#travel news dover

[wenclairfamily]

Travel Blog: Visiting the Birthplace of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Dover, New Hampshire may seem like a quaint small town... but in this small town back in the early 1980's: Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird created a little independent comic book called Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It was while living in Dover that the two men created their own comic company called Mirage Studios... mostly because the studio was literally just a mirage; due to the fact that they were making their comics from their shared home they were living in. While the two would eventually leave New Hampshire to flourish their quickly growing in popularity franchise, the street where they lived while creating the Ninja Turtles still remains.

Upon visiting this holy ground for Ninja Turtles fans, I quickly realized that the street Mirage Studios once was housed on definitely shows the humble beginnings of the Ninja Turtles' creators. While some modern houses have been built on the street, most homes look over fifty years old now. Also, I quickly realized that many of these older homes have may not even had washing machines. Tons of clothes were swinging on clothes lines outside many homes (not photographed here out of respect of not wanting to show peoples' literal dirty laundry), and I also spotted several people walking down the street to a local community center that apparently had a washing machine; as people had bags of clothes and bottles of detergent in their hands. I have no idea if the Ninja Turtles creators had a washing machine in their home... but how humbling would it be to learn that Peter Laird and Kevin Eastman had to walk down the street to a community center to wash their clothes the day before they debuted the first Ninja Turtles comic at a nearby comic convention.

If you did not spot the Ninja Turtles manhole cover (installed a year ago thanks to a crowd funded campaign), you'd have no idea that a multi-million dollar franchise started on this very street. One can only imagine how nearby residents feel about their community's ties to the Ninja Turtles. Some might feel very happy that two of their own made it big. Others might feel anger and envy; wondering why life didn't deal them as well a good hand. It's a question I decided was best not to ask residents I passed by. Also, there were signs up nearby the famous Ninja Turtles birth site to stay away from individuals' private property. So I simply took my pictures, walked up and down the street a bit... and then moved on.

As a fun side note, I also made a point of visiting the closest comic book store near the famous site: Jetpack Comics. The creators of the Ninja Turtles were actually longtime friends with the owner of the store. Just click the center photo above and read the fun news story that I saw hanging on the wall about the owner and his store. Needless to say, this store had more Ninja Turtles comics than any comic book store I had ever been in. Plenty of exclusive variant covers from modern Ninja Turtles comics, tons of rare variant cover reprints of the famous Ninja Turtles/Cerebus crossover, some fun old Turtles merchandise, and a nice stash of classic Turtles comics from the old Mirage Studios days... although I may have picked out a nice amount of those classic comics to buy before I left. Sorry to any disappointed Turtles fans. ;)

[found-in-nomadland]

Dover, New Hampshire 🌻

[thecreationofevelyn]

6th of January 2023

So today everything begins again, I return to my work, my studies and my lessons; later today I have a driving lesson, we are intensifying my lessons this month as my test is soon and my first tutorial of the year is this evening.

I'm visiting Canterbury next month, I want to visit the White Cliffs of Dover while I am there and want to visit the Catching Lives Charity Bookshop; it is known as the wonky bookshop and was built over 400 years ago! I think I will visit the Samphire Hoe too, a nature reserve created during the construction of the Channel Tunnel.

I also booked a hotel in Paris for a trip in April, it is a very cute-looking hotel with good reviews; I'm planning on visiting The Louvre while there and taking a couple of days to explore Disneyland Paris too; do you have any recommendations for my visit?

My trip to New York is developing in my mind, I have made some plans on things I want to visit and see; I spoke with my friends about the best options regarding booking a place to stay and am researching the best time of year to visit and what the deal is in terms of transportation too. I think this visit will be longer than my usual ones because there is simply so much I want to do while I'm there!

Planning and booking these things really gives me a sense of comfort, I'm so happy when I know I'm going to see somewhere new and I can learn about that place. I think I heard someone call it wanderlust?

Anyways, here's a little photo of my London trip treats!

[jbaileyfansite]

Interview with the Los Angeles Times (2024)

“This is where all the cruising happened.”

Jonathan Bailey and I are standing in Pershing Square on a bright, blustery spring afternoon, nearing the end of a homemade queer history tour of downtown L.A.: One Magazine, Cooper Do-Nuts/Nancy Valverde Square, the Dover bathhouse, the Biltmore Hotel and this, the city’s former Central Park, a haven, since before World War I, for “fairies” and “sissy boys,” servicemen on leave and beatniks on the road.

“Is it still happening now?” he asks.

“Probably not as much,” I venture.

“Well, you let me know if it’s happening,” he teases, a mischievous smile lighting up his face.

Bailey understands the uses of the charm offensive. As Sam, the handsome Lothario of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s delightful pre-”Fleabag” curio, “Crashing”; Anthony, the romantic hero of “Bridgerton’s” second season; and John, the jerk of a protagonist in Mike Bartlett’s love triangle play “Cock,” the English actor, 36, has swaggered up to the precipice of superstardom. With roles in such studio tentpoles as “Wicked” and “Jurassic World” on the horizon, he may just break through. Yet he delivers career-best work in Showtime’s queer melodrama “Fellow Travelers,” as anti-Communist crusader-turned-gay rights activist Tim Laughlin, by leaving behind the self-assured rakes and tapping a new wellspring: soft power.

Tim may be, as Bailey puts it, “an open nerve,” but as it turns out, the devout Catholic and political naïf — who falls for suave State Department operative Hawkins “Hawk” Fuller (Matt Bomer) just as Sen. Joseph McCarthy tries to purge the federal government of LGBTQ people — is formidable indeed.

Stretching from the Lavender Scare to the depths of the AIDS crisis, in scenes of tenderness, cruelty and toe-curling sex, Bailey’s performance communicates that little-spoken truth of relationships: It takes more strength to submit than it does to control. The former demands discipline, courage, trust; the latter requires only force.

“In ‘Bridgerton,’ [Bailey] is like a Hawkins Fuller character — he is very sexy and has lots of power, has that kind of confident charisma that absolutely is not Tim at all,” says “Fellow Travelers” creator Ron Nyswaner.

But any doubt about Bailey’s ability to mesh with Bomer, who boarded the project early in development, was put to bed with the actors’ virtual rehearsal of a meeting on a park bench in the pilot. “‘Well, that’s a first,’” Nyswaner recalls an executive texting him. “I cried in a chemistry read.”

‘Am I inviting people in?’

Bailey grew up in a musical family in the Oxfordshire countryside outside London, and this, coupled with an appreciation for the morning prayers, choir practice and Mass he attended as a scholarship student at the local Catholic school, fed his precocious talents. (“I loved the performance of it,” he laughs. “Not to diminish the celebration of religious process, but I did love the idea of wearing a gown.”) By age 10, he’d appeared in the West End, playing Gavroche in a production of “Les Misérables,” an experience he now recognizes as an encounter with a queer found family — albeit one shadowed by the toll of the AIDS crisis, which peaked in the U.K. in the mid-1990s.

“When I’m asked about my childhood, there’s so much I don’t remember, and I think that’s true of anyone who’s been in fight or flight for 20 years,” he says. “I would have been in a cast of people whose friends would have died in the last seven years. I think of where I was seven years ago. I had all my gay friends then. It’s only retrospectively that I can retrofit a real gay community around me [in the theater], that I just wasn’t aware of [then].”

During the late 1990s and early 2000s, American and British culture presented queer adolescents with a bewildering array of mixed signals. As beloved celebrities came out in growing numbers, and the battle for marriage equality became a central locus of LGBTQ political organizing, the media continued to propagate harmful stereotypes of gay men as miserable, lonely, perverted or worse — and, Bailey remembers, callously turned George Michael, arrested on suspicion of cruising in a Beverly Hills restroom in 1998, and Irish pop star Stephen Gately, who revealed his sexuality in 1999, fearful he was about to be outed, into tabloid spectacles.

No wonder Bailey, like many LGBTQ people of his generation, should feel the “chemical” thrill of “validation and acceptance” during London Pride at age 18, then embark on a two-year relationship with a woman in his 20s.

“Dangerously, if you’re not exposed to people who can show you other examples of happiness, you think that’s the easiest way to live,” Bailey says. “It’s funny. You look back and you can tell the story in one way, which is that I always knew who I was and my sexuality and my identity within that. But obviously at times, it was really tough. I compromised my own happiness, for sure. And compromised other people’s happiness.”

Disclosures about his personal life have become particularly thorny for the actor since the premiere of “Bridgerton,” the blockbuster bodice-ripper from executive producer Shonda Rhimes.

“The Netflix effect does knock you off center completely,” he says, recalling the experience of finding a paparazzo waiting outside his new flat before he’d even moved in. “Suddenly, you do start having nightmares about people climbing in your windows... Even now, talking about it makes me feel like, ‘Am I inviting people in?’”

He is also critical of the media for churning out headlines about the smallest details of celebrities’ private lives, often detached from their original context. In an interview with the London Evening Standard published in December, Bailey described a harrowing encounter in a Washington, D.C., coffee shop in which a man threatened his life for being queer — and, in recounting the experience, offhandedly mentioned the “lovely man” he’d called, shaken, after it happened. Although Bailey acknowledges that the original story handled the subject with aplomb, he felt dismayed that more attention wasn’t paid to the intended warning about rising anti-LGBTQ sentiment: “The only thing that got syndicated from that story was that I had a boyfriend, and it wasn’t true,” he sighs. “It was kind of depressing, if I’m honest.”

Still, Bailey, who once turned down a role in a queer-themed TV series because it would have required him to speed along revelations about his personal life he wasn’t ready to make, is prepared to embrace the power of vulnerability when it feeds the work. Although a member of his inner circle expressed doubts about “Fellow Travelers’” steamy sex scenes, for instance, the actor intuited that they were what made the project worth doing: “I was like, ‘I’m telling you, they are the reason why this is going to be brilliant.’”

‘He’s changed my trajectory in my own life’

To those who would complain about the state of sex in film and TV, “Fellow Travelers” is the perfect riposte. All of it matters, from Tim’s first flirtation with Hawk to the finale’s closing minutes, because the series, at its core, is about the importance of soft power: the strength required to bend, but not break; to adapt, but not abandon oneself; to survive without shrinking to nothing in the process.And depicting that through sex, specifically gay sex, makes “Fellow Travelers” radical indeed.

Bailey understands that baring so much comes with certain risks. When I tell him that research for the story has filled my algorithmic “For You” feed on X (formerly Twitter) with speculation that his onscreen relationship with Bomer has a real-life element, he notes that “shipping” fictional couples and costars alike has long been part of Hollywood fantasy. But he bristles at the implication that he and Bomer are anything but skilled actors at work.

“I would love for people to know that the success of our chemistry isn’t based on us f—. It’s actually about us leaning into the craft,” he says. “It’s a vulnerable situation to be in, talking about it on record. I don’t want to rob people of their thoughts. But I do have a set of values, and as an artist, you don’t need to be f— to tell that love story.”

Underlying that craft, Bailey adds, is the confidence to speak up, as with one scene in “Fellow Travelers” that was adjusted because he said, “I don’t want to be naked today.” He learned to use his voice the hard way: In his early 20s, he recalls, he was once “bullied” on set when “someone was threatened” by him and vowed to himself, “I’m never going to do that to someone. I’m never going to allow that to happen.”

This impulse to direct his influence in support of others has blossomed further with “Fellow Travelers.” On the day of our interview, Bailey enthuses about an upcoming meeting with legendary gay rights activist Cleve Jones and shares his idea for a docuseries recording the stories of elders in the LGBTQ+ community while they are still here to tell them. He describes lying in a hospital bed on set on World AIDS Day, in character as Tim, surrounded by gay men who had lost friends and lovers during the crisis, and finding himself thinking, “What do I want to leave behind?”

“I think he’s changed my trajectory in my own life,” Bailey says.

This is, perhaps, the most common reaction I know to diving deep into queer history — the understanding that we, like our forerunners, are responsible for shaping the queer future, whether in politics, society or art. No one is going to do it on our behalf.

As we stand on the nondescript corner now named for her, I relate the story of the late queer activist Nancy Valverde, who was arrested repeatedly while a barber school student in the 1950s on suspicion of “masquerading” because of her preference for short hair and men’s clothing, and later successfully challenged her harassment by the police in court.

“What a hero!” Bailey exclaims, wondering at Valverde’s bravery. “The thing that’s so interesting with power battles is, ultimately, identity is the thing that gives you the most strength and power in your life, isn’t it?

“Because that’s one thing people can’t take away from you: who you are and how you express yourself.”

Source

[olympeline]

Love love love the omega verse fruk content! But, what do we think about omega Arthur accidentally getting pregnant in the 16th century and voila, FACE fam is born… something something “nation people don’t get pregnant even if they’re presenting omega and going through heat” but then new land is discover and “oops” turns out there is a reason why nation people have reproductive cycles

Oh nonny, do not unleash these thoughts on me! I tell you they will take root 🥺

See? Now I’m posting about it. I hope you’re happy! 😩

If this happened, I’m guessing it would be because of a very specific sets of circumstances. Otherwise nation-people don’t reproduce like humans do. When a new land is discovered, a successful settler population is established, with the main bulk of the settlers coming from an omega nation, and a significant portion coming from their alpha partner. And it had to be part of the New World, maybe? Like the clue is in the name. Just something about the Old World that makes it so no new nation-people are born the human way there any more. They used to be but it happened so long ago, when the Old World was new, that now not even China remembers. It’s become like an old wives’ tale to the nation folk. Anyway, all these boxes have to be ticked otherwise the new colony/nation-person comes into being the “normal” way and just appears one day. I kinda like this idea actually. Like a/b/o nations can have kids but such rare situations have to arise that they almost never do? And reproductive knowledge is still a loooot of guesswork back then too, so.

Soooo Francis and Arthur don’t bother with even the primitive precautions they had at the time. Why would they? The NA twins are the first new nation-people born this way in thousands of years, so the Dover pair had no idea they needed to be careful. Just carried on with their usual fooling around every time Arthur’s heat came, including on the shores of the New World. Like, literally on the shore, maybe? Francis is already there with the French colonists when he senses Arthur is near. Goes miles down the coastline close to where the English settlers are. Headcanon here that nation-people can travel much faster than normal humans so this doesn’t take him months, lol. Finds an English ship anchored and their personification alone on the beach. In heat and giving off an aura of STAY AWAY NORMAL HUMANS I LOVE YOU BUT FOR NO SPECIFIC REASON ENGLAND NEEDS SOME ALONE TIME WITH HIS FUTURE MATE ANCIENT ENEMY WHO HE STILL TOTALLY HATES SO GO INTO THE SETTLEMENT AND LEAVE YOUR MOTHERLAND BE UNTIL HE CALLS YOU, OKAY?

Arthur is all curled up in the sand like an overheated, grumpy merman. Scolds Francis for making him wait, then pulls him down and won’t even let Francis move them off the beach until they’ve done it a few times. Something about this heat has made it almost as bad as the first one and it started coming on halfway across the Atlantic. No amount of whining from Francis about sand in his hair or his new clothes getting ruined is going to make Arthur wait a moment longer for that knot. Even after Francis puts his foot down when the tide starts coming in and drags Arthur inland, they still keep at it. Marathon session that goes on and on until they’re both sore, sticky, and totally exhausted.

Francis: Needy this time weren’t we, mon lapin?

Arthur: Mmmm…*Sated omega sounds followed by three day sleep*

Francis stays by Arthur’s side and brings him food when he wakes up. He can’t explain why. He just…really wants to. Struts and sashays right into the English settlement, commandeers a kitchen and supplies, and just dares them to object, lmao. No one is that dumb! So Arthur gets a French feast when he wakes up. Then Francis keeps hanging around and staying close. Eventually a secretly pleased but outwardly embarrassed tsundere Arthur has to shoo him away back to his own lands. The food and aftercare are nice but people might start to talk and suspect, you know? They’re still supposed to be enemies.

Afterwards life carries on and things go back to normal. They get distracted by the day-to-day routine of being nations. So much so that Francis fails to notice when Arthur doesn’t call on him for help with his heats. It’s only when Arthur misses a third time that he starts to wonder. But then, Arthur was a late bloomer and their cycles are always a little wacky. Not so weird to skip a heat or two then have several close together. Francis isn’t too worried and neither is Arthur. Then he starts getting other weird symptoms. Often at hilariously inopportune times:

Arthur: *Mid Anglo-Spanish naval battle* Die, Catholic dog! You…

Antonio:….Yes?

Arthur:…One moment, please. *Dashes to the side of the ship to throw up*

Antonio:…Comida inglesa, ni siquiera una vez.

We’ve basically entered a pregnancy focused romantic comedy at this stage, lol. Not that anyone realises for a long time, Francis and Arthur included. It should be obvious: Arthur throwing up, not getting his heats, the alphas around him (even his enemies) suddenly not wanting to hurt him as much and pulling their punches when they fight, Francis wanting to stick around and be by his side, etc. It shouldn’t take a genius to work out what’s happening. But remember, hardly anyone knows Arthur is an omega at this point. Plus this kind of nation-person pregnancy is something that had passed into antiquity and become a myth. So everyone’s density is justfied.

In the end, it’s Alasdair who works it out first. He’s an alpha and Arthur’s older brother so his own protective instincts had to be going crazy. Which, on top of all the other changes Arthur is going through, the biggest telltale is his scent. Arthur’s brothers know him best out of everyone and, as the group’s sole alpha, Alasdair’s nose picks up what should be impossible. He thinks he’s wrong for months but the evidence keeps piling up. One morning he comes in to find Arthur slumped over with his head in a bucket as has become a common occurrence lately. Then, while Arthur’s good and distracted, Alasdair sneaks up to scent him. Then rips up his shirt and sees that barely there, slightly rounded middle. There’s no denying it then. Arthur’s omega nature and his “arrangement” with Francis was an open secret in the British Isles family. Arthur’s hastily put together potions and spells could disguise his scent enough to fool other nation-people, but not them. They all suspected but none of them, not even Alasdair, ever said anything out of respect for Arthur’s feelings. They knew what a blow it must have been for him. In spite of everything, they still care for the idiot, you know? He’s still their little brother.

Alasdair accuses Arthur in his ordinary, ultra blunt, Scottish way. Arthur brushes him off as being crazy. Alasdair leaves and comes back with Dylan and one of his books on the ancient history of their kind. Dylan is convinced, Arthur isn’t. You know how he is: denial all the way, baby! Dylan says Arthur is sick because the child needs to spend time in the New World where it will be born. Needs to soak up the energy of the land and the like. Otherwise…bad things, for both of them. Arthur says “you’re all crazy stop being crazy go away, crazy acting brothers of mine” but Alasdair says “right, then!” and just grabs Arthur up. Then, with Dylan’s help, they bundle their furious, spitting sibling onto a ship headed for Virginia. Alasdair goes with him. Meanwhile Dylan heads across the channel to tell Francis (“DYLAN DON’T YOU DARE DYLAN I WILL KILL YOU I SWEAR IF YOU SAY ONE WORD TO THE FROG-” - Arthur, probably). Francis is stunned by the news. Stunned and…cautiously ecstatic? I know he really wishes he could have a family in canon. Oh man, he would so want to believe this is real. But also be so afraid to get his hopes up because it sounds impossible. The drama! We love it. 🥺 Francis jumps on the fastest ship they have and sails to the English settlement to be reunited with Arthur. After a hilariously awkward conversation between the Auld Alliance duo (“…so, seems ye knocked up my little brother” “…oui, seems I did” “…aye, carry on, then” “merci”) Francis is allowed into the bedroom to see Arthur. Who’s still a Scottish prisoner, still in denial, and sulking like mad in a nest he made. Don’t ask him why he keeps wanting to make nests these days even though he hasn’t had a heat in ages. Well, you can ask but the only answer you will get is shut up and go away, dickhead. Arthur Bloody Kirkland is the face of the United Bloody Kingdom and he can make bloody nests if he bloody wants to! *Hissy tsundere noises*

Arthur tries to bluster at Francis to go away or better yet help him throttle Alasdair who’s obviously gone mental, but Francis doesn’t give him the chance. Just pounces and kisses Arthur, cheats shamelessly by using wicked lips and fingers on the omega spot on Arthur’s neck, making him go all loose and purry. Then Francis presses both their hands to Arthur’s stomach and they feel something move.

One of the NA twins - probably Alfred, I mean let’s be honest - waking up to say hello.

Even Arthur can’t deny it after that. Shocked and furious, he tries to rant at Francis (“WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE TO ME YOU FUCKING FROG! THIS IS YOUR FAULT! I’LL FUCKING SKIN YOU FOR THIS-!” - Arthur, definitely) but Francis is crying too hard to notice. Then he’s laughing and sobbing at the same time: hugging Arthur, professing his love, and kissing his lips off. Arthur’s shock and fear based rage stands no chance in the face of Francis’s thousand years plus heartfelt yearning for a family. He gives in and lets Francis have his moment of ecstasy. The kissing soon evolves into something else and Francis almost loses control and gives Arthur a mating bite, but pulls back at the last second. They’re not ready for that. Arthur noticed. Arthur didn’t say he did. Arthur is secretly grateful and feels his heart flutter even so.

Things go pretty smoothly after the big revelation, all things considered. High emotions settle and they start planning. Arthur stays in the New World and so does Francis. They have their people build a small cabin on the border between their territories so Arthur can have some peace away from curious human eyes. Alasdair goes back to Britain and takes over as leader of the UK for the time being. Dylan scrapes together every bit of knowledge about nation-person pregnancy he can (not much and not all of it useful) and brings it to the FrUK couple along with the usual books on human birth. They all decide to keep it secret from the rest of their kind. Otherwise everyone would want to come and see this miraculous anomaly. Arthur is stressed enough as it is even if he is starting to come round to the idea. No one wants him and the baby to become objects of curiosity. Then the time comes and Francis is with Arthur for it. Getting screamed at, getting his fingers crushed, taking promises that Arthur will FUCKING MURDER HIM FOR THIS-AAAAARRGGHHH!!! without complaint. It goes just like an ordinary human birth. The only surprise is two babies pop out instead of the one they expected. Arthur names the oldest Alfred, after his great king. Francis, when he finally stops sobbing, names the other Matthew. They know by instinct that their true names are America and Canada. When Francis nuzzles Arthur’s neck and kisses that special place with a soft whisper of “mon amour” Arthur knows he’s asking permission. He says “yes” and Francis bites him, leaving his mark as their new sons sleep between them.

Afterwards Arthur moans and complains that the bite was a stupid idea and now he has to wear a damn neckerchief or cravat even in the fucking tropics, but he doesn’t really mind. It’s him who orders a pair of gold rings for them to wear, hidden by gloves or else worn on chains under their shirts. ❤️ Yeah, they become mates much sooner in this version of events, heh. It’s still a secret though, even to their kids before their old enough not to accidentally reveal it to anyone else. Alfred belongs to America, so he lives in the English colonies. Matthew is of Canada, so Francis raises him until the British win the French Canadian territory and Matthew moves in with Arthur instead. They’re still national personifications and have to obey the politics of the day. So they can’t live together as a family as if they were human. Sad, but we know it turns out all right in the end. Peace comes eventually and they can be a family then. And that’s where I’ll leave this AU, I think. This post is already pretty long.

Hope you enjoyed reading! ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Aesthetic vs Function

( Don’t forget to come see my on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord )     “Sir, I am getting several urgent dispatches from the loading area.”

Captain Morris looked up from his data pad at his communications officer.

“Is something wrong?” he asked as he stood up and walked over to their terminal station on the bridge. The officer held his hand to his headset, listening to the messages before answering his captain.

“It appears several of the Corvo soldiers are refusing to relinquish their weapons. Security got involved and the Corvo resisted; two arms men were injured.”

This perked Morris’s interest, and not in a good way. The Corvo were allies in the war effort and he had heard of their abnormal customs from other captains so he had been prepared to give them some leeway while they traveled on his ship, but it was another matter entirely when his crew were harmed.

“Mr. Dover,” Morris called out, “a word if you would.”

From the opposite side of the bridge the master-at-arms Tristan Dover strode over to his captain. He was not a tall man, but wide in frame. His broad muscled shoulders meant that in some instances aboard the ship he needed to turn himself to be able to pass through doorways.

Tristan stood at attention and saluted Morris who returned the salute in kind.

“Are you aware of the situation in loading bay…”

 The captain turned to his communications officer who quickly understood the meaning and spoke “Loading Bay 4.”

“Thank you, “the captain replied before continuing, “yes, are you aware of the situation in loading bay 4?”

“I am sir.” Travis replied crisply. “My security details passed the word along to me just now.”

“Any further details?” the captain inquired.

Travis crossed his arms. “I was told that the Corvo refused to relinquish their weapons upon entering the loading bay. When the matter was pressed and the security detail made to enforce the issue the Corvo drew their weapons and attacked them.”

“Casualties?”

Travis shook his head. “Minor wounds only.”

The captain nodded. He paced back and forth between the terminals, stopping to read strands of data or make a quick check with the monitoring officer, then returned back and pointed at the communication officer.

“Tell the security details to hold the Corvo in the loading bay until Mr. Dover arrives.”

The officer nodded and relayed the order over the com while Morris leaned in close to Travis.

“Remind our guests that this is my ship, and while they are on my ship they will follow my rules and that injuring my crew is not to be tolerated.”

Morris leaned back and was about to leave when he stopped himself and leaned back in. “I don’t mind a dirty decking, so long as it is not cluttered.”

Travis nodded at his captain and left the bridge; cracking his knuckles and flashing a smile. -----------------

It took about thirty minutes for Travis to make it to Loading Bay 4. He needed to make a quick stop at the armory to grab a few things. When he arrived he found at least a dozen security officers standing in a line separating the Corvo from the rest of the loading bay. The deck crew still went about their duties save for the occasional glance over at the commotion.

The Corvo were easy to pick out from behind the wall of security as despite having a humanoid form stood roughly seven feet tall on average. They were adorned in a mixture of combat armor and religious robes.

As Travis approached the security officers stepped aside to make a path for him. When he got to the front one of saluted.

“Good to see you sir.” They replied crisply. Travis grunted in response and stepped forward to the Corvo’s.

“I understand there has been an incident here and you have attacked our crew.” Travis began with a calm yet authoritative voice. “I am here by order of the captain to remind you that while we are allies you will follow the rules of this ship while you are onboard.”

One of the Corvo stepped forward and looked down at Travis. His shoulder guard was decorated with three blue stripes signifying that he was the leader; or at least that’s what Travis thought it meant. The only thing he generally cared about in briefings when dealing with aliens were ordinance and cultural triggers for violence.

“I am Mak’t, and I would apologize for this misunderstanding.”

He reached down and began pulling out what appeared to be a sword from a sheath. The security officers made to raise their weapons but Travis forestalled them with a wave.

“These, “ Mak’t began as he pulled the sword free, “are our Okamban blades, sacred to our people.”

As he fully withdrew the blade it burst into bright blue flames as if the very air ignited it on contact.

“It is said that so long as these blades burn the spirit of our ancestors continue to watch over us on the battlefield; and so we could not surrender them as your officers asked.”

Travis watched the flame flicker brightly and whistled in wonder. “A fancier blade I have not seen,” Travis admitted, “but I find it rather odd in this age to bring a sword to a neutron cannon fight.”

Mak’t sheathed his sword once more while shaking his head.

“Forgive me for saying, but the weapons of your people and of our enemies are inferior to our blades.” He rested a hand on the hilt and looked down at Travis, matching his cold gaze with his own. “We have been trained to block their attacks on the battlefield rendering them useless before us.”

Some of the security officers behind Travis rustled at that remark but he paid them no mind.

“Seems we’re at a bit of an impasse here then, friend.” Travis admitted. “Luckily for you the Captain has given me the authority to resolve this situation.”

He pointed to the collection of warriors standing behind Mak’t. “If you and two of your warriors can land a single blow on me with your blades then you can keep them while onboard, but if I win you will surrender them without hesitation and spend the remainder of this journey in the brig for the assault you carried out.”

Mak’t looked puzzled at this challenge. “Why would you face three of us alone?”

Travis smiled. “Thought I’d give you a fighting chance,” he said mockingly as the Corvo warriors growled in anger, “seeing that your disadvantage with weaponry is so staggering.”

Saying nothing at first, Mak’t just looked down at the tiny human before him before nodding in agreement. He made a soft clicking sound and two other Corvo warriors stepped forward, each drawing their blades while the human security officers stepped back to create a ring like circle around the parties.

“So, we’ll go on the count of three then.” Travis announced. His hands casually cradled a rifle between them as he watched the three Corvo warriors prepare themselves. Each took a different stance with the light of their flaming swords casting dozens of differing shadows about them.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

The Corvo warriors to either side of Mak’t lunged forward ready to bring down their flaming swords in an instant; screaming in their alien language as they got within three feet of Travis before he brought up his own rifle.

In a flash Travis brought up his rifle and fired at the closest warrior. The sudden attack broke the warriors forward momentum as they brought their weapon up to block the attack only to find that rather than an energy blast they were being pelted with dozens of tiny rocks.

The flaming sword blocked some of them but far too many simply went around the sword and embedded themselves into the alien’s skin causing them to scream out in pain and fall to the ground.

From the corner of his eye Travis saw a blur of motion and side stepped just in time to avoid the downward swing of the second warrior. The blade carved into the decking with a loud hissing sound before the warrior pivoted and brought the blade up for a slash at Travis’s midriff.

Pulling a knife free that had been strapped to his leg he casually flung it into the blade rather than around it. The second warrior was confused until they felt the burning hot sting of molten metal the knife had been reduced to shower his body. The armor he wore protected some of their frame but since they were not wearing a helmet a glob of red hot metal landed on the alien’s cheek giving off a stench of burning flesh.

Surprisingly the warrior rallied themselves than give into the pain only for Travis to bring up his rifle and fire another scatter shot center mass sending them balling over in pain. Travis couldn’t see but given the goop now dotted around the floor he wagered some of the rock salt just punctured one of their eyes.

With the two companions dealt with Travis turned his attention to Mak’t who had not engaged like the others when the fight began.

“You fight without honor.” Mak’t announced. “To use such trickery against true warriors is the act of a coward.”

“If I recall you said you were trained to defeat modern weapons,” Travis countered, standing between the downed Corvo warriors, “that my attacks would be rendered useless by your weapons.”

 He unceremoniously kicked one of them hard in the back drawing the ire of Mak’t as he took up a stance for the first time.

“I even gave you a three on one advantage and you still say I am being unfair.”

“Your tricks will not work on me.” Mak’t declared.

Travis didn’t even bother to respond as he casually pulled a canister from a harness across his chest and threw it directly at Mak’t’s feet. Mak’t jumped backwards expecting further trickery rather than attempting to deflect it. To his surprise the canister did indeed not explode but rather began shooting out large volumes of a thick white gas.

The gas began to billow out more and more until the gathered ring of spectators was engulfed by it. Mak’t looked up from the canister just in time to see Travis donning a strange mask over his eyes and mouth.

It was only then that Mak’t heard coughing and gasping from his fellow Corvo warriors behind him and realized the gas must be some form of airborne weapon. He tightly clenched his mouth shut and carefully stepped forward to meet Travis in final combat. His breathing control would allow him at least ten minutes before he needed to inhale again giving him more than enou-

Mak’t made it barely three steps before his eyes began burning. They felt as if hot daggers were being shoved into them and twisted by the most merciless tormentor. This sudden influx of pain broke Mak’t’s concentration and he gasped out for air. No sooner had he taken his first breath did his lungs begin to share the burning sensation his eyes did, forcing the warrior to his knees as his hands feebly wiped his eyes again and again.

Through the blurry sight left to him he watched as Travis walked through the white cloud and stood over him. The human looked down at him and Mak’t could only imagine the look of smug satisfaction he must have held to see him brought so low.

Instead of gloating or boasting about how their weapons weren’t as inferior as Mak’t had declared, he brought down his fist as hard as he could against the alien’s face sending him straight to the floor.

“I think we count this as my win, yeah?” Travis asked the now unconscious Mak’t. He waved over the rest of the security officers who had likewise donned gas masks of their own and began the process of collecting the decorative swords from their guests before ushering them down to the med bay and finally their new home in the brig.

[la-femme-au-collier-vert]

From the Library of Anne Rice (Part 2)

Cherubs Angels of Love.  Boston: Little, Brown, & Company, 1994. Inscribed. 

Horst His Work and His World.  New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1984. With a note. 

Arroyo, Raymond. The Spider Who Saved Christmas.  Sophia Institute Press, 2020. Inscribed. 

Chester, Laura. Free Rein. Providence: Burning Deck, 1988. Ownership Signature. Inscribed. 

Frankel, Ellen. The Illustrated Hebrew Bible. New York: Steward, Tabori, & Chang. 

Hendrick, Susan & Vilma Machette. World Colors Dolls & Dress.  Grantville, Maryland: Hobby House Press, 1997. Inscribed.

Kepler, Lars.  The Sandman.  New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2018. With a note. 

Laughlin, Clarence John. Ghost Along the Mississippi. New York: Bonanza Books, 1961.  

Link, Luther. The Devil Mask without a Face.  Reaktion Books, 1995. With a note. 

Lopez, George R. and Perron Andrea. In a Flicker.  AuthorHouse, 2015. Inscribed. 

Nelson, Robert S. and Kristen M. Collins.  Holy Image and Hallowed Ground Icons from Sinai.  Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, 2007. Inscribed. 

Pearson, Dave. Byzantium and Beyond. The Dave Pearson Trust, 2012. With a note. 

Riesem, Richard O.  Mount Hope.  Landmark Society of Western New York, 1995. Inscribed.

Penny, Louise. The Nature of the Beast. New York: Minotaur Books, 2015. Signed and inscribed by Penny to Anne Rice.

Penny, Louise. A Great Reckoning. New York: Minotaur Books, 2016. With Anne Rice ownership signature and inscription.

Penny, Louise. Glass Houses. New York: Minotaur Books, 2017. Advance reading copy. Signed and inscribed by Penny to Anne Rice.

Penny, Louise, Kingdom of the Blind. New York: Minotaur Books, 2018. First edition, signed and inscribed by Penny to Anne Rice.

Penny, Louise.  A Better Man. New York: Minotaur Books, 2019. Signed and inscribed by Penny to Anne Rice.

Cazeau, Jean-Louis and Rick Knowlton. A World of Chess. Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Company, 2017. Inscribed by Knowlton to Anne Rice on the half-title: "You have given me many hours of pleasure with your vampire series! May you enjoy this peculiar corner of world culture I have been exploring...."

Brown, Nancy Marie. Ivory Vikings: The Mystery of the Most Famous Chessmen in the World and the Woman Who Made them. New York: St. Martin's Press, 2015. With Anne Rice ownership signature and annotations in red ink throughout.

Chernev, Irving and Kenneth Harkness. An Invitation to Chess. New York: Fireside Book, 1985. Minor annotations in red ink by Anne Rice throughout.

Ackroyd, Peter. Dickens. [New York]: HarperCollins Publisher, 1990.

Ackroyd, Peter. Dickens. [New York]: HarperCollins Publisher, 1990.

Bloom, Harold, editor. Charles Dickens. New York, Philadelphia: Chelsea House Publishers, 1987.

Cotsell, Michael.��Critical Essays on Charles Dickens's 'Great Expectations'. Boston, Massachusetts: G.K. Hall & Co., 1990.

Dickens, Charles. A Christmas Carol. New York, London: W.W. Norton & Company, 2017. Gift inscription on the flyleaf. 

Dickens, Charles. American Notes. Mineola, New York: Dover Publication Inc., 2017.

Dickens, Charles. Bleak House. New York: Everyman's Library, 1991.

Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. New York: Barnes & Nobles Classics, 2004.

Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. New York: Everyman's Library, 1992.

Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. Norwalk, Connecticut: The Easton Press, 1979.

Dickens, Charles. Hard Times. [New York]: Penguin Classics, 2011.

Dickens, Charles. Little Dorrit. New York: Everyman's Library, 1992.

Dickens, Charles. Nicholas Nickleby. New York: George Routledge and Sons, [1880].

Dickens, Charles. Oliver Twist. New York: Everyman's Library, 1992.

Dickens, Charles. Our Mutual Friend. New York: Everyman's Library, 1994.

Dickens, Charles. The Mystery of Edwin Drood. New York: Modern Library, 2009.

Dickens, Charles. The Old Curiosity Shop. Mineola, New York: Dover Publication Inc., 2003.

Dickens, Charles. The Uncommercial Traveller and Reprinted Pieces. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 1989.

Forster, John. The Life of Charles Dickens, Volume 3: 1852-1870. [Cambridge, England]: Cambridge University Press, 2011.

Goodheart, Eugene, editor. Critical Insights: Charles Dickens. Pasadena, California and Hackensack, New Jersey: Salem Press, 2011.

Hammond, Mary. Charles Dickens's 'Great Expectations.' [London]: Ashgate, 2015.

Ingham , Patricia. Dickens, Women & Language. Toronto, Buffalo: University of Toronto Press, 1992.

Jordan, Joseph P. Dickens Novels as Verse. Madison, Teaneck: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2014.

Jordan, John O. The Cambridge Companion to Charles Dickens. [Cambridge, England]: Cambridge University Press, 2001.

Nelson, A.N. The Mystery of Charles Dickens. [New York]: Harper, 2020.

Pykett, Lyn. Critical Issues: Charles Dickens. [New York]: Palgrave, 2002.

Slater, Michael. Dickens and Women. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1983.

Slater, Michael. The Great Charles Dickens Scandal. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2012.

Tomalin, Claire. Charles Dickens: A Life. [New York]: Penguin Books, 2011.

Tomalin, Claire. The Invisible Woman. New York: Vintage Books, 1991.

Wilson, Angus. The World of Charles Dickens. New York: The Viking Press, 1970.

[princessanneftw]

A rare insight into the usually unreported work of Princess Royal

Visiting military graves of unsung heroes was fitting appointment for perhaps the hardest working member of Royal family

By Victoria Ward for The Telegraph

Of the many war heroes buried in the windswept Dover chalk grassland is one Sgt Maj Charles Wooden, who was awarded the Victoria Cross after saving a fellow soldier’s life under heavy fire during the Battle of Balaclava.

The Princess Royal studied his grave closely as she was told he was “a bit of a drunkard” who had unfortunately met a sad demise.

Suffering from excruciating toothache, he had tried to dislodge the offending tooth with his gun, only to blow his brains out. “The ultimate pain killer,” the Princess, 72, observed drily, with the wry humour that is never in short supply.

Another, Gunner Andrew McDowell, had been blown to bits as he sat with two other soldiers in Dover harbour out of sight but directly in the firing line of a new 42-pound cannon.

The firing party thought someone said “fire” and duly fired. Gunner McDowell’s arm was found in the local town. The Princess peered closely at his newly restored grave, decorated with a cannon. “It’s almost adding insult to injury putting a gun on there, isn’t it?” she remarked.

The Princess, patron of The Remembrance Trust, was at St James’s cemetery, in Dover, Kent, to inspect its latest work restoring the military graves and memorials of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.

It was the second engagement of at least four on her itinerary, but as a royal who opts to get on with her work under the radar, most of it – as always – will go unreported.

However, on Tuesday, The Telegraph was invited to join the Princess as she travelled to Kent for an update on the work of the Trust, of which she became patron in 2021.

Engaged and unguarded, she delighted the small band of charity trustees and council dignitaries with her easy humour and obvious interest. “You can’t fake that kind of fascination,” one observer said later. “She’s great fun and you can talk to her like a normal human being.”

The Princess, accompanied by her husband Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence, 68, made a point of chatting to each member of the small gang of around 15 that was on hand to greet her.

Introduced to charity trustee and “tomb expert” Dr Roger Bowdler, she joked: “See tomb, will travel.”

Darren Solley, head of parks and open spaces at Dover District Council, told the Princess he was trialling a new approach to managing the cemetery land by leaving much of it to grow wild, improving biodiversity.

“It’s quite a difficult balance, rewilding,” she commented. “Actually, you do look after it but it doesn’t look like it.”

Warming to the theme, she continued: “You do have to cut it but it’s when you cut it that’s key – and what you do with the leftovers.”

Former corporal Steve Davies, a military grave restorer who has worked with the trust since its inception and preserved six of the seven graves on the Princess’s one-hour tour, proved an enthusiastic and informative guide.

The Restoration Trust returns graves to their former glory while at the same time creating a database spanning more than 200 years.

Founded and chaired by North Sea oil pioneer and former Grenadier Guards officer Algy Cluff, 83, it has a vast remit covering an undefined period up until 1914. He was motivated to help future generations understand the nation’s military past after working on the graves of British troops killed abroad.

Those killed from 1914 onwards have their graves kept by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, funded by the Commonwealth governments, but those killed earlier fall through the cracks, their headstones left to fall to ruin.

One of those whose grave has been lovingly restored is Maj Gen William Sutton, who received the Second China War medal and Companion of the Order of the Bath but who requested none of the usual pomp and circumstance at his funeral and asked to be buried in a common grave alongside soldiers of other ranks.

It was fortuitous then, that of all the well-known faces to visit his resting place almost 160 years after his death aged 56 was the Princess Royal, that least showy and no-nonsense member of the Royal family.

“It doesn’t say who he served with,” the Princess commented as she studied his headstone. “56? I’m surprised he lasted so long.”

Mr Davies ushered her along. “We’ve got to hit the hill now, ma’am,” he said. “Don’t worry, I live on the side of a hill,” came the reply as the Princess ploughed on, stopping to study several other graves along the way.

“Oh, it’s a Sherwood Forester, well, well well,” she said, pausing by one that she was keen to point out to her husband.

When Mr Davies told the Princess that he had queued for 14 hours to see her late mother, Elizabeth II, lying in rest, it prompted a discussion about the merits of certain footwear.

The Princess admitted that the boots that form part of the Blues and Royals uniform were none too comfortable. “Which is why I didn’t volunteer to walk after the Coronation, I was riding,” she laughed.

Later, the Princess and Sir Tim retired for a private lunch at Dover Castle before moving on to the next engagement.

Meanwhile, those who had enjoyed her company that morning were unanimous in their praise.

“She’s got common sense running through her like Brighton Rock,” one said. “But she’s enormous fun and absolutely interested and engaged. One couldn’t hope for a better patron.”

[sourcreammachine]

idea:

a truck simulator / road trip style videogame but set in a transportpunk utopia

everything that can fit into a standard shipping container gets sent via freight rail. bridges over the bering, darién, gibraltar, york, dover and malacca carry ultrafast freight trains faster than Concorde, and conventional rail lines carry it further. there’s even automated sorting centres passing consumer packages onto delivery ‘vans’ which use the tram/trolley system, getting packages from another continent alll the way to your doorstep. it’s paradise

that’s all, of course, for everything that fits within a regulation-size shipping container. everything that fits in the rail system

you are a member of the hauliers’ cooperative. road haulage is for oversize loads only. your job is oversize loads

the motorways have either been replaced with new rail lines piggybacking their infrastructure, or they’ve been totally demolished – so you only have access to the regular old inter-town highways, or worse. many of these roads are in a bit of a state –claimed by potholes, overgrown with moss, flooded completely – so these deliveries need the hand of a professional

there’s not been zero advancement of battery-powered vehicles, not at all. your cab is proper cush with no pesky combustion engine in the way, and you’ve even got power delivery to your rear wheels to control the position of your ass. what’s more, space technology has replaced your wheel systems with the wheel-feet seen on planetary explorers, allowing for omnidirectional travel and perfect manoeuvrability. this is offroading, despite being on the road. your absolute top speed is probably 80kph in ideal safe flat conditions

with six hours a day (including lunch, with two hours possible overtime) you’ll be clearing a couple hundred k per day, from city to city. end your shift by plugging in at a chargepoint at the city’s truckstop, from where you can use the public transit system to see the sights, get some scran, and kip at a local bunkhouse (all free of charge). workers’ rights apply to you, of course

HSR connects cities, commuter rail connects towns, light rail connects large villages, and rural literail connects small villages – so the only private vehicles on the roads are typically carrying those who live outside villages to their local park & ride. most are ebikes. many walk

with almost no cars, with no buses, with no standard-size lorries, the roads are near-empty for traffic. with the road system massively scaled back, with swathes of agricultural land deprecated for rewilding, with massive curtailment of exurban sprawl through densification, the vistas you see are incredible

you are a part of the world and must work with it. the 4x4 (or more) nature of your vehicle is you communicating with the world around you, touching and feeling it to make your way through. you are not here to bulldoze and pave and carve a path, you’re negotiating access. this is why you’re a professional

[nikethestatue]

Chapter 1

London, England

1890

Elain Archeron

London’s Victoria Station greeted its new visitor with a cacophony of noise, chaos and excitement. Clutching the instructions and the address that she received from the stern and cold Mrs. Amren, who was the organiser of this wild scheme, Elain Archeron attempted to follow the directions inside the clamour of the train station, though it was proving to be difficult.

She’s never been to London before and now, the place terrified her. She was pushed and shoved without consideration for her gentler sex, those around her were shrieking, yelling, and shouting something all the time. There were people, whole families, whose skin tones were different from her own, whose fashions and outfits were odd and contradictory. There were people of different religions as well–she could tell Jews and Hindus and Muslims. She was educated and well-read, so she was not surprised to see those who came from Africa, and India, or even the Chinese, and scarf-clad women from Poland, or maybe Russia–but seeing them all in the flesh was overwhelming. She never imagined that people of so many various colours, sizes and shapes existed. 

She continued her walk through the station, jerked off her feet by the blaring claxons from the train, clutching her travel satchel close to her chest. It had her only possessions inside–her two dresses, her unmentionables, stockings, another pair of boots, hair ribbons and pins, her spare corset, and toiletries. 

Her walk was interrupted constantly, men offering rides and calling out “Miss! Miss!” to her. But she kept her eyes down and shouldered her way to the massive doors of the station. 

She must be mad.

Mad.

It had to be that!

To be doing this, she couldn’t be normal.

She was here, in London of all places, alone, to meet with some mysterious man.

What if he was Jack the Ripper?

She’s read the papers–Jack the Ripper was rampaging on the streets of Whitechapel and what if Mrs. Amren was his co-conspirator? What if she lured unsuspecting country girls to London, and into the clutches of Jack the Ripper?

Elain’s read and enjoyed the tales of Sherlock Holmes, that wiley intriguing detective, who solved crimes–but if she thought about it more, why was there so much crime in London? People stole and abused and murdered others. It was horrifying.

Where she was from, St. Margaret’s Bay, the biggest crime last year was Ollie Oswald stealing Mr. Clarence’s goat, and Maggie May becoming pregnant out of wedlock. That thought sobered her right up, though still, Maggie’s out-of-wedlock babe was hardly the same thing as a mad serial killer running around the streets of London and slaughtering women of ill repute.

Elain finally existed the station and stood on the street, all her senses assaulted by even more noise, the stench of manure, hordes of jostling people who were all rushing somewhere, paper boys who were announcing the latest headlines – another Ripper murder, apparently – vendors peddling food and all sorts of items, handsome soldiers, and every spoken language imaginable. Elain recognised everything from French and Italian, to some dialects that she was unfamiliar with, Slavic, German and even Scandinavian speech. She had a knack for languages, and having spent time in Dover, with her father’s ships, she’d seen sailors, merchants and visitors from every part of the world. Stupidly, she thought that Dover was a busy city. It had nothing on this monstrosity.

She walked over to where the cabs were parked awaiting passengers.

“Good mornin’ Miss, in need of a ride?” one of the drivers asked.

“Yes, this is the address,” she handed him the paper that Mrs. Amren had given her, which had the address and all the instructions. Mrs. Amren had also given her ten pounds, which was more money than Elain’s seen in a long, long time.

She could buy so much for ten pounds! Dresses and a pair of shoes, meat pies, maybe even a pastry, tea, lodging…Her whole family survived on four-five pounds a month, and here she was, with ten pounds, six shillings and 3 pence in her pocket. Mrs. Amren told her that the tenner had come from the gentleman who took care of her travel accommodations and spending money.

Once she was situated in the carriage, they took off,  the driver navigating the streets and the chaos of other cabs and pedestrians with expert precisions. Elain knew that they were going to Westminster, and she wished to see the cathedral, and the abbey, but she did not, though she was pleased that they’d be staying far away from Whitechapel.

“Dog and Hound, Miss,” the driver announced and then opened the door for her.

It was a public house and also offered lodgings and once Elain exited the cab, she thought that it looked presentable and clean. The facade of the building was well-kept, brick, with garlands of wisteria wrapping around the lower part of the building and the very large bay window. Once she paid for the ride, she walked inside–she’s been to public houses and taverns before–but this one looked very well kept, with a beautiful walnut bar, all sorts of hunting pictures and engravings on the walls, and burgundy and green seats. There were not many patrons milling around, but it was also only 10:30 am. 

Elain approached the proprietor, just like Mrs. Amren told her to do and said, “Good morning. I am here to see Mr. Arthur Johnson.”

The man straightened at the mention of the name, and then quickly and accommodatingly told her, “Follow me, Miss.”

“Where are we going?” Elain whispered, baulking at the invitation.

“Mr. Johnson is waiting for you Miss. My understanding is that he wished to have a conversation with you in private.”

Elain’s never been with a man in private, let alone in an unfamiliar city, but what choice did she have? She already felt like she signed her life away, when she was meeting with Mrs. Amren. The woman had a heap of papers and documents for Elain to sign, mostly about confidentiality and non-disclosure of any information that she was to learn. There were financial papers as well, but Mrs. Amren told her that they would be finalised should the contract be signed. 

They stopped at one of the doors and the proprietor knocked. A man’s voice answered promptly.

“Enter.”

“You may proceed, Miss,” he told Elain and then stepped aside.

This is where I die, was her only thought. 

It was definitely Jack the Ripper. There have been whispers that he came from the upper classes, maybe even nobility, and she was going to meet him right now and he was going to skin her alive. And then her body would be baked into meat pies, just like Sweeney Todd did it. They said that the mad barber did not exist, but Elain begged to differ. Stories like that didn’t just happen to be written due to someone’s fevered imagination. He must have existed.

So she would be abused, killed and then will end up in a pie.

-

He sat in a wingback chair.

That’s all she saw when she finally dared to enter the room. The man. The gentleman.

A very tall man by the looks of it, considering how far his long legs stretched. He was dressed in all black, elegantly, in a way Elain wasn’t used to seeing men dressed on a Thursday morning. His jacket was stylishly tailored and his boots were perfectly polished. However, it was the man’s face that gave Elain pause. He was handsome to an unusual degree, the panes of his face sharp and sensual at once. Large, slightly slanted eyes of a peculiar colour regarded her with detachment and mild scrutiny. When he licked his full lower lip, Elain couldn't help but notice the movement and she balled her hands at her sides, suddenly feeling tense and hot. He had the look of a foreigner about him–dark bronze skin, thick black hair cut unusually long on top, and those strange light hazel eyes.

���Elain Archeron, I presume,” he asked at last, and his voice was deep, low and just as sensual as the rest of him. Like a whisper of black silk in the wind. The accent was unfailingly upper crust. 

“I am, my lord,” she confirmed and curtsied.

“Please sit,” he gestured to the sofa across from his chair.

She did as she was told and noticed that he held a photograph of her in his fingers. His hands were large, with long, strong fingers, but surprisingly, the hands were covered in thick scars–burn scars from what Elain could gauge. Mrs. Amren said that the photograph was a requirement and Elain was forced to travel to Dover to have her photograph taken. It was expensive, and she needed to sit in the same position, unmoving and silent, for almost seven minutes. In the end, she didn’t even think that the photograph looked like her. But following her handing the photograph off to Mrs. Amren, she received an invitation to travel to London–-she supposed that it did the trick.

“How was your journey?” he asked politely.

“Very nice, thank you, my lord.”

“I wished to have our conversation first, if you don’t mind, and then you may rest.”

“Of course,” she agreed. Her fingers were shaking and she attempted to hide them in the folds of her skirt, though she was sure that he noticed it.

His tone was light when he assured her, “there is no need to be nervous. I believe we ought to have a talk first and you aren’t obligated to anything, and neither am I.”

She nodded and allowed him to talk, because it was just easier. Her throat was tight and her mouth dry. Her dress felt itchy against her skin and the collar borderline was suffocating. 

He stood up and she had to crane her neck to take in his full height–he was probably six and a half feet tall, and when he moved to pour water into a glass, she definitely noticed how thickly muscled his arms and shoulders were, and how slender he was otherwise, trim and lean and strong. He handed her the glass and then leaned against the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and drumming his fingers on the surface.

“I am Azriel, Lord Night, the Duke of Velaris,” he announced simply. 

Elain’s hand stopped mid-way to her lips, as she stared at him wordlessly.

She’d assumed that he would be a nobleman, perhaps a baron, maybe a count, but a duke? The Velaris family was well-known: it was said that they came to Britain all the way back with William the Conqueror. It couldn’t possibly be the same Velaris? Could it?

“I am sorry, my lord,” Elain said softly. “You are the Duke of Velaris?”

He nodded, “the very same”.

“But…” she bit her lip, “I was under the impression that you were married, my lord? To Lady Morrigan?”

The lovely Lady Morrigan, Countess of Hewn, was renowned for her beauty. Elain had seen her in newspapers and other publications. The Velaris-Hewn nuptials was the society wedding of the year just a couple of years back. 

“I am,” he confirmed calmly. “And since you are bound by our confidentiality agreement, I will disclose that my lady wife had suffered a grave incident last year. She was thrown by her horse, and had broken her spine. Unfortunately, she suffered a brain bleed from her injuries as well. She is my wife and will remain so until she or I die. But alas, she is bed-bound and without sense or consciousness. Now, you must understand that her condition is not known to anyone, other than my most trusted servants and her nurses. It must remain so until I produce an heir. The child must be mine, and upon the birth, we shall announce that Lady Morrigan suffered compilation in labour.”

Elain sighed and murmured, “I am sorry, my lord. For you and your lady wife. It is truly tragic and I am…just sorry.”

He cocked his head and regarded her quietly for a while.

She’d only known him for about fifteen minutes, but she could already see how observant he was, methodical even. There was a calmness about him, an almost predatory stillness, and she sensed that he dwelled in some dark places inside his head. Perhaps it was the sorrow  resulting from his wife’s condition, or maybe something in his past, but this was a man of secrets and unanswered questions.

“May I ask some questions of you?” he inquired at last.

Elain sipped her water and nodded once.

He didn't use any props, not notes or correspondence, when he said,

“Elain Archeron, twenty-one years old, the middle of three sisters. Tell me, why are you, of all people, responded to my advertisement?”

“We need the money, my lord,” she admitted plainly. 

“There are other ways to get money,” he noted, his dark brow raised. “You are a maid of gentle breeding based on your family’s history–a merchant father, a mother who was from a well-to-do family. Surely you can think of other ways to…” he stopped and scrubbed his scarred hand over his chin, before continuing, “tell me, why?”

“My father has lost his fortune,” Elain explained, her voice quiet. “My younger sister has a disease of the stomach that makes her vomit and she is frail and weak. She needs medicines, which we cannot afford. My older sister is a proud woman and…” her voice trailed. How could she explain Nesta? She couldn’t. Nesta was smart, even cunning, but she was better suited for running an estate or even a business. Haughty, proud and demanding is what Nesta was. But she was not one for sacrifices. “And that leaves me. I…well, I answered the advertisement in The Times, and was contacted by Mrs. Amren. We met and discussed the offer…and,” she swallowed, “I am interested.”

“What do you understand of the offer and the proposal?” he asked seriously.

She tugged on her skirt and peered down, looking at the floor. 

Quietly, she answered,

“A gentleman requires the services of a female to produce a child, an heir. The gentleman is willing to pay ten thousand pounds for the child and…well, would pay all throughout the pregnancy…That is all.”

He sighed and turned, his movements measured and languid, as he walked to the window and clasped his hands behind his back, as he looked out on the busy Vincent Street.

“I fear, Miss Archeron, that you are underestimating the commitment that this ordeal would require of you,” he said, almost to himself.

Elain’s heart dropped.

He wasn’t interested.

He did ot find her comely or appealing or satisfactory. Perhaps he liked her photograph, but seeing her in person made him change his mind.

Ten thousand pounds was an astronomical amount of money.

It was enormous. At the height of their success, the Archeron family wealth was estimated at about fifteen thousand pounds, which made Elain and her sisters very appealing on the marriage market. To have a large portion of that fortune come back to them would guarantee a bright future for all–they could all marry well, they could cure Feyre’s illness, they could operate on their father’s mangled leg and send him to Italy or France to recuperate. They could have fine homes and wardrobes and servants. 

Currently, they existed on about four pounds a month, for the four of them. If they were lucky. 

“I don’t think that I am, my lord,” Elain found it in herself to answer boldly and firmly. “I understand what is required.”

“You understand that you must lie with me,” he was still not looking at her, and therefore couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, “and have relations with me as if I were your husband. You would be required to do so at my beckoning and pleasure, for at least six months,”

“What happens after six months?” she interrupted him, confused.

He turned his head and explained,

“I am willing to allot six months for the conception to take place. Children are usually not made in a day…it may take time, and I realise that. I feel that six months is an adequate amount of time for you to conceive. If you don’t, then we will part ways, since clearly we would not be compatible enough to create a child together.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek and then asked,

“And if I don't…conceive that is? What happens then?”

He shrugged,

“You will be paid five hundred pounds for your troubles and you will leave. Naturally, you will be bound by the non-disclosure agreement for the rest of your life. That extends to me as well, Miss Archeron. If we proceed with this…arrangement…whatever the outcome is, your name will not be mentioned or besmirched, so that you have a chance at a successful marriage with a man of your choosing.”

“I appreciate that, my lord,” she said sincerely.

He went back to the desk and gathered a stack of papers in his hands, though he did not give them to her yet. He was clearly still deciding on something, his brow furrowed. At last, he said,

“These are the financial terms of the arrangement, Miss Archeron. If we proceed, you will sign and retain a copy for yourself.

“Again, I urge you to consider everything with utmost seriousness,” he pressed. “This is not a trivial matter. Your involvement with me may last up to a year and a half. It is quite a long time for a woman of your age to dedicate to a…male. One who will not marry you in the end, and whom you shan’t see again.

“Furthermore, if there is a child, it will be wholly mine.”

A shudder ran through Elain and she suddenly became cold. When he put it like that, it did give her pause. Because in exchange for the money, she would be required to give up her baby. Theoretically she understood that–when she began corresponding with Mrs. Amren, and when they finally met, this was thoroughly discussed. But seeing this man in the flesh, even briefly imagining that there would be…coital relations involved, though Elain wasn’t quite sure precisely what it all entailed, and then there would potentially be a pregnancy, which was something that was often fraught with dangers, only to end in a painful labour, and then…the separation. Permanent separation from a baby that she’d give birth to. From the man too. Yes, he was strikingly handsome–to her great relief–but she knew that she was in danger of developing feelings for him, which he surely would never reciprocate. He had his poor wife and was devoted to her, and was only after an heir to carry his name and his legacy. Elain would be left without love, without companionship, without her babe, but with money. She supposed that she could have more children, but the idea of giving up her son or daughter seemed terrifying. Her firstborn. 

Azriel looked up at her and watched the warring emotions that danced on her face. 

“Would you like me to read out the terms?” he asked at last, his expression slightly softened, even kinder.

She swallowed and nodded.

He glanced at the first page and began reading.

“The female in the arrangement is expected to be an unmarried and unbetrothed maid, of good moral standing and a virgin. She is to be free of diseases and for the duration of the arrangement she may not be seen with a male or engage in any manner of relations with a male other than the Requestor.

She would enter into the arrangement willingly and would be required to have sexual intercourse with the Requestor at his bidding. The Requestor shall not physically hurt, slap, hit, abuse or force the female, and will not verbally insult or berate her. If the female is unwilling or unable to have sexual relations with the Requestor, she is to notify him immediately and provide an explanation as to the cause. Relations are not required from the female when she has her monthly flow. 

The female is expected to live on premises of the Requestor’s abode and accompany him upon his travels. She shall have her private room(s) at the dwellings. She is not expected to sleep with the Requestor or share his private quarters. The female is required to maintain her decorum at all times, and may not fraternise with the help. The female is not to divulge any part of the agreement to anyone, including her family. The female will not occupy a place at the servants’ quarters and will not partake in meals with them. The female will have a maid of her own to assist her with personal matters. 

Upon conception, the female is to remain at the Requestor’s home, under the care of his physicians. She is to maintain a healthy lifestyle, to ensure a successful pregnancy. She will be assisted during her labour by a midwife, a doula, nurses and physicians. Upon delivery of the child, the female will be allowed to bond and nurse the infant for up to one week (if she wishes  to do so). After one week of recovery, the child will be removed from the female’s care and presence. At that time, the arrangement would be considered fulfilled and would be terminated.

The Requestor guarantees the following payments:

£1000 for taking the female’s virginity

£50 weekly stipend, for up to six months of service

£50 weekly stipend for the duration of the pregnancy

£1000 for labour and delivery

£10,000 for the birth of a live child

All legal fees, room and board, wardrobe allowance, personal and beauty treatments, transportation, et cetera would be provided by the Requestor. 

The female may be allowed to spend Christmas with her family (up to one week), as well as one week of her choosing as a personal holiday.”

He did not ask whether she was agreeable to the contract, but simply handed it to her and said,

“Read this over and be thorough. Any questions, you should ask me.”

Elain didn't answer for a while, but he didn’t seem impatient, and wasn’t put off by the awkward silence between them. Instead, he went over to a sideboard upon which stood a decanter and some glasses and poured himself a drink of whatever it was.

She finally broke the silence and said,

“This is much more than ten thousand.”

It seemed that she took him by surprise with her comment and he looked at her with expectation.

“The contract was for ten…this is closer to twenty,” she pushed. 

“Is that a problem?” he queried.

“I just…” she blushed, “I don’t want to be unfair. I was fine with ten. Why a thousand for the virginity?”

He sat back in the wing chair and sipped his drink, before saying,

“Seems only fair. I would be taking something that doesn’t belong to me and isn’t intended for me to take. You ought to be compensated for that.”

Theoretically, what he was saying made sense to her, but it seemed so…transactional. And, of course, it was a transaction. There were no feelings involved. 

Craning his head side to side, he added after a pause,

“The pleasure is free, if that makes you feel better. I won’t be charging for it, and I won’t be paying for it either. You can enjoy it free and clear.”

If that meant to be a lighthearted comment of some sort, it didn’t land, because Elain looked at him, perplexed and said. “What pleasure?”

He chuckled softly, “Sexual pleasure, Miss Archeron.”

“There is no pleasure in relations such as those,” she argued primly.

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing into the leather and smiled at her, though the curve of his beautiful mouth was both challenging and sinister.

“And you are an expert then?” 

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she couldn’t even believe that she was discussing this with a man she didn’t know.

“I am no expert, my lord,” she told him, “but what pleasure could there be? It is an act designed to propagate the species.”

He propped his head on his fist, crossing his long, muscular legs and swaying his boot-clad foot casually. A lock of his silky black hair fell on his forehead and Elain had the insane urge to go and fix it for him. His handsomeness didn’t help. Elain had feared that the man would be old and paunchy, sweaty and balding. Why else would one need to contract for a woman to give him a child? She figured maybe he was missing limbs, or had distorted features, or perhaps some unappealing trait…but she definitely, definitely did not expect Lord Night. She had some parameters that she had set for herself in regards to the arrangement–if the gentleman seemed brutish, if his looks made her squeamish, if he had a visible disease or if his visage repelled her, she would not have gone along with the scheme. As much as she needed the money, she also knew that she wouldn’t have a child with someone cruel or unappealing. She wanted her baby to live in a loving environment and with a parent who’d want them and care for them. 

The problem was that Lord Night’s appearance quickly overrode her good sense. It wasn’t something that she ever considered–that he would be so handsome and so titled that she’d forget all her common sense and all the expectations that she had prior to meeting him.

Stumbling a bit over her own tongue, she asked at last,

“What sort of pleasure is there?”

“Ahhmm Miss Archeron,” he smiled at her, “why do you think people have lost their minds and morals through the centuries over love?”

It was an excellent question, to which Elain did not have an answer. Why indeed?

“Well, perhaps, you will have the chance to find out,” he got up and straightened his jacket.

“I do not want love, my lord,” Elain insisted brusquely. 

He nodded slowly,

“Yes, yes. I know. You need the money.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t fall in love, Miss Archeron,” he suggested.

But why did it sound like a challenge.

“Take the rest of the day to think about everything,” he told her. “These rooms are yours for the night. You may order food and drink. St. John’s Gardens are not far–should you wish to take a stroll. 

“I will call upon you tomorrow, at 10 am, and I expect an answer.”

* UK £10,000.00 in 1890 would be equivalent to £1,644,035.82 in 2023, an absolute change of £1,634,035.82 and a cumulative change of 16,340.36%.

[boldlycrookedsalad]

Literary Canon (from kissgrammar)

The Holy Bible, Authorized King James Version [At a minimum, the books of Genesis, Exodus, Job, Psalms, from the Old Testament; Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and Apocalypse from the New.] Whether or not you are Christian is irrelevant. The civilization in which we live is based on and permeated by the ideas and values expressed in this book. Understanding our civilization, the world in which we live, is probably impossible without having read -- and thought about -- at least the most famous books in the Bible. Historically, the King James Version is considered the most artistic, and thus has probably had the most literary influence.

Homer, The Iliad

Homer, The Odyssey

Sophocles, Oedipus the King (Oedipus Rex)

Sophocles, Antigone

Plato, The Republic, especially "The Myth of the Cave"

Ovid, Metamorphoses

Saint Augustine, The Confessions

Dante, The Divine Comedy

Giovanni Boccaccio, The Decameron

Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince

Giambattista Vico, Principles of a New Science

Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales

Romeo and Juliet

King Lear

Hamlet

Othello

Macbeth

John Donne, "Holy Sonnet XIV"

John Donne, "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning"

Andrew Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress"

John Milton, Paradise Lost

Jonathan Swift, Gulliver's Travels

A Modest Proposal

Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe

Laurence Sterne, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman

Michel de Montaigne, Essays, especially "Of Experience"

Francois Rabelais, Gargantua and Pantagruel

Moliere, The Misanthrope

Blaise Pascal, Pensees

Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile

Voltaire, Candide

Erasmus, In Praise of Folly

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust, Parts One & Two

Honore de Balzac, Old Goriot (also translated as Pere Goriot)

Stendhal, The Red and the Black

Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

Emile Zola, Germinal

Henrik Ibsen, A Doll's House

William Blake

William Wordsworth

Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Lord Byron, Don Juan

John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn"

Robert Browning, "My Last Duchess"

Charles Dickens - Oliver Twist

A Tale Of Two Cities

Hard Times

A Christmas Carol

Matthew Arnold, "Dover Beach"

John Stuart Mill, On Liberty

Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

Francis Thompson, "The Hound of Heaven"

Samuel Butler, Erewhon

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

George Eliot- Silas Marner

Middlemarch

Robert Louis Stevenson, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Friedrich Nietzsche - Beyond Good and Evil

The Will To Power

The Birth of Tragedy

On the Genealogy of Morals

Alexander Pushkin - Eugene Onegin

The Bronze Horseman

Nikolai Gogol -The Overcoat

Dead Souls

Mikhail Lermontov, A Hero of Our Time

Ivan Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

Fyodor Dostoevsky -Notes From the Underground

Crime and Punishment

Leo Tolstoy -The Death of Ivan Ilych

War and Peace

Anton Chekhov, The Cherry Orchard

James Fenimore Cooper, The Deerslayer

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays

Emily Dickinson - "Because I Could Not Stop For Death"

"The Tint I Cannot Take"

"There's a Certain Slant of Light"

Walt Whitman  - "Song of Myself"

"The Sleepers"

"Crossing Brooklyn Ferry"

"As I Ebbed With The Ocean of Life"

"Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking"

"When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomd"

Nathaniel Hawthorne - Young Goodman Brown

The Scarlet Letter

Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

Edgar Allen Poe - "The Raven"

The Cask of Amontillado

Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Kate Chopin -The Story of An Hour

The Awakening

Stephen Crane, The Red Badge of Courage

Henry James

Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Luigi Pirandello

[found-in-nomadland]

Dover, New Hampshire 🌻

[witchyfashion]

Grab your beverage of choice, we’re going back on the road! Bringing you A Haunted Road Atlas: Next Stop, from the New York Times Bestselling authors of true crime/supernatural podcast And That’s Why We Drink!

From the truest crimes to the spookiest supernaturals, this guide will have even more illustrated stories, beverage pit stops, and ice cream recommendations. A Haunted Road Atlas: Next Stop will explore all the places Christine and Em didn’t get to include in the first book, focusing on 30 new cities they’ve fallen in love with on their travels … and the scariest places that left them shaking in their boots. 

This one's got everything: the Buffalo Butcher, arsenic bon bons from the storied Dover, aliens in Alaska, and more! Featuring:

Terrifying supernatural tales and gripping true crime from thirty different cities across the US.

Recommendations for bars, restaurants, hotels, and can’t-miss activities for each city.

Playlists tailored to each city and story for all your road-trip listening needs.

A chapter full of custom games for fans of the podcast!

https://amzn.to/3Xs5R3U

[a-d-nox]

Hey it’s me again I was wondering about my Hermes (8 degrees pisces) conjunct my sun (12 57 degrees pisces) by 5 degrees and what it would mean for me personally

pisces (12°, 24°) hermes: these people tend to stir up a lot of mischief with lies. they are prone to cheating and showing people a false persona. life moves quickest for them when there is a lot of drama around them (they enjoy being a middle man and often a moderator in this case). likewise time passes the quickest for these people when they are creating. as a contradiction to both statements, these people aren't the best at consistency when it comes to the lies they tell nor with the pursuit/practice of their creative endeavors. these people are likely to travel to places of deep spirituality. they could travel to north africa, europe, and/or portugal in particular.

scorpio (8°, 20°) hermes: mischief may arise in times of cruelty - revenge can be done in deceptive ways. often it showcases resentment towards those they once had passion for. they could experience a lot of death in their life. life moves quickly when they spend their time researching. these people aren't the best at sharing their thoughts coherently. they often get caught when they seek revenge or they have rather expressive faces in which everyone can tell what they are thinking/feeling. these people are likely to travel to places where magic and death are the most prevalent dover england, new orleans louisiana, etc.

sun-hermes: positive aspects: these people often quickly climb the ranks with their ambitious mindset; they are often unstoppable. they can be the peacekeeper between their father and the rest of their family. these people are like the stage managers of life - they organize everyone so they have it all together and moderate when things are in conflict. negative aspects: these people are willing to do whatever it takes to get to the top - their ambition is often unchecked as they only have advancement and achievement in mind. they are often seen as egotistic and egocentric. often they have a father who they don't find to be a good person or they struggle to get out from their shadow. if this person comes into power they are often not seen as the best person - the dirty deeds they have done to get where they are often come out.

hope this helps.

a.d.

click here for the masterlist

click here for more greek myths & legends

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© a-d-nox 2023 all rights reserved

[jaws-and-canines]

If I Feel Something, My Body Betrayed Me

A Verschlimmbessern AU. Instead of defecting, Fennec is returned to his home country in a prisoner exchange. Contains depictions of suicide and self-harm, death references, brief mentions of rape, and themes of mental illness. The title is from this song.

---

They brought him to the border at Dover with a black bag over his head and his hands zip-tied in front of him. He didn’t really mind, at that point, he just fell asleep in the back of the car. The bulletproofing muffled the road noise. All he could really hear was his own tinnitus- that was new, and had started after he had been held underwater for a little too long. He was sure there was no more water in his ear but the ringing remained stubbornly.

It was a quiet affair, not much to it. This had been repeated hundreds of times- the absolute extreme of diplomacy the Eurocorps would engage in with the State of London City were wordless prisoner exchanges- so it ran like a well-oiled machine. Both sides set their prisoners loose at the same time. There was a pause as they cut Fennec loose from the zip tie, and he saw that the Eurocorps had brought the Englishman without even handcuffs- but he supposed they must still think he was going to run. He started to walk towards the border, not slow, but not fast either. He had no intention of prolonging it.

He’d thought about running but there was nowhere to run to anymore. All that would do would get everyone here killed, and quite possibly start a hot war- not the cold one the two countries sat in at present. He had no intention of being shot and bleeding to death on the tarmac here. It was, and he knew now, not nearly as peaceful as they made out it was in books. If you weren’t lucky enough to die immediately then you were going to suffer.

On the other hand, there was no need to restrain the Englishman. He was going home. He passed the Englishman- the man’s family waiting in a Department of State Affairs car a little way behind the border for him.

Fennec wished he was going home, but he knew he wasn’t. The federal police were waiting for him, and he could see them, and yet he kept walking- limping- towards them. He crossed into French territory and didn’t feel any different. They were waiting for him just over the border. The hand on his arm surprised him how quick it was- he was expecting to have to walk a little further.

It’s over, he thought. It’s all over.

“Anton Von Fennec?” asked the policeman. 

He nodded slowly, looking between the three of them there. “How long were you waiting here?” was the only thing he could think to ask. Five hours, they said. Fennec looked at the warrant they showed him, shrugged, and just walked with them to the back of the car in silence. They didn’t put him in handcuffs. There was no need.

They travelled back in silence as well. The pressure in the plane gave Fennec a headache and made the pins in his leg ache, and so he sat pitched forwards in his seat, head in his hands. The officers on either side of him kept a quiet eye on him but said nothing. There was nothing to say.

---

He cooperated with the interrogations, and gave them everything he knew. In return they allowed Alais to come and see him- and whilst Alais spoke to him, they looked after Sabine, not much more than a toddler, laughing and pointing at things that took her interest. The rural police who had brought Alais down were delighted. The federal police who had taken Fennec into custody were not so delighted.

Alais was offered the option to have one of the officers sit in with them. She turned the offer down and just walked in without any sort of prelude. Staring at his wife over the top of a cup of weak tea, Fennec thought he was hallucinating again- until she opened her mouth. “You’re an idiot,” she said. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Not hallucinating, then, he realised. He held up a finger to her, motioning for her to sit down, took a sip of his tea and put the cup back down. “How much do you know?” he asks.

“You’re an idiot, Ant,” she repeated, sitting down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was afraid. I didn’t want to drag you into this, you know?” he said, looking up at her, and then his face cracked into grief, and he had to hide his head in his hands to stifle the sobs. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I didn’t want to drag you into this.”

She waited patiently for him to pull himself together before she told him that they were going to get through this, together, at which point Fennec promptly dissolved like sugar. She leant over the table and put a hand on his- glancing at the two-way mirror, not sure if she was even allowed to touch him- and gave his arm a little squeeze.

---

The hearings started the moment they could find the people to hear them. He was not a flight risk, having nowhere to run anymore, but the magistrate drew up a pretrial detention order all the same, citing the exceptional gravity of the case. The defence lawyer- an old man who seemed to walk with the weight of the world on his shoulders- asked Fennec if he would like to appeal. He shook his head, making some weak excuse about time and effort or something or other.

The lawyer saw right through him. “You don’t want to go home, do you?”

Fennec burst into tears right there and then, shaking his head. They didn’t appeal the detention order.

He didn’t, as he thought he might, cry when they took him to the detention centre- instead he found himself drenched in a cold sweat the moment the building came into sight. A rather unappetising shade of grey, with windows set behind metal grilles, and the bright burn of fluorescent lights behind them. 

It remained a quiet affair, unremarkable for what it represented. The locked gates behind him, between him and the outside world made him a little uneasy. They showed him around the places he would be allowed to go, and then went through the rules- handed to him in a ring-bound booklet, laid out point by point. 

Fennec swore to Alais he was taking it well, but seemed like he was wasting away. He lost weight, a nervous demeanour clinging to him at all times that meant he ate very little, smoked too much, and paced whenever the pain would let him. Expecting to be beaten, his pulse would quicken with his heart pounding against his chest each time his name was called for something- but the blows never landed, and were never thrown anywhere except for in his mind.

---

For a few weeks, there were talks of sending him to the Hague. In the end that never materialised- the examining judge looked at the evidence, at the interrogation records, the testimonies of the people on the boat that had made it home- and decided there was not really much basis to convict him of a war crime on. Charges of treason were similarly drawn up, and thrown out on the basis that again, there really was no indication that Fennec had meant anything to come of all the bad decisions he had made, and the penal code states that unless there is a specific charge for negligently committing a crime, nothing will stand without intent behind it.

The six charges- five for the State soldiers who had died on the barge, one for Atticus, whom he had killed- all started out as murder without aggravating circumstances- Totschlag- but the more evidence that was brought up, the less culpable Fennec became in the eyes of the court. The soldiers from the Horatio, and even the remaining officers all said the same things- painting Fennec as incompetent, oblivious and negligent, but not a murderer. The blame ended up mostly on the dead- Christoph Fride and Atticus Raines. The forensic evidence from the dead soldiers agreed- blame the dead.

The question of what had led up to Atticus’ death came up and lingered for several days. Fennec had confessed to what had happened in as much detail as he remembered it. The forensics didn’t exonerate him- the bullet that was dug out of Atticus’ body belonged to his sidearm, but, again, the survivors came to his defence. Several of the soldiers testified that Atticus had begged to be killed- and Fennec sat on the defendant’s bench and wondered why they would exonerate him in such a way when they could have simply left him to rot.

They ran through each of the cases of the dead soldiers- finding duty records from god-knows-where, proving where Fennec was at the time each of the soldiers died or was killed, and found that in three of the five cases, he had been asleep at the time, and that Fride had been the one at fault. Those charges were dropped. Still Fennec couldn’t fathom why they would go to such lengths for him. He didn’t understand it.

In the end the case was brought for two counts of negligent killing, and one of killing upon request. Negligent killing demanded a prison sentence of up to five years, killing upon request from six months to five years. The prosecutor and the defence lawyer talked for a very long time, and in the end, came to an agreement of nine years- two and a half for each of the counts of negligence, and four for the other charge.

---

Fennec was taken back to prison and there he languished. There wasn’t really a better word for it. 

He started paintings and then never finished them. He cleaned what he was asked to clean, dusting and vacuuming his cell, and went where he was asked to go, did what he was asked to do. Let someone else do the thinking for him. He resented the psychologist’s attempts to make him think about things that seemed too enormous to understand in their fortnightly half-hour meetings- in his mind, it was simple. He was there because he was to be made accountable for his own guilt. The crime led to guilt, which led to the penalty, as simple as dominoes.

Alais visited once a month- the journey up was long and Sabine needed someone at home. One day she would be old enough to come too, but Fennec maintained she was not to see him in prison, not to come and visit.

“You don’t want to see your daughter?” asked Alais.

“I want to see her very much. I don’t want her to see me,” said Fennec. “Children should not be exposed to such things.”

Alais just stared at him until he elaborated. It took a few moments, Fennec missing the non-verbal cue for a long beat. Eventually it clicked. “I don’t want her to think this is something to aspire to, or something normal.” He scratched at the back of his head. “She needs to be old enough to understand why I’m here. Right now, she is not.”

At last Alais understood his insistence. The next week, in the mail, came a little pink bear from Sabine’s bed. The letter said, in Alais’ unrestrained cursive, that she had picked it out for her father. Fennec thought about sending it back on principle, but relented. He set it on the shelving above his desk, watching him. He fell asleep looking at it and dreamed of his daughter.

He woke up in tears, putting a hand to his face and finding it damp. With a groan of pain, he sat up in bed, put both feet on the floor and staggered over to the desk. He turned the bear around to face the wall, and then limped back over to his bed, hauling his bad leg onto the mattress with a hand beneath it.

Each time they searched the cells- which they did with some regularity, but not too often- he watched them go through his paintings, on thick paper with their edges warped with water from the watercolours, and wondered what they thought of them. 

“What is this?” she said, holding up the pink bear.

“It is from my daughter,” he said.

They took the stuffing out of the bear onto his desk. Fennec looked at the bear and the bear’s white insides strewn all over the light wood desk, and thought that him and the bear must not look too dissimilar. Satisfied, they moved on to searching him, a simple frisk down his body, turning out his pockets. There was no reason to think he was harbouring anything. He winced as they felt down his left leg, but never said anything. He put the stuffing back in the bear and put it back on the shelf.

---

A few weeks passed and he found himself exhausted. He wasn’t sleeping and he didn’t know why. He couldn’t draw and he didn’t know why. He sat up late one night trying to finish a drawing- trees casting a shadow over leaves- and nothing looked right. Nothing he put on paper looked right. A few more lines and the drawing looked worse. Nothing looked or felt right but he couldn’t for the life of him put a finger on why. He went to sharpen his pencil and the pencil snapped.

He picked up another pencil, trembling with frustration. He put the pencil into the pencil sharpener and slowly twisted. The pencil sharpener unceremoniously broke in two. The blade came loose from the yellow plastic and bounced across the table. He cried a few quiet tears of frustration over it, and then when the tears cleared from his eyes enough that he could see what he was doing, his gaze fell on the blade from the pencil sharpener, lying on his desk. He stared at it for a few moments, the idea half-forming in his head.

He picked it up and held it for a moment, before the idea took hold of him entirely. He raked the blade down both arms. The blood welled up almost immediately, spilling down onto his trousers and shirt. He went back to bed with the intention of not waking up in the morning, fluffing the pillows even as he smeared blood over them, rolling onto his side to get comfortable as he bled through the sheets and into the mattress. Later on, he couldn’t quite explain what had come over him. Nothing more succinct than he was tired, and he wanted to go to sleep, and it seemed like the quickest way to do it.

They found him on his bed, bleeding wrists clutched to his chest, half-asleep. The remains of the pencil sharpener were snapped underfoot. The guards couldn’t rouse him, and thinking he was dead, tried to drag him onto the floor to start CPR, until one of them pressed down on the muscle between his neck and collarbone, and his eyes flew open with a startled cry. 

---

He spent the next few days curled up on a bed in the infirmary. The psychotherapist thought that it amounted to guilt and guilt alone. He refused to speak to the psychotherapist, sitting in silence until the clock ran down. 

He wouldn’t speak to the psychiatrist either. They sat looking at each other in silence, the psychiatrist looking through Fennec’s records, including the sheets translated from English that described Fennec’s episodes of mania where he had neglected to sleep or eat, obsessed with the thought that the pigeons outside were sent from Germany to spy on him, and accused anyone and everyone around him of trying to poison him. 

Every sort of food or drink they brought him, they had somehow poisoned- there were several pages of incident reports full of the bizarre logic of psychosis, ranging from the mundane of slipping poison into the drink when he wasn’t looking, to poisoning the cows the meat came from using an undetectable poison designed to be hidden on blood work. He itched himself raw on his arms in his stress and blamed it on the poison. He was moved into a room with no windows to see if that would help, and swore he could hear the birds in the walls.

Eventually, convinced he was being poisoned by one side and spied on by the other, a terrified Fennec had tried desperately to smash a window to throw himself out of. That was enough for the State’s psychiatrists to act decisively. Brought on by antidepressants, they had put a stop to it with a course of high-dose thorazine and electroconvulsive therapy. 

The psychiatrist asked Fennec about the birds. “Do they still follow you?”

Fennec looked up, the first time he had since he sat down. He just shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The psychiatrist eventually gave up and wrote a repeat prescription for antidepressants and lithium, not knowing what else to do with the silent man in front of him. 

---

Fennec returned to languishing. He had to pay from his accounts- a mix of earnings and what Alais had paid in for him- for the new mattress. The old one was unsalvageable and sent off to be burnt. The gashes up his arms needed to be glued back together. He didn’t read any of the letters Alais sent, and for several weeks didn’t send one back, until she showed up, and he felt too guilty not to sit down with her and explain what had happened.

She took it surprisingly well. “That wasn’t a good idea, was it?”

He shrugged, leaning on the table with all his weight. “No.”

She asked the question nobody had thought to ask. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

He nodded silently, again those tears welling up in his eyes.

She put a hand on his as he picked and pulled at the bandages, fraying the edges. “If you want a decent bit of sleep I can send you a dream-catcher.”

He agreed to the dream-catcher on the condition that Sabine was never to find out about the suicide attempt- though he wasn’t entirely sure that was what it was. He’d not really been trying to kill himself, but his actions spoke to the contrary. Either way, Sabine didn’t need to know. Again he repeated his reasoning- she’s too young, and children should not be exposed to such things- and Alais understood. 

Every letter Alais sent to him from then on, he answered. The dreamcatcher went up on his corkboard. He started finishing the paintings he had started. He didn’t try to kill himself again. He didn’t really see the point- and as the antidepressants kicked in and the mood stabiliser levelled him out, he felt a lot more human again. Still, they kept him on suicide watch for six months, checking at his door every fifteen minutes. He slept right through it at night, and didn’t really mind it during the day. Some of the officers would even stop for a chat if his door was propped open, which it always was when he was painting.

---

They signed him off for day release at some point, and for his full allowance of leave a year- twenty-one days, to be taken at holidays and special occasions, reliant on Alais to pick him up and sign for his return. He wouldn’t go anywhere- he didn’t have anywhere to go- and it never became any easier to leave them each time he went back. Most of the holidays, he wound up sitting in an armchair in the corner of whatever room they were in, staring into the fireplace, lit or not. The entire extended family knew about where he was most of the time, and they made it painfully obvious, even though they didn’t mean to.

He preferred the day release. A company took him on as a painter and decorator. He just walked to work in the nearby town every morning and spent his days in overalls, plastering and painting. It felt good to be making something with his hands, to see the walls fill in and smell the paint dry. He was almost proud of it each time he stepped back to see how far he’d come.

Eventually, the day release became a move to an open prison- he’d spend the evenings and the nights behind the walls of the detention centre, and then during the days, he would leave for work, and spend the whole day out in society. The number of locked doors and fences and searches in his life decreased sharply- nobody in the open prisons was inclined to abscond, they didn’t take huge measures to stop them from doing so, relying instead on trust, and generally the mood was a little less stifling.

Fennec found himself relying on his work as a form of escapism. His thoughts would wander, and they would never go to good places, so to fill his mind with painting or plastering or lining up the seams on wallpaper was almost blissful. During his breaks, sitting on benches in paint-stained overalls with his lunch spread out beside him, under the dappled light of the sun, he found himself identifying the birds around him to pass the time instead. 

He still couldn’t stand the pigeons. He never explained why to Alais, not in letters nor in conversation- he kept that period of his life to himself. The torture the enemy had inflicted on him, as well, he pushed deep down inside himself- resigning it to the back of his mind alongside everything else that haunted him a little- with the reasoning that his wife should not be exposed to such things. It was not, in his mind, her burden to share. He didn’t think it would be fair on her.

---

He was well into his fifties by the time he was released for good. Sitting in Alais’ car, all the belongings to his name in two plastic crates in the boot, he stared at himself in the rearview mirror with an expression of distaste. The wrinkles on his face showed that he rarely smiled- though the corners of his eyes would crease whenever he laughed or smiled, and Alais thought that was the most beautiful thing in the world. Fennec just saw the bright grey hairs starting to streak through the partings of his mousey-brown hair and nothing else.

Sabine was sitting in the back seat, on her phone. She waved to him as he’d walked from the gate of the prison to the car in the same way you’d wave to a distant friend across the room. He’d waved back, but then she hadn’t said a word since.

“Don’t be rude,” said Alais as she pulled onto the Autobahn, away from the town that Fennec hadn’t left for nine years. “Talk to your father.”

She looked up at him. “He’s not my father,” she said. “I don’t have a father.”

“It’s okay,” said Fennec. “I get travel sickness. I’d rather not try to hold a conversation now.” He smiled at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes stayed the same- a little forlorn, like a dog thrown out of the house for barking too much. She looked up at him, and studied the expression on his face.

“Then you’ll talk when we get home,” said Alais, glaring between the two of them in the mirror. There was no escaping her relentless stubbornness, even after all that had happened. The rest of the car ride was silent. Sabine texted someone throughout. Fennec just watched her in the rearview mirror.

---

Neunzing had barely changed. Still a sleepy little farm village. His house, however, had changed- it even smelt different. He stood in the hallway, staring at the coat hooks on the wall. Sabine walked right past him. Alais sent her back a few moments later to move Fennec from where he was standing, staring at every little thing he walked past, and sit him down in the armchair in the living room. She put two cups of tea on the table, and left him and Sabine to it.

“You killed someone?” she asked. The first thing she’d said to him, and it was that.

Fennec looked at her like she was from a different planet. “Yes,” he said. “How do you know that?”

Sabine rolled her eyes. “I looked you up on the internet,” she said.

Fennec found he had nothing more to say to her. She already knew and she’d already made up her mind- and she wasn’t happy about the man she rightfully considered a stranger now living with her mother.

---

Over the next few weeks, Fennec sat in the armchair in the corner of the room most of the day. He knew he should be looking for work but nothing he could read made sense to him. The letters didn’t make words. He was exhausted in a way beyond tiredness, so he just sat there, staring into space. Alais lost her temper with him- “You have had nine years to languish, I won’t let you carry on rotting away” - and then swiftly apologised to him. All the same, he got the message, got himself up, and set up his easel at the far end of the garden, looking out towards the fields. Try as he might, he couldn’t mix the right greens, and ended up weeping over the canvas for half an hour in frustration. By the time he was done crying, the sun had started to go down, and at last, he mixed the right green.

Something felt off. Fennec felt off. They hadn’t discharged him from prison with a prescription for the medication he was taking, but it seemed to him more than simple withdrawals. Like the house wasn’t real, the people around him weren’t real. All his life, the past ten years and then some, all he could think about was coming home, and now he was home- and it didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt like someone else’s house.

He didn’t finish the painting. Green after green went down onto the canvas and nothing looked right. In a moment of frustration, he broke it over his good knee, and tossed it into the hedge. Alais made him go and retrieve it and put it in the correct bin, which he did, a little embarrassed. Sabine stared at him out of the window the whole time. She texted her friend something as she did so. Fennec made eye contact with her from down in the garden, in his paint-covered blazer and overalls, his ragged straw hat, shielding his eyes from the setting sun- and wondered what the text had said. It bothered him so much that he couldn’t eat dinner. Alais told him that if he kept it up he was going to have to go and see a dentist, and Fennec just shrugged. His teeth didn’t hurt, but she didn’t believe him.

The weeks went by still, and he made himself useful around the houses in the village, being paid per-job from people who thought he had died years ago. The people who knew where he’d been generally wanted to invite him in for coffee and something to eat rather than let him work. They always asked the same questions that Fennec knew weren’t the ones they really wanted to ask. 

Alais took him to a dentist in Munich- a friend of hers that had agreed to take a look at his teeth on short notice, as long as Fennec was willing to have a student assist. He had agreed. The dentist put him in the chair, and Fennec had damn near vomited the moment he tipped it back- sheer terror hitting him like a brick- abruptly sat up and asked if they could give him a sedative. They did, and he managed to get through the rest of the consultation without much issue. They seemed to find cavity after cavity. He lost three teeth- adamantly refusing to have a root canal done- and they replaced them with replicas that looked not much different from the old ones. Most were repairable with a filling or treatable with fluoride paste.

Alais was puzzled when she came to pick him up and he handed her the relative’s form about the sedatives. “You were never afraid of dentists when you were younger,” she said.

“Yes, I was,” lied Fennec. She left the topic alone with a funny look.

---

Some time after the dentist, Fennec found himself markedly off-kilter. He always liked to say he knew when he was up, and he knew when he was down, but this time it was almost as if he was both- two polar opposites of his mood spectrum crammed into one body. That was the off feeling he had been feeling for a long while, and finally, it had him right in its grip. It was terrible. He felt terrible- as if he wanted to rip his own skin off, a feeling of a dark sort of electricity beneath his flesh- restless, agitated, anxious. His brain moved slowly and he was acutely and terribly aware of that fact.

It all came to a head on a particularly hot evening. He was painting- or at least trying to. None of his colours looked right, nothing looked right. Nothing felt right and nothing was right. He sat with it, looking at the painting until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He leapt up from his easel, shoved it over, and went upstairs to the bathroom. He forgot to lock the door in his haste. Part of him thought that the act of knocking over his easel was enough to make the feeling that consumed him stop, but it wasn’t. He wanted more. He wanted to see himself- metaphorically, or perhaps literally, he really did not care- dissected like a corpse on an autopsy table- bared to the world. Everyone needed to know what he was. Then, maybe the feeling would go. Maybe then he could think clearly.

He took off his clothes and stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. Naked, because he couldn’t see himself any other way- his clothes, he reasoned, just hid what he really was. The scars, the unkempt beard, nothing to hide behind, and Fennec realised just how old and tired he looked. He wanted to shave the beard as well, the final thing he had to hide behind, and let Alais see what he really was- what this body really was- so he grabbed the razor from the sink, wet his hands, and wet his beard.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he went to put the razor to his face, and was suddenly filled with an inexplicable hatred for himself. Nothing, in that moment, seemed like it was ever going to be okay again. He couldn’t feel anything, he thought. This body was just like wax, melting, dying, his hair was going grey and his eyesight was going and he felt as if he had wasted his entire life- and it was all his fault.

It was all his fault and he hated himself for that. But there was nothing to be done about it, so he put the razor to his face again- and found he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shave his face. He didn’t want to expose what was beneath. He became acutely aware he could barely feel his own body- it wasn’t his, surely? It wasn’t his, it was something that had caught up with him, the aches and the pains and everything in-between weren’t part of him. They were part of his body that he couldn’t feel to know it was his.

He slapped himself in the face and felt nothing. He drove a thumb into the bony part of his bad knee and felt nothing. It wasn’t his body, he thought, growing ever-certain of the fact, and he panicked. They couldn’t put him back in another body. He didn’t even know where it was- but no, he couldn’t accept it- he had to feel something, he had to feel something, or it really wasn’t his body.

In desperation, he took the razor, and sliced himself across the arm with it. The pain made his mind a little less sluggish, so he did it again, and again, and then dropped the razor, staring at himself in the mirror again, turning his head this way and that. 

He was vaguely aware that it was a mistake, that he shouldn’t have done it, but the slight cold burn in his forearm was enough to make him think about things in a new way. His body betrayed him. It always had, and always would, and in that moment it made an awful sort of sense to him- he was being punished. As the blood ran down his arm and dripped on to the tiled floor, it made sense to him. It didn’t stop just because he was a free man. It didn’t stop the moment he was allowed to leave prison- it began.

He could feel. It was his body, and his body betrayed him.

He betrayed the people around him, and now his body would betray him, trapping him there for the rest of his life. Just a new prison. And, he resolved to himself, it wouldn’t make sense to kill himself now. Because this was what divine justice said had to happen. He had to live with himself. Not kill himself. He had to live with himself and the guilt and the shame, and his ageing body, his daughter who didn’t like him and his wife who pitied him, and the secrets, and the things he wished were secrets.

And then he was startled out of it by a scream. Alais. “Fuck, Anton,” she cried, startling at the sight of him standing there, naked save for his own blood, and she dropped the washing basket. “Fuck.”

The illusion broke. It was very much his body, and not for the first time, he had cut himself, he realised, staring down at his arm. “I’m sorry,” he said reflexively. 

Alais kicked into her businesslike manner within a few seconds. “Put pressure on it,” she said, and handed him the towel. “I thought we’d got over this.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself this time,” he said blankly. “I just…” He put his uninjured hand over his face, and tried to push the tears rolling down his cheeks back into his eyes with the side of his thumb. If anything that made it worse, so he put his head down towards his arm and wiped his eyes on the corner of the bloodied towel. “I wanted to see if I could still feel.”

“You don’t need to hurt yourself to work that out, Ant,” she breathed. She reached out a hand to touch him, and then her fingers met his back, and her fingers met the scars on his back, the scars she’d never even seen before, let alone touched. He’d always avoided getting changed in front of her but now this was unavoidable. “Did you-” she choked out.

“No,” he said quietly, still holding the towel to his arm. “No. Someone else did. A long time ago.”

“Who?” she asked. “These are burns, Anton, I need to know- who did this to you?”

He shook his head.

“Who?” she demanded, raising her voice a little.

 “I-I-I-” he stammered. “I didn’t- I didn’t want you to know, I didn’t think it was fair that you know. It’s not nice. It’s not-”

“None of this is fucking nice! You’ve cut your wrists in our fucking bathroom! Our child is in bed upstairs! None of this is nice!” she shouted. “It’s not a nice thing! I don’t care, I want you- not only the nice things, Anton, all of you! So fucking well tell me!”

Fennec visibly flinched away from her. In that moment, he swore he could see her heart break, but then it occurred to him just how stupid he was being. “When I was at war, when they… they captured me,” he said, and his voice trailed into nothingness. “They… they…” He swallowed sharply.

There was a pause, and then they both spoke at the same time.

“I’m sorry for shouting at you,” she said.

“They tortured me,” he said.

She put her hand over her mouth, and Fennec looked up to see that now they were both crying. “Alais, I’m sorry,” he said. 

He peeled the towel off his arm and realised the bleeding had stopped. She just looked at him as if he was something alien to her, running her fingertips over the scars on his back, and then drifting down to his arm, holding him by the wrist and holding it up to the arm. A few tendrils of blood beaded from the cuts and rolled onto the bathmat under his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. 

She wiped her tears on the back of her hand. “Stop apologising for bleeding.” She finds the scars at the top of his forearm, spelling out letters- Verräter- traitor, carved into his arm. “This?” she asked. “Did you do this?” He shook his head. “How much more of it didn’t leave scars?” she asked. Fennec just laughed a brittle laugh, shaking his head. The tears stung at the back of his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he sniffled. “I’m really sorry.”

She squeezed his arm a little, trying to pull his attention back to her. “How much of this is there? How much did they do to you?”

Fennec looked at her with something unreadable in his eye. “How long do we… How long do we have?” He broke out into a pained laugh. Alais doesn’t laugh. 

He laid it out in almost an itemised list, from top to bottom. She just stood there, holding him by the arms, looking at his face as he talked, even as he couldn’t bear to look at hers. In the end he had been waiting to do this for so long that he knew almost exactly what to say. He faltered at a couple of points- describing things as plainly as he could bring himself to do, because anything else felt like deception. 

He started with after they shot him in the knee, how they’d pressed fingers into the wound, laughing at him as he writhed in agony. How the secret police they had over there- the Special Division had taken him into custody the moment he wasn’t on the brink of bleeding to death. It had started with fingers and ended with screws being hammered in and twisted out. 

He continued with how his comrades-in-arms had pinned him down and scalded him over his back and his neck with hot water mixed with sugar for his cowardice, how they’d carved what he was to them- a traitor- into his arm and rubbed salt into the wounds. How the British soldiers hadn’t cared. He faltered when it came to the sexual assaults, but couldn’t really bring himself not to talk about them- Alais knew him, every inch of him, and they’d had a child together- he couldn’t hide from her now. He could never hide from her. Each time it had ended the same way- whether face down or on his knees, he’d always done what they wanted him to. He never resisted beyond instinct, because he knew it would get him killed. And it was only ever about control, and if control was what they wanted, control was what he would give to them.

Fennec kept talking. Once the words started coming they wouldn’t stop. Still Alais’ hands stayed on his back, rubbing warm circles into his cold skin. He talks about how they put a gun to his head and asked him to beg for his life, and he did. He talks about things that should have been left in the history books being inflicted on him. How once they realised they were going to exchange him, to send him back to Germany, they turned to methods that left no mark- waterboarding, electroshock- and how he’d told them everything he knew, vomited, wet himself, and told them lies just to make it stop. He didn’t bother to try to make himself look good. There was no way he could. Alais let him talk. Her face turned into this mask of pity mixed with anger at the people behind it all as he did.

He talked about the white-tiled rooms, and he talked about the psychiatric hospital they’d put him in where nobody spoke German. He talked, at length, about losing his mind. He explained, at last, about the pigeons. And then he apologised again. He was crying still and he didn’t even realise until a stray tear rolled into his mouth and he tasted it.

Finally he ran out of things to say. It was as if he’d said everything that ever could, or would be said. Her hands wandered down again, almost as if she couldn’t believe that he was real, that any of it was real, until she was holding him around the waist with one hand, the other between his shoulder blades. “Thank you for being honest with me,” she said at last.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, eyes bright with tears. “I was wrong not to tell you.” Alais looked at him with a tearful smile. She rocked him a little, one way and then the other, the same action she used to soothe Sabine when she was a toddler.

“This is a new thing for me, Ant, and I’m not going to be the best at it,” she said to him, in the softest, most gentle voice she possibly could. “But whatever this is, whatever is going on up there-” she brushed his hair away from his face, cupping his cheek with a soft hand. “I’ll still be there for you, alright?”

Fennec nodded, chewing at his bottom lip, the tears welling up in his eyes yet again- a moment away from bawling like a child, leaning into the touch on his cheek. 

Alais rubbed his cheek with the side of her thumb, feeling his warm skin beneath her fingertips. “But you need help, Ant, more than I alone could ever give to you. I think it’s about time we called someone, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, the tears rolling freely down his face. “I’m really sorry.”

She leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “It’s not your fault, Ant,” she said softly. “It’s not your fault, and we’re going to get you some help, alright?” She knelt down to pick up the razor, glistening with his blood, and took hers off the sink as well. “I’m just outside,” she said. “I’m going to make some phone calls.” With a moment of hesitation, she unplugged the toothbrush charger from the wall and took that with her out of the room.

Fennec watched her go, feeling like he was made of parchment and not much else, hollow inside. His footprints were in his own blood on the floor- still naked and cold, holding his arm close to his chest, his leg screaming at him to sit down. He sat down. He sat on the edge of the bath and he wept.

[harriswalz4usabybr]

Saturday, August 10, 2024 - Kamala Harris

This is the 'official' schedule of Kamala Harris today on the campaign trail. With some added detail for press purposes. Additionally, the Vice President is traveling with Mayor Michelle Wu on this trip to gain some valuable insight into the region while traveling and meeting with voters.

Portland, ME Event Location: University of Southern Maine Event Type: Campaign Rally Event Time: 9:00 - 10:00 ET Dover, NH Event Location: Dover High School Event Type: Town Hall Community Forum Event Time: 11:30 - 13:00 ET Hanover, NH Event Location: Dartmouth College Event Type: Interview moderated by a member of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority Inc, Xi Lambda Chapter Event Time: 15:30 - 17:00 ET Burlington, VT Event Location: Burlington Farmers Market Event Type: Outdoor Public Rally (w/ Food Trucks) Event Time: 19:00 - 21:30 *Note there is a meet and greet for local public leaders from 20:30-21:30

Here are some excerpts from today's speeches:

Portland, ME "Women's rights are not just a matter of policy; they are a matter of principle. Here in Maine and across the country, we are witnessing an unprecedented attack on women's autonomy and access to healthcare. The right to choose is fundamental, and it is under threat like never before. We cannot stand idly by while politicians, driven by a desire to control women's bodies, strip away the rights that generations have fought so hard to secure. Coach Walz and I are committed to ensuring that every woman, regardless of where she lives, has the freedom to make decisions about her own health and future." "But this fight goes beyond legislation—it's about dignity, respect, and equality. It's about ensuring that every woman, whether she's in Portland, Maine, or any corner of this nation, can access the care she needs without fear or stigma. We must defend and expand access to reproductive healthcare, protect providers who are dedicated to their patients, and support women in every aspect of their lives. Together, we will stand up, speak out, and ensure that women's rights are protected and expanded, not rolled back. We're not going back!"

Dover, NH "Education is the foundation of our democracy, and it starts with ensuring that every child, regardless of their zip code, has access to high-quality, affordable education. In New Hampshire and across the nation, we face a crisis in education funding that leaves too many children behind. Coach Walz and I are committed to closing the gaps in our education system, investing in our public schools, and ensuring that every child has the opportunity to reach their full potential. From early childhood education to higher education, we must prioritize the needs of our students and educators." "But education doesn't stop when the school bell rings. Child care is a critical component of our nation's educational infrastructure. Too many families are struggling to find affordable, quality care for their children, and it's holding our economy back. We need to treat child care as the public good it is, by investing in early childhood programs, supporting child care providers, and ensuring that working parents have the resources they need to thrive. The future of our nation depends on the education and care of our youngest citizens, and we must act now to build a system that works for everyone."

Hanover, NH Q: "Vice President Harris, as a former student activist yourself, what advice would you give to students today who are passionate about making change, particularly in the areas of climate justice and social equity?" A: "My advice to student activists is to never underestimate the power of your voice and your ability to drive change. When I was in college, I learned that activism is not just about protesting; it's about organizing, building coalitions, and staying committed to your cause. Whether you're fighting for climate justice, social equity, or any other issue, remember that your passion and persistence are what will make a difference. The challenges we face today—like the climate crisis and systemic inequality—are daunting, but they are not insurmountable. Keep pushing, keep advocating, and keep building the future you want to see." Q: "How do you plan to address the intersection of climate change and educational access, particularly for communities of color that are often the most affected by both?" A: "Climate change and educational access are deeply interconnected, especially for communities of color who are disproportionately impacted by environmental hazards and underfunded schools. We need to approach these challenges with a holistic perspective. That means investing in green infrastructure and clean energy in underserved communities, while also ensuring that schools in these areas have the resources they need to provide quality education. It also means empowering students with the knowledge and skills to lead on climate issues. By integrating environmental justice into our education system, we can prepare the next generation to tackle these challenges head-on and create a more equitable and sustainable future."

Burlington, VT "Burlington, you are leading the way in showing how local communities can make a big impact on the environment. From renewable energy initiatives to sustainable farming practices, Vermont has demonstrated that we can build a future that prioritizes the health of our planet and the well-being of our communities. But the fight for environmental justice doesn't end at the state line—it requires a national commitment to bold, transformative action. Our Campaign is ready to take the lessons learned here in Burlington to Washington, to ensure that every community across the country has access to clean air, clean water, and a sustainable future." "Local politics matter, and your voices here in Vermont matter. Whether it's advocating for better public transportation, supporting small businesses, or pushing for policies that protect our natural resources, the work you do on the ground is the foundation for broader change. This campaign is about empowering communities like Burlington to take the lead, to innovate, and to demand the kind of leadership that prioritizes people and the planet. Together, we can create a future that is not only environmentally sustainable but also socially just, where every person has the opportunity to thrive."

~BR~