#st. martins / tension

[nineteenfiftysix]

Djrum - St. Martins (St. Martins / Tension - Single, 2010)

[nhlclover]

DRESS JURAJ SLAFKOVSKY

pairing: juraj slafkovsky x fem!reader

summary: caught up in a secret romance with juraj, you find yourself toeing the line between desire and discretion.

warnings: owners daughter x juraj slafkovsky, heated makeout, sort of nsfw? but not really

wc: 2.07k

notes: loosely based on 'dress' & 'i can see you' by taylor swfit. first piece for my mannnnnz. also if you're curious about what dress i'm picturing, it's this dress!

Juraj Slafkovsky was bound to get you in trouble one day.

You knew it was inevitable. From the moment your dad tasked you with handing him his jersey when he was drafted, your fingertips brushing against each other, you knew that he was going to turn your world upside down.

And that he did. Your crush on Juraj burned intensely.

It started off innocently, as these things do — fleeting glances during short conversations after games, quick smiles when you would run into one another at the Bell Centre. It didn’t take long for those small, little interactions to evolve into something more. At first, you convinced yourself it was harmless. You were just being polite, maybe a bit friendly, but certainly nothing more. You didn’t want to get caught up in something you couldn’t handle, especially with him — someone so high-profile, someone who had the potential to disrupt the balance in your life completely.

But Juraj had a magnetic pull, an easy charm that made it impossible to stay away from him. There was something about him that made you feel noticed like you weren’t just another face in the crowd, but someone he genuinely enjoyed being around. You would catch yourself overanalyzing every single moment: Did he look at you a little too long? Did he stand just a little too close? It felt silly, but you couldn’t help it.

It didn’t take long before you both began to seek each other out in the arena after games, slipping into hidden corners or meeting up in quiet hallways, even just to have a short conversation and be in each other's presence. Those encounters felt charged, buzzing with an unspoken tension. Each time, you found yourself pushing boundaries, flirting just a little more boldly, and testing the waters to see how much you could get away with. And then, one night after a big win, it happened.

He caught you, standing next to your dad, watching Martin St. Louis's post-game speech in the locker room. Your eyes were not on the head coach, delivering an impassioned speech about the win they’d just achieved, but rather they were on the Slovak still sitting in his gear, sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead. Juraj alike was not listening to his coach, but instead staring at you, like you were the only person in the room. At that moment, something shifted. Maybe it was the adrenaline of the victory or the way your gazes were making you feel like the only people in the room. Either way, it felt like neither of you could wait a second longer.

As soon as possible, after media was done and Juraj was back in his gameday suit, you were pulled into a side closet. Before you knew it, his lips were on yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was inevitable.

After that, there was no turning back. You fell into a rhythm that felt comfortable but thrilling, a secret only the two of you shared. You didn’t talk much about what it meant, and neither of you tried to define it. You didn’t need to; you were both content with the way things were. Stolen moments when you could finally be alone, sneaking out of the house to Juraj’s apartment, and even sneaking Juraj in one night in a dangerous attempt at just being together.

There was a softness in how he treated you that was at odds with his towering presence on the ice. He would brush a stray hair from your face, or wrap you in his arms with a gentleness that made you feel safe, cherished even. But the reality of your situation always lingered in the back of your mind. You knew you couldn’t stay in this secret forever; he was bound to attract attention sooner or later, and you couldn’t risk your dad finding out. Not yet, at least.

Tonight, though, was different. The grand, polished event left no room for any sort of private rendezvous. You were expected to play your part, mingling with sponsors and season ticket holders, smiling by your father’s side. But from the moment you arrived, you could feel Juraj’s gaze on you, the intensity of his stare almost enough to melt the composure you fought so hard to maintain. You didn’t dare look at him directly — not with your dad beside you, not with so many eyes around.

Juraj couldn’t stop staring at you. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of the deep purple dress that had a deep neckline, as well as a long slit up your left leg, exposing your thigh that Juraj kept imagining placing kisses along the inside of.

He didn’t know how he’d managed to keep his composure so far, how he could even focus on the mind-numbing conversations he was being pulled into by donors and sponsors when all he wanted was to close the distance between you. The way the dress hugged your curves, the delicate fabric resting against your skin, it was as if every detail had been designed specifically to drive him insane.

Juraj’s jaw tightened as he watched you laugh at something your dad said, the sound carrying to him where he stood only a few feet away, the closest he’d been all evening. He clenched his fists, trying to shake off the impatience gnawing at him. Finally, an idea sparked. He’d seen a stack of napkins on the refreshment table, and the thought struck him. He casually picked one up, borrowed a pen from the waiter passing by, and, hiding it in his palm, scribbled a note on the napkin. He took his chance when your father’s attention was elsewhere, moving to your side just long enough to slip the napkin into your hand.

Feeling the subtle brush against your fingers as he pressed something small and folded into your hand, you didn’t dare look, let alone react to his presence. As soon as he’d drifted by and back into the crowd, you turned and glanced into your hand: a napkin with a hastily scrawled message in his looping handwriting.

“Meet me in 10 in the locker room.”

A flutter of excitement rose up in your chest as you tucked the note away in your purse. It felt like an eternity waiting for the minutes to pass, pretending to be engaged in polite conversation while your mind raced, anticipation building with each second. Finally, you excused yourself, slipping away towards the benches and down the tunnel where you knew the locker room was. As you neared the entrance, the silence made your heart beat even faster. You entered slowly, the room dimly lit and empty.

You stepped in, glancing around. “Juraj?” you called out softly. The room remained silent as you ventured in further, the clicking of your heels muffled by the carpeting.

You wandered deeper into the locker room, glancing around at the space usually bustling with activity but now eerily quiet. The benches were pristine, the air filled with the faint scent of musky hockey gear that no amount of heavy-duty cleaning products could mask. The neatly arranged stalls bore the player's name above them, their personal items tucked into place with a casual order.

You stopped in front of Juraj’s stall, looking at all the items that filled it. Setting your purse down on the bench, you ran your fingers along the edge of his stall. Your gaze fell to a compartment below where his skates were kept. You nudged the compartment open and peered inside. A folded towel, some extra tape, and a single, stray hockey puck lay there.

“Looking for something?”

You jumped, dropping the lid to the compartment which slammed down. You whipped around, spotting Juraj leaning on the frame of the doorway with a smirk on his face. His suit was perfectly tailored, and his hair just the way you liked it — soft and slightly unruly. You couldn’t hide your smile as you took him in, your cheeks warming.

“You look incredible tonight,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He took a step closer, his gaze trailing down the length of you before meeting your eyes. “Not as good as you,” he murmured, his eyes smoldering. His eyes trail your figure, and you can tell his mind is thinking a million thoughts that you are begging to hear. You need to hear all the things he’s thinking about saying and doing to you.

“What are you thinking right now?” you asked, unable to keep yourself from smiling despite your teeth biting down on your bottom lip.

“What am I thinking?” Juraj asked, you nodding. “C’mon y/n… don’t make me spell it out for you. You know I want you.”

You swallowed but kept your gaze steady. “Then come over here and do something about it.”

He didn’t hesitate. In one smooth movement, he closed the space between you, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss. Your arms wound around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he pulled you close, hands roaming down the curve of your waist. Every touch, every brush of his lips felt like a release of all the pent-up tension from the evening. His kisses grew deeper, hungrier, and you melted into him, feeling his warmth seeping into you.

As he pulled back slightly to catch his breath, his eyes moved over you appreciatively. “God, this dress,” he murmured, almost in awe, his hands tracing the outline of your waist.

You smirked. “You like it?”

He opened his mouth as if to speak but only managed a quiet exhale, seemingly lost for words.

“Well,” you continued, a teasing glint in your eye, “I hope you’re not too attached because I bought it just to watch you take it off me.”

A playful grin tugged at his lips. “That’s great,” he said, voice a little husky, “because I don’t like it, anyway.” His lips found yours again, his hands roaming down to the small of your back, where his fingers brushed against the zipper. You felt a thrill rush through you as he gently began to slide it down before you remembered where you were and let out a small laugh, stopping him.

“We can’t, Juraj,” you whispered, giving him a gentle push. “Not here. It would be basically sacrilegious if we had sex here.”

He groaned, dipping his head to press a trail of kisses along your neck. “It’s fine,” he murmured between kisses, “as long as we don’t do it on the logo.”

You let out a laugh, Juraj feeling the vibration against his lips as he worked his way down to your clavicle. You exhaled, fighting to keep your thoughts straight as his lips moved against your skin. “We really shouldn’t, Juraj,” you managed, your voice more breathless than you intended. “If we’re gone too long, my dad’s going to notice I’m missing.”

Juraj paused, his eyes glinting with a mischievous smile. “We can be quick,” he whispered into your ear, pressing a light kiss to the lobe.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Juraj, c’mon, the last thing we need is being caught having sex in the locker room. You’d never hear the end of it if we got caught.”

Juraj sighed, his forehead pressing gently against yours, his hands rubbing slow, warm circles on your hips. “Fine, fine,” he murmured, his tone playful but with an edge of disappointment. He reached back around and pulled the zipper back up as if nothing had ever been out of place. “But you’re making this incredibly hard, you know?”

You grinned, placing a soft kiss on his cheek before slipping out of his grasp. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He watched you, a flicker of frustration mingling with amusement in his expression. “We’re finishing what we started later.”

“Only if you behave,” you teased, walking backward toward the door, your eyes never leaving his. “Now go on, try to look like you’re not dying inside when you rejoin everyone.”

“Easier said than done,” he muttered, adjusting his tie, still watching you with a longing that made your heart skip. “But alright, I’ll try.”

As you walked back down the hallway, you caught his gaze one last time, and it was filled with a promise. Whatever had started between you was far from over. And tonight had only deepened the thrill of it all.

[whencyclopedia]

Peace of Westphalia

The Peace of Westphalia, the name given to the multiple treaties, marked the conclusion of the Thirty Years' War. Signed on 24 October 1648, it aimed to secure political autonomy for the multitude of small states that made up the Holy Roman Empire, allowing religious freedoms across the divided realm.

The peace also gave rise to the political concept known as Westphalian sovereignty, which declares that states, regardless of size, have the right to self-governance – a concept that still exists within the systems of international relations today.

Prelude to War

While many Christian states in Europe were relatively homogenous entities, subservient to the seat of power in their respective capitals, the Holy Roman Empire could more accurately be described as a collection of states and kingdoms of varying sizes unified under the authority of a single emperor, whilst being largely distinct from one another. This decentralised model allowed for considerable autonomy for the individual states, allowing significant political and diplomatic freedoms whilst still, in theory, maintaining allegiance to the Holy Roman Emperor. At the same time, the freedoms of the constituent states allowed them to exercise levels of autonomy regarding religion.

The question of religious freedoms in particular began to strain the political cohesion of the empire. Following Martin Luther's 95 Theses and the start of the Protestant Reformation in 1517, the Holy Roman Empire gradually became divided over which form of Christianity was seen as legitimate, with the emperor and his allies championing the established Roman Catholic tradition, whilst the Schmalkaldic League (established on 27 February 1531) embraced the new Protestant Lutheran tradition. This division inevitably led to conflict between the two factions, culminating in two wars known as the First (1546-1547) and Second (1552) Schmalkaldic Wars. These conflicts officially ended in 1555 at the Peace of Augsburg, which split the Holy Roman states between Catholicism and Lutheranism and allowed the ruler of each state within the empire to choose their religious preference. The peace, however, was far from perfect, and tensions between the two groups continued to grow, eventually coming to a head as Europe entered the 17th century.

In 1608, one of the Holy Roman Empire's most important governmental bodies, the Imperial Diet, was called, and the most pressing matter was that of the Peace of Augsburg. Between the signing of the Augsburg treaty in 1555 and the diet, the Protestant states of the empire had greatly increased their power. Many more states had converted to Protestantism, and the new Protestant leaders had begun to seize land formerly owned by the Catholic Church. The Peace of Augsburg stated that Protestant monarchs who had converted prior to 1552 and who had incorporated seized Catholic assets by that date were permitted to keep them, whereas any monarch who converted to Protestantism after 1555 would not be permitted to incorporate any Catholic assets they had seized into their own territorial churches.

Religions in Europe in the 16th Century

Simeon Netchev (CC BY-NC-ND)

The treaty, however, was purposefully vague, and both the Catholics and Protestants interpreted the limitations of the treaty differently. Despite the supposed limitations, Protestants continued to expand their influence within the religious institutions of the empire well after 1555. By the Imperial Diet of 1608, the expansion of Protestant influence had become a pressing issue, and so debate around the Peace of Augsburg was at the forefront of the gathering. The Protestant leaders had come to the diet calling for a renewal of the 1555 treaty. Fearing the Protestants would continue to use the treaty to strengthen their position, Archduke Ferdinand of Austria, who had led the premier Catholic state in the Empire, agreed they would renew the treaty, but only if the Protestants agreed to return all Catholic land taken since 1552. The Protestant delegates were expectedly furious at the suggestion and left the diet in protest. In reaction to the hostile end to the Imperial Diet, the Empire was effectively split into two factions: The Protestant Union, founded in 1608 by Frederick IV of the Palatinate, and the Catholic League, founded the following year by Maximillian I, the Duke of Bavaria.

Continue reading...

[peppertaemint]

Let's talk about Taemin and Key of SHINee wearing the Scottish fashion house Charles Jeffrey Loverboy, an openly queer unisex brand. There’s a lot of talk about whether idols know who they are wearing and, when relevant, do they understand the meaning of what they are wearing. We know there are clear examples of artists not understanding what they’re wearing. Indeed, 23-year-old, non-English-speaking Taemin admitted in 2021 that he had no idea the fly of his pants read “Open Here” during View era. Yet, a lot has changed this 2015/16. Taemin’s English is quite proficient. And what about Key, who has studied English since he was a child? I think we can consider understanding the words and understanding the context or broader meaning behind words or, as the case may be, symbols, which can be universal.

Taemin in the Advice album photobook, 2021.

The Charles Jeffrey Loverboy brand is no ordinary brand. It’s a spunky, fun and edgy unisex brand with genuine British flavour. From London Fashion Week's write up:

"Looking back to look forward, the collections re-render historical references as intrinsically modern while paying respect to an ancestral line-up of costumiers, performance artists and queer icons. Jeffrey’s nightlife-influenced thirst for experimentation, and belief in the validity of mistakes, result in a colourful tension between control and chaos.

"LOVERBOY’s roots are fixed in London’s queer nightlife scene, having been born in 2014 as both a fashion label and a cult club night. The LOVERBOY parties, first staged while Jeffrey was studying for his Masters in fashion design at Central St Martins in London, were attended by the city’s up-and-coming artists, performers, musicians, drag queens and poets, many of whom became Jeffrey’s future muses and creative collaborators."

Live performance of Advice, 2021.

The tartan in these looks is known as the loverboy tartan. In the current collection, they have an “odorable” loverboy tartan raincoat with giant floppy bunny ears. I’m too lazy to link it, but do look it up and peruse the punk-meets-whimsy items on the website.

Taemin’s stylist for Advice was Kim Wook. You can read an interview with Kim Wook in translation here. Wook talks about he and Taemin wanting to do something impactful before Taemin entered the military, and they settled on working with silhouettes that are usually seen on female dancers. I could do a whole post on Taemin’s styling for Advice (maybe I will!), but to connect things back to the brand at hand, the flamboyantly unisex Loverboy brand seems to be at home with the goal of Advice’s styling. Advice was Taemin’s way of saying “I will go my own way and trust myself over others,” and I don’t think the androgynous or even gender-fluid looks he presented are a coincidence; Wook’s interview shows that it isn’t. These looks feel like a push forward for Taemin, and he’s been clear in saying Advice was a breakaway from his past. Act I and Act II were leading to this moment.

Taemin has been wearing Charles Jeffery Loverboy upon in return in 2023. I think the most significant choice is the non-binary shirt he wore a fan meeting during Hard era. The t-shirt is a jab at conservatives’ obsession with the love lives and indeed, bathroom usage, of LGBT+, saying, “They’re happy and satisfied. Are you?” There is a also a good-sized, unmistakable non-binary symbol on the shirt. I hadn’t seen this symbol before but it was still easy for me to comprehend. As an artist who is increasingly wearing gender-fluid outfits, it is likely a conscious choice to wear a shirt that supports non-binary rights.

Now, we can’t forget fashion-forward, English king Key in all of this. Key has always had a love and fascination with fashion; we saw in One Fine Day his interaction with a local London fashion brands. He’s a man who knows his fashion houses, so it seems unlikely he wouldn’t know about the Loverboy brand or its ethos as a unisex brand.

Key primarily wore Charles Jeffrey Loverboy accessories for his Gasoline promotions in 2022. The adorable hat with ears is statement wrapped in cuteness, that speaks to the camp motif present in both Key’s body of work and the Loverboy label’s. It’s cute, but not too cute. It’s loud but soft, and the Loverboy stamp is there for all to see. I think that Key embodies what LSF wrote about the Lovery label as “a colourful tension between control and chaos.” Key is never afraid to experiment, and he can go from creating iconic androgynous silhouettes reminiscent of ancient gods and Beyoncé to the retro-camp shown below that almost looks like it could be at home in a Ghostbusters film. Almost.

There are contexts where, like the above, it is more than reasonable to assume that the artists understand what they are wearing and that the choices made are conscious and in some cases made with the goal of the comeback in mind. And there are situations where it’s possible or even confirmed by the artist that they didn’t know what they were wearing or what it meant. I think it can become an obsession for some to want the styling to be conveying a secret code. With the case of Charles Jeffrey Loverboy, there’s no code and it’s not secret. It’s simply known and recognised by those who know, which is enough.

[ilovebuckers5]

✧･ﾟ: Strawberry Love･ﾟ:✧

kate martin x oc

themes:

fluff

a bit of angst idk

explicit language

reassurance

A/N: this is so short i'm sorry. i might make a master list pretty soon because writing these are so much fun for no reason. (i did not spell check this so idk if there are any mistakes)

arguments had to be my worst thing of all time. like to ever exist. so whenever me and Kate would get into one i would shut off and lock myself in my room for as long as i needed.

"that's not what i meant Liz please!" Kate called out towards my back as i stormed off.

i slammed my door behind me and sat myself on the bed. Kate immediately ran up to the door and tried opening it calling out my name and apologizing. now i will admit, i was being a bit dramatic but i could definitely tell that all these random girls were trying to make moves on Kate, and she wasn't making an effort to stop them. she didn't exactly bang on the door but she kept trying to get it open.

"Lizzy i'm really sorry. can you please let me in so that we can just talk" the heat that was in the room slowly started to fade away as her voice softened from pleading to just wanting. i sighed still sitting on the edge of our bed letting a few tears fall down my cheek. my fingers messed around with the lace i had sewn onto our bed comforter. still swirling the lacy between my fingers, Kate decided to lean her back against the still locked door. she let her body slowly slide down the door onto the floor. she pressed her ear against the cold wood to try and hear what i was doing, which was nothing but staring at the wall. i bit the gummy part of my inner lip and bit around in my own cheeks. Kate placed her head on the door and waited patiently for me to cool down like i usually did.

finally i let all my anger out by practically strangling a couple of my pillows and brushing my hair out a bit aggressively. i slowly approached the door and opened just for Kate to fall backwards onto the floor.

"shit!" i watched Kate fall before quickly kneeling down to help her up. she let out a stifled giggle then stood up straight. without saying anything and without giving me a chance to speak she pulled me into a long with soft kiss. her hands cupped my jaw and she then switched the kiss to a hug. i was a bit caught off guard but quickly eased into the kiss, smiling along with her lips.

Kate's hands moved to my thighs and lifted me up onto her. wrapping my legs around her waist, she carried my over to the bed sitting herself down while i rested on her lap. she pulled away from the kiss to get a better look at just me. her eyes stared into mine hypnotically as if she was sending a little 'i love you' through her iris'. neither of us could help but smile and continue to cuddle.

a couple minutes later i was laying on top of her with my head resting on her chest. her hands trailed across the butterfly tattoo that was on my back. i look up at her and wait for her to connect eyes with me.

"are you mad at me" i say under my breath.

"what? why wou-" kate says with slight offense in her voice before i cut her off.

"because i feel like this happens a lot and i feel like such a manipulator when i do it because i know that you will just wait and wait...." at this point i was sitting up pacing the room, rambling about how i didn't want Kate to feel super bad fro things that aren't her fault. my rant had to go on for at least 15 minutes before she pulled me back on top her lap forcing me to calm down and lay back down.

"baby its ok. i'm ok i swear, i only want whats best for us ok?" Kate said in a comforting tone that toned down the tension that started building up in my again. her hands made their way to my waist holding a firm grip against my hips. she placed a couple kisses against my lips and a trail of kisses along my neck. i slowly fall into a calmer, sleepier mood. i let all of my body weight lay atop of Kate's lap, my nose found its way to the crook of her neck and stayed there for while. Kate's grip came back against my hips as she lifted me up from the bed and onto our couch. while i was still glued to her lap with my arms around her back, she sat down and reached for the remote to turn on Gilmore girls. it only took a couple minutes into one episode for Kate to fall asleep as well. i soaked in her sweet strawberry scent and began to drift asleep.

[annieqattheperipheral]

I'm reminded of how duchene was fired the following mid-season from the habs after taking them to the mothaflippin scf just that prior season.

What was the biggest most important thing martin st louis said in all his press conferences and interviews upon being hired??

These boys need to get back to having fun. Have fun playing hockey. Have fun on the ice.

Obviously, paraphrased. But yea that was it. He made suzuki smile again. He brought cole back up from Laval and made him laugh again because they had all become forlorn chimney sweep boys covered in soot riddled with despair coughing and hacking up their young depressed lungs

The oilers started this season with the same level of expectations as the habs did-- if we could do that last season we should be even better this season.

Ofc the habs actually went through some MAJOR roster changes over the summer bc of LTIR weber & price, etc, and instead had to eventually accept that they needed a full rebuild from GM down.

The oilers went in fact in the other direction this summer. Added in brown, etc. Trained together as a team (good number of em) in newmarket w davo's gary, then headed to edmonton early for captain's skates prior to preseason.

Pressure is a helluva shitpile that just keeps growing.

Yes, oilers need to get back to having fun. That will help them. But you can't just tell them to "stop feeling so much pressure. Just have fun"

Just smile. Be happy. Why can't u just be normal and have fun at the party?

My god how many times have i heard that from my family.

Cup or bust

There actually needs to be a moment of realization that they can actually no longer lose the cup. Right now they're still operating at:

Win game = win the cup

Lose game = lose the cup

There will be a game very soon where if they don't win it, that's it, they're no longer in the running for a playoff spot, not even a wildcard.

That's when the pressure will lift. It will be a point of tension break. Bliss. Their outlook will change to:

Win game = huh ok.. wheee! that was fun

Lose game = oh meh whatever. we were just fucking w the other team's playoff chances. that was fun

They will at that point actually be able to:

...get back to having fun. Have fun playing hockey. Have fun on the ice.

Now. Will the owners, president, gm wait for that point? Ofc not. Heads will roll. Someone will have to take the fall.

The oilers players are in so deep that the lose = lose the cup gets heavier and heavier around their necks like those oversized novelty hockey team logo necklaces on huge thick shiny chains, but like instead heavy as a few bricks with more being added on with each game.

Really hope for themselves as people that they've got therapy and meditation going on to help them bit by bit ease the grip on their sticks.

And let's see who gets fired/traded first because that's how the hockeymen operate. They literally all have the yips. Two of the best scorers in the world are whiffing. Whiffing. That's incredibly sad. A break of pace through a trade or a change in coaching or management is what'll do the trick, the trusty ol' sports team plan.

[catedwrites]

Where the Library Hides by Isabel Ibañez

I am always nervous to begin reading sequels, especially when I really loved the first book in a series. I have been burned so many times by poor writing, hasty publishing deadlines, and unfulfilled ideas. After my surprising enjoyment (or rather, not so surprising, in hindsight, but that's what it's there for) of What the River Knows, I was elated to receive the ARC for Where the Library Hides, but was anxious to start.

I should not have been. Readers, Ibañez has written a triumphant, rollicking sequel that not only lives up to part 1, but, perhaps, surpasses it. What the River Knows was much like a river -- frantic in stretches, but also luxurious and slow when needed, to situate us readers into Inez's character and world. Here, we are deeply ensconced in both Inez and Whit's perspectives, with the tensions ratcheted and the secrets bigger. Where the Library Hides has a much more frenetic pace, but also has more emotional twists and payoffs that kept it from going stale.

Sure, some things I could quibble over, but having just finished it a few minutes ago, I can hardly remember the flaws. Instead, I am sad the adventure is over and am recalling most of it quite fondly.

Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin's Press | Wednesday Books for the ebook ARC. All opinions are mine alone.

[brightbeautifulthings]

Out of Air by Rachel Reiss

"'Sometimes, something needs to be found.'"

Year Read: 2025

Rating: 3/5

Thoughts: This is really fun, and if ocean horror is your thing, I would recommend it based on that alone. It's clear Reiss has real diving experience, and those were my favorite aspects of the book. The descriptions of ocean life are vivid and frequent, and I was constantly Googling pictures of various kinds of fish so I could see what the characters were seeing. That's also where the story excels in horror, and a couple encounters with some of the more deadly marine life were tense and frightening. Basically everything in the ocean can kill us without even trying, no supernatural aspects needed.

It does fall a little short on the supernatural, however. I was vibing with the cursed cave and the body horror of whatever they accidentally took from it, and it nicely ramps up the tension for a while. Then it feels like the novel loses confidence in that aspect, handwaves the problem a bit, and never really comes to a full conclusion on it. While I typically don't have any feelings about romances/love interests, that part is well-developed. We really get a sense of the characters and their friendships, and the found family aspect of the novel is sweet. It's a nice ending, but as a horror lover, I think it could have gone harder. I received an invitation to read a free e-ARC through NetGalley from the publishers at St. Martin’s Press/Wednesday Books.

[productofnfld]

“I Can’t Rest Here!”

St. Paul’s, nestled on the Great Northern Peninsula of Newfoundland, has long been a place of stories — some well-remembered, and some only carried on the breeze.

According to the history books, it all began with a solitary man — Elias Gifford, a trapper who ventured into St. Paul’s Bay and lived alone, hunting the land. For a time, he was the only soul to inhabit the sandy point jutting into the bay, his solitude broken only when others arrived, drawn by the promise of fish and lobster. In the early 1880s, a Halifax firm set up a lobster factory on the point, and St. Paul’s began to grow. Over time, however, the community shifted away from the point, settling closer to the coast where there was more space and better land.

But this quiet corner of Newfoundland, hidden deep within the shadows of Gros Morne National Park, has another story — one that doesn’t appear in the history books; one that is more likely to be told fireside on a stormy winter night.

It’s another story of why the community moved to the coast. Yes, they sought better land, but what most have long forgotten is the dark reason the land turned bad. It’s a tale of a family torn apart, of love lost, and a broken promise that came to haunt an entire settlement.

Old Martin of St. Paul’s

Once, St. Paul’s on Newfoundland’s west coast wasn’t the coastal settlement it is today. Instead, its people lived upriver, hidden away in the wilderness. Among them was Old Martin — a quiet, reserved man, well-liked by most. Few knew much about him, but whispers often floated through the village, hinting at a darker past. Some said he had once been a criminal, though no one knew for certain.

One year, as autumn’s chill deepened, Martin fell gravely ill. He refused all help, snapping at anyone who approached. Only young John Oates, a fearless neighbour, dared to intervene. “I don’t recall asking for your help, by,” Martin growled. But John stayed, tending the old man with a stubborn kindness, though Martin’s bitterness never softened.

Years before, Martin had lived with his wife and daughter, Mary. His wife had passed, and Mary, estranged after a bitter fight, had left for St. John’s where she worked ‘in service’.

Everyone in the settlement knew there was a romance between Mary and John—a relationship that had once seemed destined for happiness.

A Love Torn Apart

John and Mary had grown up together, inseparable as children and, later, as sweethearts. Their love had blossomed beside the low spruce trees by the water, where they would steal moments to talk and dream of a future together. But their fathers’ friendship, once strong, had soured. Martin accused John’s father of cheating him, and the Oates family returned the accusation. Bitter words were exchanged, and Mary, torn between loyalty to her father and her love for John, was caught in the middle.

The final blow came when Martin forbade Mary from seeing John. Though they tried to meet in secret, the tension grew unbearable. A fierce argument erupted one night between Mary and Martin, and she left the house in tears. Within days, she had taken work in St. John’s, leaving John behind with a broken heart.

Years passed, but John never stopped loving Mary. Though he buried his feelings, his connection to her lingered, unresolved. It was perhaps this love—and the hope that someday Mary would return — that compelled him to stay near Martin, even as the old man grew colder and more withdrawn.

A Warning Unheeded

By November, it was clear Martin’s end was near. In his final days, he summoned John’s father, a man he hadn’t spoken to in years. Their conversation was private, but whatever was said seemed to settle the years-old score. Oates promised to carry out Old Martin’s wishes to the best of his ability.

When Martin died a week later, he shared Martin’s last will and testament: He hoped his daughter, Mary, would marry young Oates. If that were to be the case, she could have his house and all his worldly possessions. If not, everything should be turned over to the parson, for the good of the church.

Furthermore, Martin wanted to be buried far away from the town, in his favourite spot on the coast, a little cove round the south head. He was emphatic about it. If his wish wasn’t fulfilled, he warned, he would never rest in peace; nor would the people of St. Paul’s.

Oates had good intentions. He wanted to honour Martin’s wishes but the weather had turned ferocious. Storms lashed the coast, making it impossible to reach the cove. Reluctantly, the villagers buried Martin in his garden. They said, they would make good on their promise in the spring, that they would remove his bones to the quiet cove when the weather improved.

Perhaps they believed it at first but it wasn’t long before their thoughts of Old Martin faded. By the time Christmas came, he was a distant memory.

It was the dogs in town who first noticed something was amiss. One old water dog became obsessed with the house, refusing to leave, spending hours howling at the garden, staring fixedly at the disturbed earth.

If the people of town noticed the strange behaviour, few gave it any serious thought; focusing instead on the festive season.

A Boxing Day Visitation

By Boxing Day, the village was alive with celebration. The Oates’ house was filled with music and laughter as the community gathered for a party. The warm glow of oil lamps lit the frost-covered windows, and the lively stomp of boots on the wooden floor kept time with the fiddler’s tune.

In the middle of the revelry, a small group of mummers arrived unannounced, their faces hidden behind strange, cotton drapes. Their exaggerated movements and sing-song voices delighted the crowd.

Then the fiddle screeched to a halt. There was a palpable shift in mood.

Outside, the dog was howling again. It wasn’t alone, it sounded as if every dog in town was joining in chorus. The wild, frantic cries silenced the room. The mummers froze mid-dance, their masks suddenly looked menacing in the stillness.

Oates cracked the door to investigate.

The moment it opened, the dogs burst inside, tails tucked low, their bodies trembling as they cowered beneath the tables and chairs. Whispers spread through the room. Some of the men exchanged uneasy glances, muttering about wolves, while others, determined to confront whatever danger loomed, grabbed weapons — hunting rifles, knives, even an iron poker — preparing to defend their homes.

Before they could move, there came a sharp, deliberate rap at the door. Steeling himself, Oates once again cracked the door. There was nobody there; No living soul, anyway. For a fleeting moment, a pale glow seemed to hover above the snow.

John hesitantly stepped outside.

The ghostly light now hovered near Old Martin’s abandoned house, drifting toward the ‘temporary’ grave.

A low, mournful voice echoed in the icy air:

“I can’t rest here. Oh, I can’t rest here.”

A Terrifying Winter

By morning, the village was blanketed in snow, but there were no tracks — nothing to explain the night’s events. The men, who had hoped for answers, now felt the heavy weight of dread settle deep in their bones. Old Martin’s spirit was restless. He had warned them, and now they were paying the price.

The haunting grew more intense.

Night after night, sharp, deliberate knocks rang out on doors and windows, always in threes. Children awoke screaming, claiming to see pale faces in the dark. Martin’s house glowed faintly, a flickering light in the window, but no one dared enter.

Low mournful cries pierced the night: “I can’t rest here!”

At gatherings, lamps would extinguish themselves, chairs would topple over, and a cold draft would fill the room, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of damp earth. As villagers drifted off to sleep, they were jolted awake by the feeling of icy fingers brushing their skin. In every shadow, Martin’s gaunt face seemed to flicker, watching.

The community descended into a quiet, helpless terror. He would not allow them to forget —

“I can’t rest here,” he whispered.

By spring, the villagers could take no more. Promise or not, they wanted nothing to do with Old Martin. Rather than dig up his cursed grave, they abandoned the settlement, fleeing to the coast.

Mary’s Return

Word of Martin’s death reached Mary in St. John’s. A sharp pang of guilt washed over her — guilt for the years of silence, the anger that had kept her from her father. The last time they had spoken, their words had been cruel, sharp, filled with regret. Now he was gone, and she was left with nothing but the weight of unspoken apologies. By spring, she could no longer ignore the pull to return to St. Paul’s.

When she arrived, she found John waiting. The years apart had done little to dull the connection between them. If anything, the grief of losing the old man, combined with the shared pain of their past, brought them together in a way nothing else could. They spent hours talking, trading memories of better times and the ache of lost love. The sorrow they shared reignited the passion that had once bloomed between them, before their fathers’ bitter feud had driven them apart. The walls between them crumbled, and by July, they were married — reunited by tragedy.

Neither she nor John could bring themselves to disturb Martin’s grave.

But as the days passed, a quiet unease settled over Mary. She began to hear it — the whispering on the wind, soft at first, but impossible to ignore: “I can’t rest here.”

The old community, all but abandoned, felt like a place of shadows. Mary couldn’t bear the thought of staying — even if her father’s old cabin was now hers. Soon John built them a house by the shore, far from the cursed land. It was meant to be a fresh start, a new beginning, away from the darkness of the past.

But the past does not let go so easily. Forgotten and left to rot at the old settlement, Martin’s grave was soon consumed by the wild.

To this day, when the wind howls through the trees, his voice rises with it—faint at first, then growing louder, filled with chilling desperation:

“I can’t rest here!”

And he hasn’t.

He waits still, a restless spirit bound to a forgotten grave outside St. Paul’s, lingering for over a century, waiting for a promise to be fulfilled.

[ausetkmt]

Battle for Harlem

Quentin Lucas

Stephanie St. Clair and her bodyguards walked up 7th Avenue. Candy stores. Stationary stores. Cigar stores. The blunt object in her hand was clue enough for onlookers, and pedestrians stepped aside as the petite francophile and her men continued.

The white mafia had storefronts up and down 7th Avenue for 30 blocks, many of them used to front a Harlem lottery operation that competed with the local Black-run lottery. The mob had discovered that the small bets made by the neighborhood’s working class Black residents could add up to big money—a fact known to local king and queenpins for decades. The neighborhood’s illegal gambling enterprises, which once operated in harmony, had more recently turned on each other, and with the arrival of organized crime as a new threat, Harlem was embroiled in an all-out power struggle. Black kingpins and white mobsters, who were fronted by a bootlegger named Dutch Schulz, moved with heavy muscle, adding violence to the scramble for lucrative territory and control over the streets of Harlem. Stephanie St. Clair abhorred what was happening to her neighborhood and did not welcome the intrusion. With equal zealousness, she hated the thought of giving up her throne.

She chose a location, nestled among the many mom and pop shops marketing everything from candy to zoot suits with their painted awnings and signs. Her men followed her inside and she yelled at the customers to get out. The white employees froze as she swung her wooden stick into the product cases, shouting over the exploding glass for the betting slips. When the slips were surrendered, she destroyed them and cautioned the operators, which were the low-level workers in the mob’s employ, to pass on a message: Leave Harlem and never return.

This was her town, and she had worked too hard not to come out on top.

Martin Harris had a problem. A turf war had exploded, alliances were being drawn and the young man, an up-and-comer in the neighborhood’s illegal enterprise, had just been summoned by Harlem’s most powerful gambling boss. Everyone knew Stephanie St. Clair: she was a towering figure in the local underworld as well as an influential member of the Harlem Renaissance’s cultural elite. She was also Harris’ chief competitor at a time of increasing tension and shifting alliances.

Harris, like St. Clair, was a policy banker. He ran a gambling business that was illegal, but it was also generally non-violent, popular and a boon to Harlem’s fragile economy. Harris was successful for an upstart, although nowhere near as powerful or prolific as St. Clair. Some glared with envy as the young man, barely 30, cruised down 7th Avenue in his chauffeured, custom Cadillac. He passed the awning of Connie’s Inn and the bright lights of Small’s Paradise, stopping as he went to make collections and perhaps delay the uncomfortable appointment awaiting him. Harris was a young king in the policy banking game, but the woman who had summoned him, the undisputed queen, stood on another level entirely. The kings and queens of Harlem claimed their crowns not only because of their wealth but because of their extensive patronage in the Depression-era, Black-majority neighborhood. Stephanie St. Clair’s influence in the neighborhood was prolific; she supported Harlemites struggling to make rent, immigrants trying to find their way in America, local businesses and the arts. Her generosity bought her fierce loyalty.

Harris was a product of the uplift provided by policy bankers. A five-dollar bet had won him $3,000. With his winnings, he bought a new Cadillac, suits, jewelry and opened up his own policy bank. He went from being an employee to an employer. Always fashion forward, he smelled of cologne and the elixirs that barbers ran along the back of necks and under chins after a fresh cut and shave. He held court on the “avenoo.” And even if you didn’t know Martin Harris’s name, or that he was an Elk and an usher at Abyssinian Baptist Church, if you saw him in one of his suits, his posture and the way people regarded him, you’d know he was a king. You’d know by the way his money clip reflected the light when he took it from his pocket.

The sun had likely already set when he went to meet St. Clair. Her apartment was at 409 Edgecombe Avenue which, at 13 stories, was Harlem’s tallest building. Martin walked through the neo-georgian styled lobby and headed for the elevator. After riding up to the fourth floor, Harris would enter her apartment, sidestep bodyguards and notice the gold coins embedded in his host’s glass-top table.

There she was standing before him, looking up at him in the physical sense but in ways that were more important looking down. St. Clair was slim with big brown eyes and arresting features. She had a breezy style of movement and was typically adorned in jewelry, exotic dresses and colorful turbans. She could charm anyone with a quick joke or a story about how her last trip to the opera had moved her, but she could snap just as quickly.

Right now she was all business.

Harlem’s landscape was changing. What was once simple had now become a matter of life and death. Policy bankers had worked in relative harmony, respecting a code of territories and understanding that the pie was big enough for everyone to have a slice. But the game had changed. Harlem’s policy bankers were picking sides. To cap it off, the Schultz gang, eager to expand its revenue streams at a time when Prohibition was ending and the Great Depression was spreading, was making their move. St. Clair wanted to fight back, as was her way. Her plan was simple, and she carried a peace offering in one hand and a sword in the other. She needed allies, local policy bankers who would stand together in a sort of loose confederation against the mob and those that had already joined it. By the same token, she needed to eradicate the influence of police and politicians who were using the growing fault lines for personal gain and becoming too corrupt to honor the bribes she paid them. She would take the war to whoever stood in her way, and she was extending Harris an olive branch. She wanted him to join her in defending the neighborhood. His reward would be a continued place in Harlem—fancy car and all.

Sitting in the opulent apartment, Harris weighed his options. He had expected this. The game was heating up, and it was no longer the sole domain of enterprising entrepreneurs. To play and survive now you needed guts, needed to do whatever it took. Perhaps for this reason, he declined St. Clair’s offer. Most likely he did so in a polite manner—very polite. He would go his own way, he told her. Neither the looming mob threat nor any other policy banker, not even Stephanie St. Clair, would have a hand in what he was building.

St. Clair’s reaction is lost to history, but the polyglot immigrant, who claimed variously to come from Martinique, Guadeloupe, or “European France,” could have cursed him out just as easily in French or Spanish as she could in English. It wasn’t often that people refused her.

Harris departed and St. Clair stewed. Her bid to form an allied front against the mob was failing. She had a keener sense of the future than most of the neighborhood’s ambitious young men. Things were about to get a whole lot worse.

The mobsters held a meeting in an Upper East Side apartment. The topic: Harlem. Among those in attendance were Dutch Schultz, a bootlegger who was small in stature and had a habit of wearing oversized suits like body armor, and Jimmy Hines, a tall, corrupt Tammany Hall politician with a receding hairline and authority over West Harlem.

Richard “Dixie” Davis, the well-dressed son of a tailor and reputed mob lawyer, first exposed Schultz and others to the surprising value of Harlem’s numbers game. Before opening his own practice, Davis learned about Harlem’s policy banks as a public defender at the magistrates’ court, discovering that “nearly all the people brought into court were Negroes arrested in connection with the daily lottery called policy, or the numbers game, which had seized Harlem like a form of madness.” His experience along with some recent high profile testimony from an unlikely Harlem insider made Davis realize how much policy bankers were willing to pay to secure participation in fixed cases. He explained to Schultz that “the policy bankers were not mobsters… They were merely gamblers running an illegal business, on a very peaceful, non-violent basis.” In other words: Suckers.

The game plan was simple. In addition to opening up new lottery operations, the mob would exert pressure by means of extortion and intimidation to bring the Black policy bankers into line and extract lucrative cuts. It was a tried and true strategy; those who played ball would get protection from violence and from the cops. Those who didn’t would pay the price in blood.

The fallout of the intimidation campaign, which brought broken glass and unprecedented levels of gangland violence to Harlem, was swift. Several long standing Harlem policy kings decided the game was getting too hot and looked for an exit. Wifred Brunder and Henry Miro, both successful kings, surrendered their banks to Joe Ison, a former elevator operator. Ison was promptly approached by several mobsters who demanded a cut of his new business. Nervous in disposition, Ison was nicknamed “Spasm” because he was likely to have one when holding a bad poker hand. The new money had introduced new problems, and he was getting no help from his lawyer—the very same “Dixie” Davis who represented Dutch Schultz.

“Joe, I’ve been thinking something like this might happen,” Davis told him.. “Policy has been making lots of money, and so far it has not been bothered, but some mob is likely to move in.” Shortly after their talk, Davis introduced Ison to a mob enforcer. After a brief negotiation, Ison eagerly agreed to pay $500 a week. A few weeks later, the mob raised the price for Ison’s protection to $1,000 a week. He had been played, and what could the former elevator operator do except pay?

The syndicate’s foot was now in Harlem’s door, and a stroke of luck allowed the outsiders to kick it completely off the hinges. On Thanksgiving, local policy players made a wave of bets heeding a common superstition among Black Harlemites at the time that two, five and seven were lucky numbers. Incredibly, the numbers hit: 257 came up by chance and broke almost every bank in Harlem. Suddenly facing the prospect of financial ruin, all but the most stable bankers went looking for help anywhere they could find it. Ison pulled together all the money he had and was still $12,000 short of what he owed. Schultz, with a smile that looked like it was the hardest part of his day, agreed to cover Ison’s debt. He took two-thirds of Ison’s bank and did the same with every other banker who came to him, whether willingly or at the end of a pistol.

Not everyone played ball. Martin Harris, the headstrong young policy banker who had resisted St. Clair’s offer, maintained his fierce independence and kept running his bank on his own terms. On a Tuesday morning, three men entered his apartment carrying guns. They pistol whipped his girlfriend before shooting Harris to death and absconding with $5,000.

In the aftermath of the shooting, the New York Age newspaper predicted that “Harlem will be the scene of a long, drawn out gang war waged on the one side by white racketeers who are determined to continue their domination of the rich takings of the game and on the other side by the Negro bankers who are working hard to exist and to win back for themselves the game which they once controlled.”

It was widely believed that St. Clair was the next target.

Henry Lee Moon, a bespectacled civil rights activist, sat in St. Clair’s plush apartment shortly after Harris’ death, wide-eyed at the scene. Two armed bodyguards and a young woman vying to be St. Clair’s new secretary were present while the queen paced the room, her accented voice thick with rage. “And put me on the spot? Me? Me? Don’t everybody know I ain’t scared of nothing! Run me out of business? Me?”

She turned to the young woman who wanted to be her new secretary and demanded that she take a letter. When she realized her anger was frightening the woman, St. Clair laughed. Moon volunteered. St. Clair began to dictate but much of what she said would be unprintable. “Never mind,” Moon said, “I know what you want to say and how it should be said. I’ll write it. You sign it.” St. Clair was an accomplished and prolific writer. But, considering her state of mind, she relented.

In the letter, which ran in the Amsterdam News, St. Clair addressed the rumor that Harris was killed because he had accepted her offer, writing, “I assure you that had he been affiliated with me in any way, he would never have come to such an untimely and ill-fated end. The gang which killed Harris knows better than to molest me or my associates.”

But the truth was that St. Clair was running out of allies, options and power. Her employees were being threatened, her customers poached or harassed.

Worse yet was the private certainty, which stung her daily, that she more than anyone else was to blame for the invasion of the outsiders and the rift they had opened in Harlem. St. Clair lived by bold action and believed in shows of force when attacked, but a strategic mistake a few years earlier was now proving her undoing. In Stephanie St. Clair’s eyes, she had unintentionally opened the door for the white mob.

It had started a few years earlier as an attempt to address injustices. St. Clair’s policy bank, which at its height was earning $250,000 annually, had put her in the crosshairs of the police, but her standing and outsized personality also made her a fixture in the company of the Harlem Renaissance elite and a beloved figure among the public. Before her war with outsiders, the only consistent opponents St. Clair faced over her policy bank were Harlem newspapers and the corrupt police and politicians who saw Harlem’s enterprising entrepreneurs as easy prey.

The gambling pastime stood in opposition to what some Black papers understood to be the Harlem Renaissance’s greatest product: the sophisticated New Negro. The New York Age published several pieces deriding policy bankers as scam artists. But policy banking was part of the community fabric, as much fodder for barbershop gossip as an opportunity to feed one’s family. The young, old, literate, illiterate, poor and well-to-do all participated. St. Clair, alone, employed up to 50 runners, who crisscrossed Harlem taking bets and paying winners; 10 controllers, who reconciled the betting slips with the runners’ collected cash; and a support staff.

St. Clair vociferously fought the newspapers and was well known for her frequent editorials. The police and local judges, however, were a serious impediment to her business and a constant threat to her safety. St. Clair paid off a small army to keep her and her employees out of jail. She hired bodyguards, including a young, booksmart and street-smart violent offender named Ellsworth “Bumpy” Johnson, who would soon play a pivotal role in her war with the mob.

But if there was honor among policy bankers, there was little among the police and public servants who gladly took her money. Many of the police she paid off persisted in snatching up her runners, only some of whom were lucky enough to eat their policy slips before any evidence could be found. There were also the police whom she hadn’t paid off. They broke into her apartment and robbed her. She was stirred in the middle of the night by phone calls, a voice on the other end whispering threats of her inevitable demise.

Never one to take abuse lying down, she called out the police in her bold editorials that argued not just for herself but for all of Harlem’s residents, particularly for the neighborhood’s women. She had published a letter about a woman who had been beaten to a pulp by drunk policemen. “Her eyes were black and bloody and her hand was bandaged,�� she had written. “If colored people would stick together, these bad mistreatments would never happen.” The impassioned letters made her even more of a target for law enforcement.

It cost her dearly. When she was finally arrested in December 1929 on the contrived charge of being caught with policy slips—St. Clair would no more handle slips than a kingpin would tote around bags of drugs—her next publication opened with, “To the members of my race: Well, folks, I have been arrested. Yes, arrested and framed by three of the bravest and noblest cowards who wear civilian clothes.”

She was escorted from her luxurious apartment to a large, stone building with iron doors and bars on Welfare Island, a nickname for New York’s Roosevelt Island which housed prisons and asylums. For eight months, she languished in a workhouse where dingy rats prevailed. Some inmates in the overcrowded prison suffered from tuberculosis and heroin withdrawal. Others were forced to work as orderlies in the mental health wing where unsavory experiments were conducted on patients. French perfumes and the waft of Swing Street’s marijuana and barbecue were replaced with mildewy blankets and inconsistent plumbing. Strip searches were routine. She likely had no idea that a 15-year-old Billie Holiday was struggling somewhere in the same workhouse at the time. And from her small cell, along with the coughing and screaming of inmates, she could hear the boats riding down the frigid East River while she braced against the winter’s cold and anticipated her return to Harlem.

Her business suffered during her imprisonment. But if her enemies thought being locked up would silence her she had something else in store for them. Five days after leaving the workhouse, St. Clair left her new apartment, impeccably dressed, for a courtroom, where she aimed to strike a blow against the very police, judges and political lackies who had done her in. The Seabury Investigations, a probe into New York City corruption conducted by former Judge of the Court of Appeals Samuel Seabury, were in full swing, and St. Clair decided she would participate to shut down the crooked men who had crossed her. With testimony validated by the business records she’d kept, St. Clair confessed to formerly being a policy banker—stressing formerly—who had paid thousands of dollars to police and judges over the years. It was a daring move, and in the short term it paid off. Her testimony, and those of others, led to the subsequent firing of Mayor Jimmy Walker and several other corrupt officials and police who were targeting the policy bankers of Harlem.

But St. Clair’s bold act, though a blow against her enemies, was public record and fodder for the news media, and they exposed Harlem’s policy banks to new threats. Protection dried up and suspicions abounded. In that environment, the unspoken agreements that had kept Harlem’s policy racket competitive but nonetheless cooperative began to crack. What’s more, by opening up in court about the inner workings of her own operation, including how she’d successfully paid off law enforcement, St. Clair exposed just how lucrative the policy banks could be, a fact that mob lawyer Dixie Davis no doubt reconciled with his own observations working in the courts before bringing to the attention of his underworld bosses. In effect, St. Clair’s counterpunch had shattered the neighborhood’s bulwark of alliances while also inadvertently laying out a kind of blueprint for a powerful syndicate to move in.

If the invading groups succeeded, the community would no longer be represented in the policy racket by their neighbors and relatives. Instead, one of the neighborhood’s financial engines would fall into the hands of predatory outsiders, and local influence and long held standards of community and culture would be eroded from the inside out.

And now the mob had done just that and she was on her heels. With the war in full swing and her business still suffering from her recent incarceration and the now-constant pressure from the outsiders, she was outgunned and alone. The Great Depression raged. The bread lines stretched. Most of Harlem’s policy banks belonged to Schultz, and he was introducing the game to other New York boroughs where white players could take a chance at lifting themselves up out of America’s quicksand economy. St. Clair needed friends, and she needed them badly.

Isolated and increasingly cautious with her enemies on her doorstep, St. Clair received a visit from William “Bub” Hewlett. The two had enjoyed an uneasy alliance in the past. Hewlett was a Harlem extortionist and bodyguard who had been running the streets for most of his life and was always armed. At six feet and one inch with broad shoulders, he towered over St. Clair. She had reason to expect that here, at last, was an ally. Hewlett had built a reputation as the man who threw white mobsters out of Harlem. But he, too, disappointed her. He was there on behalf of Dutch Schultz with a simple offer: Submit to the mob and keep her life.

The silence between Hewlett’s offer and St. Clair’s response was tense. There would be no violence during the meeting, but there was an understanding. Her accent grew thick as she shouted him down. She’d never surrender her bank—the Dutchman could kiss her ass. Hewlitt was a traitor to Harlem and she would drive him out as well.

Hewlett’s smile was replaced with a snarl. While leaving, he mentioned that Schultz’ offer may not be as polite the next time. A few days later mobsters began shooting up St. Clair’s policy spots and beating her runners. The queen had to hide under a bed of coal in a musty cellar to evade the hitmen sent to her door, an ignominious predicament for one of Harlem’s most stylish bosses. She looked for help among former allies but found none. When she ventured out of hiding, she harangued crowds of Harlemites for betting with Schultz and raged at her men when they thought of giving up, saying, “I will stand up to the goddamn Dutchman and I am a lady. You are men and you will desert me now? What kind of men would desert a lady in a fight?”

St. Clair’s insistence on holding her ground seemed reckless and foolhardy to just about everyone around her, and the attrition of her people seemed to spell the end of her empire. But her instinct to stay in the fight, however low the odds, proved on the mark.

What the policy bankers and the number runners and the newspapers and even St. Clair herself didn’t know was that Dutch Schultz, the man leading the invasion of Harlem for the mob, was running out of time, and St. Clair was providing just the right element of pressure and resistance to break his grip on Harlem.

The mobster stewed.

Schultz had survived two New York state tax evasion trials, which incensed Mayor Fiorello La Guardia and led to a new warrant for his arrest. J. Edgar Hoover had named Schultz “Public Enemy #1.” New York Prosecutor Thomas Dewey was closing in with new charges, and with Prohibition over and many of Schultz’s other streams of income taken away, policy banks had become his most valuable commodity. Meanwhile his rackets were being damaged by organizational infighting and overtaken by the Italian mafia, which had also realized how lucrative the numbers game was and wanted in. Where the mafia’s Charles “Lucky” Luciano liked to run a smooth and quiet operation, Schultz was openly violent and unpredictable, which won him grudging respect but little genuine loyalty. That was fine when he was able to dole out quick punishment, but now he was on the run from the law.

To top it all off, Stephanie St. Clair kept evading his hit men and popping up to disrupt the most important business in his portfolio at a time of uncommon vulnerability. She got a crucial ally in “Bumpy” Johnson, a former protégé of the enforcer Hewlett and a loyal friend to St. Clair. After his release from prison, Johnson sided with the queen, admiring her fearlessness. She, in turn, appreciated his intelligence and ambition. On her orders, and utilizing her dwindling fortune, Johnson began hiring men for hit-and-hide operations against the mob’s much larger army. The bodies of stabbed, beaten and shot white men began appearing in Harlem’s Mount Morris Park. The Amsterdam News reported that independent “Negro operators are girding for open and violent warfare against the representative of the white syndicate.”

In a bid to silence St. Clair for good, Schultz commissioned enforcer Max Rene to approach a friend of the queen, Catherine Odlum, who might lure her out of hiding. First Rene would attempt to bribe Odlum with $500. If that didn’t work, he would threaten her. Odlum was to arrange a meeting with St. Clair where Rene would lie in wait and stab her to death.

Odlum, a lawyer, knew she had little time to act. She contacted St. Clair and divulged the whole plan at once, then signed an affidavit swearing that she had been approached by Rene to coordinate St. Clair’s murder. Knowing of Schultz’ tax evasion charges, St. Clair and Odlum coordinated a public counter strike, taking their account to the papers and the court. Instead of St. Clair’s death, Schultz received bad publicity and Thomas Dewey received more material for his mounting case. Local newspapers reported St. Clair and Odlum storming Washington Heights Court and beseeching Judge Louis Brodsky for an arrest warrant for Max Rene. The story linked Rene to the mob. Judge Brodsky denied the request, and St. Clair, in typical headline-grabbing fashion, showed open disdain as she walked away from the bench, saying, “That’s why there’s so much crime in these United States.”

Schultz was a man who’d built his reputation and fortune on fear, and he was locked in conflict with a woman who did not fear him. St. Clair should have been easy to dismiss. More importantly, she needed to be dismissed so Schultz could focus on the tax investigation that could be his undoing. Thomas Dewey pursued Schultz like he hated him, which kept the mob boss trapped and calling the shots over his teetering empire while in hiding.

When enforcer Bub Hewlett was sent to prison, Schultz scrambled to find new muscle to do his dirty work. He chose a henchman out of Chicago named Ulysses Rollins and set him to the perilous task of handling the wildcard, “Bumpy” Johnson.

In the summer of 1935, Johnson was on a date with a senior editor and film critic at Vanity Fair at the Alhambra Bar and Theatre on 126th Street and Seventh Avenue. He glanced around the room and saw that Ulysses Rollins was also at the restaurant. Johnson rose from his seat, retrieved his knife, and with famously quick hands slashed at Rollins, who fell bleeding to the floor. Johnson stepped over him, returned to his table, and told his date he had a craving for spaghetti and meatballs.

A short time later, Rollins tracked down Johnson at Frank’s restaurant on 125th Street and shot at him but missed and killed a woman standing nearby. An off duty officer arrested Rollins and he was never seen in Harlem again, depriving the mob of another key enforcer.

Taking the offensive, calling on every ounce of loyalty she had carefully built in Harlem over the years, St. Clair figured out the location of one of Schultz’s clearing houses, and she directed that information to the few remaining cops who weren’t on his payroll. The police had spent weeks looking for it, and the information allowed them to spring into action.

Five plain-clothes officers slipped into the window of Schultz’ six-room apartment on the top floor of 550 West 146th Street. More police waited in the streets below. Canvas bags, paper bags, and unopened boxes revealed up to ten million policy slips, accounting for millions of dollars in bets. Six tin boxes held $2,164 in petty cash. Fourteen of Schultz’ workers were arrested. The raid resulted in the clearing house being moved outside city limits, driving the Dutchman out of Harlem—physically, at least.

Understandably, St. Clair might have felt deserted, but her incremental victories and refusal to accept defeat soon acted as a clarion call to others. In an Amsterdam News interview, an unnamed Black policy banker revealed that, after an eight week recruitment campaign, Harlem’s small number of holdout Black bankers, employing roughly 1,100 people, had unionized. The banker added that 75,000 pamphlets would be circulated, upholding the union’s view that numbers gambling “is a Negro game in a Negro neighborhood.”

“Bumpy” Johnson, true to his ambitious nature and perhaps sensing the deep cracks that he and St. Clair had caused in the mob’s Harlem infrastructure, began negotiating with the Italian mafia’s “Lucky” Luciano for a suitable arrangement. St. Clair felt deeply betrayed, but she could take some solace in knowing that, with Schultz on the run from new charges levied by Thomas Dewey, he was also surrounded. The Italian mafia was no more welcome than the white mob, but at least it was an effective bulwark against total domination of Harlem by one outside syndicate.

During a moment of reflection on the policy bank war, St. Clair remarked, “There were at least 30-odd banks doing a good business when the mob moved in. I doubt there are a half dozen now.” Realizing her tough talk and tireless fighting was galvanizing others, she told a Pittsburgh Courier reporter that if she finds Schultz in Harlem she’ll “blast him out … The policy game is my game. He took it away from me and is swindling the colored people.”

Schultz’s luck soon ran out, and fittingly it was his closest allies who turned against him. The New York mob had strictly forbidden Schultz from touching prosecutor Thomas Dewey, aware the heat a high profile assassination would bring. Penned in by the case against him, unable to control the violent rage that had made him so feared in the past, Schultz openly avowed to kill the prosecutor. A New York mob hit squad gunned him down at the Palace Chop House, on 12 E. Park Street. Schultz survived the initial shooting and was rushed away by his men but teetered on the edge of death.

“Dixie” Davis and other allies of Schultz were prosecuted by Thomas Dewey for numbers racketeering and convicted. According to the Amsterdam News, it was “believed that St. Clair turned over … valuable information” which assisted Dewey. In a 1960 New York Post article, St. Clair, “slender and fashionably dressed,” the owner of a four-story apartment building on Sugar Hill and a “prosperous businesswoman,” said the conflict she fought with Dutch Schultz from 1931 to 1935 cost her “jail and three-quarters of a million dollars. And not one bit of help did I get from my own people.”

But she survived. With the shakeup of the years-long war, the organizing of the policy workers, and new pressures from the Italian mafia, Harlem’s numbers game was changing. But Stephanie St. Clair was still on top, and Harlem loved her for it.

Langston Hughes said, “You might almost say the numbers is the salvation of Harlem, its Medicare, and its Black Draught, its 666, its little liver pills, its vitamins, its aspirins and its analgesic balm combined.” As the “Queen of Policy Banking,” St. Clair “fought back when others cringed.” As a New Negro of the Harlem Renaissance—whom Alain Locke describes as one who “wishes to be known for what [she] is … and scorns a craven and precarious survival at the price of seeming to be what [she] is not”—St. Clair might have felt like fighting back was the only choice she had. It was the just thing to do in a world that for so long had denied justice to her people.

Just before he died from the gunshot wounds, Dutch Schultz received a telegram from his old adversary. Signed by Madame Stephanie St. Clair, it read: “As ye sow, so shall you reap.”

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 2/5

Book Blurb:

The all-new renovated edition with expanded scenes and bonus content!

They say love and construction don't mix. By that logic, hate and construction may as well be condemned.

LaRynn Lavigne and Deacon Leeds had one short and contentious summer fling when they were teens—certainly nothing to build a foundation on. But a decade later, when their grandmothers have left them with shared ownership of their dilapidated Santa Cruz building, they're thrust back together and have to figure out how to brace up the pieces.

LaRynn has the money, but in order to access her trust, she has to be married. Deacon has the construction expertise, but lacks the funds. A deal is struck: Marry for however long it takes to fix up the property, collect a profit, and cut ties.

Thrust into a home without walls, LaRynn and Deacon quickly learn that it's easy to hide behind emotional ones, even in a marriage. But with all the exposure and pitfalls that come with living with the opposite sex (and none of the perks, much to their growing mutual frustration) they'll also have to learn what it means to truly cooperate as a team.

Filled with crackling tension, The Co-op is a steamy second chance romance about restoration and renovation, and uncovering all the things that build character within ourselves. It's about the never-ending construction project that partnership is, and finding enjoyment at every stage.

Review:

A complicated history, a marriage of convenience, and inheriting the co ownership of their grandmothers' dilapidated building, can these two people who get under each other's skin manage to make this marriage work? LaRynn Lavigne and Deacon Leeds had a short summer fling when they were teens that ended badly.... and now a decade later they have to face each other again since their grandmothers have left them shared ownership of their dilapidated Santa Cruz building. LaRynn and Deacon get under each other's skin like no one else, yet when their grandmothers both pass they both now have to deal with the building they were both left. LaRynn has the money to help fix it but in order to get access to her trust she has to be married... and Deacon has construction expertise but has no money, so they strike up a deal to get married, fix and sell the place, and then get divorced. Yet they are also now living together as they work on fixing the building and now have to ace their past feelings as well as their new romance.... but can they make it work once everything is out in the air or was it meant to end from the beginning. Here's the thing, I loved Tarah's previous works and books and this is a complete rewrite of her previous work, however this one was a miss for me. I really could not stand LaRynn at all, she was such a childish and selfish FMC and honestly I have no idea what Deacon every saw in her. For two people in their 30s, they acted like children, and honestly everything LaRynn did just infuriated me, especially the throw pillow incident and the toothbrush thing. I just could not like this couple despite how hard I tried and sadly this was a miss for me. I do love Tarah's writing and will be reading her future work, this one just didn't really hit the spot for me in particular. While it didn't work for me, if you like second chance romances maybe give this a go.

Release Date: November 12,2024

Publication/Blog: Ash and Books (ash-and-books.tumblr.com)

*Thanks Netgalley and St. Martin's Press | St. Martin's Griffin for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

[denimbex1986]

'...23. Sherlock – Series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall” (2012)

The triumphant conclusion (which, as it turned out, wasn’t really a conclusion) to Steven Moffat’s initial Sherlock run was a tour de force in TV suspense, pitting Benedict Cumberbatch’s eponymous super-detective against his greatest frenemy, genius villain Moriarty (Andrew Scott). All anyone could talk about for the next two years — until the third season finally arrived in 2014 — was that devilish cliffhanger when, right at the end of “The Reichenbach Fall”, Sherlock and Moriarty meet for the final time atop St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

Moriarty offers his nemesis-slash-wannabe-boyfriend a choice: dive from the roof to his death, or allow his closest friends and loved ones – among them, Una Stubbs’ Mrs Hudson, Rupert Graves’ Lestrade and Martin Freeman’s Dr Watson — to be murdered instead. He then pulled his cruellest trick of all, putting a bullet into the roof of his mouth, forcing Sherlock’s hand. The result, Sherlock apparently falling to his death, fuelled rampant fan speculation for months. Until he turned up spick and span in the next season, that is...

20. Broadchurch – Series 1, “Episode 8” (2013)

Murder mysteries are a game of cat and mouse for both the characters on screen and the audience at home, as both try to beat each other to nail down the killer. Bad ones make it too easy, good ones pull the wool over our eyes and great ones change the rules entirely. After seven hours of Broadchurch hunting down the possible killer of 11-year-old Danny Latimer, we knew we’d leave hour eight with an answer, expecting a final-minute reveal born from some intense action sequence that would mask the tragedy in adrenaline.

Instead, halfway through the episode, the killer, Joe, our lead detective Ellie Miller’s (Olivia Colman) husband, gives himself up, sick of being consumed by guilt and shame. It knocked the classic whodunnit structure on its head, changing the focus from the murderer to the fallout of his crimes. There’s Danny’s parents’ grief, which is finally felt in all its horrendous weight now that there are no longer question marks over the case, the town’s reckoning with the aftershock of such a harrowing crime, and Ellie’s life imploding before her eyes. Even though many viewers had worked out that Joe was the murderer, the real shock came from the horror of what it meant to be right...

16. Fleabag – Series 2, “Episode 4” (2019)

Throughout its two seasons, Fleabag became a beacon of rare relatability. It was a show about a woman actively not trying her best, self-sabotaging to bury emotion and hoping that none of it ever found its way to the surface. In its fourth episode of season two, it finally did. The episode is a bait and switch of sorts, as Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s titular Fleabag takes rejection from her hot priest crush (Andrew Scott) as a challenge, aiming to get him to relent on his spiritual allegiances and give into some good, old-fashioned carnal sin. For so long, it seems as if it’s not working, despite the pair dancing around the kind of sexual tension that feels like lightning in a bottle. But then she finds herself alone with him in the church late at night. He has had a few drinks. What starts as Fleabag in control ends with her walls breaking, the vulnerability she feels with the first person she’s connected with since the death of her best friend Boo corroding the armour that’s kept her feelings of guilt and shame and sadness locked away. He commands her to “kneel” and, well… you know the rest...

11. Fleabag – Series 2, “Episode 6” (2019)

Bringing back Fleabag didn’t seem like a good idea. Its beautifully constructed first season felt like the classic case of a one-and-done, particularly because of its gut-punch ending (the reveal that Fleabag had slept with her best friend Boo’s boyfriend shortly before she had died by suicide). And we’ve seen worse shows tarnish their legacies with ill-thought-out second runs. But, as evidenced by its dominance on this list, Fleabag series two went on to eclipse that first outing by every metric. This finale is a devastating conclusion to Waller-Bridge’s tragic romcom, with Andrew Scott’s sexy priest ultimately choosing God over love. Before that, we get to enjoy her father’s wedding to her ridiculous stepmother (Olivia Colman), her sister Claire (Sian Clifford) finding love with her Finnish namesake and a deeply moving and funny sermon from the hot priest (“Love is awful. It’s awful”). And, boy, that ending. The grim, bus-stop bench, the CGI fox, the priest’s devastating reply to her “I fucking love you”: “It’ll pass.” I defy you to see a fox at night on the streets of London and not think of it. But somewhere in here there’s a glimmer of hope, a sense that we’re leaving Fleabag better off than we found her...

9. Doctor Who – Series 3, “Blink” (2007)

Every episode of Doctor Who leans on existential wonder, conjuring concepts of the far reaches of time and space as the Time Lord navigates existence. “Blink” is a fascinating non-linear episode that introduces arguably the most terrifying monster yet – The Weeping Angels, lightning-fast creatures that can send someone through time with a single touch.

The perspective is switched from the usual Doctor and companion to place you in the shoes of Sally Sparrow, a normal girl roped into the world of the Doctor. She is tasked with deciphering the Doctor’s cryptic messages as he warns of the Weeping Angels. However, they turn into stone statues if they are laid eyes upon by a living creature – hence the iconic phrase “Don’t Blink”.

This anxiety-inducing episode prompts you to think at every moment what would I do? Every little action could prove to have deadly and unchangeable consequences. The prospect of being whisked away into another time is an unbearable thought. It is one of the best episodes of the show as it exemplifies everything wonderful about Doctor Who; evoking horror, mystifying time and space, as well as drawing upon emotion as the results of these life-changing stakes steadily come to fruition...

3. Fleabag – Series 2, “Episode 1” (2019)

“This is a love story,” says Fleabag (Phoebe Waller-Bridge) from the floor of a restaurant bathroom, dabbing at her bloody nose. So begins the opening episode of Fleabag’s triumphant second season, which turns a family dinner into a tense negotiation, punctuated with cigarette breaks for gasps of air and set to the operatic thrum of classical music.

Arguably the great achievement of the episode is managing a seamless recap of the previous season, reintroducing all of the faultlines within the family while adding a new face to the table in the Priest (Andrew Scott). The tension ratchets up as an annoying waitress hovers in the wings, Fleabag resists the temptation to bite over and over again, and her sister Claire (Sian Clifford) looks as though a vein in her temple might blow like a pipeline from the effort of holding her emotions in. Andrew Scott’s performance throughout the season is astonishing, but the charm he brings to his introduction is irresistible. Among a table of family members who don’t get her, here, finally, is an equal to tempt Fleabag into opening her heart fully. You can see it in her face as she shrugs him off during one of those cigarette breaks, and he says, in that sing-song voice: “Well, fuck you then.”...'

[thepastisalreadywritten]

SAINT OF THE DAY (July 17)

The universal Church celebrates the life of St. Leo IV on July 17.

Both a Roman and the son of Radoald, Leo was unanimously elected to succeed Sergius II as pope. 

At the time of his election, there was an alarming attack of the Saracens on Rome in 846, which caused the people to fear the safety of the city.

Because of the tension of the situation, Leo was consecrated on 10 April 847 without the consent of the emperor.

Leo received his early education at Rome in the monastery of St. Martin, near St. Peter's Basillica.

His pious behaviour drew the attention of Gregory IV, who made him a subdeacon. He was later created cardinal-priest of the church of the Quatuor Coronati by Sergius II.

As soon as Leo, much against his will, became pope, he began to take precautions against a repetitious acts of the Saracen raid of 846.

He began a project to put the walls of the city into a thorough state of repair, entirely rebuilding fifteen of the great towers.

He was the first to enclose the Vatican hill by a wall. In order to do this, he received money from the emperor and help from all the cities and agricultural colonies (domus cultae) of the Duchy of Rome.

The work took him four years to accomplish, and the newly fortified portion was called the Leonine City, after him.

In 852, the fortifications were completed and were blessed by the Pope with great solemnity.

It was by this Pope that the church of S. Maria Nova was built to replace S. Maria Antiqua, which the decaying Palace of the Caesars threatened to engulf, and of which the ruins have recently been brought to light.

In 850, Leo associated with Lothair in the empire of his son Louis by imposing on him the imperial crown.

Three years later, "he hallowed the child Alfred to king [says an old English historian] by anointing; and receiving him for his own child by adoption, gave him confirmation, and sent him back [to England] with the blessing of St. Peter the Apostle."

In the same year, 853, he held an important synod in Rome in which various decrees were passed for the furtherance of ecclesiastical discipline and learning, and for the condemnation of the refractory Anastasius, cardinal of St. Marcellus and sometime librarian of the Roman Church.

Equally rebellious conduct on the part of John, Archbishop of Ravenna, forced Leo to undertake a journey to that city to inspire John and his accomplices with respect for the law.

It was during his engaging endeavour to inspire another archbishop, Hincmar of Reims, with this same reverence that Leo died.

He was buried in St. Peter's on 17 July 855.

He is credited with being a worker of miracles both by his biographer and by the Patriarch Photius. His name is found in the Roman Martyrology.

[mermaidsirennikita]

ARC Review: How to Best A Marquess by Janna MacGregor

4/5. Releases 4/25/2023.

For when you're vibing with... Roadtrip romance, a heavy dose of second chance, hot bathtub scenes, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, and a bit of sweetness.

Beth Howell is in trouble. After discovering that her late husband was a bigamist--and that her marriage was never valid--she's socially ruined and financially dependent on her brother, who's on the verge of forcing her to marry an old man. She had a dowry--but her husband ran off with it within days of their marriage. Taking matters into her own hands, she goes on a hunt for the money... and the only man she can think to ask for help? Julian, the Marquess of Grayson: her former fiance.

This took a minute to get going, but once it did, I was quite charmed by the soft-yet-hot chemistry and sense of knowing and longing between our leads. It's a classic second chance, with a good dose of roadtrip romance.

Quick Takes:

--There are certain things you want from a historical roadtrip romance. Tense carriage rides, highwaymen, general mayhem. You get all of this here, but it's a bit... tenser, because Julian and Beth actually know each other quite well and are still not entirely over that whole "ended engagement" thing. The sense of them knowing each other and having both a lot of affection for each other and a lot of unresolved beef is strong with this one.

--If you're a fan of the "hapless man is unable to deny wacky broad anything", this is for you. I am a fan of that dynamic, personally, and it's deliciously clear from the jump that Julian really can't deny Beth much of anything. And part of that is also due to guilt. If it wasn't for him, would she be in this mess at all?

--I will say that I think the "why" of the broken engagement could've been a bit angstier. The general conflicts keeping our couple apart really weren't quite as intense as I would've wanted, but I am nothing if not an angst hound.

--There is a really lovely sense of friendship that really isn't friendship because while they know each other very well and like each other a lot, they also want to fuck like rabbits. I really loved this sort of back and forth they got into fairly early in the book where they just sort of kissed for fun and made flimsy excuses about why they were constantly kissing and how that's actually just a normal thing for pals to do? Just friends being buds, slipping each other some tongue on the regular. It's nonsense reasoning, and I was digging it.

--There is a thing relating to the dead bigamist husband that I found to be a bit... much, but it's pretty minor. You'll know it when you see it.

--A lot of the dynamic in this book is "who you are in the eyes of others and how you're perceived by them versus who you are with someone who truly knows the soul of you". It's very touching, and I was about it.

--The flirting is a LOT. You get all the casual kissing, the There's Only One Bed thing, them trying to catch glimpses of each other naked all the time. It really feels like you're reading about two people with a decade's worth of unresolved sexual tension.

The Sex Stuff:

There are several sex scenes in this book, and while they aren't super lengthy, they are well done, and the sexual tension leading up to them is very good. There's one scene (the bath shenanigans!!!) that was just so decadent and caring and all about the spoiling, and that was... quite nice. I did not expect that from Julian, to be real.

This is the end to a trilogy, and I would actually say each book is better than the last, which is always nice. There's a gentle, soft sense to Janna's writing style, which doesn't always work for me--but with her, it does. It's a lovely read.

Thanks to Netgalley and St. Martin's Press for providing me with a copy of this book. All thoughts and opinions are my own.

[posttexasstressdisorder]

Beethoven's 7th Symphony, slow movement, very funereal sounding; a choral adaptation graced the soundtrack of that classic Sean-Connery-in-a-Red-Diaper flick, Zardoz. Definitive performance? Pablo Casals and the Marlborough Festival Orchestra. The entire 7th is fantastic.

Same dude's 6th's Symphony: the bit in Fantasia with the Centaurs and Fat Bacchus gettin' his ass bit by Zeuss an' shit. Definitive performance: Fritz Reiner & The Chicago Symphony.

And here is where I will begin adding "Classical Pieces You Probably Never Heard But Really Oughta".

Richard Strauss: Metamorphosen, a Study for 23 Solo Strings. The definitive performance: Neville Marriner and The Academy of St. Martin In The Fields. It is precisely 23 minutes long. It's the one recording that stands out above the rest in terms of lyrical cohesiveness and beauty of line.

Schubert: Symphonies No. 3 and No. 5: Definitive Performance by Neville Marriner and The Academy of St. Martin In The Fields. Very cheerful and bouncy morning music.

Rossini: String Sonatas 1-6: Definitive Performance by Neville Marriner and The Academy of St. Martin In The Fields. If just hearing the first of these doesn't make you smile, you are dead inside.

Debussy And Ravel: Their respective String Quartets. Definitive performance: The Via Nova Quartet (Musical Heritage Society Recording). Incredibly sumptuous, tension-filled and edgy Impressionist chamber music!

Alexander Scriabin: Etudes, Op. 8, and Preludes, Op. 11. Definitive performance: 20th Century Russian Pianist Vladimir Sofronitzky (who married Scriabin's Daughter). Unparalleled. Also recommended: any other Scriabin recordings by Sofronitzky. He transcends!

Alexander Scriabin: Sonata No. 9 "The Black Mass". Definitive Performance: Vladimir Horowitz' 1953 recording, from his 25-year Anniversary Concert. Scorching...you can smell the fire and brimstone!

Rachmaninoff: Isle of The Dead; definitive performance: Fritz Reiner and The Chicago Symphony.

Rachmaninoff: Concerto No. 2 in C minor, definitive performance: Van Cliburn with Fritz Reiner & The Chicago Symphony. Was featured in several '50s movies, including "Seven Year Itch".

Beethoven's "Emperor" Concerto (No. 5, in E-flat): Definitive Performance: Vladimir Horowitz with Fritz Reiner and The Chicago Symphony.

Brahms' Concerto No. 2 in B-flat, Definitive performance from 1941: Vladimir Horowitz with his father-in-law, the formidible Arturo Toscanini. Absolutely electric. As one Horowitz biographer put it, "This is not the old fat Brahms, this is athletic, sinewy Brahms!"

And ONE LAST ONE for tonight:

Dvorak: String Serenade Op. 22 and Wind Serenade Op. 44; absolutely joyful, boisterous and life-filled music, given definitive performance by Neville Marriner and The Academy of St. Martin In The Fields.

AND IF YOU HAVE NOT HEARD GLENN GOULD'S BACH RECORDINGS, WTF, DUDE?!?!?!?!? Especially the Goldbergs, and The Dminor Concerto (with Lenny Bernstein conducting!)

Enjoy!

Classical Pieces You've Probably Heard but Might Not Remember the Name

William Tell Overture- Rossini (Most famous part at 8:45, but why not listen to the whole thing?) I’m adding hints, at least to the ones I recognized culturally. This one is “go, horsey, go!”

Also Sprach Zarathustra- Strauss Slow, dramatic entry scene, IN SPAAACE.

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik- Mozart People running out of a fancy wedding or something. Also known as DUN, dun DUN, dun DUN dun DUN dun DUUUUN.

Symphony 94, Mvt. 2 “Surprise Symphony”- Haydn ?

Toccata and Fugue in d Minor-Bach Halloween organ!

Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2- Chopin Picture a tiny old woman playing piano in a sunlit room with lots of flower vases, about the spill the tragic secrets of her past to some timid young visitor.

Rondo alla Turca- Mozart the babysitter from The Incredibles: “Time for some COGNITIVE ENRICHMENT!”

Sinfonie de Fanfares: Rondeau- Jean-Joseph Mouret Royalty is coming. Or someone is getting married. Or royalty is getting married. Also the PBS Masterpieces theme.

The Four Seasons: Spring- Vivaldi (I just linked to the whole thing because it’s great) Again, someone is getting married, but this one is strings instead and a lot less frumpy.

Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring- Bach That one that amateur guitarists love where the notes are all up and down but all the same length. Also used in movie weddings.

O Fortuna (from Carmina Burana)- Carl Orff SONG OF DOOM. Also song of “baby on fire!” in The Incredibles.

Funeral March- Chopin ?

Orpheus in the Underworld: Infernal Galop (A.K.A. Can Can)- Offenbach Well, “aka can-can” says it all.

Pomp and Circumstance (You probably graduated to this)- Elgar Oh yes, Baaaa dun dun dun duun duuuuun… Also if you were a bandie you had to play it for 3 years before graduating to it.

Gayane: Sabre Dance- Aram Khachaturian Comically hectic productivity, a circus clown juggling while standing on a ball, or perhaps a rapidly-approaching termite infestation. Could go any way, really.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Wedding March- Mendelssohn The song movies play right AFTER they both say “I do.”

Carmen: Les Toreadors- Bizet I can’t be the only one who remembers when ‘Hey Arnold’ did this. “Bullfights and swordfights, rolling in manuuure!”

The Ride of the Valkyries- Wagner Good song for a naval battle I guess? I can only think of the mini golf course I went to as a kid with the creepy castle on Hole 18 that played this.

Für Elise- Beethoven That one every amateur piano player loves to play because the beginning is just E and E-flat over and over. Also ballet and piano recital scenes in movies.

Dance of the Hours- Ponchielli Hello mudda, hello fadda, here I am at, Camp Granada…

Rigotello: La Donna e Mobile- Verdi More than a few sophisticated movie villains (or snobby good guys) have this playing on a Victrola. Also, tell me you don’t picture Pavaroti no matter who’s actually singing.

Night on Bald Mountain- Mussorgsky ?

Romeo and Juliet: Love Theme- Tchaikovsky More movie-love, usually building up to admitting they live each other.

Entry of the Gladiators- Julius Fucik I have one word for you: CIRCUS.

Lakmé: Flower Duet- Delibes OMG ALIAS. Nadia’s spy  backstory in Film Noir!

Peer Gynt: In the Hall of the Mountain King- Greig Mischievous Tiptoeing in Movies song. Also something growing out of control, slowly at first and then quickly, and (comically) exploding.

Rodeo: Hoedown- Copland The title says it all tbh.

Peer Gynt: Morning Mood- Greig Sunrise/waking up Movie Song du jour.

New World Symphony Mov. [2][4]- Dvorak Well now I’m thinking of “An American Tail” and I’m crying…

Ave Maria (You knew this, but did you know that it was by Schubert?) Nothing to add. I’m not a music snob, really, but if you didn’t know this, YOU SHOULD.

Canon in D- Pachelbel This is the one that the pretty Trans-Siberian Orchestra Christmas song comes from. :-)

Add others if you want! Have fun!

[industrynewsupdates]

Exploring Anti-jamming Market: Trends and Future Outlook

The global anti-jamming market size was estimated at USD 4.69 billion in 2023 and is expected to grow at a CAGR of 9.4% from 2024 to 2030.The rapid advancement in communication technology is significantly driving the anti-jamming market. Innovations in communication and navigation systems have led to an increased reliance on secure and reliable signal processing.

As defense and commercial sectors adopt more sophisticated systems, the need for advanced anti-jamming solutions becomes paramount. Enhanced signal processing techniques and adaptive algorithms are continually being developed to combat evolving threats. This technological evolution is expanding the anti-jamming market's scope and application, thereby contributing to the growth of the market.

The proliferation of electronic warfare is a critical factor fueling growth in the anti-jamming market. As geopolitical tensions escalate, there is a heightened focus on electronic warfare capabilities. This includes the development of advanced jamming and anti-jamming technologies to safeguard critical communication channels. The increased investment in military and defense sectors for electronic warfare readiness drives demand for effective anti-jamming solutions. Consequently, this trend is pushing the market towards more innovative and robust anti-jamming technologies.

Gather more insights about the market drivers, restrains and growth of the Anti-jamming Market

Key Anti-jamming Company Insights

Key players operating in the anti-jamming market include BAE Systems., Raytheon Systems Limited, Hexagon AB, ST Engineering, Thales, TUALCOM, Collins Aerospace, Lockheed Martin Corporation, Israel Aerospace Industries Ltd., and Meteksan Defence Industry Inc. These companies invest heavily in research and development to enhance their anti-jamming solutions, ensuring they meet the evolving demands of modern warfare and secure communications. In addition, collaborations and strategic partnerships between these leading firms and smaller, specialized technology companies are common, fostering the development of state-of-the-art anti-jamming systems.

Companies across the globe are securing investment to enhance their GPS signal capabilities. For instance, in November 2023, BAE Systems secured investment for the subsequent phase of the Eurofighter Typhoon aircraft's anti-jamming system. The Digital GPS Anti-jam Receiver (DIGAR) Phase 4 Enhancement was designed to enhance the aircraft’s survivability against radio frequency interference and GPS signal spoofing and jamming, The funding also included BAE’s new GEMVII-6 airborne digital GPS receiver, which enabled the aircraft to use digital beamforming for anti-jamming.

Global Anti-jamming Market Report Segmentation

The report forecasts revenue growth at global, regional, and country levels and provides an analysis of the latest industry trends in each of the sub-segments from 2018 to 2030. For the purpose of this study, Grand View Research has segmented the global anti-jamming market report based on receiver, technique, application, end-use, and region.

Receiver Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• Military & Government Grade

• Commercial Transportation Grade

Technique Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• Nulling Technique

• Beam Steering Technique

• Civilian Technique

Application Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• Flight Control

• Surveillance and Reconnaissance

• Position, Navigation, and Timing

• Targeting

• Casualty Evacuation

• Other Applications

End-use Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• Military

o Airborne

o Ground

o Naval

o Unmanned Vehicles

• Civilian

Regional Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• North America

o U.S.

o Canada

o Mexico

• Europe

o UK

o Germany

o France

• Asia Pacific

o China

o India

o Japan

o South Korea

o Australia

• Latin America

o Brazil

• Middle East & Africa (MEA)

o Kingdom of Saudi Arabia (KSA)

o UAE

o South Africa

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