#the central powers were - to say it in the italian fashion

[amypihcs]

AAAnd I ended up writing something for this and for the first day of cozytober.

You’re back home

As much as it could be seen as a dismissal, as a lack of appreciation for one’s services, Sherlock Holmes couldn’t but be happy about his husband’s discharge.

He had known of it for at least one day more than his dearest had, working in the intelligence offered striking possibilities when one was showing up to the office and not only working from home, but he had only left London on his own leave when Watson’s letter had arrived.

And there he was, in Sussex, enjoying the sweet October sunshine in the year of our Lord nineteen-seventeen from atop the railing he and Watson had built more than 10 years prior, waiting for his Captain.

Dr Watson wasn’t surprised to not find Holmes waiting for him at the station with their car, it was their agreement. No station Welcomes and Goodbyes as having to stifle their feelings in those moments would have certainly made them more painful. He breathed in deeply the fresh country air and set off for his walk toward their bee-house, as Holmes called it.

Nothing could be better than half an hour of evening walk toward home, or rather, nothing but seeing one’s husband jump down from a railing and grin from ear to ear as one walks into one’s own garden.

Neither of them properly ran toward the other, they weren’t as young as that any more as much as Holmes’ athletics still belied his true age. Holmes waited for him and Watson dove into his arms, breathing in deeply, relaxing after months of tension as he felt his husband’s strong, thin arms around his shoulders and his solid, sinewy body in his arms.

“I missed you.” He sighed, breathing in his scent, tobacco, lemons, aftershave.

Holmes broke the hug with a smile. “I missed you too.” He answered, then he kissed him, his hands buried in his hair, moaning as he felt his Watson’s arms tighten once more on his back as he answered the kiss with just as much vigour.

“I’m back home.” Gasped Watson when they separated out of need for air.

“You are, my dearest. – Holmes’ breath was just as laboured as he replied, ruffling his husband’s hair with his fingers. – Short hair doesn’t suit you my love.”

“It will grow again, I also liked it better before this war. Is that my vest?” Chuckled the doctor, well used to his husband’s sometimes strange demonstrations of affection.

Holmes laughed as he played with his Watson's uniform’s belt and buttons. “How did you deduce?”

It was a game, of course, their game. “It’s too large on you, my darling, and a bit too short. Also, you have no clothes of this colour. – The doctor stroked one of his Holmes’ sharp cheekbones. – You needn’t look so worried, Holmes. What do you deduce of me?”

Holmes smiled once more, and in that golden light he looked just like the young chemist he was when they had met. “You lost almost a stone, but you will be better in some weeks. You need to sleep properly as you are quite tired. Those dark circles under your eyes speak of anxiety, my John, and of pain. I could say your leg more than your shoulder, if I didn’t know that you’ve been hurt two weeks ago…” Holmes let his voice fade softly as he moved his hand to his husband’s side.

“It’s but a graze, my dear. Some shrapnel during a rescue mission, I barely noticed it until I had finished with the poor chap’s surgery. It’s but a scratch, I stitched it close myself.”

“I should like to check for it myself, my dear. As much as I know that your stitches are the best, you must have hidden it from your subordinates for quite a long time to end up stitching it on your own.” He stated

“Those boys were shaking already, I couldn’t let them know that I was hurt. – Watson kissed his husband again and then placed a warning finger on his lips. – I will let you fuss, my dear fellow, but only after some good tea and in preparation for a proper bath.” He smiled.

Mr Holmes grinned at the proposition and lead his husband inside, draping himself on his shoulders as soon as they reached the kitchen. “We are home now, John.”

“Yes. Yes, we are, my dearest Sherlock.” Answered the doctor.

dr watson in his 60s, tanned by the sussex sun, returns to his old service on the outbreak of WW1

this outfit is not historically accurate at all, but i really wanted to draw how i imagined watson in the gorgeous WW1 era h/w fic The Presbury Letters

+ bonus homecoming to angry bee husband

[calicohyde]

I got a question a long time ago from I don’t remember who about how I made sure the witch noir power types (which are inspired by cultural folklore) were not offensive or appropriative, and I think my answer was probably pretty dismissive, so I decided to give some actual examples of the ones I still remember and my process for coming up with them.

First off, remember that folklore is not synonymous with religion or spiritual practices. So that already makes taking inspiration from there much less delicate of a thing to do. To give a comparative example before we get into the process examples: say I wanted to make a power in this fashion inspired by North American Native culture. I would use “land stewardship” or something similar as my jumping off point, NOT something like the w*ndigo. The difference between those things is significant, and I think pretty clear?

I also think a big part of this system that makes it not insensitive is that none of the powers (and therefore none of the - obliquely - referenced cultures) are exoticized. What I mean by that is that power type isn’t determined by skin color or religion, and every power type is equally special and mundane to each other (aside from the oppressed group of types, which are primarily based in my own cultures anyway just because those are what the main characters have and in this particular work the main characters are tangentially representing me). There’s no Magical Brown Guy or whatever that trope is called. inversely, neither are any of the white people inspired power types portrayed as being more “civilized” or otherwise more inherently Good™ in any way.

Now for some actual inspirations I took, the witch types they ended up being, and how I got there.

1. spin the globe, pick a people. okay, Slavic. get more specific. Romania. take it back now y'all. Transylvania. so obviously vampires then. what are vampire “powers”. hypnotism. what’s the basic concept of hypnotism. control of perception. apply some limits. only works on relative strangers. word associate to name it. first impressions -> impressionist. no that’s already a widely recognizable word in the language I’m writing in. well they can make people trust them on sight, kind of like how some baby animals imprint on the first thing they see. experiment with suffixes until it sounds good. google that to make sure it’s not already something. viola, the Imprintor witch type.

2. pick a people. Asian. get more specific. Chinese. what’s one of the most iconic Chinese artifacts (is that the right word?). the Great Wall. what was its purpose. to protect the border. a protective barrier. how can I make that into a power. warding is already a type of magic. make it unique using characteristics of the Wall. it was made with extraordinary physical labor. for this power wards must be connected and maintained by the caster through a physical part of them left behind. now name it. protector -> guard -> the Guardian witch type.

3. pick a people. European. get more specific. Italian. what have they got. da Vinci -> no ideas. Vatican City -> Catholicism -> I’m not into that. what’s a culturally-based quirk Italians are known for? superstition. how can I turn that into a power type. someone in the presence of whom superstitions become true. apply limitations because holy shit lol. now name it. superstitionist? no that’s too on the nose. something to do with omens. behold, the Augur witch type.

4. pick a people. central American. get more specific. Mexican. what’s a frequent theme in Mexican art? death -> dia de los muertos -> communication and visitation from the spiritual world. that doesn’t really need any finagling. name it. look up a list of things people who can talk to spirits are called. pick one -> the Medium witch type.

5. pick a people. Irish. first thought is of course fairies. no, fairies are their own thing. second thought: “luck of the Irish” -> bad luck. how can I turn that into a power. someone who can inflict bad luck on people. add good luck and some other easily associated things like grace/clumsiness to round it out and get it on the level of the other power types (and make sure no type can only be villainous - or heroic for that matter). name it. it’s based on what amounts to a cheeky little curse. a hex -> the Hexist witch type.

I also reverse engineered… well, at least one.

pick a people. European again. get more specific. Greek. gosh they sure have a lot of statues of gods and heroes. idols, you might say. what would the powers of an Idol be? well idols are worshipped, so someone who can make you worship them. include an opposite effect to round it out like with the Hexist. apply some specificity and limitations, and make it more morally neutral. an Idol is someone who can extreme-ify emotions in other, as to turn like into love and annoyance into hate.

In the name of full disclosure, I did have a few types initially that I later decided either toed the line of appropriation or learned used words or traditions that were not meant to be shared, and I either got rid of them or adjusted them until they were distant enough from the starting point - or could just as easily be gotten through the same process from a different starting point - that I didn’t feel it was necessarily connected anymore.

Again to compare, unlike say Joker who transposed the names and images of real Native American spiritual figures in her fundamentally British Christian boarding school fantasy, I first of all did not use specific figures or practices, nor anything expressly religious (other than, again, my own), and also only used the folklore/motif/symbol/characteristic/idiom/philosophy/geography/etc as a jumping off point rather than lifting it wholesale. The power types I made are in fact power types that I made, and only use things as a basis that are broad or nebulous enough in nature that they can’t really be stolen or misrepresented.

So that’s why I’m, as I said in my more dismissive answer, “not that worried about it”. Does that make sense, whoever asked several months ago…?

[izzyspussy]

I got a question a long time ago from I don't remember who about how I made sure the witch noir power types (which are inspired by cultural folklore) were not offensive or appropriative, and I think my answer was probably pretty dismissive, so I decided to give some actual examples of the ones I still remember and my process for coming up with them.

First off, remember that folklore is not synonymous with religion or spiritual practices. So that already makes taking inspiration from there much less delicate of a thing to do. To give a comparative example before we get into the process examples: say I wanted to make a power in this fashion inspired by North American Native culture. I would use "land stewardship" or something similar as my jumping off point, NOT something like the w*ndigo. The difference between those things is significant, and I think pretty clear?

I also think a big part of this system that makes it not insensitive is that none of the powers (and therefore none of the - obliquely - referenced cultures) are exoticized. What I mean by that is that power type isn't determined by skin color or religion, and every power type is equally special and mundane to each other (aside from the oppressed group of types, which are primarily based in my own cultures anyway just because those are what the main characters have and in this particular work the main characters are tangentially representing me). There's no Magical Brown Guy or whatever that trope is called. inversely, neither are any of the white people inspired power types portrayed as being more "civilized" or otherwise more inherently Good™ in any way.

Now for some actual inspirations I took, the witch types they ended up being, and how I got there.

1. spin the globe, pick a people. okay, Slavic. get more specific. Romania. take it back now y'all. Transylvania. so obviously vampires then. what are vampire "powers". hypnotism. what's the basic concept of hypnotism. control of perception. apply some limits. only works on relative strangers. word associate to name it. first impressions -> impressionist. no that's already a widely recognizable word in the language I'm writing in. well they can make people trust them on sight, kind of like how some baby animals imprint on the first thing they see. experiment with suffixes until it sounds good. google that to make sure it's not already something. viola, the Imprintor witch type.

2. pick a people. Asian. get more specific. Chinese. what's one of the most iconic Chinese artifacts (is that the right word?). the Great Wall. what was its purpose. to protect the border. a protective barrier. how can I make that into a power. warding is already a type of magic. make it unique using characteristics of the Wall. it was made with extraordinary physical labor. for this power wards must be connected and maintained by the caster through a physical part of them left behind. now name it. protector -> guard -> the Guardian witch type.

3. pick a people. European. get more specific. Italian. what have they got. da Vinci -> no ideas. Vatican City -> Catholicism -> I'm not into that. what's a culturally-based quirk Italians are known for? superstition. how can I turn that into a power type. someone in the presence of whom superstitions become true. apply limitations because holy shit lol. now name it. superstitionist? no that's too on the nose. something to do with omens. behold, the Augur witch type.

4. pick a people. central American. get more specific. Mexican. what's a frequent theme in Mexican art? death -> dia de los muertos -> communication and visitation from the spiritual world. that doesn't really need any finagling. name it. look up a list of things people who can talk to spirits are called. pick one -> the Medium witch type.

5. pick a people. Irish. first thought is of course fairies. no, fairies are their own thing. second thought: "luck of the Irish" -> bad luck. how can I turn that into a power. someone who can inflict bad luck on people. add good luck and some other easily associated things like grace/clumsiness to round it out and get it on the level of the other power types (and make sure no type can only be villainous - or heroic for that matter). name it. it's based on what amounts to a cheeky little curse. a hex -> the Hexist witch type.

I also reverse engineered... well, at least one.

pick a people. European again. get more specific. Greek. gosh they sure have a lot of statues of gods and heroes. idols, you might say. what would the powers of an Idol be? well idols are worshipped, so someone who can make you worship them. include an opposite effect to round it out like with the Hexist. apply some specificity and limitations, and make it more morally neutral. an Idol is someone who can extreme-ify emotions in other, as to turn like into love and annoyance into hate.

In the name of full disclosure, I did have a few types initially that I later decided either toed the line of appropriation or learned used words or traditions that were not meant to be shared, and I either got rid of them or adjusted them until they were distant enough from the starting point - or could just as easily be gotten through the same process from a different starting point - that I didn't feel it was necessarily connected anymore.

Again to compare, unlike say Joker who transposed the names and images of real Native American spiritual figures in her fundamentally British Christian boarding school fantasy, I first of all did not use specific figures or practices, nor anything expressly religious (other than, again, my own), and also only used the folklore/motif/symbol/characteristic/idiom/philosophy/geography/etc as a jumping off point rather than lifting it wholesale. The power types I made are in fact power types that I made, and only use things as a basis that are broad or nebulous enough in nature that they can't really be stolen or misrepresented.

So that's why I'm, as I said in my more dismissive answer, "not that worried about it". Does that make sense, whoever asked several months ago...?

(not tagging witch noir taglist atm because I'm on mobile and that's an absolute hassle. will do later. if I remember. I will tag @athena-anna-rose right now tho, since I remember you briefly struggling a while ago with making a magic system. idk if you still need that or if this kind of structure is at all relevant to what you're going for, but just in case lol.)

[bites-kms]

Torino, mi piace moltisimo!

Torino was a beautiful surprise.

I wasn't expecting much but pleasure out of this trip. I thought that I was just going to spend money to wonder around different streets. Boy, I was wrong! This Italian trip surprised me almost as much as Hong Kong and Myanmar did 5 years ago. Torino in particular.

Torino is the capital of Piemonte, the first Italian capital, part of the Industrial triangle with Genova and Milano, and the third most economically powerful city in Italy after Milano and Roma.

The city has rich culture and history, being known for its numerous art galleries, restaurants, churches, palaces, opera houses, piazzas, parks, gardens, theaters, libraries, museums and other venues.

Torino has been the birth city of amazing Italian worldwide icons such as Fiat, Martini, Lavazza, Eiffel 65 and Juventus FC, just to name a few.

And most importantly, Torino was the city that welcomed me with open arms after more than 15 years without stepping feet on Italian soil, or in other words, 15 years without going back home.

Ana and Mau were there to greet me. An Argentinean soon-to-be Italian and an Italian almost transformed into an Asian were my soul sisters that were the sole witness of my rebirth in this wonderful city.

The city was painted with autumn colors, and as the saying goes: C'è chi vede le foglio che muoiono, Io preferisco osservare i colori che nascono.

I took the train from Malpensa airport to Milano Centrale and then, another train to Torino. It is about one hour and a half to make it to Porta Nova where Manu, Ana's brother, was waiting. We walked down via Roma, checked out all the fancy stores that we were not gonna visit, until we arrived to Piazza Castello, where a massive square opened up in front of us.

The Royal Palace and the Palazzo Madama (the one destined for the Regina or Queen) are the buildings framing Piazza Castello. We turned left via a small street on the side of the Palace, by Galleria Sabauda to end up by Torino's Duomo, famous for hosting the Sacred Towel in which Christ was covered after being in the Cross, by Porta Pallatina, a beautiful open-space that hosts Roman ruins. We arrived to Piazza della Republica, where the largest open air market in Europe is being held every day, by the corner where the covered Mercado Centrale di Torino is, a foodie destination for tourists and locals alike. (Hope that with this short and bello raconto, I can make Manu proud - for upcoming personalized Torino tours, reach out to him here)

Right over there, by Corso Regina Margarita in full splendor is where Ana and Manu live. A beautiful, fully renovated townhouse with a divine inner patio. After a well deserved hug, we went to treat ourselves with dinner at a local venue. We went to the most local of them all, Da Cianci Piola Caffé.

A few steps from Piazza Castello - and from Ana's enviable location, this place has an unbeatable reputation for excellent food and good value. The short menu lists only a few dishes that change often and are always seasonal and delicious. Excellent carne cruda (a local version of steak tartare) and tomini (soft cheese often stored in oil, almost tasting like polenta) are served as appetizers. Order an antipasto misto if you want to taste different appetizers at once. And then we had some salsiccia gnocchi, going home with a bang with a delicious tiramisu.

Bienvenuta a Torino, carina!

The following morning, I decided to check out the famously Cafe Il Bicerin, a traditional torinese delicacy invented in this same coffee shop more than 200 years ago that combines coffee, chocolate and cream. According to their hostests, the best way to drink it is as it comes, without mixing it so you can experience the melt of the ingredients directly within your mouth. The bicerin was an evolution of the eighteenth-century bavareisa, a fashionable drink at the time that was served in large glasses and was made of coffee, chocolate, milk and syrup. At the beginning, the ritual of the bicerin saw the three ingredients served separately, but as early as the nineteenth century they were poured into a single glass and were available in three variations: “pur e fiur” (similar to today’s cappuccino), “pur e barba” (coffee and chocolate) and “’n poc ‘d tut” (“a little bit of everything”), with all three ingredients.

After wonderfully kicking off the day with this delicious treat, I decided to visit Torino's Duomo, where a mass was being held. I stayed and prayed. It's been a while since I haven't done it in a Church due to COVID. For the past month I prayed often, but this time was different. I was being thankful and acknowledging all the blessing that were deploying in front of me, thankful for being in Italy. Many frustrations and challenges are actually blessings in disguise. And this is exactly what was-is happening right now. The Shroud of Turin, or Sindone in Italian, is believed to be the fabric in which Jesus was wrapped after crucifixion for his burial and is stored in here.

After my introspective time, I checked out both Palaces, the Royal one and the Madama one, without the rush nor the cold from the previous night and discovered a bit the Gardine Royal, located right behind them. Beautiful and colorful leaves mattress decorate the environment and sets you up in a cozy mood, making you fall in love with fall.

I crossed the street back to the city and some music started to play. It came from the Teatro Regio Torino, famously known by being the theater where Toscanini performed for the first time Puccini's La Boheme, located by the corner of Via Po. This street is a very iconic one for its bookstores and of course, I needed to get one book for the road. I got one in Italian so I could practice and polish my lingua a bit more, and decided to go with a second-hand one, from Austrian author Robert Schneider's Le voci del mondo.

I met my friend Maurizia for lunch at the Lux or Federico Vavassori Galleria, and had some delicious pasta and appetizers, with Prosecco to plan our upcoming roadtrip adventure. We later walked to the banks of the Po river, the longest river in Italy, passing by Piazza Vittorio Veneto, the biggest arcade piazza in Europe, and checked out the Cappucinni Hill. We recovered some strength Cafe Baratti & Milano, located at the historical Galleria Subalpina. She later drove me to the Museo Nazionale dell'automobile di Torino, with more than 200 cars, representing the history of this industry in Italy, Europe and around the world. It is usually overseen by the Cinema Museum, but if you have time, it is worth it: Bites & KMs highly recommends it.

I took bus number 8 and picked up Ana by her coffee shop at Parco del Valentino, the biggest park in Turin, and walked home by the Grande Madre di Dio Church where we had a delicious hot chocolate and an orgasmic hot zabaione at Chicchisani.

On our way home, we got a beautiful spot at Poormanger by Piazza Pallazo di Citta, Ana's want-to-go place after checking it out at Netflix's Guida Astrologica per Cuori Infranti. This place specializes in filled potatoes and its delicious.

According to their website, they wanted to bring jacket potatoes to Italy. They decided to reinvent a basic product, widely used all over the world, and combine it with the best Italian ingredients.

We had some eggplant parmiggiana, ordered a bottle of wine, some sparkling water and indulged in two types of potatoes: mascarpone, prosciutto with black olives, and blue cheese, mushrooms and sausage.

The following morning, Ana took me to her favorite coffee shop Costadoro Coffee Lab while we watched how the city started to put up the Christmas lights. It is very pretty, since once a year, the city of Torino hosts Luci d'artista when the city dresses up with lights installations making it even prettier than usual. Manu joined us to take us on a Torino Magico tour, where we discovered some important and energetic points around town.

Torino is known for its strategical location, not only historically nor geographically, between Italy, France and Switzerland, but for being the only city in the world that is part of both the white and the black triangle of Magic. The White Magic Triangle is formed between Prague, Torino and Lyon; whereas the Black Magic one is between San Francisco, London and Torino. Torino is located on the 45th parallel and is the vortex that connects both magical triangles. According to esotericism, the darkest place in Torino regarding black magic is Piazza Statuto, where people claim is where the doors of Hell are located. Not only this piazza was the place where thieves and law breakers were executed, but there is also the Traforo del Frejus monument, dedicated to all those who died while creating the Torino-France tunnel. Not only this monument was done with extra pieces of the so-called construction, but also has a statue of the fallen angel, or Lucifer, on top of it, being one of the few around the world dedicated to such character, hence, the perfect door ornament to welcome you to hell.

It is said that the chains and medusas faces surrounding the Royal Palace are sacred, leaving the black magic away from the building and its surroundings, and the most scared places of them all is Triton's Fountain, located at the Royal Gardens of the Piazza del Castello, close by the Duomo. This is, in opposition to Piazza Statuto, Heaven's doors. Another interesting spot is Grande Madre di Dio Church, where yesterday we had a coffee, since it is said that underneath it, there's the holy grail.

Of course, this un-official yet amazing tour was not over until we got a beautiful view of the city from Mount Cappucinni, where, according to the legend, this is another kind of energetic spot, where people where thrown down and killed. I mean... the city view over there is to die for!

After an exhausting morning, we had some pizza slides to go and rest for a bit. The cherry on top was coming: Museo del Cinema. What a beautiful and stimulating place. Even if you aren't into European Cinema nor Italian movies, this is must while being in Torino. The experience, done inside the most iconic building in the city, la Molle Antonelliana, is a treat for the eyes. Beautiful and immersive expositions, interactivity even in COVID times, history and contemporary pieces are up in the most subtle and delightful way.

We had our mandatory Aperol Spritz by Piazza Vitorrio Venetto and walked back home, checking out the city lights one last time. Ana later cooked some delicious pasta with some improvised ingredients: pancetta, garlic and pesto. The guys where also at home, so a home and family cooked meal, together with Ana, Manu, Juan, Alan, Lujan and Chayron.

Grazie Torino! Grazie Amiga! Mi Mancherai <3

[tinyshe]

Story at-a-glance

Big Pharma and mainstream media are largely owned by two asset management firms: BlackRock and Vanguard

Drug companies are driving COVID-19 responses — all of which, so far, have endangered rather than optimized public health — and mainstream media have been willing accomplices in spreading their propaganda, a false official narrative that leads the public astray and fosters fear based on lies

Vanguard and BlackRock are the top two owners of Time Warner, Comcast, Disney and News Corp, four of the six media companies that control more than 90% of the U.S. media landscape

BlackRock and Vanguard form a secret monopoly that own just about everything else you can think of too. In all, they have ownership in 1,600 American firms, which in 2015 had combined revenues of $9.1 trillion. When you add in the third-largest global owner, State Street, their combined ownership encompasses nearly 90% of all S&P 500 firms

Vanguard is the largest shareholder of BlackRock. Vanguard itself, on the other hand, has a unique structure that makes its ownership more difficult to discern, but many of the oldest, richest families in the world can be linked to Vanguard funds

What does The New York Times and a majority of other legacy media have in common with Big Pharma? Answer: They’re largely owned by BlackRock and the Vanguard Group, the two largest asset management firms in the world. Moreover, it turns out these two companies form a secret monopoly that own just about everything else you can think of too. As reported in the featured video:1,2

“The stock of the world’s largest corporations are owned by the same institutional investors. They all own each other. This means that ‘competing’ brands, like Coke and Pepsi aren’t really competitors, at all, since their stock is owned by exactly the same investment companies, investment funds, insurance companies, banks and in some cases, governments.

The smaller investors are owned by larger investors. Those are owned by even bigger investors. The visible top of this pyramid shows only two companies whose names we have often seen …They are Vanguard and BlackRock.

The power of these two companies is beyond your imagination. Not only do they own a large part of the stocks of nearly all big companies but also the stocks of the investors in those companies. This gives them a complete monopoly.

A Bloomberg report states that both these companies in the year 2028, together will have investments in the amount of 20 trillion dollars. That means that they will own almost everything.’”

Who Are the Vanguard?

The word “vanguard” means “the foremost position in an army or fleet advancing into battle,” and/or “the leading position in a trend or movement.” Both are fitting descriptions of this global behemoth, owned by globalists pushing for a Great Reset, the core of which is the transfer of wealth and ownership from the hands of the many into the hands of the very few.

Interestingly, Vanguard is the largest shareholder of BlackRock, as of March 2021.3,4 Vanguard itself, on the other hand, has a “unique” corporate structure that makes its ownership more difficult to discern. It’s owned by its various funds, which in turn are owned by the shareholders. Aside from these shareholders, it has no outside investors and is not publicly traded.5 As reported in the featured video:6,7

“The elite who own Vanguard apparently do not like being in the spotlight but of course they cannot hide from who is willing to dig. Reports from Oxfam and Bloomberg say that 1% of the world, together owns more money than the other 99%. Even worse, Oxfam says that 82% of all earned money in 2017 went to this 1%.

In other words, these two investment companies, Vanguard and BlackRock hold a monopoly in all industries in the world and they, in turn are owned by the richest families in the world, some of whom are royalty and who have been very rich since before the Industrial Revolution.”

While it would take time to sift through all of Vanguard’s funds to identify individual shareholders, and therefore owners of Vanguard, a quick look-see suggests Rothschild Investment Corp.8 and the Edmond De Rothschild Holding are two such stakeholders.9 Keep the name Rothschild in your mind as you read on, as it will feature again later.

The video above also identifies the Italian Orsini family, the American Bush family, the British Royal family, the du Pont family, the Morgans, Vanderbilts and Rockefellers, as Vanguard owners.

BlackRock/Vanguard Own Big Pharma

According to Simply Wall Street, in February 2020, BlackRock and Vanguard were the two largest shareholders of GlaxoSmithKline, at 7% and 3.5% of shares respectively.10 At Pfizer, the ownership is reversed, with Vanguard being the top investor and BlackRock the second-largest stockholder.11

Keep in mind that stock ownership ratios can change at any time, since companies buy and sell on a regular basis, so don’t get hung up on percentages. The bottom line is that BlackRock and Vanguard, individually and combined, own enough shares at any given time that we can say they easily control both Big Pharma and the centralized legacy media — and then some.

Why does this matter? It matters because drug companies are driving COVID-19 responses — all of which, so far, have endangered rather than optimized public health — and mainstream media have been willing accomplices in spreading their propaganda, a false official narrative that has, and still is, leading the public astray and fosters fear based on lies.

To have any chance of righting this situation, we must understand who the central players are, where the harmful dictates are coming from, and why these false narratives are being created in the first place.

As noted in Global Justice Now’s December 2020 report12 “The Horrible History of Big Pharma,” we simply cannot allow drug companies — “which have a long track record of prioritizing corporate profit over people’s health” — to continue to dictate COVID-19 responses.

In it, they review the shameful history of the top seven drug companies in the world that are now developing and manufacturing drugs and gene-based “vaccines” against COVID-19, while mainstream media have helped suppress information about readily available older drugs that have been shown to have a high degree of efficacy against the infection.

BlackRock/Vanguard Own the Media

When it comes to The New York Times, as of May 2021, BlackRock is the second-largest stockholder at 7.43% of total shares, just after The Vanguard Group, which owns the largest portion (8.11%).13,14

In addition to The New York Times, Vanguard and BlackRock are also the top two owners of Time Warner, Comcast, Disney and News Corp, four of the six media companies that control more than 90% of the U.S. media landscape.15,16

Needless to say, if you have control of this many news outlets, you can control entire nations by way of carefully orchestrated and organized centralized propaganda disguised as journalism.

If your head is spinning already, you’re not alone. It’s difficult to describe circular and tightly interwoven relationships in a linear fashion. The world of corporate ownership is labyrinthine, where everyone seems to own everyone, to some degree.

However, the key take-home message is that two companies stand out head and neck above all others, and that’s BlackRock and Vanguard. Together, they form a hidden monopoly on global asset holdings, and through their influence over our centralized media, they have the power to manipulate and control a great deal of the world’s economy and events, and how the world views it all.

Considering BlackRock in 2018 announced that it has “social expectations” from the companies it invests in,17 its potential role as a central hub in the Great Reset and the “build back better” plan cannot be overlooked.

Add to this information showing it “undermines competition through owning shares in competing companies” and “blurs boundaries between private capital and government affairs by working closely with regulators,” and one would be hard-pressed to not see how BlackRock/Vanguard and their globalist owners might be able to facilitate the Great Reset and the so-called “green” revolution, both of which are part of the same wealth-theft scheme.

That assertion will become even clearer once you realize that this duo’s influence is not limited to Big Pharma and the media. Importantly, BlackRock also works closely with central banks around the world, including the U.S. Federal Reserve, which is a private entity, not a federal one.18,19 It lends money to the central bank, acts as an adviser to it, and develops the central bank’s software.20 

  “In all, BlackRock and Vanguard have ownership in some 1,600 American firms, which in 2015 had combined revenues of $9.1 trillion. When you add in the third-largest global owner, State Street, their combined ownership encompasses nearly 90% of all S&P 500 firms. “

BlackRock/Vanguard also own shares of long list of other companies, including Microsoft, Apple, Amazon, Facebook and Alphabet Inc.21 As illustrated in the graphic of BlackRock and Vanguard’s ownership network below,22 featured in the 2017 article “These Three Firms Own Corporate America” in The Conversation, it would be near-impossible to list them all.

In all, BlackRock and Vanguard have ownership in some 1,600 American firms, which in 2015 had combined revenues of $9.1 trillion. When you add in the third-largest global owner, State Street, their combined ownership encompasses nearly 90% of all S&P 500 firms.23

A Global Monopoly Few Know Anything About

To tease out the overarching influence of BlackRock and Vanguard in the global marketplace, be sure to watch the 45-minute-long video featured at the top of this article. It provides a wide-view summary of the hidden monopoly network of Vanguard- and BlackRock-owned corporations, and their role in the Great Reset. A second much shorter video (above) offers an additional review of this information.

How can we tie BlackRock/Vanguard — and the globalist families that own them — to the Great Reset? Barring a public confession, we have to look at the relationships between these behemoth globalist-owned corporations and consider the influence they can wield through those relationships. As noted by Lew Rockwell:24

“When Lynn Forester de Rothschild wants the United States to be a one-party country (like China) and doesn’t want voter ID laws passed in the U.S., so that more election fraud can be perpetrated to achieve that end, what does she do?

She holds a conference call with the world’s top 100 CEOs and tells them to publicly decry as ‘Jim Crow’ Georgia’s passing of an anti-corruption law and she orders her dutiful CEOs to boycott the State of Georgia, like we saw with Coca-Cola and Major League Baseball and even Hollywood star, Will Smith.

In this conference call, we see shades of the Great Reset, Agenda 2030, the New World Order. The UN wants to make sure, as does [World Economic Forum founder and executive chairman Klaus] Schwab that in 2030, poverty, hunger, pollution and disease no longer plague the Earth.

To achieve this, the UN wants taxes from Western countries to be split by the mega corporations of the elite to create a brand-new society. For this project, the UN says we need a world government — namely the UN, itself.”

As I’ve reviewed in many previous articles, it seems quite clear that the COVID-19 pandemic was orchestrated to bring about this New World Order — the Great Reset — and the 45-minute video featured at top of article does a good job of explaining how this was done. And at the heart of it all, the “heart” toward which all global wealth streams flow, we find BlackRock and Vanguard.

- Sources and References

[longitudinalwaveme]

Smoke and Mirrors

Dramatis Personae

Wally West, the energetic, enthusiastic, and confident third Flash

Iris Allen, the wife of Barry Allen and a daredevil reporter

Mirror Master, alias Sam Scudder, a talented inventor and the de facto second-in-command of the Rogues

The Top, alias Roscoe Dillon, an arrogant elitist who is suffering from a mysterious disease

Weather Wizard, alias Mark Mardon, a rather dimwitted thief with an obscenely powerful weapon, the weather wand

The Trickster, alias James Jesse, a charming con man with no fashion sense

Script

Act I

(Enter Wally West and Iris Allen, who has just arrived to the Flash Airport of Central City)

Wally: Hi, Aunt Iris! How have you been? It’s so nice to have you back!

Iris: Hi, Wally. It’s good to be back. How’s your Uncle Barry been?

Wally: He’s been great. Really slow since he lost his super speed, of course, but otherwise, he’s fine. He even took down the Trickster all by himself!

Iris: I heard. It made a great story. (Pause) How have he and Bart been doing since I went on my trip?

Wally: Bart’s still really impulsive, and he scared Uncle Barry half to death when he ran to New York City and watched an off-off-Broadway show without telling anyone, but overall he’s been doing great. Uncle Barry enrolled him in sixth grade and he’s become friends with this girl named Carol and this boy named Preston, and he’s finally kind of adjusting to life outside the speed force. He’s still not crazy about Irey and Jai, though-he thinks they’re annoying tagalongs. Oh, and he discovered anchovy pizza for the first time, and, for some reason, he loves it! He’s eaten 45 slices in the past two days, and Uncle Barry says that he thinks he’ll single-handedly keep the neighborhood pizza place in business. (Pause) How was your trip?

Iris: I loved it! There’s nothing quite like the thrill of investigating the government of Kandaq.

Wally: But isn’t Kandaq led by Black Adam?

Iris: Yes. That’s why it was so much fun to investigate what he’s been up to! Before I did some snooping around, no one knew what he was doing because everyone was too scared to check, so I was able to write the biggest exposé of my career and take down a supervillain at the same time. It was awesome! I even got to interview Captain Marvel after he rescued me from Black Adam.

Wally: No wonder you won a Pulitzer. (Pause) So, besides risking your life, did you do anything else in Kandaq? I’ve heard it has delicious food.

Iris: (Laughs) Of course you would focus on the food.

Wally: Well, is it as good as Dick told me?

Iris: Actually, yes. The spices in particular are delicious-and unique to the country, too!

Wally: I’ll be right back. (Wally exits, then rapidly re-enters) That was delicious!

Iris: That’s my Wally. (Pause) And to finish answering your question, besides eating and investigating, I did a lot of sightseeing and even more souvenir-buying.

Wally: Sounds fun!

Iris: It was. (Pause) And in speaking of souvenirs….. (Pulls t-shirt out of bag) This is for you.

Wally: (takes shirt, reads) “I stood in the presence of the all-powerful Black Adam and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.” (Laughs) Thanks, Aunt Iris! I love it!

Iris: I thought you might. I also got a doll of Isis for Irey, a book on Kandaq’s history for Jai, a longer book on the same subject for your Uncle Barry, a necklace for Linda, a fan for Joan, a scrapbook for Jay, and Captain Marvel’s signature and promise to visit our house for Bart.

Wally: Sweet! (Pause) Do you have all your bags?

Iris: Yes, I do.

Wally: Then let’s get you home! (Pause, then in “official” voice) The West Delivery Service will get you there in three seconds, or your money back!

Iris: (Laughs) Definitely my Wally.

(Both Exit)

Act II

(Top is onstage, sitting at table and talking on the phone)

Top: (on the phone) Greetings, my darling. How are you? (Pause) Excellent. I’m glad to hear it. How fares the mission? (Pause) What sort of complications? You know as well as I do that I haven’t much time. If you do not find a cure soon, my powers will quite literally be the death of me. We do not have time for failure! (Pause) I’m sorry, honeybunch. I did not mean to snap at you. I am simply anxious. Even I cannot come out on top in a battle with the grave. (Pause) Of course I trust you, sweetums. Remember though, my darling, if my calculations are correct, I only have a month left. We must get the cure! (Pause) Well that, at least, is good news. If Allen likes you, it will not be long before he is willing to trust you enough to help you find the cure. (Pause) I love you, dearest. Farewell. (Puts phone away and puts on earmuffs) And now to enjoy my meal in peace.

(Enter Trickster, Mirror Master, and Weather Wizard)

Weather Wizard: So, how’d you guys find me?

Trickster: It’s simple, Wiz! We followed the reports of snowstorms in July.

Mirror Master: You aren’t exactly subtle, Mardon.

Weather Wizard: Fair enough. I guess being able to control the weather doesn’t leave much room for subtlety. (Pause) So, what do you two want?

Mirror Master: Your help. If there’s anyone who can keep the Flash away from our heists, it’s you. You’re more powerful than all of us-even me.

Weather Wizard: I know.

Trickster: And you’re modest, too.

Weather Wizard: Hey, if you could control the weather with a flick of the wrist, you’d be a little arrogant, too.

Trickster: Fair enough. (Pause) Say, last I heard, your wand was busted. How’d you get it working again?

Weather Wizard: (Defensively) None of your business. I just did, okay?

Trickster: (Suspiciously) Oh, really? Then let me see the wand.

Weather Wizard: No! You can’t touch it!

Trickster: Why not?

Weather Wizard: Because it’s mine, and you aren’t gonna touch it!

Trickster: (Grabs wand) Too late! I already have it!

Weather Wizard: Give it back! (Tries to grab wand, but fails and falls on his face)

Trickster: All right, Mr. Weather Wand. Make it rain! Bippity boppity boo! (Waves wand, nothing happens) That’s funny. I thought you said you fixed the wand, Wiz.

Weather Wizard: (Gets to his feet and grabs the wand back) Okay, so I exaggerated about being able to fix it. I’ve used the weather wand long enough that I was able to do a patch job and get it to make some snow, but it’s pretty much useless for any other form of weather. I can’t even make it whip up a decent blizzard!

Mirror Master: All you can make is snow? (Trickster notices the Top)

Weather Wizard: (Weakly) Yeah.

Mirror Master: Well, that’s just great. Here I was thinking that we had tornadoes, lighting, and hail on our side, and all we have is a glorified snow machine! (Pause) And when were you planning on mentioning the fact that you can’t make anything but snow, anyway? When the Flash showed up to take us to jail?

Weather Wizard: Well, to be honest, I hadn’t really thought out that far. I was trying to save face, not come up with a battle plan.

Mirror Master: (Despondently) There goes my Ferrari.

Trickster: Don’t give up on the Ferrari just yet, Sam! I have a way to salvage our heist!

Mirror Master: James, I already told you. I am not going to use a “whoopie cushion of doom” to stop the Flash. Unlike you, I have some dignity.

Trickster: First, the Whoopie Cushion of Doom is high comedy, and you should be honored that I offered to let you use it. Second, that’s not it.

Mirror Master: Then what is it?

Trickster: It’s the Top! He’s sitting right over there! (Points to Top)

Mirror Master: (Surprised) So he is.

Weather Wizard: What’s he doing here? I thought he and Golden Glider were in Hawaii on the fifth anniversary of their first date or something.

Mirror Master: Who knows with those two. Maybe they came home early.

Trickster: Came home early ? They never went ! They’ve been in Central City this whole time!

Weather Wizard: They have? But then why did they tell everyone that they were on vacation?

Mirror Master: Probably so they could spend time together without Captain Cold breathing down their necks. Given how overprotective he is, if I was dating Lisa, I would probably pretend to be out of the city, too. It’s hard to have romantic moments when you know that her big brother’s watching and will maim you if you look at her funny.

Trickster: Nah, that’s not it. If Roscoe was afraid of Captain Cold, he wouldn’t challenge his authority all the time. I think they’re planning something, something they want to keep secret from the rest of us, and I want to find out what it is. (Taps Top on shoulder) Hiya, Top!

Top: (Takes off earmuffs; Aside) Why me? (To Trickster) What do you want?

Trickster: Well, Mirror Master wants a Ferrari, and I want some excitement, so we need your help to rob the jewelry store on Fifth and Main.

Top: I am afraid that you will be disappointed. I am quite busy, and am being pressed to the top of my bent. I have no time for frivolities, Giovanni.

Weather Wizard: Giovanni? Who’s Giovanni?

Trickster: Me.

Mirror Master: You gave the Top an alias when he asked for your real name?

Trickster: (“Offended”) No! I’d never do anything like that! (Pause) I didn’t give him an alias when he asked for my real name. I gave you two an alias!

Weather Wizard: Your real name’s Giovanni?  

Trickster: Yep! Giovanni Giuseppi. My family is Italian.

Mirror Master: Then why do you always go by James Jesse?

Trickster: Because Jesse was our family’s stage name from the circus. Since we used an alias in our performances, I got used to being called James, so I eventually decided to just start using it as my regular name. Besides, it’s easier to say than Giovanni Giuseppi.

Mirror Master: Well, whoever you are, clearly, your plan failed. Dillon doesn’t want to get involved in our plan, and so it’ll be a bust.

Trickster: (Aside) Oh, ye of little faith. (To Mirror Master) I’ll be able to get him to come around. Trust me.

Mirror Master: Forgive me if I’m less than convinced. (Trickster walks over to Top)

Trickster: (To Top) What if I told you that there would be something in it for you?

Top: I would still refuse. As I already told you, I am quite preoccupied. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going home.

Trickster: (Stopping Top) Top, old buddy, just hear me out. If you don’t like it, I promise you can leave, but you’ve gotta at least learn what it is.

Top: We are not “old buddies”, but, since you seem determined to annoy me until I listen to what you have to say, I suppose I will give in to the inevitable and allow you to speak. But be quick about it. I am giving you five minutes- tops .

Trickster: You know what? Never mind. It was silly of me to think you would be motivated by something as small as an engagement ring. (Moves out of Top’s way; To Mirror Master and Weather Wizard) Come on, guys, let’s go. I’m sure I’ll be able to come up with something else.

Top: What was that about an engagement ring?

Trickster: Oh, you wouldn’t be interested in it, I’m sure.

Top: You are mistaken. Do tell me what you think I will get out of this heist.

Trickster: Are you sure? If you really are busy, I don’t want to bother you.

Top: No, no. I am fine. Please, tell me what you mean.

Trickster: Well, if you insist…..A few months ago, Lisa told me that she saw the perfect engagement ring at the jewelry store that we’re planning to rob, and that she would be thrilled if you proposed to her with it. But like I said, if you don’t want to help us….

Top: (Quickly) If it will please Lisa, I would very much like to help ensure that you come out on top .

Trickster: Great! Glad to have you aboard, pal!

Mirror Master: (Draws Trickster aside) How could you have talked to Glider “a few months ago”? You spent the last six months on a cross-country swindling trip and didn’t get back until three weeks ago!

Trickster: (Aside to Mirror Master) That’s right…..but he doesn’t know that.

Mirror Master: (Aside to Trickster) Clever.

Trickster: (Aside to Mirror Master) I know, right?  (Aloud) So, what’s the plan?

Act III

(Enter Wally and Iris)

Wally: Is there anything else you need me to do, Aunt Iris?

Iris: Wally, you’ve already gotten me home from the airport, unpacked all my bags, put everything away, pulled everything out when you put everything away wrong, put everything away in the right places, delivered my letter to your Grandpa Ira in Florida, fixed my car, and repainted the garage. You’ve done enough.

Wally: Aww, it was nothing, Aunt Iris.

Iris: It wasn’t nothing. That was a lot of work, and I really appreciate it. (Pause) By the way, you haven’t eaten much since you brought me home. You should probably get some food.

Wally: Good idea, Aunt Iris! (Wally exits, then quickly re-enters) I love Japanese food!

Iris: Did you really run all the way to Japan just to get food? Wally: Why not? I can get there and back in three seconds!

Iris: (laughs) Oh, Wally. You’ve gotta stop doing that before it rubs off on Bart.

Wally: I think it might be too late for that. He’s already running to New York City to watch off-off-Broadway, after all.

Iris: I know, but now that Barry doesn’t have his super speed, we need to dissuade him from doing that again. We can’t be calling you all the time because we can’t bring him back when he disappears to another continent. Without at least one parent with super speed, he needs to stay close to home so that we can help him if he gets into trouble.

Wally: I don’t mind bringing him home.

Iris: Yes, but I’m pretty sure your boss will mind if you have to keep leaving work to bring Bart home from Namibia or Laos or Bithynia.

Wally: But he knows I’m the Flash! I have to leave work all the time!

Iris: True, but there’s a difference between leaving work to stop crime or save people and leaving work to track down your cousin who went on a joyride.

Wally: Yeah, you probably have a point there.

Iris: As soon as he and Barry get home from their trip to the park, I’ll have Barry sit him down and have a little chat with him about running off to other states or foreign countries-assuming that he can focus long enough to get the message, that is.

Wally: Hey, do you mind if I stick around until they get back? I wanted to talk to Uncle Barry about the Rogues’ latest escape from jail.

Iris: Of course you can stay here! (Pause) And why didn’t you tell me that the Rogues escaped? That always makes for a good news story!

Wally: I don’t really know a lot about how it happened yet, so I guess it just slipped my mind.

Iris: In that case, I’ll have to do some investigating to find out how….after Barry, Bart, and I have our little chat, of course.

Wally: Have I ever told you that you’re awesome, Aunt Iris?

Iris: Not lately.

Wally: Well, you’re awesome. (Phone rings) Sorry! I have to get that! (Pulls out phone) Hello? (Pause) Oh, hi, Mrs. Rowen. Why are you calling? (Pause) Suspension? Why? They’re only kindergartners! (Pause) They did what? (Pause) Well, yes, I’m sure that the school having all its windows broken by dual sonic booms would be problematic, but they don’t know how to control their speed. I know they didn’t do it maliciously. (Pause) $600,000? Wow….That is a lot of money. I’m really sorry. I didn’t even know they were moving at supersonic speeds yet. Did anyone get hurt? (Pause) Two teachers are going to need stitches? Oh, no. I’m really sorry. I’m really, really, really sorry. (Pause) Yes, of course I’ll come meet with you. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I’ll be right there. Bye. (Puts phone away) Looks like I won’t be able to talk to Uncle Barry. My kids shattered all the windows at the elementary school when they accidentally created a sonic boom, and now I have to meet with their principal. I swear, parenting super-powered children is a million times harder than fighting supervillains. At least with supervillains, I don’t have to pay for the damages that they cause. I’ve gotta run. Bye!

(Exit Wally)

Iris: It’s at times like these that I’m glad Bart stayed in the Speed Force until he was old enough to know how to control his speed. (Pause) In speaking of Bart, there he and his dad are now. Hopefully, Bart will cooperate with the limits he sets on his travel, because if not, I’m not sure that Barry and I will be able to enforce them. Even Wally wasn’t as impulsive as Bart is.

Act IV (Enter Top, Trickster, Mirror Master, and Weather Wizard. Trickster is wielding a fearsome rubber chicken and a kazoo)

Mirror Master: Did everyone make it through the Mirror Realm all right?

Top: I feel more than a little nauseous, but otherwise, I am fine, since we managed to arrive at our intended destination.

Mirror Master: What are you implying?

Top: Nothing. It is simply that I would feel far more comfortable if I knew that the realm through which we traveled so shortly ago was controlled by a man who had at least completed his secondary education and who hailed from somewhere other than the part of town colloquially known as “Skid Row”. In all candor, your credentials do not inspire confidence.

Mirror Master: Hey, I might not have your fancy education, but I’m just as smart as you. How else do you think I discovered an entire alternate dimension?

Top: My supposition would be that the goddess Fortuna smiled upon an unworthy candidate with the freakish caprice for which she is known.

Mirror Master: Are you saying I just got lucky?

Top: Indeed.

Mirror Master: You’ve got some nerve, Dillon! I worked for years to learn how the Mirror Realm worked! Just because I’m from Skid Row doesn’t mean I’m stupid!

Top: My experience, and the experiences of my father, would suggest otherwise.

Trickster: Girls, girls, girls . You’re both pretty. Now, let’s start the heist already! I already deactivated the alarms, but they’ll come back on eventually. And besides, I’m bored!

Weather Wizard: Trickster’s right. I already created enough snow to slow down the cops, but that won’t hold them forever, and it won’t hold our friend in the red pajamas at all. We need to hurry.

Mirror Master: Well, if the Top is ready, so am I.

Top: I was not the one delaying us, but I am quite prepared to proceed in our enterprise. (To Trickster, as Weather Wizard and Mirror Master start grabbing jewelry) Where is the engagement ring that my beloved desires?

Trickster: (Looks around at the various rings) Let’s see…..I know it’s around here somewhere ….. (Finds a particularly ostentatious ring and points at it) Oh! There it is!

Top: Are you certain that that is what she desires? It seems a bit gaudy for her tastes.

Trickster: Of course I’m sure! (Aside) And I’m not lying. I’m sure she’ll hate it, and I’m sure that learning that he got outsmarted by a circus brat will take Mr.Phony British Accent down a few pegs. He’s smart, but he’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is.

Top: You have my gratitude, Giovanni. (Takes ring) Is there nothing that you are inclined to take?

Trickster: Not really. I’m here to put on a show, not to take money. (Pulls out bottle of paint) Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to replace the bathroom sinks’ water with paint.

(Exit Trickster; Top analyzes jewelry and slowly begins to select the sophisticated jewelry)

Mirror Master: (To Weather Wizard) I know I said that I was getting a Ferrari, but I’ve been thinking it over, and I think I might get a Lamborghini instead. What do you think?

Weather Wizard: Which one’s faster?

Mirror Master: I’m not sure. Except for a three-day period where I was in possession of W. W. Wiggins’s stolen Ferrari, I’ve never actually owned a car.

Weather Wizard: (Surprised) You’ve never owned a car? How’s that possible? Before I became the Weather Wizard, I was the world’s biggest loser, and even I had a car. I mean, granted, I crashed it into a tree, but I had one!

Mirror Master: (Defensive) I grew up in the inner city. Have you seen the traffic in the interior of Central City? It’s a nightmare! There’s a reason everyone takes the subway to work. The traffic gets so jammed that cars are basically useless.

Weather Wizard: But you still live in the inner city. If there’s no use for one, why do you want it so bad?

Mirror Master: (Angrily) Because I’m tired of being poor! I’ve spent my entire life either in jail or in tiny two-room apartments on Baker Street, and I’m sick of it! I’m sick of always being behind on rent, I’m sick of wearing other people’s cast-offs, and I’m SICK of Roscoe implying that I’m stupid! I want a car because it would be a sign that I finally have enough money to get off of Skid Row! People would have to give me some respect then!  

Weather Wizard: If it makes you feel any better, without the weather wand, nobody gives me any respect, either. The only reason that I’m here right now is to earn back the reputation I lost when it broke. I don’t really need the money.

Mirror Master: You don’t?

Weather Wizard: Nah. I won a $20,000 poker game a few weeks ago.

Mirror Master: But you’re terrible at poker!

Weather Wizard: (Shrugs) I was playing against an 18-year-old who had just inherited his daddy’s company and had never played a game in his life.

Mirror Master: And Dillon says I’M the one who gets lucky!

Weather Wizard: Don’t take it personally, Sam. He’s a jerk to everyone-except Lisa, that is.

Mirror Master: What does she see in him, anyway?

Weather Wizard: That, my friend, is one of the great mysteries of life. He’s not even that attractive!

Top: (Comes over) It is not so mysterious as that. Unlike the rest of you ruffians, I am a man of birth, breeding, and education. Our relationship is a great boon for her social status, especially given the “trailer trash” from whence she comes-to use a colloquialism, of course-and I am certainly better company than any of you could hope to provide. Her selection of me as a paramor proves that she, alone among you “Rogues”, has taste.

Mirror Master: (Sarcastically) Yeah, you’re a real prince, Dillon.

(Alarm goes off)

Weather Wizard: Oh, no! The alarm! We must’ve lost track of time, and now the Flash is gonna show up and make me a laughingstock all over again!

(Enter Trickster)

Trickster: Where’s the Flash? He should be here by now!

Mirror Master: Who cares? Let’s get outta here!

Trickster: Wait! I want to fight the Flash! It’s no fun if I don’t get to fight the Flash!

Mirror Master: Trickster, we got what we came for! Now let’s go!

(All exit quickly, Mirror Master dragging a flailing Trickster)

Act V

(Mirror Master, Weather Wizard, Top, and Trickster are onstage, sitting. Trickster is pouting)

Weather Wizard: We...we actually did it?

Top: Obviously. We are here and not in jail, are we not?

Weather Wizard: I know that, I just can’t believe that we actually did it! We never get away with heists this big!

Mirror Master: You’re right, Mardon. It’s been over four years since we had a heist that the Flash didn’t stop….and we got away with it!

Weather Wizard: So, what do we do now?

Mirror Master: I….I don’t know. It’s been years since we got away with anything, so I haven’t had a plan beyond “get away” in years.

Weather Wizard: I guess you can buy your car now.

Mirror Master: Yeah. I guess so. (Sighs) It’s so weird that we’re not in jail right now.

Weather Wizard: Tell me about it. I haven’t had a run of luck this good in ages!

Top: It is not so peculiar as you are treating it. After all, I accompanied you on this heist, something I have not often done. It is not, therefore, terribly surprising that you were successful-I enabled you to come out on top .

Mirror Master: Dillon, do the world a favor and shut up. I’m not in the mood for your attitude.

Weather Wizard: (To Trickster) Hey, James, why are you so upset? We just got away with a million dollars! You should be on cloud nine!

Trickster: I’m upset because the Flash didn’t show up! He’s what makes crime exciting! Since he wasn’t there and we did it at night, I didn’t have an audience, and it wasn’t any fun! Besides, escaping changes up the game. How are we supposed to start the game over if we don’t get captured and have to escape again?

Weather Wizard: Now that you mention it, I did feel like our heist was lacking in that rush. It’s hard to feel excited when there’s no danger that you might be stopped.

Mirror Master: Yeah. It’s not enjoyable to beat him when he doesn’t even show up. (Pause) But hey, at least we’re rich now, right?

Weather Wizard: (Without confidence) Right. And I’m sure we’ll be able to come up with something to do. It’ll be great!

Trickster: (Petulantly) No, it won’t. The game’s been ruined!

Mirror Master: How has it been ruined? You don’t need the Flash to trick people.

Trickster: No, I don’t, but it’s not the same. I came back to Central City to play the game, and now the game has been ruined because the Flashes won’t play!

Weather Wizard: (Too cheerfully) Hey, why don’t we go get some ice cream? That’ll make us all feel better.

Mirror Master: Sure, why not?

Trickster: I guess so. But only if I can get gummy bears and rainbow sprinkles.

Top: I will pass on that offer. I have fulfilled my part of the agreement and must get back to work.

Weather Wizard: Okay. More for us, I guess.

Mirror Master: (Mutters) Good riddance.

Trickster: I had better get two dips, too.

(Exit Trickster, Mirror Master, and Weather Wizard)

Top: Ahh. Peace and quiet at last. (Pulls out cell phone) Hello, Lisa, darling. This is Roscoe. How fares the mission? (Pause) Allen is willing to help you get the cure? Good. Good. Very good. You, my sweet, are a veritable Sarah Siddons. (Pause) Oh, my apologies. I thought that was common knowledge. Sarah Siddons was a famous Shakespearean actress who was renowned for her life-like portrayal of Lady Macbeth in the 19th century, and you are quite as talented an actress. (Pause) Oh! I almost forgot. I have pleasant news as well, honeybunch. I appropriated the engagement ring that you so desired! (Pause) Wait, you never picked out a ring for that purpose? My profuse apologies, sweetums. It seems that I was misinformed. (Pause) Don’t worry, my dearest darling. The pain has been quite manageable, and given what you have just told me, I have no fear for my life. (Pause) Thank you, darling. Your snuggle-bunny loves you, too. Good-bye. (Puts phone away) TRICK-STER!

(Scene change. Enter Wally, in jewelry store)

Wally: Aw, come on! I’m getting sued by the school district AND I let the Rogues get away? Man, this just isn’t my day! (Pause) Oh, well. If there’s one thing that Uncle Barry’s taught me, it’s that a true hero never gives up. I’m sure to find them eventually-especially since they aren’t exactly subtle. (Pause) And if there’s one good thing about all this, it’s that things can’t possibly get worse! I’ll go get a quick snack, and then I’ll find Aunt Iris and Uncle Barry so that we can take down those Rogues- in a Flash!

[aloeforthesoul]

"I never work with men actually, I find female curators and gallerists to be more serious."

— Shirin Abedinirad 

Inspired by the beauty of nature and the power of history, Shirin Abedinirad is best known for her stunning mirror installations, built on sites that range from the Italian city of Treviso to the Central Desert in Iran.

Her works incorporate and blend elements of the natural world with architectural structures and relics from ancient Eastern history — connecting her audiences to the earth as the source of life, as well as to our shared human story. Using strategically placed mirrors, she opens a window through which audiences can connect to their surroundings.

Born in Tabriz in northwest Iran, Shirin’s mother and father encouraged her to paint from a very young age, taking her to art events and entering her work into international competitions. This led her to pursue graphic design at university, but when she felt this wasn’t giving her the creative freedom she needed, Shirin turned her focus to fashion and later to performance pieces, video art and installations.

Shirin also enjoyed a brief career as a model, working for the United Colors of Benetton in Italy, where she visited Fabrica, the company’s research centre. “I went there as a model I decided to come back as an artist,” she says.

In her earlier works, she often used her own image, particularly in her video work and performance pieces such as Ex Pencils and Sara. Later though she shifted her focus to what she calls “real beauty, the beauty of nature,” influenced by working with the film director Abbas Kiarostami.

This shift in aesthetics was also driven by how she was seen as a young female artist, both in Iran and abroad. She has a horrible memory of a man at a group show in Tehran describing her as “the Marilyn Monroe of the art scene.”

“That really hurt me, it hurt me the way people were looking at me,” she says. “I had the same experience in Italy, I found it hard to work with men because they sometimes have other intentions. I never work with men actually, I find female curators and gallerists to be more serious and more focused on their work.”

She went on to delete all photos of herself from social media in an attempt to escape her image entirely. Later she ran into someone at an event who was amazed that she really was Shirin Abedinirad.

“She thought Shirin Abedinirad was an old woman. This was one of the best moments of my life! I had escaped my image; I was also escaping within my work.”

Confident in herself and comfortable in her own identity, Shirin has a fearless approach to her work, and enjoys avoiding the visual cliches people might expect from a young Middle Eastern woman.

“I don’t use elements which are typically associated with Iran, like the hijab for example,” she says. “If I make art with hijabs and publish them I will become super famous for this. I won’t do it; I won’t use my country in this way.”

Iran’s relatively isolated existence internationally has contributed a great deal to misconception and misunderstanding about the country as well as its people. This manifests in negative stereotyping that can affect the world’s reception to Iranian artists and their work.

The crippling sanctions imposed on the country in an attempt to curb the so-called nuclear threat have also had an disproportionately harsh effect on creatives in Iran. It’s difficult to travel abroad, difficult to secure funding and even difficult to find good-quality paper for books.

“Books are knowledge and people use them to learn, so people are losing touch with reality. The loss of books is one of the worst effects of the sanctions.”

In an admirable attempt to counteract these artistic challenges, Shirin is keen to use her own influence to encourage other young artists in the country, holding workshops and guiding them to the different avenues open to them. In all this she has a fantastic role model — her own father. “I never felt like a man was imposing the idea that I can’t do something because I am a woman. My father believed in me and made me feel I can do anything.”

Words by Sahar Esfandiari.

[xtruss]

Philip, In Role With No Job Description, Was Queen’s Bedrock

— By Jill Lawless And Gregory Katz | AP | Friday April 04, 2021

LONDON (AP) — When Prince Philip married the heir to the British throne, he knew he was stepping into virtually uncharted territory.

There was no official role for the husband of a sovereign queen, no constitutional duty or legal responsibility.

“There was no precedent,” he said when he turned 90. “If I asked somebody, ‘What do you expect me to do?’ They all looked blank. They had no idea.”

His wife Elizabeth knew exactly what she had to do when she became queen in 1952 after the premature death of her father, King George VI. For Philip, though, her ascension to the throne marked the end of his career as a naval officer and a plunge into uncertainty.

But at that crucial moment, he carved out the part he would carry through the decades: the queen’s honest and unwavering bedrock of support through a turbulent reign in which the thousand-year-old monarchy was forced to reinvent itself for the 21st century. It was a role the Duke of Edinburgh played until his death Friday at age 99.

His marriage both defined and constricted his life, placing the irascible, tough-minded Philip three steps behind the queen in public, even if he played a significant role at home, including in raising four children.

His life spanned nearly a century of European history, starting with his birth as a member of the Greek royal family and ending with him as the longest serving consort in British history, surpassing Queen Charlotte, wife of King George III.

He was known for his occasionally deeply offensive remarks — and for gamely fulfilling more than 20,000 royal engagements to boost British interests home and abroad. He headed hundreds of charities, founded programs that helped British schoolchildren participate in challenging outdoor adventures.

Philip saw his sole role as providing support for his wife as she confronted the changing demands placed on a constitutional monarch who began her reign as Britain retreated from empire and steered the monarchy through decades of declining social deference and U.K. power into a modern world where people demand intimacy from their icons.

In the 1970s, Michael Parker, an old navy friend and former private secretary of the prince, said of him: “He told me the first day he offered me my job, that his job — first, second and last — was never to let her down.”

The queen — a very private person not given to extravagant displays of affections — once called him “her rock” in public.

In private, Philip called his wife Lilibet; but he referred to her in conversation with others as “The Queen.”

Over the course of the decades, Philip’s image changed from that of handsome, dashing athlete to arrogant and insensitive curmudgeon. In his later years, the image finally settled into that of droll and philosophical observer of the times, an elderly, craggy-faced man who maintained his military bearing in public despite a host of ailments.

Not content to stay on the sidelines, he promoted British industry and science, espoused environmental preservation long before it became fashionable, and traveled widely and frequently in support of his many charities.

In those frequent public appearances, Philip developed a reputation for being impatient and demanding and was sometimes blunt to the point of rudeness.

Many Britons appreciated what they saw as his propensity to speak his mind, while others criticized behavior they labeled as racist, sexist or out of touch.

In 1995, for example, he asked a Scottish driving instructor, “How do you keep the natives off the booze long enough to pass the test?” Seven years later in Australia, when visiting Aboriginal people with the queen, he asked: “Do you still throw spears at each other?” On one visit to a military barracks, he asked a sea cadet instructor if she worked in a strip club.

Many believe his propensity to speak his mind meant he provided needed, unvarnished advice to the queen.

“The way that he survived in the British monarchy system was to be his own man, and that was a source of support to the queen,” said royal historian Robert Lacey. “All her life she was surrounded by men who said, ‘yes ma’am,’ and he was one man who always told her how it really was, or at least how he saw it.”

Lacey said that during the royal family’s difficult times with Diana, Philip spoke for the family with authority, showing that he did not automatically defer to the queen despite her position as monarch and head of state.

Philip’s relationship with Diana became complicated as her separation from Charles and their eventual divorce played out in a series of public battles that damaged the monarchy’s standing. It was widely assumed that he was critical of Diana’s use of broadcast interviews, including to accuse Charles of infidelity.

But letters between Philip and Diana released after her death showed that the older man was at times supportive of his daughter-in-law.

After Diana’s death in a car crash in Paris in 1997, Philip had to endure allegations by former Harrods owner Mohamed Al Fayed that he had plotted the princess’s death. Al Fayed’s son, Dodi, also died in the crash.

During a lengthy inquest into their deaths, a senior judge acting as coroner instructed the jury that there was no evidence to support the allegations against Philip, who did not publicly respond to Al Fayed’s charges.

Philip’s final years were clouded by controversy and fissures in the royal family.

His third child, Prince Andrew, was embroiled in controversy over his friendship with Jeffrey Epstein, an American financier who died in a New York prison in 2019 while awaiting trial on sex trafficking charges.

U.S. authorities accused Andrew of rebuffing their request to interview him as a witness, and Andrew faced accusations from a woman who said that she had several sexual encounters with the prince at Epstein’s behest. He denied the claim but withdrew from public royal duties amid the scandal.

At the start of 2020, Philip’s grandson Prince Harry and his wife, the American former actress Meghan Markle, announced they were quitting royal duties and moving to North America to escape intense media scrutiny that they found unbearable.

Britain’s Prince Harry talks to Prince Philip as members of the Royal family appear on the balcony of Buckingham Palace, during the Trooping The Colour parade, in central London on June 14, 2014. (AP Photo/Lefteris Pitarakis)

Last month, they gave an explosive interview to Oprah Winfrey, saying that Meghan had suffered neglect and racist attitudes while a working member of the family, though Winfrey later said Harry told her one particularly hurtful remark did not come from either of his grandparents. The palace called the issues raised by the couple “concerning” and said they would be “addressed by the family privately.”

Born June 10, 1921, on the dining room table at his parents’ home on the Greek island of Corfu, Philip was the fifth child and only son of Prince Andrew, younger brother of the king of Greece. His grandfather had come from Denmark during the 1860s to be adopted by Greece as the country’s monarch.

Philip’s mother was Princess Alice of Battenberg, a descendant of German princes. Like his future wife, Elizabeth, Philip was also a great-great-grandchild of Queen Victoria.

When Philip was 18 months old, his parents fled into exile in France. His father, an army commander, had been tried after a devastating military defeat by the Turks. After British intervention, the Greek junta agreed not to sentence Andrew to death if he left the country.

Philip went to school in Britain and entered Dartmouth Naval College as a cadet in 1939. He got his first posting in 1940 but was not allowed near the main war zone because he was a foreign prince of a neutral nation. When the Italian invasion of Greece ended that neutrality, he joined the war, serving on battleships in the Indian Ocean, the Mediterranean and the Pacific.

On leave in Britain, he visited his royal cousins and, by the end of war, it was clear he was courting Princess Elizabeth, eldest child and heir of King George VI. Their engagement was announced July 10, 1947, and they were married Nov. 20.

Then, in 1952, King George VI died of cancer at age 56.

Philip had to give up his naval career and his subservient status was formally sealed at the coronation, when he knelt before his wife and pledged to become “her liege man of life and limb, and of earthly worship.”

The change in Philip’s life was dramatic.

“Within the house, and whatever we did, it was together,” Philip told biographer Basil Boothroyd of the years before Elizabeth became queen. “People used to come to me and ask me what to do. In 1952, the whole thing changed, very, very considerably.”

Said Boothroyd: “He had a choice between just tagging along, the second handshake in the receiving line, or finding other outlets for his bursting energies.”

So Philip took over management of the royal estates and expanded his travels to all corners of the world, building a role for himself.

Since 1956 he had been Patron and Chairman of Trustees for the largest youth activity program in Britain, the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award, a voluntary, non-competitive program of practical, cultural and adventurous activities for young people that exists in over 100 countries worldwide.

He painted, collected modern art, was interested in industrial design and planned a garden at Windsor Castle. But, he once said, “the arts world thinks of me as an uncultured, polo-playing clot.”

In time, the famous blond hair thinned and the long, fine-boned face acquired a few lines. He gave up polo but remained trim and vigorous.

To a friend’s suggestion that he ease up a bit, the prince is said to have replied, “Well, what would I do? Sit around and knit?”

But when he turned 90 in 2011, Philip told the BBC he was “winding down” his workload and he reckoned he had “done my bit.”

The next few years saw occasional hospital stays as Philip’s health flagged. He announced in May 2017 that he planned to step back from royal duties — after roughly 22,000 royal engagements since his wife’s coronation.

Philip is survived by the queen and their four children as well as eight grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren.

— Katz and Associated Press writer Robert Barr contributed to this report before their deaths.

[sleepymarmot]

My reactions to Clive Barker’s The Forbidden. Under the cut I end up quoting like half of it because I have no self-control.

Surprisingly, Trevor’s relationship with Helen is very fleshed out, and he plays a major part in her initial motivation for the investigation. Also, nice setting description!

It was a chilly business. She was not an expert photographer, and the late October sky was in full flight, shifting the light on the bricks from one moment to the next. As she adjusted and readjusted the exposure to compensate for the light changes, her fingers steadily became clumsier, her temper correspondingly thinner. But she struggled on, the idle curiosity of passersby notwithstanding. There were so many designs to document. She reminded herself that her present discomfort would be amply repaid when she showed the slides to Trevor, whose doubt of the project's validity had been perfectly apparent from the beginning.

"The writing on the wall?" he'd said, half smiling in that irritating fashion of his. "It's been done a hundred times." 

The mural is just as impressive as it is in the movie. Honestly, I halfway expected it not to be in the short story at all -- it’s such a cinematic image.

Here, the artists had also been at work, but had produced an image the like of which she had not seen anywhere else. Using the door, which was centrally placed in the wall like a mouth, the artists had sprayed a single, vast head onto the stripped plaster. The painting was more adroit than most she had seen, rife with detail that lent the image an unsettling veracity. The cheekbones jutting through skin the color of buttermilk; the teeth, sharpened to irregular points, all converging on the door. The sitter's eyes were, owing to the room's low ceiling, set mere inches above the upper lip, but this physical adjustment only lent force to the image, giving the impression that he had thrown his head back. Knotted strands of his hair snaked from his scalp across the ceiling. [...]

Was it a portrait? There was something naggingly specific in the details of the brows and the lines around the wide mouth; in the careful picturing of those vicious teeth. A nightmare certainly: a facsimile, perhaps, of something from a heroin fugue. Whatever its origins, it was potent. Even the illusion of door-as-mouth worked. The short passageway between living room and bedroom offered a passable throat, with a tattered lamp in lieu of tonsils. Beyond the gullet, the day burned white in the nightmare's belly. The whole effect brought to mind a ghost train painting. The same heroic deformity, the same unashamed intention to scare. And it worked; she stood in the bedroom almost stupefied by the picture, its red-rimmed eyes fixing her mercilessly. 

After the entire beginning of the story set in the haunted neighbourhood, an absolutely stunning cut to the daily life of the Rich Intellectuals. I laughed out loud at the fancy italian name of whatever food that is, it was so jarring after the vivid descriptions of poverty and misery:

"The man apparently had a hook instead of a hand."

Trevor looked up from his plate of tagliatelle con prosciutto. "Beg your pardon?"

More of the Very Functional and Satisfying Marriage!

Helen had been at pains to keep her recounting of this story as uncolored by her own response as she could. She was interested to know what Trevor would make of it, and she knew that if she once signaled her own stance he would instinctively take an opposing view out of plain bloody-mindedness.

"He had a hook," she repeated, without inflection.

The story keeps bringing up how Helen and her circle are privileged and liberal. On another note, congratulations on being haunted! (I’m pretty sure in the movie this realization is shifted to the scene where she listens to Candyman’s horrific backstory, her expression distant and her face washed in a romantic soft filter.)

Why did it matter? Was it that she wanted to have her worst feelings about Spector Street proved false? That such an estate be filthy, be hopeless, be a dump where the undesirable and the disadvantaged were tucked out of public view—all that was a liberal commonplace, and she accepted it as an unpalatable social reality. But the story of the old man's murder and mutilation was something other. An image of violent death that, once with her, refused to part from her company. 

The book makes a point of saying that Helen feels alienated both by her own hollow world of academia, and the hostile impoverished world of the neighbourhood...

The suggestion that she investigate was not a bad one, though doubtless he had ulterior motives for offering it. She viewed Trevor less charitably day by day. What she had once thought in him a fierce commitment to debate she now recognized as mere power-play. He argued, not for the thrill of dialectic, but because he was pathologically competitive. She had seen him, time and again, take up attitudes she knew he did not espouse, simply to spill blood. Nor, more's the pity, was he alone in this sport. Academe was one of the last strongholds of the professional time-waster. On occasion their circle seemed entirely dominated by educated fools, lost in a wasteland of stale rhetoric and hollow commitment. 

From one wasteland to another. 

...And the only thing that electrifies her is Candyman’s portrait.

She made her way to number 14 and spent the next hour in its befouled confines, meticulously photographing both the bedroom and living-room walls. She had half expected the impact of the head in the bedroom to be dulled by reacquaintance. It was not. Though she struggled to capture its scale and detail as best she could, she knew the photographs would be at best a dim echo of its perpetual howl.

Much of its power lay in its context, of course. That such an image might be stumbled upon in surroundings so drab, so conspicuously lacking in mystery, was akin to finding an icon on a rubbish heap: a gleaming symbol of transcendence from a world of toil and decay into some darker but more tremendous realm. She was painfully aware that the intensity of her response probably defied her articulation. Her vocabulary was analytic, replete with buzz-words and academic terminology, but woefully impoverished when it came to evocation. The photographs, pale as they would be, would, she hoped, at least hint at the potency of this picture, even if they couldn't conjure up the way it froze the bowels.

Reflection on the nature of the monster and why he needs to stay mysterious:

Standing in front of the charmless building, the wind gusting around her legs, she couldn't help but think of what had happened here. Of the man-child, bleeding on the floor, helpless to cry out. It made her queasy even to contemplate it. She turned her thoughts instead to the felon. What would he look like, she wondered, a man capable of such a depravity? She tried to make an image of him, but no detail she could conjure up carried sufficient force. But then monsters were seldom very terrible once hauled into the plain light of day. As long as this man was known only by his deeds he held untold power over the imagination; but the human truth beneath the terrors would, she knew, be bitterly disappointing. No monster he, just a whey-faced apology for a man more needful of pity than awe.

Helen enjoys scandalizing the Polite Company with the horrors she has learned, and I say, good for her!

 The dinner guests looked gratifyingly appalled at the story, and Trevor, to judge by the expression on his face, was furious. It was done now, however; there was no taking it back. Nor could she deny the satisfaction she took in having silenced the interdepartmental babble about the table. It was Bernadette, Trevor's assistant in the history department, who broke the agonizing hush. 

Unlike the movie, by the beginning of the story, Helen and Trevor’s relationship has fallen apart almost completely. He’s cheating openly, and she can’t bring herself to care, especially now that she has discovered something (or someone) more interesting. More haunted.

She didn't go back to Spector Street until the following Monday, but all weekend she was there in thought: standing outside the locked toilet, with the wind bringing rain; or in the bedroom, the portrait looming. Thoughts of the estate claimed all her concern. When, late on Saturday afternoon, Trevor found some petty reason for an argument, she let the insults pass, watching him perform the familiar ritual of self-martyrdom without being touched by it in the least. Her indifference only enraged him further. He stormed out in high dudgeon, to visit whichever of his women was in favor this month. She was glad to see the back of him. When he failed to return that night she didn't even think of weeping about it. He was foolish and vacuous. She despaired of ever seeing a haunted look in his dull eyes; and what worth was a man who could not be haunted?

He did not return Sunday night either, and it crossed her mind the following morning, as she parked the car in the heart of the estate, that nobody even knew she had come, and that she might lose herself for days here and nobody would be any the wiser. Like the old man Anne-Marie had told her about: lying forgotten in his favorite armchair with his eyes hooked out, while the flies feasted and the butter went rancid on the table.

More self-awareness!

Frustrated to the verge of tears, she stood among the overturned rubbish bags and felt a surge of contempt for her foolishness. She didn't belong here, did she? How many times had she criticized others for their presumption in claiming to understand societies they had merely viewed from afar? And here was she, committing the same crime, coming here with her camera and her questions, using the lives (and deaths) of these people as fodder for party conversation. She didn't blame Anne-Marie for turning her back; had she deserved better? 

Helen is really in love with that painting:

One call demanded to be made before she returned to the car however: she wanted to look a final time at the painted head. Not as an anthropologist among an alien tribe, but as a confessed ghost train rider: for the thrill of it. 

And yet, as much as she loves the thrill of looking at disturbing art, she draws the line at gawking at real death:

She turned her back on the woman and jostled her way out of the crowd. There would be nothing to see, she knew, and even if there had been she had no desire to look. These people—still emerging from their homes as the story spread—were exhibiting an appetite she was disgusted by. She was not one of them; would never be one of them. She wanted to slap every eager face into sense; wanted to say: "It's pain and grief you're going to spy on. Why? Why?" But she had no courage left. Revulsion had drained her of all but the energy to wander away, leaving the crowd to its sport. 

Haunted!

"Forget the dog," Trevor said. "And the child. There's nothing you can do about it. You were just passing through."

His words only echoed her own thoughts of earlier in the day, but somehow, for reasons that she could find no words to convey, that conviction had decayed in the last hours. She was not just passing through. Nobody ever just passed through; experience always left its mark. Sometimes it merely scratched; on occasion it took off limbs. She did not know the extent of her present wounding, but she knew it was more profound than she yet understood, and it made her afraid.

Haunted so much that the neighbourhood feels like home now:

Nor was it simply the presence of so many people that reassured her; she was, she conceded to herself, happy to be back here in Spector Street. The quadrangles, with their stunted saplings and their gray grass, were more real to her than the carpeted corridors she was used to walking; the anonymous faces on the balconies and streets meant more than her colleagues at the university. In a word, she felt home.

Helen feels transformed already. And straight up goes on a date with that painted face...

She reached the maisonette and was surprised to find the door open again, as it had been the first time she'd come here. The sight of the interior made her light-headed. How often in the past several days had she imagined standing here, gazing into that darkness. There was no sound from inside. The dog had surely run off—either that, or died. There could be no harm, could there, in stepping into the place one final time, just to look at the face on the wall, and its attendant slogan?

"Sweets to the sweet." She had never looked up the origins of that phrase. No matter, she thought. Whatever it had stood for once, it was transformed here, as everything was; herself included. She stood in the front room for a few moments, to allow herself time to savor the confrontation ahead. Far away behind her the children were screeching like mad birds.

She stepped over a clutter of furniture and toward the short corridor that joined living room to bedroom, still delaying the moment. Her heart was quick in her: a smile played on her lips.

And there! At last! The portrait loomed, compelling as ever. She stepped back in the murky room to admire it more fully and her heel caught on the mattress that still lay in the corner. 

I like how the hypnosis is explained as a sleepiness of a warm summer afternoon among flowers and bees.

She turned, and the light in the bedroom diminished as a figure stepped into the gullet between her and the outside world. Silhouetted against the light, she could scarcely see the man in the doorway, but she smelled him. He smelled like cotton candy, and the buzzing was with him or in him.

"I just came to look," she said, "... at the picture."

The buzzing went on—the sound of a sleepy afternoon, far from here. The man in the doorway did not move.

The emphasis on the overwhelming sweetness is very different from the movie. 

The buzzing had quieted a little, and in the hush the man in the doorway spoke. His unaccented voice was almost as sweet as his scent.

"No need to leave yet," he breathed.

"I'm due ... due ..."

Though she couldn't see his eyes, she felt them on her, and they made her feel drowsy, like that summer that sang in her head.

"I came for you," he said.

She repeated the four words in her head. I came for you. If they were meant as a threat, they certainly weren't spoken as one.

I am delighted to learn that Book Candyman looks like a clown. Very funny how his entire aesthetic was flipped 180 degrees to Tall Dark and Handsome for the movie. The original certainly makes the imagery more consistent!

"I came for you," he murmured so softly that seduction might have been in the air. And so saying, he moved through the passageway and into the light.

She knew him, without doubt. She had known him all along, in that place kept for terrors. It was the man on the wall. His portrait painter had not been a fantasist: the picture that howled over her was matched in each extraordinary particular by the man she now set eyes upon. He was bright to the point of gaudiness: his flesh a waxy yellow, his thin lips pale blue, his wild eyes glittering as if their irises were set with rubies. His jacket was a patchwork, his trousers the same. He looked, she thought, almost ridiculous, with his blood-stained motley, and the hint of rouge on his jaundiced cheeks. But people were facile. They needed these shows and shams to keep their interest. Miracles; murders; demons driven out and stones rolled from tombs. The cheap glamour did not taint the sense beneath. It was only, in the natural history of the mind, the bright feathers that drew the species to mate with its secret self.

And she was almost enchanted. By his voice, by his colors, by the buzz from his body. She fought to resist the rapture, though. There was a monster here, beneath this fetching display; its nest of razors was at her feet, still drenched in blood. Would it hesitate to slit her own throat if it once laid hands on her?

Book Helen seems to find Candyman’s offer more appealing than her movie counterpart:

"If you would learn," the fiend said, "just a little from me ... you would not beg to live." His voice had dropped to a whisper. "I am rumor," he sang in her ear. "It's a blessed condition, believe me. To live in people's dreams; to be whispered at street corners, but not have to be. Do you understand?"

Her weary body understood. Her nerves, tired of jangling, understood. The sweetness he offered was life without living: was to be dead, but remembered everywhere; immortal in gossip and graffiti. 

This dialogue makes much more sense as a single scene than it did as scattered dialogue in the film. I don’t think in the film he ever insist he won’t force death on her, which is fair, because he sure does absolutely everything to push her to the brink!

"I won't force it upon you," he replied, the perfect gentleman. "I won't oblige you to die. But think; think. If I kill you here—if I unhook you"—he traced the path of the promised wound with his hook; it ran from groin to neck���"think how they would mark this place with their talk ... point it out as they passed by and say, 'She died there, the woman with the green eyes.' Your death would be a parable to frighten children with. Lovers would use it as an excuse to cling closer together."

She had been right: this was a seduction.

"Was fame ever so easy?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'd prefer to be forgotten," she replied, "than be remembered like that."

He made a tiny shrug. "What do the good know?" he said. "Except what the bad teach them by their excesses?" He raised his hooked hand. "I said I would not oblige you to die and I'm true to my word. Allow me, though, a kiss at least...."

Oh, so Helen fainted during the kiss on purpose:

The hook was at her neck. If she so much as moved it would wound her. She was trapped, as in her childhood nightmares, with every chance of escape stymied. When sleep had brought her to such hopelessness—the demons on every side, waiting to tear her limb from limb—one trick remained. To let go; to give up all ambition to life, and leave her body to the dark. Now, as the Candyman's face pressed to hers, and the sound of bees blotted out even her own breath, she played that hidden hand. And, as surely as in dreams, the room and the fiend were painted out and gone.

The residents actively conspired against Helen. Which is interesting, because I thought the point of faith in Candyman was that nobody knew the truth for sure. I guess they acted on their own volition, never interacting with him directly?

They were crazy, these people. They had known all along what her presence in Butts' Court had summoned, and they had protected him—this honeyed psychopath; given him a bed and an offering of bonbons, hidden him away from plying eyes, and kept their silence when he brought blood to their doorsteps. Even Anne-Marie, dry-eyed in the hallway of her house, knowing that her child was dead a few yards away. [...]

She could just make out Anne-Marie's figure, moving to the edge of the piled timbers and furniture, and ducking to climb into its heart. This was how they planned to remove the evidence. To bury the child was not certain enough; but to cremate it, and pulverize the bones—who would ever know? [...]

She fought to be free of him, to cry out for them not to light the bonfire, but he held her lovingly close. The light grew: warmth came with it; and through the kindling and the first flames she could see figures approaching the pyre out of the darkness of Butts' Court. They had been there all along: waiting, the lights turned out in their homes, and broken all along the corridors. Their final conspiracy.

The bonfire caught with a will, but by some trick of its construction the flames did not invade her hiding place quickly; nor did the smoke creep through the furniture to choke her. She was able to watch how the children's faces gleamed; how the parents called them from going too close, and how they disobeyed; how the old women, their blood thin, warmed their hands and smiled into the flames. Presently the roar and the crackle became deafening, and the Candyman let her scream herself hoarse in the certain knowledge that nobody could hear her, and even if they had, would not have moved to claim her from the fire.

Apparently, the pile of sweets and razors was a summoning ritual. Also, even though Helen doesn’t outright win as in the movie, she is effectively seduced to accept her fate:

Soon the heat crept down Helen's throat and scorched her pleas away. She sank back, exhausted, into the Candyman's arms, resigned to his triumph. In moments they would be on their way, as he had promised, and there was no help for it.

Perhaps they would remember her, as he had said they might, finding her cracked skull in tomorrow's ashes. Perhaps she might become, in time, a story with which to frighten children. She had lied, saying she preferred death to such questionable fame. She did not. As to her seducer, he laughed as the conflagration sniffed them out. There was no permanence for him in this night's death. His deeds were on a hundred walls and ten thousand lips, and should he be doubted again his congregation could summon him with sweetness. He had reason to laugh.

I’m glad Book Helen still feels the power over Trevor. 

So, as the flames crept upon them, did she, as through the fire she caught sight of a familiar face moving between the onlookers. It was Trevor. He had forsaken his meal at Apollinaire's and come looking for her.

She watched him questioning this fire watcher and that, but they shook their heads, all the while staring at the pyre with smiles buried in their eyes. Poor dupe, she thought, following his antics. She willed him to look past the flames in the hope that he might see her burning. Not so that he could save her from death—she was long past hope of that—but because she pitied him in his bewilderment and wanted to give him, though he would not have thanked her for it, something to be haunted by. That, and a story to tell.

Alright, here’s my takeaway:

I liked the short story more than I expected! Didn’t think I’d enjoy a version of this story without the racial tension or the victorious ending, which were central to the movie experience. But even the short story’s more tragic ending doesn’t read entirely like a defeat. Which is helped by Candyman’s pursuit of Helen being much less horrifying and predatory than in the movie. The first meeting, the kiss, the bonfire are all a single sequence, unlike the movie, where he repeatedly hypnotizes her, terrorizes her, and systematically and purposefully destroys her life. This makes the dialogue between them flow better, too. So overall, I’d say I liked both the original and the screen adaptation, and neither of them really diminished my appreciation of the other, which for me is pretty significant praise.

[esepoimipullula]

For the ship bingo, may I get uhhh... pete/trudy (because I lov them), italian!grandpa beagle/grandma duck (op your mind 😩👌🏻) and scrooge/brigitta (out of curiosity) pwease?

Oooh, thank you!! Those are some very good choices because I actually do have quite a few things to say about them. XD

Pete/Trudy:

It’s not quite an OTP, not in the sense that I crave more of it and I’m always ready to talk about it, but I love it and think it’s a very good ship. I know it sounds silly because she was literally made for him... but they’re really made for each other. They’re literal partner in crimes, a well-oiled team and even a battle couple where one’s strengths and peculiarities complement the other’s, and at the same time, they’re just two cute, silly romantics who give each other lovey-dovey nicknames. It might just be my love for villainous couples who genuinely love and care for each other talking here, but I think that’s an adorable dynamic. 

However, I am kind of picky about it. I remember reading some stories, years ago, where their domesticity was emphasized (which I did like) but the rest of their dynamic was... not that great. He thought she was a nag and she thought he was a boor, he didn’t care enough to remember dates and anniversaries and she was too demanding and uppity and had unreasonable expectations, he hated her cooking but couldn’t tell her that because she’d get angry and yell at him, there were jokes about her being fat or unladylike or both... sitcom married life, basically. I didn’t like that. I much prefer an expert thief Trudy who offers Pete some clever advice because they’re partners in work and in life and succeed or go down together, and a Pete who clearly loves her and likes being around her and cares about her opinions. Bonus points if they snark a bit at each other but like, mildly - not because they actually want to offend the other but because they’re generally snarky people. EXTRA bonus points if they use crime as a way to flirt or plot and execute crimes together like other people go on dates. I want them to have fun and make heart eyes at each other while robbing banks and whatnot. <3

My only exceptions are the Pete and Trudy in Wizards of Mickey and the ones in Cronache della Frontiera. Those are SO GOOD but it’s because of how lowkey or highkey fucked-up they are. And also because the Trudys in those universes are HOT. There, I said it. u.u 

I’m not the biggest WoM fan (the first seasons were pretty cool and had some really interesting concepts, but the ones that followed... eh) but seeing Trudy as a rugged, fabulous evil witch pirate, so sure of herself and competent, was super fun... just like her bickering and flirting with arrogant dark wizard Pete! 

When it comes to Cronache della Frontiera, where their relationship is Unhealthiness Central... oh, the shifting power dynamics! Badass established crime boss Trudy taking the inexpert, somewhat uncertain (and possibly younger?) newbie Pete in and being charmed by his cocky and determined attitude despite everything, finding out she does have a heart in the process, only for him to gradually become even darker than her and the driving force in their group! And the jealousy! The possessiveness! The love triangle that actually WORKS (at least for me, lol) because it’s not really a love triangle at all! The literal attempted murder! THAT is the problematic stuff I like to see, not some sexist trope about the old, fat (*eyeroll*) ball and chain!

Incidentally, WoM!Pete/Trudy and Cronache!Pete/Trudy are the reason I circled the “sexual” option. Thinking about Disney characters having sex might be weird, but those two couples? I’m 100% sure they FUCKED.

-

Italian!Grandpa Beagle/Grandma Duck:

AAAAAAAAAAAAH, I LOVE THEM SO MUCH!!! ;_______;

It all started with this story where the Beagle Boys and their Grandpa were arrested after a botched attempted at robbing the Quacktown post office and Grandma Duck took pity on them and offered to let them work off their sentence on her farm in hopes that they’d learn to be good citizens, and the boys slowly started to like honest work and having a kindly old lady around but old Grazia stubbornly clung to their traditional thieving ways despite his life having improved, too, so there was always this simmering tension between them. Or maybe it was the story where Grandma Duck got it in her head that there was actually some good in Grandpa Beagle and he liked her company so he tried not to steal around her, and the Beagles were like “wtf is happening” and Scrooge was outraged and kept trying to warn Elvira off that risky “””friendship””” (seh), and in the end he did steal something and she caught him except maybe it wasn’t really him and maybe she was unsure about their relationship and self-sabotaging by looking for any excuse to call it off and he didn’t like being with someone who didn’t trust him and/or couldn’t accept him as he was so they basically had a messy break up. Or maybe the one where everyone in Duckburg was literally brainwashed by their new phones except for them and Scrooge because ahahah old people hate technology, and they joined up in this badass old people heroic team to save the city, and Grandma and Grandpa had this nice little “oh, you’re pretty good at this!” “well, you’re not bad yourself!” moment while they took down the villains.

... okay, so I don’t really remember which one of these came first, but still, thanks to all of them I am DELIGHTED at the idea of this romance. I mean, they’re both smart, headstrong, driven, generally sensible, sometimes petty, pretty damn badass old people who believe very strongly in their own values? Except those values are pretty much opposite because she’s all about honesty and hard work and doing the right thing even when it’s difficult, but he takes pride in being a thief and wants to get rich by stealing? But then, they both care a lot about family and tradition? Except her family is fundamentally good if quirky and he literally encourages his to be ruthless criminals, and the traditions they care about reflect that? They’re basically foils, and the contrast and the similarities between them are both so strong... and so entertaining! 

And the soft old people romance! The possibilities for old-fashioned courting and quiet moments together just talking about their youth and the old days or about their families, the subtle but genuine compliments and expressions of affection, the rare but easy handholding and the heartfelt “I care about you”s...

I would DEFINITELY read fanfictions about them. But I think they would need to be either AUs (someone let them play a bickering couple in a parody or period story, PLEASE!) or, if set in regular Duckburg, either pre-relationship or mutual pining stuff. I’ve already seen them in a (sort of) romantic relationship in canon and it didn’t end well... and I honestly can’t see things ever ending any different. His nephews might come around and support them, especially if they liked her as a person and kind of came to see her as their grandma, too, like in that one story mentioned above, but I don’t think her family would. At least, not all of them, and especially NOT Scrooge, who’d do anything to keep them apart. Plus, unless he suddenly decided not to be a thief anymore or she decided to become a thief, too, - I can’t even tell WHICH option sounds more unlikely! - their differences would eventually drive them apart anyway. 

And that’s... kind of another thing I like about this ship, weirdly enough? The “it’s not unrequieted but it still can’t happen, and not because of any external pressure but because of who they are as people” angst. And the “I can’t be be with you because of who you are but I wouldn’t love you if you were anyone else” bittersweet angst/fluff combo. As the bingo square says, “it’s complicated.”

-

Scrooge/Brigitta:

No offense to anyone who does like it... but I just don’t. I usually appreciate unrequieted ships for the angst, but here the obsessive aspect is a major turn-off for me. Especially in those stories where it’s portrayed as a positive thing, like an expression of True Love or a sign that Brigitta is a strong-willed person who just has to hold out a little longer or push a little harder before she finally gets the happy ending she deserves. Or in those stories where other characters suggest Scrooge is just playing hard to get. Or where he’s forced to endure a date with her as punishment for something. Or where he gets scolded for not agreeing to go out with her, rather than for treating her too rudely or taking advantage of her feelings to reach his goals. Just... let people not date people they don’t like that way, maybe?!

That’s not to say I don’t like Brigitta as a character. I do, I think she has potential, and I don’t like it when she gets the short end of the stick, either. Like when Scrooge uses her to get what he wants, or he treats her badly even if for once she’s not being the clingy, smothering person she usually is around him. 

I do like those rare moments where they get along and he’s nice to her because he wants to and not because he’s prompted by either guilt or pressure. But that’s not really enough to make me ship them. Like, I could see them as friends? Or as mentor and pupil or equal business partners, since she’s a businesswoman in her own right? Bur never as romantic partners.

I’d say I wouldn’t read fic about them, but I actually did, once. It was a sad story about Scrooge dying and Brigitta trying to rebuild her life without him when he had been her goal and purpose for so long, and it had hints of Scrooge/Goldie, but technically, it still counts. And I actually wouldn’t mind reading more stuff like that... with Brigitta learning to let go and live her own life for herself.

[welcometoitalia]

21 Cultural Pointers about Life in Italy

1) TIME: Kick off your shoes, throw away your watch... everything is relative. Whilst much has improved in recent years, trains, buses and people tend to work on an "approximate" timetable. Learn patience and go with the flow.

2) LANGUAGE: Other than in Northern Europe, English is not as widely learnt and used in Italy. Until recently, French was promoted above English. Italians suffer from a sort of language inferiority complex so that even those who do speak good English are convinced that they do not and therefore only speak when absolutely necessary. A common mistake in listening to an Italian speaking his mother tongue is to assume that they are angry or excited. This is not always the case as you may witness in seeing two Italians "argue" and then kiss each other on both cheeks and disappear for an Aperitivo (pre-dinner drink).

3) NATIONALISM: As reflected in regional dialects, modern Italy was actually only unified in the mid 1800's. Still today, great divisions exist between North and South. This means that culture, traditions and life style vary significantly between the various provinces. True allegiance is to the local town or province and less to Italy as a whole. If you want to compliment an Italian, remark kindly on his home town.

4) POLITICS: Often called "the Politics of Favors", politicians don't fade away, they just become prime minister for the 10th time! Bringing down Government is a national pastime, averaging nearly one government for every year since World War 2. Reflecting the national divide, Italy has a strong ex-communist and a strong ex-fascist block. Most Italians believe the country is successful despite the best efforts of the government; tax avoidance is another national obsession. One of Italy's stronger parties is dedicated to the break up of Italy. Lega Nord (Free the North) has a passionate following - in the north! To mis-quote Beppe Grillo, a famous Italian commentator: “One Italian makes a Latin lover, two together can never agree, whilst three make up four political parties.”

5) DRINK: Italian bars often double up as coffee shops as there is a much more limited drinking culture than in other European locales. Italians on the whole do not have a "drinking culture"; many bars reflect this less intense relationship with alcohol, although the club scene is more "traditional" in its appeal. Wine is often less expensive than bottled water and whilst a staple feature of Italian meals, it is very rarely drunk to excess.

6) FAMILIES: Careful of stereotypes but, whilst waning, the family is central to everything and all. It is normal for unmarried children to live at home, even if they are in their 30's and 40's. Children move away... to the house next door! ;) ... and shouting between balconies to borrow some sugar is common. The grandmother plays the role of matriarch and family members like to turn up for a meal and are gladly received.

7) RELIGION: Catholic, of course (about 90%). Strangely though, Italy now has one of the lowest birth rates in Europe, So called Mafia bosses may fastidiously attend church on Sunday and married Catholic men may happily have an “amante” (lover). Many Catholics are uncertain if they are Christians as well as Catholic, such is the hold and “brand” strength of the Catholic church. Church attendances are, however, in decline and the number of new priests has declined by 85% in the last 50 years.

8) SPORT: One thing all Italians agree on is the national football/soccer team, often referred to as Italy's "true" religion. When Italy won the World Cup, people took to the streets in their cars, blowing horns, standing on car roofs and the entire nations transport system ground to a halt for hours as Italians demonstrated their passion for the game. Other sports take a back seat although cycling, volleyball, skiing and Formula One have their place on the front pages. One of the largest selling national newspapers is entirely dedicated to sport (LaGazetta dello sport).

9) WORLD AFFAIRS: Not our affair... so who cares, right? 

10) FOREIGNERS: In most cases are greeted with enthusiasm and delight, although heavy non-European immigration has started to create phobia and resentment of the non European invasion in recent years.

11) FOOD: Italians are passionate about... Italian food! So much so that even when abroad, many Italians will go out of their way to seek out the nearest Italian restaurant. Each region of Italy has its own "local dish" and each dish may be prepared in a different way according to local custom. A wedding meal may last more than 6 hours and feature up to 20 courses. Such is the strength of Italian food that finding a Chinese, Mexican, or other type of restaurant outside the big towns is a challenge.

12) DRIVING: The Italian zest for life is well reflected in the Italian driving style! Cars are viewed as a status symbol; Italy has one of the highest percentages of Mercedes owners in the world. Speed limits, like train schedules, are considered approximations. Recent clamp downs and a new point system is beginning to dampen this zest and the best advise for foreign drivers is not to panic if a car cuts in, speeds by, or tailgates you. Don't worry, they have had lots of practice and are very good at it!

13) QUEING: Or lines. Until recently, the concept was an enigma for Italians. The advent of supermarket deli ticket lines and other such devices are being readily adopted and even when no line exists, Italians appear to have an uncanny sense of when it's their turn.

14) GREETING: Even vaguely familiar acquaintances will kiss each other on each cheek, but a hand shake will suffice. “Buongiorno” (formal) and “Ciao” (informal) being the classic accompaniment, followed by "come stai?" - the (informal) “how are you?”. In English-speaking countries, it's normal to reply "fine, thank you" even if you feel awful, in Italy they may well tell you how they actually are! Failure to greet or say goodbye to somebody can be taken as an insult.

15) FASHION: Italians will generally conform to the latest fashion trends, colors and styles, indeed foreigners can easily be spotted, even in a crowd, as they often do not conform to this hidden code. Italians take pride in their dress and are much more brand-conscious than some other nationalities.

16) BUSINESS: Italians prefer to do business with those they know and trust (hence, the relatively low success of Internet companies). Unlike some other industrialized powers, the back bone of the Italian economy is based on people, not multinationals. This is reflected in the proportionally high level of family businesses. Even large Italian businesses are often originated, directed or owned by a family (Benetton, Fiat etc). The local family shop concept still prevails, even though supermarkets are beginning to change the fabric of shopping.

17) PLANNING: Whilst many Northern Europeans are busy planning their next summer holiday in September the year before, summer holiday catalogs in Italy are not even printed till March! Planning ahead is considered restrictive and often Italians will decide what to do for the weekend on Saturday morning. Don't try and force Italians to plan, or expect next seasons bus timetable to be published months before. 

18) EUROPEAN: Italy is a great believer in “voting European”, agreeing to many issues and then simply not implementing the directive. Italians themselves see Europe as an escape clause from their own government's perceived incompetence and corruption, however when put to the test, Italians in reality dislike anybody who tells them how to live their lives. Most Italians were enthusiastic about the Euro, until they found that most shop keepers used it to increase prices twofold.

19) HUMOR: Warning: “Sarcasm is not defined”. Do not try sarcastic or ironic jokes on Italians, many will think you are serious. Humor is a lot more lighthearted and obvious (Benny Hill was a big hit) and Italians are not afraid to make fun of themselves. The famous Oscar-winning actor and comic Roberto Benigni once remarked: “If the Berlin wall had been built by Italians, it would have come down on its own.” The prime-time nightly comedy program “Striscia la Notizia” goes out of its way to poke holes and find humor in Italian news and politics. Few Italian comedies work well when translated but have an avid following in Italy itself.

20) TELEVISION: Italians love game shows and reality TV (Big Brother is a yearly event). Like Italian fashion, brand names are important. The host's "brand" is critical and what he or she wears is critically examined. Nearly all shows feature "dancers or assistents", nearly always women, and nearly always clad in mini skirts and revealing tops. Where other countries would cry foul, Italians revel in the female form and are happy to have it presented to them as often as possible, even when totally irrelevant to the show.

21) HOTELS: Contrary to popular belief there is no unified star rating system in Europe. Each country provides its own system. A hotel's ambience is not assessed in any system, only facilities. In Italy, a 3-star hotel will have a restaurant, on-suite bathroom, bar, and lounge area. Room sizes in Italy are below the European average, mainly because many hotels are converted residences. Most hotels are family-run with attentive, very friendly service and homecooked meals. It is not unusual for the grandparents to take over responsibilites when the owner is away or to be greeted during school holidays by the 14 year old son (who probably speaks better English than the parents). This family atmosphere is one of the charms of smaller Italian hotels.

Oh, and one last warning: be careful of the stereotypes. Whilst you can always draw a thread (or even a rope) of similarity (as above) between the nationals of a country, the extent and size of the thread can vary.

Edited and adjusted from an article by A. Reed, a Brit in Brescia, Italy

[belladonnaandulriched]

burning sacramento | a one shot

synopsis: following the california fires, she had befriended them in her art gallery and was kind enough to invite them to an event with her best friends. it all seems so unlikely for all to go wrong and to happen but... it happens.

do not read if you’re easily scared or triggered given there’s quite a bit of morbid, dark imagery here. as for everyone else, enjoy and read in a bright lit room for full effect!

Jill had met him when he and his band toured in Northern California sometime following the release of their album For All Kings—she had fallen in love with his powerful voice. She was drawn to the whole band, for sure, but she kept returning to him like a magnet on cold iron. She never took that album out of her car stereo even as she was told to leave her home to avoid the flames, the first time from the Camp Fire and then again from the August Complex, the latter of which erupted when she had moved into her new apartment. Given her circumstances, she decided to move back in with her parents right outside of Sacramento as she started her own gallery on the eastern side. Every so often, she received a memory of both massive raging fires, but the memories had nothing on the power of her ink pens and her watercolor paints.

She knew what it was like to lose everything again and again, and yet Joey's voice gave her the strength to continue. Every glimpse into those brown eyes proved to be a glimpse into herself. Even though she knew he had his heart elsewhere, she still couldn't help but fall madly in love with the mysterious man from upstate New York, with all of his long beautiful flyaway curls and elegant slender body, even as a man summitting towards old age. You would never guess he was as old as he was, even with the pandemic having ended the whole world into complete oblivion, and especially the day he and Krista strolled into her gallery one day. They both gazed on at her drawings from the street and had come to the consensus to get to the artist a little better, to figure out the woman behind the name of Jillian Bones.

That was her actual given name.

“No bones about it”, as he joked to her. His sun kissed skin made her think of the barren earth on either side of the northern end of the Valley, but like with all ashes, there came forth a new sort of bare beauty to it. A new evergreen tree could sprout from a split pine cone courtesy of hot bright yellow flames in a similar manner his skin maintained such a lovely smoothness to it after years and years of touring about in the bitter, biting East Coast cold. The same could be said for Krista, with her golden blonde 'do and prominent dark roots, like the first beginnings of a sunflower as it rose out of the scorched earth.

Jill on the other hand had her sparse but lengthy black hair down to her thick waist, which stunned the both of them when they first met.

“Great artist and long hair,” he remarked with a lopsided grin and that accent utterly unmistakable, “I want you do Krista an' I a favor an' keep it that way.”

“We couldn't ask for anything more,” she added with the warmest, sweetest grin Jill had ever seen.

Even though Anthrax's show was that night there in Sacramento, and beginning in about two hours, which meant they both had to be there with haste, the two of them lingered there in the gallery and thus formed the first sparks of a friendship with the young artist, complete with an exchange of phone numbers and email addresses.

Once the three of them had left the gallery to attend the show, Jill sent a message to her two best friends what had happened. She was so eager to tell Elizabeth and Ellen that she had befriended the frontman of Anthrax and his wife in a matter of several minutes that she nearly dropped her phone on the floor between her legs. But she managed to tell them, and once she arrived at the venue, she found they had replied in rather quick fashion and wanted to know everything. Laughing, Jill vowed to save the details for later once she left the show.

“That's the best news to happen after all that had happened,” was the last thing Elizabeth had mentioned before Jill put her phone away in her purse. She gazed at the screen and thought about their dear departed triplet sister Elise, who had died shortly after the Camp Fire took place from complications from diabetes. It was in fact, the best news to come out of anywhere in such a long time that it coaxed a genuine smile out of Jill. Perhaps things were in fact looking up as she locked the car and followed Joey and Krista into the backstage area to meet everyone before the show and before she scouted out her place in the audience.

With her ears ringing and her eyes alight from the sheer sights before her, it was quite the catharsis to be a part of something that hadn't happened in what felt like a thousand years. She checked the screen on her phone again to find a message from Ellen begging for details.

She would then find herself caught in a mosh of communication between her two old friends and her two new friends for what felt to be several days. Joey and Krista had returned to upstate New York following Anthrax's stops in the Bay Area and then Los Angeles, and Jill found herself wanting to visit them, given it was safe enough to travel without the worry of a deadly cough on the back of her neck looming over her. She knew she had to work around her own schedule plus Joey's touring of his own with Chief Big Way and Journey Beyond.

“The man is an absolute work horse,” she told Ellen at one point during a lunch break; she took out the picks from Frank and Scott from her jeans pocket and smiled. Charlie was also kind enough to give her a packet of his fresh brewed coffee. “He told me—jokingly, anyways—that he's found the key to immortality: just keep going and keep moving about as much as you possibly can until you can't.”

“Fight 'em 'til you can't,” Ellen retorted.

“Exactly!”

That was also the same day Ellen told her about a big play she and Elizabeth were partaking in over the autumnal equinox down in the cute, quiet little alpine village of Murphy's, not too far from Sacramento.

“It was a play that one of our classmates wrote in Elise's honor,” she added. “Let's just say it's a catharsis for the both of us. It's over the course of a weekend.”

“Do you think I should invite Joey and Krista to come on out?” Jill asked her. “I'm finally making good money here in the gallery that I can get them a nice little room there in Murphy's.”

“If you want. We'll give the two of them—and you, too!—the star treatment if you don't mind.”

“The two of them deserve the best star treatment the Sacramento drama school can provide,” Jill told her with a run of her tongue along the top of her lip. She was eager to see Joey again, especially given the fact he never took his eyes off of her. The man was thirty years her senior, and yet he proved it all to be an illusion. Young, spry, and handsome, beautiful in fact, and elegantly slimming down with age, as if he aged in reverse. There was a point he hugged her and he held her next to him for something like twenty minutes. A thought lingered in her mind during those twenty minutes where she wanted to run her fingers down his toned chest.

His voice had filled out and developed this lush yet crisp timbre with time for some added strength, and to the point where if she listened long enough, she found her pelvic floor tingling. Lush but crisp and colorful, like the mountains of Northern California in late summer. She imagined him singing “Happy Birthday” to her with those lower rich notes and touching her breasts in the meantime with those big shapely Italian hands. An older gentleman as young as the springtime and defied all odds, much like Jill herself in the face of two gargantuan wildfires that burned whole towns to the ground.

Given the play was a month away, she placed the reservations at the little bed and breakfast there in the village after she got off the phone with Krista. She was quick to tuck a couple of large blankets into the back of her car because she knew those nights would be cold, much colder than upstate New York itself. To ensure their reservation was in place, she made the trip down to the village.

Even though she was driving through the Central Valley, a cool crisp thin blanket of marine layer entered into the Sacramento section to give the inland a feeling of the coastline. Outside of her windows beheld the low marsh lands complete with the tulare plants and small fledgling trees. She knew that Wine Country, which was not too far from there, following the sheer storm of fires, would still have to rebuild with all of those same type of plants plus brand new vineyards. At one point in her venture into the mountains, the clouds broke and the sun bathed over the bare earth and the forested foothills. All the colors warmed up and yet also washed out with each passing mile given the clouds burned away with the burgeoning warmth. To think all of that went on for hundreds of miles, all the way down the spine of California and towards the meeting of the San Andreas and the Garlock Faults.

On the way back, the clouds returned and she spotted Elizabeth had sent her a message at some point.

“I'm so excited to meet them,” she confessed.

Ellen and Elizabeth Bachara were two of surviving nearly identical blonde triplets attending the drama school there in Sacramento: two sisters who lived on after Elise, the third member of their party, had succumbed to diabetes. Neither of them developed it, but they watched their sister rocket into the horror of it all. She finally passed from an aggressive cancer on her poor pancreas: she was found on her bedroom floor with blood running from underneath her shirt and over her swollen belly. They could only assume that it metastatized all over her body, including her skin. The three of them oversaw her cremation, but Ellen and Elizabeth kept her ashes in a single urn on the mantel piece in the latter's apartment.

“We're not separating her ashes,” she vowed with a literal setting down of her foot on the hard apartment floor. “No way that is gonna happen.”

Elizabeth also told Jill that she was bringing the urn along to every play so they could literally pass off as triplets, and prove to be a release for the both of them. Jill knew she would have quite the story to tell to Joey and Krista once they met each other: two triplets with a phantom limb inside of a little coffee colored ceramic urn the size of a block of cheese.

That Friday of that big three day weekend, the two of them flew into Sacramento from Syracuse in the early hours of the morning. That dense fog from the Bay Area had made its way into the still parched Sacramento section of the Central Valley; Jill still pictured that orange tone to the clouds every so often, especially that time of year. Orange with sickness brought on by the inferno and the time she believed she couldn't breathe ever again.

She awaited them there at the terminal, wrapped in a little black windbreaker and with a black beret atop her coarse dark hair and her purse slung over her shoulder. She hoped Joey would recognize her full figure and her dark hair even covered up and obscured from the marine layer, and she had her worries given their flight had arrived five minutes early and she hadn't seen them. She glanced about the place for them, but only saw a series of unfamiliar faces around her. She started to wonder what happened to them as she took her phone out of her pocket for a new message to Ellen.

“No bones about it!”

She knew that upstate accent anywhere. She whirled around to see the two of them strolling up the narrow walkway next to one another, both of them wrapped up in black windbreakers themselves: Joey was unmistakable with that long wiry jet black hair down to his svelte waist, while she recognized Krista's crown of dark roots as they shone underneath the cold white lights of the terminal ceiling.

“I was wondering where the two of you had run off to,” Jill confessed to them.

“We were runnin' in circles,” Joey cracked to her, to which the three of them burst out laughing.

“So are you driving or should Joey or I do the chauffeuring?” Krista offered.

“I'll drive you guys,” said Jill as she adjusted her beret; Joey eyed that little beret and showed her a lopsided little smile in the meantime. “It's not far, but I know the way.” As the three of them headed out of the airport to her car: even with the marine layer looming over their heads, Jill wondered if it would rain there in the Valley. She hoped the show would go on in the dark forested mountains as the three of them drove out of Sacramento. Krista huddled down in the passenger seat next to Jill and rubbed the sides of her face with her gloved hands. Jill noticed the hair at the back of her head hanging away from her neck, as if she had put a bunch of hairspray back there, and yet she lacked that bold odor in favor of a softer, sweeter perfume.

“So much colder here, my goodness,” she muttered.

“Yeah, when we were comin' in, we felt it comin' down on us even in the plane,” Joey added with a soft groan in his throat as he got comfortable there by his lonesome in the backseat. Every so often on the ride up the hill, Jill took a glimpse in the rear view mirror at Joey lounging there in the back with his arms atop the seats. She noticed he had unbuttoned the collar of his shirt to show off some of his chest. She nibbled on her bottom lip at the sight of him.

Old but young. Aging but in reverse and as radiant as ever. Meanwhile, there was Krista with her colorful hair and skin like alabaster even with her age as well. Both of them thin and lovely despite the odds. Jill adjusted her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel given she was in the same car as them, and for about an hour until they reached the outskirts of the village.

Lucky for them, the marine layer had stopped at the rim of the Valley, which in turn left the mountains to stand out in the cold late summer sun. Joey peered out the window to his left at the gray and white clouds disappearing from around those dense dark green ponderosa pines.

“Reminds me of the Catskills—kinda,” he remarked.

“Yeah, me, too,” Krista added as she pressed the back of her hand to the window pane, complete with a clink from the tiny silver ring on her spindly index finger. “Joey and I have been needin' a li'l art in our lives.”

“The two of you are gonna like the room I got you, too,” Jill announced as the signs for the village emerged into her view.

“Thank you for that, by the way,” he told her with a clearing of his throat. “I wouldn't know where that sort of thing would be in a li'l rural place like this, if I'm honest.”

“Just gotta know where to look, babe,” Krista assured him with a lopsided grin herself.

“I tried ta look, though,” he quipped in a small voice.

“Nah, I did the lookin'—”

Jill nibbled on her bottom lip again from their cuteness and from Joey's transcending his own age with his open collar. Each adjustment of her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel only made her beckon for a breath of fresh air: she wanted to stay in that car forever, but she had an itch she couldn't seem to scratch.

They reached the bed and breakfast, which used to be a hospital back around the first World War before it was converted to an apartment building and then the intimate, warm lit entity it had become right then for the three of them. The dark wooden walls and golden lanterns near the ceiling, all which made up the front room, gave it that finishing touch of life in the woods of California.

Elizabeth, who had tied her hair into a loose ponytail behind her head and put on a soft pink sweatshirt, stood on the side of the front room with her face rosy with good health. Her face lit up at the sight of Jill, Joey, and Krista as they made their way towards her. Elizabeth brought that urn, which had tucked underneath her arm, towards her chest as if it were her journal.

“Joey, Krista—this is my best friend Elizabeth,” Jill introduced them.

“I've heard a lot about you both,” Elizabeth confessed as she adjusted the urn in her arms.

“What'cha got here?” asked Joey as he gestured to the urn.

“My sister is in here,” she told him. Krista gasped and he brought a hand to his chest.

“Oh, man.”

“It's okay, you didn't know,” Elizabeth assured him. “She died a couple of years ago—diabetes.”

“Oh, my God, that's awful,” Krista declared.

“Not to change the subject so hastily, but where's Ellen?” asked Jill.

“The back room here—” Elizabeth gestured to the corridor behind her, where Ellen stood across from a strange woman to converse about something. Jill turned back to Joey and Krista.

“I'll be right back,” she told them.

“Okay! We're gonna check in,” Krista quipped back with that infectious smile.

“All I know is your room is near the back across the hall from the old library,” Jill recalled.

“By the way, that hat is so badass,” said Joey.

“What, my beret?” Jill felt her face bloom with warmth.

“Yeah—totally the artist look. Wouldn't you agree, Krista?”

“Without question,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye.

Jill skirted past her friend to meet up with Ellen, who's face lit up upon sight of her.

“There you are!” She turned to the short woman before her. She was gaunt but shapely, and dressed in a soft looking red wine colored shawl and short white dress; to match her dress, she wore a necklace of pure white pearls. The skin on her legs resembled to the legs of a supermodel with their slender build and slight kiss of the sun. Perhaps it was merely the intimate lighting in there but Jill swore that the skin on her legs changed colors like the fur of a black cat.

“This is Seignora Marcia Ciccia,” Ellen introduced her, “our mentor, and the one who wanted us to perform this play.”

“It's an honor,” Seignora greeted her with a warm smile: she spoke with a slight lingering of an Italian accent, like someone who had lived in an English speaking country most of her life. although Jill knew she was quite educated. She did wonder how long she had been in the country given the smoothness and flawless quality of the skin on her face and neck. Krista, who was as old as Joey, held onto her looks quite well, but even she had the slight sag associated with age; Seignora's skin resembled to fresh glazed clay.

“I hear you are an artist,” she confessed to Jill.

“Kinda,” she replied; she peered over her shoulder to find Joey sitting at one of the low tables there in the front room with the urn before him. Elizabeth must have been standing out of sight. Jill spotted a narrow silvery barrel right next to the fireplace irons and the heavy stone fireplace, right behind him. The room was empty so she could hear Elizabeth's voice, but not the words of which she said to him.

“Perhaps for the next play we can arrange for something—you know, to have you make some kind of art for the set.”

“Oh, yeah!” Ellen recalled. “Like art direction for the stage setting. That is, if you wanna.”

“It's outside of my comfort zone, but I'd be down for it if business slows up,” Jill promised them.

“Cool!” Ellen declared with a throwing of her arms around her.

“Anyways, Ellen,” Seignora started, “—we should get ready. Rehearsal starts in about an hour and a half and we still haven't had lunch yet!”

“Actually I have,” she insisted.

“But I haven't, though… and you know me. It's hard for me to pick out what I want, even after living here in California as long as I have.”

“How long have you lived here?” asked Jill.

“Long enough to call myself a citizen,” she replied to which she flashed her a wink. Ellen then turned back to Jill.

“I'll catch you later.”

“Oh, yeah! Sure, sure—I'll be hangin' with the two birds straight out of New York for the time being.”

“And yes, they are getting the star treatment later on,” Ellen assured her; she passed her to fetch Elizabeth. It was that moment Jill knew that weekend would be majestic.

 * * * * *

 “I can't believe a li'l place like this out in the wilderness would prove to be a good setting,” Joey was saying as he and Krista nestled down in their comfy chairs together underneath the heavy Indian blankets Jill had brought along with her. They had been seated about ten feet from the stage, which had been set up right outside of the village and near a long low out building made of stone. Ellen had told Jill that was their dressing room.

“How would you know? We haven't even seen the play yet!” Jill proclaimed as she snuggled down to his left.

“I'm more perceptive than I look, y'know,” he teased her, to which Krista giggled.

Night had fallen over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and Jill felt the marine layer returning to the Valley behind them. Even though she gazed up at the inky black sky and the crisp oak trees, she couldn't help but imagine snow falling all around them. She yearned for three big mugs of hot chocolate, one for the each of them, and each one with those little marshmallows floating near the top. Joey brought the blanket on the bottom up to his ears and hunched his shoulders: a few stray tendrils of his jet black hair brushed against the side of Jill's face to where it tickled.

“Skinny New York boy's cold,” Jill remarked as she tucked the edge of the blanket underneath her hip.

“Freezin'... I gotta hand it to ya, Jill—you're tough.”

“As tough as you, though,” Krista pointed out, to which he shrugged.

“I dunno 'bout that. I've had my ass handed to me time an' time again—and I know you have, too, sure, but I got nuthin' like her, though. Survived two horrific fires and then some.”

The lights before them dimmed and the audience behind them fell silent.

The urn had been made as a centerpiece of the set: the play itself was about a young woman, played by Elizabeth, who had lost her parents in a fire and had grown reticent to even so much as say the words “fire” or “parents” for that matter. Ellen played her stepsister, who was blind and along with her husband, encouraged her to continue her passion for blacksmithing alongside her fiance, a carpenter. The play came to a head when they discovered the fiance had started the fire and lied about it as well as his affair the whole entire time. Joey and Krista giggled like two best friends at the sheer amount of swear words peppered throughout the script. Jill meanwhile kept her eyes fixated on the urn in the backdrop and she knew Elise was smiling down on her sisters at the moment Ellen said, “I know what you've been up to” to Elizabeth's character's fiance. Even with his getting caught and his eventual shunning and disposal, both sisters knew their parents were not returning.

About five minutes from the ending, Jill caught the sound of rustling off in the bushes to their right. A cool, crisp breeze brushed over their heads and in turn sent a shiver down their spines. The first snow of the season was not too far off as Elizabeth turned to the urn on the backdrop and rested her hand on the side.

“I will always love you,” she whispered, which beckoned a sniffle out of Krista. Jill felt Joey lean over to put his arm around her; Jill herself felt tears well up in her eyes. Joey put his other arm around her and held both women close to him. The lights faded out to darkness and the applause beckoned forth; Jill raised her hands over her head like she did at the Anthrax concert. Seignora emerged from the darkness to tell everyone that it was merely the first act of two, the next act of which came on Saturday night.

“Amazing,” Joey remarked as he leaned forward. He glanced back at Jill with a grin on his face. “The whole weekend!”

“Beautiful,” Krista said. “Just beautiful. And addictive!”

Ellen and Elizabeth emerged from behind the set to meet up with them.

“Hey, the stars have fallen to the earth,” Joey proclaimed, which made them both laugh out loud.

“Seignora wants to speak to you, Jill,” Ellen told her.

“What does she want to speak me about?”

“Making a set for a future play, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, that's right!”

“Should we thank Seignora—what'd you say her name was?” asked Krista.

“Marcia!” Elizabeth answered as she tucked the urn underneath her arm.

“Marcia, Marcia, Marcia,” Joey cracked which made them erupt into laughter again.

“We'll help you guys pick up the chairs and blankets,” Ellen told them as the three of them stood to their feet and were greeted by the onslaught of stone cold mountain breeze surrounding them.

“Let's make this quick,” said Jill as she hunched her shoulders up towards her ears.

“She's in that little out building over here,” Elizabeth informed them. Joey thanked her and the three of them scurried across the grass and around the side of the stage; the stone building in question loomed behind the makeshift stage in shadow, but they were greeted by that warm glow of lamp light in the front windows. Jill led the way into the short front corridor, past a low wooden stool which she could only assume was for monologues, given all the times she watched Elizabeth and Ellen do something solo.

“Seignora?” she called out.

“In here.” Her voice sounded weak and gravelly, as if she was developing a dry cough of sorts. Joey backed off a bit.

“What's wrong, babe?” Krista asked him, but Jill kept going into the dressing room. Seignora sat on the sofa with a tissue to her face. In front of her stood what appeared to be a sewing kit.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asked her.

“I think I am getting ill, so I will make this quick.”

“Six feet, Jill,” Krista advised her, to which Joey lingered back in the hallway.

“Always,” she vowed. Jill returned to Seignora as she bowed her head and breathed heavy.

“Should we do this over the phone or—?”

“No,” Seignora insisted with haste. “No, no, no, no—”

Something in the corridor broke, like broken glass.

“Shit!” Joey blurted out.

“Joey!” Jill shrieked.

“Jill!” he echoed.

“What was that?” Seignora demanded.

“I knocked over a vase—I didn't even see it, though, I swear,” Joey babbled.

“You—You—” Seignora sputtered. Even in the warm welcoming light of the dressing room, Jill watched her face turn pale and sickly. Her cheeks sunk into her face, and in turn revealed the bones underneath the otherwise thick flesh. She groped forward as if to hold onto something, but she was too far from the vanity mirror and the accompanying chair.

“Seignora?” Jill backed up to the door, where Joey and Krista had congregated to ensure all was alright. She staggered forward so as to catch her balance.

“I want to be an animal,” her voice lowered to a deep guttural growl.

“The—The fuck?” Joey stammered. Krista's eyes widened. Jill stood back with them as Seignora fell to her knees on the floor; she gasped for air as if that hoary old virus had ravaged her body, but there was no way it could have been it. Jill glanced at the shards of porcelain in Joey's hands.

“Put it back!”

“Put it back, Joey!” Krista added.

“Fuck!” he blurted out as he chucked the pieces towards the door.

But it was pointless as Seignora clutched at herself and her skin darkened from the loss of precious oxygen. Her fingers twisted and gnarled like old uprooted tree branches; Jill noticed them losing their flesh and blood all at once as both transformed into thick powder. The bones underneath the skin revealed to be pointed, made feral like the claws of a creature. The three of them backed away from there to the front corridor and to the front door.

“I am hungry,” she moaned. “I need it—I need flesh for my flesh! Where are my clothes!” She shook her arms about, and so hard such that patches of skin and dried dead flesh fell off like a snake shedding its skin.

“Shit!” Krista shouted and she ran to the door. Joey followed her, but Jill lingered back.

“Come on, Jill!” Joey called out, and Seignora's rotting body lunged out of the room. The warm light was enough for Jill to watch her skin fall off of her bones as if it had rotted. Joey yanked on her arm to keep her out of the way. Jill huddled behind him and next to a mortified Krista.

“If she wants flesh, she's gonna haveta go through the skinny man first,” he promised them as Seignora's teeth decayed into bright yellow and then brown, and then jet black before they fell right out of her skull. Krista set a hand on his shoulder and put her arm around his upper back: her other hand touched Jill's shoulder so as to comfort her.

Seignora clawed at the walls like the violent wild animal she so wanted to be. Her skin withered and rotted away, and revealed to them a thick coarse web of pitch dark veins akin to a leper: Joey stood there with his arms over Krista and Jill's chests, thus protecting them both from the creature before them. Both women huddled behind his slender but strong body.

They watched her hair slither off of her skull as if from sickness. Her eyes bugged out of their sockets, although they were as clear and white as the albumin in an egg.

“I'm old—I'm dying—I need—I need more!”

The flesh and blood she had borrowed over the years withered and faded away into nothing more than tired tendrils and a disgusting pile of regret. Regret for not having taken the cloak of the Grim Reaper herself when the time came.

“Should we run?” Krista's voice trembled. Joey's lip quivered and his body froze as if he had sustained rigor mortis.

“Joey!” Jill cried.

“JOEY!” Krista shouted into his ear.

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” Joey shrieked like he would on stage. Krista reached for the stool and hurled it into the corridor so as to act as a barrier. The three of them ran out of the out building and into the darkness. Jill led them both to the front of the stage, where they met up with Elizabeth and Ellen right as they were about to fetch them.

“Hey! Hey, whoa, is everything alright?” asked the latter.

“We gotta go! We gotta go!” Jill proclaimed. “Seignora! Very bad things!” She could scarcely speak given the adrenaline. Confused, Elizabeth and Ellen followed them back to their cars and back to the bed and breakfast. Jill, Joey, and Krista, all of whom were alone by the time they reached their rooms at  the back of the building, congregated in that hallway so as to catch their breath.

“What the fuck was that?” Joey demanded, his brown eyes wide and his expression twisted with terror.

“I wish I knew,” Jill confessed as she ran her fingers through her hair. “I know it's the least of our problems at the moment, but I hope Elizabeth and Ellen got my blankets in the back of their car.” Her eyes wandered over to the doorway to her right: it didn't belong to a room so to speak, but rather a small library, which had buttoned up for the night. But the little faded red cross next to the door frame was all the more apparent to the three of them. Krista knitted her eyebrows together; the hallway was silent save for the low chatter in the front room.

“What'd you say her name was?” she asked Jill.

“Marcia Ciccia. She also told me she was a citizen of California.”

“Marcia Ciccia...” she echoed in a near whisper. Jill and Joey watched her reach underneath her hair for a bobby pin which kept the hair off of her neck. She then stuck the pin into the keyhole, to which it unlocked. The door swung open to reveal the pitch darkness inside.

“Who says you can't be girly and badass?” Joey declared; Krista switched on the light and they stepped inside of the small, cramped library. A long low white cabinet stood on the right side of the room before a closet door.

“I'm sure records will be over here,” she pointed out as she made her way to the cabinet. “Records usually are in cabinets of sorts—given behind us there are nothing but books.” Joey meanwhile peered over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming. Krista knelt down before the cabinet door closest to them and used the same bobby pin to unlock it. Indeed, once Jill and Joey joined her on the floor, and she unveiled the section beginning with the letter “C”, they were met with over a dozen medical records.

“Ciccia,” Krista muttered.

“Right there!” Jill took out the folder first and opened it to reveal the medical records.

“Marcia Ciccia was an Italian immigrant—profession, a seamstress—born in—1906!” Krista gaped at her. “—it says here she was a few lines away from Bellardini.”

Joey raised his eyebrows at that.

“Bellardini,” he muttered.

“Bellardini—wonder if she knew your grandparents,” she suggested before returning to the article. Her eyes wandered down the column and she frowned at the markings underneath Seignora's name. “Wait a minute, this is a death certificate. It says here she died in the Griffith Park Fire of 1933—down in LA. This is her death certificate!”

“Wait a minute, but she was alive, though,” Krista pointed out.

“Yeah, she was alive and her skin looked radiant, as if her heart was in fact beating. She also gasped as if she was having trouble breathing.”

Jill picked up another piece of paper from the folder, which declared Seignora had died in October of that year from third degree burns and a choking on smoke. She then returned to the record in her other hand. “This considerable fire down south back during the Depression that killed like a hundred people—she was one of the victims, like her house was near the park. And she got caught up in a back fire and it killed her. Until the Camp Fire happened, it was the deadliest fire in California history. Twenty nine people.”

“And she was a casualty,” Joey said in a soft voice.

“Or so they believed,” said Krista as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“She survived it, though,” Jill pointed out. “She survived with those horrific third degree burns all over her body. Her body was broken but her soul kept going inside of her. It was—” Every time she blinked, she could picture Seignora lunging for them with the phalanges on her hands as sharp as razors to steal their flesh from them. She shook her head about. “—like the fire had made her super human. Like she clung to dear life and something kept her alive.”

“Maybe it was her will to live,” Krista suggested. “She wanted to be alive.”

“She stopped at nothing, too—” Jill flashed back on the sewing kit in the dressing room. “She was willing to do whatever it took, too. She wanted our flesh because she wanted to live.”

“And she was only twenty seven on top of it, too,” Joey added.

“Twenty seven—died young,” said Jill. “And she looked young, too. She looked young but it was all a disguise of her true age, though.”

“So we were dealin' with a hundred year old entity there,” Joey concluded as he swallowed down his nervousness.

“Looks to be,” Jill answered as she put the papers back into the folder. “Twenty seven when the fire happened, but she kept going for decades on end. Took people's flesh and blood and then buried their bones.”

“No bones about it...” Joey's voice trailed off, and Krista raised her head.

There was a gunshot down the hallway and the three of them gaped at each other.

“What the hell was that,” Krista's voice quivered.

“Put it back! Put it back!” Joey hissed. “Ya told me to put it back, now I'm tellin' ya to put it back!” Jill closed the folder and stuffed it back into the box; Krista put the box back into the cabinet and shut the door. The three of them scrambled to the door and back into the hallway, just time to find a shotgun blast right to Seignora's head at the far end. Jill stifled a scream with her hands, while Joey huddled behind her with his hands clasped onto her hips. Krista turned off the light and shut the door behind her. Seignora fell to the floor, flat on her back. A beautiful woman having rotted away and then suffered a violent gun blast to the head courtesy of Elizabeth. She stood in the doorway with the shotgun barrel pointed to the floor; even from a distance, Jill could make out the sight of the smoldering at the end. Breathing heavy, she raised her head to the three of them at the far end of the corridor.

“You guys alright?” she called.

“Yeah,” Jill replied as Joey put his arm around her and Krista, the latter of whom buried her face in his chest. Elizabeth and Ellen passed Seignora's smoldering corpse to talk to them and for one of the patrons to call the medics.

“She's a fucking zombie, man!” Ellen yelped with tears in her eyes. “A zombie!”

“She was wantin' to take our skin, though,” Joey pointed out. “Not our brains.”

“Or maybe,” Krista suggedted, “—'cause she asked 'where are my clothes?' and she shook her arms about. She was looking for new skin to comprise herself with.”

“Shook her arms an' a bunch'a skin tickets came flyin' off...” Joey shuddered.

“Skinlings,” Jill quipped.

“Somebody who was still alive and wanted it to stay that way,” Krista added.

“My God,” Ellen whispered as she handed Elizabeth the urn, and she tucked it underneath her arm. The five of them stayed there at the end of the hallway until the medics showed up to take the smoldering corpse away to the morgue. Seignora was perhaps going to end up in a fire regardless of what she wanted after the Griffith Park Fire anyway.

And even though it was almost midnight at that point, Elizabeth offered them a cup of late night coffee before bed. They congregated around the table of which Joey had taken his seat at before. Ellen lay Seignora's pearl necklace on the hearth before she sat down: the pearls were still intact despite having sustained not one, but two shotgun blasts.

“What I want to know is how in the world—would she remove someone's flesh and blood and not make a huge fucking mess?” Ellen almost gagged at the thought.

“Her medical record said she was a seamstress,” Joey recalled. Jill noticed his stomach cave in and his feet shuffle underneath the table. And then she gasped as the memory of Elise's burial returned to mind. Those last moments she saw her best friend's corpse before it vanished into the flames, she recalled a huge gash on her belly, which they all assumed came from the tumor, and yet it was too perfect. Too manufactured.

“What?” Elizabeth raised her eyes at her.

“She killed Elise,” Jill concluded. “She killed Elise to take her flesh—but wait a minute.” She turned to Elizabeth. “—Elise had cancer brought on by diabetes.”

“Yeah. But we thought it was that that killed her. We couldn't imagine somebody—much less Seignora—killing her, though.”

“And Elise still had her skin, too,” Ellen recalled.

“She was diabetic—and Seignora's skin was perfect. So she probably killed Elise and found out that it was the skin of a diabetic.”

“So what now?” Krista asked them, right as the waitress strode up to them with five white mugs of black coffee and an accompanying karafe of cream and some sugar packets.

Joey raised his mug to the warm intimate light. Jill noticed his brown eyes wandering over to the hearth and the string of white pearls laying there on top of the bricks.

“To Elise and Seignora,” he said in a low voice.

“Elise and Seignora,” the four women echoed all in unison. For a split second, Jill swore she saw Seignora's face appear in the warm light, but she knew it was the adrenaline waning off as she took a sip of that rich fresh coffee. That next act of the play would be even more cathartic given Seignora's absence, a heavy absence following someone who just wanted to live and stopped at nothing to find it for herself.

[kiraawrites]

2MSS #20: Limbo

From @alexprompts‘ post:  “Of course I don’t fear death - she raised me.”

Day 20 of the 2 Month Short Stories Challenge w/ @flyingfalconflower12

Word count: 1450

Constructive criticism welcome!

I embraced the wind as I ran across rooftops. From gap to gap, I leapt. Traversing the town from so high above placed a smile on my face. People milled about below me, some shooting confused or alarmed looks at me. It had been three hours since I left my house and it was time for a break. Crossing my legs and peering over the edge of a building, I made eye contact with a friend. She signalled at me to come down. I grimaced, knowing what she would say. Containers lining the side of the building paved my way to the ground.

Abby studied me with her arms folded and her brows furrowed. “You don’t fear death, do you? You’re always doing parkour in your free time. Can’t believe you haven’t had a bad fall yet.”

I smirked. “Of course I don’t fear death — she raised me.”

“Haha, funny. Come along — I’m grabbing lunch at your favourite place.”

“No, really. Let me tell you about it,” I insisted. “I’ve never gotten to tell my story.”

——————-

My birth name had been Ana Mitrović. My new name was Anna Miler. I still remember the phlegm clogging my itchy throat. Simultaneous hot and cold as I lay swaddled in the blankets of my cot, the raging fever waging a war with my body. Breathing was laborious. My mother’s face — worried, anxious, stressed — looking down at me, wondering how she could make me healthy.

A burning sensation overtook everything. I shivered, an infant clueless of everything but the pain I was feeling. And then it went dark: replaced by chilly water on my back and the kiss of a passing breeze. Someone was wading towards me. I broke out in tears and called for the reassurance of my parents. The only person that came was a lanky woman, clothed in white. Her hair was silk, her skin as pale as milk. Her eyes, however, seemed darker than the deepest night. 

She cradled me, placing a hand on my forehead. The warmth came back as she did that. This time, I was unscathed. It was pleasant, like a loving mother’s kiss. An orange glow shone on her palm as she drew it away. A smile turned into an “O” of surprise as she carried me away.

I must have fallen asleep, for I remembered waking up in a room full of cots. My clothes had been changed. I knew I was safe there. The pale woman came in and stood by my cot.

“This is your home now, Ana. Welcome to Limbo. You can call me Mother Death.”

Turning to a woman at her side, she whispered something. The only things I could pick out were, “the fire we’ve been looking for.” Many years had to pass before those words uncovered their meaning.

———————-

The schoolyard was packed with other kids — all having died very young — rushing to their class. Although the dorms were close to the campus, everyone left it to the last minute. A television anchored to the roof of the main corridor blared news from the world of the living. It was like a pair of binoculars to the chaos that Death had saved us from.

In class, the Soul Harvesting teacher pulled out a huge leather-bound journal. It was inked with the haphazard inscriptions of Mother Death herself. We were Mother Death’s helpers in the making. Souls were finicky: sometimes they fled the body too fast, while some refused to join the Underworld. We were taught about the different depths of Hell and where to place the souls of the sinners (in the flames for the malicious, deep in icy water for the deceitful).

At times, we would get a teacher from ten centuries ago. Everyone in Limbo did not age past twenty, but there were girls in 1920s flapper fashion and men in Roman robes. Despite barely having seen anything  but the dark cave walls of Limbo, nothing was missing.

———————-

“Ana. Mother Death has asked to see you,” my professor told me. “Now. It’s urgent.”

I nodded, shoving my notebooks into my bag. Faint blue light led my way out of the university campus. I swerved through crowds and inched my way through the Central Market. As I passed by a stall hawking mushrooms, the vendor grabbed me by the hand and pulled me in.

“You can feel it in the air, can’t you?” she whispered, looking around with wary eyes.

“Feel what?”

“Hell is stirring beneath us. It’s been grumbling for years — but recently it’s been getting worse. I thought you’d know. You seem like one of them.”

“I don’t get it. Sorry, but I have to meet Mother Death now.”

“Hold on. Let me check whether my instincts were right.”

Her grasp on my hand tightened and became warmer. The fire. The heat tingled and intensified. A flame rose from my palm. I yelped and jumped back, knocking over a container of wares.

“When you died, did it feel like a flame burning you up?”

“Yeah. I died of a fever.”

She smiled at me and said, “That wasn’t the fever. It was Hell trying to get to you.”

———————-

Mother Death sat at her dining table in her cottage. Even though she headed the city, she loved the seclusion of the corners of Limbo. She poured two cups of tea with nimble fingers and invited me to sit across her.

“I’ve heard that you’re doing exceptionally well in university. You’ll be amazing in the soul research field, my dear.”

My cheeks glowed with her approval. She had returned me the life that was snatched from me. She provided for all.

“It’s all thanks to you, Mother,” I paused before continuing, “There’s something very odd that I heard today from a vendor at the Central Market.”

She motioned for me to continue. I poured out every detail of the encounter, my hands trembling as I held the cup for its comforting warmth. Midway through my recollection, she extracted a notepad from her tremendous desk drawers. With a quill and a bottle of ink, she wrote with a deft hand. Her eyes were keen, concentrated on my every word. Encouraged, I retold the day’s affairs with a fairytale-like flourish.

“That is what I wanted to discuss today. From what you told me, you were speaking to Marie. She sees people’s fates. A wonderful talent that hasn’t grown obsolete.”

“Why does she have that power?” I played with my belt buckle, agitated by what Mother may say.

“The souls in Hell don’t like being in Hell. Every few centuries, they try to break out into the world of the living. She helped me piece together a team for the last attempt.”

The fire we’ve been looking for. I was part of the team. My hands… Their flames! Dancing balls of light that emerged in my moments of vivid emotion. When I failed my Soul Harvesting final… The textbook that burned. My head bobbed up and down in slow acceptance.

“Something’s different now. They’ve been speaking to me in my dreams. I don’t know what they’re saying — the connection’s somewhat garbled,” Mother Death said.

“What do I do? I don’t know anything…”

“You’ll have to return to the Overworld. Use a new name — Anna Miller?”

“And then?”

“Spend some time on Earth. Soon, I’ll come for you again. You’ll have to experience me a second time, I’m afraid.”

“And that’s how I infiltrate Hell? Death under a new identity?”

“Smart girl. I’ll accompany you to the Gate of Rebirth and no further.”

———————-

Abby was dumbfounded, struck by silence. Patting her back, I looked on as she struggled to process it all. Her eyes were locked onto the ground. She drew in her lips and nibbled on them as she delivered her viewpoint, “Damn, Anna. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“Let’s go to the restaurant. Pretend nothing happened.”

I helped her up to her feet and we walked to the nearby Italian restaurant. The aroma of food took a load off our shoulders as we pored over the menu. Service was quick; my plate of carbonara arrived seven minutes after ordering. I dug into it, revelling in the rich creaminess of it. 

A few minutes into the meal, a headache crept in. I should’ve slept more last night. My chest was fluttering. Too fast. Way too fast. And then it slowed down. A pale woman came to our table and took my wrist. Abby’s eyes darted to her, alarmed, confused. 

“Are you ready?” the woman murmured.

MOTHER.

My body shook and then stiffened, everything fading to black.

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ON NICO’S CANON DIVERGENCE....

so while writing up nico’s bio and about page, i realized how much i changed around in his life and personality from the books, etc. when it comes to little things that at least in my interpretation significantly shape nico as a person. SO this is basically a list of things that i’ve changed or brought more attention to. feel free to read it if you’d like, i’m going to link this on his about page for reference, but it’s also terrifyingly long so by no means feel obligated to read it. it’s split into five sections-- nico’s timeline, nico’s motivations, nico’s fears, nico’s powers, and the rules of mythomagic.  see tags for triggers. 

i’ve also put it under a read more because it’s so freakin long. oops. 

NICO’S NEGLECTED TIMELINE.

i. CHILDHOOD IN ITALY and AMERICA : nico is italian. he grew up in italy. his first language is italian. until he was about nine years old, he lived in italy with his mother and bianca, and hades was actually a semi-present person in his life in his very young years at least. he gets his memories wiped in the river lethe, though some things seem to have remained. the fact that hades has nico and bianca’s memories wiped really, REALLY upsets nico when he finds out what’s happened, and threatens his relationship to hades severely. especially when he finds out what happened to maria ( aka zeus killed her when he was trying to kill bianca and nico, and hades was unable to save both maria and his children ), it becomes incredibly important to him to find a way to remember as much as he can about his history, or at least learn about it. hades fills in some of the gaps, and a fair chunk of his memories are restored, and the rest is partially filled in by doing old fashioned research. discovering more about his family and reconnecting himself to his italian roots is incredibly important to nico-- he’s lost his mother and bianca already at this point, so this is the closest he can get to feeling close to them again. 

ii. TIME IN THE LABYRINTH : nico learns a lot in the labyrinth from king minos, and that’s kind of the problem. nico is a really, really young kid at this point ( bianca died at i think 12 years old, so nico is probably in the 10-11 years old range at the time. rick’s given some conflicting reports about nico’s specific age, which makes it really hard to figure out exactly how old he is. we just know he’s the same age as will solace in modern time-- in my canon, nico is 12ish. see my post about his timeline here. ) and all of a sudden he finds himself lost in the labyrinth where his only guide is minos. that’s it. no one else. minos teaches him how to shadow travel, and nico’s pretty much locked in the labyrinth with nothing else to do but work on understanding and strengthening his powers. by the time he’s reunited with percy in daedalus’ workshop, his powers are pretty strong. he’s able to create enough of a distraction that they can escape kronos briefly, so he’s pretty powerful even for a kid his age. 

the time in the labyrinth is critical to his growth, but also really disturbing. minos encourages nico’s obsession with strengthening his powers, and that mentality really sticks with nico for an uncomfortably long time after he’s left the labyrinth. he then makes the choice to go back into the labyrinth multiple times. the fact that he’s more comfortable wandering around the labyrinth than staying at camp speaks volumes about who nico is as a person, and can’t be emphasized enough in its importance when it comes to the growth of nico’s powers and the increase in his desire for isolation. 

iii. TIME IN TARTARUS : long story short, nico’s time in tartarus fucks him up. a constant barrage of psychological, mental, and emotional torment knocks him back to a point where he’s just about lost his mind completely by the time he’s captured and removed from tartarus. in my version of nico, at least, he’s barely got a grasp on who he is by the time gaea’s forces catch him. his time in tartarus drags all of his bad memories and losses right up to the front of his mind, and he really goes above and beyond the extreme to stay alive. the greatly debated timeline of events for the pjo/hoo series says that nico is in tartarus for about twelve days before being put in the jar for three. however, i disagree with this estimate strongly. percy and annabeth are trapped in tartarus for eighteen days according to the timeline, and while yes, them being in tartarus together rather than alone allows them to keep their sanity longer than it would if they were just on their own, it’s stated that as a child of hades, nico is probably more resilient when it comes to the effects of tartarus. we also know from his interaction with akhlys that some of tartarus’ “foes” don’t have as much of an effect on nico as they do on others. akhlys says there’s not much she can do to him when she meets him, because he’s already so miserable, her powers are limited in their usefulness. so my guess is that nico was in there for about a month or so before being removed by gaea’s sons and placed in the bronze jar. but point is that nico’s time in tartarus is wildly disturbing and contributes to a lot of his fears, which are touched on below. nico’s time in tartarus is central to who he is as a character the way i write him, and while he hates talking about it, it’s something he thinks about a lot everyday. 

NICO’S MOTIVATIONS.

i. TRAUMA OVER LOSING BIANCA : i haven’t changed much from canon for this but i will say this one thing-- bianca was the last person for years to say that she loved nico. no one told him, no one said anything, no one expressed that they really truly cared about him for a disturbingly long time. i touch on how this impacts nico’s feelings towards percy below but in my interpretation, nico kind of just.... forgets that people can/do love him. at least in my verse of things, probably the first person that’s told him that they love him since before bianca died was will solace, and the realization that since bianca, there hasn’t been a single person alive that loved him really seriously rattles and damages him. it’s bittersweet being told that people love him, because while it’s important to him, it’s also jarring to look back and think that for a long time, no one did at all. 

ii. FEELINGS FOR PERCY : yes, a lot of nico’s actions are driven by his complicated feelings for percy. rick definitely touched on that a lot more in the later books after we find out that nico is gay, and we saw a lot of reasoning for nico’s actions come into focus in this new lens when it came to looking at who nico is as a person. there’s the really great ( for showing nico’s feelings, the scene itself is horrific and terrible ) scene in house of hades that i’m gonna quote even though it’s long, but--

     Images flashed through [ Jason’s ] mind. He saw Nico and his sister on a snowy cliff in Maine, Percy Jackson protecting them from a manticore. Percy’s sword gleamed in the dark. He’d been the first demigod Nico had ever seen in action.       Later, at Camp Half-Blood, Percy took Nico by the arm, promising to keep his sister Bianca safe. Nico believed him. Nico looked into his sea-green eyes and thought, How can he possibly fail? This is a real hero. He was Nico’s favorite game, Mythomagic, brought to life.       Jason saw the moment when Percy returned and told Nico that Bianca was dead. Nico had screamed and called him a liar. He’d felt betrayed, but still... when the skeleton warriors attacked, he couldn’t let them harm Percy. Nico had called on the earth to swallow them up, and then he’d run away-- terrified of his own powers, and his own emotions.

- The House of Hades

we can see really clearly nico’s crush on percy forming during even his earliest interactions with percy, and while i strongly disagree that nico understood his feelings when he first ran from camp ( see below section about nico’s sexuality ), he does come to understand them later on, and responds to those feelings by avoiding getting emotionally attached or reliant on anyone, including the rest of campers at chb, the main gang, etc. it’s true that his feelings for percy dictate a lot of his actions, both in service of percy’s causes and in relation to how he acts around percy and those close to him ( like annabeth ). however, i cannot stress enough that NONE OF NICO’S ACTIONS IN MY VERSION OF HIM ARE DRIVEN BY HIS DESIRE TO GET PERCY TO LOVE HIM BACK. canon says these are his motivations outright with the quote : 

“An idea came to him-- possibly the stupidest, craziest idea he’d had since he thought, hey, I’ll get Percy to swim in the River Styx! He’ll love me for that!” 

- The Blood of Olympus

i think this does nico a huge disservice. while yes, i maintain that nico’s feelings for percy influenced a lot of his behavior and played a major role in his actions, none of the things he did were done with the hopes of getting percy to love him back. nico is mad at percy and blames him for bianca’s death-- he’s not going to be trying to show percy that he’s worth loving. he’s got nothing to make up for or prove. him trying to show off repeatedly by nearly killing himself on multiple occasions overexerting himself while using his powers to help or protect percy-- getting percy to bathe in the river styx, coming to his aid at multiple battles, trying to save him from falling into tartarus-- don’t scream “please love me back” to me. 

in fact, i think it’s really fucked up to put that on nico and his relationship to percy. i’ll probably do a whole meta on this at some point too because i’m really mad about this in the books but the way that rick set up nico’s relation to percy with him trying to get percy to love him back is so wildly unhealthy that it’s disturbing. no. it weakens nico as a person and as a character and makes him seem pathetic, just sadly trailing along after percy and doing whatever percy wants / needs because he just wants him to like him back. nope. i ain’t playin this shit, and let me tell you what the better narrative is-- 

people do crazy things to protect the people that they love, and nico’s reasoning for all of the crazy stuff he did to protect percy was based on his feelings for him and wanting to keep him safe, even if he is with someone else. that doesn’t stop him from being jealous and even a little resentful of percy’s relationship with annabeth, but he’s not running around trying to get rid of annabeth so he can win percy. that’s not who he is, and that’s never been who he is. so again, i’m gonna stress that nico is NOT motivated by his desire to get percy to love him back, but rather by the fact that he loves percy enough to put his life and safety on the line for him. 

iii. ANXIETY : my version of nico focuses A LOT on anxiety. nico’s life has, to put it simply, been a nightmare and a half, which ultimately leads to him having a lot of issues with things like self image, his ability to connect with other people, etc. so my version of nico really runs with that, especially in just his day-to-day life. 

now, he’s clearly fucking around in this scene, but--

     “Nico,” I said at last, “shouldn’t you be sitting at the Hades table?”      He shrugged. “Technically, yes. But if I sit alone at my table, strange things happen. Cracks open in the floor. Zombies crawl out and start roaming around. It’s a mood disorder. I can’t control it. That’s what I told Chiron.”      “And is it true?” I asked.       Nico smiled thinly. “I have a note from my doctor.”       Will raised his hand. “I’m his doctor.”

- The Hidden Oracle

now this is a cute giggle scene that i’ll call back to in the next section for other reasons, but nico has up to this point been a hardcore loner. being at camp and around other campers has consistently made him uncomfortable up until blood of olympus, so him making not just a little effort but a whole thing out of it so he doesn’t have to sit alone is what i’m focused on, and why the thought of people disliking him, etc. fuels a lot of his behavior. he’s working on getting over it in the hidden oracle, but he’s still got a long way to go. 

in my version of nico, his anxiety is more heavily connected to his phobikinesis, aka his ability to radiate the feelings of fear and death, which is something he inherited from hades. nico frequently uses this in battle as we see, but in just normal life, it shows up a lot more. one of nico’s powers basically lets him kill plant life around him, but when he is especially anxious, angry, or upset, the same happens. a large chunk of people being freaked out by him in the earlier days is because he’s, well, the son of hades, but it’s also his own anxieties getting literally projected onto other people, who then show the same discomfort he’s afraid of them showing. while he’s clearly using this as an excuse to get what he wants in the hidden oracle segment, it is a genuine problem for him, and i don’t think chiron would’ve allowed it if he thought nico was just fucking around. there’s something real behind it that i don’t think we should ignore, so for my version of nico, at least, it’s very real and has seriously changed his life because of how people see him and behave around him. 

nico’s anxiety plays into some of his other powers as well. i touch on this later with nico’s “mood disorder”, as he calls it, which he uses to get it so chiron will let him sit at the apollo table during meals, but nico is able to kill things around him with pure anxiety. in house of hades--

     Nico braced himself against a column, his legs trembling visibly.      “Hey, man...” Jason stepped toward him, but Nico waved him off.      At Nico’s feet, the grass turned brown and wilted. The dead patch spread outward, as if poison were seeping from the soles of his shoes.

- The House of Hades

i talk more about this scene later on when it comes to nico’s fears, but nico’s nervousness, shame, sadness, anger, and fear are all connected to how this power manifests itself, and it’s a serious problem for him that he’s never really had to get under control until he starts spending time with more people, i.e. after blood of olympus.

iv. JEALOUSY : i’m not going to expand on this much but nico is a wildly jealous person, which we see multiple times throughout the series. he’s petty and jealous, that’s about it. i don’t think it gets emphasized enough that he feels these emotions, especially as strongly as he does.

NICO’S WORST FEARS.

i. THE DARK : nico spent a disturbingly long amount of time in tartarus. as a child of hades, he claims that darkness never bothered him before-- 

“I am the son of Hades. I go where I wish. The darkness is my birthright.”

- The Blood of Olympus

--but i disagree when he says this doesn’t bother him at all. not only is nico an incredibly proud individual, he’s kind of an Extra kid that puts on a tough face whenever he feels even vaguely doubted or threatened. he could easily just be bullshitting here so he can do what he wants rather than admitting he’s afraid. my interpretation of nico’s fear of the dark comes initially from the lines--

This did not seem to reassure Nico.  “I don’t like being in the dark,” he muttered.  An odd complaint for a child of Hades, but I understood...

- The Hidden Oracle

while he’s admittedly not talking specifically about nico’s fear of the dark, the fact that apollo finds it weird for a child of hades to complain about the dark when nico said literally one book ago that the darkness is his “birthright” sparked the idea. especially when it comes to not just nico’s time in tartarus, but the time he was trapped in the jar by gaea’s sons, it’s not an illogical conclusion to say that he has at least an acute phobia of the dark. 

ii. CONFINED SPACES : like his fear of the dark, nico’s fear of confined spaces comes from his time in the bronze jar. once he’s captured by gaea’s forces, they drop him in the jar and take him out of tartarus. he’s got limited oxygen in there and needs to go into a death trance just to keep himself alive. at this point, he’s been in the dark for so long, being trapped in pretty much complete darkness in a closed space where he’s slowly running out of oxygen isn’t exactly relaxing, especially after he’s been stumbling around in tartarus and then captured. this basically just means that he gets antsy in closed spaces and big crowds where he doesn’t have his own personal space. he likes hades cabin because he’s usually the only one there, and he can keep it however he wants. i fully believe that after returning to and deciding to officially stay at camp, he gets a little more light in there, changes up his little coffin bed, and keeps lights on at pretty much all times, even if it’s just greek fire or something. complete darkness is something nico only does when it comes to shadow travel. 

iii. HIS SEXUALITY / BEING OUTED : cupid pretty much making nico admit that he’s gay in front of jason nearly breaks nico. we see him when he’s trying to still keep his feelings for percy private, he goes so far to try and keep that to himself. we also need to consider how angry/upset nico gets when cupid tries to out him. i mentioned him killing the grass in my section about nico’s anxiety, but nico shows off the full force of his power. i’m gonna quote a few chunks of this part from house of hades, but--

     “Nico,” [ Jason ] called, “what does this guy want from you?”      ‘Tell him, Nico di Angelo,’ Cupid said. ‘Tell him the real reason you ran from Camp Half-Blood, and why you are always alone.’      Nico let loose a guttural scream. The ground at his feet split open and skeletons crawled forth-- dead Romans with missing hands and caved-in skulls, cracked ribs, and jaws unhinged [ ... ]      ‘Will you hide among the dead, as you always do?’ Cupid taunted.       Waves of darkness rolled off the son of Hades. When they hit Jason, he almost lost consciousness-- overwhelmed by hatred and fear and shame...

- House of Hades

nico legit summons a mini army of the dead to attack cupid so he can try to avoid admitting he’s in love with percy ( or was, he claims that he’s over it later in the chapter, but personally i don’t think it is ), and if that ain’t an overreaction to someone trying to get you to admit you’ve got a crush, i don’t know what is. then, when we get to the part where nico ACTUALLY admits it, he’s overwhelmed with a wide variety of negative emotions. one more time--

     'Stop hiding,’ Cupid said [ ... ] ‘You do not have the strength.’      “Nico,” Jason managed to say, “it’s okay. I get it.”      Nico glanced over, pain and misery washing across his face.      “No, you don’t,” he said. “There’s no way you can understand.”      ‘And so you run away again,’ Cupid chihded. ‘From your friends, from yourself.’      “I don’t have friends!” Nico yelled. “I left Camp Half-Blood because I didn’t belong! I’ll never belong!”

[ ... ] Nico’s voice was like broken glass. “I--I wasn’t in love with Annabeth.”      “You were jealous of her,” Jason said. “That’s why you didn’t want to be around her. Especially why you didn’t want to be around... him. It makes total sense.”      All the fight and denial seemed to go out of Nico at once. The darkness subsided. The Roman dead collapsed into bones and crumbled to dust.      “I hated myself,” Nico said. “I hated Percy Jackson.”

[ ... ]

“I had a crush on Percy,” Nico spat. “That’s the truth. That’s the big secret.”  He glared at Cupid. “Happy now?”

- The House of Hades

he’s embarrassed, and ashamed, and when jason tells him it’s fine, he snaps at him-- 

"Just who I am... Easy for you to say. [ ... ] The only person who ever accepted me was Bianca, and she died! I didn't choose any of this. My father, my feelings..."

i fully believe that part of nico’s fear of coming out is based on the era he was raised in as a child. it’s not clear ( though it’s at least somewhat implied in the above lines ) that he ever got a chance to come out to bianca, but i don’t think he did. while nico’s friends are all cool with it when he does come out to them, the 1930s-1940s were a tense time with the rise of italian fascism and the lead up to world war ii, but all in all, it didn’t create a super safe environment for nico to even consider his sexuality in. especially once italy allied itself with nazi germany, nico’s sexuality would’ve been not only something he considered shameful, but something that he could’ve gotten killed for under the mussolini regime in italy. though he and his family left italy in the 1940s and came to america, at that point, the mentality had sunk in. not everyone struggling with understanding their sexuality knows from a very young age that they’re not straight, and i think that nico would be discouraged from even beginning to understand that side of himself until after bianca died. having missed that opportunity to come out to his family ( with the exception of hades, who’s just kinda “i’m fine with it as long as you stop talking to me about percy jackson and how cool he is” about it ) made him reluctant to share his secret with anyone else, especially when he’s been raised in an environment where that was shameful. one more quote from house of hades, but-- 

     Nico [ ... ] regarded Jason, as if waiting for an attack. “If the others found out--”      “If the others found out,” Jason said, “you’d have that many more people to back you up [ ... ].”      Nico scowled. Jason still felt the resentment and anger rippling off of him.  [ ... ]      “I don’t feel that way anymore,” Nico muttered. “I mean, I gave up on Percy. I was young and impressionable, and I-- I don’t...”      His voice cracked, and Jason could tell the guy was about to get teary-eyed. Whether Nico had really given up on Percy or not, Jason couldn’t imagine what it had been like for Nico all those years, keeping a secret that would’ve been unthinkable to share in the 1940s, denying who he was, feeling completely alone-- even more isolated than other demigods.

- The House of Hades

nico panics and almost bursts into tears at the thought of jason telling anyone. jason ultimately keeps his secret until nico’s ready to come out ( though it’s my firm belief that nico doesn’t come out to more than a few people; see below ), but nico lives in constant fear of being outed until, at least, he admits to percy that he had a crush on him, which he eventually does in blood of olympus. ( you can read my full analysis of this scene here )

but that’s a huge detour from why i’m talking about this. my main point is that nico’s fear of coming out is centered widely around his own self-consciousness when it comes to the subject and the mindset in which he was raised. it’s not until jason supporting him ( and keeping his secret until he was ready to talk about it to others ) and meeting will solace that he actually becomes more secure with this part of his identity, though he’s still not entirely comfortable with it. i’ve harped on this a lot, and i’ll move on soon, but nico’s discomfort-- 

     Will turned to me. “I apologize for my boyfriend.”      Nico rolled his eyes. “Could you not--”      “Would you prefer special guy?” Will asked. “Or significant other?”      “Significant annoyance, in your case,” Nico grumbled.      “Oh, I’ll get you for that.”      Meg wiped her dripping nose. “You guys fight a lot.”

- The Hidden Oracle

yes, this is kinda just passed off as a funny little exchange between the two of them, and part of their relationship. nico and will exchange witty banter through a lot of the book, and i’ll point to another little exchange not long after--

     “In the meantime, no one else should roam the camp alone. Use the buddy system.”      “Understood.” Will looked at Nico. “Will you be my buddy?”      “You are a dork,” Nico announced.      The two of them strolled off bickering.

- The Hidden Oracle

will and nico are clearly affectionate towards each other throughout the book, and nico is a lot more relaxed around will later on,  like when they’re all eating dinner together at apollo’s table ( see the “I have a note from my doctor.” exchange ), but immediately gets cranky when will starts calling him by romantic partner nicknames. it’s not just friendly bickering, it’s discomfort, especially in front of will’s father ( shoutout to apollo ) who could EASILY disapprove of him as will’s partner.

NICO’S POWERS. 

there’s a full list of all of nico’s powers and abilities on his about page (here), i’m just going to toss in here that a lot of the specifics fo his abilities i’ve taken some creative liberties with. since he’s got so many and they’re not all touched on that much except for once or twice, i’ve made the executive decision to make my own rules a bit. 

feel free to ask questions about this if you’ve got any, he’s got a lot of powers and it gets confusing easily. 

MYTHOMAGIC. 

this section isn’t anything important it’s more just a disclaimer that i’ve made up all the rules for mythomagic because there are no rules in canon. i’m bullshitting my way through that game and everyone should know it. i’ve based my concept on it on the game stratego, and morphed it into kind of a weird combo of that and d&d. personally i’ve never been part of a d&d campaign, but i’m a champion at stratego, so that’s why i picked that game as the basis for my mythomagic rules. 

if you’ve read through to the end honestly congrats i’m impressed. please accept this gif of nico giggling like a moron as your prize

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[ilosttrackofthings]

forehead touch for parasimmons, please!

This is probably a little too long for tumblr but also I am too lazy to give it a title and I want feedback faster so...

“We’reheading to Milan,” Coulsonsays, opening up the briefing.

“Ohh,undercover in a fashion show?” Skye asks.

“Weren’twe just in Italy?” Trip asks.

“Wewere,” Coulson confirms, ignoring Skye entirely. “That’s why they’re sending us andnot a team already stationed closer. Central command thinks there’ssome connection between a recent series of supernatural events andthe sting we took part in last month.”

Onthe screen behind him, an array of evidence appears. The first is asummoning circle that went very wrong. From the residue it appearsthe magical energies imploded, perhaps due to someone trying to abortthe spell? Whatever the cause, it reminds Jemma of the summoning theyinterrupted last month. Though they arrivedin time to rescue the poor man a gang of idiot casters was going tosacrifice on an honest-to-goodness altar,a short time after they cleared the scene the gathered energies, withno will to drive them, decimated the entire castle. Hundreds of yearsof history, gone in an instant because some idiots wanted to passtheir own dirty work off to a being from another dimension.

Thenext bit of evidence is a cell phone video of teenagers playing withthe magically charged ashes of a house fire—using it to communicatewith spirits and do mid-level but largely harmless spells—beforethe dark energies become too much for them and they run off,screaming and giggling. Following that is a police report on what aresuspected to be ritual sacrifices up and down the Italian coast, alsoinvolving fire.

“Theywould have had to be quick,” Jemma says, interrupting Coulson’sexplanations of the building events. She uses the comm in front ofher to pull up the images of the corpses. Skye recoils with achildish sound of disgust, which Jemma ignores. “And powerful.There’s no flesh left on any of them and the few we might be ableto discern their positions from show no signs of trying to defendthemselves from attack. It’s like they just fell, no idea anythinghad even hit them.”

Asthe team has their own personal pyromancer nemesis to contend with,she’s given such a potential death more thought than others, so shesupposes quick is the best way togo if you’re to burn to death. Butthat’s just the problem, isn’t it?

“EvenWard couldn’t do this,” she says into the silence that followsher assessment. The kind of power it would take to do this is almost unimaginable. It would take many mages at once and she looksto Fitz to say just that, only to discover Fitz is gone.

Everyoneis gone.

Shebacks away from the holocomm, sure the ice that is crackling alongher veins is more than just terror. The Bus feelscold all of a sudden. Like a morgue or a crypt or-

“Fitz?”she calls softly. She knows it’s silly, but the hope they’ve onlyjust walked out or crammed themselves under the table for a surprisecannot be ignored.

“He’sstill here.”

Shewhirls to face the voice. A man. Tall. Dark hair. He looks somewhatlike Ward, to be honest. But his expression is as kind as his wordswere. It could be a lie, as Ward’s kindness was, but for the momentthat at least sets him apart. As does the power radiating off him, sointense it heats the chill air.

“Whoare you?” she demands, reaching for her most imposing, agent ofSHIELDvoice. “What have you done with the others?”

Asharp yell at her elbow has her jumping. She thinks, for just amoment, that she sees something move in the air. Like steam risingfrom a pot, there and gone again. Butthis moves too swiftly to be steam and her frightened feet back heraway until she’s stumbling against the stranger.

Shejolts at his touch. In the lounge there’s more room to move andshe’s able to put herself between him and the cockpit. If she’svery very lucky, May will still be on the stick. She’ll know whatto do. If only Jemma can keep this invader from reaching her.

Hemakes no move to attack. He opens his hands at his sides. “As Isaid, your friends are still here. I haven’t done anything tothem.”

“Bollocks.”

Hesmiles at the curse. “As for you,however…”

Aburst of air brushes by her, like someone rushing from the cockpitinto the lounge. But there’s no one. No one she can see, at anyrate.

“Theyworry for you.”

“Whatdid you do to me?” Despite her best efforts, she fears the question comes out a little shrill.

“Isimply wanted to show you the greatness of the gift you gave me.”

“Gaveyou?” She studies him more carefully even as she shakes her head.“I don’t even knowyou.”

“No,but I know you.”

Whilethey’ve spoken, the distance between them has closed. She doesn’tknow if that’s due to some further manipulation on his part or ifit’s her, instinctively moving closer to the only source of warmth.Whatever the cause, the end result is a scant enough distance betweenthem that he can take her hand, turning it to expose the fresh scarrunning from her wrist up to her thumb. Sheonly cut it a few weeks ago, when she was cleaning up after…

“Thisis what it was like,” the stranger says while the clouds pressingat the Bus’s windows seep inside, obscuring the walls and furnitureuntil there’s nothing left but the two of them. “I was trappedinside that stone—you thought it an altar of sacrifice, Ibelieve?—for thousands of years.” He lifts her hand. Her nailshave darkened to purple in the gathering cold but when he kisses herscar the heat that arcs through her is almost too painful to bear.“Your blood set me free.”

Shestruggles against a wave of shivers, determined not to let her teethchatter. “You’re a demon.”

Thisis bad. Very bad. Those men who attempted to summon him were luckythe team arrived in time to stop them. Binding oneself to a demon inany way, but most especially via a summoning, is a dangerousbusiness. Images of SHIELD’s Cube flicker through Jemma’s mind.Padded rooms and straightjackets are the most optimistic outcome of a bondingwith a demon.

Isthat what this is? Does he mean to trap her in this illusion of hisown prison, so near her friends but so far, until her mind snaps?

“Ohno, my Jemma.” His arm around her does little to ward off herchills. But then his forehead rests against hers and his breath fallsover her face and she feels again that heat flowing through her likehe’s bringing her back to life. “I am a god.”

Herfocus snaps away from nightmares of the Cube and back to him.Chest-to-chest, her hand still in his, and his arm around her,they’ve begun swaying like a couple on a dance floor.

“No,”she says. “No, you can’tbe.” She tries to pull away, make some room between them, but heonly takes the opportunity to spin her into a real dance. The wallsand furniture of the Bus have evaporated completely into the fog. Arethe team still there? Is she?

“Iassure you, I am. I know your scholars tell you the Ancients diedlong ago, but my brethren went to great pains to ensure all memory ofme was erased after they banished me from your mortal plane. Luckily, they were not entirely successful and my followers have endeavored for centuries to return me to the Earth.”

AnAncient? Jemmashivers, though she doesn’t feel the cold at all anymore. TheAncients ruled over humanity for more than a thousand years. It wasonly their wars with each other that saw their reigns ended. Ifhe really is one of them, then he’s the onlyone. She studies his face, wondering if there’s anything on Earthcapable of killing such a creature.

“Whatdo you want from me?” she asks.

“Oh,my Jemma.” He strokes her hair back from her face. That’s thesecond time he’s called her that and she’s afraid she already hasher answer. “What don’t I want from you?”

[pokemaniacal]

Something that’s been on my mind for a bit that your professional word may be able to help with. Would you happen to know how ethnically diverse the Greek and Roman empires were?

very

next question please

…

…what, you want more?  Oh, fine, but for the record this is not the sort of thing people just “happen to know.”

Okay so I’m assuming by “Greek empire” (remember, kids: there was never a politically autonomous and unified state called “Greece” or “Hellas” until 1822) you mean Alexander’s empire (320s BC) and the Hellenistic successor kingdoms (323 BC – 31 BC), and by “Roman empire” you mean Rome starting from the time it becomes a major interregional power (say, following the second Punic War, which ended in 201 BC) rather than just Rome in the time of the Emperors.  You could spend like most of a book on each of these just corralling the data that might let us answer this question, but whatevs.

Lesson one: the ancient Greeks and Romans did not think about ethnicity in the same way as we do.  In particular, they were not super hung up on the colour of people’s skin – skin colour in ancient art is more often a signifier of gender than race, because women are expected to spend less time outside and therefore have lighter skin (which is another whole thing that we shouldn’t even get into because this is an aristocratic ideal of female beauty and of course lots of Greek and Roman women would have worked outside).  Arguably the most important signifier of ethnicity to the Greeks and Romans was actually language, with everyone who didn’t speak Greek or Latin being a “barbarian” (traditionally this word is supposed to come from the Greeks thinking that all foreign languages sounded like “bar bar bar,” although I’ve also heard a convincing argument that it comes from the Old Persian word for taxpayer, barabara, and originally signified all subjects of the Persian king).

In the modern world we have designations of ethnicity that are super broad and grow in large part out of early and long-since-debunked anthropological theory that divided humanity into three biologically distinct races, Caucasoid, Mongoloid and Negroid, and don’t really reflect a lot of important components of ethnicity.  The thing is, as the internet will happily tell you ad nauseam, race is a social construct.  Like, yes, designations of race describe real physical characteristics that arise from variation within human genetics, but the way we choose to bundle those characteristics is arbitrary, and where we choose to draw the lines is arbitrary (like, for a long time in the US, Greeks and Italians weren’t considered “white,” but today they definitely are, even though nothing changed about their genetics).  If we today were brought face to face with a bunch of ancient Greeks and Romans, we would probably be pretty comfortable with assigning a majority of them to the big pan-European tent of modern “whiteness,” but if you had asked them about it, they certainly would not have felt any kinship with the pale-skinned people of northern and western Europe from whom most English-speaking white people today are descended.  Those people were every bit as barbarian (and every bit as fair game for enslavement, for that matter) as the darker-skinned folk of the Middle East and North Africa.  Ancient Greeks and Italians also had loads of internal ethnic divisions – like, the Latins (the central Italian ethnic group to which the Romans belonged) were a different thing from the Umbrians to their east, the Etruscans to the north and the Oscans to the south.  In Greece, you had Dorians in the Peloponnese, Ionians in Attica and Asia Minor, Boeotians and Thessalians in central Greece, Epirotes in western Greece, and DON’T EVEN ASK about the Macedonians, because boyyyyyyyyy HOWDY you are NOT ready for that $#!tstorm.  The point is, race and ethnicity can be basically anything that you think makes you different from the people in another community.

So yeah, Alexander’s empire.  Alexander the Great conquered Persia, which was already the largest empire the world had ever seen at the time and incorporated dozens of ethnically distinct peoples (including many Greeks of Asia Minor, some of whom willingly fought against Alexander) through a philosophy of loose regional governance and broad religious tolerance.  Now, here’s the thing: Alexander had no idea how to run an empire of that scale.  No Greek did.  No one alive in the world did – except for the Persians.  Alexander didn’t have anything to replace the Persian systems of governance or bureaucracy, so… he didn’t.  Individual Persian governors were usually given the opportunity to swear loyalty to him and keep their posts; vacant posts were filled with Macedonians, but the hierarchy was basically untouched.  Alexander himself married a princess from Bactria (approximately what is now Afghanistan), Roxana, and had a kid with her, and encouraged other Macedonian nobles to take Persian wives as well, to help unify the empire.  Unfortunately Alexander, of course, had to go and bloody die less than two years after he’d finished conquering everything, and tradition holds that on his deathbed he told his friends that the empire should go “to the strongest,” which was an incredibly dumb thing to say and caused literally decades of war, which we are not even going to talk about because it is the most Game of Thrones bull$#!t in the history of history.  All you need to know is that when the dust settled there were basically three major Greco-Macedonian dynastic powers: the Antigonids in Greece, the Ptolemies in Egypt, and the Seleucids in Persia.

In terms of ethnic makeup the Antigonid kingdom is in principle the most straightforward because they’re basically still running the same Greece that Alexander’s father had conquered.  Even then, you should bear in mind that a) most Greek cities had legal provisions for allowing foreigners to live there under certain conditions (“foreigners” often meant Greeks from other cities, but in principle could be anyone), and b) the Greeks had a lot of slaves (many of whom were, again, Greeks from other cities, because that’s fine in ancient Greek morality, but a lot of them would have come from all over the place), and even though the Greeks didn’t count slaves as “people” or consider them a real part of a city’s ethnic composition, WE SHOULD.  The Ptolemaic kingdom in Egypt seems to have had a relatively small Greco-Macedonian upper class ruling over a native Egyptian, Libyan and Nubian peasant majority.  Members of that ruling class seem to have been kind of snobbish about any mixing between the two – only the very last Ptolemaic ruler, Cleopatra VII (yes, that Cleopatra), even bothered to learn the Egyptian language.  However, the Ptolemaic rulers did make some important cultural gestures of goodwill towards the Egyptians.  They took the native title of Pharaoh, which previous foreign rulers of Egypt hadn’t, and adopted a lot of traditional Pharaonic iconography like the double crown.  They also worshipped some of the most important Egyptian gods, most notably Isis, and may have kind of… deliberately created a new Greco-Egyptian god, Serapis, by blending together Osiris and Dionysus (Serapis actually becomes super important in the Roman period and is widely worshipped even outside Egypt).  And then there’s the Seleucids, an empire that did nothing but slowly collapse from the moment it was established.  They have a rough time of it because they have the largest land area to cover and dozens of distinct ethnic groups to bring together, and it doesn’t help that they kinda keep doing the Game of Thrones thing for about two hundred fµ¢&ing years.  They often get a bad rap in history and have a reputation for oppressing the non-Greek populations of their empire, but that’s probably at least partly because some of our most important sources for the Seleucids are Jewish, and the Seleucid kings’ relationship with the Jews broke down in a fairly spectacular fashion during the reign of Antiochus IV Epiphanes (r. 175-164 BC).  It’s not clear whether that’s representative of the Seleucids’ normal relationship with their subject peoples, or a worst case scenario.  Also, the Seleucids tend to get painted as villains in the historical record by both the other Greek powers and the Romans, and never really get much of a chance to defend themselves because we don’t have Seleucid histories.  What is clear is that they inherited all the ethnic and religious diversity of the Persian Empire, and most of their rulers were half-Persian because they followed Alexander’s example by marrying into the Persian nobility.  After an initial period of conflict they also seem to have maintained cordial relations with the Mauryan Empire of India, their neighbour to the east, for several decades, and contemporary Indian sources talk about sending Buddhist missionaries into Seleucid lands, so… like, there might have been a bunch of Greek Buddhists running around the empire; that’s a thing.

Whew.  Okay, so that is a criminally brief answer to-

OH CHRIST YOU ASKED ABOUT THE ROMANS AS WELL

WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME

Right.  Romans.  One of the major schools of thought on how the Romans were able to create such an enormous and long-lasting empire in the first place is that their openness to accepting foreigners into their community gave them an enormous manpower advantage over every other ancient Mediterranean state.  Greek politics generally operates on the level of cities; even in the age of Alexander, individual cities have quite a lot of legislative autonomy.  Citizenship is also something that works on the level of cities: you aren’t a citizen of, say, the Seleucid Empire; you’re a citizen of Antioch, or Tyre, or Babylon, or whatever.  But then the Romans happen.  The Romans are weird, because they will sometimes just declare that all the people of an allied city are now also citizens of Rome.  In the early period of Rome’s expansion in the central Mediterranean, this meant (or so the theory goes) that they could draw upon larger citizen armies and sustain more casualties than their rivals.  This is how they beat Pyrrhus, the Greek king of Epirus (r. 297-272 BC), when he invaded Italy in response to disputes between Rome and the Greek colony of Tarentum; this is how they beat Hannibal, the legendary Carthaginian general, even after he annihilated the largest army the Romans had ever fielded at Cannae during the second Punic War (218-201 BC).  Now, at this point they are basically still just bringing in Italians, which we might consider ethnically homogenous even if they didn’t, but there’s more.

Once they really start to get going, the Romans enfranchise entire provinces at a time, like when the emperor Claudius (r. AD 41-54) decided to make everyone in Gaul (modern France, more or less) a Roman citizen.  The really interesting thing about this particular decision is that we actually have a copy of the speech he made to the Senate in Rome at the time, so we can examine his rationale.  Claudius’ argument is basically that being inclusive has always been what has made Rome stronger than its rivals, going right back to their mythological past, when Romulus populated his city with disenfranchised criminals from other communities (and, uh… women that they kidnapped from the next town over).  The Romans believed that everything great about their civilisation had originally been learned or borrowed from someone else – metalworking and irrigation from the Etruscans, infantry combat from the Greeks, shipbuilding from the Carthaginians, etc – so it wasn’t a huge stretch for them to believe that all these people should eventually become part of Rome as citizens (well… the ones who weren’t killed or enslaved in the conquest, anyway – no one ever said the Romans were saints).

The reason Claudius feels he needs to justify all this to the Senate is that citizenship (rather than any of the forms of semi-citizen rights that Romans would sometimes grant to their allies) will make rich Gauls eligible to become Senators themselves, and occupy other high-level posts like provincial governorships.  The decision affects the ethnic composition of the Senate, so even though he doesn’t actually need their permission to do it, he asks as a courtesy (the emperors’ relationship with the Senate is a weird and complicated thing).  Even without being a citizen, you could actually do a great deal in the Roman government in Claudius’ time.  Many of the most important jobs in the empire were ones that had existed during the age of the Republic, when Rome was theoretically a democracy, and all of those were restricted to citizens even after they stopped being elected positions – but there was also an imperial bureaucracy that answered directly to the emperor and his aides, and he was free to choose literally anyone to fill those positions.  As a result, a lot of emperors deliberately picked slaves and former slaves for loads of senior positions, specifically because their lack of citizen rights meant that they could never be political rivals, and because they were a useful counterbalance to the power of the blue-blooded Roman aristocracy.  And, again, slaves can be from basically anywhere.  A lot of these administrative slaves were Greeks, because Greek education provided useful skills for running the imperial bureaucracy that the Romans themselves often didn’t have, but emperors could and did commission literally anyone for these positions.

Eventually the emperor Caracalla (r. AD 211-217) just decided it wasn’t worth keeping track anymore and declared that every freeborn person in the entire empire, which by that point stretched from northern England to Morocco to Romania to Jordan, was now a Roman citizen.  All of these people are now “Romans,” regardless of their language or culture or religion; the only criterion is that they not be slaves or former slaves (and even if they’re former slaves, their children will be Roman citizens).  And these people can move, in ways that were never possible before the Empire existed, because Rome is the first – and so far the last – political entity ever to unite the entire Mediterranean region, which allows them to wipe out piracy almost completely and jump-start trade and travel in ways that would never happen again for over a thousand years.  My own research on Roman glass has led me to encounter glassblowers with Syrian or Jewish names working in northern Italy – people who were probably integral to spreading the technology of glassblowing to western Europe.  The Roman army also moves people around – like, a lot.  You might enlist in your home town in Syria, then serve on Hadrian’s wall and retire in northern England – in fact, we know that this happened because we’ve found stuff like inscriptions in the Aramaic language in Roman Britain.

Also Rome had, like… a whole dynasty of African emperors one time.  Septimius Severus (r. AD 193-211) and his successors were part Italian, part Punic (of Carthaginian descent – ultimately Middle Eastern, since the Carthaginians were originally a Phoenician colony) and part Berber (native North African), and Severus grew up in what is now Tunisia.  And that wasn’t really a big deal for the Romans, 1) because Severus’ Italian ancestry made him a Roman citizen, which trumps all other signifiers of ethnicity, and 2) Rome had already had a couple of emperors of Iberian (= Spanish) descent by this point who were considered some of the best ever, and the Iberians are just as “barbarian” as the Berbers as far as Rome is concerned.  Other Roman emperors of varied ethnicities include Philip (Arabian), Diocletian (Illyrian), the three Gordians (probably Cappadocian), and Elagabalus (Syrian, and incidentally the gayest Roman of all time; like, normally I would warn you to be super cautious about using modern labels like “straight” and “gay” for Romans because they just didn’t think about sexual orientation in those terms, but I make an exception here because Elagabalus was super gay).

Oh, and just because someone will definitely bring it up if I don’t, there was a big fuss in the news a few years back because someone discovered the skeletons of what they claimed were Chinese people living in, of all places, Roman Britain.  And to me, one Chinese family in Britain in the first century AD is not particularly a dramatic stretch of plausibility (a handful of people could easily slip through the historical record and just never be mentioned), but the evidence in this particular case falls some way short of “proof.”  There’s chemical data that suggests these individuals grew up somewhere far away from Britain, which is well and good, but the thing that points specifically to China is not the isotopic analysis but a study of bone morphology, and trying to determine someone’s ethnicity on the basis of what their bones look like, on the universal scale of things that are sketchy, ranks “sketchy as all fµ¢&.”  Again, I’m happy to believe that they exist, because China (Seres in Latin) and Rome (Dà-Qín in Chinese) definitely knew about each other, and we occasionally find Roman artefacts and coins in eastern Asia, or Chinese artefacts in the eastern Roman Empire, but the specific evidence for these individuals isn’t there, in my opinion.

…that was a brief answer.  Let it stand as a warning to others.