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[blueridgeone]

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[francisbacon-3]

ORPHEUS AS A BLACKSMITH

[5400 words. Partially canon/history accurate. Post-games AU. Violence, angst, hurt/comfort. I might touch up some things.]

“Any work going around here?” He asks as soon as the innkeeper pockets his hard-earned coins.

“None whatsoever,” the man shrugs. “You can try talking some sense to Old man Johannes, but that is a futile effort, so be warned. If he buys you a drink, that’s a reward enough.”

“Old man Johannes?” Henry quirks a brow.

“Aye,” the innkeeper nods. “He lives at the end of the village. Recently he’s been… annoying, to say the least. Keeps wailing deep into the night. Scared off some of well-paying travelers, too.”

“And you want me to do what about it? I’m not an exorcist.”

He huffs a dry laugh. “No, I imagine you are not. It was just a thought, so that we don’t stand here idly and in quiet. You asked, I answered.”

Henry looks around. It’s a small hamlet, not far from Prague, recently having transferred hands from the church to the village proper. No work here, well, apart from this weird thing with “Old man Johannes”, but perhaps in Prague he’ll have more luck. He’s weary, though, so hanging around for a day in a place filled with peace and, apart from the reported inconsolable Old man Johannes, quiet – so far it’s been quiet, at least, but come night, there’s things bound to happen – will do him good ahead of the bustle and rustle of the big city.

“Thanks anyways,” Henry parts ways with the innkeeper.

He tends to his horse, checks up on his supplies. He can’t deny he’s intrigued by the Old man Johannes. His curiosity gets the better of him, so he asks around. Most folks only know of his nightly weeping, saying he cries himself to sleep and that it takes painfully long, too.

“Like the devil’s roasting him on a spit over the bonfires of Hell itself,” one man tells him. It’s difficult to say whether or not he’s exaggerating.

Old man Johannes doesn’t have a job and comes and goes. There are days when he’s holed up in his house and days when he disappears without a trace, only to come back in the evening to the tavern. Some say he’s good company by a pitcher of ale. At any rate, Henry is directed to a stone cottage at the edge of the village, by a road that should lead to Prague.

The house is a little run down, Henry has to admit. The roof could definitely use some work. The grass surrounding it is overgrown, and there are no animals, in fact no sign that anyone would be living here. The makeshift fence’s gate is propped open, so Henry wanders into the property, yet vigilant for a sign that someone is about to hurl at him with a pitchfork and cuss him out. Nobody comes. A beaten path leads to a distant outhouse shared with the nearby properties. There is nothing unusual or exceptional about Old man Johannes’ home.

Henry knocks on the door, and waits for an answer that doesn’t come. So he tries again, and when nobody answers still, he checks the perimeter, wary of nosy neighbors. They must be out in the fields; seeing no-one, and no-one seeing him, Henry tries his luck by pushing against the dry, gray wood of the door. To his utter surprise, the house welcomes him – light from the outside pools into the dim, dusty room.

It is cold and dark inside. The house smells like an old castle, damp stone and aged wood. There’s a low wooden tub set against the wall. A small room to its right is a pantry, albeit quite poorly stocked: a piece of cured meat hangs from one of the shelves, some dried grains have spilled from a sack knocked over, root vegetables whose best days are over, a chipped, emptied pitcher. Henry closes the door to the pantry behind him and instead ventures into the main room whose door is wide open and inviting him inside. Old man Johannes is a right fool, Henry thinks.

What looked outside as a miserable peasant dwelling hides inside no modest man’s abode. Old man Johannes has wooden floors and a large, painted fireplace, a proper bed – and a wide one at that. He is no peasant, that is for sure.

Henry approaches the bed first. Sturdy, crafted wood holds enough space for two people to comfortably rest in clean sheets. But only one side appears to be slept in. The other is neatly made, clearly it’s been a while since anyone occupied it. From underneath its pillow peeks out a book, half-heartedly shoved there. Henry reaches out to look at it, finds a withered, leather-bound volume. Breath hitches in his throat. Before he can inspect it closer, a creak of the wood startles him. He abandons the book, and moves onto the rest of the furnishing.

Beside the bed is a table, also set for two. One chair is pulled away, probably by Johannes, for it too looks more worn compared to its sibling. There is a fine, embroidered tablecloth stretched over the surface, a bowl of unfinished gruel of sorts in front of Old man Johannes’ seat. An empty bowl sits before the empty chair, set for someone who won’t be dining tonight, dust collecting at its naked bottom. A glass chalice suffering the same fate; Johannes’ cup stained by remains of wine. Is Johannes waiting for someone? Does he keep any company at all in his home, occasional, at least? Is he mourning a wife, a child, in this eerie, frozen world he has built for himself? In the middle of the table sits a vase with the remains of a bouquet.  Withered flowers: sage, dandelion, poppy… a lone, drought-blackened rose, and some forget-me-nots. Like Johannes’ heart? Henry begins to muse almost poetically. Old man Johannes might be an old, bitter wretch, after all. Let’s not assign to him romantic visuals of piety and faithful suffering, not yet. These flowers grow all over Bohemia, and plenty of people pick up a stem or two to bring home after a long day. Johannes might’ve picked them himself, sure, to add color to his gray existence within these sad walls. Or he might’ve been given them. By whom, if nobody really talks to him, remains a mystery.

Henry looks around the room. The fireplace is cold, but in the pot set in it sits fresh water. Johannes must’ve been home recently, even if he comes and goes at odd hours. Why, he might come back any minute. Better not to linger.

Henry’s attention returns to the bed. A singular chest sits at its foot – Henry won’t steal from it, not yet, at least. The fact that it, too, is left unlocked, frustrates Henry. The chest is filled to the brim with clothing of undoubtedly finer variety. Perhaps Old man Johannes is an opportunistic trader? Henry digs between the clothes, inspecting them. It turns out that there aren’t nearly enough of them to fill out the chest on their own. Their height is inflated by pieces of armor, disassembled and sandwiched amongst hoses, shirts, underwear… tarnished, wrecked plates of hard steel, though of fine craftsmanship. Henry stills. Old man Johannes is a mercenary? An erstwhile bandit? Or is he storing loot found on the site… of an unfortunate accident? It doesn’t seem he intends to sell the armor. And then, at the bottom of the chest, wrapped in a thick, woolen fabric, lies a sword that’s seen better days, collecting rust. Old man Johannes, what secrets are you hiding? Henry jumps to conclusions that cloud his judgement.

The book under the pillow draws Henry’s attention once again, as though promising him answers to his questions. He abandons the stash, and returns to the bed. The tome has been in kinder hands. Its cover is completely beaten, dented and worn, hanging onto its dear life. The pages are thin, similarly frayed by years and years of reading… or careless flipping through. It’s an illuminated book of hours, written in Latin. Did Old man Johannes steal it? Did he buy it? Did he receive it as a gift? Does he understand what is written in there? Henry flips through the pages as though looking for an explanation in the text, and finds himself at the book’s end. Its last page catches his attention with its inflexibility, preventing him from closing the book until he investigates. Upon closer inspection, it’s not one, but two sheets stuck together. Depressions in the parchment as though command him to look, and, well, Henry was never the one to turn down a challenge. He wedges the nail of his thumb between the pages to gently pry them apart. He is rewarded with a look at a beautiful, though faded illumination.

At first, the image is unclear, smudged and pale, its colors blotted by time. Focusing on it, a scene of two knights on horseback approaching faint walls of a city unravels. The inscription has since washed out, but the slightest undertone of pigment remains on their tunics: one wore yellow, the other quartered orange.

No little dread set onto Henry. One wears yellow, the other quartered orange. Their horses, also a little worse for the wear… one wearing a yellow caparison… the other… is gray.

Henry flips the book around. He was wrong – it wasn’t a dent on the front. Though the leather is dark, scratched and flaking, the shield he had mistaken for damage bears the two crossed branches of the lords of Leipa.

The room is too dark, too suffocating. It is screaming at him, berating him, ridiculing him. The ground quakes beneath his feet, and gruesome, dark scenes flash before his eyes. Henry mistakes the bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face for a raindrop, and his chest tightens, he grits his teeth, he sucks in air to cry out—

 “there’s something very special I have for you,” Hans grinned.

“you’d like me to guess?”

“no, you’ll just have to be patient. I want it to commemorate our journey, which has barely started yet. We have plenty of time,” he said wistfully.

Where did this book come from? Why, after all these years, did it end up in his hands? Where is the man who received it when it was brand new?

He never found out just what that special thing for him Hans had. Henry shudders at the memory, and to ground himself, he presses the old volume to his heart, closing his eyes, forcing away the memories that crawl out of the depths of his mind and quicken his heart, make him feel cold, small and cowardly all over again. As panic subsides, he studies the book again… but it’s too painful. It reminds him too much of what he’s lost. He becomes angry with Old man Johannes – why does he have this book? Where the devil did he get it? He hadn’t intended to steal anything, but this… this is too valuable to leave in the hands of a wrong person. It might hurt Old man Johannes. Henry will explain it to him. He will not, must not, cannot leave this place without that book.

Though his hand tremors, he puts the tome back where he found it. Old man Johannes might know more, and he will be more willing to divulge his secrets when approached in goodwill.

He might give up the book whose contents are worthless to him. He might know of a burial mound Henry can go to.

Through the window a woman’s figure appears in the distance, clearly headed towards the house. Henry quickly clears out of the building, just in time to appear that he only recently arrived and is still just looking around.

“Are you searching for someone?” The young woman accuses him when she finds him loitering before the door.

“Aye, Old man Johannes. I was told he lives here,” Henry tells her.

She eyes him up and down. “Have you tried knocking?”

“Yes, but no-one’s answering.”

The young woman shrugs. “Bummer. Then he’s not here. I was just about to bring him his laundry, too.” And she rebalances the woven basket full of linen on her hip.

“You wouldn’t know where I could find him, would you?”

“Dunno. But he’s bound to turn up, sooner or later. Probably at the tavern, though.”

“They told me he goes there often, but I haven’t seen him there.”

“Why you looking for him?” the young woman asks.

Henry stalls. “I was led to believe he might… know something about a man I’m looking for.”

“Who you looking for?”

“An old friend,” the words are heavy on his tongue.

She frowns. “Old man Johannes is not the talkative, nor the… friendly type. I don’t think he’ll be able to help you. But hey, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You said he goes to the tavern?”

“That he does,” she sighs. “To drink his money away.”

“He’s a drunk?”

She shakes her head. “Who isn’t, these days. Nay, I wouldn’t say he’s a drunk, in the usual sense. But this time of the year, when summer nears, he gets bad.”

“Bad? How so?”

“He says he’s haunted. That he’s trying to keep demons at bay. That he doesn’t want to remember.”

A history of thieving, perhaps? “Remember what, his debts?”

“Nay, he’s quick to pay for everything. Maybe too quick. He goes to Prague every now and then and comes back with a pocketful of coins. Spends them right away at the alehouse. Why, sometimes he comes home already drunk. What little he manages to save, he spends on food and soap. I used to do his laundry for free, but he slips me a groshen or five for my work.”

“You do his laundry, does that mean he’s ill? I heard he doesn’t work.”

“He does have something of a lame leg, walks a bit… unsteady, even when sober. But with the money he gets from Prague I doubt he will ever really need to work. I do his laundry… out of kindness, I think. He looks so sad and helpless. Most of the folk only talk to him at the alehouse… and only for as long as he keeps their pitchers full. When the money runs out, so does their attention. I wanted to show him he’s not… completely alone. Anyways it’s not like he couldn’t work.”

Henry frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well… you didn’t hear it from me… but despite his bad leg he looks quite well. I don’t see a reason a man like him couldn’t do a bit of farm work, swing a garden hoe. At first I thought him an idler… but there is something else to him. It’s like he doesn’t know how to work. He’s handsome, too… or he would be, if he gained a little bit of weight and muscle… and smiled more. He just needs cheering up, and to stop drinking. Maybe that’s why they all started calling him Old man Johannes. He is called Johannes, but he’s not an old man. In fact he could be just slightly older than you.”

His heart starts, but there’s no reason to have hope yet. “And he doesn’t keep any friends, any company at all? Doesn’t have a wife or children?”

“Poor soul, he’s all by himself in this world. Breaks my heart just thinking about it.” She wipes at her eyes, even though she didn’t shed any tears. “He doesn’t go to the church, either, except on high holidays. A couple of years ago some people came by from far away by the looks of it, spent time with him. They were quick to leave, though. Nobody has visited him since.”

“Has he always lived here?”

“No. It’s maybe ten years since he’s come to the village? More or less. He had the house built right away, and hasn’t budged.”

“Where did he come from, then?”

“Some of the places ruined by the war… who knows. He looked harmless, so we just let him stay.”

Old man Johannes lived an empty though tranquil life, hid old armor in his house, kept a book he might as well have pried from cold, dead hands—a drunk and impaired. Henry can’t tell whether he hates or pities the man. And yet… and yet what were the chances? What if Johannes…

“His name really is Johannes?”

“Aye…?” she eyes him funny.

Johannes… Johannes with a taste for wine and an aversion to manual labor… Johannes with fine clothing in his chest and a pocketful of groschen… Johannes with old knight’s equipment… Johannes with the book of hours. Johannes who never married.

Henry turns his eyes to the clear summer sky and waits for his heart to stop hammering.

“I still don’t think Old man Johannes is the man you’re looking for. You have nothing in common,” the young woman interrupts his thoughts.

We might have more in common than you’d think, Henry ponders. “One last thing. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find him at this here moment.”

“Maybe… but you must promise me you’re not here to break his neck.” She notes his armor, the long sword hanging by his side. Cutthroats still swarmed the country, and she had every right to protect the man. Even if she told Henry a lot as it is.

“i’m here to make amends,” Henry tells her.

She studies him, long and hard, and seeing his earnest, sad eyes, she gives in. “’Twas this morning I saw him go thataway,” she gestures vaguely in the direction Henry had come from, “Probably to pick flowers. Beyond the grove is a meadow. You’ll find him there, I’m certain. But please, be kind. He needs kindness.”

“And kindness I shall show him,” Henry tells her as he mounts his horse, then he’s off galloping in the direction she sent him to.

Will he be the same? Is it really him, or just one of the bastards that shuffled him of his mortal coil? Is it someone who found him battered and dead and kept his things, an impostor living off of the name of a gone man?

And it is him, if it truly could be him, was he really here all this time? How did he get here? Why was he hiding? Will he remember Henry? Or will he scorn him? Does he still love Henry the way Henry never stopped loving him?

He remembers the rain, most of all. It was rainy that day, and cold.

It was supposed to be a fun adventure. Hans came up to him one day with an offer impossible to say no to: that they, finally, after years of careful planning, see the Holy Land. Naturally there was nothing holy in Hans’ face as he said it – his eyes glinted with mischievous, contagious opportunity that captivated Henry time and time again. Just the two of them on a beautiful journey, what more could he ask for? Even if the world seemed uncertain, even if everything and everyone seemed to be against their odds, they stole away yet another slice for themselves. With the first thaw they mounted their horses and rode off.

Lulled by a sense of security, intoxicated by their freedom, living each day as if it were their last, living for each other. Barely were they out of sight when they seized the first opportunity to kiss and touch and profess undying love to one another. Day by day they drunk up each other’s presence.

It was the most blissful time of Henry’s life. Every day he woke up greeted by an armful of Hans. Every meal they shared out of one bowl. From every spring they offered each other fresh water to drink from their palms. Odes and sonnets could be written about their adventure. At night they huddled as close as their skin allowed them to. Wandering through endless grasslands, Hans would stop to pick flowers and then stick them into Henry’s hair. He became quite talented at weaving flower crowns as well, to bestow upon Henry’s head. They didn’t have to worry about watchful eyes, about treacherous companions, because this time it was just the two of them, and sometimes it felt as though the world around them wanted it, too.

The forest sprouted out before them like a warning finger. Hans was skittish – they should just camp here, wait until the morning. Threatening, rumbling nebulae loomed not far from them, hot on their heels. If they ventured into the forest, the rainstorm would catch up with them twice as bad. But Henry wanted to press on and reach the mountain pass by the next morning.

The woods were dark and threatening at night as they were, but the downpour turned them into an impenetrable mass of morbid, elongated and frightful faces ambushing them left and right. The howl of the wind chilled to the bone, screeching bloody murder. When Henry decided to throw in the towel, it was too late. And as to punish them for his stubbornness, the darkness released unto them more of its misfortune.

Henry turned around to find that Hans’ horse had thrown him off. It took him another moment to realize Hans wasn’t just struggling for breath, but also his life – a group of brigands surrounded them, armed to their teeth and out for blood. Henry was surprised it took them this long to run into these lost souls. Without hesitation and roused by Hans’ screaming, he jumped off of his horse and pounced on the bastards. He killed a couple, or so it seemed. One or two ran off with his horse. It was difficult to make heads or tails out of the situation, with the darkness and the rain, and the scowling wind that drowned out the splintering of wood.

“Henry!” Hans shrieked. “Look out!”

For years, Henry was haunted in his dreams by that scene. In the deathful dark of the woods, Hans’ face appeared, as though illuminated by a halo – bright, his pearly teeth gritted, his eyes glowing with rush. He was reaching out for Henry, and Henry opened his arms to catch him – no, he punched Henry with all his might, who stumbled backwards and fell, and as he made contact with the ground, the whole world shook.

All was too still for a moment, and too quiet. When Henry collected himself, Hans was nowhere to be found. In this deep, dark forest, Henry found himself utterly alone. He reached forwards blindly, palming empty air and crawling forwards, his eyes and ears peeled for movement. Just a few steps away from where he was lying was no longer the road. Instead, there appeared a deep ditch created by freshly sunken ground. Henry made out the roots of a tree toppled over when they stabbed him in the face.

Hans? Henry asked into the darkness. Hans!

And there was no answer. The darkness and the forest swallowed him, and no matter how hard Henry cried, how he cursed and wept and screamed, they wouldn’t give him up. Henry stumbled off of the road, calling Hans’ name in vain, treading unwisely on the slope of the hill. The wind’s howl was his only answer, the long patches of murk ghosts, the treetops bending over to hush between them of his recklessness, the rain not giving way to his tears. He wore his throat out screaming into the night, and he was willing to bargain his soul to Satan, for God was of no help no matter how hard he prayed. Henry found himself in a hayloft on a gray morning – some people traversing the forest had found him, helped him in his delirium. They knew nothing of the man whose horse they brought with Henry.

It was a miserable journey home, where nobody cared for a missing, at any rate deceased nobleman. To Henry’s grievance, neither was anyone willing to raise money or the people needed for a rescue mission everybody considered a waste of time anyways. It was shocking how quick they were to dismiss Hans being alive. They held a small funeral for him instead. A final goodbye without a casket, a tomb without a body. War, which during their merriment broke out, preoccupied anyone wanting to mourn. Anyone but Henry.

Henry knew, or at least believed firmly, that Hans was still alive. He knew that he’d feel it in his heart, and his heart was telling him that somewhere out there, there was a heart that beat for him and him alone. Hans was alive, he wouldn’t perish that easily, and it was Henry’s duty to find him. Henry promised him. Henry owed him, if not saving him, then at least, by God, burying him properly to grant him eternal rest. When nobody was willing to aid Henry in his sacred duty, he took it upon himself to go and return to Hans, or whatever was left of him. And if anyone had anything to go with his untimely passing, well, he has long since forsaken his soul in the eyes of God. But he never found the place again. No forest, no sunken ground. No Hans.

He wandered aimlessly for years, asking people about a man with pale hair and bright eyes and the heartiest laughter in the world. His words fell on deaf ears, in places nobody understood his tongue, in the faces of people who’d never comprehend what a reproach to God it was that one of His seraphim has vanished. Even his Latin, admittedly butchered, was but a twig of hay in an ocean that he was drowning in. When he finally returned to Rattay, bitter, spent and beaten, not only nobody truly remembered Hans, the estate had been picked apart by Hanush’s progeny. They paid Henry off not to blacken their doorstep again.

Everything from Skalitz came back to him and hurt twice fold, like a sword just-now taken out of the heat of the forge and showed down his throat. Were he a weaker man, he would’ve turned to liquor to drown out his sorrows and help him quicker to the next world. Yet that feeling in his heart never went away, and he decided, after many a sleepless night, after years of searching, that he must live for both of them. That he ought to make sure Hans’ sacrifice wasn’t in vain. He owed him that much. He owed him happiness. Hans would’ve wanted for Henry to live just as fully as when he was with him. So that was what Henry did. He helped people. He devoted himself to kindness. He lived for Hans’ sake. If nobody else, at least Theresa understood.

…

Beyond the grove really is a meadow, a beautiful and lush one, but barren of Old man Johannes. Perhaps the young woman purposefully pointed him in the wrong direction, Henry thinks. Perhaps Old man Johannes went to Prague, and Henry will have to wait him out, live for the next couple of hours in anxious uncertainty. If he set off now, he could reach the city by sundown. Serene anticipation of knowledge settled down on him, as the sun slowly but certainly lowered itself in the sky. That the bells of Prague wouldn't toll soon enough, he'll bite through.

He spurs the horse around – there! A person, walking away from him, sinking beyond the horizon, where the shiny emerald grasses slope downhill.

“Wait!” Henry calls after them, knowing the wind won’t carry his plea. He almost jumps off of his horse, rushing blinded by adrenaline into the greenery.

Where the hill breaks, he stops, not too far from the person bent over amongst a sea of forget-me-nots. The sight chokes Henry, and though he’d want to speak, his voice hitches in his throat. So, he watches.

They appear unaware of his presence, so absorbed in their flower picking that they somehow overheard the rustle of Henry’s armor. Bent over, in one hand they clutch the corner of their apron, with the other they place flower stems into it – sage, poppies, dandelions. They wear a dark hose, colorful strings tied beneath their knees, a fine shirt. The flowers and weeds caress their long, thin limbs, the only touch they know. Henry wants, needs to know too badly to bask in the serenity of an unhurried, pleasant scene.

“are you Old man Johannes?”

In the middle of reaching for a stem, the person stills, their hand in a spasm. After a moment, they slowly grab for the flower, snap it from its root, place it in their apron. Then, finally, they straighten up – they stand about as tall as Henry, but thinner, weaker. And their hair glows golden in the summer sun.

“Are you Old man Johannes?” Henry repeats.

“Who’s asking?” they answer.

The voice is too wrong. It is much too coarse, much too weak and scared… worn thin by liquor and sorrow.

Henry swallows. “A friend.”

“I had a friend once, with a voice like yours… ages ago…”

“All this time he's remained faithful... like a dog. Ain't no dog ever been more faithful than him.”

“…So you've come at last.”

“And I hope my voyage was not for naught.”

All he needs now is to see him in the face.

“Why?”

“It’s the only thing he lives for.”

Old man Johannes is quiet. The meadow rustles instead. Birds chirp in the grove.

Henry’s legs are made of lead and it takes all his willpower to move them. Mysterious are the ways of the Lord. Henry’s roads were paved by blood and gnashing of the teeth.

“Is it really you?” Old man Johannes whispers, “Could it be?” His voice is softer now, almost… almost like the real thing.

By then, Henry can breathe down Old man Johannes’ neck. “It is me,” he hums.

“My God… I’m scared.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m scared you won’t be there when I turn around. That you’re not real. I’m scared Death bears your face.”

“I’m right here. With you. I’m not Death,” and here, he reaches down Johannes’ arm, snakes his fingers along the bones of his wrist, intertwines the man’s hand with his own, the stem of the forget-me-not crushed between their clumsy, sweaty palms. “I want to be your life again.”

“…Jindříšku...” Hans mutters, a heart-wrenching sound, the apron's corner held tight against his chest.

Henry encircles Hans’ waist with his arm, tethers him to himself – he is trembling, convulsing, wracked with sorrow. His skin burns, and smells of pollen, dust, sweat and soap. It’s the scent Henry knows intimately, cannot get enough of it, etched into his mind by prickling hay, coniferous twigs, nails dug into his skin. He squeezes Hans’ body closer, buries his nose in the crook of his neck, breathes in the scent of his flesh, relieved. Sweet, sweet relief. Heavenly peace, and famishing, maddening desire in double time.

He looks up, thirsting to dive into Hans’ beautiful, pristine eyes, parched like a man in scorching desert, and sees that his face is scrunched in a painful grimace, tears rolling down his sunken, withered cheeks, lips quivering.

“My lord…” Henry whispers. “My Hansel…”

The painstakingly collected flowers whisper in the grass around them. Hans’ lips are still as soft, as warm, as full of blood and laced with wine as he remembers them. In an instant he sheds the skin of an old man, throws away his bell and staff, cured by Christ’s touch. The setting sun lights his golden hair aflame, and this fire burns Henry to ashes. He missed its burn. It melts down his armor, first. It eats through the linen of his clothes. It blazes on his naked skin, sends flares down his spine. It blinds his eyes. He reaches deep into it, envelops it, steals it away for himself to gorge his eyes upon. All that is left of him are honest sinews and boiling humors. Hans’ face glows in the low, orange sun, his eyes sparkling as he crowns Henry with a wreath of flowers. He cries with joy and pleasure, a sight that melts Henry’s worries right away, evaporating the worried, pale face from the forest and nesting in its place. Henry traces his skin with his hands, drinks up his breath. They were unnecessarily eager to go searching for Holy Land in faraway places, when all along holy was any place along Sasau river, in the corners of besieged fortresses, in a meadow and everywhere that skin meets skin.

That night, people still get little sleep in the village. So much less because of Old man Johannes’ crying, so much more because of the ceaseless, birdsong laughter they can hear coming from his home.

[alexihollis]

Unintended Beneficiaries

*Follow-up of People We Leave Behind*

"Holy shit," Cleon muttered as she looked down at the paperwork in front of them, laying so innocently on the polished wood desk.

Mercy shifted in her seat, pulled on the too-short sleeves of the tweed jacket they found at a thrift store last minute. Cleon decided that they needed to look more presentable once she saw the address of the bank - financial advisor, technically. Said financial advisor - Mr. Barnaby who Mercy vaguely recognized and who smiled at her, asked about her schooling - had left to go finish up the paperwork and withdrawal for the first bit of money Mercy asked for.

"Holy shit, Mercy, this is- this is more than money," Cleon looked at her, eyes wide.

"Yeah..." Mercy shifted, again. She didn't know what to do with her hands as Cleon kept staring at her.

When they sat down, Mr. Barnaby had started on about the shares of some buildings Mercy shared with her younger siblings. Then, how well her investments were doing.

"Your mother was a smart one," Mr. Barnaby had laughed. "She liked those volatile stocks, but they've done well. Eh, mostly, one or two were a bit of a wash, but it barely impacted your overall portfolio. We sold some early last year for you, gave you a good boost - your father approved that management style, of course, but we can discuss that if you'd like to change it-"

That wasn't even beginning to talk about the straight cash inheritance from her father's accounts, which is what they were withdrawing from that day.

"I don't even- You need to keep him," Cleon gestured to the door, referring to Mr. Barnaby. "I mean- Jesus, investments?! You own buildings." Cleon looked at her once more, eyes wide. "You could do whatever the fuck you want."

Yeah. Mercy was getting the sense of that with these papers.

"I wasn't supposed to," Mercy said. Matter of fact, staring down at the paperwork with her name printed neatly under Beneficiary. At Cleon's confusion, she continued. "They had a clause that Cheryl could challenge the trust, if I didn't graduate high school. If I didn't go to college. Before I turned twenty-one, Cheryl could challenge it and it would all go to my siblings. She was dumb enough to let that pass, though...so..."

Cleon shook her head. Rubbed a hand over her face as she leaned back in the chair, "I cannot- Holy shit. Holy fuck, I should not be here."

That startled Mercy. "What?"

"I should not be here. You- this is crazy money. This is real money. I thought- I thought we were talking, like, a lot of money, but...this- this is set you up for life money. This is run away upstate and buy a fucking house money." Cleon stared at the papers, still disbelieving. "Between the investments. The buildings. You and Swan...you could have a life. A real life."

Mercy stared at Cleon. "I don't want that life."

"Mercy-"

"I still have the money. I can make life easier for us. For all of us, but I'm not leaving. And you're crazy if you think Swan would let me take her away from Coney," Mercy said.

"You should at least talk about it with her."

"We already talked about it."

"Yeah, when you were vastly underestimating how much money this was!" Cleon once again shook her head, as if she could barely believe the situation, a somewhat dazed movement. "You shouldn't waste it-"

"Shouldn't you be considering our previous plans less of a waste, since it's way more than we thought?" Mercy asked. "Besides, it's generative. According to those numbers, it'll recuperate within six months."

Cleon blinked, owlishly, as she realized Mercy was right. "That is a disgusting fact. How are you making money with it just sitting there, that doesn't make any damn sense?"

Mercy just shrugged. She never understood much about this stuff, either.

Mr. Barnaby returned with the envelope of cash and the small new checkbook.

"Do you have a car waiting outside for you?" He asked as he handed the items to Mercy. "We'll be happy to call one for you, but I must insist on you not taking the subway with this much on you. Remind me next time you come in to set you up with a debit card! I won't bore you with all the details now, but it truly is ingenious."

"We have some friends waiting for us," Mercy smiled and, as he walked them out of the building, sincerely hoped none of the Riffs chose to stand outside of the car in their colors.

Fortunately, they did not, though Barnaby did seem rather perplexed as he watched her and Cleon get in the car.

"Did it go well?" Masai asked as they began the drive back to Coney.

"Eh. Well enough," Cleon said, ever calm and collected.

Mercy felt like her pocket was on fire.

No one said anything as Cleon described the meeting, Mercy sitting on the couch, holding the envelope of cash. The envelope of more cash than they initially planned on withdrawing. Far more.

It was silent, everyone staring at Cleon or Mercy once Cleon finished.

"Wow," Cowgirl all but whispered, breaking the tense atmosphere.

Ajax barked out a laugh, incredulous and shocked. "Wow is fucking right! I mean- damn. What do we do now? Buy the island?"

"We are not buying Coney Island and we aren't doing anything," Swan narrowed her eyes. "It's Mercy's money."

"Aw, no fair, that means Swan's gonna get all the shit," Ajax whined, kind of teasing, but Mercy could watch as everyone started to come to the same conclusions Cleon had.

This was way more money than Mercy assumed. This was more money than any of them thought they would see in their whole lifetimes. This was money that could get them killed if any gang got even a hint that they had it, even the Riffs, even with the alliance.

Mercy set her jaw. Opened the envelope and started counting while feeling heavy eyes on her. She pulled out a good majority of the envelope, a healthy amount left over, but a good amount now in hand.

And handed it to Cleon.

"What the fuck." Cleon stared at it.

"That should be enough for rent for the year."

"This is way more than our-"

"For all the apartments. Use it for that or put it in the pot, but...If that's okay." And now Mercy felt self-conscious. "I mean, it's not like I earned that. And, really, my father would have hated this, you're doing me a favor-"

"Oooooh, we could break our lease and get a place without roaches!" Cowgirl exclaimed. "Cleon, please, please let us use that money to break our lease. I am sick of the bugs!"

"We talked about this," Cleon kept her voice low as she looked at Mercy.

"This is what I want to do," Mercy said. "I want to help my family. Let me."

"I cannot believe I am letting you do this," Cleon muttered under her breath, her eyes closed, before opening them once again. "All right. Okay. Rent is cleared for- Yeah. Uh. Cowgirl, Cochise. You can break your lease and- Mercy, we are having a conversation about money, because I am starting to think you don't have a clue what things cost if you think this is how much are rent is."

"Yesssss, no more bugs," Cowgirl cheered to herself.

"They are not that bad," Cochise said.

"Yeah. You lived in the jungle for two years. You don't get an opinion."

"I lived in an army hospital."

"Army field hospital and you have described the bugs-"

It was a weird feeling, having the money. Toeing the line between wanting to spend it on the people she cared about, but also not insulting them. Making sure no one felt like it was charity.

Like when Rembrandt complained about her cans on a tagging mission and Mercy spent the rest of the night trying to figure out how to offer to buy her new cans.

It ended with Rembrandt catching her trying to read the label on her current cans.

"The fuck are you doing?" Rembrandt asked. Not even mad, really, but bemused.

"Do you want new cans?" Mercy blurted out, because this was already awkward.

Rembrandt blinked at her. And then - realization. "Oh, my God. Yes. Yes, I do."

And...

Well.

They went a bit crazy at the art supplies store the next morning. They dropped them in the middle of the living room and Mercy helped Rembrandt sort it all into three separate art bags. One for tagging, one for her murals, and one for her at-home-only supplies.

"...What happened in here?" Mercy startled at Ajax's voice, looking up to see Cleon, Swan, and Ajax all staring at them.

"Art," Rembrandt said in the most gremlin like voice Mercy had ever heard in her life. "So much art. I got the fancy spray paint." Rembrandt laughed. Maniacally. "It'll take at least three layers of paint to cover it."

Oh, boy.

"I think you broke my girlfriend," Ajax said after a moment.

"I'm sorry." Mercy wasn't, not really, but there wasn't anything else to say really.

"Don't be. Yet. Do those cans need special masks?"

"I got them in five different colors," Rembrandt held up the special masks.

Ajax covered her mouth, very clearly trying not to laugh as she nodded slowly and managed to say. "That's great."

Then, that night, a night that Cleon had decided was to be for fun and bonding and going out, Mercy tried to subtly slide more money into the piles Cleon was making for everyone.

"I can see you," Cleon said, not looking up from her pile making. Mercy stood, stock still, money still in hand as Cleon looked at her. Cleon rolled her eyes and held out her hand, "You are ridiculous."

That night, Cochise raised a suspicious eyebrow at her portion. Then, to Mercy's horror, "Dead dad money?"

"We are not calling it that," Swan said immediately.

"My father was against women drinking," Mercy tried to explain.

Ajax's head immediately whipped towards Mercy. "He was against women drinking?"

Mercy shrugged. "He said it was immodest."

Ajax nodded slowly. "Yep. Okay, let's get blasted on dead dad money."

"We are not calling it that!" Swan insisted, but Ajax was already in the bar. "Jesus Christ."

"We can call it that, I don't mind," Mercy promised at they went in themselves. "I didn't like the guy anyway."

Swan shook her head. "Its not that. If we start running around talking about dead dad money in our colors, someone's going to think we killed him."

Mercy considered it. "Yeah. Probably for the best we don't do that, his death was suspicious enough already."

Swan paused. Looked at Mercy. Looked away. Looked at Mercy.

"I'm kidding," Mercy smiled.

"You are the worst."

"Eh, I'll buy you a drink to make up for it."

"Yeah, with dead dad money."

Which was the worst time for Swan to make that joke, because there was Ajax suddenly, handing them both drinks and saying, "We aren't calling it that, Swanie."

"Oh, fucking bite me," Swan grumbled, before slamming back the drink.

It was three days later when Mercy dragged Swan into a bookstore.

"What are we doing here?" Swan asked.

"Books."

Swan eyed her. "You don't like reading that much."

"But you do," Mercy said. "And...we do have Dead Dad money."

Swan rolled her lips, eyes darting between Mercy and the rest of the store. "Will you stop calling it that if I say yes?"

"Probably not," Mercy smiled.

Swan picked out books, anyways. Not as many as Mercy urged her to, but enough to satisfy Mercy.

"You don't need to do this," Swan said as they left the store. "The library is good."

"The library's great," Mercy checked Swan's shoulder gently. "C'mon. I don't get to spoil you a lot, let me?"

And Swan did not say anything to that, but the red on her cheeks said more than enough.

It wasn't always big things or fun things. It wasn't always trips to the art store or nights out.

It was getting to go to the Urgent Care instead of the free clinic when Cowgirl twisted her ankle going down a fire escape.

It was buying the nice butter or multiple kinds of ice cream for the apartment.

It was being able to turn down jobs when they needed to. Like when Ajax and Swan both came down with the flu at the same time.

That had been miserable, even with the medicine from the fancy aisle at the pharmacy.

Over the months, though, the Warriors got used to having their fall back. They got used to having a bit of fun here and there. Subtle fun, because no one else needed to know.

But fun all the same.

In the back of Mercy's mind, though, she knew that this did not come without strings. There was nothing Cheryl could do, she went back and triple checked with Mr. Barnaby, explained the situation in the vaguest of terms. Cheryl could not touch the money.

"I must tell you, though, when your siblings turn eighteen, you will be in contact with them," Mr. Barnaby said. "It's simply the nature of how your father split his real estate assets."

Mercy considered it. "Can I sell them? When they turn eighteen?"

Mr. Barnaby shook his head. "Not without a discussion with them. They have right of first refusal."

Fantastic.

"What about before?"

"Then that would be a conversation with your stepmother."

Amazing.

So. Yeah. The money meant not being able to leave that family behind. But it also meant being able to safeguard her family.

And that would always be more important.

[floridaboiler]

DIARY OF A SNOW SHOVELER:

Moved to North Dakota this fall. We heard that summers are fun and winter is beautiful. We think there is no more beautiful a place in the whole world!

December 8 - 6:00 PM It started to snow. The first snow of the season and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven. It looked like a Grandma Moses print. So romantic, we felt like newlyweds again. I love snow!

December 9 - We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there be a more lovely place in the whole world? Moving here was the best idea I've ever had! Shoveled for the first time in years and felt like a boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks.

This afternoon the snowplow came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life!

December 12 - The sun has melted all our lovely snow. Such a disappointment! My neighbor tells me not to worry- we'll definitely have a white Christmas. No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says we'll have so much snow by the end of winter, that I'll never want to see snow again. I don't think that's possible. Bob is such a nice man, I'm glad he's our neighbor.

December 14 - Snow, lovely snow! 8 inches last night. The temperature dropped to -20. The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is the life! The snowplow came back this afternoon and buried everything again. I didn't realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling, but I'll certainly get back in shape this way. I wish I wouldn't huff and puff so.

December 15 - 20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4x4 Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife's car and 2 extra shovels. Stocked the freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out. I think that's silly. We aren't in Alaska, after all.

December 16 - Ice storm this morning. Fell on my ass on the ice in the driveway putting down salt. Hurt like hell. The wife laughed for an hour, which I think was very cruel.

December 17 - Still way below freezing. Roads are too icy to go anywhere. Electricity was off for 5 hours. I had to pile the blankets on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to irritate her. Guess I should've bought a wood stove, but won't admit it to her. God! I hate it when she's right. I can't believe I'm freezing to death in my own living room.

December 20 - Electricity's back on, but had another 14 inches of the damn stuff last night. More shoveling! Took all day. The damn snowplow came by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but. they said they're too busy playing hockey. I think they're lying. Called the only hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower and they're out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they're lying. Bob says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he's lying.

December 22 - Bob was right about a white Christmas because 13 more inches of the white shit fell today, and it's so cold, it probably won't melt till August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to shovel and then I had to piss. By the time I got undressed, pissed and dressed again, I was too tired to shovel. Tried to hire Bob-who has a plow on his truck-for the rest of the winter, but he says he's too busy. I think the asshole is lying.

December 23 - Only 2 inches of snow today. And it warmed up to 0. The wife wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What is she, nuts?!! Why didn't she tell me to do that a month ago. She says she did but I think she's lying.

December 24 - 6 inches - Snow packed so hard by snowplow, l broke the shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack. If I ever catch the son of a bitch who drives that snow plow, I'll drag him through the snow by his balls and beat him to death with my broken shovel. I know he hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling, and then he comes down the street...at a 100 miles an hour and throws snow all over where I've just been! Tonight the wife wanted me to sing Christmas carols with her and open our presents...but I was too busy watching for the damn snowplow.

December 25 - Merry f---ing Christmas! 20 more inches of the damn slop tonight - snowed in. The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. God, I hate the snow! Then the snowplow driver came by asking for a donation and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad attitude. I think she's a fricking idiot. If I have to watch "It's A Wonderful Life" one more time, I'm going to feed her through a chipper shredder.

December 26 - Still snowed in. Why the hell did I ever move here? It was all HER idea. She's really getting on my nerves.

December 27 - Temperature dropped to -30 and the pipes froze; plumber came after 14 hours of waiting for him, he only charged me $4,400 to replace all my pipes.

December 28 - Warmed up to above -20. Still snowed in. The BITCH is driving me crazy!!!

December 29 - 10 more inches. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it could cave in. That's the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does he think I am?

December 30 - Roof caved in. I beat up the snow plow driver, and now he is suing me for a million dollars, not only for the beating I gave him, but also for trying to shove the broken snow shovel up his ass. The wife went home to her mother. Nine more inches predicted.

December 31 - I set fire to what's left of the house. No more shoveling.

January 8 - Feel so good. I just love those little white pills they keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed ???

-Author Unknown

[echo-goes-mmm]

Silas and Wren #2

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: brief mention of future non-con

The carriage ride back to his home was… awkward. Now that he had someone to talk to, what was there to say?

He had to encourage the slave to sit on the carriage bench and not the floor. The slave sat obediently, staring at the floor. 

“Is the wood so interesting?” Silas joked. The slave startled. 

“I’m sorry, Master,” said the slave, who wrapped his arms around himself.

“No, I mean-” Silas sighed. Off to a great start. “I’m sorry. I’m Silas. Do you have a name?”

“Only what you wish to call me, Master.” 

“Well, what did your mother call you?” The slave looked up at him, surprise on his face. He looked away, out the window.

“She called me Wren,” he said, wistful.

“Then that’s your name.”

“Oh! Thank you, Master.” Wren smiled at him, a tiny happy thing. He was pretty when he smiled. His freckles stood out more and they matched well with his reddish hair.

Silas noticed a mark on the back of Wren’s left hand. It was raised, a perfect circle with an S in the center. A brand. He searched his brain for a pleasant conversation topic. He didn’t want to think about it.

“Have you ever been over the border?” he asked.

“No, Master. I don’t know anyone who has.” 

“Oh. Well, it’s very nice. Lots of trees.” He could have smacked himself. ‘Lots of trees’? Really?

“Um, that does sound nice. I like trees.” 

They lapsed into silence again. Wren had taken to watching the countryside go by. 

Maybe things would go better at home.

___________________

He paid the driver and tipped well. The estate was small, compared to his family home, but Silas preferred ‘spacious’ over ‘enormous’. He didn’t need more rooms to emphasize that no one visited him.

He had converted part of the east wing into a kitchen and pantry for his human, and ordered plenty of food. Hopefully Wren wasn’t allergic to anything.

His home didn’t have many original widows, so he had a few made. He would just figure out a way to avoid them if he got a cold. 

Wren’s bedroom was also in the east wing. His was in the west. Silas didn’t want to intimidate Wren, so neighboring bedrooms wasn’t an option. 

He prayed Wren wouldn’t avoid him. He wasn’t sure if could stand the prospect of more rejection.

He led Wren to his bedroom, and his eyes were as big as saucers.

“This is all for me? Really?”

“Do you like it?” asked Silas, nervous. “I wasn’t sure about the color, but it could be painted again. And I could get you a different rug if you want. And anything else you want.”

“I- I don’t need anything else, Master. You don’t need to waste your money on me.”

“It’s not a waste,” said Silas. “I just want you to be comfortable.” He shifted a little. Wren looked like he was about to cry. 

___________________

It was all for him. The bedroom, the brand new kitchen and fully stocked pantry, he even got his own bathroom and shower. 

The door even had a lock on the inside. He could lock his Master out, even if only technically. Vampires were far stronger than a bit of copper.

He thought Master Silas was pretty scary, but maybe he wouldn’t be so bad. Wren had put up with a lot without all of these nice things. Surely having them would make whatever Silas wanted to do to him easier to bear. 

Master Silas’s house was so impressive, he could give a slave a room better than most Masters reserved for themselves. Dark wood panels, vivid wallpaper, a plush rug, and a full furniture set (including a couch!). 

The star of the room was the queen-sized four poster bed. He ran his hand over the comforter, almost afraid to touch it. It was so soft.

“I’m sorry,” said Master. “I didn’t buy you any clothes.”

Wren could have cried right then and there. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, Master,” he wiped his eyes, “I’m okay. Thank you.”

“Do- do you want to see the rest of the estate? Or we could play a game?”

A ‘game’ could mean anything, so the tour it was.

“I would like to see your house, Master.” Silas smiled at him. 

Master showed him the library (it was impressive, but Wren couldn’t read), a very nice sitting room, the drawing room, sun room, and finally Master’s own bedroom. 

Master’s room was large, and clearly meant for two. It was in what Master Silas called the ‘family wing’, but Wren hadn’t seen another soul in the house. There must be a maid service that he hired, because there was no evidence of servants despite the lack of dust and unpolished furniture.

Wren had never lived without at least a few people around him. He couldn’t talk much to free people, but he made friends with other slaves, even some servants. 

It would be an adjustment for him.

Master also showed him the garden, which was a little confusing. He thought vampires were burned by the sun. It was cloudy out now, but why bother with a beautiful garden when Silas could only enjoy it when the weather was bad? 

He could be wrong. After all, he was only a slave and not very smart. And people who avoided the sun didn’t have windows in their homes, much less in their own bedrooms.

But more importantly, when would Master Silas drink from him?

When would Master want to bed him?

taglist: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @secretwhumplair @freefallingup13 @mylovelyme @whumpzone

[acurlygirlamy1]

DIARY OF A SNOW SHOVELER:

Moved to North Dakota this fall. We heard that summers are fun and winter is beautiful. We think there is no more beautiful a place in the whole world!

December 8 - 6:00 PM It started to snow. The first snow of the season and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven. It looked like a Grandma Moses print. So romantic, we felt like newlyweds again. I love snow!

December 9 - We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there be a more lovely place in the whole world? Moving here was the best idea I've ever had! Shoveled for the first time in years and felt like a boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks.

This afternoon the snowplow came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life!

December 12 - The sun has melted all our lovely snow. Such a disappointment! My neighbor tells me not to worry- we'll definitely have a white Christmas. No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says we'll have so much snow by the end of winter, that I'll never want to see snow again. I don't think that's possible. Bob is such a nice man, I'm glad he's our neighbor.

December 14 - Snow, lovely snow! 8 inches last night. The temperature dropped to -20. The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is the life! The snowplow came back this afternoon and buried everything again. I didn't realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling, but I'll certainly get back in shape this way. I wish I wouldn't huff and puff so.

December 15 - 20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4x4 Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife's car and 2 extra shovels. Stocked the freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out. I think that's silly. We aren't in Alaska, after all.

December 16 - Ice storm this morning. Fell on my ass on the ice in the driveway putting down salt. Hurt like hell. The wife laughed for an hour, which I think was very cruel.

December 17 - Still way below freezing. Roads are too icy to go anywhere. Electricity was off for 5 hours. I had to pile the blankets on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to irritate her. Guess I should've bought a wood stove, but won't admit it to her. God! I hate it when she's right. I can't believe I'm freezing to death in my own living room.

December 20 - Electricity's back on, but had another 14 inches of the damn stuff last night. More shoveling! Took all day. The damn snowplow came by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but. they said they're too busy playing hockey. I think they're lying. Called the only hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower and they're out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they're lying. Bob says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he's lying.

December 22 - Bob was right about a white Christmas because 13 more inches of the white shit fell today, and it's so cold, it probably won't melt till August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to shovel and then I had to piss. By the time I got undressed, pissed and dressed again, I was too tired to shovel. Tried to hire Bob-who has a plow on his truck-for the rest of the winter, but he says he's too busy. I think the asshole is lying.

December 23 - Only 2 inches of snow today. And it warmed up to 0. The wife wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What is she, nuts?!! Why didn't she tell me to do that a month ago. She says she did but I think she's lying.

December 24 - 6 inches - Snow packed so hard by snowplow, l broke the shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack. If I ever catch the son of a bitch who drives that snow plow, I'll drag him through the snow by his balls and beat him to death with my broken shovel. I know he hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling, and then he comes down the street...at a 100 miles an hour and throws snow all over where I've just been! Tonight the wife wanted me to sing Christmas carols with her and open our presents...but I was too busy watching for the damn snowplow.

December 25 - Merry f---ing Christmas! 20 more inches of the damn slop tonight - snowed in. The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. God, I hate the snow! Then the snowplow driver came by asking for a donation and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad attitude. I think she's a fricking idiot. If I have to watch "It's A Wonderful Life" one more time, I'm going to feed her through a chipper shredder.

December 26 - Still snowed in. Why the hell did I ever move here? It was all HER idea. She's really getting on my nerves.

December 27 - Temperature dropped to -30 and the pipes froze; plumber came after 14 hours of waiting for him, he only charged me $4,400 to replace all my pipes.

December 28 - Warmed up to above -20. Still snowed in. The BITCH is driving me crazy!!!

December 29 - 10 more inches. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it could cave in. That's the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does he think I am?

December 30 - Roof caved in. I beat up the snow plow driver, and now he is suing me for a million dollars, not only for the beating I gave him, but also for trying to shove the broken snow shovel up his ass. The wife went home to her mother. Nine more inches predicted.

December 31 - I set fire to what's left of the house. No more shoveling.

January 8 - Feel so good. I just love those little white pills they keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed ???

-Author Unknown

[handeaux]

Memories From Half A Century Ago; The Cincinnati Tornadoes of April 1974

On the evening of April 3, 1974, your narrator interviewed a woman who found a perfectly new, pristinely crisp, twenty-dollar bill in her front yard. This random occurrence of good luck became newsworthy because her miraculous benefit had floated down into her yard from a passing cloud that had recently spawned an F5 tornado.

At the time, I was not a reporter exactly but everyone that evening became either a reporter or a source. The memory of that day remains so fresh and clear it seems impossible that it transpired exactly fifty years ago.

In the fading afternoon, a heavy storm blew in as I drove a clunky Ford Econoline van from the Hopple Street Viaduct onto Westwood-Northern Boulevard. I was, at that time, a senior at the University of Cincinnati desperately yearning to graduate and move on to the next chapter in my life. To cover tuition, I worked as a printer for the Western Hills Publishing Company. Our offices were on Davis Avenue in Cheviot and our printing presses occupied a floor in the historic Crosley Building on Arlington Street in Camp Washington. My duties as the junior member of the printing crew involved shuttling copy and page flats from the editorial offices to the typesetting and composing staff.

As I climbed out of the valley toward the English Woods housing development, hail scattered across the road. Hailstones rattled on the van’s roof, then pounded, then stomped. It sounded like some gremlin with a baseball bat hammering on the roof as ice balls the size of oranges smashed into the asphalt all around. Tree branches cracked and split and thatched the roadway.

Somehow, I made it to Cheviot and pulled into the Press parking lot. It was full of people, just standing around. I got out and looked at the van. The roof looked like a moonscape, there were so many dents in it.

“Hey! Look at this,” I shouted. No one turned or said a word. And then I saw why.

Stretching from the horizon halfway to zenith was the tornado. It was impossible to comprehend the scale. More than two miles away, we heard no sound except endless sirens calling to one another from every direction. Where we stood transfixed it did not rain. There was no wind. There was only the tornado.

“Look at all that paper swirling around,” someone said.

“Those are garage doors,” another answered.

We watched as the horrendous vision scraped its way northward, the finger of God plowing a furrow along South Road out in Mack. We watched as it withered and lifted and twisted into nothingness against a pallid sky, waving it seemed in farewell at last as it vanished. We stared at each other, silent, unable to find any words.

Gradually, we realized that all the lights were out. There was no power in the offices. The publisher sent me around the corner to a hardware store to buy all the candles they had in stock. It was going to be a long night.

At this point, for the benefit of readers younger than I, it is necessary to explain a few details. The cash register at the hardware store was mechanical. It did not require electricity, much less Wi-Fi, to operate. The editorial offices were stocked with manual typewriters. The telephones were landlines, on a separate network, and functioned even when the power was out. Everyone had a battery-powered radio.

Anyone with the ability to write a coherent sentence became a reporter. I was sent out, still wearing my printshop uniform, in the divotted Econoline, to gather eye-witness reports. I found a small crowd at the Western Hills Country Club who had been herded into a downstairs bar while the sirens howled. They queued up for every available telephone to check in with their families. I found people in shock, wandering through piles of rubble that had been their homes, clutching any random possessions they recovered. I saw ambulances backed up in a line, waiting for utility poles and power lines to be moved. I saw people wrapped in blankets, standing in the middle of nothing left, sobbing on each other’s shoulders.

There were people who swore they saw two funnel clouds and people who claimed there were four, twisting like snakes in the sky. There were people who confessed to being so transfixed by the surreal wonder of the twister that they stood paralyzed as it swooped down on their houses.

And, in the curious way the universe laughs at we mere humans, I found humor.

There was the guy who, in a dispute with his insurance company, was photographing damage to his roof when the warning sirens erupted. He saw the funnel approaching and dove into his basement. When he emerged, his roof was gone, and so was the rest of his house, but he bragged that he had the photos to press his prior claim.

I talked to one of the rescue workers who told me about a kid, maybe 15 or 16 years old, who approached him and begged him to hide a bottle of vodka. The kid didn’t want his mother to know he had the bottle hidden in his bedroom – the bedroom that was now nothing more than a debris field.

Meanwhile, at the University of Chicago, Dr. Theodore Fujita drafted a questionnaire to be sent to almost every newspaper, every radio station, every television station in the country. Dr. Fujita asked a lot of questions about the duration and intensity of the 148 confirmed tornadoes reported that day. He and Allen Pearson of the National Severe Storms Forecast Center hoped to refine the tornado classification system they had created just three years previously. Someone at the Press filled out the questionnaire and sent it back.

A year later, having graduated from the university and transferred to the newsroom, I found a largish cardboard tube lying amid the usual pile of news releases and complaint letters that constituted our daily mail. On opening the tube – it was addressed to no one in particular – I found a map of the eastern United States titled “Superoutbreak Tornadoes of April 3-4, 1974.” Dr. Fujita, compiling all those questionnaires, had mapped and labeled every one of those 148 tornadoes.

In the center of the map, there was my tornado, the only tornado I have seen with my own eyes, officially designated as an F5 monster.

[lunamkardas]

COZY GAME?

So last night I saw this really cute looking farm sim game, yes another one, called Grimshire. It's just a demo but the pixel art is charming and it seems really interesting. So far you can only be a bunny or a fox so I picked bunny.

Game opens with a boat horn sounding. I and some random goat lady have been rescued from The Capital where Some Shit Is Going Down and we are both unconscious, dragged to safer shores by an otter named Fin. He lets the town know shit's going down and he's going back out on his boat to see if he can get more info.

We get taken to the town healer and I'm just a little banged up but fine. Goat lady is hurt much worse so she's going to take longer to wake up.

Day 1 Basic "hey welcome to town here's a run down farm house for you to live in new dude, we'd really appreciate it if you contributed to the town's root cellar by growing some stuff" tutorial. Quickly followed by the "You should talk to all 26 people in town newbie!"

They got a small town/hamlet version of Animal crossing's museum thing going on so any stuff I forage or catch for the first time can go there.

They gave me a pump and water pipes straight off the bat so it was SO MUCH easier getting the watering down for my baby farm.

Holy shit fishing is so much easier than Stardew valley my god I love it.

Day 2

Goat lady died in the night from her wounds.

None of us knew her name. The town burned her atop the mountain peak with all in attendance.

Everyone is pretty down about it. Some people mention they hope Fin gets back with news, especially since him and his boat are such an important part of their food supply because they're an island.

My eyes lock onto the root cellar and then to the previously mildly annoying but NOW VERY IMPORTANT game mechanic of food spoiling.

I immediately start selling everything I own including the swank new bed and bookcase I got for collecting specimens and begin rapid fire purchasing as many drying racks as possible, throwing every fish, fruit and mushroom I find onto them to start stocking up.

Day 3

Normal day of collecting and throwing stuff onto the drying racks. Selling junk to buy more drying racks. The game refuses to tell me how to make them myself.

Get a crack at the mines which has an interesting quirk where you actually mine out the rock from the walls and if you remove too much of the supporting walls it can cause a cave in. Also you can very easily find the ladder to lower levels, which I appreciate.

Learned how to make more pipes to improve my pumps range.

Did some logging for the woodcutter. Mining for the Smith.

Day 4

The Mayor and his assistant come get me and start walking me through the root cellar tutorial while telling me that they will no longer be expecting me to pay ANY TAXES under the circumstances. (Waaaaay ahead of you dudes I already pieced together I'm now the most important person on this island and I am panicking a little bit because I'm pretty sure Covid just entered your reality and thank FUCK we burned Goat lady.)

Thank you kindly can I PLEASE get back to foraging and fishing and drying so I can keep both herbivores and carnivores alive while we Quarantine.

Healer lady and her assistant had the same idea about us suddenly being cut off from the outside world. No one's saying 'disease' yet but I have my suspicions.

Anyhoo they put the town up to a vote over what we should build, a new medicine herb garden she definitely knows how to maintain and use or a mushroom hut to alleviate the island hamlet's food needs even though no one on the island knows the first thing about mushrooms.

I am sitting on a fucking throne of fish jerky and dried fruit/veg. WE ARE MAKING THE HERBAL GARDEN.

The other villagers agree and I immediately bum rush the donation box and slam all the wood and rocks we need into it.

Day 5 Herbal Garden is complete and Healer lady is excited to start researching new medicines.

I am desperately mining as much copper as I can to make more water pipes because I only have so much energy each day and I can't be wasting it watering 30 plants.

I also start planting the tree seeds I've been shaking out so I can have fruit trees. Fishing is easy but the island has both carnivores and herbivores and the plant supply is harder to come by every day plus Drying takes Time.

Day 6 The town gathers because Fin is FINALLY back with news!

It ain't covid.

The Capital is Gone and most of the other landlocked population centers are too.

But they weren't empty.

It's Zombies.

It's Zombies and the only places that still exist are boarded up and armed to the teeth refusing all entry or trade because it's ZOMBIES.

Thank FUCK we burned Goat Lady.

10/10 I need this shit now

[perchanceapoet]

It has sort of been a crazy few months. Or make that a crazy year.

We are moving, to start somewhere. After three years of searching, we are finally moving to the house with the garden my husband wanted so desperately.

Which, when I say it like that, sounds like I did not want this. And yes, I wanted this, but truth be told , I would have also been happy to stay where we are. That is more my weird semi-irrational emotional attachment to this house than anything else, though.

So, we are moving. By Christmas, we should be laying down presents in the house we will grow geriatric in. Perhaps the house we will die in. If we do not make it to the nursing home.

Yes. I am in that kind of mood. Mostly because of this other thing.

We are undergoing future human making treatment. Or I am. And like. I am not even going to mince words. It sucks huge balls. And we got the easy treatment. I mean, they do not call it the easy treatment, but it is heavily implied.

Let's just say there's a number of tries after which this should work, and we're about at the halfway point. After this, there is still another option. But that one is, you guessed it, one of the more hard/complicated ones. So, I am here. Halfway in. And despite my husband's constant optimistic reassurances, I am taking stock of it all. Standing still and just thinking out loud. Sorry if you feel like I dragged you into this. I can ramble.

Honestly? There's a part of me that wants to quit right now. Just let my body also be a failure at this one thing that does not require a functional neurological system. I always said, before all of this, that I would let the universe decide. And I will be damned if this isn't a crystal clear message of "it's not going to work".

But then there's the part of me that loves this man beyond reason and comprehension. That wants to leave something of him behind. When our geriatric bodies do or do not leave our new home in between four pieces of wood. The part of me that can just picture this future human, how much I would love it. How much we would love it. How happy we would be. That is the part that has made me start every new cycle of treatment thus far.

But, halfway in, I cannot help but start to grapple with the reality that this may all be for nothing. I mean, even if it works. There is a whole lot of possible calamity ahead. At some point, it will just be too much. Too late. Too complicated. I will be too old.

Stopping now would also mean that I would never really know if my body is also a failure at this. This very basic thing. And I am not going to lie, I kind of like the idea of living with the possibility of what could have been rather than knowing that it just does not work.

I feel guilty for being so broken up by this. I was never 100% team future humans, and I am still not. I think any rational minded person should be on the fence about it. I mean, there's climate change, just to name something. I think for me, as a neurodivergent person, at this point, it is still more about my body failing me in this entirely new way. And it's about letting go of the image of my husband and this future human walking into the library together. That one hurts like balancing Mount Everest on my chest.

But I do feel guilty. I mean, I have this life twelve year old me could have never dreamed of. That isolated, bullied, traumatized girl would have been so relieved to find out it ends up like this. And incredulous. Future humans or not; this, loving this man, having these friends, buying this house, it's all icing on the cake.

So, I am torn. And probably forced to take a break from treatment due to circumstances. I don't know how I will feel when the crimson invader comes next time. But I will probably start the treatment. And it will probably not work. And I will probably have another good cry. And I will remind myself of all the things I have to be grateful for. And I will be grateful, so very grateful and also ugly crying.

Both can be true. I keep telling myself that. I can be not 100% team future humans and broken up by this. I can be grateful and sad. I can start treatment again and think it's a bad idea. I can live another day and hope and trust that whoever or whatever has gotten me this far knows the way. That future me has gotten through this. I hope she is ok, regardless.

[blueridgeone]

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[adleryoung]

If I was journeying to the North Woods to find "Wild Rebecca of the Wood," I would need to prepare myself. Dr. Cesawonki might not know about wraith-rabbits, but I knew they were sinister shadows that flitted furtively around the edges of their victim's vision just before they pounced! You had to be constantly on the lookout!

I rummaged in my Elfintory to make sure I had the supplies I would need for my trip, and happened to find the scry-orbs. They were painted to look like eyeballs. I had a dim recollection of (sometime during my long isolation) making a face out of dried grass and putting the orbs in it so I would have someone to talk to. Hopefully I would never have to resort to that again, but one never knew… I carefully put the orbs back into my Elfintory and continued taking stock of my supplies.

Once satisfied that I was ready, I changed into a suit of lowfolk-style clothes and set out. I had a small detail of Ixies accompany me - but at a discreet distance, so as not to attract attention as I roamed the lowfolk world. This was to be my biggest adventure yet!

The journey itself held little of note.

Stopped by inclement weather on the other side of Ballynure, I had to spend the night in an abandoned mansion where I met a group of lowfolk youths who had a large house-ant named Folly (after an old folk song that went "Fa la la la la, where art thou?" which the youngsters sang loudly at every opportunity.) I was initially surprised to learn that Folly could talk, but my interest waned after I realized all he could say was "Merthy thaketh, Thlovenly," to the unkempt goat lad who was apparently his master. The rest of the time he was getting underfoot and begging for "Folly treats" which were grimy lumps of sugar which Slovenly carried in his pockets. It was my misfortune to be in the mansion the same night these youths were there to investigate an alleged haunting. They spent several hours bumbling around and "investigating" only to find out the mansion wasn't really haunted at all! What a disappointment! Old man McJack, the property's caretaker, had been disguising himself as a ghost to scare away visitors and spread rumors. His goal was to drive the value of the property down so he could buy it cheap. A rather lame plot, I must say! But I suppose it takes a fool to catch a fool. I left that place feeling slightly dumber from exposure to these meddling kids and their talking pet.

After that, I decided traveling by foot was not suitable for a person of my stature, so I took a ride on a lowfolk train for the first time. Would you believe it: A grisly murder happened while I was on board. Coincidentally, there happened to be a lowfolk detective aboard as well, a clever chap named Heracles Parrot. I helped him do a little bit of detecting. He was much better at it than the doltish children I had met earlier, and it didn't take long to discover that everyone on the train except Monsieur Parrot and myself had taken part in the murder. That guy must have been unpopular. The police arrested everyone at the next station, and with no engineer we were stranded.

At that point I found out, much to my chagrin, that I had boarded the wrong train and had been traveling in the completely wrong direction. On top of that, the station was in the middle of a wild, desolate moor. Monsieur Parrot invited me to accompany him on the next train, but he was heading South and I needed to go North. I set off on foot, but once again got caught by bad weather. I was forced to spend the night in an old cabin where I met a very intense young fellow who, for some reason, had a saw instead of a hand. He was (somehow) in possession of an evil book of Netherhells lore, and of course had foolishly used it to release a bunch of evil spirits that could reanimate the dead. If I hadn't come along, he would have been in real trouble, but fortunately my knowledge of magick allowed me to dispel all of the wicked bogeys in a trice.

At that point I remembered (with a vicious smack of my own forehead)that I had the ability to teleport. I notified my Ixie escort of my intentions and simply pooked as far North as I dared. From there I again pooked to the horizon, and again, and so on until I eventually found myself at the edge of the fabled North Woods.

What would Rebecca be like? We hadn't had a chance to speak at our last brief meeting. I hoped she and Burnside hadn't changed too much. Did they still talk about me? What if they were a couple now? I tried to think of vaguely positive things to say if that were the case. What if Rebecca had taken up knife-fighting? What if Burnside managed to turn her on to the joys of gutting and filleting live victims?

It occurred to me that I might be walking into a very dangerous situation. I paused and summoned my ixies to me.

[feckcops]

Our new financial masters

“Today, asset managers collectively own global housing and infrastructure assets worth, at a minimum, $4trn. The upshot is that asset managers are intimately implicated (albeit without most of us being aware of it) in everyday social life. They own, and extract income from, things – schools, bridges, wind farms and homes – that are nothing less than foundational to our being. Forty years ago, it would have been unthinkable that we would buy our gas from, make our parking payment to, or rent our home from a company like Blackstone. But this is the new reality.

“In a very physical, if also strangely intangible respect, all of our lives are now part of asset managers’ investment portfolios. Arguably, this is truer in Britain than anywhere else. Consider the quiet county of Kent in south-east England. The entire infrastructure of wastewater collection and treatment in the county, including tens of thousands of kilometres of sewers, is controlled by Macquarie, a leading Australian asset manager. Macquarie also controls much of Kent’s infrastructure of water supply ... Housing? Blackstone owns rental properties in the small Kentish town of Paddock Wood. Student housing? Chicago-headquartered Harrison Street owns digs in Canterbury. Care homes? New York-based Safanad controls homes in Dartford and Gravesend. Electricity generation? The UK’s Foresight Group owns solar farms at Paddock Wood, and Abbey Fields in Faversham. Transportation? Legal & General Investment Management owns parking spaces; Sweden’s EQT Partners owns charging stations for electric vehicles; PSP Investments of Canada owns train rolling-stock ...

“The faster the turnover of infrastructure and real-estate assets bought and sold by asset managers, the higher the returns. It doesn’t pay for fund managers to buy and hold the asset: it pays to buy it, and then sell it for a quick profit. They do whatever is needed to grow the incomes (such as rents or water rates) that the assets generate. They cut to the bone the costs incurred in operating those assets. Eying quick disposals, they have little interest in carrying out asset maintenance or repair for the long term.

“The dire consequences for the ordinary households whose lives are embedded in this asset manager-made world barely need stating. Being dependent on a real asset acquired by an asset manager – for shelter, energy supply, water or transportation – generally means higher costs and poorer-quality service, followed by considerable disruption when ownership changes hands just a few years later.”

[pixel-dreamz]

Here we are back in Chestnut Peak with the Carmine family! We arrive back with a very dapper Albert working away in his garden. Let's see what else they get up to in Round 2!

Trigger warning: This post deals with infant death. Keep in mind this is quite common in the era I am lightly replicating and thus a part of the challenge. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not proceed under the cut.

Upon the start of fall, brings big changes for the family. First, we see the age up of our darling Piper Starla. She grows to look quite a bit like Eldora but with her daddy's eyes. Then we also welcome a new baby into the world. A little boy by the name of Emerson Albert. He would be the heir had it not been for the fact that he was born asleep. Albert and Eldora were helpless as they watched grim take their little one from them. Frozen in time, forever. Life did slowly move on for the family. They poured their heart and soul into little Piper, who also felt the loss of her younger brother. Albert distracted himself heavily with the crops, and Eldora with the house keeping. After many months of grief, they found themselves smiling and laughing again. And were finally able to try for another baby. This, like with Piper, proved difficult. In between the gardening and running the business, Albert loved to dote on his little girl. He helped her skill quite often and she reveled in her father's attention. The business received a positive review which meant that we were constantly selling out of our stock. This season was going much better than the first, at least in that regard. With winter looming, it became more important for the family to have the wood they needed. Albert regularly went to Central Park to collect some branches and water, and even stopped Clark passing by to buy some firewood from him. And with the crisp air of winter, Eldora and Albert tried once again to have another baby. We leave them cozied up in their bed with a fire roaring and the sweet sounds of baby Piper in her crib. Will their family ever grow again?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ End of round stats:

The business did not rank up, but they did get a positive review.

Eldora and Albert are both 26. Piper is 2.5.

The family made a fair bit of money this round and owed $541 at the end of it. They were left with $377. Much better than the summer round!

[banjo15]

First of all

Canada is booing us

China is booing us

Mexico is booing us

They are our 3 biggest trade partners.

Our 3 biggest trade partners hate us. Is that good for the economy?

“Hey Max, can I buy that sandwich from you? “

“Hey fuck off I know you’re just gonna tax it again”

“What about you Catie, can I buy some wood from you?”

“Fuck you and your tariff tax”

“Can I buy stuff from you, Charlie?”

“Fuck off dude stop taxing us, I hate you capitalists”

What about intersex people? I’d argue they’re a minority. Non-binary, gender-fluid, everyone of the such. They no longer exist because of you. Trans people can’t even leave the country or get a passport.

Literally a high school student I’m 15 dude. I know I couldn’t pass an immigration test, how about you go try to pass one and just come back to me?

My philosophy about illegals is back in the day our grandparents came here peacefully. If they come here peacefully in search of a better life, who am I to deny them that? But if they’re a pedo or a rapist they deserve to get shot, regardless of place of origin, gender identity, sexuality, gender, sex, religion, race, etc.

Trump literally went to Epstein island 7 times. He was best friends with Epstein. Also, did Elon apologize for his actions? No. He made Nazi puns on the internet.

Mexico and Canada is pissed off because first of all, trump said he was gonna BUY Canada.

“Yeah I’m gonna buy your house, what’s your price?”

“Not for sale.”

“You liberal boy, I bet sleepy joe and Kamala told you not to sell it, all you do is just sit down and drink maple syrup. Give me your house.”

“No? Fuck off dude”

“I’m still gonna buy your house.”

*He went up to the next neighbor*

“Also your pool is mine now.”

“Huh?”

“It’s the pool of america”

“No, my pool. Pool of Mexico.”

And Mexico is LITERALLY sending us people to help with the LA fires.

Canada is our friend, why the hell are we trade warring with our brother?

What the fuck even is MSM? I get all my thoughts from people I agree with, and then I think about my thoughts to see if I agree with them.

Denmark said Greenland is not for sale. We are literally pissing off our allies. We are a laughing stock. China is fucking BEATING in ai. “But deep seek is censored” so are all ais. Ask google’s ai if google has ever done anything wrong. And ChatGPT is also censored a decent bit.

As I said before, if you don’t hate so much why can’t they just up and leave? They can’t get a visa.

About abortion… You do know how dangerous pregnancy is right? And I don’t consider ending a pregnancy murder, would you let a tapeworm stay in you if it would turn into a human person?

The reason why women back in the 1950s had kids is because they were lobotomized and on a shit ton of “medication.” After that, they didn’t have many rights. Women couldn’t say “no” to their husbands untill 1993. It took us a bit to give women the right to vote. They couldn’t have a credit card at one point. A driver’s liscense. Lesbians were fucked at the time, do you vote for the Indian woman or the man who and I quote…. “Grab them by the pussy.” He literally called his daughter “volomptuous” and said “if she wasn’t my daughter I’d be dating her.”

You can fact check me on that. No, seriously, fact check me. Do it. I’m begging you.

And as for many cases, abortion is necessary. I’m not gonna go praising it but… it has to exist. What if they get raped? What if it’s incest? What if the pregnant person is underage? What if the pregnancy threatens their life? Denying them abortion doesn’t seem so “pro-life to me.”

“But that’s less than 1%”

So are trans people and people similar to you have campaigned to take their rights away.

Me personally I feel like they can be a man or a woman if they want to IF they don’t hurt anybody. If I gender-swapped you I’m quite sure you would want your original gender.

My argument for/agaisnt trans children is there are Christian children. I’d argue they shouldn’t go through a life changing procedure they likely won’t be able to un-do for the rest of their lives untill they’re 18/21. If children can be trans, why can they be Christian? Why can they participate in religion they’re supposed to be devoted to untill they die?”

Even then, what about single mothers? Do you want them to suffer through it? Childbirth is a punishment from god, yes? I read the Bible. Why should we punish these women for having sex? I feel like you shouldn’t have to labor a baby just because the boy from the dinner date thought you were hot, you thought they were hot, so you fucked. Imagine if men were in a coma for 9 months after sex. And there was a chance of that happening but instead.. after a baby pops out of them. I’d argue most men would get abortions and it would be a normal thing. And if god cares so much about abortions… why does he let miscarriages happen? That’s another pro-abortion talking point. Should they have an abortion if they know damn well the baby can’t survive out of the womb? And another thing, what if they can’t financially afford to have a child? “Adoption” not all kids get adopted. I was adopted and I wouldn’t have minded getting aborted to be honest dude. I know a lot of people would, friends, family, etc. I don’t support killing out of the womb though. And even then, if you care about children so much, are you willing to make safer gun laws to stop school shootings? Are you willing to donate to homeless children in need? You’re not willing to make insulin cheaper for diabetic people (and children), you’re not willing to fund cancer research (for adults and children), what are you willing to do for children?

And we can both agree that the world is a horrible place for kids, left or right.

Another thing… why the fuck would the FBI make the protests violent? If that’s your justification for that then why didn’t the FBI make the blm protest violent? Black Lives Matter was good in concept, but people looted local businesses to make a point. I still think Black Lives Matter, I just don’t really know if I should support the organization that says so.

There are J6ers who rejected their pardon. They agree that what they did was wrong, why can’t you? Even then, what about the J6ers who… Beat up a police officer? So many others beat up police, I thought you backed the blue? The whole movement was to “fight for your country.” Trump told you to… Fight. Fight. Not protest, not speak up, fight. Fight tooth and nail for your “freedom”. And if you don’t hate minorities why don’t you support DEI? And the plane crash wasn’t because of it it’s because trump FIRED everyone. Literally.

The Nazis called themselves socialists because at the time everyone loved socialism. Do Nazis fight for workers rights? Do Nazis fight for free healthcare? Do Nazis give a fuck about equality? Hell no. Nazis didn’t support a community where they have the means of production. He was a capitalist, if he was a socialist he couldn’t afford to make the wonder weapons that he usually made. If communism is socialism capitalism is facism. I’d argue that if I was a big ceo who makes a shit ton of money, would I vote for the people who tax the rich, who give workers rights, or enslaved everyone to work under me? I would vote for the slaves because I’d be a billionaire, but I’m not so I have basic empathy for people less fortunate than me. Do you?

I’d argue I could beat you up with the American flag.

Yo, correct me if I am wrong please, but didn't Hitler rise to power because he promised to fix the German economy and people really liked that so they looked past everything else he was doing??? Like exactly what's happening in America right now???

So many people said they voted for Trump, put a truly evil person in power, because he said he'd fix the economy, and a little voice in my head is going, "Isn't that what happened with fucking Hitler??"

But I've seen no one point that out so maybe I'm miss remembering???????

[cyberbenb]

Transnistria urges residents to heat stoves with wood amid significant gas shortages

Vadim Krasnoselsky, the head of the Russia-led breakaway Transnistria region in Moldova, urged residents on Jan. 3 to heat their stoves with wood whenever possible amid gas shortages.

Russia’s state-controlled energy giant Gazprom halted gas deliveries to Moldova on Jan. 1, citing alleged unpaid debts by Moldovagaz. The suspension triggered an energy crisis in Transnistria, which now faces industrial collapse due to widespread power outages.

Authorities in Transnistria also rejected earlier Chisinau’s offer to help the region purchase gas via European platforms.

Some 1,500 high-rise buildings in Transnistria are currently without heating and hot water, and nearly 72,000 homes are without gas, according to Krasnoselsky.

Krasnoselsky added that 150 gas boiler houses have been disconnected, while two large social facilities have been switched to diesel heating.

“The almost complete gasification of the (region) is one of the reasons for well-deserved pride: we strived for 100% coverage of the population with this benefit of civilization. But today, we remember with gratitude those who built housing with stove heating,” he said.

“Fortunately, our region is rich in wood. We still have stocks. Solid fuel sales points have been opened in every district. At the request of citizens who cannot provide themselves with firewood due to life circumstances, it is delivered free of charge,” Krasnoselsky said, adding that “there are no hopeless situations."

Russian troops have been stationed in Transnistria since the early 1990s. While the rest of Moldova has switched to European energy supplies, the region is heavily dependent on Russian gas.

Although a deal allowing Russian gas to transit through Ukraine expired on the same day that Russia halted gas supplies to Moldova, Gazprom insists the suspension is due to Moldova’s outstanding debt, not transit issues.

Moldovan officials dispute Gazprom’s claims regarding outstanding payments, noting an international audit failed to verify the debts.

Russia buys acceptance with cash, plunging economy into uncertainty

For Russia’s military recruiters, money talks. In July, Russian President Vladimir Putin doubled the federal signing-on bonus for contract soldiers to 400,000 rubles ($3,850) — over five times the country’s average monthly wage. Regional governments are expected to top this up further, although th…

The Kyiv IndependentKatie Marie Davies

[dukwin214]

Top Picks for the Best Watch Winder for Rolex: Dukwin

When considering the best watch winder for your Rolex, several features could matter to you.

The quality of the motor is of prime importance to the watch winder's life span and performance. Quality motors provide smooth and constant rotations without jerks or undue interruption. Another factor is the noise level: a good watch winder should run quietly without disturbing the environment. Hence, many top-tier watch winders use silent motors, which would make them very suitable for your home or offices. Different watches, in turn, have different winding needs, and the best watch winder for Rolex would come with multiple rotation settings, such as clockwise, counter clockwise, and even bi-directional. The turns per day (TPD) settings should also be considered when shopping for a watch winder. Typically, a Rolex requires a moderate TPD range, so a good watch winder should allow customization of these settings.

Watch winder is not only a device but it can be treated as an accessory. It has to be beautiful, have good build quality, valuable materials, and an overall design that reflects the luxury of the watch possible to be held within. So winders made from good materials like wood, leather, or carbon fiber should be searched as this will give the durability and premium look.

When searching for a watch winder near me, it's most helpful to start with local jewellery stores, watch boutiques, and high-end department stores. Most will carry a good selection of winder products ideal for luxury-watch owners. It is easy to see the product before buying and feel it to be sure it is as expected when you shop locally.

Dukwin is happy to mention that it brings the best watch winders for Rolex for its valued customers. Our team consists of watch aficionados and experts who dwell in the nitty-gritty of luxury watches and can help you with the appropriate-specific need with matching preferences on a watch winder only from here. Furthermore, we have stocked our catalogs of high-performing and exceptionally durable tested winders from some of the most reputable brands in the industry. Dukwin puts later customer satisfaction and our guest staff is always in-house and willing to help you with all inquiries in so far as making the decision goes. So whether you prefer buying while at home or offline, At our site, you will find thorough descriptions of everything we sell, customer review pages, and professional buying guidance so that you can never choose wrong.

Using the best Rolex watch winder, your Rolex watch always stays accurate and ready on hand for everyday wearing. Use it often to keep internal lubricants distributed evenly, as this helps maintain accurate timekeeping and the durability of your watch. Follow rotation settings according to the manufacturer's recommendations for your particular model Rolex to avoid over- or under-winding. The watch winder is stored in a stable, dust-free environment without any outside exposure.

The best Rolex watch winders will ensure that your watch is always accurate and ready to be worn. You should use a watch winder regularly to get the internal lubricants of your watch distributed evenly across various components in the watch, preventing making it inaccurate or short-lived. The rotation settings should be in accordance with the manufacturer's recommendations for your specific Rolex model to avoid over-or under-winding. Keep the watch winder in a stable and dust-free environment to keep it away from external damage.

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