#senior women travel problems

[eretzyisrael]

by Gerald M. Steinberg

On 19 January 2025, following the conclusion of Israel’s ceasefire agreement with Hamas, three Israeli women were released after 471 days of captivity in Gaza. The hostages were transferred to Red Cross vehicles, where they were harassed and taunted by armed “militants” and a menacing crowd that pressed itself against the windows and chanted “Allahu Akbar!” Officials of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) did nothing to interfere with this intimidating display of indignity and public humiliation. Instead, uniformed ICRC officials complied when Hamas fighters handed them “certificates of completion to sign.” The three young women were then forced to hold these documents while their pictures were taken, as if they had come to Gaza for university courses.

This grotesque spectacle highlighted the degree to which the ICRC has been willing to serve as a prop for Hamas, before and after the Palestinian jihadists perpetrated the atrocities of 7 October 2023. More than 250 captives were seized from Israel on that terrible day. Most of them were alive, some were already dead, and a still-unknown number have since died in captivity or been murdered by their abductors. Not one of the Israeli abductees received a visit from the organisation ostensibly responsible for implementing the requirements of the Geneva Convention. The Red Cross did not provide a shred of information to the tormented families regarding the condition of the captives because, as its own official statements blandly insist, without the agreement of the Hamas, “the ICRC cannot act.”

Justifications like these are technically correct, but they sidestep the main issues raised by the ICRC’s critics. The anger expressed by Israelis and others is not caused by the ICRC’s failure to somehow force Hamas to allow visits and provide medications. The problem is that the organisation was largely passive and failed to use its vast prestige to demand access to the hostages or campaign for their release. The Red Cross officials who travelled throughout the region, including Qatar, did not hold press conferences where this message would have been amplified. Nor did they publish public letters addressed to, say, the heads of the Qatari government demanding assistance in pressing Hamas to follow basic humanitarian and legal principles on the treatment of its “prisoners.”

When they appeared on major media platforms, the ICRC’s officials did not bang on the tables or make any demands of Hamas at all. As Richard Goldberg, a senior advisor at the Foundation for the Defense of Democracy in Washington, DC has pointed out, “Many members of the International Committee of the Red Cross—who visited Gaza, held press conferences and left without bringing holy hell down on Hamas, kicking and screaming and demanding that they see the hostages—have blood on their hands.” Instead, the ICRC officials meekly and repeatedly offered the excuse that kicking, screaming, and banging on tables was simply not possible.

Similarly, on social-media platforms, the references to the hostages were few and far between. In 2024, the ICRC in Israel & OT account on X sent only seven tweets that mentioned the Israelis out of hundreds of posts. The main @ICRC account, which has a massive following of 2.2 million, is able to point to a few more examples, but most of these repeated the organisation’s excuse that its hands were tied by the ostensible limitations of its role as “a neutral intermediary.”

This narrowly legalistic policy recalls the ICRC’s shameful inaction during the Nazi Holocaust, when its officials ignored internal and external evidence of the German death camps and the genocidal “Final Solution.” The Red Cross leaders deliberated and decided to avoid public condemnations that would create friction between the Nazi authorities and Swiss officials.

That policy was not merely passive—the ICRC was also a willing participant in Nazi propaganda exercises. Specifically, the organisation presented the Theresienstadt ghetto as a “model” for the ICRC, which led it to circulate a fake report stipulating that Jews were not being transferred to the gas chambers. It took sixty years, immense pressure, and the emergence of documents revealing the organisation’s moral duplicity before the Red Cross acknowledged that Auschwitz “represents the greatest failure in the history of the ICRC, aggravated by its lack of decisiveness in taking steps to aid the victims of Nazi persecution. This failure will remain part of the ICRC’s memory.” Their statement concluded:

For the ICRC the most appropriate way to honour the victims and survivors … is to fight for a world in which the human dignity of every man, woman and child is respected without any reservations. It may never be possible to fully achieve this aim but the memory of Auschwitz obliges us to do everything in our power to work towards it.

These noble words notwithstanding, the Red Cross response to the hostages and the Gaza war closely parallels the organisation’s inaction and excuses during the Shoah. Like the victims languishing in the Nazis’ concentration camps, the Israeli hostages languishing in Gaza became non-persons—neither seen nor heard in the ICRC’s actions and public campaigns.Bias and BetrayalThe extensive rot at the heart of Human Rights Watch.QuilletteGerald M. Steinberg

The ICRC’s own double standards are particularly galling. Regarding Israelis, the policy of neutrality is a one-way street. The ICRC has repeatedly and vocally joined the intense political campaigns led by UN agencies and allied NGOs like Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch (HRW), which portray Israel’s counterterrorism in Gaza as egregious violations of international law. The organisation’s “Israel and Gaza” posts on Instagram include dozens of condemnations of “the limitless destruction of Gaza” and of the IDF’s “evacuation orders” to safe havens outside the areas of combat, which the ICRC insists “are not compatible” with international humanitarian law (IHL). But IHL, including the numerous “Geneva conventions,” is a flexible and endlessly contested concept that often reflects political and ideological preferences. In some interpretations, the Israeli policies in Gaza are entirely consistent with and perhaps above and beyond the requirements of the law of armed conflict. But these interpretations were entirely absent in the ICRC’s declarations, media interviews, and posts.

During the Gaza conflict, the ICRC repeatedly condemned Israeli military actions involving hospitals and clinics in Gaza, but said nothing about the extensive exploitation of these facilities by Hamas. For years, ICRC personnel on the ground in Gaza have included permanent staff, while top officials have made frequent visits. Like their UN and NGO counterparts and everyone else in Gaza, they were all aware of the vast tunnel network built by Hamas below schools, hospitals, clinics, mosques, residences, and parks. These tunnels were essential to Hamas’s terror strategy, including for the production and storage of thousands of rockets used to strike Israeli population centres. Each of these attacks on Israel was a war crime, but the Red Cross reported nothing, unlike the journalists and doctors who observed and documented the presence of Hamas weapons and fighters and the systematic exploitation of hospitals and other medical facilities for war and terrorism.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

The Temptation Chapter 1

Summary: Father Barnes is devout, steadfast, and undeterred by flirtatious congregants.  So why does this fallen angel tempt him so?  You cannot serve two masters.  Will he choose God, or his heart? Here's the Priest!Bucky x curvy!reader fic! I hope y'all like it. Warnings: eventual smut; religion (yes it's a warning); mentions of past sexual assault

Next chapter

“Father Barnes, I have some unfortunate news.”

Bucky turned towards his senior priest, Father Richards.  “Yes?”

“Constance Y/L/N has just passed away.”

“Oh,” Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed as he processed the news.  “How sad.  I mean, she was getting up there in age but, still, a great loss.”

“Yes, it is.  Her funeral arrangements will be handled by her granddaughter, Y/N Y/L/N.  She should be landing into town tomorrow, I was hoping you would be willing to pick her up at the airport and bring her to Constance’s home, then schedule a meeting about the arrangements and the service?”

“Of course, Father.”

That’s where Bucky found himself now, waiting in the baggage claim area of the airport with a sign in his hand that had her name written on it.  He had no idea what she looked like or knew anything about her.  As he looked around, waiting patiently, a woman came through the door that made him do a double take.  She was beautiful, short and curvy, dressed in a long black dress that she kept stepping on, covered by an oversized, long, black and ripped sweatshirt that read “WOMEN RUN SHIT” in red embroidery, Converse sneakers that peeked from under her dress, with long pointy nails and her pink hair piled atop her head, held up by a black scarf.  She had very little makeup on except for a dark, blood red lipstick that Bucky couldn’t seem to stop staring at.  She looked around until her eyes fell on Bucky, read the sign, and gave him a polite smile as she headed towards him.  Bucky gave her a polite smile back as he tried to hide the panic he was feeling inside.   

“Father Barnes?” Y/N asked as she approached him.

“Yes, Y/N Y/L/N?”

“That’s me,” she flashed him a full smile, making her teeth look stark against her lipstick.  

“Is this all you have?” Bucky asked, looking at the purse and backpack slung over her shoulders and the large rolling suitcase she had.

“Yep, don’t have much.  Thank you for the ride.  I haven’t been to Brooklyn since I was a kid and I just didn’t wanna deal with the hassle of a taxi or Uber.”

“It’s no problem.”

Bucky tried hard to not stare at her or even look at her too much.  He had been a priest at his parish for 15 years, and had never had a moment where he felt like he was being led astray, like he’d always been warned about during his seminary years.  He felt secure in his promises and covenants to the church and to God.  And yet here was this woman, who just waltzed into his life on a chance, who he was feeling something very strange towards that made him question his life.  And he didn’t even know her.  Sinful.

“So what do you do for a living?” Bucky tried to break the ice as he drove silently, weaving through the New York traffic as best as he could.

“I’m a traveling photographer,” Y/N said as she watched the buildings and bridges fly by.  

“Really?  That’s interesting.  How did you get into that?” he asked.

“Um, it just kinda fell into my lap, I guess,” Y/N answered, giving him a glance.  “I grew up in Brooklyn, went to the church and everything with my grandmother, but at 16 I decided it wasn’t for me and went through a bit of a rough patch for a while.  Started taking pictures as I went from place to place, posting online, and gained a following.  Here I am, 16 years later, getting paid to go places and take pictures and give travel advice.”

“Wow,” Bucky breathed.  “Where’s your favorite place you’ve been?

“Well, traveling as a plus sized person has its challenges,” she started, shifting in her seat.  “The place that I felt most comfortable was the Leeward Islands, so Bora Bora, Tahiti, those areas of French Polynesia.”

“Very tropical,” Bucky commented.

“Ha, yes,” she giggled.  “A big reason why I loved it.”  She paused and looked at him.  “Have you ever been on a beach like that?”

“No,” Bucky answered.  “A beach at a lake when I was a kid, but nothing quite as pretty as crystal blue waters,” he glanced at her, giving her a lopsided smile.

“Hm,” Y/N watched him, a sad expression flitting across her face.  “That’s too bad.  There’s really nothing like it.”  She paused again, a mischievous grin pulling at her lips.  “A pretty thing like you on a sandy beach in Bora Bora would do wonders with the locals.”

Bucky’s eyes widened at her compliment.  He cleared his throat and swallowed as he tried to relax the blush that filled his cheeks.  “Thank you for the compliment.”

“Anytime, handsome,” she teased him, huffing out a laugh at his expense.

Bucky wasn’t blind to the fact that he had attractive features.  He’d been hit on too many times to count by the women, and some of the men, in his congregation throughout the years.  Some tried harder than others, the idea of a forbidden love or lust-driven “corrupting the priest” sounding appealing.  He’d been able to squash those easily.  He could of course see or recognize when people were attractive, and occasionally had the fleeting thought of “what if?”  But it sounded different coming from her for some reason.  

“I mean really, if the priests looked like you when I was in church I would have paid more attention.”

She said it in such a deadpan tone that Bucky couldn’t help but to fully laugh.  She joined him in laughing as they finally pulled up to her grandmother’s brownstone home.  Bucky helped her hoist her large luggage up the stairs.  Y/N grabbed the key from the hidden spot that the estate lawyer had told her about and let herself and Bucky in.  She wheeled the luggage off to the side as she looked around the foyer.

“Almost exactly the same,” she muttered.

“Y/N–”

“You know, it’s just very strange for me to call you Father,” Y/N interrupted him as she whirled around to face him.  “What’s your first name?”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up.  “Oh, um, it’s James, but I always went by Bucky.”

“Bucky?” Y/N repeated it, looking confused.

Bucky silently reveled in how she said his name.  “My middle name is Buchanan, don’t ask me why,” he joked, making her snort.  “Bucky for short.  I just always went by that rather than James when I was younger.”

“Well is it alright if I call you Bucky?” Y/N asked hopefully.

Bucky really should have said no, that it’s not appropriate for people to call him by his name rather than his title.  Yet he found himself saying, “Yes.”

“Great.  I’m sorry I interrupted you, what were you going to say?” 

“Well, my senior priest, Father Richards and I would like to set up a meeting with you to go over the funeral arrangements.  When would you like to do that?”

“Sure, um…” Y/N got distracted by something in the foyer.  Bucky followed her eye line to the large cross her grandmother had mounted above the door.  She sighed heavily before meeting his gaze.  “How about tomorrow?  10 a.m.?”

“That sounds great,” Bucky agreed.  “Well, is there anything else I could help you with while I’m here?”

“No, thank you.  You’ve been very helpful,” Y/N gave him a tight lipped smile.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Great, see you then.”  Bucky turned away and out the door, unable to handle being in such a close space with her anymore.

As he got back into the parish car and drove back to the church he heaved a heavy sigh of his own.  This is going to be dangerous.

***

The next morning Bucky found himself taking more time to get ready.  He was trimming his beard, redoing his hair in a bun and repeatedly straightening out his Roman collar and his shirt.  He knew why he was doing it but was in deep denial.

Father Richards was waiting in the main office as Bucky went out to the sanctuary to see if Y/N had shown up yet.  When he walked in he easily found her sitting on one of the pews.  Today she wore a long, fluffy cardigan with a sports bra and flowy lounge pants.  She wore no makeup and her hair looked like she’d just rolled out of bed.  

“Good morning, Y/N,” Bucky greeted her as he approached.

Y/N was staring at the large cross at the front of the sanctuary with the statue of Jesus hanging on it.  Her eyes slowly turned to him, a frown on her face that she tried to hide quickly.

“Good morning, Bucky,” she greeted him, her voice sounding scratchy.  “I’m sorry I look a mess, the jet lag is making me feel rough.”

“I understand, it’s alright,” Bucky gestured for her to follow him.

He led her back into the hallways of the church until they reached the main priest’s office.  Y/N paused for a moment outside the office door as Bucky held it open for her, before she inhaled quickly and stepped through the door.

“Miss Y/L/N, my name is Father Richards,” Richards held his hand out, which she stiffly shook.  “I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under more pleasant circumstances.  May I offer my deepest condolences to you.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said somberly.  She sat on the chair in front of the large wooden desk.  Her eyes settled on one scuffed spot on the desk as Father Richards and Bucky sat across from her.

“So, let’s get started,” Father Richards began.  “I’m sure you know your grandmother was a big supporter of the church.  She gave us some of our largest donations over her lifetime.  She had some instructions she left with me but I wanted to make sure everything sounded good to you before I enacted them, or if there was something left in her will that I wasn’t aware of?”

“The will and everything else is stuck in probate court right now,” Y/N answered, her tired eyes trying to focus on him.  “So honestly, whatever she told you is fine.  Doesn’t really matter to me.”

“I see,” Father Richards said, sounding a little annoyed.  Bucky glanced at him.

“Please don’t mistake my indifference for not caring,” Y/N retorted.  “I loved my grandmother, I just didn’t love her religion.  And that caused a rift between us.  I haven’t seen or spoken to her in years, so I was pretty surprised when I got a call from a lawyer in New York telling me she’d died and left me everything,” she continued, her words getting more curt by the second.  “No offense to either of you but me being here is highly triggering.  So is there anything else you need from me?”

“Uh, yes,” Richards tried to recover the conversation, his tone sounding more jovial.  “She did ask that you sing at her funeral.”  

“Absolutely not,” Y/N spat, her eyes narrowing as she minutely shook her head.

“Oh, well, I mean that’s what she wrote here–”

“No.”  

Bucky watched on in concern.  He knew the church came with a lot of baggage for some people, that its history was unclean.  He worried about what this would mean for them as she worked with them for this funeral.

“Hm, of course you don’t have to, but she always said how you had a lovely singing voice–”

“I said no,” she seethed.  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” she stood suddenly, Bucky and Father Richards copying her.  “I need to go.  Just call me if you need something else.”  She rummaged into her cardigan pocket, pulling out a wallet and taking out a business card, flinging it at them on the desk.  “Good day.”

She turned on her heel and hightailed it out of the office.  Father Richards and Bucky exchanged a bewildered look.  “Go,” Father Richards instructed.

Bucky jogged out of the office to catch up to Y/N.  “Y/N, please wait!”

Y/N sighed loudly as she turned back around to Bucky.  “I’m sorry for my rudeness, I just can’t stay here,” she said, continuing to walk away. 

“Hey,” he jogged around her until he faced her.  “Obviously there’s some deep problems you have with the church.”

“No shit Sherlock,” she dodged him, heading towards the front doors.

“And I don’t blame you!” Bucky walked alongside her.  “There have been bad things that have happened in its history.”

Y/N stopped abruptly as she rounded on him.  “To ME!” she pointed a finger towards herself.  Bucky stopped, his eyes widening at her.  She was shaking as she tried to calm herself.  She took a deep breath and a step back from him.  “I appreciate that the church has given you comfort, peace, a purpose maybe, but I grew up here,” she paused, stopping herself from crying.  “Father Carmine was here before you two, right?”  Bucky nodded his head slowly as he watched her.  “He hurt me.”

Bucky felt his heart plummet.  He had met Father Carmine many years ago as he and Father Richards were transferred in to replace him.  He had had an amazing rapport with the community, his congregation seemed to love him.  Now Bucky knew the reason for his sudden retirement.

Y/N scoffed.  “That notch on the desk?  In the office?  That’s from the heel of my shoe,” she took a step closer to him as she peered up at him, a fury in her eyes that made him feel like withering on the spot.  “My Mary Jane shoes, from my school uniform, when I was 15 years old.”  Bucky felt like he was going to throw up as he digested this information.  “So you’ll have to excuse me, if coming here to the place where I was abused and then unbelieved by the woman who raised me who I now have to bury, is dredging up some pretty raw emotions in me right now.”  Y/N was whispering now, her eyes filling with tears as she glared at him.  “Every cross, every Jesus statue, every rosary, every goddamn Roman collar,” her eyes flickered to his neck, “reminds me of that day.  So the fact that my grandmother was willing to still hold her funeral here in this godforsaken place, and then have the audacity to throw her money at me and ask me to sing?”  Y/N shivered violently as she grunted.  “I can’t…”

Bucky didn’t know what to do as he watched her fight off an oncoming panic attack.  “Y/N, hey…look,” he started to take off his Roman collar.  She watched him hesitantly.  “See?  Look, just me.  Not Father Barnes, not Father anything, just Bucky.”  He held his hands up towards her in a sign of meaning no harm.  “Constance was extremely devout, for sure,” Y/N scoffed again, rolling her eyes.  “But that was no excuse for her not to believe you,” he took a step forward.  Y/N’s eyes narrowed at him.  “You deserved to be believed.  You deserved justice, and you never got it.  I’m so sorry,” he took another step until he could reach out and hold her arms.  He lowered his face so he was eye level with her.  “I’m so sorry for what happened to you.  You didn’t deserve it, no one deserves that.” Y/N’s tears finally fell as she shook in his hands.  “And I’m sorry for Father Richards pushing you, he’s a very…no nonsense, regimented kind of guy.  But he should have taken your refusal the first time.”  He squeezed her arms and she took a shaky breath.  “We’ll follow her instructions, get through the funeral, and then you can be done with this place.  And go enjoy a long vacation on a beach in Bora Bora for me.”

Y/N laughed at that, her smile finally breaking the sadness etched in her face.  She wiped her eyes as Bucky dropped his hands from her.  He felt like his palms were stinging from the sensation of touching her.  “Thank you, Bucky,” she sniffed.  

“No problem,” he smiled at her.  “I know this isn’t a great place for you, but I hope you know that I believe you, and I’m here for you.”

Y/N gave him a long look, her eyes roaming his face momentarily.  She nodded and turned to leave, then suddenly turned back around and walked up to him.  She wound her arms around his waist and gave him a hug, squeezing him.  He barely had a chance to hug her back before she stepped away and walked out of the front doors.  Bucky watched her leave, already missing the way she smelled.

***

A week later the funeral was held.  Constance had quite the turnout for her service.  Since she had no other family other than Y/N she had made connections with almost everyone in the congregation, and with her large donations throughout her life to that parish specifically the church was willing to go all out for her.  Y/N had let the two priests handle everything, only coming back one day before the funeral to go over the itinerary for the day before swiftly leaving.

Bucky gave a short portion of the service and then sat down next to Y/N as Father Richards finished the rest.  She was in all black: a long sleeved, boat-neck dress that reached the floor, with black lace gloves and a black lace veil on her head, holding Constance’s rosary.  Her face was devoid of emotion as she looked down at the floor.  When it was time for a song Y/N squirmed in her seat, wrinkling the program in her hand.  Bucky reached out and held her hand, which seemed to help her ground herself.  She didn’t look at him, but gave his hand a small squeeze of appreciation.

When the time came for people to walk to the casket for one last viewing, many people placed roses and other flowers on top of the closed part of the lid, then walked over to Y/N and shook her hand, offering their condolences.  Bucky stood by her.  Whenever someone tried to bring something up to her about her inheritance from her grandmother or some kind of favor that was once promised he helped to move the line along.  Constance was finally buried in the church’s courtyard, which really wasn’t something that was done anymore, but since she had been a huge donor her request was granted to be buried there.  After people were leaving and Bucky was bidding farewell he suddenly couldn’t find Y/N.  One second she stood next to the grave, the next she was gone.  He looked around then went inside.  He searched the halls, the offices, and then entered the sanctuary.  She was standing at the front next to the prayer candles.

“There you are, I thought I’d lost you,” Bucky huffed a laugh.  “Everything is finished.  You are free.”

“I’m not,” Y/N sighed.  She held up Constance’s rosary in her hand, admiring the glass beads and the gold.  It was an expensive rosary that most people would not be able to afford.

“What do you mean?” he asked as he walked up behind her.

“The estate,” she answered simply.  “The lawyer called me yesterday.  He said that there’s some donations she had written in her will for the church, so I won’t be rid of this until that’s settled.  Which could take months.”  Her fingers gripped the rosary tightly.

“Oh, I’m…I’m sorry, Y/N,” Bucky mumbled.

“It’s fine,” she waved him off as she faced him.  “Thank you for all your help today.  And if you could pass along a thanks to Father Richards I would appreciate it.”

“Of course,” he promised, giving her a quick smile.

She sighed again, giving the cross with Jesus on it another glance.  “You know what?  Here,” she reached for his hand then plopped the expensive rosary into his palm.  “It’s no use to me.”

“Y/N, this is…it’s very nice, I can’t take it,” Bucky sputtered as he stared at the rosary.

“Yes you can.  I don’t want it, and who else would get more use out of a rosary than a priest?” she gave him a smirk.  “I’m going to go get drunk and find someone to fuck.  Tell Jesus I said hi when you pray for me.”  She winked then swayed her hips as she walked down the aisle and out the doors.

Bucky’s mouth dropped open as she left, his hand almost dropping the rosary.  He felt a stirring below his belt that made him blush and give the Jesus statue a sheepish look.  She’s gonna be the death of me.

**picture if from Pinterest, it's A.I. so there's no "artist" or "creator"**

[ottawacharge]

Jessie Fleming interview: Adapting to the Thorns, her Chelsea exit and pushing for environmental change

Jessy Parker Humphreys, Wednesday, July 24th

Ask Jessie Fleming what topics interest her about the environment and she will start reeling them off.

“Urban planning, the power of funghi, regenerative agriculture, Dan Barber…”

Barber is an American chef who advocates for farm-to-table cooking, in case you are not as looped into the environmental ethics of food as Fleming.

“I started taking courses on environmental science for fun at university and I got down this rabbit hole,” she explains. Fleming ended up minoring in the subject at university in Los Angeles and has been committed to raising awareness about issues with our environment ever since.

This latest pledge comes off the back of her choice to donate the carbon cost of her long-haul flight to the 2023 Women’s World Cup in Australia and New Zealand as part of a 47-player initiative through Common Goal, a charitable movement launched by Spain international Juan Mata six years ago.

Fleming left Women’s Super League (WSL) champions Chelsea in January, going from a league in England where players travel to games by train or coach to one where they can fly thousands of miles across the country every weekend, such is the geographical spread of the 14 teams.

“It’s something I think about a lot,” she says. “As players, we have a responsibility to draw attention to those problems and suggest ways leagues and governing bodies can adjust the format of tournaments or the schedule of leagues to help reduce those footprints.

“We’re all hypocritical in a way, so we need to at least do something.”

There was a feeling around Fleming’s mid-season departure from Chelsea that she had never quite lived up to her potential. Arriving in summer 2020 fresh out of the U.S. college game at UCLA, her stock was very high, having originally made her senior debut for Canada aged only 15.

Yet she never nailed down a starting spot, despite featuring 111 times across four seasons and being trusted by manager Emma Hayes to start crucial matches such as the 2022-23 Champions League semi-final second leg against Barcelona at Camp Nou.

“I loved my time at Chelsea, loved the league, loved England. I just wanted to be in a place where I was consistently playing in the same position and playing more consistent minutes.”

Fleming has certainly got that with Portland, where she has started 13 of their 15 matches so far this season, but the return to the U.S. has been an adjustment. Portland had their worst start to an NWSL season, failing to win any of their first four games and consequently sacking manager Mike Norris. A six-game winning run followed, but with only one victory in the past four league fixtures, it is clear they are still finding their feet as a team.

Those ups and downs are a unique experience for Fleming, who lost only one more league match in three-and-a-half years with Chelsea than she has in six months in Portland.

“It’s definitely a different challenge,” she says. “Physically, it’s more intense (in the NWSL). More transitional, lots of athletic players. But you’re starting to see the effect of European coaches in the league. There are more teams trying to play possession-based, thoughtful football. I’ve never seen anything like how competitive the NWSL is, especially when you look at the teams at the top of the table who had poor seasons last year. That’s not something you would ever see in the WSL.

“The start of the season was especially difficult for us, because we had so many new players. We spent so little time together before the first game — that was a challenge I’d never experienced before. I think we’re feeling the effects of the ebb and flow of the season right now. You have to be so tuned-in mentally for every game, every week. If you do go through a low spell, you have to find ways to turn it around quickly, because getting a few wins will push you up the table.”

The NWSL season is about to be paused for the Olympics, which begin in France at the end of this month, where Fleming will be hoping to help Canada’s women retain the title they won at the previous Games in Japan three years ago. Paris 2024 will be her third Olympics and Canada have won medals at her previous two, taking bronze in Brazil in 2016, but a disappointing World Cup campaign, where they exited at the group stage after one win and two goals (one of them an own-goal) in the three games, has put a dampener on expectations.

“I struggled with penalties a bit at university, so it’s definitely not something I’ve always felt able to do,” she says. “I feel like for that coolness, I have to turn to my team-mates and our environment. I feel very supported and backed up with the national team and that helped me massively during that tournament.”

This time out, she’ll be in a new role as captain. Anyone who has watched Fleming play will know she is not the most vocal on the pitch, but she feels she can bring something different to the role.

“I’m definitely on the quieter side, but I’m learning there are so many different ways to lead,” Fleming says. “I don’t love speaking in front of a loud group of people and I feel like I thrive a bit more when I’m one-on-one with players. I would say I’m a bit of a football brain. I love watching the game, I love talking about tactics, and I’m always interested in how to improve, both as an individual and as a team.

“For me, it’s about letting my passion for football shine through and trying to bring others with me in that.”

[shewhoworshipscarlin]

Lulu Merle Johnson

Lulu Merle Johnson was pioneer in education and the first African American woman to earn a Ph.D. in the state of Iowa. Born on September 14, 1907 in Gravity, Iowa to Jeanette (Burton) and Richard Johnson, her mother was the daughter of freed slaves, and her father, who was formerly enslaved, owned and operated his own barbershop. The family were the only Black residents in the town and were highly respected.

Johnson’s family moved to eastern Iowa when she was entering her senior year. In 1925, she graduated from Clinton High School, where she was captain of the girls’ basketball team. After graduation, Johnson enrolled at the State University of Iowa (now the University of Iowa). Out of over 2,000 students, there were only 64 Black students–14 women and 50 men. University housing was segregated, so Johnson and the other Black students had to reside in off-campus housing.

Lulu Johnson obtained all three of her degrees from the University of Iowa. She earned a Bachelor of Arts in history in 1929, followed one year later by a master’s. Throughout the 1930s, Johnson worked on a doctorate in American history. She received support from the Rockefeller Foundation.

Johnson, a member of the Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, challenged the university’s racial structure. As an undergraduate, she insisted on sitting in front row seats assigned to white students in her political science class. As a graduate student, she protested the university’s pool policies. All University of Iowa students were required to pass a swimming test. The university was willing to let Johnson as well as the other Black students waive the test in order to keep them out of the pool, so they would not have to drain and refill it for the white students. Johnson and the other students informed their instructor that they would attend class at 5:00 am and take the swimming test, making the pool unusable for the remainder of the school day. Her action ended the university’s racially-discriminatory pool policy.

In 1941, Lula Merle Johnson became the first African American woman to earn a Ph.D. at the University of Iowa. Her thesis was “The Problem of Slavery in the Old Northwest, 1787-1858.” She held academic appointments at a number of HBCU’s, including Talladega University in Alabama; Tougaloo College in Mississippi; Florida A&M; and West Virginia State College.  In 1952, she accepted a position at Cheyney State College in Pennsylvania, where she was a history professor and dean of women. Dr. Johnson retired from Cheyney State as the director of the Department of Social and Behavioral Science.  She moved to Millsboro, Delaware and spent the remainder of her life traveling with her partner, Eunice Johnson. She died on October 18, 1995, at the age of 88.

In 2018, the Graduate College at the University of Iowa established the Lulu Merle Johnson Fellowship, which provides funding and support for Ph.D. students from underrepresented racial and ethnic minority groups. On June 24, 2021, the Johnson County (Iowa) Board of Supervisors voted unanimously to change the county’s name to Lulu Merle Johnson County. The county was originally named for Vice President Richard M. Johnson (1837-1841), a slaveholder who never resided in Iowa and claimed credit for killing Shawnee Chief Tecumseh during the War of 1812. Lulu Merle Johnson County is only the second in the nation named after an African American. (The other is Martin Luther King County in Washington.) The University of Iowa, where Lulu Johnson received her education, is the county seat of Johnson County.

https://www.blackpast.org/african-american-history/people-african-american-history/lulu-merle-johnson-1907-1995/

[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … January 5

NATIONAL BIRD DAY - January 5, 2025 

1899 – Kenneth Raisbeck was a playwright and teaching assistant at Cambridge, who befriended the young Thomas Wolfe when he attended that university.

Kenneth Raisbeck was born in Odell, Illinois as the youngest of ten children. His father, Frank Raisbeck, was a hardware dealer from England. Kenneth Raisbeck graduated from the class of 1916 at Bloomington High School in Illinois and went on to graduate Harvard College in 1921 with a Bachelor of Arts degree. According to his passport, he was 5’ 10” tall with grayish eyes, light brown hair, and a straight nose.

Wolfe describes Starwick as a “youth of medium height and average weight, verging perhaps toward slenderness, with a pleasant ruddy face, brown eyes, a mass of curly auburn-reddish hair, and a cleft chin.” His voice, Wolfe adds, “was neither very high nor low, it was a man’s voice and yet one felt it might almost have been a woman’s.”

Wolfe and Raisbeck met just a few days after Thomas Wolfe arrived in Cambridge to attend Harvard University. Kenneth Raisbeck was the assistant to Professor George Pierce Baker for his 47 Workshop playwriting course. Wolfe biographer Elizabeth Nowell observed that it was chiefly through his new friendship with Raisbeck that Wolfe was accepted by the other students in the Workshop. Between 1920 and 1923 Raisbeck became Wolfe’s best and closest friend.

Raisbeck hired as secretary to Professor Baker. During his senior year at college, he traveled to Europe with Baker. His one-act play “Man’s Greatest Hunger,” a tragedy, was well received and performed by the Workshop in Agassiz House theater during the spring of 1920. In his Autobiographical Outline, Wolfe notes the tensions he observed between Baker and Raisbeck, who was considered his most promising student- “two feminines … growing impatience bitterness pique and jealousy.” He noted Raisbeck and another student were “picking up of sailors.”

Wolfe also observes at Harvard a “preoccupation of the intellectuals with the problem of homo-sexualism.” Wolfe and perhaps a few others were aware that Raisbeck was gay. It was not an easy time to be openly gay at Harvard. In 1920, the administration formed a secretive disciplinary tribunal to investigate charges of homosexual activity among the student population. Operating behind closed doors, several students were adjudicated guilty and expelled.

In December 1924, on his first trip to Europe, Wolfe went to Paris. Raisbeck was there touring Paris with two friends from Boston, Marjorie Crocker Fairbanks, and Miss Helen Beal Harding. While there on New Year’s Eve, he stumbled upon a drunk and confused Thomas Wolfe on the steps of the Louvre Museum. Wolfe soon joined his fellow American travelers for the next several weeks. The fictional account of their adventures is chronicled in Of Time and the River as Starwick (the character based on Raisbeck) creates tension in the group when he introduces a young Frenchman named Alec, who he picks up in a bar. Eventually Wolfe, upset about the women and their attention to Raisbeck, creates an argument with Kenneth. It does not end well. They continued their travels separately, and Wolfe and Raisbeck never saw each other again after their time in Europe.

Raisbeck had little success as a playwright in New York. In 1923, a drama written at Harvard, “Torches,” received one performance. It was produced in association with The New York Drama League. In the late twenties, he went to California to work as a screenwriter. Later returning to New York, his 1931 work “Rock Me, Julie” played for two weeks on Broadway.

He was found dead in a Westport, Connecticut cemetery on September 30, 1931. Reported in numerous newspapers, the cause of death developed into a controversy. The police said he was slain, the Medical Examiner thought it an attack of Meningitis. After a coroner’s inquest, the cause of death was changed to strangulation. The killer was never found. Kenneth was returned home where he was interred by family at Hampton, Illinois.

1931 – Alvin Ailey, Jr. (d.1989) was an American choreographer and activist who founded the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in New York. Ailey is credited with popularizing modern dance and revolutionizing African-American participation in 20th century concert dance. His company gained the nickname "Cultural Ambassador to the World" because of its extensive international touring. Ailey's choreographic masterpiece Revelations is believed to be the best-known and most often seen modern dance performance.

Ailey was born to his 17-year-old mother, Lula Elizabeth Ailey, in Rogers, Texas. His father abandoned the family when Alvin was only 6 months old. Like many African-Americans living in Texas during the Great Depression, Ailey and his mother moved very often and she had a hard time finding work. Ailey grew up during a time of racial segregation and rumors of violence and lynchings against African-Americans. When Ailey was five, his 22-year-old mother was raped by a group of white men, leaving him afraid of whites. Early experiences in the Southern Baptist church and jook joints instilled in him a fierce sense of black pride that would later figure prominently in Ailey's signature works.

In the fall of 1942, Ailey's mother, like many African Americans, migrated to Los Angeles, California where she had heard there was lucrative work supporting the war effort. Ailey joined his mother later by train, having stayed behind in Texas to finish out the school year. Ailey's first junior high school in California was located in a primarily white school district. As one of the only black students, Ailey felt out of place because of his fear of whites, so the Aileys moved to a predominantly black school district.

Ailey did not become serious about dance until in 1949 his school friend Carmen De Lavallade introduced him to the Hollywood studio of Lester Horton. Horton would prove to be Ailey's major influence, becoming a mentor and giving him both a technique and a foundation with which to grow artistically.

When Horton died in November 1953 the tragedy left the company without an artistic director. The company had outstanding contracts that required and desired new works. When no one else stepped forward, Ailey assumed the role of artistic director. Despite his youth and lack of experience (Ailey was only twenty-two and had choreographed only one dance in a workshop) he began choreographing, directing scene and costume designs, and running rehearsal. Not finding another mentor, he began creating works of his own.

Ailey formed his own group, Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, in 1958. The group presented its inaugural concert on March 30, 1958. Notable early work included Blues Suite, a piece deriving from blues songs. Ailey's choreography was a dynamic and vibrant mix growing out of his previous training in ballet, modern dance, jazz, and African dance techniques. Ailey insisted upon a complete theatrical experience, including costumes, lighting, and make-up. A work of intense emotional appeal expressing the pain and anger of African Americans, Blues Suite was an instant success and defined Ailey's style.

For his signature work, Revelations, Ailey drew upon his "blood memories" of Texas, the blues, spirituals, and gospel. These forces resulted in the creation of his most popular and critically acclaimed work. Ailey originally intended the dance to be the second part of a larger, evening-length survey of African-American music which he began with Blues Suite.

Ailey was openly gay and is one of the most prominent gay Black men in American history. According to Black gay activist Keith Boykin, this is rarely acknowledged in the Black community due to the stigma surrounding homosexuality. For a time during the 1950s, Ailey was romantically linked with political activist David McReynolds. Ailey died in 1989 at the age of 58. To spare his mother the social stigma of his death from AIDS, he asked his doctor to announce that he had died of terminal blood dyscrasia

1931 – Today is the birthday of Juan Goytisolo, the Spanish poet and novelist (d.2017). Goytisolo was born in Barcelona in 1931, in an aristocratic family; two of his brothers José Agustín and Luis are also well known writers. His father was imprisoned by the Republican government during the Spanish Civil War while his mother was killed in the first Francoist air raid in 1938.

After law studies, he published his first novel, The Young Assassins, in 1954. His deep opposition to Generalissimo Francisco Franco led him into exile in Paris in 1956, where he worked as a reader for Gallimard. In the early 1960s, he was a friend of Guy Debord and Jean Genet was his mentor. He says of the playwright who could fit all his belongings in a suitcase: "He was alien to all kinds of vanity. Because of him, I discovered I was interested in literature, not in literary life. I try to take my work seriously but not myself." He quotes Genet: "If you know your point of arrival, it's not a literary adventure, it's a bus journey." Breaking with the realism of his earlier novels, he published Marks of Identity (1966), Count Julian (1970), and Juan the Landless (1975). Like all his works, they were banned in Spain until Franco's death.

Juan Goytisolo was married to the publisher, novelist and screenwriter Monique Lange, a cousin of novelist Marcel Proust, Emmanuel Berl, and the philosopher Henri Bergson. Monique Lange died in 1996. After her death, he is noted as saying their once shared Paris apartment had become like a tomb. In 1997 he moved to Marrakesh, in part due to the Arab culture's acceptance of his homosexuality. He loved Arabs, particularly illiterate or uneducated men whose gayness is not marked by effeminate behavior but a hyper virility. In Edmund White's view Goytisolo "is an apostle of the revolutionary, anarchic power of sexuality, of the desiring body, to break through the sterile confines of class."

His masterpiece is either his two-volume memoir, groundbreaking for among other things their frankness about gay sex, or his trilogy comprised of Marks of Identity, Count Julian, and Juan the Landless. His most recent novel, A Cock-Eyed Comedy, recounts the ribald sexual antics of a priest in Goytisolo's typically subversive style.

1965 – Robert Beachy, born in Aibonito, Puerto Rico, is associate professor of history at Underwood International College at Yonsei University in Seoul, South Korea. He formerly taught at Goucher College in Baltimore, Maryland. He received his Ph.D. from the University of Chicago in 1998. Beachy specializes in the intellectual and cultural history of Germany and Europe, and is known for his work on the history of sexuality in the Weimar Republic, under the Nazis, and in Germany after the Second World War.

In 2009, Beachy was named a fellow of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation for his research on homosexuality in Nazi Germany. Beachy's work also has received support from the Huntington Library, the National Humanities Center, the Max Planck Institute for History, the Herzog August Bibliothek in Wolfenbüttel, the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD) and the American Philosophical Society.

In 2015, his work "Gay Berlin: Birthplace of a Modern Identity" was named a Stonewall Honor Book in Non-Fiction by the American Library Association.

1978 – Yitz Jordan, better known by his stage name Y-Love, is a Los Angeles-based American hip-hop artist. An Orthodox Jew, Jordan was formerly Hasidic. Jordan rhymes in a mixture of English, Hebrew, Yiddish, Arabic, Latin and Aramaic, often covering social, political and religious themes.

Jordan, an only child, was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland to a Christian Ethiopian father and Puerto Rican mother, occasionally attending a Baptist church. As a youth, Jordan was a fan of the rhymes of KRS-ONE and Public Enemy’s Chuck D.

Jordan first became interested in Judaism at the age of seven. "I saw a commercial that said, 'Happy Passover from your friends at Channel 2,'" he said, "and I went drawing six-pointed stars on everything at my mother’s house." He started wearing a kippah and observing Shabbat at 14, and converted to Judaism around the turn of millennium. He later spent time studying at a yeshiva in Jerusalem. Jordan has also read the Quran, believing that familiarity with a variety of religious texts will help bring understanding.

After moving to Brooklyn in 2001, Jordan began performing at open mics around the city as Y-Love. In the Fall of 2008, Y-Love released his first solo full-length album, This Is Babylon. XXL said the album "balances Jewish spirituality with party rhymes and political commentary in an effort to spread [Y-Love’s] message of global unity."

In May 2012, Jordan came out as gay. He still identifies as an Orthodox Jew. He received a measure of criticism from the local Jewish population for also being a member of the hip hop community.

[druidshollow]

Am I allowed to ask who Dune is? Or is that a secret for later, love your art and your storys are super cool!

DUNE POST TIME DUNE POST TIME

im the "hahaha yes.... yes" sicko guy rn

dune is a character for a self indulgent iterators but the puppets can leave their bodies au and is entirely irrelevant to the actual corners group story, so shes not at all a secret and ill post everything about her lmao. ive actually only had her for *checks watch* three days so anything i say here is subject to possible change

as per usual, first its fast fact time

"The Gift" was a heavily encrypted data file that was sent en masse across the world to some iterators, almost entirely group seniors. it included two things; how to make mobile puppets, and how to create micro rarefaction cells (necessary to power these puppets). the information on building the puppets is widely understood and the only real requirements (besides raw material) are the iterator receiving the new body's blueprints (getting these can sometimes serve a real problem depending on the iterator's past relationship with the ancients), and a functional iterator can capable of powerful purposing and processing. (the host's body can work for this so long as the iterator with the Gift is there to help).

creating the micro rarefaction cells is a much better kept secret. the information is encrypted in a way so that the iterators who received the Gift cant speak about it (this functions similarly to taboo buffers), presumably because they could easily be used to make devastating weapons. but these cells are necessary for a mobile puppet to live, so the first piece of information is nearly useless without the second.

dune received a single cell for freeing herself with as well as the blueprints for mobile puppets from an iterator from a different group that she knew well. after freeing herself she stole cells from wandering iterators and freed some members of her group. this is her group when rivers and phrases run by them;

meet space, whimsy, forks and compass! space is the only one with real relevance i think

anyhow, there are still quite a few nearby iterators from dune's local group who need rescuing in her eyes, so her and her group intercept strangers and steal their cells and neuron flies, hoping to one day catch a developer (devs are the ones who received the Gift). unfortunately for phrases and rivers, phrases iiiiiis a developer!

dune had to have killded atleast four guys before she met phrases . thats some bad karma man arent you like an iterator or

she has fun with violence, part as a genuine cruel part of her personality, but i think mostly (at least at first) as a coping mechanism for the horrid things she was doing. her bloodlust was a front, and she adopted this violent personality she forged for herself the more time went by, until she had mostly lost herself and become encompassed by it.

(( thanks @nickeeree and @zarithial for letting me kill your kids!!! you guys submitted yr refs at like the exact same time so i was like eh fuck it dune can axe them both LMAO ))

dune's little group lives in an old city complex near a still in-tact iterator named vibrant sound. (sound is uninterested in being freed; instead he helps dune track down mobile iterators travelling through their territory)

thats basically all ive got, dune still has some development to go through but for a quick tldr she's an old group senior whos kidnapping and stealing people's hearts so she can give her family legs. amidst the heart stealing she began to enjoy the heart stealing and now violence is kind of her thing. if you support womens wrongs then you have to support adamant dune. sorry

[theredpharaoah]

He was a raging misogynist. There’s a bunch of debate as to whether or not Maegor was the actual heir. I mean we have nearly 100 years during the century of Blood of the title passing from brother to brother. And then Jaehaerys literally skips over Rhaenys, Laena, and Laenor for Baelon - the brother. I’m inclined to think that Valyrians practiced absolute seniority. I personally theorize that Aegon was only the lord consort of Dragonstone, and Visenya was the Lady Regnant. And Visenya is never recorded as being cruel to her grandchildren. Rhaena was not crass and rude - she acted like a man. His mother tried to control him because she wanted to prevent the problems that ailed Aenys, and he was also a child. Aerea didn’t steal a dragon. The dragons aren’t owned by anyone - each Targaryen with a dragon riding parent has a right to a dragon. Rhaena literally tells her to claim a dragon and had been doing so for the longest. I said this earlier: I don’t think Aerea had a problem controlling Balerion. Aerea was like Elissa - she wanted to travel - and she took Balerion somewhere it wasn’t safe to go. She was gone for a year. She must’ve been fine for the majority of that year and only flew back once she noticed something was wrong. Jaehaerys was fine with women ruling…in the shadows. He views Alysanne as a particularly amusing pet. Saera is as grey as anyone else. A lot of her issues and her siblings’ issues stemmed from Jaehaerys. He didn’t give a fuck about any of his children past the first 3(5 if we count Boremund and Jocelyn). And Alysanne did but she ALWAYS put being a wife above being a queen and a mother. Because of this she never pushed back against Jaehaerys when she needed to. Jaehaerys didn’t even really like or love Saera, he never knew her. He loved an idea of her he had in his head. If any of you have ever seen The Magicians, I’d say Saera and Jaehaerys’ relationship was a lot like Margo’s and her dad(watch the episode “All that hard, glossy armor.”). Alysanne actually knew Saera and she did care for her. But Saera probably didn’t like how she always bowed to Jaehaerys and thought her little temper tantrums was doing something. Lmao, no. Jaehaerys wanted to marry Daella off for no reason. They had no need for alliances or anything like that. He just wanted Daella gone because he didn’t like her. And he didn’t even seem all that impacted by her death. And using these women as “reasons” why Jaehaerys didn’t want a woman on the throne - robbing them of all context as you do so - is nonsensical. We would be here for eternity if we had these women list all the times they were done dirty or straight up abused and assaulted by men.

“Jaehaerys wasn’t a tyrant, he didn’t tell all women to shut up just because they’re women. He listened to them when they were talking sense”….you just told us EXACTLY who you are. “He was a reasonable misogynist. He listened to them sometimes”. So what are women prone to speaking nonsense and only speak sense sometimes? Because I could go through Fire & Blood and pull many lines of Jaehaerys being nonsensical while being hard-pressed to find the same for ANY of the women mentioned - including Aerea. Furthermore, Alysanne was more intelligent than Jaehaerys was. All that man had was an average mind and a cock.

[astrology-by-sita]

RACHEL CORRIE BIRTH CHART ANALYSIS

Warning : sensitive themes ahead

This is the chart of Rachel Corrie, she was an Amerian activist and martyr for the Palestinian cause. Let's honor her by looking into her chart. May her soul rest in peace and may palestine be free 🇵🇸

She came from a middle class family. She has an exalted Venus in Pisces in the 2nd house of family and wealth. Both her benefics are exalted. Strong benefics give idealism. This shows her activism for a good cause she believed in.

Since she was young she was a true human rights activist with empathy for the oppressed people. During her college years she joined the ISM - International Solidarity Movement. She's ruled by saturn and the twelvth part of saturn is near her natal midheaven in the 11th house of collective groups and alliances : the ISM for example. Her midheaven is ruled by 6h exalted Jupiter. This is a person who is publicly known (11h) by service and sacrifice (6h) for what she believes in (Jupiter). So she didn't have ambitions of money/power but of being of sevice.

During her senior college year, she went to Rafah, Palestine, for a college project of sister cities between Rafah and her hometown. This is an expression of her Aquarius Ascendant- being interested in the grand structures of societies.

When she was in Rafah, she was fighting the illegal demolition of Palestinian homes carried out by the occupation forces. She tried to block a bulldozer from demolishing homes. She stood on its way, and the bulldozer ran over her. The moon is her sect light (health/body/vitality).

And it also rules her 6th house of injuries. Mars (aggression/vioIence) is opposing her moon (out-of-sign opposition) from the 3rd house of transportation and vehicles (the bulldozer). I usually ignore out-of-sign oppositions but here it's so stark and accurate.

She has an exalted Jupiter in Cancer and exalted 9h ruler (Venus in Pisces) which shows her inclination towards travelling. Saturn (asc lord), moon and North Node (point of increase) all in Virgo in the 8th house shows an inclination for service and being ready to even sacrifice your life (8h of d*eath) for service. Her Virgo moon is also bonified by a superior sextile from an exalted Jupiter which the Moon actually rules since Jupiter is in Cancer. Jupiter points out towards beliefs and when bonifying her Virgo moon it literally means being of service to your beliefs. Of course they are both in dark houses so there are problems and dangers. A very moralistic person. Combine that with Virgo and Aquarius placements, she is willing to carry out practical action in real life for these ideals.

She was a brave woman, a great role model for women and men too everywhere. She showed us that solidarity has no nationality, may we learn from her , may we follow her path , and may we have our victory 🇵🇸

[vishnubhagwat]

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[artemiseamoon]

Draft release: Dial up the Jack, Dim the Whiskey

Agent Cognac (Bria Asare) x Agent Jack Whiskey

✨Draft release! ✨

💕Summary: Working at the Statesmen medical department, Bria started her career with aspirations of being an agent. Years after starting, it seems like that dream is never going to come true. Days after her 38th birthday, one of the senior agents gets gravely injured and she’s soon tasked with his care and recovery.

But there’s one issue, she can’t stand Agent Whiskey. As the weeks pass, and he starts to heal, the two form a bond and grow closer. As Jack’s health improves, he realizes the extent of his growing feelings for Bria as she comes to terms with her feelings for him too. 💕

Words:3,983

One shot for Arte’s Year of Whump for @yearofcreation2023 |I’m months behind , so making this the May one 😬| | Year of Whump + fluff /comfort masterlist

💫Below is a preview | read in full here on A03💫

An: still on a mini writing break, just occasionally releasing some drafts. My folder is way too full and taking up space on my phone. 💕this one is more fluff /comfort leaning.

Warnings: light on whump, recovery after injury, misogyny mentioned.

Bria always had two things she imagined for herself, being able to help people and work in the medical science field and being a world-traveling spy.

Growing up she was always glued to the screen for any shows about spies, secret agents, and detectives. It was something she wanted to do before she realized her draw to the medical field in high school.

The dream of being an agent was her first, and still her biggest one. And though she was in the right place for it, she still wasn’t an agent.

She was head of her department and got to work with tech and science, both things she liked, but she still wasn’t an agent. But this was a problem for more than one person at the office, namely Ginger who was also qualified but shot down whenever her name came up.

For all the perks and benefits of working there, the place was still deeply misogynistic in several ways, both from within the system and due to some of the men involved. And though there were women agents, the percentage was far less than that of the men.

Some offices were more progressive, like the New York office. Sometimes Bria wondered if a transfer there would be worth it, and maybe then she could finally have her wish come true. There was also the fact that aside from her job and friends being here, there wasn’t much keeping Bria in Kentucky. Maybe, New York was her future.

After a few days off for her birthday, Bria returned to the office. Upon arrival, she was surprised to find a new patient in her center. Agents get hurt, but that wasn’t the surprising part, what shocked her was who it was.

Some people had a shit ton of luck, and somehow barely got a scratch on them, Agent Whiskey was one of them and he was cocky about it too. The man was damn near indispensable, it was impressive but also fed his massive ego.

This place had many big heads and egos walking around, and Jack was one of them. While many women in the office, and men, fell for his charms and ate out of his palm, Bria wasn't one of them. No matter how physically attractive the man was, and really easy on the eyes, his attitude and ego were a major turn-off for her.

Thankfully she had limited contact with him, but the few times they did circle each other just reaffirmed what she felt about him. Nice to look at but stay away. And though she turned him down a few times, he’d still hit on her now and then. But she never took it too personally, he hit on everyone he liked the look of, it was hard to tell if his interests were genuine sometimes, or if he was just doing it to do it.

Read in full on A03

More Whiskey on my Masterlist

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[goddess47]

NASFIC Con Thoughts

I just spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at NASFIC - North American Science Fiction convention. This con is run when the Hugo award ceremonies (World con) are held outside the US. Since I live in the Buffalo area, going was kind of a no-brainer… (and the World Fantasy Convention is in Niagara Falls in October, if anyone is looking for a con to attend).

A variety of not-necessarily-related thoughts…

--I recently turned 70 (!) and was worried about being the 'old lady' at the con. Ha! There were more senior citizens than anything… evidently general cons like this tend to an older audiences. The con itself was relatively inexpensive, as such things go, but there is travel and other costs. So there is a certain amount of 'being able to afford to attend' involved.

--while there was a certain amount of diversity, most of the attendees were white and seem to be more men than women. But the con staff that I saw tended toward more female but the tech staff was male.

--evidently, there were about 500 attendees. I would have expected more but I don't quite know why. I'll be interested to see if the Fantasy con is bigger or smaller in the Fall.

--there was minimal or no use of tech to make presentations. That was good that there was no one reading from their power points… but there was so much information that I couldn't catch. Someone who is not an auditory processor would have problems understanding a lot of the presentations. There were regular requests to 'speak up' or 'speak into the mic' from the audience to the presenter or from the presenters when the audience asked questions.

--there were more people wearing masks that I expected. Maybe 5-8% but enough to be noted.

--there was the usual variety of discussion panels. Some were great, some were okay, a few were meh. A couple would have benefited from some thought put into the variety of presenters and what topics they were talking about. But all the panels were good about starting and ending on time.

--the presentations were all in one area of the hotel, which was excellent since I need to work on my own mobility (a whole separate discussion). The vendors and art were in another building I never forced myself to go to.

--the presentation rooms were okay. They tended to be cool, so I had a hoodie after the first day. Again, I didn't go looking too hard but there were no electrical plugs in the presentation rooms and no overt power stations. Maybe the vendor/art space had some of that, but since I didn't get there, I don't know.

--the people were overall pretty cool. I was more of a lurker than a participant, so I didn't interact with that many folk.

--real life events made it awkward to stay at the con hotel, so I went back and forth. That would make me miss out on some of the interactions as well as the evening events. I'm hoping to go to the Fantasy con and stay at the hotel, since the drive is longer. NASFIC was a 15 minute drive but Fantasy will be closer to 45 minutes. It's do-able but the fun is in staying.

--if it wasn't in Buffalo, I'd have to think hard about whether or not I'd attend again… there was a decent online offering this time and I would consider doing that. World Con 2025 will be in Seattle and it looks like 2026 will be in LA, so NASFIC won't be offered for at least a couple of years.

Overall, I was glad to go… it was good to get outside my comfort zone for a couple of days.

[ismelinor]

A Dustland Fairytale (1/12)

Read on AO3 | tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 1: The Starting Line

The castle was stunning – teeming with life. She could see why Missy had come here; she always cared about the ‘energy’ of a place, or the aura, or something. Scully was more focused on tangible things, like whether everyone wanted her dead.

It was, admittedly, odd for her – a magic user – to come looking for sanctuary in Camelot, but after the…incident back home, she didn’t have much of a choice. The only place her mother could think of to send her was Camelot, where she might find a home with an old family friend, Walter Skinner, and pursue her dream of becoming a physician under his guidance.

There were, of course, two tiny issues with this plan: first off, magic was banned in Camelot – and Scully practically breathed magic. She knew her magic was made to heal, and sometimes it got a little over-eager. That was how she’d gotten herself into trouble in Ealdor – a few bones set or aches eased could be explained away easily enough: the townspeople knew she read every apothecary’s book she could get her hands on. But then she’d seen the little Turner boy – being born blind was a death sentence in a farming town like theirs – and her heart just broke. She so wanted him to be healthy and safe that her magic let loose. She had no idea how she did it – no idea if she could do it again – but everyone saw the light leave her and wrap itself around the babe like a blanket. When the light faded, the boy’s eyes opened, blue and bright where they had been glassy and…well, Scully didn’t get to see what happened next because she’d been tackled to the floor by Farmer Andrews screaming bloody murder.

Her parents had managed to talk the villagers down from handing her over to King Cenred, but only on the condition that she’d stay far away. And though she was sad to say goodbye to her family, she’d always yearned for more – more than collecting the eggs every morning; more than sitting around waiting until some farmer ten years her senior decided she was good enough to marry; more than a woman in a small village could ever hope for.

That led on to the second tiny problem. She was a woman, and this world was not kind to women. She did not believe what her brother Bill said, that women were made to stay at home, to look after children and mend socks. Nor did she subscribe to her father’s belief, that she had a man’s mind in the body of a woman. Women were just as capable as men of being great thinkers, great fighters, and great leaders. But that didn’t change the fact that it wasn’t safe for a woman to travel alone, or that nobody would agree to train a woman to be a physician.

So, in true Scully fashion, she combined her two problems to come up with a solution: she’d use her magic to disguise herself as a man – that should be enough to get her safely to Camelot, and there she’d convince Skinner to take her on as an apprentice and do her best to hide her magic.

That might, she thought as she looked between her outstretched hand and the man levitating six feet above the ground, be easier said than done.

~~~

She hadn’t meant to startle the man, but when she’d entered the apothecary, she hadn���t even realised anyone was in there. Scully was looking around curiously – or, rather, nosily. She’d never seen so many instruments or strange plants, and she’d been leaning over to get a closer look at an oddly shaped vial over the fire when she’d knocked into a chair. There was a loud scraping sound, followed by a shout of surprise, and then a man she hadn’t spotted before was falling backwards from the top of a ladder – and she’d flung her arm out without a moment’s hesitation to stop his fall.

She lowered him to the ground carefully, and he turned to look at her, eyes wide with surprise. He was bald, a little younger than her mother perhaps, and his expression of shock was already morphing into one of exasperation. Yes, this must be Skinner.

“Er…I apologise, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Scully tried after a long moment.

The man stared at her in disbelief. “What in the name of the gods were you thinking, boy? Don’t you know sorcery is punishable by death in Camelot? They executed a boy your age just this morning for conjuring a flower for a girl. If anyone had seen you-”

“Nobody saw me except for you, sir, and my mother has sent me to you because she remembers you as a friend to magic.”

Skinner rubbed his forehead. “I will not turn you in, since you may well have saved my life, but there are no friends to magic in Camelot – or if there are, they don’t live long. Do I make myself clear?”

Scully nodded.

“Your mother sent you to me? Why?”

“I want to train to be a physician, sir. I’ve learnt the basics: wound dressing, collecting herbs, a few poultices…but I’d like to learn it all. Anything you can teach me.”

Skinner squinted at her. “What’s your name, child?”

“Scully, sir. My mother is Margaret and my father is William.”

“Scully is the family name. What is your given name?”

Scully shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “Danyl, sir.”

“Lying does not make for a good first impression, boy. Margaret and William have two sons: one named for his father, and one for his uncle, who is my brother by marriage. Neither, I imagine I need not tell you, is named Danyl. So who are you really?”

Scully sighed; this was not going particularly well. She dropped the glamour and heard Skinner’s sharp intake of breath. “Dana, sir. I am their youngest daughter. But please, sir, I know I’ll make a good physician – I’m a fast learner and a hard worker.”

She saw his expression soften a little. “You’ll not cause me any trouble? I get enough of that from the prince.”

She nodded eagerly.

“Fine. I’ll clear out the storage room for you to sleep in, and in the meantime, you can make yourself useful. Take this. It’s a sleeping draught for the princess; I’ll show you how to make it later. Go down the steps, across the courtyard, and up the stairs directly opposite. And no trouble. Understand?”

“Down the steps, across the courtyard, up again. Got it.”

~~~

Scully made it at least twenty paces out of the apothecary before finding trouble, and she figured she should get some credit for that.

But as she stepped out into the courtyard, she heard a cry of distress. It came from a boy cowering behind a shield, running along one side of the square as a group of knights jeered at him. One of them was throwing daggers at the shield; his aim was good, Scully could admit, but it was an absurdly dangerous game, and the poor boy was shaking. She strode over and stood in front of him, glaring at the knights.

“You’ve had your fun; leave the boy alone.”

The knight who had been throwing the daggers walked over to stand in front of her, laughing. She felt the anger rising in her chest – she couldn’t stand bullies. The man was tall; Scully suspected that he was one of those men who used his size to intimidate others. Well, she wouldn’t be intimidated.

“We were only having fun,” the man said, grinning obnoxiously.

“I don’t think he was having fun,” Scully replied, jerking her head at the boy behind her.

“C’mon, they’re only training daggers! They’re not sharp enough to hurt anyone, are they, Tommy?” he sneered at the boy, who Scully could now see was actually a man – older than her, certainly.

The man, Tommy presumably, mumbled something under his breath and scurried away. Well, a thank you would have been nice.

Scully turned her glare back to the man in front of her. “Training daggers or not, you could have hurt him. Grow up.”

The man looked down at her sardonically and said, “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Scully stepped closer, returning his stare. “Only a small man uses his size to intimidate. Besides, I dare say I could take you down a peg.”

The man leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “I could have you in the stocks for that.”

Scully scoffed. She may not have been from these parts, but even she knew that squires didn’t have that sort of sway, no matter how highly they thought of themselves. “Who do you think you are, the king?”

The man grinned. “No, I’m the prince. Mulder.” He stuck out his hand, as if they were making polite introductions.

Now, there were two sides to Dana Scully. One was a woman who followed the rules – didn’t like people who broke the rules – who did as she was told, and who bowed to authority (at least, when she believed in the integrity of that authority). She was a logical young woman, and she saw the logic in keeping out of trouble. But she hadn’t yet grown out of the righteous fire of adolescence, and she had another side to her: a reckless side. It’s what had led her, more than once, to do something she shouldn’t on a dare from one of her brothers. It’s what led her to stand up for this squire, when it would have been wiser to avert her eyes.

As she stood in front of the prince, staring at his proffered hand, the two sides of her were at odds. She knew, logically, that he could well have her put in the stocks for what she’d said. She knew, logically, that her best bet was to apologise. She knew, logically, that rejecting a handshake from a prince was not a good start to her career in his court.

But her whole spirit rebelled against it. This man was grinning – laughing at her – and, prince or no, he’d been tormenting a boy barely out of the schoolroom.

She put her hands on her hips, glared up at him, and said, “Respect is not a birth right, and I do not shake the hands of men I do not respect.”

Two of the knights who’d been egging the prince on made to grab her, but the prince waved them off, still with that infuriating smile on his face.

“No, no, let the boy go. I’ve rather enjoyed not being respected. It’s always educational to experience something new.” He winked and led the knights away, leaving her flushed with anger.

~~~

Scully was still fuming by the time she reached the royal quarters. She wondered if the princess would be as arrogant as her brother – though she was starting to worry she’d never find out. There had to be thirty rooms in the royal quarters, which were build like a maze besides, and Skinner had given no indication of which belonged to the princess.

She caught sight of a blond head, barely visible behind a pile of sheets.

“Excuse me!” she called out.

The boy blinked and scurried over. He reminded Scully of a puppy, somehow – over-eager and panting a little.

“Hello, I’m new to Camelot, and I’m looking for the princess’ chambers. I have something for her from the court physician.”

The boy smiled. “Of course, I’ll take you there. My name’s Pendrell, by the way. I’m the king’s manservant. If you need any help settling in, or, or, directions around the castle, I’m your boy – man!”

Scully smiled and followed him down the corridor. “Thank you, Pendrell, that’s very kind of you. I’m Scully; I’m training to be the physician’s assistant.”

Pendrell chattered on eagerly, and seemed almost disappointed when they reached the princess’ chambers. “Here you are, then. I hope I’ll see you around soon.”

Scully gave him a wave, which he tried to return before remembering that he was carrying a load of laundry.

She looked at the princess’ door and sighed. Frankly, she’d had enough of stuck-up nobles for the day. She’d never been one to cower from a task that needed doing, though, so she stepped up and knocked firmly.

“Enter.”

She did so, and looked around the room in awe. She’d never seen a bed so large, or so many fine things in one place: books, candles, jewellery, beautiful dresses, a maid arranging flowers by the window. And standing in a shaft of sunlight, as handsome as any of her fine things, was the princess. She had a pretty face and a kindly smile which put Scully at ease immediately.

She curtsied. “My lady, I have a tincture for you from the court physician.”

“Danes?” Was that-?

The maid in the corner span around – and, yes, it really was her! Missy, in the princess’ chambers, wearing a maidservant’s dress far finer than anything either of them had worn back home.

“Missy!” Scully forgot the princess entirely as she wrapped her arms around her sister. She clung on desperately, feeling Missy’s tears on her shoulder.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Melissa?” Scully jumped back at the princess’ voice.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my lady. Here,” Scully said quickly, handing over the tincture. She’d only left Skinner’s quarters three candle-marks ago and she’d already made a scene in front of two royals. This was probably not what he meant when he told her to stay out of trouble.

Missy brushed a tear from her eye and said, “Oh no, it’s my fault – only I was so surprised to see you. Samantha, this is my-” she cut herself off, looking at Scully’s apparel uncertainly. Of course – Missy could see through the glamour, but she was still dressed in Charlie’s tunic and slacks.

“I am Melissa’s brother, my lady. My name is Scully, and I’m training under Skinner to be a physician.”

The princess looked over at Missy with an affectionate smile. “Well, any relation of Melissa’s must be a friend of mine. She’s an angel, as I’m sure you know. I must go and speak to my father, but please make yourself at home here, Scully. I’m sure the two of you have lots of catching up to do."

Scully curtsied as she swept out of the room, and then Missy’s arms were around her again.

“Oh, Danes, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you. But what are you doing here? Why are you pretending to be a boy?”

Scully told her tale – from healing the Turner boy to seeking out Skinner – but when she got to her run-in with that awful prince, Melissa only laughed fondly.

“This squire, was he brown-haired, broad? A little thuggish?”

“How did you know?”

“His name’s Tom. He’s Sir Colton’s son, and he’s a real piece of work. Mulder saw him hassling me this morning – telling me how good he is with his sword – ugh. You know the type. The other maids and I are used to that sort of thing – there’s nothing we can do. But the prince always puts them in their place. He makes sure they know they’ll pay, even if the king wouldn’t do anything.”

Scully had to begrudgingly admit that the prince might not be all that bad.

Missy grinned. “And he’s cute too, don’t you think?”

Scully sniffed. “I didn’t notice. I was distracted by his arrogance. His sister is much nicer. Prettier, too.”

“Oh, she’s not his sister. She is very pretty, though.”

“She’s not? I thought she was the princess.”

“Well, she is. Her father’s the king. He married Prince Mulder’s mother after the last king died, maybe ten years ago now.”

“So which one of them will take the throne when their parents die?”

“Samantha. It’s a strange story, actually. Back when Mulder’s parents were king and queen, they tried for years to have a child, but couldn’t. Spender was royal advisor back then, and a close friend of the king, so they agreed to name his daughter heir. Samantha was only two years old then. But almost as soon as she was named crown princess, the queen found out she was pregnant. Of course, it was too late to reverse the process, so they couldn’t have their son as heir.

“Is he bitter? Prince Mulder, I mean?”

“No, I think he’s glad, really. Court politics wouldn’t suit him at all. Mulder is…not like the princess. He’s too fiery to sit on a throne and mediate land disputes all day long. Mulder’s always running off on some odd quest or other – it drives the king mad.”

“Does he get along with the princess?”

“Oh, yes. They’ve always been close – partners in crime. Like Charlie and me.”

“Perhaps they’ll marry, then. The whole heir business wouldn’t matter in that case.”

Missy looked thoroughly put off by the idea. “Oh no, I don’t think so. They’re practically siblings. No, I hope not. I hope not.” She was emphatic, and Scully wondered if her sister might have a personal interest in the question. She had called Mulder cute, after all. Well, prince or no, Scully would kill him if he messed Missy around. Or castrate him, at the very least.

“Enough about these nobles. How did you end up here? Last I heard, you were living with Ellen out in the lower town selling charms. Look, I’ve kept mine all these years,” she said, pulling it out from under the collar of her tunic.

Missy smiled. “Now, I know you don’t believe in destiny, Danes, but that’s the only explanation. Ellen had just had her baby, and coin was short, so I said I’d bring my charms to the citadel where some wealthy merchants would be sure to buy some for their wives and mistresses. But along the way I was attacked by bandits – they didn’t hurt me, but they took all my charms – months of work. I couldn’t go back to Ellen empty-handed, and give her another mouth to feed. I was totally distraught, thinking I’d have to get back to Ealdor, somehow, when the princess came across me crying. I had no idea who she was, but she had the sweetest aura I’d ever seen, and I told her everything. She said it would be alright, took me by the hand, and brought me to the castle. She let me sleep on the pallet in her antechamber, and in the morning she told me she’d spoken to the queen, and I could be her maidservant if I liked. I’ve been here ever since, and I’ve never had a cruel word from her, or from the prince.”

Scully looked at her shrewdly. “But you have from the other nobles? The king and queen?”

“The queen is…not a cruel woman, but she is cold. She chooses not to see how her people suffer under the rule of her husband. Her own son, even. But, Dana,” here, she lowered her voice, “The king is a bad man. Ruthless. He will kill you if he discovers your…talents. You cannot be safe here. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I’m sure, Missy. And I’ve always wanted to be a physician: now I can. Wouldn’t you call that destiny?”

Missy smiled, a little teary-eyed. “Oh, well you’re still my baby sister. I’m glad I can at least look out for you here. Why don’t you come with me to the feast tonight, and I’ll tell you who everyone is, and who to avoid.”

~~~

That was how Scully found herself standing rather awkwardly against the wall of Camelot’s banquet hall. If she’d ever taken the trouble to imagine what a feast fit for nobles would look like, which she hadn’t, she would have been pretty close: enormous piles of food, freely flowing ale, ruddy-cheeked lords pinching at panicked serving girls – Camelot had it all.

The only aspect that didn’t quite fit her vision was a travelling bard, welcomed as a special guest by King Spender. Scully had imagined bards to be young, energetic and spritely men – surely the job demanded such – but this bard was greying and tired-looking. His song was slow and soporific, and Scully found herself leaning more and more heavily against the wall.

And then she realised she wasn’t the only one: there was Prince Mulder, struggling to keep his eyes open, and Skinner resting his head on a hand, and Missy falling against the princess’ shoulder. Scully clamped her hands against her ears the second she realised what was happening. This was bad. The entire court of Camelot was drifting to sleep before her eyes. She had to stop that song.

She looked over at the bard, who was staring right at her. The first thing she noticed was his sad, sad eyes. He stopped his song and the silence in the hall was suffocating.

“You must be Scully,” the man said slowly.

Scully stared at him. “How do you know my name?”

He smiled sadly. “I’m sorry to cut your destiny short, child.”

At the front of the hall, the royal family were blinking awake. The king was muttering something about magic and the dungeons. Scully took a step closer to them, though she had no idea what the bard intended, or what he meant by her destiny.

The bard moved to the centre of the room, followed by a whirlwind of tablecloths and papers. “King Spender, you are a tyrant and a madman. You sentence men, women and children to death with a wave of your hand, but no understanding of what death means. I will teach you what death means.”

King Spender stood and slammed his hands on the table. “Guards! Arrest him!”

The bard flicked his hand and the guards struggled against invisible restraints. “You cannot hurt me more than you already have, you foolish man. You killed my son. My only child. Do you remember his crime?”

Spender twisted his mouth distastefully. “If I had him killed, he must have been a magic-user. All magic-users are corrupt. He deserved to die, just like you.”

The bard laughed hollowly. “He had no magic. He pulled a flower from his sleeve – a sleight of hand, to impress his sweetheart. One of your knights saw and cried magic because you have created an empire of fear and mistrust. But your empire is built on legs of sand and I will bring them down. A life for a life. A son for a son.”

It all happened so quickly. Barely a second, in which the future hung in the balance: Scully saw the flash of silver as the bard plucked a carving knife from the air whipping around his head, and before she knew what she was about, she was diving across the hall to knock Prince Mulder flat. As they hit the floor, she heard the impact of the knife burying itself in the wall behind the prince’s chair.

She looked down into the prince’s wide eyes, an inch below her own, and for one moment – despite herself, despite everything she believed in, and everything she didn’t – she saw her destiny in his eyes. And then she heard the bard being tackled to the floor and remembered herself; she rolled off Prince Mulder’s body and scrambled to her feet.

The hall was in chaos. Lords and ladies were clinging to one another, the king was yelling, and the bard had been knocked out on the floor. The uproar only subsided when the guards dragged the bard out of the hall.

The king looked over at her, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted. She tried not to flinch. “You saved the prince’s life,” he stated.

Scully glanced over at Skinner, unsure if she was expected to respond.

“This warrants a reward,” he declared in the same imperious tone. “You are trustworthy, I suppose.”

Scully opened her mouth but couldn’t think of what to say. Skinner replied for her: “The boy is trustworthy, sire. I can vouch for him; he’s my nephew.”

She’d won Skinner’s loyalty, at least, if he was willing to lie for her.

“Then you will be rewarded with a position in the royal household. You will be Prince Mulder’s manservant.”

Scully and Mulder had matching expressions of horrified disbelief.

“Sire,” said Mulder stiffly, “I have no need of a manservant.”

The king waved his hand dismissively. “You are a prince, and it’s time you started acting like one. You will have a manservant.”

Mulder clenched his jaw but said nothing.

Scully looked over at Skinner, who only shook his head.

The remainder of the meal was strange, to say the least: the king announced that the sorcerer would be executed the following day, which was followed by raucous applause, as if a grieving father’s death were a cause for celebration. Mulder and Samantha, to their credit, sat through it stone-faced – though in the prince’s case, that could have been lingering moodiness from the dreadful affliction of being given a personal servant. The life of a prince must truly be a trial.

As for her, Scully stood by Missy’s side in silence, wondering how on earth she was going to survive as manservant to the prince of Camelot. Beyond the fact that she knew nothing about serving, she couldn’t exactly keep a low profile, tending to the whims of a royal. And Prince Mulder, whatever his faults may be, did not seem to be a stupid man – how long could it possibly be until he figured out she was a woman – or, worse, a magic-user? Yes, she’d be the next execution ordered and these pot-bellied, wine-addled nobles would cheer her away to the pyre.

It was with that comforting thought that she drifted off to sleep on her first – and perhaps last – night in Camelot.

[lboogie1906]

Lottie Hawkins (June 11, 1883 - 1961) was born in Henderson, North Carolina, her family moved to Cambridge, Massachusetts, early to avoid racial discrimination.

During her senior year at Cambridge High School, she met Alice Freeman Palmer, who in 1882 was named the first woman president of Wellesley College. Palmer would become a role model, mentor, and influence in her life. She became Palmer’s protégé as the two women developed a lifelong bond. Palmer assisted her financially in attending Salem State Normal School.

In 1901 she accepted a teaching position in North Carolina offered by the American Missionary Association. She did not graduate from Salem State, but she decided to take the post anyway knowing that since there were few educational opportunities for Black children she would do what she could to address the problem.

She taught rural Black children at Bethany Congregational Church in Sedalia, North Carolina. With the assistance of her mentor Alice Freeman Palmer, established the Alice Freeman Palmer Institute. This school, located in Sedalia, taught children between the elementary and junior college levels. It would operate through the late 1950s. She married fellow Institute teacher Edward S. Brown (1915). The marriage was brief.

While directing the Institute she took courses at Simmons College, Temple University, and Wellesley College. She received several honorary degrees and traveled in circles that included Booker T. Washington, W.E.B. DuBois, fellow school founder Mary McLeod Bethune, and Eleanor Roosevelt.

She was a dedicated anti-segregationist and an advocate for African American cultural pride and identity. North Carolina designated the Alice Freeman Palmer Institute the first historical landmark of North Carolina identified with an African American. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence #alphakappaalpha

[liminalweirdo]

"Without needing a warrant, police can track ordinary peoples' smartphone locations - including people who travel out of state to get abortion procedures. The implications are troubling:

"“Warrantless law enforcement access to digital information related to reproductive health care, including location data, threatens reproductive freedom,” Ashley Emery, senior policy analyst, reproductive health and rights at the non-profit the National Partnership for Women & Families, told 404 Media. “If law enforcement can bypass court approval needed to obtain sensitive data and instead use this new surveillance tool to track pregnant people and build cases against them, the implications for abortion and pregnancy criminalization are alarming. This risk is especially salient for Black women, brown women, and low-income women, who are already over-surveilled and over-policed.”"

The tracking crosses states and is made possible by the cellphone networks themselves as part of what are shockingly lenient data sharing policies overall. Because of the jurisdiction, and the complicated way this data becomes available, the only surefire way to solve this problem is with a federal privacy law that protects our data.

At the very least it should need a warrant - but really, this sort of tracking shouldn't be possible at all. Without strong technical and legal protections against sharing, all our cellphones (this problem is not limited to smartphones) can be used as tracking devices to understand our whereabouts, who we're gathering with, and potentially more. We're all highly-dependent on them at this stage, but it's worth questioning whether we should be."

anyway yeah DELETE YOUR FUCKING ADVERTISING IDS

Android:

Settings ➡️ Google ➡️ all services ➡️ Ads ➡️ Delete advertising ID

(may differ slightly depending on android version and manufacturer firmware. you can't just search settings for "advertising ID" of course 🔪)

iOS:

Settings ➡️ privacy ➡️ tracking ➡️ toggle "allow apps to request to track" to OFF

and ALSO settings ➡️ privacy ➡️ Apple advertising ➡️ toggle "personalized ads" to OFF

more details about the process here via the EFF

[nikhil-patil]

 Evolving with the City: The Adaptive Human Form of Future Mumbaikars

AI has not been used to write this so there can be grammatical mistakes.

In 80 years when I will be 101 years old I imagine that the current skyline of major cities like Mumbai will look look different based on the rate of redevelopment and planning going on in Mumbai and it's suburbs. The redevelopment will be done in the next 40-50 years. 

As the cities rebuilding itself the population to the city also increase and the requirements of transport and public transport along with energy consumption increased. And the price of natural fuels skyrocketed. As a result the public transport like taxi and auto rikshas sized to exist. The only the rich now own cars.

The government now had to make a discussion to solve the transportation problem and come up solutions. At first they thought about replacing the patrol pumps with charging stations. But that only benefited a minority of upper class people. Understanding this the politician made a election promise and campaign around it and won. The coming year the new government proposed multiple project and after many rejections and changes came up with a solution that benefited the government and also satisfied the people. The project was called N.O.W (New Old Ways). NOW proposed to adapt the old way of transportation reimagining it with new technology. In this the Tram system which were a major mode of public transportation in Mumbai, India, for almost 100 years were reintroduce as the primary means of public transport. This tram is fast enough to take people from one point of nariman point to other in 15 mins. Dose not have a driver or a conductor. And Is fully automatic. The passengers only have to know the name of the destination or where it's on the map. The location  can be selected while waiting for the ride to come pick the passengers. Since most of the roads are now dedicated to tramp roots there are less cars and and the tramps are controlled by advance ai to ensure fast and safe travel. Some safety measures have also been taken to ensure that no one crosses the roads while the tramps are operating. The tramp only has 5 seating capacity only for the senior citizens, pregnant women's and people with medical conditions. The rest of the people travel standing. The reason being that most Mumbaikars have been traveling by crowded trains and busses for a major part of their life be it to their schools, colleges, workplace, or even to meet their friends and family. Due to this the skeletal and the muscular structure of their legs has now evolved so that they don't mind standing and their balance is also improved to resist the shaking of trains and busses. That is how project  N.O.W will change the Mumbai in the coming 80 years