#susannah stark

[anarchist-caravan]

Susanna Stark - 28/04/2023 - at Intonal

[gianttankeh]

Secluded Bronte / Susannah Stark / Usurper at The Old Hairdressers, Glasgow: 22/2/23.

You can find out more about this show and buy tickets here.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

for a conrad x reader request- could you do one where conrad is just really overwhelmed and stressed out and just needs comfort and physical touch?

When I saw this hug in the trailer, my heart could not handle it. He looks so soft and sad and- It's probably one of my favorite moments

warnings: mention of cancer, sad!conrad

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

You knew something was off with Conrad when you received five calls in the past three days. 

This was a stark contrast to his usual pattern of calling you every night since he started college. Despite telling him it wasn’t necessary to call every night and prioritize his studies, Conrad was insistent that it wouldn't affect his grades.

During your calls, you noticed a change in his demeanor. He seemed distant and unengaged, merely listening to you without his usual laughter at your humor, which raised further suspicions that something was off. You suspected it was related to Susannah. She started this new treatment a few weeks ago and Conrad didn’t like being away from her. It worried him to be so far away from her.

You wanted to surprise him. Sparks some happiness into his sad eyes and bottles up hardships.

You stood on the other side of his dorm door, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. You wanted everything to go perfectly, knowing that the impact of your surprise could mean so much to Conrad in his current state.

What if his roommate doesn’t want you there and gets into an argument with Conrad? What if Conrad doesn’t want you there? 

Your stomach twisted into a knot. 

Pushing those thoughts aside, you took a deep breath and gently knocked on the door, your heart pounding with anticipation as you waited. Moments later, the door opened, revealing Conrad's tired but surprised expression. 

‘’What are you doing here? I was just about to call.’’ 

You gave him a soft smile. ‘’This is much better than a phone call, isn’t it?’’ 

He nodded, the corner of his mouth curling slightly despite his overall tired appearance. The dark circles under his eyes could be from school alone, but this wasn’t just from getting less hours of sleep. His gaze was distracted, absent, by times. 

Like now.

‘’Are you gonna invite me in or do I have to camp outside your dorm?’’ you asked, snapping Conrad out of his thoughts.

‘’Oh, eh…yeah, sorry.’’ He stepped aside, inviting you in. ‘’I had a class at 8am, my brain is a bit tired.’’ 

It was a lie. But you didn’t say anything. 

‘’My roommate is at some frat party,’’ Conrad explained, closing the door and locking it. ‘’Shouldn’t be here until late. Very late. Unless he crashes at Deborah’s dorm.’’ 

You nodded, setting your bag on the floor on Conrad’s side of the room. It was small for two people, but what were you expecting? It’s a college dorm.

A frown formed when you saw how untidy Conrad’s space was. There was a mess of papers and textbooks scattered around on his desk, indicating the stress he was under with his studies, and the dirty laundry basket was full and spilled onto the floor a little. This was so unlike him. 

On his nightstand, you noticed a piece of photobooth strip and smiled. You took these at the mall last spring, right before Conrad overheard his parents and learned about Susannah’s cancer. It was the last time you saw him truly happy. The last time his mother’s health wasn’t constantly in the back of his mind. 

‘’You keep a picture of us by your bed,’’ you pointed out, picking up the photobooth strip. 

Conrad turned his head toward you. ‘’Yeah,’’ he admitted, rubbing his palms over his blue jeans. 

You set the photobooth strip back to its place and slowly stepped toward Conrad. Through the phone, he could hide behind his many walls, but in person, it was easy for you to see that he wasn't okay. You could see right through him.

‘’Connie? You know you can talk to me about anything, right?’’ 

Conrad nodded as he lowered his head. 

He tried to put on a brave front, but deep down, he wanted nothing more than to fall apart in your arms and stay there forever. Life had become such a heavy weight lately, he wasn't sure he could deal with it.

‘’Come here.’’ You drew him close and, like pieces falling into places, his arms wrapped around you and he rested his head on your shoulder with a vulnerability only you was allowed to see him in. You raised a hand to his shoulder, soothingly rubbing his back.  ‘’Nothing is alright,’’ he admitted, his arms tightening around you, seeking comfort and reassurance.

—

All and more taglist: @spiokybirdstarfish @kenqki @liidiaaag @hawkegfs  @gillybear17  @areaderinlove @acornacreacure @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @rosie-cameron @Caxddce @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade  @hi-bored-as-fcuk-rn  @lovelyy-moonlight @mellabella101 @vxnity713  @marzipaanz  @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart  @xyzstar  @graceberman3  @Heartsforneteyamsully  @aerangi  @hallecarey1  @bxbyyyjocelyn @mikeyspinkcup

TSITP taglist: @msmarvelknight  @maritaleane @dingus0401 @idontknowwhatimdoing777 @nomorespahgetti @lomlolivia @5sosbands @bloodyhw @depthsofdespairr @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @gilbertscurls @brandirouse86 @leilani-nichole @Veescorneroftheworld @papayaboyluvr  @bchindureyes @bellysbeach  @slytherinambitious @darylscvmdumpster 

[zeroducks-2]

A collection of songs that remind me of Slade and Dick and their messy, passionate, and deeply toxic relationship:

I’d hate me too - Susannah Joffe

Bruno is Orange - hop along

Put me in a movie - (unrealised) Lana Del Rey

Please please please let me get what I want - deftones

Cop Car - Mitski

White mustang - Lana Del Rey

As it was - Hozier

Love of Fire - Jess Jo Stark

It will come back - Hozier

Motion Sickness - phoebe bridgers

The town - The Weeknd

If you think I’m pretty - Artemas

Little Bird - the weepies

4:44 - Jay Z

The birds pt 1 - the Weeknd

Fallin - Alicia keys

Do I want to know? - Arctic Monkeys

OHHH thank you for sharing Anon! PLEase I love when people share their playlists with me ♥♥ and fun fact, Do I want to know? has always been a staple of my Sladick playlist haha

[yatescountyhistorycenter]

The fascinating life and mysterious death of Helen M.T. Ayres

By C.J. Thompson

After reading the story, “Clippings from Fanny’s Bible,” written by M. Laura Race in the March /April 2023 issue of Yates Past, I was compelled to do more research on the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of Miss Helen M. T. Ayres. The newspaper clipping described that Helen hadn’t been seen all day on Thursday, January 26, 1899. The neighbors became very concerned, as she hadn’t appeared for her usual meal at the Knapp House.

Once authorities obtained a key from the man who had worked on her furnace, they – along with Mrs. Bower, a neighbor – searched her home without success until one of them opened her old Saratoga trunk, which she apparently let her Angora cats sleep in (with the lid opened). They found Helen in the trunk kneeling with her head on the tray cleat with a bottle of chloroform that was opened near her face. Was this a murder or a suicide? Who was the man who took care of her furnace?

She was born Helen M. Turner on October 11, 1840, in Ovid, Seneca County to John Turner and Susannah Ayres. John and Susannah died in 1842 in Elmira, Chemung County. One of Susannah’s older half-brothers, Lewis Smalley Ayres, and his wife, Esther McLellan, adopted Helen, as they had no children of their own. Lewis had lost his mother and another sibling during a difficult childbirth when he was just 3 years old, and his mother was only 19 years old.

In order to better understand all of Helen’s amazing achievements for a woman living in the 19th century, I delved into the lives of her adoptive parents. Lewis was born on January 29, 1811, in Trumansburg, Tompkins County to Nathaniel Ayres and Susannah Coddington.

At the age of 17 in 1828, he went to Ithaca to learn the hatter’s trade. He married Esther McLellan in 1832, and they settled in Penn Yan, where he purchased stock in the hat business of Eleanor Jenkins. Lewis later sold his shares in the hat store for health issues to Lewis B. Mandeville.

In 1835, Lewis and William Griffin established a dry goods business and he worked there for about a year. His next venture, in 1841, was a hardware business with partners William Whitney and Oliver Stark on the corner of Main and Elm streets. Subsequent to the dissolution of the partnership before 1850, Lewis created an insurance agency, where he worked for the remainder of his life. He was also active in political affairs and held a high position in the Masonic order.

Interestingly, the hardware store now known as Pinckney Ace Hardware remains in the same location where a hardware business first began more than 180 years ago. A fire in March 1985 did extensive damage to the building, but the building was salvageable and has been renovated. The hardware business in this location has had numerous partnerships that served Penn Yan and surrounding areas, including Armstrong & Gage, Armstrong & Hollowell, and Hollowell & Wise. Sons would either purchase their father’s shares or inherit their shares when they died.

Between 1836 and 1841, Lewis also held various town offices, being a village trustee for Penn Yan and a superintendent of the Crooked Lake Canal, and he worked under the Pierce and Buchanan administrations for eight years. Lewis died at home on May 14, 1876 at age 66. Helen had been his assistant early on and then became his partner in the insurance agency for numerous years and now assumed control of the business, located on the Knapp House block on Main Street.

Esther Ayres was born in 1810 in Johnstown, Fulton County. Her parents were Archibald McLellan and Isabella McIntyre. I traced Isabella’s maternal side back to 1492 to her 10th great-grandfather, John MacIntyre, who was born in Strathclyde, Scotland. All of the men in this line were chieftains of Clan MacIntyre. Isabella and Archibald were both born in Scotland and married there at the young age of 16.  According to Esther’s obituary in the Penn Yan Express, dated September 17, 1879, her parents headed to America shortly after marriage. It is unknown if Esther displayed any attributes from her Scottish ancestors. The port of Glasgow, Scotland was the starting point of Helen’s European trip itinerary in the summer of 1888, onboard the S.S. Furnessia of the Anchor Line.

Did Helen perceive education and hard work exemplified by her father as a key to her success or did social discrimination lead Helen to attend college? Lewis was dedicated to his family and the small community of Penn Yan. Helen first appeared with her parents in the 1850 U.S. Census, living in Penn Yan. Esther was listed as a homemaker in the Census from 1855 to 1875. It is mentioned in Esther’s obituary, dated September 10, 1879, that she had become an invalid in her later years. Three different servants were also listed as living in the household between 1860 and 1875.

Helen was a woman ahead of her time; she attended Elmira Female College from 1855 to 1859 and was one of 17 women in the first graduating class. She was only 15 years old when she started classes there. Being first in alphabetical order, Helen was handed the first diploma. Helen later presented her diploma back to the college as a gift, and it now hangs in the College Archives.

Elmira Female College was founded as a college for women in 1855, and it is the oldest existing college in the United States granting degrees to women equivalent to those given to men. Helen, along with other women of her class, would have lived in the first college building known as Cowles Hall. The women would also attend classes and dine there.

In the Troy Weekly Times, dated July 26, 1856, an article describes a fire at 212 Liberty St. in Penn Yan and how 15-year-old Helen M. T. Ayres was badly burned. Fire ignited by fluid in a lamp consumed her dress and burned her flesh. William Gaumann, of Leroy, was there and burned as well. Given the time frame, Helen must have been home from college on summer break. Helen did not let the burns stop her from attending the Fall 1856 semester at Elmira female College.

The article is brief and doesn’t give details on the severity or where on Helen’s body she was burned. This could be another clue that may have played a role in Helen’s death. In those days, it was common to prescribe chloroform to treat pain.

It was exciting to view a photograph of Helen on FamilySearch. The following excerpt is from the original copy of her passport written by Helen, dated June 21, 1888 in Penn Yan: “Enclosed please find application for a passport. Our trip will include Scotland, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Germany and Switzerland. As I could not give a very description of myself, I enclose a photograph from what of myself, so that you will be able to file the passport more intelligently. Please return at once as we sail next week, signed Helen M.T. Ayres.”

She had also included money for her friend and neighbor, Miss Helen Baxter, to accompany her on this voyage. Helen and her friend, Helen Baxter, were two of the 207 passengers aboard the S.S. Furnessia. It appears Helen either jotted this note hurriedly or maybe it was a sign of an underlying health issue that would return later down the road.

Helen did not let her rural upbringing deter her from attaining her goals.  She was only 5 feet tall and wanted her voice to be heard. Helen is not listed in the U.S. Federal Census for Penn Yan from 1860 to 1870. She reappears in 1875.

In a letter dated February 6, 1955, Sidney E. Ayres, of the Penn Yan Printing Company and editor of The Chronicle-Express, wrote to Mr. Barber of Elmira: “Helen had apparently taught and was a preceptress in one or more southern schools for about 10 years after graduation, according to a pile of letters from her former pupils. Family legend tells that the feeling ran so high against her as a Yankee teacher, at one time that she was sent home through the lines by a Confederate gunboat and transferred under a flag of truce to a Union gunboat on the Mississippi, I presume.”  Although Sidney E. Ayres, a relative of Helen’s, never found any proof of that happening.

It is interesting to note that Helen and other family members – Stephen B. Ayres Jr., his wife, Harriet, and son Malcolm claim that they were all born in England, in the 1892 U.S. Census. Was it possible for all of them to be hiding from someone? If so, who?

Helen was actively involved with her alma mater after graduation and took many trips with friends and students attending Elmira Female College. One such trip was documented by Montreal Printing and Publishing, dated 1871. On this trip, passengers would travel on the Northern Central Railway as well as the Royal Mail Line of steamers. The tour included the Hudson River; Trenton Falls; Toronto, Ontario; Montreal, Quebec; the Thousand Islands; and the St. Lawrence River.

Like her father, Helen was an active participant in her community. Among her many achievements, she served not only on the board of the Penn Yan Public Library, which was founded in 1895, but also was the first librarian there. She was one of the founders of the 19th Century Club. Club members took many trips and one of their favorite places to go was Lake Luzerne. Helen hosted numerous lawn parties that included members along with their children at her home at 212 Liberty St. in Penn Yan.

Her house was located next to where the Michael Sterns Clothing Factory once was, and the house was demolished in 1956 in order to accommodate a much-needed expansion for the Michael Sterns Clothing Factory. Aldi is there now.

In April 1873, Sibyl, Elmira Female College’s literary magazine, stated, “We learned that Helen M. T. Ayres, is at present engaged in writing a book.” Helen purchased a Remington typewriter in December 1884 in Syracuse according to an article in the Yates County Chronicle. The Remington typewriter was manufactured by gun makers E. Remington and Sons, of Ilion, in 1874.

The Shakespeare Club was another club Helen was active in, and according to various newspaper articles she went from secretary in October 1883 to president at the December 9, 1898, meeting. The club meetings were held at different members’ homes. According to her obituary, she had sent out notes the day before her questionable death, assigning members parts for the next meeting on the second Friday of every month.

Why would Helen send out notes for the Shakespeare Club on the day before she was found “possibly positioned” in her Saratoga trunk? According to witnesses, she had gone to supper on Wednesday evening, and by all appearances seemed to be her normal, lighthearted self. However, she did purchase a 6-ounce bottle of chloroform earlier in the day. Who was the chloroform for?

In the past, known by her closest family and friends, Helen had purchased chloroform from the local druggist to provide her treasured Angora cats – who were very sick and had no hope of surviving – a more tranquil way to pass. On her death certificate, the Manner of Death was documented as “Chloroform Administered by herself.”

How did the police and possible witnesses of Helen come to that conclusion? There surely must have been an inquest. Given the year of the incident, Helen’s house may have not been secured as a potential homicide site. Those who walked into the home and touched things in search of Helen may have contaminated any evidence.

It is also mentioned in her obituary that there had been a handkerchief saturated with chloroform on the nightstand bedside Helen’s bed along with a smaller container of chloroform. Were these items placed there specifically to throw the authorities off the possibility of murder?

Furthermore, there had been what appeared to be a slight irritation on Helen’s face as she was lifted from the Saratoga trunk and placed back on her bed. According to those who were present, her bed looked as though she had been in her bed prior to the trunk.

Neighbors had mentioned that before her untimely death, she had suffered a severe attack of the grippe, commonly known today as influenza, and that it had left her weak and suffering from insomnia. Chloroform can make an individual sleepy quickly, but how long they sleep depends upon how much of the chloroform they were exposed to. Is it possible that Helen neglected the power of this drug?  

The Penn Yan community had lost an intelligent and vibrant individual who by all accounts was happiest when helping others. Family, friends, and business acquaintances alike were dumbfounded as to why Helen M. T. Ayres would end her life in such a matter when all circumstances gave the impression of her going about happily as she would any day.

Nothing in her will, dated and signed on May 31, 1893, seems out of the ordinary. She listed items she wanted to go to specific family members and friends. At the time of her death, the value of personal property did not exceed $2,500. The last sentence in her will reads, “I do this in token of affection, and as a recognition of their affection for me, believing as I do that they, better than any other living persons, love me.”

Her obituary was in the Yates County Chronicle and the British Whig of Kingston, Ontario, Canada. Helen was mentioned in the Chronicle, dated February 1, 1899, by other members of the 19th Century Club: “Our dear friend was kind, generous, thoughtful for each member-the perfect embodiment of unselfishness.”

Although my research on Helen M. T. Ayres is finished, I am fascinated by all that she accomplished in her life. The tenacity that she had challenged her to do things that most women would not have dared to do during that time period. I am now able to put her story to rest, but I will always wonder whether she truly did administer the chloroform herself.

[alphinias]

Jeremiah is so INSUFFERABLE in the first three episodes and I actually can’t believe this is the BJ season and audiences are supposed to root for them? This man hasn’t talked to belly in like almost a year and the first real conversation they have about Susannah dying and then not talking he thrOWS HER BREAK UP IN HER FACE AND BASICALLY SAYS I TOLD YOU SO???? Like hmm.. I thought he was the “nice one” who was empathetic and cared more for belly? Like I’m sorry in what world bc he clearly only cares about himself? And the way he like at any given opportunity during the car ride up to cousins and when they were going to see aunt Julia was calling Conrad an asshole and shit talking him unprovoked… never once giving his brother grace for GRIEVING their mother??? Like the stark parallel to the fisher boys fighting/not communicating vs the Conklin siblings fighting and Steven and Taylor having a convo where Steven admits he was wrong and doesn’t shit talk belly with the clear intention of making things right once he sees belly again? Like Jeremiah makes everything about his feelings, he’s so selfish!!!!!!!!!! and thinking that we have already sat through belly assuaging his ego (“I called you first not him” meanwhile like the bold face lie bc we know she would’ve called Conrad had she not acted like a fool at that funeral) and are gonna have to sit through it to prove narratively that he’s the better choice (for the time being) makes me wanna gauge my eyeballs out!!!! He makes my blood boil

Yeah, I’m not going to act like both Jeremiah and Conrad don’t have flaws, because they definitely do, but personally Jeremiah’s drive me insane. The selfishness is a huge ick for me (and so is the fact that he can’t even change a tire! Ew!). One is too selfless and the other is selfish so there’s no choice whatsoever for me.

And he’s spent his whole life competing with Conrad and it’s clear there’s a part of him that jumps on every opportunity to think less of him for this reason or that. I did like the brother talk at the end, but the constant shit talking is super annoying. I do think a part of it is Jeremiah grieving in his own way too and taking certain things out on Conrad, which I can understand how that works for that character but still don’t personally like. I do love how Belly and Steven will fight like cats and dogs but ultimately for the most part they’d be like “no one can shit talk my sibling but me.”

In comparison to Jeremiah, Conrad’s main flaw is thinking he has to do everything himself, even to the detriment of people around him, but he was making so much progress with Belly and telling her so many things he’s never told anyone. They’re super compatible. But then he backslid because he’s an 18 year old kid and his mom died, so personally I can’t be too mad at him for that.

I think ultimately, even though he irritates me, I can see why someone else might like Jeremiah. Just not for Belly over Conrad.

[p-taryn-dactyl]

15, 28, 43, 57, 62!

hi!!!

15: favorite book you’ve read as a school assignment?

A List of Cages by robin roe was during the summer before my freshman year of high school, a while back, and I remember annotating it, loving the plot, enjoying the assignment which was to take notes and annotate the pages if the book was our personal one and then we…didn’t do anything with it except a handout that said “did you do the reading?” with checkboxes labeled yes and no. I was so disappointed but I remember loving that book. There’s also Brain On Fire by Susannah Cahalan, which is just an amazing true story (the movie is ok but the book is just *chefs kiss*. I’m actually using it in my final project in my psychology course this year!!

28: five songs to describe you?

Damn. This is a hard one….i had to consult the counsel (my group chat) for guidance [edit: some were helpful…others weren’t] [another edit: i did take a few quizzes to find what songs describe me bc i was thinking of songs that i associated with me and idk if thats what this meant lol, can you tell i overthink things?]

no body, no crime by taylor swift

better than revenge by taylor swift

dear reader by taylor swift

human by gabrielle aplin

hi, it’s me by ashnikko (but I’m the best friend)

Ik it was mostly TS but i listen to her a lot so

43: hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket, or bomber jacket?

once upon a time i was recognized by the oversized jean jacket that i wore…not anymore. I love cardigans and leather jackets buttt i have the soul of an elderly librarian so definitively cardigan. (I love librarians, my Grammy was a librarian and she’s the best)

57: the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome?

Coming out to myself. I actually came out to my friends before myself, which sounds weird but hold on. I knew i was queer so i told them, the ones i was comfortable with, about my sexuality. But i wasn’t in full terms with it. I grew up very religious and the way my church and family spoke about homosexuality just made me feel like an outcast. Thankfully, I’m proud of who i am today and while I’m terrified of the day I come out to my family, i know i can make it through the tough times if they come

My belief in god isn’t a struggle per se but i much prefer my relationship with them today than my past relationship with them. In the past i was a nightmare, just a total bitch and even though ik today it was because of how i was raised and what i absorbed and all the internalized homophobia, i still know it’s not an excuse to unlearn all my taught hatred so I’m pretty proud to say that i am a much, much better person today ✨character growth✨

My fear of death. While i haven’t completely overcome this, ive come to better terms with the fact that one day i will die and the only thing i can do is live life to the fullest and just live, not to force myself into a box of what i have to do but just enjoy being alive while i am. My new fear however is the ocean, just being alone in the middle of the sea, no boat just me…my heart beat very fast as I typed that

62: seven characters you relate to?

Percy Jackson. I have neither ADHD or dyslexia but i do wear my sarcasm and humor as my shield. Also, i just feel like he would be such a good friend and compliment to my personality

Tony stark. I do have anxiety and depression but i am not a billionaire or genius. I just get him, ya know? I can easily put myself in his place and see his thought process.

Daniel Jackson. Huge history nerd over here and he’s just the best, i love him

harry potter…my man is way too underrated for the main character. Same thing as tony, i just feel connected to his character

yelena belova. Idk why but i just feel like she’s what i could be if i was put in her situations ya know

alec lightwood, i too am a disaster gay and would be speechless at the sight of magnus bane

Nebula. I know what it’s like to be overlooked and forgotten but thankfully, like nebula, ive a found family that sees me

Thank you so much!!! I’m sorry my answers were so long lol 😅

[diffyansh]

Review: Black Mirror S1EP1

Synopsis:

"The National Anthem," the inaugural episode of Black Mirror Season 1, delivers a gripping exploration of the uneasy alliance between politics, media, and public opinion. When Princess Susannah is abducted, Prime Minister Michael Callow faces an unprecedented demand – a degrading act on live television to secure her release. As the tension escalates, the episode unfolds a narrative that delves into the moral quandaries and societal repercussions of this disturbing ultimatum.

What I Liked:

One of the standout aspects of "The National Anthem" is the exceptional performance by Rory Kinnear as Prime Minister Michael Callow. Kinnear skillfully conveys the emotional turmoil and vulnerability of a leader grappling with an unimaginable dilemma. The episode's strength lies in its ability to elicit empathy for characters caught in the crossfire of political intrigue and public scrutiny.

Additionally, the direction by Otto Bathurst deserves commendation. The use of handheld cameras and stark lighting intensifies the urgency of the unfolding crisis, creating a visceral viewing experience. Bathurst's choices amplify the discomfort, effectively drawing viewers into the ethical and emotional maelstrom faced by the characters.

The episode's audacious exploration of the societal consequences of media sensationalism and the dark side of technology is another compelling aspect. It serves as a thought-provoking mirror reflecting contemporary concerns about the intersection of politics and public spectacle.

Conclusion:

"The National Anthem" succeeds not only in its unsettling premise but also in the nuanced portrayal of characters navigating a morally treacherous terrain. Kinnear's standout performance, coupled with Bathurst's skillful direction, makes this episode a standout entry in the Black Mirror series. The thought-provoking exploration of societal norms and the impact of media sensationalism leaves a lasting impression, making "The National Anthem" a memorable and impactful start to the Black Mirror journey.

[topologics]

SCI-FI & FANTASY BASED MULTIMUSE.    featuring characters from marvel, dune, star wars, supernatural, etc. this is a low stakes blog serving as an exploration into differing perspectives, thematic arcs, and narration styles. if you want cohesion, order, and consistency, refer to my primary blog, cruoren.    as unreliably narrated by doll,    she / her, 18+

heavily plot-oriented & narrative driven. please consider filling out my interest tracker.

(*) carrd. (*) visualizer. (*) find me: kylo ren. jude. darkling.

primary themes revolve around . . . the depravity of man, the (in)significance of existence, fate vs determinism, the self as a haunted house, capitalized mythology, etc.

marvel comics: stephen strange. (previously mystikah) clea strange. tony stark. (previously starksets) miguel o'hara. harry osborn. mobius m mobius.

detective comics. roman sionis. (previously dimasque) christine fords (oc).

dune: irulan corrino. leto atreides.

star wars: leia organa. padme naberrie amidala.

cw's supernatural: st michael. lucifer. naomi. zachariah. the primordial darkness. god. (previously sanctuhs, aserpent, antiqorom)

fantasy / misc: eris vanserra. (previusly autumn) koschei the deathless. ken (barbie 2023)

stephen king: randall flagg / the man in black. susan delgado. susannah dean. rose the hat.

[lastsonlost]

BECAUSE THE CORONAVIRUS IS JUST HURTING FEMINIST AND ONLY FEMINISTS AND ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ELSE...

..........

Enough already. When people try to be cheerful about social distancing and working from home, noting that William Shakespeare and Isaac Newton did some of their best work while England was ravaged by the plague, there is an obvious response: Neither of them had child-care responsibilities.

Shakespeare spent most of his career in London, where the theaters were, while his family lived in Stratford-upon-Avon. During the plague of 1606, the playwright was lucky to be spared from the epidemic—his landlady died at the height of the outbreak—and his wife and two adult daughters stayed safely in the Warwickshire countryside. Newton, meanwhile, never married or had children. He saw out the Great Plague of 1665–6 on his family’s estate in the east of England, and spent most of his adult life as a fellow at Cambridge University, where his meals and housekeeping were provided by the college.

For those with caring responsibilities, an infectious-disease outbreak is unlikely to give them time to write King Lear or develop a theory of optics. A pandemic magnifies all existing inequalities (even as politicians insist this is not the time to talk about anything other than the immediate crisis). Working from home in a white-collar job is easier; employees with salaries and benefits will be better protected; self-isolation is less taxing in a spacious house than a cramped apartment. But one of the most striking effects of the coronavirus will be to send many couples back to the 1950s.

Across the world, women’s independence will be a silent victim of the pandemic.

Purely as a physical illness, the coronavirus appears to affect women less severely. But in the past few days, the conversation about the pandemic has broadened: We are not just living through a public-health crisis, but an economic one. As much of normal life is suspended for three months or more, job losses are inevitable. At the same time, school closures and household isolation are moving the work of caring for children from the paid economy—nurseries, schools, babysitters—to the unpaid one. The coronavirus smashes up the bargain that so many dual-earner couples have made in the developed world: We can both work, because someone else is looking after our children. Instead, couples will have to decide which one of them takes the hit.

Many stories of arrogance are related to this pandemic. Among the most exasperating is the West’s failure to learn from history: the Ebola crisis in three African countries in 2014; Zika in 2015–6; and recent outbreaks of SARS, swine flu, and bird flu. Academics who studied these episodes found that they had deep, long-lasting effects on gender equality. “Everybody’s income was affected by the Ebola outbreak in West Africa,” Julia Smith, a health-policy researcher at Simon Fraser University, told The New York Times this month, but “men’s income returned to what they had made pre-outbreak faster than women’s income.” The distorting effects of an epidemic can last for years, Clare Wenham, an assistant professor of global-health policy at the London School of Economics, told me. “We also saw declining rates of childhood vaccination [during Ebola].” Later, when these children contracted preventable diseases, their mothers had to take time off work.

At an individual level, the choices of many couples over the next few months will make perfect economic sense. What do pandemic patients need? Looking after. What do self-isolating older people need? Looking after. What do children kept home from school need? Looking after. All this looking after—this unpaid caring labor—will fall more heavily on women, because of the existing structure of the workforce. “It’s not just about social norms of women performing care roles; it’s also about practicalities,” Wenham added. “Who is paid less? Who has the flexibility?”

According to the British government’s figures, 40 percent of employed women work part-time, compared with only 13 percent of men. In heterosexual relationships, women are more likely to be the lower earners, meaning their jobs are considered a lower priority when disruptions come along. And this particular disruption could last months, rather than weeks. Some women’s lifetime earnings will never recover. With the schools closed, many fathers will undoubtedly step up, but that won’t be universal.

Despite the mass entry of women into the workforce during the 20th century, the phenomenon of the “second shift” still exists. Across the world, women—including those with jobs—do more housework and have less leisure time than their male partners. Even memes about panic-buying acknowledge that household tasks such as food shopping are primarily shouldered by women. “I’m not afraid of COVID-19 but what is scary, is the lack of common sense people have,” reads one of the most popular tweets about the coronavirus crisis. “I’m scared for people who actually need to go to the store & feed their fams but Susan and Karen stocked up for 30 years.” The joke only works because “Susan” and “Karen”—stand-in names for suburban moms—are understood to be responsible for household management, rather than, say, Mike and Steve.

Look around and you can see couples already making tough decisions on how to divide up this extra unpaid labor. When I called Wenham, she was self-isolating with two small children; she and her husband were alternating between two-hour shifts of child care and paid work. That is one solution; for others, the division will run along older lines. Dual-income couples might suddenly find themselves living like their grandparents, one homemaker and one breadwinner. “My spouse is a physician in the emergency dept, and is actively treating #coronavirus patients. We just made the difficult decision for him to isolate & move into our garage apartment for the foreseeable future as he continues to treat patients,” wrote the Emory University epidemiologist Rachel Patzer, who has a three-week-old baby and two young children. “As I attempt to home school my kids (alone) with a new baby who screams if she isn’t held, I am worried about the health of my spouse and my family.”

Single parents face even harder decisions: While schools are closed, how do they juggle earning and caring? No one should be nostalgic for the “1950s ideal” of Dad returning to a freshly baked dinner and freshly washed children, when so many families were excluded from it, even then. And in Britain today, a quarter of families are headed by a single parent, more than 90 percent of whom are women. Closed schools make their life even harder.

Other lessons from the Ebola epidemic were just as stark—and similar, if perhaps smaller, effects will be seen during this crisis in the developed world. School closures affected girls’ life chances, because many dropped out of education. (A rise in teenage-pregnancy rates exacerbated this trend.) Domestic and sexual violence rose. And more women died in childbirth because resources were diverted elsewhere. “There’s a distortion of health systems, everything goes towards the outbreak,” said Wenham, who traveled to west Africa as a researcher during the Ebola crisis. “Things that aren’t priorities get canceled. That can have an effect on maternal mortality, or access to contraception.” The United States already has appalling statistics in this area compared with other rich countries, and black women there are twice as likely to die in childbirth as white women.

For Wenham, the most striking statistic from Sierra Leone, one of the countries worst affected by Ebola, was that from 2013 to 2016, during the outbreak, more women died of obstetric complications than the infectious disease itself. But these deaths, like the unnoticed caring labor on which the modern economy runs, attract less attention than the immediate problems generated by an epidemic. These deaths are taken for granted. In her book Invisible Women, Caroline Criado Perez notes that 29 million papers were published in more than 15,000 peer-reviewed titles around the time of the Zika and Ebola epidemics, but less than 1 percent explored the gendered impact of the outbreaks. Wenham has found no gender analysis of the coronavirus outbreak so far; she and two co-authors have stepped into the gap to research the issue.

The evidence we do have from the Ebola and Zika outbreaks should inform the current response. In both rich and poor countries, campaigners expect domestic-violence rates to rise during lockdown periods. Stress, alcohol consumption, and financial difficulties are all considered triggers for violence in the home, and the quarantine measures being imposed around the world will increase all three. The British charity Women’s Aid said in a statement that it was “concerned that social distancing and self-isolation will be used as a tool of coercive and controlling behaviour by perpetrators, and will shut down routes to safety and support.”

Researchers, including those I spoke with, are frustrated that findings like this have not made it through to policy makers, who still adopt a gender-neutral approach to pandemics. They also worry that opportunities to collect high-quality data which will be useful for the future are being missed. For example, we have little information on how viruses similar to the coronavirus affect pregnant women—hence the conflicting advice during the current crisis—or, according to Susannah Hares, a senior policy fellow at the Center for Global Development, sufficient data to build a model for when schools should reopen.

We shouldn’t make that mistake again. Grim as it is to imagine now, further epidemics are inevitable, and the temptation to argue that gender is a side issue, a distraction from the real crisis, must be resisted. What we do now will affect the lives of millions of women and girls in future outbreaks.

The coronavirus crisis will be global and long-lasting, economic as well as medical. However, it also offers an opportunity. This could be the first outbreak where gender and sex differences are recorded, and taken into account by researchers and policy makers. For too long, politicians have assumed that child care and elderly care can be “soaked up” by private citizens—mostly women—effectively providing a huge subsidy to the paid economy. This pandemic should remind us of the true scale of that distortion.

Wenham supports emergency child-care provision, economic security for small-business owners, and a financial stimulus paid directly to families. But she isn’t hopeful, because her experience suggests that governments are too short-termist and reactive. “Everything that's happened has been predicted, right?” she told me. “As a collective academic group, we knew there would be an outbreak that came out of China, that shows you how globalization spreads disease, that’s going to paralyze financial systems, and there was no pot of money ready to go, no governance plan … We knew all this, and they didn't listen. So why would they listen to something about women?”

Remember this article the next time a politician brings up the draft again...

because I remember the last reaction.

[cyanidetooth]

Hash Jar Tempo! Susannah Stark! Glider! The Azusa Plane! Botch! Deadguy! Sleepytime Trio! Harriet The Spy! Clikitat Ikatowi! Four Hundred Years! Boys Life! Maximillian Colby! Brocken Spectre! Zurich Cloud Motors! EAT! Diode! Red Asphalt! Lars Finberg! Adulkt Life! Twisted Nerve! Red Lorry Yellow Lorry! Nightclub! Anzahlung! Escare! Sam Weinberg / Henry Fraser / Weasel Walter! Phicus! Soft Shoulder! The Blue Daisies! You've Got Foetus On Your Breath! Godzik Pink! Secluded Bronte! Shareholder! Kiln! Territorial Gobbing! Razmotchiki Katushek! German Army! Radio Free Europe! Papal Bull!

[guard-dogbiscuits]

Typical Parker Luck

childrenoftherosx said:  

for one muse to wake up after sustaining an injury and find the other at the side of their bed (Mordred wakes up to find Susannah at his side)

Susannah smiled as she saw Mordred was awake.  “Hey,” she said, giving his shoulder a nudge.

“You do know you’re only half spider, right? I know, you saw Peter Parker cast  webs out of his hands and go swinging from building to building. But Peter’s a few years older than you, and what he does takes practice. A lot of it. Practice... and a suit.”

She sighed. “I shouldn’t be saying any of this. I should say it’s just a movie and none of it’s real. But I can’t do that. Because...I know a few things about that suit. For one, it’s not the kind of suit you can order from the Spirit Halloween Store.”

“And the reason I know about the suit, is that I know the man who designed it. His name is Tony Stark, and his father and mine were...um...business partners. On occasion.”

“Stark Enterprises and the Tet Corporation still have a few things going. So I might be able to persuade Tony to make you a suit, and arrange for you to be trained.”

“But if I do, you will have to listen and do as he says. It  won’t always be easy. Tony is like Roland in some ways. A bit...shall we say...full of himself?”

“But if you want to develop that side of yourself, there’s no one who could teach you better.” 

[kimsonvalon]

Écouter / acheter: Time Together (Hues and Intensities) de Susannah Stark

[cordycepsspore]

(Susannah Stark)

[hxndrcx]

Shadow & Dust

Location: West Balcony, Grand Central Station

Date/Time: January 1st, 2019, starting at 12:23AM

Featuring: Hendrix Blake & Ramos. Mentions of  Elijah Tallis, Noah Bordeaux, Susannah Glover & Sloan Rivera

It felt warm, arms wide open preparing to divulge the greatest sense of comfort in only those willing to fall to darkness and it prickled the back of his neck like dull, brittle needles. An endless threat that might traverse the expanse of consciousness to simply tear it from beneath corporeal form and render the crumbling point of reality and nightmare as anything close to non-existent. The walls of hell seemed to perforated the living and tear down heavenly solace as the first seconds into the new year devastated a nonsensical feeling of closure that found all those within the effervescent and God-like walls of Grand Central Terminal.

Like a distant memory, death that hung itself limp in the air above, painted an unholy picture, shattered and broken, fleeting shapes of a woman he knew drew a sense of consciousness beyond the black. Darker in complexion, olive like silk that spun a flickering sense of dread and nostalgia between his fingertips, a shadow like ghost that barely lingered a moment before everything went black. That was real; that was real, and the ache that blossomed like watered down acid rain, that felt real too. It was all he remembered above the ringing in his ears. Already calloused palms cut against the rubble beneath them, chunks of the grand halls blown to the smallest shards numbering thousands as they rained down against the marble staircase, tearing at skin and bone as gravity worked it’s ethereal magic and brought down the halls of a once near mythic building.

Clarity was lost on him, the ringing never died out. What might have transpired a stable mans mind fell to the recesses of all things incomprehensible and only with every passing hand of time did he find it in him to piece together where he was. It lurched in his stomach and throbbed a dulling slice of pain along the back of his neck, spiking right up into the base of his skull. Vision swam, each line within the dust blurred as if a sheet of cotton held tightly across his eyes. Movement, he couldn’t keep track, the swimming sensation of sickness that bubbled warm in his throat, swallowed back like pebbles that simply wouldn’t budge. Screaming tore through the air from the basic numb of silence, a harrowing thing to hear the moment incandescence plowed right through into his conscious mind.

A young animal on his feet, Hendrix stumbled and coughed through the dust, finding footing that didn’t quite compromise as level, though the hand held railing shattered, had long since plummeted to the ground below. The scene cast out before him catastrophic, it raged war in lungs that could scarcely inflate with every raspy breath he took. Move. Move. Move. Stable ground didn’t compute in his mind to include a balcony from above. Better to be crushed from above than to plummet, in his mind at least, even if it remained that he couldn’t very well look beyond the balcony until he’d done all he could.

Voices blurred, but Hendrix already well and truly knew that he couldn’t rely on his hearing. Through the settling dust he could see the dark scattering of bodies. The kind that haunted a man long after he’d laid witness. Those that kept sleep from capturing you at night. He could almost taste the thick acrid scent of blood that filtered it’s way through the heavy particles already swarming like ashen smoke. The startling moment a hand wrapped around his ankle sent him reaching for the gun at his back, the hunter only slowly well enough on his draw as he caught sight of the man clinging to the edge of the balcony. Concrete, marble and slate shattered and dangling by the rebar, twisted and bent by the force of the blast. “I got you, don’t move.” He spoke sharply, bending at the knee to grasp his hand between his own.

Pleas and the tightened grasp of the strangers hand mottled with the panic that perhaps he might lost his hold and slip to his death did nothing for stability. The loud creaking of the rebar as he kicked his feet in some attempt to gain a foot up. “Stop, -- stop moving.” He hissed out, swallowing back the wave of nausea that flooded his chest. Heavy warmth hugged the inside of his skull, butchering straight thought and action beyond the slip of his hand and the deafening objecting call of the man below.

Movement to his right sparked something more, the stark difference between the quickened motion of giving aid and that of stalking prey, a hunt through the chaos that couldn’t quite slip the observation of another so accustomed to the stagnant, slowed shift that didn’t quite fit. He might have shrugged it off, not bothered to pay mind to it at all until he saw the dull glint through the dusty haze of light, spilling though the crevices where flames licked the once pristine walls. Perhaps not such an odd sight, all things considered, all species considered within the walls of the new years festivities, but what struck him hardest was the carving, just inside the handle.

A snake, twisted in on itself, the mouth of the serpent eating it’s own tail. Infinite. It struck recognition and a stealthy bout of adrenaline that had Hendrix hauling the man from the ledge, shaky hands finding refuge in the rubble as he steadied himself. Not quite fit for any sense of hand to hand, by will, he knew he didn’t have a choice as he watched the woman advance on one of the Tallis kids. One of the older ones, Elijah? He fleetingly remembered seeing him throughout the night, something which slowly and surely began to add up.

The Ouroboros.

He turned to the man beside him, his heavy breathing more of a bother to Hendrix than he would have admitted. “Stay away from the windows, don’t take the emergency exits,” they’d have covered those, wouldn’t they? “Get downstairs and move.” Hauling him to his feet, Hendrix brushed the dust off of his shoulders and pointed him down towards the most stable looking piece of the staircase. “Don’t turn around, don’t play hero.” It was the last he saw of him.

It might have been easier to get the jump had he been as swift and nimble as he might have any other day, the deft sound of his feet across rubble covered floor not nearly a grand way to solidify the depth of silence necessary. He could bleed for what he did, each and every target as much a sacrifice as it ever was a duty, a little piece of himself shattered beyond repair in the volatile nature of all he could deal out with closed fists and weapons beyond any simplistic sense of protection. He could bleed, and bleed until his veins ran dry for said sacrifice and duty, if only for the touch of chaos that welcomed him home each and every time. Blade for blade, calloused hands left the gun tucked into his holster long forgotten for his more favored pair of switchblades -- the metal tainted and shaped with each poison known to the supernatural world. They were a hard weapon to look past. Hilts twisted by his fingers as he came up behind the woman closing in on the Tallis witch, well beyond capable of keeping his own protection. “Not fucking likely.” He muttered to himself as he thought of one more loss among the masses, his rough grip on her shoulder tearing her from her intended target. The crumbling wall cut his path as he ducked the broken rubble, the shifting of his feet against the hard floor giving away his position to the trained ear; Ramos twisting just enough to sink the glinting edge of her own knife across the sheath of his bicep, slicing clothing and flesh quickly and easily. It solidified his preconceived thoughts about who or what the woman might have been, reflexes of a soldier with the lethal and careless nature that his own kind usually took on. He hissed sharply, as heightened and reckless curiosity paved the way for instinct to kick in, shoulders rolling as he lent away from the attack, only to throw himself forward a heartbeat later.  It blurred, a nonsensical onslaught of movements that didn’t quite sit in perfect harmony with the destruction around them. To some, it would never make sense, but all Hendrix knew was that every slip up -- every momentary peek into the who and what their enemy was, was enough for him. The flurried shift of his body and hers, one left for another right, blood spilling across shattered concrete as flesh and sinew parted way for the force of bone on bone, knuckles against jaw and knifes edge wherever the could reach. It never stopped, the room never once stopped spinning. A merry-go-round of the outreaches of every hellish plane one could think up. Flame and rubble had turned a once night of celebration into one or carnage, and as Hendrix stood just steadily enough, crimson dripping from his brow, he could only find relief in seeing that she was almost no better off than he was. 

Ramos lunged and he weaved, cutting the breadth of his elbow in across her ribs and a sharp swipe of his right blade came down across the flesh of her thigh, both she and the floor beneath them buckling just enough to throw off their center of gravity, Ramos reaching out by shear force of it, grappling with the scuff of his clothing to cast him back into the broken wall. It bit its way through, discomfort flooding the span of his shoulders, even as the hardened curve of his knee caught the concave of her stomach to throw her off. The pair hurtling across the once pristine floor to hover the broken balcony. “Who the fuck are you?” He cut through grit teeth, pinning her with as much might as he could carve from the energy he held within him. “You’re one of them.” Blades long since left to the dust, she reached for his throat, the hardened grip of another hunter not something he’d been all too keen on feeling, a viper like constriction that came with the territory he imagined, unfortunately however, he still had full reach for the handgun he carried, standard issue --- it’d still do the job.  Her nails dug in and he knew the thick scarlet liquid spilled from his flesh beneath them as he drew, the muzzle of his weapon soon finding the softness beneath her jawline, “Who else?” Ramos sneered beneath him, a brittle laugh slicing through the defiant look she’d kept all the while she reached for a chunk of concrete. Fingers curled into her clothing, lifting her just enough to slam her back into the ground, to rip the air from her lungs, “Who the fuck else is there?” The woman’s hues darted upwards, through the settling dust and despite his better judgement, his own followed.  Some distance away, he could familiarize himself with the man with near ebony hair, his stature, his presence alone bled infamy among their world and the woman with him itched the notable feeling of recognition along with him. But the scene just beyond didn’t last, Something all but sucked the air from his lungs. Another explosion? No..-- No, it didn’t hold the same weight, the same daunting feeling he knew they carried. No, this was different. Hotter, brighter and a less intelligent man might have considered calling it nuclear. He knew better, knew the world run much deeper and darker than nuclear warfare. It threw him. Ten feet, Twelve feet. Fifteen feet across the floor, brick and rubble cutting where they didn’t shift beneath him, promising ichor and deep tissue bruising in the later hours. Braced for impact, he shielded his eyes, shielded whatever he could as he saw the darkened shapes of others thrown with him. Blurred, like ink in water, swirling uncertain pictures while a textbook professional asked tell me what you see.  He saw destruction. Death and opportunity. He saw more dust and flame -- white hot and excruciating as it danced vitality across his skin. Dainty and almost perceptive, the flames that licked and scorched everything they touched something deeper than blackened ash, he could have claimed a witches doing. He saw the light, the burning orange light. He saw black.

“Blake? Officer Blake?” A pause as the world seemed to tilt to the left. “Hendrix?” Hands pressed to his chest and a face he couldn’t make out in the grim lighting drew him ever closer to consciousness. Nothing changed; nothing changed. Blood spilled from carved features and from that ash and dirt clung to him as if it came from him in the first place. He reached out for something, anything. A bloodied rock, created from chaos and painted with the crimson hand print of another; left behind in the blast, Ramos had never made the move beneath him despite intention to bash his skull from below moments before hand. “Hendrix, we gotta’ move, the floor it’s.. we gotta’ move.” 

He didn’t hear anything while it spiked, adrenaline surpassing the pain that blistered skin in welts. “The woman,” he demanded shakily as he moved to his feet, “Where is the woman?” Hendrix looked around, doubt spreading on his features as he fought to see through the still burning spot fires, ash and dust, only to find nothing he was looking for. Heated footsteps carried him heavily across the damaged floor, fighting the speed of his own movement as it jarred his head, sent thoughts and attempted speech fall to nothing but a soul splitting ache in the back of his skull.

It’d slipped. Opportunity. A desperate step in the right direction. All of it, had slipped, right through his fingers.