/n. I hope my father won’t be too much of a bother.” He innocently voiced, knowing that Bruce’s anger would dissipate when the gala was done.

Chuckling, y/n waved the little boy farewell, before turning to Bruce. She had but opened her mouth, before the man cut her off as he began, “What would you like to know? I hope we can keep this short seeing as I still have to host for a few more hours.”

“Of course…” y/n kept her questions short and simple. After all, she was only writing a fluff piece about the re-emergence of the eccentric billionaire after almost a decade of his absence. As soon as she thanked him for his time, the man practically ran away from her. Since her duty was done for the night, y/n downed another wine glass and left the room with a weight lifted off her shoulders. 

As she walked down the lavish steps of the Manor, y/n felt a child’s hands grasp hers. Stopping, she turned to face the kid holding her hand and was met with the sight of Dick Grayson once again. He was panting, and his face was red from the cold. His hands were sweaty, and at first, his words seemed incomprehensible. But after he regained his breath, the child articulated, “Don’t go, Ms. y/n, the Joker’s rigged all the cars with bombs. Anyone who leaves is dead. He’s instructed everyone to gather in the ballroom and discard all their jewelry.”

So something did in fact happen tonight, how strange. Regardless, y/n’s first instinct was to make sure the boy was safe, “Mr. Grayson, you shouldn’t be out here then. You’re just a kid, y’know. No need to be playing hero right now. I’ll walk with you inside, and I’ll make sure you’re with your father, safe and sound. But I heed you, stay close to me and listen to everything I say. Ok?” How the hell was she going to get out of this one?

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Dick’s hand was securely fastened in y/n’s as she walked inside once again. There were twelve masked gunmen, two standing at each exit. On the side away from the largest entrance, all the guests were gathered, stripped of all the riches they had been flaunting. y/n and Dick were the only people unaccounted for was all she could gather from the faint whisper of the guard behind her. A man motioned for her to deposit her earrings, and she did so with one hand, making sure that Dick’s remained locked to her other. 

She slowly walked to the crowd of people, where she crouched down to remain at Dick’s side. She could feel him tremble from the cold or fear, she didn’t know, yet regardless she wasn’t going to let him feel it. To reassure the boy, she whispered, “This’ll be quite the story to tell your friends at school, won’t it? Just imagine how their jaws would drop knowing how brave you were tonight.” She could see a hint of a smile ghosting his lips as he processed her words. 

Looking up, her eyes wandered around the room, eventually drawn to the origin of a high-pitched voice entering the building. “Mista J, what do you suppose we do with these folk?”

Seeing the dual-tone-haired girl prancing about as she swung her bat in circles, all y/n could think about was the past. The way her fingers clung to the clown, in an emphatic desperation for love made bile rise up y/n’s throat. 

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Bzzz

The muffled hum of a phone vibrating against the bedside table awoke her. The sound was slightly muffled by the whir of the fan spinning overhead paired with the buzz of light traffic outside the apartment building. Only illuminated by the faint neon lights outside her window, Harley squinted her heavy eyes to make out where her phone lay. As she glanced over the bedside table, her eyes lingered by the static red glow of her alarm as it read “3:00 AM”. At the sight, Harley decided to retract her arm back to her side, contemplating whether she was desperate enough to answer. He would always do this to her, and she would always give in.

Her mind, now overwhelmed with conflicting thoughts, kept her awake. She lay with her eyes wide open observing every rotation of the fan overhead, her arms resting on her stomach, unconsciously balled into shaking fists, and her legs glued together laying flat atop the bedsheet. It wasn’t the first time he had come this late, but it was the first time that he never told her about it. All day, she hadn’t received a single notification from him. The thought of losing him, the only person that she could call truly hers, was unbearable. Her heart was already scarred, but the thought of another blemish haunted her. 

Underneath all the layers of blankets, the cool breeze from the fan still made her shiver. She craved warmth that only he could provide now, and with that realization, she shifted her entire body to reach for the phone once again. She felt the cold touch of metal between her fingers as she tapped the screen. There was one notification, but surprisingly enough, it was from an unknown number. In defeat, Harley left the message unread and let the phone fall out of her grasp and onto the comforter. 

Before she could resort back to her melancholy, she heard the front door of her apartment creak open. The motion seemed to be slow as the sound was prolonged. A rush of adrenaline overcame her, and Harley immediately jumped out of bed, leaving the sheets a mess and allowing her phone to slip onto the hardwood floor. Unbeknownst to this, Harley tip-toed to the closed door of her bedroom and creaked it open to take a peek at the living room. Despite the shiver that ran down her spine, as the cool air from the fan hit her exposed skin, she couldn’t help but feel elated. There he was, in all his glory.

In the dimly lit living room, Harley could barely make out his figure. In her awe at his still form, all Harley could see was someone else. His broad shoulders, tall stature and stiff stance all reminded her of who she was truly desperate for. But she couldn’t have him, and so this man standing in front of her would have to do. No – he would do. For he was here and the other was not.

“Hey there pretty lady. Did I wake you?”

Caught, Harley stumbled across the entrance of her room towards the kitchen where he stood. She hugged him from behind, an unseen smile plastered across her face. He was here.

“No silly, I was waiting for you.”

“How many times have I told you Harley, you don’t have to stay up to wait for me. I’ll come to you.”

“But you never texted me James, and I was worried.”

Turning himself around, James embraced Harley, lightly kissing the top of her head as he did. “I’m fine and I’m here now.”

Harley loved James, but she never understood why. His mild distaste for her was quite apparent, and there were no rose-colored glasses that could hide the obvious from her. But Harley was desperate to feel any sort of affection. She wanted someone, no matter how much of a lie it was. But there are lines that one should never cross. Lines that could finally break even the strongest of diamonds.

Moving her hand across his back to help him relax, she felt a wad of cash tucked into his belt. She grabbed it and turned around to observe it. Oblivious to her action, James continued to embrace her, as he did every time he came late. Harley felt around the band and saw a note peeking out from it. Meticulously squeezing it out from the wad, Harley read:

My special treat, for all your generosity. Be sure to come back to the club soon, I’ll be missing you!

Love,

The signature was smudged, but the message was clear. Harley would be lying if she said she didn’t know he was cheating. But he could have at least had the decency to be discreet. She was desperate, but not enough to lose her pride. She wasn’t a toy that he could pick and choose when to play with. She was desperate, but not weak. 

Walking out from his grasp, Harley turned around facing him and threw the wad of cash across the room. Looking up, the dim light showed her what even the blaring sun never could. His clothes were wrinkly with faint lipstick smudges littered across, a hickey hid slightly above the collar of his shirt and his lips had a hint of neon orange painted on the sides. 

“Had fun, tonight?” She questioned. 

“No, of course not.”

“Stop lying, James.”

His eyebrows furrowed at the tone of her voice. With a confused expression, he walked towards her, looking down at her face. “I’m not lying.” 

Though slightly flustered by his proximity, she looked him dead in the eye before weakly hitting his chest with her fist. Not enough to hurt him, just enough to get the message across. “Stop it.”

He stood motionless, looking back at her, their faces inches apart. He could see the tears forming, waiting to tip over the edge of her waterline and roll down her cheek. “Are you high?”

Another hit, this time with more force. Her voice broke a bit as she said, “Stop lying.” 

“I’m not.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” This time a slap across his face with enough force to leave a mark.

He walked forward, still maintaining his close proximity to her. Eventually, he backed her to a wall where she let all hell loose. The loose strands of her hair brushed against her face as tears rolled down her eyes. She continued to hit him again and again until she had used all her strength and let herself succumb to the pain in her palms. They continued to look into each other’s eyes, all the while both too fearful of what may happen if they looked away.

Raising her hand to hit him again, he pinned it against the wall. He moved his face even closer to hers, almost touching, and whispered, “I didn’t lie.”

But it was obvious. Both of them knew he was just trying to save face. Make her look like the bad guy for hitting an innocent man. He was trying to manipulate her for the umpteenth time and she was tired of playing along as usual. She kicked his leg and let her arms free from his grip. 

“Leave.” She pointed at the door he had walked in from a few moments ago. “And don’t ever come back to me again.”

Complying almost immediately, he walked to the door. Before exiting he said, “You need me Harley. You’ll realize that soon enough.” With that, the door slammed shut, and Harley was left alone in the almost silent apartment. 

Harley headed to the door and locked it. What did I do? Harley turned herself and slid her back down against the door until she was sitting. He was right. She needed someone. She let her tears flow freely, leaving her a sobbing mess, her hands red and stinging from hitting him so many times and her mind aching. All she wanted to do was feel the warmth of a loving embrace. Standing up, Harley made her way back into her bedroom. She climbed into her bed and hugged her comforter. This was all the warmth she would ever get. 

She spread her arms, stretching them to touch the sides of the bed. She realized that her phone was no longer atop the blankets and promptly shifted herself to look underneath the bed. She leaned against the edge and stuck a hand in the darkness, dragging her fingers across the dusty floor to find the device. Eventually, she was successful. Brushing the dust and dirt off of her phone, she brought it to her face. The touch had lit the bright screen and reminded her of the notification she had previously chosen to ignore.

Again, she was drawn away from the notification by the swift footsteps of her roommate as she made her way into the room. y/n’s shadow caressed the walls as she made her way into the bed Harley lay in. y/n’s body heat instantly warmed the other girl, as she cuddled with her. Tears rolled down her cheek uncontrollably, as a hand moved up and down her back. 

“Was this about Arkham? You’re internship?” y/n questioned, hoping that it wasn’t.

Harley remained silent, save for the hiccups that had begun to overtake her. Reaching for the nightstand, y/n grabbed a water bottle and urged the sobbing girl to take a sip. After Harley gulped down half the bottle, she finally responded, “No, he was cheatin’ on me. I shoulda seen it comin’ but I–he–I’ve got a thing for broken people don’t I? It’s probably cause I think it’ll fix me to fix them.”

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The Joker strutted inside, in all his glory, ignoring all of Harley’s attempts to cling to him. Instead, he began barking orders for the gunmen to place gas canisters around the room. y/n could care less what the villain was conversing to his men about, her first matter of business was to ensure Dick’s safety. 

Shaking the lingering memory from her mind, y/n moved to rip a portion of her dress. The fabric was breathable, and it would surely be better than nothing when those canisters went off. She wrapped the torn fabric around Dick, making sure it was secure but not tight enough to hurt him. If she were to do the same, Joker and Harley would probably notice her actions. So instead, she opted to risk her safety. 

“Do you see your father anywhere?” y/n questioned the little boy.

Shaking his head, y/n sighed with frustration. Bruce couldn’t have left his child to die, no way. But then, where would he be? 

Amidst her train of thought, as her mind attempted to figure out where Bruce may have been, the glass ceiling above them shattered and smoke shrouded the room. In the confusion, y/n found an opportunity to slip away through the kitchen door of the ballroom. She held Dick’s hand firmly as they ran to the swinging door and bolted through the kitchen out the rear entrance. 

They were the only two people outside, leaving y/n with a subtle sense of relief. She ran farther away from the manor, using the darkness of the night and the abundant foliage to cover her and Dick’s presence. She finally let go of Dick’s hand when they were behind a bush, away from all the commotion. They had made their way to the front, now only needing to run to the iron gates at the end of the mile-long driveway to escape. 

“We’re safe here. Batman will probably get rid of the Joker soon enough.” She thought aloud, hoping to reassure the boy once more. He didn’t seem fazed by the ordeal in the slightest, seeming rather excited as he peered at the smoke billowing from the windows of the Manor. 

y/n turned around to catch a glimpse of what was going down in the ballroom, but her view was covered by the fire erupting at the entrance as one of the limos parked there exploded. The fire danced against its dark surroundings as though it were the belle of its self-proclaimed ball. The yellow flames spread, extending its warm touch to the rest of the cars causing a cascading effect of eruptions. The sight would have been beautiful if not for the circumstance, and yet y/n remained fascinated with it, unable to sever her eyes from it. 

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Who are you?” James screamed, his body alight. He limped out of his burning home, attempting to reach for the girl walking in front of him.

“Death.” Her voice was articulate, despite all the ruckus that the crumbling structure of his house was making. 

He laughed, hearing the words. What else could he do? Scream? Help wasn’t coming and no firefighter would ever be able to save him. That Harley character was bad news from the beginning, but he never expected her to be his end. Hoping that the pain would end, he stabbed himself with the sharpest thing on the ground. Despite the pain of the intrusion, not a sound left his lips. As he bled silently, his corpse burning to ash, the man was unrecognizable. 

Turning around to face the scene, y/n remarked, “You’re lucky, the others never felt a mercy like this.”

˖ ࣪🦇𓆰♡𓆪🦇ִ ࣪⋆

taglist: @earth-to-name

[the-badger-mole]

Are you serious about hating Aang? I know his writing goes to crap after ATLA, but he's so sweet in the show!

I'm dead serious. The way his character progresses through the post series canon is not a departure from his character in ATLA. Where he ended up by LoK doesn't surprise me at all. To paraphrase Pulitzer Prize winner, Kendrick Lamar, I hate the way that Aang walIks, the way that he talks. I hate the way that he dress. I hate the way that he sneak kiss. Let Katara's fist catch a flight, it's gon be direct.

I hate the way his people pleasing Nice Guy act is rewarded. I hate the way that the entire relationship between him and Katara centers him. He is never ten toes down for her. He's never ten toes down for any of his friends. I hate the way that his not even considering an alternative way to stop Ozai is treated like a virtue. Like he's too pure to notice how the war has affected the world around him, and especially the people he claims are his friends. Aang is one of, if not THEE worst protagonist I've ever encountered. And yes, ultimately it all boils down to the writing. That's literally all he is. If he had better writing, he would be a different character. How would I feel about that version of Aang? I don't know. He doesn't exist.