#young chicago authors

[catharusustulatus]

Better jobs for Steve than being a cop: teacher, counselor, bartender, florist, librarian assistant, garden section associate, dog walker (dog groomer canon?), grocery store manager, food pantry helper, seasonal worker as a Santa’s elf….

[luulapants]

One of the best stories I ever read as a child was a fantasy novel by some local dude selling books out of a suitcase on the sidewalk downtown, and I don't remember what it was called or who the author was, and it's so obscure that no matter how many elements I remember, I've never been able to find it through web searches. I only vaguely remember the story - it was a love story, something about a tower on an island and two characters on a quest to discover their forgotten past. They fall in love and at the end the only way to stay together is to allow themselves to forget again, and you realize that they're right where they started, in the exact same tower, and they're doomed to go on this same quest over and over again, never completed, but that also means they'll fall in love over and over again forever. And I remember how that ending blew up my little child brain into a million pieces.

I don't know what happened to the book, and I'll probably never read it again, but if you're somewhere out there and you were once selling fantasy novels from a suitcase on the sidewalk in the suburbs of Chicago, and if you ever felt like your writing never meant anything or went anywhere except a hundred copies you had printed yourself and sold for almost nothing, please know that your story buried itself in my young brain and has probably shaped my worldview in ways even I don't understand.

[xxanaduwrites]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a residue series installment ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

sweet talkin’

main hive 🐝 | next part here: honey, are you comin’?

✎ elementary-teacher!reader (miss.honey) x biker!benny 🏍️

summary: in which “uncle benny” picks up johnny’s girls from school and finds some honey along the way ;)

warnings: not much of anything besides talks of danger & some side eyes from on-lookers. an absolute fluff cake of a piece really. enjoy! x

author’s note: ngl there is some inaccuracies. i fully made up locations & such. never been to chicago or illinois even, but maybe someday :)

word count: 2.8k

💌 requests are open, send ‘em honey 💋

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You remember it like it was yesterday, the very first time you met Benny Cross. Ironically, it was one of those sticky sweet days in June, just before the start of summer ‘65. The Chicago heat was hard to beat in the cramped little classroom you worked in on Phipps Avenue. Your third graders were all flushed faces with curly cues frizzing about, and their red little cheeks burned in exhaustion. It was no surprise that you lost their ears to the tsk tsk tsk of sprinklers swirling about on the school grounds. Even though the principal was against it, you were rather relieved to see your students running about the wet grass come dismissal.

It was a lovely reprieve, truly to be out of the shoe box you worked in at the end of the day. Sure, the heat hadn’t let up. It was awfully sweltering passing clammy hand to clammy hand to their designated pick up person. But you loved being a teacher. Moreseo you loved those sweet turned up smiles that graced those baby faces of your students as they chatted about their after school plans. Heading down to the local pool or picking up a firecracker pop at the corner store was such a sweet treat. It made you miss being that young again, finding hidden treasures through the little bits of life.

You moved like clockwork during dismissal, attentive as you made small talk with parents and hugged your students goodbye. The pick of the cycle was usually smooth on your part. You knew who tended to be retrieved right away and who was left hanging, so it took you by a hint of surprise when you found yourself still hand in hand with Mr. and Mrs. Davis’s little girls.

You knew the Davis’s well — as well as anyone could holding residence in the quaint village of McCook, Illinois. Mr. Davis and his wife Betty were perishoners at the local church you frequented with your Ma and Pa. St. Caron’s on the corner of Rose and Dawn. You’d see them all together in their Sunday best, the kids in puff pastry kind-of dresses packed together in a pew with their Ma, while their Pa was mulling about in his pressed suit and tie. There was no trace of the Vandals you’d come to know, the Johnny that would be amplified under that some-what imposterous clean cut demeanor. You’d see him solemn as ever ushering pew to pew with the collections basket for the poor and at communion during the mass.

Yet, if you had to name one thing that complimented Johnny to Mr. Davis, it had to be his consistency with being on time. Never once was he ever late to church. 12pm sharp he’d be looking at his watch, waitin’ for the priest and deacon to do their thang. The same applied for his children and their respected school schedule.

It took you a moment to remember the note from the office that was sent up in the afternoon. In your defense, mastering concentration in this heat proved almost impossible. Until it wasn’t. You could see the lovely writing of the secretary with that neat cursive of hers in the back of your mind, reminding you that the Davis girls would be picked up by their Uncle Benny come dismissal.

That would explain it, you thought. But would it really? Fathoming a member of Mr. Davis’s family not being as meticulous as him? You momentarily wondered how the man would react to such a thing as being late. You were sure it wasn’t in his vocabulary by any means.

Your fingers, engulfing the petite ones of the Davis girls, squeezed their hands reassuringly. “M’sure your Uncle Benny will be here any moment.” Neither of them said anything as you glanced between the two flanked at your sides, little eyelashes blinking up at you without a care in the world. And here you thought they would be just as anal-retentive as their father.

They weren’t.

Since the school yard was becoming less compact with people, and the principal put an end to the fun with the sprinklers, you figured some chit-chat wouldn't hurt to keep them occupied. “You girls have any fun afternoon plans?”

The Davis girl on the right, taller, darker hair, lookin’ far too much like her father — a carbon copy if you will — spoke up then. “Yes! Uncle Benny is takin’ us to a picnic. Gonna see Daddy race his bike, Miss. Honey.”

A bike race, huh? You couldn’t remember seeing anything in the McCook weekly papers ‘bout an upcoming cycling event. But, hey maybe you happened to miss it on your skim of the thing, when your Pa just so happened to put it down for a second durin’ dinner.

“Well, ain’t that sweet!” You chirped, smiling brightly at the girls with genuine excitement in your eyes. “Sure it’ll be tons of fun.”

“S’not when Daddy gets all muddy.” The smaller girl, the one that looked more like her mother. Lighter hair and lighter eyes said. Her tiny face contorted into a grimace.

Muddy? Weren’t cycling races on the roads?

Surely the town would block off the streets like they did for those celebratory parades. The little one was probably exaggerating.

“Aw,” you hummed, a frown dousing your features. “M’sure your Pa is just real dedicated, y’know?” You tried to bring out the bright side for your student. “S’like when you buy a fresh book and worry about those pages dentin’. Y’won’t know if you like it if you don’t read it, right?” The girls nodded. “Dentin’ the pages just goes to show all that love you had for that book while readin’ it.”

“I guess…” The Davis girl shrugged, tiny fingers wrapping about the strap of her pretty pink backpack. Seemingly, she wasn’t as impressed as her sister to the right.

You were gonna change the subject. Gonna start chatting ‘bout something else, when a twist of tiers against the pavement sent a squeak across the air. Your mother-hen instincts kicked in instantly, protective hands pulling the girls behind you without a second thought. All heads turned simultaneously to the intrusion on the road, expecting the worst. Expecting a crash of sorts. But no, there was no crash, just a slick car pulling abruptly up against the sidewalk and jerking to a startling stop. One that could only be equated to the driver going far above the speed limit in a school zone.

It went quiet. Far too quiet as the lot of remaining faculty, students, and parents alike kept their eyes peeled back sharply at the reckless driver. Funnily enough the attentive stares of onlookers could have very well been just as bad as those witnessing an actual crash.

You weren’t any better than the rest, collecting snap shot after snap shot like a roll of consecutive film. You could still hear the engine cutting out, the door swinging open and closing with a solid flick of his wrist. A wrist that would do far worse to you in the bedroom. Far worse in the eyes of your religious upbringing, but would feel too holy to you to be considered a sin.

You only caught a glance of him for a second until his back was facing towards you, thick white letters staking his claim with a skull and crossbones for the Chicago Vandals on his cut down vest.

You’d heard a thing or two about those motorcycle men. Your father ranting and raving about the disturbances near route 95 and police chases. But never, had you ever seen one of them in the flesh up close and personal. A shrill of unprecedented delight shot up your spine at the colorful sight, no longer reserved to those blurry black and white paper cuttings.

Stopping in his tracks, you figured his car must have broken down or somethin’ – but no. He was putting out his cigarette with his worn down boot before making his way over to you, and oh he had his eye on you alright.

A relative unease wahed across the school yard, harder than the obvious heat wave as he sauntered across without a care in the world. As if dozens of heads weren’t makin’ disgusted faces and whispering about. Yet a clear intimidation set over them, people stepping out of the way without a word as if he was a Bible figure. Like Moses parting the red sea.

“Uncle Benny!” One of them chirped. Who you didn’t know, couldn’t know with the sudden flush creeping against your cheeks. Your heart dropped to your stomach once you realized who it was and that the man himself with dirty blonde scruff, calloused fingers, and a black inked layer over a honey toned canvas was makin’ a beeline to you. A beeline to you and the girls.

It was the taller Davis girl that must have called out his name, cause suddenly she was pulling you and her sister forward to meet Benny half way. You almost tripped down the stairs within the broken bubble of her excitement. Barely having a moment’s notice to collect yourself, you found your pristine baby pink ballet flats toe to toe with some scruffed up biker boots that had seen better days. You managed a breath before you looked up and boy were you glad you did.

The wind was practically knocked clean out of you when you were caught face to face with the Benny Cross. It wasn’t because you were scared of him — no. You were more taken aback with how pretty he was. How his deeply set ocean eyes managed to speak volumes without saying a word.

And suddenly, on the front steps of Phipps Avenue School you felt seen. More seen than you had ever felt in your life. He wasn’t the only one sticking out like the sorest of thumbs. So were you with your baby pink tank to match your shoes with your signature embroidered denim overall dress. Hair up and out of your face, loose honey curls frizzing about. Your kitsch tastes and unpolished attire were rather baffling for the picturesque depiction gracing the magazines your Ma read at the salon.

Some would say you were lost somewhere in Neverland. Lots of your fellow teachers would crack jokes here and there ‘bout it too. Sure, on a bad day a jab or two could get to you — but hey you liked what you liked and you weren’t gonna change that. Not for anybody. Not even for your Ma or Pa who grimaced at your bedazzled pins wedged into your messy curls during Sunday mass.

So Benny, well who were you to judge him?

“Hi, you must be Uncle Benny,” you greeted the brood of a man in front of you, flexing a sweet-like-honey smile that was just oh-so-you. You let go of the Johnny look-a-likes hand then, allowing her to wrap her small self around Benny’s leg in pure delight to see him as you outstretched your hand in a shake. To your dismay, he didn’t take it. Instead, his free hand that wasn’t mushing up Johnny’s girls dark locks as he patted her head fished for his pack of Marlboro reds in his vest pocket. That didn’t stop you from introducing yourself though. “I’m Miss. Honey.”

He gave you once over, eyes tracing you from head to toe before the edge of his lip tweaked up in a sly smile. “Honey, huh?” He mused, that deep set voice of his, thick and smokey sweetin’ up something deep inside you.

Dropping your hand back down against your dress, the material felt rather rough on your clammy skin. “Yuh-huh.” You nodded, that tight smile of yours making your eyes twitch just a bit.

A fresh cigarette materialized between his teeth then, unlit. A strange courtesy you found rather charming on the midst of educational grounds. “Hm,” he hummed, the narrow cylinder vibrating against his lips as his eyes devoured you a second time. Yet, you figured he was more unimpressed. Most were anyways.

“Benny! Benny! Can we go see Daddy now?” The girl wrapped around his leg yanked his belt loop with a small finger. The little one was still at your side, hand in hand with you. It was kind of amusin’ how different the two were. It was simple figuring out who was the bigger Daddy’s girl of the two.

“In a ‘inute, sweet-art,” he mumbled, that cigarette of his disrupting any fully coherent sentence from spillin’ out. “C’mere ‘ittle one,” he motioned to the shorter girl who was rather uninterested in leaving. In the midst of your conversation, she managed to keep her hand raised, keeping herself conjoined to you as she sat down on the bottom step in complete and utter protest.

“Don’t wanna.” She pouted down at her bunny tied saddle shoes that matched her pretty little pick-tails.

In a sense, you couldn’t blame her. Now it was all adding up. What was really going on. This wasn’t just some run of the mill village cycling marathon. This was a Vandals bike race.

Any other teacher would have probably made a stink, called the parents in for a sit down with the principal over infiltrating their kids in a biker environment infused with criminal records. But, you weren’t like that — no. Especially when you’d see a child’s eyes light up with so much delight. It was clear that Mr. Davis’s look-a-like was really proud of her father. Who could blame her? Respected throughout the community, a family man who put his all into a trucking' job.

A picnic with some bike racin’ wouldn’t be so bad, right?

Not with Mr. Davis involved.

So, you gave the benefit of the doubt. Sure, it could have been for all those reasons that were swarming about your head, but in actuality your heart was working double time over your mind. The image of the Davis girl clinging to Benny’s leg had teddy bear written all over it, giving you all the sweet talkin’ you’d need. Ironically enough, in due time that soft side of him would turn into plushy lovin’ reserved just for you.

“Lemme,” you mouthed to Benny before getting down to the little one’s level. Flattening out your skirt you took a seat next to her and rested both hands over her own in her lap. “Remember when we were talkin’ about a good book? Dentin’ the pages?” The girl nodded, but didn’t meet your eye. Instead, Benny doing the opposite, his eyes practically grilled onto your peripheral vision. “Well, sometimes if we are too protective of it. Too keen on keeping it all in tack, we’ll never learn not to and we’ll just be more and more disappointed when we come across a little crack we never created in the first place. We may not like it, but it’s there, and there is so much love there.” You squeeze the little girl’s hand. “Just like your old man racin’. You may not like it, but he does, and that’s quite alright. You know why?”

“Why?” She looked up at you then, little doe eyes attentive as ever, clinging onto your every word. It was times like this that reminded you why you were a teacher.

“‘Cause you love him, no matter what” You replied, tilting your head ever-so subtly to observe her reaction.

And oh did Benny love you. He didn’t know it then. Couldn’t fully compartmentalize it until later. Yet, unbeknownst to you, it was one of the first of what would become many of Benny's thoughts on how damn good of a teacher you were, how fine of a wife you’d make, and how sweet of a mother you’d be.

Thankfully, your words must have resonated with the little girl. It only took a moment for those delightful dimples of hers to grace those little features before her lips turned up in a sweet smile. “We gotta go Uncle Benny!” The girl declared suddenly, standing up straight with a whole new attitude. You were glad to supply the optimism. That’s what you were all about. That was the lesson you hoped to instill to your students the most.

You couldn’t help but smile yourself, feeling like a warm blanket was being draped over your shoulders soundly. Not uncomfortable. Not contributing to the intolerable heat wave. You’d only been in your second year of teaching, but hey — small victories like this made it worth it. Made you proud of yourself, even if you couldn’t find such gratitude from others.

Little did you know, Benny — he was so fuckin’ proud. Proud to see you spreading such honey-coated wisdom to a youngin’. And there on the steep steps of Phipps Avenue school as the little one wrapped her arms around you and thanked you profusely before grabbing Benny’s hand and heading to Johnny’s car, he found his mission.

You were gonna be his wife.

He was sure of it.

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this was so much fun to write! i hope you liked it :) i’m thinking of also including some honey interviews curtesy of danny ! stay tuned for “from the hive” 🎙️🐝

also to note, my requests are open for any miss honey x benny cross works + any convos about these two in general. don’t be shy honey, i’m all for yapping in the asks.

+ don’t forget to comment if you’d like be added to “da bee hive” (my version of da tag list)

smoochies. all da love xanadu 💋

da bee hive 🐝🍯:

@nervousnerdwitch

@sunnbib

@rose-deathman

@austinbsblog

@thegabbyh

@jihyowrrld

@bellesdreamyprofile

@superemobitch

@m00npjm

@imusicaddict

@astrogrande

@alana4610

@cynic-spirit

@mariaenchanted

[goodluckclove]

You Don't Need an Agent! Publishers That Accept Unsolicited Submissions

I see a few people sayin that you definitely need an agent to get published traditionally. Guess what? That's not remotely true. While an agent can be a very useful tool in finding and negotiating with publishers, going without is not as large of a hurdle as people might make it out to be!

Below is a list of some of the traditional publishers that offer reading periods for agent-less manuscripts. There might be more! Try looking for yourself - I promise it's not that scary!

Albert Whitman & Company: for picture books, middle-grade, and young adult fiction

Hydra (Part of Random House): for mainly LitRPG

Kensington Publishing: for a range of fiction and nonfiction

NCM Publishing: for all genres of fiction (YA included) and nonfiction

Pants of Fire Press: for middle-grade, YA, and adult fiction

Tin House Books: very limited submission period, but a good avenue for fiction, literary fiction, and poetry written by underrepresented communities

Quirk Fiction: offers odd-genre rep for represented and unagented authors. Unsolicited submissions inbox is closed at the moment but this is the page that'll update when it's open, and they produced some pretty big books so I'd keep an eye on this

Persea Books: for lit fiction, creative nonfiction, YA novels, and books focusing on contemporary issues

Baen: considered one of the best known publishers of sci-fi and fantasy. They don't need a history of publication.

Chicago Review Press: only accepting nonfiction at the moment, but maybe someone here writes nonfiction

Acre: for poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Special interest in underrepresented authors. Submission period just passed but for next year!

Coffeehouse Press: for lit fiction, nonfiction, poetry and translation. Reading period closed at time of posting, but keep an eye out

Ig: for queries on literary fiction and political/cultural nonfiction

Schaffner Press: for lit fiction, historical/crime fiction, or short fiction collections (cool)

Feminist Press: for international lit, hybrid memoirs, sci-fi and fantasy fiction especially from BIPOC, queer and trans voices

Evernight Publishing: for erotica. Royalties seem good and their response time is solid

Felony & Mayhem: for literary mystery fiction. Not currently looking for new work, but check back later

This is all what I could find in an hour. And it's not even everything, because I sifted out the expired links, the repeat genres (there are a lot of options for YA and children's authors), and I didn't even include a majority of smaller indie pubs where you can really do that weird shit.

A lot of them want you to query, but that's easy stuff once you figure it out. Lots of guides, and some even say how they want you to do it for them.

Not submitting to a Big 5 Trad Pub House does not make you any less of a writer. If you choose to work with any publishing house it can take a fair bit of weight off your shoulders in terms of design and distribution. You don't have to do it - I'm not - but if that's the way you want to go it's very, very, very possible.

Have a weirder manuscript that you don't think fits? Here's a list of 50 Indie Publishers looking for more experimental works to showcase and sell!

If Random House won't take your work - guess what? Maybe you're too cool for Random House.

[sc0tters]

Decisions, Decisions | Sidney Crosby

summary: you begin to prepare for the birth of your baby and the chaos that ensues when Sidney learns about his child.

request: yes/no

warnings: swearing, legal age gap (reader is 23!)

word count: 3.32k

authors note: Luna told me to carry this story on so I did. I decided to make it into a three part series as I don’t know how to end this off (so let me know what you want to see) but I didn’t want this part to get too long. Regular italics are flashbacks and these bold indented lines are how many weeks pregnant the reader is.

previous part | final part

It had been three weeks since you learnt you were pregnant.

10 weeks

You felt sick most mornings but he never noticed.

Sidney played oblivious to the fact that he had slept with you acting like that night had never happened.

Your belly has started to grow but it still wasn’t noticeable “you know peanut the size of a prune?” Connor laughed as he had been reading up about his future niece or nephew “I’d like peanut to let me keep my breakfast down.” You pointed out looking at your brother on the FaceTime call.

Connor had to admit that his heart broke for you going through his alone “he should know.” The hockey player pointed out hinting to the father of your baby.

It made you roll your eyes “until he talks to me I’m not telling him anything.” You mumbled fiddling with the end of your shirt.

The minute you learnt about the pregnancy you called Connor “hey I can’t really-“ he cut himself off the second he heard the sound of you crying “you okay?” Connor asked quickly growing alarmed.

You could barely breathe “I’m pregnant Con,” you announced feeling yourself growing sick at the realisation of what was happening.

Thankfully your brother was there to calm you down “he doesn’t know,” you added hyperventilating as your eyes went wide “who are you talking about?” Connor sat on his bed as he didn’t think you were with anyone at that moment.

“Sidney fucking Crosby.”

20 weeks

You were able to keep Sidney unaware of your baby as you had opted for wearing large sweaters which nobody cared about as it was December.

Sidney had stopped arguing with you as much as he picked up that something was off when you lost the energy to fight him “do you want to know the gender?” Your OB asked as she was staring at the ultrasound screen.

The older woman had a soft spot for you after you let it slip that the baby daddy didn’t know about his child “yes-no-maybe?” You shrugged watching the screen as you didn’t know what you wanted “yes, yes I do.” You finally settling on an answer.

She laughed taking the pictures for you “you are the proud mother to a baby girl,” she announced as you thought you’d be happy to hear that, you dreamed of having a daughter since you were young.

But now that it was a reality you couldn’t help but grow nervous thinking about her not knowing her father.

Surely this was going to be the push that you needed to tell Sidney the truth.

25 weeks

The day had finally arrived, not for you to give birth, but for the rematch against the Blackhawks. This time in Chicago.

You begged Connor to keep his mouth shut but as you watched him cross check Sidney, you knew your request had fallen on deaf ears.

Connor practically had smoke coming out of his ears he was so angry “should have kept your dick in your fucking pants.” He spat as he shoved his finger into the older man’s chest.

Sidney wanted to laugh as the rookie took him on “your sister tell you about everyone she sleeps with?” Sure Sidney knew that you were close to your brother but surely this crossed a line.

The Blackhawks player sucked at his teeth “she tells me about the ones who don’t step up.” Connor pointed out as he hit the older players shoulder before he skated off “what the hell is he talking about?” Sidney muttered to himself as he locked eyes with you on the bench.

He was definitely going to talk to you about it now.

From the moment the game ended you were trying to avoid Sidney, that worked until you got back to the hotel “y/n wait!” The Canadian called out as he saw you walking to your room.

Your legs tried to move faster as you tried to hold onto your notebooks that were in your hand “hey!” Sidney grumbled as he grabbed your hand spinning you around in the process.

The books slipped from your hand landing on the ground with your favourite ultrasound picture sliding right in front of Sidney’s feet.

You felt your heart drop as the boy leaned down to pick it up “is it mine?” His voice was soft as he looked up to see that the colour had drained from your face.

Sidney would have been panicking but this was like the final piece of the puzzle of the words that Connor had put into his head “Sid-” you sighed looking down at the ground “is this child fucking mine y/n!” The hockey player raised his voice causing you to step back with tears welling in your eyes.

Part of you felt like you needed to sit down “if you’re asking if it’s from that night then yes.” You mumbled as you nodded letting your hand slip under your sweater as you felt a kick.

Peanut had been enjoying her active moments during her fathers hockey games “and you didn’t think it was important to tell me?” Sidney let out a dry laugh as he ran his fingers down his jaw.

It was surprising that nobody was seen in the hall as you two had this conversation “you didn’t exactly make it sound like wanted to know about it.” You pointed out as you tucked your hair behind your ears.

The morning after you woke up to an empty bed, actually an empty apartment.

Sidney had slipped out whilst you were fast asleep “sorry y/n,” he mumbled pressing a kiss to your forehead.

There were no two ways about it, Sidney felt disgusting thinking about what he had done. You were this young beautiful girl who had her whole life ahead of her but here he was trying to screw it up. He thought you were beautiful, the kind of girl his parents would want him to bring home. Most of all he loved how you spoke to him, no girl that he’d ever met had that sent him back the shit that he gave you.

Four months ago when his mom came to town and finally got the chance to meet you it took her four minutes to realise that her son was in love with you.

And that was the reason he left. Sidney told himself he that he was doing the best thing for you, because deep down inside if he continued to tell himself that the life of a bachelor was for him then maybe he’d forget about you.

But that wasn’t what went through your mind as you were left hurt with no sign of life from the older boy.

Your pride got in the way and stopped you from ever asking him why he left you that night.

Sidney’s eyes pierced your soul as he contemplated telling you why he left “I had a right to know about this child,” he pointed out crossing his arms.

You scoffed as you rolled your eyes “just like I had a right to know where you were in the morning?” Your words hit him like a slap in his face.

When he remained silent you nodded pushing past him “look I don’t expect you to understand this or be on board.” You announced trying to be mature about the fact that you were growing his child in your belly “but I’ve survived this far and your daughter doesn’t need you if you’re going to not really give a shit about you.” You added tapping his shoulder as you watched him stare at the ultrasound picture in his hand.

With that you decided to leave him as you walked to away “daughter?” Sidney furrowed his eyebrows letting his thumb rub over the image of the baby “you’re gonna be a girl dad.” You nodded leaving him alone in the hall.

Tears formed in his eyes as he realised what his actions had meant for him.

Sidney was going to have to change things quickly.

26 weeks

Sidney sat in the cafe as he patiently waited for you to arrive “hey y/n,” he was clearly nervous as he saw you walk in.

You were wearing your new favourite sweater that had PITTSBURGH printed out in big bold yellow letters on the grey material “hi,” you mumbled awkwardly standing there as he clearly going for a hug “what did you want to talk about?” You asked sitting down in your seat.

He took in how gorgeous you looked even with no makeup on and your day five hair in a messy bun “look I want to be apart of our child’s life.” Sidney confessed softly not wanting possible fans from around him to hear what he had to say.

Your eyes went down to the menu “c’mon y/n I deserve a chance.” The hockey player reached out to place his hand on yours “how do I know you’re not going to leave one day when shit gets too hard?” You placed your hands on your lap still clearly hurt about what he had done all those months ago.

It had made you feel stupid offering your body up to someone in the way you had done for him only to then watch him leave before the sun came up “all I’m asking for is a second chance.” Sidney pleaded as he let his hands wrap around his coffee cup.

Connor’s voice was in your head reminding you of the fact that you were scared to do this alone “one chance, you fuck it up and you’re out Crosby.” Your warning reminded him that you were mad at him and that despite there being a child inside of you it wasn’t going to make everything okay.

“I won’t let you down Bedard.”

“I’m not the one you should be promising that to.”

28 weeks

Now almost everyone knew about your baby after one of the rookies saw you in nothing more than a vest and leggings when he walked into your office unannounced and let it slip to the rest of the team. The comments and questions were quickly shut down when Sidney threatened them all with extra laps, which of course you greatly appreciated.

But that didn’t matter as you were sat in the doctors office alone staring at the forms that you had to fill in “sorry I’m late,” Sidney’s loud entrance caused all of the expecting fathers in the waiting room jaws to drop.

He sat in the seat next to you as he placed his hand on your knee “I started thinking that you weren’t going to come.” You confessed drawing a smile from his lips “you lack faith in me y/n,” you wanted to hit him but you couldn’t when your doctor stuck her head out of her office “nice to see that the dad is joining us.” She sent you a wink as you walked into her office.

Sidney felt like a nervous wreck as he watched you pull your sweater over your belly “you’ve seen a whole lot more of me before Sid.” You pointed out sending him a smile which quickly left your face as the cold gel hit your stomach “felt that before y/n,” Sidney matched your teasing tone as you stuck your tongue out at him.

Your OB laughed as she watched the interaction between you two “want to see how peanut is doing?” She asked pulling your attention away from the boy in front of you.

The hockey player raised his eyebrows “peanut?” He cocked his head “hey you weren’t ever when I voted-” you were cut off when your baby popped up onto the screen.

“Peanut is perfect.”

30 weeks

Sidney had spent the last two weeks learning all about your child as he watched you begin nesting “should we get both?” Sidney asked holding up two different car seats.

A laugh left your lips as you shook your head “she does not need two car seats or two strollers.” You crossed your arms feeling like his wealth was truly showing.

The boy placed the box back on the stand “peanut deserves whatever she wants,” he pointed out as he made you laugh again “our daughter is gonna wrap you around her finger so tight it’s gonna hurt.” You smiled as you placed your hand on his shoulder looking at the one stroller you preferred more “peanut should get this one.” You added pointing at it.

He nodded picking the box up as he followed you to the next section “her and her mom already do,” Sidney mumbled to himself as he referred to your earlier comment.

You spun around furrowing your eyebrows “you say something?” You asked causing his eyes to go wide “nope.” Sidney was quick to shake his head desperately hoping that you didn’t hear what he said.

31 weeks

The last six weeks were spent for Sidney trying to win you back “I’m just asking for one meal!” Sidney complained as he had been trying to persuade you to go to dinner with him for the last fifteen minutes “look Sid the last thing I want is to wear some uncomfortable shoes and try to fit into a dress that would have fit me pre peanut.” You pointed out as you knew what the hockey player would plan.

It made the boy frown “what do you want to do then?” He asked wondering if that was how low you thought of him.

You pursed your lips together as you thought about it “pizza and a movie.” You also wanted a bubble bath but that didn’t feel like something that you should mention to Sidney especially after the last time he saw you naked you ended up with a baby in your belly.

It didn’t even take him a minute before he nodded “you got yourself a deal Bedard,” Sidney had to admit that it sounded peaceful having a movie night with you before little peanut was born.

31 weeks

Sidney walked into your apartment with a smile as he held the three boxes of pizza “didn’t know which one you wanted so I went with your favourites.” He explained as he placed the white boxes on the table “you don’t know my favourite pizza Crosby,” you pointed out knowing that it was not going to be something he’d just pick up on.

Instead the boy smirked “got Hawaiian because you’ve been craving pineapple, margarita because of your cheese craving, and pepperoni because who doesn’t like pepperoni?” Sidney looked proud of himself as he turned around to see that you were staring at him in awe “what?” He furrowed his eyebrows when you kept silent.

Surely it had to be the pregnancy hormones that made you think he was kissable in that moment “nothing,” you shook your head deciding to go for a piece of pizza instead as you hoped it would make your brain forget about the boy who stood next to you.

32 weeks

The moment Sidney’s parents learnt that they were going to be grandparents they were on the next flight into Pittsburgh “your mom already loves me Sid,” you reminded him as you watched the Canadian wipe his palms on his pants “I’m worried about what she’s gonna do to me.” Sidney mumbled feeling like he was going to throw up.

You sighed turning to let your whole body face him “look we have survived this long acting like we have it together so let’s just continue doing that?” You proposed as you wrapped your hands around his hoping that it would calm his nerves.

Sidney blinked his eyes as he thought about kissing you “right that was probably stupid of me to even suggest that.” You mumbled quickly retracting your hands as your eyes went wide.

He was quick to act as he hooked his fingers under your jaw bringing his lips to your own. At first you were shocked that he kissed you but then instead you just melted into the kiss groaning as his tongue slid across your lower lip “we’re here!” Sidney’s mother called out causing the two of you to jump away from each other.

Well that was a conversation for another day.

33 weeks

To say you were irritated was putting it lightly.

Alex had called you at almost midnight saying that Sidney was drunk at some bar flirting with a girl. The blonde had picked up on the car rides you were taking with Sidney as he took you to your doctor appointments, he knew Sidney was the father of your baby and he didn’t even have to ask “he’s back there.” The reason why he had called you was because Alex didn’t want Sidney screwing up the relationship that he had with you “Sidney!” You grumbled ready to hit him.

Your were in your leggings and some old training camp shirt that Sidney had given you “hey baby,” the boy smiled as he held his arms out so that he could hug you.

What he didn’t expect was that you’d reach out to slap him instead “I’ll let you deal with him,” the girl mumbled shaking her head as she left figuring that there were easier battles to fight than one that involved the pregnant woman.

The boy poured his lips as he cupped his cheek where you had hit him “what was that for?” He asked letting out a gasp as you pulled him through the crowd of people to the door “can you please grow up Sidney?” You begged wanting to have this conversation with a sober Sidney.

That seemed to do the trick as he nodded finally realising how sore his cheek was “you’ve got a hit on you Bedard,” he complained feeling his jaw throb.

You crossed your arms “what the hell was that Sid?” You asked as tears formed in your eyes.

Tonight you should’ve been watching reruns of the bachelor, not trying to deal with your drunken baby daddy “just wanted to have a fun night before the baby came,” Sidney confessed not seeing how stupid he sounded.

It took everything in you not to hit him for a second time that night “you don’t get to do things like that anymore,” you shook your head feeling like the biggest idiot in the world “to think that I thought you’d actually want me too.” You let out a laugh as tears formed in your eyes.

Sidney’s expressions softened “y/n,” he reached out to grab your hand but you were quick to pull away.

All of those memories preparing for peanuts arrival, the moments shopping, trying to build her crib together, seeing her little body grow in each scan, the way you’d grab Sidney’s hand and place it in your belly the second she kicked, all felt like they were getting thrown down the drain in that very moment.

So with all of the respect that you had left for yourself you tucked your hair behind your ears “I’m going to go and stay with my parents for a bit,” you had mentioned before that you wanted to go up to your families lake house before Peanut was born so that you could get some time in the sun beforehand.

Sidney nodded “thought you wanted me to come with you.” You had offered to bring him along as everyone was desperate to meet the man who your child was going to call her father.

You sniffled as you shook your head feeling a tear roll down your cheek “figure your shit out and when you do you know where to find me.” Your words weren’t nearly as harsh as they could have been when you placed a kiss on his cheek before you walked off leaving Sidney all alone on the street.

For some reason this really felt like he had fucked up this time.

[beardedmrbean]

Few in the media seemed eager to attend a ceremony last week in Washington, D.C., where the prestigious American Academy of Sciences and Letters was awarding its top intellectual freedom award.

The problem may have been the recipient: Stanford Professor Dr. Jay Bhattacharya.

Bhattacharya has spent years being vilified by the media over his dissenting views on the pandemic. As one of the signatories of the 2020 Great Barrington Declaration, he was canceled, censored, and even received death threats.

That open letter called on government officials and public health authorities to rethink the mandatory lockdowns and other extreme measures in light of past pandemics.

All the signatories became targets of an orthodoxy enforced by an alliance of political, corporate, media, and academic groups. Most were blocked on social media despite being accomplished scientists with expertise in this area.

It did not matter that positions once denounced as “conspiracy theories” have been recognized or embraced by many.

Some argued that there was no need to shut down schools, which has led to a crisis in mental illness among the young and the loss of critical years of education. Other nations heeded such advice with more limited shutdowns (including keeping schools open) and did not experience our losses.

Others argued that the virus’s origin was likely the Chinese research lab in Wuhan. That position was denounced by the Washington Post as a “debunked” coronavirus “conspiracy theory.” The New York Times Science and Health reporter Apoorva Mandavilli called any mention of the lab theory “racist.”

Federal agencies now support the lab theory as the most likely based on the scientific evidence.

The Biden administration tried to censor this Stanford doctor, but he won in court

Likewise, many questioned the efficacy of those blue surgical masks and supported natural immunity to the virus — both positions were later recognized by the government.

Others questioned the six-foot rule used to shut down many businesses as unsupported by science. In congressional testimony, Dr. Anthony Fauci recently admitted that the 6-foot rule “sort of just appeared” and “wasn’t based on data.” Yet not only did the rule result in heavily enforced rules (and meltdowns) in public areas, the media further ostracized dissenting critics.

Again, Fauci and other scientists did little to stand up for these scientists or call for free speech to be protected. As I discuss in my new book, “The Indispensable Right,” the result is that we never really had a national debate on many of these issues and the result of massive social and economic costs.

I spoke at the University of Chicago with Bhattacharya and other dissenting scientists in the front row a couple of years ago. After the event, I asked them how many had been welcomed back to their faculties or associations since the recognition of some of their positions.

They all said that they were still treated as pariahs for challenging the groupthink culture.

Now the scientific community is recognizing the courage shown by Bhattacharya and others with its annual Robert J. Zimmer Medal for Intellectual Freedom.

So what about all of those in government, academia, and the media who spent years hounding these scientists?

Universities shred their ethics to aid Biden’s social-media censorship

Biden Administration officials and Democratic members targeted Bhattacharya and demanded his censorship. For example, Rep. Raja Krishnamoorthi (D-Ill.) attacked  Bhattacharya and others who challenged the official narrative during the pandemic. Krishnamoorthi expressed outrage that the scientists were even allowed to testify as “a purveyor of COVID-19 misinformation.”

Journalists and columnists also supported the censorship and blacklisting of these scientists. In the Los Angeles Times, columnist Michael Hiltzik decried how “we’re living in an upside-down world” because Stanford allowed these scientists to speak at a scientific forum. He was outraged that, while “Bhattacharya’s name doesn’t appear in the event announcement,” he was an event organizer. Hiltzik also wrote a column titled “The COVID lab leak claim isn’t just an attack on science, but a threat to public health.” 

Then there are those lionized censors at Twitter who shadow-banned Bhattacharya. As former CEO Parag Agrawal generally explained, the “focus [was] less on thinking about free speech … [but[ who can be heard.”

None of this means that Bhattacharya or others were right in all of their views. Instead, many of the most influential voices in the media, government, and academia worked to prevent this discussion from occurring when it was most needed.

There is still a debate over Bhattacharya’s “herd immunity” theories, but there is little debate over the herd mentality used to cancel him.

The Academy was right to honor Bhattacharya. It is equally right to condemn all those who sought to silence a scientist who is now being praised for resisting their campaign to silence him and others.

[1-800-papaya]

Southern Caffeine (RI)

Jay Halstead x Baker!Reader Warnings: None i think

Author note: As always, feedback is greatly appreciated

Lemon Drops Cafe and Bakery. Big bright yellow and white letters read, and slight lemon decals surrounded the sign. Jay checked his phone before entering the shop; Hailey had insisted that the ex-army ranger get the morning coffee from the new bakery since the one in the break room was utterly broken. Pushing the glass door open, a light twinkle of a bell announced Jay’s presence. A head popped through the doorway that seemed to lead to the kitchens.

“I’ll be with you in a second.” A southern drawl stunned Jay.

The inside of the bakery was just as cozy as the exterior. Clusters of yellow chairs were pushed into three wooden tables, each bearing a yellow and white lemon tablecloth and varying-sized pillow. Along the opposite wall rests a series of tall displays, most filled with either what smelt like fresh loaves or display cakes. Turning more towards the counter, Jay noticed that in between the large coffee machine and the small portion of the counter dedicated to the register was a large display cupboard partially filled with cookies, cupcakes and some savory treats. Along the wall behind the counter, Jay could see an assortment of coffee bean bags that looked like they had yet to be packed away in the above cupboard and potted plants. The bakery overwhelmingly filled Jay with a sense of calm, and he loved the welcoming, cozy, homely environment that Hailey had sent him into.

A young woman soon walked out of the kitchen doorway and greeted Jay warmly. Her Y/H/C was haphazardly thrown into a bun, and a yellow ribbon wrapped around the tie. She wore a white short-sleeved shirt beneath a pale yellow apron and chocolate brown pants. Her apron was covered in white dashes of flour and smudges of frosting and chocolate. The pin on her apron read Y/N, a sticker of a small bundle of lemons decorating the rest of the pin. When Jay’s eyes reached her face, he took note of the imperfect splash of flour that dusted her cheeks and the bright smile that graced her features.

“Good Morning. What can I get ya?” Her voice was perfectly airy and sweet, like the melody of his favorite song. For once, the voice wasn’t dull or uninterested; instead, it sounded like she genuinely wanted to be covered in flour dust and chocolate smudges at nearly 6:30 in the morning.

“Four large double shot coffees and Hailey Upton’s usual.” He recited the order that Hailey had given him only ten minutes earlier. Jay moved to open his wallet to pay when Y/N simply shook her head.

“No need to pay, it’s on the house.” Her smile was blinding as she moved further down to the coffee machine, Jay following.

“At least let me tip you or something”, Jay argued as the women moved expertly around the small area, quickly making the coffee’s and packing a small box full of freshly baked treats.

“Please, this is the least I can do for you guys”, she spoke, “Besides, that would be breaking my own rules” " she said, pointing towards the large poster plastered above the register. Jay followed her finger and shook his head as he read the sign.

��Cops, Firefighters, Doctors and Nurses, drinks and treats are on the house, No exceptions!!’

“My dad was a ranger and taught me the value of first responders, so when I started my business, I made it a rule that those who protect us, normal people, from our stupidity would never have to pay. Plus, I make enough profit to cover it anyway.” As she pushed the box and cup tray towards Jay, she gestured to the jar on the counter next to the register, “But if your conscience won’t let you leave without leaving a tip, then here, donate to this month’s charity, the Chicago police fund” Jay practically swooned over her smile this time. pushing a few large bills into the jar, Jay left the cafe with a dopey smile and a mental promise never to get coffee anywhere else.

[madelynraemunson]

CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club series)

strip club owner!eddie x fem!exotic dancer!hargrove!reader

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ MDNI

Chapter 015: Eddie, Do You Copy?

Learning about, understanding, and loving all parts of Eddie.

* = somewhat smut

** = smut

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013**, 014**, 015, 016**, 017, 018, 019, 020*

word count: 5.8k words

disclaimers — fluff, grief, flight of icarus easter eggs bc of eddie’s mom, ANGST, talks of childhood abuse/negligence/foster care, implied domestic violence, homicide, cancer, mentions of suicide, mentions of underaged drinking/drug use if you squint, lil modern-nostaglia moment btwn eddie and the boys (as a treat ✨), erica and wayne cameo yayyy

author's note: eddie is so boyfriend in this chapter 🫠 happy holidays, you filthy animals ♥️

“I put the record on, wait till I hear our song. Every night I’m dancing with your ghost.”

♡

Your eyes accommodate the first beacon of light as thirst creeps its way into your system.

6:38 AM.

Quietly chucking the covers off, you find yourself hobbling over Eddie in attempts to get to the kitchen. You can only hope that it doesn’t wake him.

Eddie responds with a low grumble. Followed by some mumbling and flailing. And then you watch as he shifts around, doing his best to return to the state of comfort he was in before his sleep was interrupted.

But if he’s anything like you — which you know for a fact he is — his cranky self is most likely awake by now and just pretending to be unconscious to avoid early morning conversation.

To put it to the test, you press a soft kiss onto Eddie’s forehead. He smiles.

You smile to yourself. Called it.

When you get to the kitchen, you seek out Eddie’s Garfield mug for your reservoir of choice. And as it fills with water, the bedroom adjacent from his captures your attention.

Steve’s door is open. A huge indicator that he’s still not home.

Judging by the energy levels of everyone last night, you assume it’s because they were still out partying. And for Steve’s sake, a part of you hopes it’s also because he went home with somebody.

Once you’ve got your water, you sneak back into Eddie’s room, using the newfound, natural light to really study it.

You would’ve thought it was an extension of Steve’s room, not Eddie’s. Everything’s a posh navy blue, something Eddie wouldn’t be caught dead in if he had been anywhere else.

But the corner of his room is more like him, decorated with vinyls and a Crosley just like your sister’s. There were records of his favorite metal bands: Sabbath and Maiden. Anthrax, Metallica, and Judas Priest. And the unsuspecting like Elvis, The Doors, and Pink Floyd. Even country — both old and new, Johnny Cash and Chris Young — followed by a wide selection of Chicago blues and bluegrass.

The rest of his personality could be found on the bulletin board sitting on his desk.

Hand soap, dryer sheets, FUCKING DO PAYROLL

Eddie’s to-do list. You let out a soft chuckle.

Familiar faces canvas the board. There’s photos of Eddie, Jeff, Gareth, and Grant. A picture of him with his uncle — Young Eddie with his hair buzzed and Uncle Wayne’s a subtle gray, most likely Eddie’s doing.

There’s a photo of Steve and Eddie at a Colt’s game. Eddie and Dustin. And Eddie with Will at what looked to be a D&D convention of sorts.

But one photo catches your eye the most.

‘MOMMY & ME: LIZ + EDDIE , 1994’

His mom’s name was Liz. You graze the picture of Liz holding a baby Eddie in her arms. On her face was a dimpled smile like no other, the love-filled look in her eyes having been shielded by her thick wavy brown hair.

But you didn’t need to see her eyes to know how much she loved Eddie. You see it in how she’s holding him, gently pressed to her chest while she supports his neck, his beady brown eyes staring at her with the same amount of adoration.

It all reminds you of Mom. You’re almost certain there’s a picture of you two like that, but it’s back home with Billy… evidently a forbidden turf to trek.

At least there’s still the memory of it. But like the bond with your twin, it’s also growing to be distant.

Your eyes and tears trickle down to another picture of her on Eddie’s bulletin board.

It’s of Toddler Eddie now with Liz in what looks like a kitchen. He’s standing on her feet and, judging by the motion of the picture, is dancing along to a song that was probably playing on the stereo. Behind the two of them sat piles and piles of CDs, all of which were all of the blues.

“She was pretty, wasn’t she?”

Eddie is behind you now. He smiles at you with a dreamy gaze, beaming at the mere fact that the two women who made him happiest could be visually processed in the same frame.

You gulp.

“Really, really pretty,” you insist. “You have her smile. A-and her hair.”

"Yeah, I look a lot like her," Eddie chuckles with a hint of pride. He grazes the photos of her in the same way you did. "She’s influenced me a lot growing up. Bet that's why my sperm donor can't stand me."

You carefully dissect his choice of words. There’s a lot of resent for Alan Munson on Eddie’s part. You don’t blame him, if what Billy discovered had been true. It’s the same reason you and him resent Dad.

Eddie fixates on the expression on your face. He knows why this is so moving for you.

“It never gets easier, does it?” he questions, hinting at your own ongoing struggle with grief.

You cross your arms and shake your head. Softly you mutter, “Never.”

You feel stupid. Eddie’s doing his best to navigate his own baggage, yet you still found a way to make it about yourself.

He pulls you close and wraps his arms tenderly around your waist. Eddie doesn’t have to say it to reassure you that your burdens are safe in his presence. You can just feel it. Two traumatized individuals understand each other in a way others can’t.

“Time just keeps going,” you speak again. “Everyone moves on and you’re kinda just…stuck in place.”

“World just keeps going. Grief doesn’t care about your plans when it blindsides you, taking you for everything you’ve got.”

You swallow hard as Eddie’s words sink into you.

Tragedy just feels so non-consensual. No one ever asks for it to happen.

You and Billy can’t even go surfing without thinking about Mom. Whenever you try you both always end up fighting. That’s why Max tends to go alone or with her own friends.

“I have to stay away from a whole genre of music because I’ll burst into tears,” you scoff in agony. “Billy and I can’t even listen to Iration without thinking of our mom.”

“Can’t listen to Muddy Waters without thinking of mine.”

You and Eddie sway in place to the tandem of your beating hearts. It’s a breath of fresh air knowing you have each other now.

After a while, he ruffles your hair and spins you around so that you can face him.

"But enough about that," Eddie attempts a smile. He rubs your shoulders and you hum in awe. "This is supposed to be a happy time."

"Happiness and despair can coexist," you sniff. “Duality, remember?”

Eddie smiles. It's a you're right kind of smile. "I was yesterday years old when I learned that."

He kisses your forehead and soon you two are in the shower, rinsing up and mentally preparing for the long day of errands ahead.

You’re the first to hop out and get dressed, eager to devour a bowl of oatmeal before tackling the day.

"Hey… babe?" Eddie calls out to you from his closet.

The pet name almost sounds too natural rolling off his tongue. But then again he is the owner of a strip club, and was married for a few years before meeting you.

“Yeah?” you call back, heart skipping a beat.

“Can you make me a coffee while you’re out there?” he requests. “The usual black drip coffee with some hazelnut? Please and thank you.”

“Of course, hun.”

You can get used to this.

So you make your way back out into the living room and kitchen shortly after, practically skipping. But the person you see in the kitchen — with tired eyes and a bowl of his own oatmeal in hand — stops you in your tracks.

"Morning, Hargrove," Steve responds.

You're so dumb. You've gotta start realizing that when you sleep with one of them, the other may pop in at any minute. After all, it’s their townhouse.

As frozen in place as you are, you do your best to shoot Steve a shy little wave. Again, the look on his face indecipherable.

"Morning..." you pathetically respond.

Steve eventually grants you a wave back. He pokes around at his oatmeal while you make your way over to the fridge, your cheeks flushing a timid red as you do so.

You move in a way that seems like you were way too conscious of your actions. Even Steve notices. But he keeps trying to eat, his spoon clinking against his bowl as he intermittently clears his throat, all an attempt to fill the void of silence.

"Did you have a fun night?" you question. "You know... bar-hopping."

"Yeah, I did," he replies. "Argyle had to get cut off cuz he was being real extra with it."

"Oh geez."

"I know."

“How was Max?”

“She was fine,” Steve shrugs. “The bars use the same 21+ wristbands Hellfire does so we were able to sneak her in no problem. Chrissy made sure she got home safe. The girls were just stoked they finally got to have a carefree night.”

“That’s so good,” you breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m so happy for them.”

“Yeah,” he nods in agreement. “I’m really happy for them too. Seems like they needed it.”

Finally, your friend decides to address the elephant in the room.

"We uhh..." he begins. "We should probably end what we have going on here. Just so no one gets hurt."

“I think that’s a smart idea too,” you mumble as you nod.

You make your way over to Steve, stunned that he doesn’t shy away from you when you invade his personal space. Instead he leans into you, opening up his lap so you can maneuver between his legs.

You know, like how friends usually talk.

“It was fun while it lasted…”

"I know. I just feel so bad..." you choke, rubbing his arm softly. "I’ve wasted your time."

"I wouldn't say that," Steve refuses, shaking his head rapidly. He touches you back, running his hand across your arm. "I've thoroughly enjoyed your company."

Eventually his hand intertwines with yours.

There’s a heaviness in the room and something tells you that Eddie is near, looming at the foot of his room so that your business with Steve remains uninterrupted. He knows there’s some dust that still needs to settle. And he will linger until it does.

"You helped me get out of a really dark place," Steve admits. "And Eds too, I'm sure."

You look back towards Eddie's room.

“It wasn’t my intention to fall for him,” you say. “It just…happened. The connection, i-it’s...”

“I know…” Steve soothes you. “Been pickin’ up on that for a while. If you think I’m blaming you, I’m not.”

Steve urges you to meet his gaze again. And when a teardrop falls from your eye, he uses his thumb to wipe it away. Tells you to stop, before he too starts crying.

"This is... a huge step for him," Steve manages a grin. “I don’t think you realize, Shy Girl.”

"Yeah, I bet," you nod. "After Isabelle..."

"Yeah, Isabelle and everything else that dude's got going on," he confirms. "This is really good for Eddie. I can tell. It’s why I think it’s best that we part ways.”

Steve eventually does cry too, but it’s a rather suppressed one. The both of you take turns wiping each other’s tears, embracing the presence of each other for just a short while longer before needing to distance yourselves indefinitely.

You’re never going to forget Steve Harrington. His charm. His integrity. His everlasting devotion to the ones he loves most, and how he’d — time and time again — go to the ends of the earth for them. A noble soul in the highest regard. A true king.

“Thank you for being so kind,” you say to him. “You made my first week in Indiana a lot less intimidating. I hope you’ll still be around.”

“Of course I’ll still be around,” Steve chuckles. “Look at our friend group. Look at where I live.”

You share a laugh with him again.

“Ain’t no getting rid of me that easy, Hargrove.”

“I can sure try though, right?”

“Now why would you do that?” he banters sarcastically, chuckling into you.

He kisses your cheek softly one last time. Finally, Eddie’s door swings open, prompting you and Steve to asunder from one another.

“RISE AND FUCKING SHINE!” Eddie announces his entrance. “Both my soul and thine.”

You get out of Eddie’s way so he can go over and hug Steve good morning. Eddie then breaks the hug with a peck on the cheek and rough slap to Steve’s ass. Steve winces but you can tell he enjoys it.

“Mwah!” Eddie cheers. “Love you, babyboy. What you got going on today?”

“Oh, just gonna work on the online biz for a bit,” Steve mumbles as he ushers his hands through some paper. “Then ’m gonna start recruiting peeps for my other new job.”

“I forgot you dropship now,” Eddie says. “How’s that going?”

“Really fucking good,” Steve smiles. “I shouldn’t count on it too much though. It’s why I also have Newby’s. Speaking of which…”

Steve hands you a flyer. You take it from his hands.

NEWBY’S COFFEE ROASTERS: Even Superheroes Need Coffee!

Steve explains to you that a new coffee shop is taking over Family Video’s old suite. The owner grows his own coffee beans and all syrups are organically made from Hawkins locals. And since they’re a Mom and Pop shop, they were really going to need some help.

“If Maxine is still looking for a job, she’s more than welcome to apply,” Steve says. “We’re gonna need baristas. And we’ll be coworkers so whenever she’s on, I can drive her to work.”

“That sounds like an awesome gig for her!” Eddie pitches in. “Free coffee for employees too, I’m guessing.”

Steve nods at Eddie’s remark.

“That’d be amazing,” you blush. “Thank you, Stevie.”

“Thank you, Stevie,” Eddie parrots you. You elbow him playfully.

“Yeah, anything for you guys. I’ll put in a good word for her to Bob. He’s the owner. Great guy.”

“And what about this owner, huh?” Eddie chimes in. “Hope you can pull some strings and snag me some of those magic beans as well. I’m gonna need it. I also don’t mind paying full price cuz it’s goin’ to Newbs.”

“T’yeah with your job? You can have all the beans you want.”

“Mm, speaking of which,” Eddie scoffs as he stares at the time on his Apple Watch. “It’s almost time.”

Steve imitates Eddie’s gesture. Your eyes dart between the two of them, confused about the context of the whole ordeal.

“What are you guys-” you begin.

“Ah, buh-buh!” Steve stops you. “Wait for it…”

You look at the time on your phone to feel some sort of involvement as well.

7:59 —> 8:00

Eddie’s phone rings.

"An everyday thing," Steve tsks, shaking his head, resuming his breakfast as he does so.

"First problem of the day," Eddie looks at you. "It’s always something with Hellfire. From the moment the day begins...Yello?"

It’s Lucas. Sinclair never really calls unless it’s a dire situation, so you listen closely, doing your best to make out what he’s saying on the other line.

"I can't come in tonight,” is what it sounds like.

"Uh, why the fuck not?" your man demands. He places a sassy hand on his hip. "We need you for front of the house."

"Erica's sick and my car is in the shop."

"I'll pay for your Uber, you're coming in."

"I think it's covid. I don't wanna spread it to anyone if l've been exposed."

"It's not fucking covid, you guys have been jabbed more times than I can count for school."

The two continue to bicker back and forth like they’re brothers. Steve excuses himself from the narrative, going over to the kitchen sink to wash the dishes.

You watch Eddie as he lights up a pre-roll, taking a frustrated drag from it while he listens to Lucas’s, probably bullshit, excuse.

Eventually there’s a scuffle on the other line. Something something, “GIMME THE DAMN PHONE” followed by a “NO” followed by a “PHONE. NOW”. Eddie’s drags from his blunt grow increasingly slower.

Then another person speaks. The voice belongs to a girl. She sounds slightly younger than Lucas. And she sounds sick. And angry.

"Listen here, Ed-NERD Alan Munson," the girl hisses sassily. " I KNOW I did not just hear you tell my brother that he is coming in even when HE TOLD YOU why he can't. It's giving desperate. It's giving exploitation of your employees. If you want my brother to come in for a half shift at your stupid gentlemen's club then you best pull up to our residence, YOURSELF, with them spicy chicken wings level Creeping. Death. My tongue? It needs to be on FIRE. My eyes? They need to be burning from the temperature and sauce. My sinuses? BOYYY, you better be-LIEVE they oughta be SO CLEAR, I could cough up a loogie, SPIT IT OUT THE WINDOW, and have it smack you RIGHT UPSIDE THE HEAD SO HARD you won’t even THINK about forcing my brother to do something he isn’t comfortable doing again. Keep trying me, motherfucker. THE FUCK WRONG WITCHU."

Steve is flabbergasted. Eddie's mouth is wide open. You would’ve thought Lucas’s sister was on speakerphone but she wasn’t.

You're scared of Erica Sinclair. And so is Eddie, the way his eyes widen at her spiel. If Lucas's sister ever got into a heated argument with Billy, Billy would go home crying.

“And some sweet potato fries," she adds softly. "Please. Do we have a deal?"

"At your service," Eddie deals her a salute through the phone, even though she can't see it. "Anything Applejack wants, she gets. I'll be over after my Meijer run."

"As you should, sir."

Eddie turns to you after he hangs up the phone. "Don't ever own a business."

——————— 🛒—————

“WE GROW UP AND MOVE AWAY... The seasons pass, but the monsters stay.”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

Hellfire is Eddie’s baby. The man lives and breathes that strip club.

As much as you’ve already harbored that suspicion, you didn’t realize his work-life balance was practically non-existent. Running errands. Frequent call-outs. Always having to prepare for the unexpected. But that’s the price one pays for owning a business. It also only seems to get harder and harder when you’re a handsome business man like Eddie, someone with the drawing power like that of a 13,000 gauss magnet.

“Mike to Munson, do you copy?”

You and Eddie have hit the road now, ready to start your errands run before your shift begins. As Eddie drives, he has you hold his phone up for him while he speaks to the boys in their group FaceTime call.

“Copy,” Eddie responds. “Thank you for covering ground, dear Paladin. It is because of you we are no longer… short staffed.”

God, they’re such dorks. You’d cringe if Eddie didn’t have the sex appeal of a Roman god.

“It’s the least I can do,” Mike insists. “Taking inventory as we speak. We need more ground chili and pop cans. Cola and Fanta, please. When you go to Meijer.”

“Done deal,” Eds nods. “Who’s doing side quests?”

“Me!” Will chimes in. “Doing silverware, stainless steel, and just helping Jonathan open up the bar.”

“Thank you, Byers-squared.”

“And I’ll sweep and do windows,” Dustin adds. “We’ll figure out the front house situation as it unfolds. Gonna be a little late. Getting gas.”

Eddie places a firm palm over your hand. He smiles at you when you look over.

“Running errands with Shy Girl, we’ll see you soon.”

“Pulling in now. Over.”

“Us too. Over.”

“Over and out, boys.”

————- 🚐———-

After your Meijer run, you and Eddie stop by CVS for Wayne’s medications and the ‘morning after’ pill. And shortly after that, you two haul ass to the other side of town to scoop up Nina.

Eddie gives the young dancer a ride to work almost every day. He also smokes her out before the shift, evident by her waltzing in stoned out of her mind all the time. It brings you peace knowing the whole story now, and that there truly is nothing more to it than that.

“Your boyfriend really needs a new car,” Eddie huffs to Nina as she climbs into the backseat. “Been telling him that shit’s on it’s last good tire.”

Figuratively and literally. The 90s Buick that you caught sight of shortly before Nina shuffled in can only be described as a lost cause. Nina knows it too, the way she scowls at the thing.

She tsks as she clicks her seatbelt in place.

“Duh, Eds. What do you think I’m saving up for?”

Eddie holds up an eighth.

“I can think of a few things,” he chuckles. “I take it you’re a fan of all things eco mode.”

“Hey, it’s 2022, of course we’re going green.”

Eddie grins. “I like how you think, sweetheart.”

Nina looks over to see who’s in the front seat. Her eyes glimmer when she realizes it’s you.

“Oh, hey Shy Girl!” she cheers.

You smile at her contently. Securely.

“Hey, Neens.”

Eddie starts up his van once again.

“Alright everyone,” he says as he shifts gears. “Hold onto something. We’re on a tight schedule so expect some Eddie Stops.”

“Not this again,” Nina mutters.

“Oh boy…” you add.

SKRRRT!

———— 🏠 ————

After dropping both Nina and the groceries off at Hellfire, you and Eddie set out to Forest Hills Trailer Park to visit his infamous Uncle Wayne.

“Wayne’s the man,” Eddie boasts as he drives on. “Taught me how to fish. Somehow taught me how to drive. Automatic and stick.”

He laughs at that one.

“Even took me out of the foster care system when I was 16. I lived in his old room for years while he took the pull-out couch in the living room.”

“Foster care?” you echo as he nods. “He was tired of you jumping from home to home?”

“Nah, I just kept running away,” Eddie cackles. “If a kid was ever in the police station for something, nine times out of 10 it was probably me. I was stressing way too many people out, Uncs probably felt bad for them.”

“But he also loves you, I bet,” you grin. “You’re his nephew, Eddie.”

Eddie smiles too. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

Eddie pulls into an empty dirt road just yards from the estate. You two climb out of the van together, slamming the doors in unison.

Eddie leads you up the stairs by the hand, then uses his other one to wave at old neighbors close by.

“Hey y’all! How ya doin’?” he exclaims. He lowers his voice when he speaks to you. “Those are the Johnsons. Their sons were frequent customers of mine in high school.”

Your eyes widen in shock. Eddie waves to another pair of neighbors.

“And those are the Jacobsons. I bought their sons alcohol their senior year for homecoming. Buncha lightweights though. Wouldn’t recommend.”

“Well aren’t you a hero,” you jest.

“Hey, someone’s gotta pay the bills,” Eddie shrugs, half-jokingly. “You would think 40 years at The Plant gave you a decent insurance plan but that wasn’t the case. Had to help Wayne out for a fat minute. Still do every now and then.”

Eddie shifts closer to the door and gives it a couple knocks. He leans his head towards the doorframe, placing his lips just inches away from the chipped, painted wood.

“Wayne Munson,” Eddie bellows in his playful, deep voice. “It’s your friendly neighborhood pharmacist here. I’ve come with your percs, your piss pill, and your Motrin.”

Percocet and Motrin.

Two very strong pain killers. Hearing those names send chills down your spine. Those are the same meds Mom overdosed on when Billy found her.

But given Wayne’s circumstances, it’s not too much of a concern. According to what Eddie has told you, his uncle had just retired and is very frail. Heavy machinery and long hours can do that to someone. Just constant, chronic pain.

The door swings open and you hear Eddie greet Wayne like a grateful man would greet his dad. “Hey, Old Man! How are you?”

“Hello, there my boy. Agh, watch it. ‘s hurtin’ again.”

It didn't seem like anyone was at the door when you look over. But that was because you were looking about two feet too high.

Your eyes travel to the level at which Eddie bends down and there you see Uncle Wayne, having wheeled himself to the door to greet Eddie with a warm hug.

Oh this goes deeper than you thought.

A nose cannula. Yellow grippy socks. The wheelchair that housed his thin, fragile body. The navy blue Pacers beanie that concealed the fact that the man had very little hair.

Wayne’s face was extremely chiseled in, deeming him malnourished and underweight. The bags under his eyes that drooped heavily against his sockets took up a good portion of his face — nearly half.

You look at the place behind him. His trailer had lots of rails installed, Ensure protein shakes for adequate nutrition, and the pull out couch was set up to look like a bedroom, with a collapsible dresser right beside it that was nearly lost in a sea of orange medicine bottles.

The realization nearly knocks the wind out of you.

Wayne is sick. He almost looks terminal.

It feels like the ground had opened up and swallowed you whole. Your knees feel wobbly like gelatin, but Eddie is too busy reuniting with his father figure to notice. When he turns back around, he pulls you into him, with the biggest smile on his face.

“There’s uh, someone I want you to meet,” Eddie says to Wayne, his cheeks now a deep shade of pink. “This is Shy Girl.”

“Shy Girl,” Wayne smiles the same bright smile that Eddie has. “So you’re the THEE Shy Girl that my Eddie’s been rambling to me about. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sweetheart.”

You meet Wayne where he’s at, shaking his cold hand at eye level and giving him the warmest smile you can.

“It’s nice to meet you as well, Mr. Munson.”

“Mr. Munson,” Wayne smirks cheekily. There’s a hint of who he used to be when he does that. He was most likely a firecracker just like Eddie, evident by how the two start poking at each other in a teasing manner. “Didn’t realize we were at a business meeting. In that case, we shall not waste any time. You and Eddie can come on in now, Miss Hargrove.”

Butterflies form in your stomach. You never told Wayne your last name.

And soon you’re in Wayne’s trailer, Eddie’s old home before he grew his wings and left the nest. A bittersweet energy floods the room. It only becomes more prominent when you see Eddie and Wayne holding hands as they make their way inside.

“Welcome to my office,” Wayne proceeds, carrying on with the banter. “I’ve got some tea in the cupboards, as well as some stale saltines because this one over here thinks I should watch my sodium intake. You’re more than welcome to help yourself.”

“Thank you so much,” is all you’re able to say.

“No worries, doll.”

Wayne darts his gaze back over to Eddie. “Anywho. Now that the formalities are over… son, I need to take a shit.”

The same dry humor too. You giggle and glance over at Eddie while he grimaces at Wayne in annoyance. But, since it’s not his first rodeo, he obliges, unlocking Wayne’s wheelchair to wheel him over to the commode that was concealed behind a DIY curtain.

“Did you do your exercises today?” you hear Eddie ask him.

"I tried. Got tired ‘bout halfway through.”

“What are your oxygen levels looking like?”

“Satting 88 percent without my oxygen. 93 percent on three liters.”

“That’s what we like to see. Good job, baby. I’m proud of you.”

You stand off to the side, giving Wayne as much privacy and dignity you can throughout this very intimate ordeal.

While Eddie is away with him, you keep yourself distracted with Wayne’s mug collection, as well as the array of trucker hats that decorated one of the four walls. You take a look at what’s on the TV: The Price is Right is just about to go on a commercial break. And on the coffee table rested an assortment of dated magazines, all going back to as early as 2008. Ah yes, recession core.

Within a few short moments, Eddie comes back out. You study him as he makes his way to the kitchen to wash his hands, making faces at the friendly neighborhood cats who liked to make themselves at home on the porch.

“Anyways!” Eddie exclaims. “I’m gonna start making Erica’s wings cuz we got everything here.”

He starts back over to you.

“But before I do, want me to show you my old room? It’s like a huge time capsule. Wayne hasn’t touched it since I left.”

You can barely meet his eyes. Eddie is acting way too normal about this. Or maybe you’re too dramatic.

He sees you frowning, thinking.

“…You okay?” he attempts with you.

"Eds... I didn't know," you whisper softly.

But Eddie smiles a bit. "That's okay. I initially didn't want you to know."

"How bad is it?"

"Stage 3. Lung cancer."

"How long has he had it?"

"Siiiince… March of 2020?” Eddie recalls. "We initially thought it was covid because of all the pulmonary stuff..."

He gestures around his own lungs.

"So what started out as a — rather intimate — nose swab turned into a biopsy that turned into getting a team of specialists….”

He glances over at Wayne to make sure he’s still okay.

“To having uncomfortable talks with the case worker about...exploring other options... And then to me being his full-time caregiver."

"March of 2020..." you recall. "Isn't that the same time you and Isabelle got divorced?"

"We were finalizing it..." Eddie corrects you. “But that’s neither here or there.”

“And Hellfire?”

“We were struggling for a bit not gonna lie,” Eddie chuckles. “It was during the start of covid and no one wanted to leave the house. Even when the babes were smoking hot.”

Holding up a palm, you stop him from explaining any further.

“So let me get this straight,” you state. “Your piece of shit dad UNALIVED your mom in cold blood when you were a kid, your father figure has cancer. You somehow manage to care for him full-time all while basically living at Hellfire, your business that your ex wife tried to SABOTAGE; which led to you getting arrested and released on bail up until your trial where you were then proven NOT GUILTY. But even then, your reputation still remains slightly tainted because almost everyone in Hawkins is a narrow-minded, self-righteous prick who weaponizes religion to get an upper hand? And they know you’re an easy target so that’s exactly what they did in this case, making your life and Wayne’s a living hell when it was the last thing you two needed at the time?”

“It be like that sometimes.”

Eddie flashes you a sarcastic, ‘I’m alive’ peace sign. He’s not helping.

Your heart just about shatters.

Eddie has suffered so much. But he hides it so well with his never-ending sarcasm and Munson magic.

And to think all of this — Hellfire, Wayne, and divorcing Isabelle — went down a couple years ago. He still had his childhood to sort through. If that's even plausible.

“It’s also kinda why Chrissy and I were screwing around,” Eddie adds, snapping you out of your thinking. “Apparently I was constantly depressed and she wanted to keep me distracted and all. Again, fun. But very short-lived.”

You fall into him and squeeze him tight. Eddie is almost taken aback by it. But nevertheless, he returns the favor.

"Are you alright?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you demand. "You have all of this going on and you're asking me if I'm alright?"

Oh, how lonely Eddie must’ve felt through all of this. You just want to hold him. Take away all of his pain.

It’s always the angels on earth who get sent to hell and back. Eddie deserves the world, and you’re going to go your best to give it to him.

"Are we alright?" you question him.

"Of course we're alright," Eddie insists, ruffling your hair like it’s the silliest thing you’ve ever asked him.

He pulls away from you. Rubs your back delicately as you soak in all of this new information.

“You sure you want to sign up for all of this?”

You are absolutely more than sure.

“Now why would you even ask that?” you choke. “You know my stubborn ass. I’m not backing down without a fight.”

“Yeaaah,” Eddie squints. “I guess you are pretty stubborn.”

You fall into one another again, kissing each other like it’s the air you need to breathe. Eddie delicately cups your face with his hands, relishing in the last couple of smooches before he pulls away.

“I like stubborn though.”

“You and me, Eddie.”

“You and me, sweetheart.”

“Eddie!” Wayne calls, innocently interrupting the moment. “I’m done, boy, now come help me get up.”

“Comin’!” Eddie cranes his neck, shouting in Wayne’s general direction. He kisses you one more time on the forehead before excusing himself. “Be right back, babe.”

You and Eddie leave for Hellfire shortly after spending a little bit more time with Wayne.

The entire ride there, you let Eddie talk about his memories with his uncle… how he’s attended homecoming rallies, talent shows, graduations, and the less-than-celebratory court hearings — loving Eddie unconditionally through thick and thin. He was there for Eddie’s senior prom, snapping photos of him with the boys and his date Ronnie, who was also his best friend at the time.

Wayne was also there for Eddie’s wedding, even though he didn’t particularly like Isabelle. Again, every milestone, Wayne was there for.

You fawn over Eddie as he continues to talk, the spark in his eyes never leaving for as long as it’s about his loved ones. You can only hope he talks to Wayne and the others about you in the same way.

You can’t believe this is real life.

From here on out, it’s going to be you and Eddie. And you’re going to be by his side no matter what, because he’s proven to you that he is committed to doing the same.

From here on out, it’s going to be Shy Girl and Eddie… and nothing… NOTHING will ever change your mind or get in the way of that.

🏷️ tag list: @chrrymunson , @the-fairy-anon , @ali-r3n , @corrodedcoffincumslut , @bebe07011 , @mmunson86 , @eddiesguitarskills , @chelebelletx , @imonhereforareasonsadly , @eddies-trailer-babe @hideoutside , @motherfckerr , @jxpsi , @lindseyj23, @sidthedollface2 , @manda-panda-monium , @elvendria , @micheledawn1975 , @hereforshmut , @siriuslysmoking , @nymphetkoo , @m-chmcl-rmnc , @justinelittlewoodsworld , @ahoyyharrington , @keepittoyourselftellnobodyelse @kellyxo1 @emsgoodthinkin @winchester-angel @chloe-6123 , @redbarn1995 @angietherose @kiyastrf94 , @purplewitchcauldron @kellsck @joyfulfxckery @munsons-mayhem28 @dragonfire @emma77645 @drivelikenina @livosssblog @thinkingth0ts @hugdealer @ellielunamckay

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Mirion Malle’s “So Long Sad Love”

On July 14, I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

In Mirion Malle's So Long Sad Love, a graphic novel from Drawn and Quarterly, we get an all-too-real mystery story: when do you trust the whisper network that carries the fragmentary, elliptical word of shitty men?

https://drawnandquarterly.com/books/so-long-sad-love/

Cleo is a French comics creator who's moved to Montreal, in part to be with Charles, a Quebecois creator who helps her find a place in the city's tight-knit artistic scene. The relationship feels like a good one, with the normal ups and downs, but then Cleo travels to a festival, where she meets Farah, a vivacious and talented fellow artist. They're getting along great…until Farah discovers who Cleo's boyfriend is. Though Farah doesn't say anything, she is visibly flustered and makes her excuses before hurriedly departing.

This kicks off Cleo's hunt for the truth about her boyfriend, a hunt that is complicated by the fact that she's so far from home, that her friends are largely his friends, that he flies off the handle every time she raises the matter, and by her love for him.

There's a term for men like Charles: a "missing stair." "Missing stair" is a metaphor for someone in a social circle who presents some kind of persistent risk to the people around them, who is accommodated rather than confronted:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Missing_stair

The metaphor goes like this: you're at a party and every time someone asks where the bathroom is, another partygoer directs them to the upper floor and warns them that one of the stairs is missing, and if they don't avoid that tread, they will fall through and be gravely injured. In this metaphor, a whole community of people have tacitly decided to simply accept the risk that someone who is forgetful or new to the scene will fall through the stair – no one has come forward to just fix that stair.

The origins of this term are in BDSM circles, and the canonical "missing stair" is a sexual predator, but from the outset, it's referred to all kinds of people with failings that present some source of frustration or unhappiness to those around them, from shouters to bigots to just someone who won't help do the dishes after a dinner party:

https://pervocracy.blogspot.com/2012/06/missing-stair.html

We all know a few missing stairs, and anyone who's got even a little self-reflexivity must wonder from time to time if they're not also a missing stair, at least to some people in their lives. After all, friendship always entails some accommodation, and doubly so love – as Dan Savage is fond of saying, "There is no person who is 'The One' for you – the best you can hope for is the '0.6' that you can round up to 'The One,' with a lot of work."

And at least some missing stairs aren't born – they're made. Everyone screws up, everyone's got some bad habits, everyone's got some blind spots about what others expect of them and how others perceive us. When the people around us make bad calls about whether to let us skate on our faults and when to confront us, those faults fester and multiply and calcify. This is compounded in long-tenured relationships that begin in our youth, when we are still figuring out our boundaries – the people who we give a pass to when we're young and naive can become a fixture in our lives despite characteristics that, as adults, we wouldn't tolerate in someone who is new to our social scene.

To make all this even more complicated, there's the role that power plays in all this. Many missing stairs are keenly attuned to power dynamics and present a different face to people who have some authority – whether formal or tacit – to sanction them. This is why so many of the outings of #MeToo predators provoked mystified men to say, "Gosh, they never acted that way around me – I had no idea."

These men aren't necessarily clueless. There's a predator who once traveled in my circles, and when he was outed, it wasn't just men who were shocked. My professional and personal life includes a large cohort of socially and professionally powerful women to whom this "missing stair" presented an impeccable face on every occasion. None of the people this guy looked up to ever witnessed his behavior firsthand, and for complicated reasons, none of the lower status (younger, less experienced, and not exclusively female) people whom he preyed upon came to us.

Which brings me back to Cleo and Charles, and the mystery of what Charles did to Farah in art school, many years before. The people in Charles's circle have an explanation: Farah was Charles's first heavy crush, and he courted her in ways that crossed the line into harassment. But – according to Charles's friends – this was a temporary condition that Charles outgrew, and it was only later, when Charles was in a healthier relationship with someone who reciprocated his affections, that Farah retaliated by attacking him to their small art-school circle.

This is just plausible enough – Charles was young, still figuring stuff out, he made a misstep – that Cleo is able to console herself with it. But as Charles grows more irritable and belittling of her, and as Cleo's friends gently encourage her to dig further rather than burying her lingering doubts, a much uglier truth comes into view.

Malle handles this all so deftly, showing how Cleo and her friends all play archetypal roles in the recurrent missing stair dynamic. It's a beautifully told story, full of charm and character, but it's also a kind of forensic re-enactment of a disaster, told from an intermediate distance that's close enough to the action that we can see the looming crisis, but also understand why the people in its midst are steering straight into it.

This transitions into a third act where Cleo leaves Montreal and finds herself in the midst a very different social dynamic of people who have figured out a far healthier way to manage their interpersonal problems. This short conclusion is powerfully satisfying, showing how it's possible to live without missing stairs and without the immediate expulsion of anyone who has a "problematic" moment.

The missing stair phenomenon would be so much easier to deal with if every missing stair started out as an irredeemable monster. We could fix all those stairs and declare ourselves done. But – as Malle illustrates – there's a reason it's so hard to fix those missing stairs. Every good friendship has some give and take – but every missing stair takes too much. Knowing the difference is a skill you learn through hard experience, not one you're born with. Learning when to call someone out, and when to call them in, is a hard curriculum – and it's even harder to know when to keep trying to help the people in your life be better selves, and when to protect the other people in your life from their worst selves.

Malle's book is packed with subtlety and depth, romance and heartbreak, subtext that carries through the dialog (in marvelous translation from the original French by Aleshia Jensen) and the body language in Malle's striking artwork.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/25/missing-stair/#the-fog-of-love

[kindwarrior]

Tucker Carlson is Outing Obama as Gay. But Everyone is Missing the Big Story. I’m Obama’s College Classmate. I’ve Been Trying to Warn America for 15 years!

By Wayne Allyn Root

I’m Barak Obama’s college classmate at Columbia University, Class of ’83. I’m also the author of the #1 bestselling hardcover book in America in 2012, “The Ultimate Obama Survival Guide.”

I’ve always had Obama’s number. I understand what makes him tick. I understand his goals.

First let’s get the “gay issue” out of the way. I’ve reported on both my radio and TV shows for 15 years that my wealthy, connected friends in Chicago have always said, “Obama frequented gay bath houses and gay clubs. Everyone in the know, knows Obama is gay.”

Now that we’ve heard from Obama’s biographer that Obama wrote about his daily gay fantasies, I think it’s pretty clear my Chicago pals were right. Tucker Carlson is onto something!

But gay is not the issue. The issue here is fraud. If Obama is in fact gay, then he was lying to the American people from day one. He portrayed himself as a happily married family man with a wife and two beautiful young daughters. That’s called fraud.

If America had known the truth in 2008, does anyone honestly think Obama would have been elected president?

But all of this is small potatoes. This is not the big story.

Why does any of this matter now? Because Joe Biden is a brain-dead puppet. This is the third term of Obama. The proof is we are all reliving the nightmare Obama economy. Great for Wall Street and billion-dollar multi-national corporations. But a disaster for the American middle class and Main Street.

Second, Biden is fading fast – and everyone can see it. At the same time Biden’s cognitive health is in freefall, all of his corruption from the past is pouring out of the closet. Biden is finished. He is toast. He will never make it to 2024.

Sometime this fall Biden will have a very public “episode” and be hospitalized. Soon thereafter he (or Jill) will announce he is stepping down for “health reasons.”

Who will replace him? Either Michelle Obama or Gavin Newsom. But whoever it is, Obama will be calling the shots from his nearby Washington DC mansion. That’s why this story matters.

I’ve had Obama pegged from the first day. Obama is the ultimate “Manchurian Candidate.” Gay is unimportant. What matters is he was groomed to be president by the Deep State and communist, fascist, globalist enemies of the United States. What matters is Obama is a radical Marxist tyrant carrying out the destruction of America.

Obama was tame in his first two terms. He was “boiling the frog slowly.” But Trump ruined his plan. Now Obama is trying to destroy this country as fast as he can before Trump has a second chance to undo the damage. And at the same time, Obama is coordinating the attacks on Trump to either imprison him, kill him, or disqualify him.

My guest on my show, “America’s Top Ten Countdown” on Real America’s Voice TV last week was former Illinois Governor Rod “Blago” Blagojevich. Blago’s Governor’s mansion was raided by an early morning FBI Swat team. Sound familiar?

I pointed out to “Blago” that Obama’s fingerprints were all over his frame job… and FBI SWAT raid… and long prison sentence. Obama set him up. Obama took away his freedom. I asked him to comment. Blago reported, “Obama set up the meeting that led to my arrest.”

Do you get it now? It’s the exact same M.O. as what’s happening to President Trump. The same FBI raids, persecution, frame job. The same weaponization of government to destroy Obama’s political adversaries.

I’ve always said the key to understanding Obama was his time at Columbia University.

First, there is the “Ghost of Columbia” mystery. I was a Pre Law, Political Science major. So was Obama. He had to be in all the same classes as me. But he was never in one class. I never met Obama, never saw him, never heard of him, never met anyone at Columbia who has.

Obama got in, so why didn’t anyone ever see him? My educated guess is Obama was in the Soviet Union studying communism. Columbia had a “sister school” in Moscow. That would be the only real answer as to why Obama was rarely if ever seen at Columbia. He was being groomed way back then by the enemies of America.

Secondly, at Columbia we learned a plan to destroy America called “Cloward Piven.” I’ll bet Obama spent two years in the Soviet Union at our “sister school” becoming the world’s expert. Look around. Everything happening in America today is Cloward Piven…

The open borders bringing millions of foreigners into our country, changing our demographics forever.

The explosion of welfare and bailouts.

The Green New Deal.

The destruction of our military.

The end of the dollar as world reserve currency.

The plans for pandemic lockdowns, climate change lockdowns and Central Bank Digital Currency.

The censorship, banning of dissent, and weaponization of government against conservatives and Christians. Defund the police.

The vicious criminals let out without bail.

Critical Race Theory and Transgender brainwashing.

Persecution of PTA parents.

Conservatives and Christians classified as “domestic terrorists.”

The arrest of political opponents.

87,000 new IRS agents.

It’s all about Cloward Piven and communist-level control.

Sound familiar? It’s what Obama the “Manchurian Candidate” learned in the Soviet Union from the best. This man was groomed from day one by the communist and globalist enemies of America. He was sent to destroy us.

Now he’s working behind the scenes to finish the job. He is the man who ordered the spying on Trump. The framing of Trump. Now he’s the man directing the nonstop government attacks against Trump. Just as he did to Blago.

So, Obama being gay is the least of it. America is being destroyed. Obama is at the root of every evil thing happening.

[girlactionfigure]

Back in the 50s, Danny Thomas was a major TV star who had a successful comedy series on national television (CBS) called ‘Make Room for Daddy’ (Later changed to ‘The Danny Thomas Show’). The son of Maronite immigrants from Lebanon, read that a young medical student, the son of Chassidic immigrants from Ukraine, was struggling to pay his tuition, and donated the shortfall. As a result, countless lives were saved and made better by Rabbi Dr. Abraham J. Twerski.

Rabbi Twerski described the story in an interview with the Pittsburgh Quarterly on November 19, 2007:

“By that time, I had several children, so my dad and some members of the congregation helped me to pay for school. I applied for a scholarship through a foundation, but it didn’t come through, so in my third year, I fell two trimesters behind on tuition.

One day, I called my wife at lunch as always, and she asked, “What would you do if you had $4,000?” I said, “I’m too busy to talk about fantasies.” She said, “But you really do have $4,000!” I said, “From where?” She said, “From Danny Thomas.” “Who’s Danny Thomas?” She said, “The TV star.”

Then she read me an article from The Chicago Sun. Local officials had told Mr. Thomas about a young rabbi who was struggling to get through medical school. Thomas asked, “How much does your rabbi need?” They said, “Four thousand dollars.” He said, “Tell your rabbi he’s got it.”

Rabbi Twerski was a scholar with feet planted firmly in two worlds — the rabbinic world of Torah and Talmud study, and a medical doctor and licensed psychiatrist. It was a rare pairing that earned him respect in both the insular ultra-Orthodox Jewish world and wider American society. He was an expert on addiction and scion of a long line of prominent rabbis descended from the 18th-century founder of Hassidic Judaism, the Baal Shem Tov.

Rabbi Twerski was a prolific writer. He authored dozens of books on a wide array of subjects: from addiction and mental health to religious law for medical professionals and commentaries on Jewish texts. Twerski also collaborated with late “Peanuts” comic strip creator Charles Schulz on a series of popular self-help books featuring Charlie Brown and Snoopy.

May his memory be for a blessing.

Rabbi Yisroel Bernath

Danny Thomas was also the founder of St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital.

[healymatthews17]

Hello!

My 🖋 name is Healy Matthews. I'm an up-and-coming author who enjoys writing queer romance novels, usually of the historical and/or fantasy varieties.

I've decided to take the leap and dive into the early stages of self-publishing my debut novel WIELDER. I'm still deciding precisely what the next steps will be, but it's likely that I will be initially publishing through a Kickstarter campaign sometime this summer.

Meet Mona and Pippa, the main characters!

WIELDER is a sapphic fantasy novel that walks the line between young adult and new adult. The summary is as follows:

Time is fragile. It is cracking, breaking, and coming apart at the seams, and Pippa Pennippa has no idea. As an aspiring journalist from Chicago, Pippa sees the past as her muse. She draws inspiration from it, looking to its stories to forge her future. Little does Pippa know that nearly two hundred years earlier, another girl is looking to forge in her own future. Mona Spirea’s dream is to be a Forger- a blacksmith who creates weapons for supernatural cult of time-travelers that call themselves Wielders. It is her sacred duty, along with others of her race, to utilize their magic and the weapons at their disposal to prevent time from collapsing in on itself. Mona enjoys the rituals and regimen of the Wielders, and she believes in her mandate. She certainly does not expect Pippa, a girl from the future, to break into both her home and her heart. As Pippa discovers her identity as a Wielder, the Anarchists, a group of rogue time-travelers, begin to close in. Both Mona and Pippa must fight through betrayals brought by those they love. They will need to overcome oppression from those taking advantage of their own authority if they want to keep time itself from disintegrating… and save countless lives. But it seems that Pippa must face another obstacle as well: the fact that she is unwittingly in possession of one of the most powerful - and dangerous - magical talismans in existence.

If you're a fan of weapon-obsessed Vicrorian autistic lipstick lesbians, bisexual accidental-time-travelers who really just want a cup of coffee, pretty dresses from different time periods, disaster sunshine musicians from 1920s Harlem, stories that explore trauma, general timey-wimey weirdness, or gossamer-and-gothic vibes, this book is for you.

[spiderlandry]

steady ticking of a clock (part 1) — ethan landry

Description: You and Ethan became childhood friends when you began talking to each other across your balconies in New Jersey. You both reunite in New York City, older and yet still young; consequently making Ethan face what could have been and what could be.

Pairing: Ethan Landry x GN!Reader (they/them)

Warnings/Tags: unedited (but will edit soon🤝), fluff, angst, open ending but it will be resolved in part 2 🫠, a bit unrealistic college life but for plot reasons

Word Count: 3.4k

Author’s Note: ignore the new york/jersey inaccuracies ive never been there

Ethan once came up with a plan to stay in one spot forever. A point in time that he can live over and over again, never having to move forward with the uncertainty of what shall come next. That point was his childhood aprtment in New Jersey, the week before you left. His solution was a time machine—and he laid out his plans to you when you were almost teenagers.

Your apartment was right next to his. Your balconies were close enough that you could hold a conversation, and your secret meetings soon became the highlight of Ethan’s day. It may have been the mystery of it all; always separated by a fissure between the two platforms but still finding a way to communicate.

Ethan knew the reason he spoke to you was because he felt bad that you were new to the building, and overheard you talking on the phone to a friend back home and telling them that you’d felt lonely in the new city. He even surprised himself with the way he began the conversation with demanding you become his friend rather than asking politely like his father taught him to.

You never had the chance to talk to him face-to-face until you broke the news of your moving to another state once again. It was a vivid memory, the way Ethan’s heart cracked, and he rushed over out into the hallway and told you to meet him out there. He hugged you and said, I’m going to make a time machine so we can live here forever.

Perhaps he had taken your presence for granted, because the next week, you were gone. He never went out into the balcony again.

And now, in New York City, at a frat party Chad dragged him to, Ethan began to think that maybe it wasn’t too late to change his major to theoretical physics and get started on that time machine.

Because you were there. In front of him.

Though you were older, taller, and had an air of confidence around you he‘d never seen but figured you could always have—your smile never changed. The hair was different, but the curve of your lips and the wrinkle of your nose stayed the same. You held a drink in your hand but it wasn’t alcoholic, and Ethan’s mind ran wild with the prospect of your interests and the reasons behind them. You‘ve gained more life experience, just as he had. But that excited him. He wanted to know more, know everything, and know you just as much as he knew you then.

“It’s been a while,” you said. It did a good job of snapping him out of his stupor.

“Um—yeah,” he stammered, putting his hands in his jacket pockets. “It has.”

“You live in New York?”

He scratched an invisible itch on his neck. “Since the last year of high-school. You?”

Maybe his heart broke a second time when you said, “Oh, no. I’m just visiting.”

He was so sure it worsened the one he already had from the first time you left. But there’s no way he’d let you know, if he had anything to do with it.

“How long are you gonna be here, then?” He tried to brush off the slight tremor in his voice, the way he tapered off the question. Hopefully you forgot his tells.

“I’m just here for a few days,” you shrugged. He realized that you sounded sad about it too, but maybe it was wishful thinking on his part. “I’m going back Sunday.”

He held back from asking where exactly you were going back to, but you must have read his mind because you added: “I’m in Chicago now, by the way. Probably dumb, but do you remember—“

The answer tumbled out of him on instinct. “That’s where your brother wanted to go for college.”

A sweet smile graced your face upon hearing it. “Yeah,” you chuckled. “He’s—that’s why we moved again. You go to Blackmore?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “This is just—“ he cringed when somebody bumped into him, spilling a bit of their drink. He subsequently moved to lean against the closest wall out of the way. “I don’t party. Not really. I hate it.”

Pausing, you thought for a moment. “Let’s go outside.”

Ethan hoped he still meant something to you. He was a sentimental person. When he loves somebody, that love will always be there, whether platonic or romantic. But he didn’t know what you were like. Maybe you’d become cold, or mean, though he doubted that because your smile warmed him like the sun.

“How’s the family?” You asked, keeping a short distance from the frat house, leaning against a fence.

“The same,” he sighed. “You?”

“The same.” You grinned. “Does Quinn study here, too?”

“Yeah, yeah she does.”

There was an awkward beat where neither of you knew how to continue this conversation. So much for being childhood friends, he thought.

“Are you…are you with anybody?” You suddenly asked, Ethan’s heart dropping upon hearing it.

At his bewildered expression, you clarified, “I mean at this party! Did you come here with a friend or alone?”

He laughed, relieved. “Yeah, my friend dragged me here. Why? Are you?”

“Visiting my friend. I was just asking because…you know…maybe we could ditch the party for a bit,” you shrugged.

“Really? I mean,” He was a tad too excited. He cleared his throat, reverting his voice back into a lower register, “Really?”

It was your turn to laugh. “Really. I can just text my friend, he’ll understand.”

“Where do you wanna go?”

“Anywhere.”

Walking under the moonlight with nobody else around, Ethan gradually became more comfortable getting to know you all over again. He found out you chose to follow in your brother’s footsteps in studying law in Chicago. You liked milkshakes, your cat was still alive and kicking, and your favourite food was the same as it was years ago.

You got to know him, too. He told you about his major, about his friends, about what he hated in college along with its advantages. You seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, and though it’s not a competition or anything, he was so sure he was more interested in you than you were of him. He hung onto your every word. He finally opened up the locked box containing his most precious memories of you (every single one of them, that is), and he could add to it again.

There was no doubting of your ability to draw him back into your orbit, regardless of the time lost. Hopefully he would be the same to you.

Look, Ethan hated icebreakers. But when you suggested to play twenty-one questions, he couldn’t possibly turn you down.

They were simple questions. Favourite colour, the place you wanted to travel most, anything either of you thought of.

But you asked: “First love?”

He did not hesitate to answer: “Pass,” Ethan shook his head. “My turn.”

“Wait—hey!” You protested. “You cannot do that.”

“I can do what I want.” He was grinning, but there was a pit in his stomach telling him not to let you find out that he’d never been with anybody.

“Why don’t you wanna answer?”

“Because I don’t!”

You hummed. “I bet you’re still heartbroken,” you teased. “Fine, let’s keep going.”

He didn’t think to ask you about your first love. Maybe he did it on purpose. He really didn’t want that kind of knowledge, it would eat at him knowing he wasn’t yours.

Why, though? As you both reached Ethan’s dorm building, he looked at you—whywhywhywhywhywhy—Why did he hate the idea of him not being your first love?

He didn’t have time to think about that.

He invited you into his dorm with a smile, screaming internally.

Seeing you sitting on his dorm bed was straight out of his dreams. Surreal.

“You’re a sophomore, right?”

“Uhm, yeah.” He sat down at his desk, fidgeting with his hands. “I forgot you’re a year older than me.”

There was a few moments of silence where you were just…staring at him. He resisted cowering under your gaze because it really did look like you were just zoning out.

Unbeknownst to him, you had to force yourself to close your mouth at the sight. You had an elevated view of him just sitting there. But it was the way he sat with legs spread far apart, with a devilish grin, leaning back—how could you focus?

“I can’t believe you forgot,” you continued as if it that didn’t just happen. “I never used to let you live it down. I never would have, if I hadn’t left.”

He shook his head. He never wanted to imagine what could have happened if you stayed.

“What else would have happened?” He began. “If you stayed, I mean.”

“We probably would have gone to high school together,” you said nonchalantly. “A friend group, maybe? How was your high school experience?”

“Not…great.”

“Me too, actually. It would’ve been better if you were there.”

“Let’s change the subject,” he nervously laughed. “How’s pre-law?”

In the middle of your conversation, at almost midnight, Ethan’s phone pinged with a text from his roommate.

Chad

hey bro not gonna be home tonight im staying at taras

That’s when he got the idea.

“What?” You blurted. He looked at you, confused.

“What do you mean, what?”

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“Like you just realized something.”

He stared up at you, amazed that you could read him so easily even after the time apart.

“Do you wanna stay over?” He asked before the courage ran out. “I have some clothes you can wear, and I’ll sleep in my roommate’s room since he’s not coming home tonight.”

Thankfully, you agreed.

SATURDAY

You woke up with twenty messages from your friend asking where you were. You frantically responded saying you were fine, along with your friend cancelling plans. You went to get Ethan to wake him up.

Much to your surprise, he was already in the tiny kitchen, preparing breakfast.

“Since when do you wake up this early?” You took the mug of coffee he handed you. Even if he never knew how you liked it, it was still somehow perfect.

“Just for my special guest,” he teased. “After all, can’t have my lawyer starve to death.”

You laughed as handed you a plate and got one for him, too.

“Are you busy this weekend?” You asked.

Ethan stopped his actions for a moment, and you were sure he looked confused.

“Uh…no. Why?”

“Wanna take me sightseeing around the city? I’ve never been to New York before.”

His head tilted like a puppy, and those doe eyes certainly weren’t helping.

“What about your friend? The one you’re visiting?”

“He cancelled,” you shrugged. “We’ve been hanging out the past few days, anyway.”

The sweet boy, your Ethan, smiled and said he would take you. After you both finished breakfast, you went back to your hotel room to shower and change.

Being with Ethan again re-energized you. You didn’t know what it was about him, maybe it was how you imagined a future with him when you were kids until you were so rudely ripped from each other’s lives too soon, or how he grew up to be a good guy like you always thought.

Spending the day with him, he said he’d take you to his favourite places He called himself your tour guide.

“Oh, yeah?” You bantered, walking side by side on the street. Though the city was loud, the bubble in which you entered while with Ethan was quiet. “Are you gonna take me to all the tourist spots?”

“No,” there it was again. That devilish grin. Not devilish, not really. You were sure he didn’t mean it to be so mischievous but his half-lidded eyes made you think otherwise. “You’re getting the Ethan Special.”

“And what might that be?”

“Places that aren’t this crowded.” He shrugged. “One might even call them…underground.”

“You’re dumb,” you laughed as you reached the subway station. “Where’s the first stop?”

“You’ll find out.”

It was a tiny, locally-owned bookshop in Brooklyn. When you walked in, the old man at the counter personally greeted Ethan with a grin.

“I remember you said you love books,” Ethan mentioned sheepishly, trailing you as you gawked in awe of the shelves. “The guy who owns this place is a family friend of ours, so we got a discount. I’ll pay for whatever you want.”

Your head snapped to his direction. “No way, E. Nope.”

“What—why?”

“Books are expensive. I have my own money, anyway.”

“Come on, Y/N. Just let me pay once. My dad’s covering college costs so I’ve been saving.”

“You’re so spoiled,” you smirked. “Fine. But once. And I’ll only get one book, I don’t wanna hurt your bank account.”

“You’re so lame, dude.”

You playfully shoved him. God, the proximity between you two was intoxicating—the place was small.

He convinced to get you three books once he saw you eyeing certain ones. You reluctantly agreed, but with the promise of paying for lunch.

You kept your promise, paying for him at his favourite Indian restaurant.

Despite his insistence not to take you to touristy spots, he said he couldn’t let you leave until he took you to the Brooklyn Bridge.

Though it was crowded, it was perfect because Ethan was with you the entire time.

The way he was taking care of you, watching out for you at every moment, wasn’t lost on you at all. It warmed your heart. But you began to dread tomorrow, when you had to leave.

Ethan’s curls blew in the wind. The sun kissed his skin like it was made for him, and your heart hammered against your ribs while you stared at his side profile looking to the expanse of the river. He was beautiful. Your legs were numb but you never wanted to leave.

“Shit,” his swear caught you off guard. “I forgot I told Chad I would do the grocery shopping this week.”

“Did you tell him where you are?”

“No, he probably thinks I’m getting groceries right now.”

You smiled. “Then let’s get groceries.”

“But—but what about your trip?”

“What about it? Let’s go!” You ran ahead of him, and he chased after you.

You and Ethan went back to his dorm to drop off the books and get his car. There was something surreal about seeing him so grown-up. As kids, you never clearly envisioned becoming an adult except that you wanted Ethan in it. Sitting in the passenger seat, the domesticity of your actions made you realize how much of a disservice moving away was for your younger self. You were robbed of seeing Ethan grow up with you, somehow.

Getting groceries with Ethan was more fun than you expected. He made it fun, cracking jokes and even offering to buy you snacks.

After you’d both unloaded the groceries, Ethan asked, “What now?”

The fatigue had caught up to you rather quickly. You suggested a movie, he agreed. It was supposed to be simple.

Somehow, some way, you ended up in his arms as the sun went down. By then he had already relaxed himself against the couch and fell asleep.

You felt a buzz from your jacket pocket, a text from your friend coming through; one who knew about your spending the day with Ethan.

how was it?

i think i fell in love with him

SUNDAY

Ethan was up all night tossing, turning, and thinking. Spending a whole day with you right next to him was all he’d ever wanted in life. Forget his other dreams, he needed you. Nothing trumped how he felt being with you.

He sent you a text first thing in the morning.

when’s ur flight?

You responded a few minutes later:

at three.

doing anything today?

not really

can I take you somewhere? i’ll pick u up

You weren’t sure what he had in mind, but you agreed regardless.

Turns out, it was the Morgan Library and Museum. You marvelled as you entered, and Ethan, unbeknownst to you, admired your beauty while you turned your head up to the high ceilings.

You were to leave today. He had to tell you what was on his mind at some point before that or else he was positive he would go crazy.

In a small, particularly secluded and quiet corner in the building, he stopped walking. It took you a few seconds to realize, but when you did a few feet ahead of him, you strode back in bewilderment.

“What are you doing standing here, come on.”

“I…” he sighed. “I have to tell you something.”

Your face visibly dropped along with his heart.

“What is it?”

“I think I have f—”

You immediately held your hand up, “Don’t say it.” You whispered, glancing around as if there were people around to hear.

Ethan’s face felt hot. “Why?” You couldn’t have possibly known what he was going to say, could you? Or maybe you just read his mind so easily. “You don’t know what I’m gonna say.”

“Please, Ethan.” You knew that look. Subconsciously, your mind permanently burned his face the day you told him you were leaving. This time, though, he stood more confident, taller, more sure of himself. And you didn’t want to go down this path. You begged him not to say it.

“Let me say it,” he pleaded as you did. “I want you in my life. Forever. Preferably as—like, maybe, more than friends. Or not. Whatever you want. I can take you on dates, we’ll call every night, and I’ll visit—”

You covered his mouth with your hand, effectively cutting him off. He saw the sheen in your eyes.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

His heart shattered like you had taken a hammer to a glass wall.

Once you were sure he got the message, you took off your hand.

“We can be friends, Ethan.” You blinked back tears. “But not more than that.”

“That’s—I’m good with that.”

“You don’t understand,” you shook your head.

“I think I do.”

“You don’t.” You snapped. “Because I want to be with you, too.”

A flicker of hope in his chest extinguished in the next second.

“Then let’s be together.”

“We can’t,” you insisted. “I don’t do distance, E. And I want to this—us—right.”

You stared into each other’s eyes, both begging for opposite things in silence.

Ethan was thinking, you could tell. He clenched his jaw.

His mind looped only one scenario at this moment. One where you stayed. He let himself think about what would happen if you hadn’t left, just this once, he let himself indulge in the fantasy, and asked:

“If you stayed,” he took a deep breath, pulling you closer with a caress of your jaw. “Could…could you have fallen in love with me?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, unable to look him in the eyes. He pulled up your chin in retaliation. “I would have.”

“What about now?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.” I already have, you thought.

That was when it hit him.

You were his first love. That’s why he hated the thought of someone else getting to love you the same way he always wanted to.

His heart tied itself to yours across that balcony, years and years ago, without warning. He was meant to find you, and he knew that you would both find each other time and time again, against all odds.

“Bet you wish you made that time machine now, hm?” You joked, lightening the mood after a beat.

To his surprise, he laughed. With his heart still in pieces in your hands. Without his knowledge, you had left your future in Jersey.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Do you think it’s too late?”

“It is,” you put your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder and reveling in his warmth. “But you know what?”

“What?”

“You don’t need it. Because we’ll be friends. Stay in each other’s lives, no matter what. Then, when the time is right…”

“We’ll find each other again.”

[eretzyisrael]

by Richard Goldberg

Anti-Semitism is spreading in K–12 school districts. Even in primary and secondary education, Jews are often viewed as privileged whites and oppressors, with Israel branded as an egregious example of “settler colonialism” and oppression of “indigenous people.” “Liberated ethnic studies” curricula, like the one mandated by California, have created a distinct variant of critical theory aimed at Jews for being Zionist colonial oppressors.

Teachers’ unions are the leading purveyors of this approach. Two years ago, the United Educators of San Francisco adopted a resolution calling for a boycott of Israel. The Chicago Teachers Union instigated pro-Hamas demonstrations in the Windy City after October 7. The union persuaded Chicago mayor Brandon Johnson (a former CTU lobbyist) to condemn Israel in the city council, and it organized a student and faculty “walkout” to show solidarity with Hamas—a city-authorized event that left Jewish students and teachers feeling intimidated. In suburban Seattle, kids as young as seven were recently encouraged to condemn Israel and join in anti-Semitic chants. Oakland Unified School District faces a federal investigation after 30 Jewish families removed their kids from school due to rampant anti-Semitism. And at a high school in New York City, hundreds of students hunted down a female teacher they saw on social media holding a sign supporting Israel.

Marxist ideology is the primary culprit influencing this mind-set, but not the only one. Qatar, a tiny Persian Gulf country that supports Hamas, is funding anti-Semitic “scholarship” not only in American universities but also in K–12 schools. Qatar Foundation International gave $1 million to the New York City Department of Education between 2019 and 2022 for a program featuring a map of the Middle East that erases the Jewish state. The same story played out at a public charter school in Irving, Texas. What other districts in the country might be taking money directly or indirectly from a chief Hamas sponsor? Brown University’s Choices Program, used by more than 1 million high school students nationwide, exhibits a clear anti-Israel bias. According to Brown, the Qataris “purchased and distributed a selection of existing Choices curriculum units to 75 teachers whose districts didn’t have funding to buy them.”

Tools to fight back, however, are available. Governors and state legislatures can begin by blocking “ethnic studies” from the K–12 curriculum and by imposing new teacher-certification requirements. To curb foreign meddling, states should ban school funding or in-kind donations from entities connected with countries that harbor U.S.-designated terrorist organizations. School districts and state boards of education should use the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance’s working definition of anti-Semitism to root out conduct meeting its standard. Several groups sued the Santa Ana, California, school district in state court for failing to notify parents before approving ethnic studies courses that contain anti-Jewish bias and for harassing Jewish parents at school board meetings.

At the federal level, parents could file formal complaints with the Department of Education for discrimination under Title VI of the Civil Rights Act. Such complaints are increasingly common against colleges and universities, but any school that receives federal funding must comply with Title VI. The House Committee on Education and the Workforce should consider holding a hearing on anti-Semitism in K–12 schools, putting the national spotlight on anti-Jewish administrators and school board leaders.

Local, state, and federal officials have played meaningful roles in fighting back against critical race theory in the classroom. They need to fight equally hard to stop anti-Semitism masquerading as Middle East or ethnic studies.

[seungkwansphd]

wings of love

pairing: publisher!mingyu x children's book author!YN word count: 2.4K synopsis: you find yourself seated next to a girl who needs a little bit of assurance during your flight into the city. you don't expect to see her and her dad at your publisher's pitch meeting the next day too! themes: FLUFF, airplane meet cute (SORT OF), this is very kid-centric, single dad mingyu, girl dad mingyu.

a/n: this is based off of an interaction i actually had on an airplane (minus the dilf meet cute LOL). i'm in my short fic era and it's been so nice! ALSO I KNOW THE TITLE IS SO CORNY DO NOT EVEN LOOK AT ME. 😂

You looked to your right at the empty airplane seats. The small hope of having the row to yourself was dashed when a flight attendant appeared at your side with a young, nervous looking girl.

“Hello,” you greeted them with a smile.

“Hello YN,” the flight attendant smiled at you. “This young lady will be sitting with you.”

“Oh wonderful!” your face lit up, “Would you like to sit near the window or the aisle?” you addressed the child directly.

“Window,” they answered shyly.

“Good choice,” you grinned, standing up to let her in.

“I’ll be back to check on you frequently, okay?” the flight attendant addressed the child directly, “If you need anything in the meantime, please press this button.”

Your new seat mate nodded shyly and the flight attendant left, satisfied.

“I’m YN,” you introduced yourself with a gentle smile.

“Hi. I’m Lena.”

“Is this your first time flying?” you asked gently. The girl looked quite nervous and you were hoping to make her feel more comfortable.

“First time by myself,” she nodded.

“Ah, I see. That would be pretty scary, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, did you know that flying is actually safer than driving? Statistically speaking,” you blurted without thinking. You idiot. This girl looked to be younger than ten for sure…she wouldn’t know what statistics were, right?

You were out of your depth. While you didn’t have any issue with kids, per se, you also definitely didn’t spend a lot of time with them. Might be best to just keep your mouth shut.

“Is that true?” she asked you after some quiet consideration.

“Yes,” you nodded slowly, now worried that you had given her a new fear of driving. “Is that helpful at all?”

“It is…a little. I’ll try not to think about that when I have to be in a car later,” she nodded resolutely.

You laughed. She seemed quite thoughtful for her age.

“Excuse me,” she glanced at you nervously after peeking out of the window, “Can you hold my hand? I felt a little better after what you said, but then I looked out the window and now I feel worse.”

“Of course!” you smiled kindly at her. “Here!”

You stretched your hand out, palm up, and offered it to her. She placed her own hand gently into yours and gave you a tight smile before squeezing her eyes shut. You squeezed your lips together and hoped that you were helping. Once you had reached a cruising altitude and the flight had smoothed out, she opened her eyes again and looked at you with wide eyes.

“I think I’m okay now,” she looked a little sheepish as she pulled her hand out of yours.

You nodded encouragingly towards her.

“Why are you flying?” she asked you not too long afterwards.

“For my job. I have an important meeting with someone in Chicago. I hope it goes well,” you shared with her.

You were pitching a children’s book concept to a publisher tomorrow. While this wasn’t your first book, it was a new publisher to you and you were nervous. You weren’t sure whether this child would understand the jargon around publishing, so you kept it simple.

“How about you? Why are you flying alone?”

“I’m going back home to see my dad. I was with my mom for a few weeks, but it’s time to go home.”

“Ah, I see,” you nodded, inferring that her parents were likely separated. “Did you miss your dad?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Do you live here most of the time? Or with your mom?”

“I live here during the school year and then I see my mom over the summers.”

“Ah, I see! So does that mean school is starting soon?” you asked as you reminded yourself what the date was. Summer was coming to a close.

“Yeah, in a few weeks. My dad is going to take me shopping. We’re going to buy new clothes, but I’m more excited to get my supplies! I want new markers.”

You were surprised at how tickled you were by her enthusiasm for school supplies. You’d been like that too as a child. Nothing could beat the feeling of getting fresh notebooks, folders, and pencils for the year.

“Ah, that will be so fun! I love shopping for art supplies.”

“Really? My nanny says I should be more interested in clothes than colored pencils!”

Your brows furrowed at this gendered idea. You were a little surprised that she had a nanny, but you supposed if her dad was a single father, having some assistance made a lot of sense.

“Oh really? I don't agree. You should like whatever you like!”

“That's what my dad says too!” her face lit up at you. “He tries to tell Nanny, but she was his nanny too so she doesn't listen to him.”

You chuckled. A family Nanny? That seemed like rich people shit.

“My dad is so silly. He's so tall and Nanny Gerry is so short compared to him, but he still listens to her. I like my dad though. He's nice to me.”

“Well it's good to be respectful to elders,” you nodded, “Your dad seems like a good person.”

“I think so too,” Lena beamed up at you. “I think he’s a good dad.”

You smiled genially at her. Lena would tell you a handful of stories about her dad as the flight went on. He seemed like someone that was loving, enthusiastic, and kind. As someone whose parents were also divorced, it made you really happy to know that Lena had such a solid parent in her life.

“Do you have a suitcase that you need help with?” you turned to ask Lena as the plane taxied on the runway.

“Yes, but I think the flight lady will help me?”

“Ah, okay,” you nodded.

Despite that, you stayed with Lena until the rest of the passengers deboarded. You felt a connection to her now, so it didn’t seem right to just leave without her.

“Thank you for helping me feel less scared on the flight,” Lena smiled up at you as the flight attendant walked towards you. “I hope your job thing goes good!”

“Thank you for keeping me company,” you grinned at her. “I enjoyed our conversation during the flight.”

You were surprised at the little pang of disappointment as you parted ways. Airports were laden with brief connections, but you found yourself hoping that she was able to get all the school supplies she wanted and that this school year would be pleasant for her. You wouldn’t be able to know, of course, but she was a sweet and thoughtful girl and you wished her the best.

…

“YN?” the receptionist pulled you out of your thoughts. “I’m so sorry to inform you, but Mr. Kim is running a few minutes late. Something fell through with his childcare, but please be assured that he will be taking your meeting as soon as he arrives.”

“Oh, of course!” you nodded.

You knew your pitch inside and out at this point and it wasn’t like you had anything else to do. Checking your phone briefly for emails, you decided to browse through the articles suggested to you while you waited. Somewhere to you right, a small commotion entered the office. A tall man in a suit carrying a child on his hip had arrived, somewhat flustered and the receptionist rushed to them to take the child from his arms.

As you glanced up from your phone, your eyes locked with…Lena?

“Oh? YN!” she cried with excitement before wiggling out of the receptionists’ arms.

Her father looked on incredulously as she made a beeline towards you.

“Lena!” you laughed with delight when she launched herself into your arms. “I didn’t think I’d see you again!”

“Me neither!” she grinned from ear to ear up at you. “Dad, Dad! This is the lady I was telling you about. Yesterday from the plane!”

“Ah, hello!” you nodded at Lena’s extremely tall father.

“Mr. Kim, this is your nine o’clock, YN,” the receptionist chimed in helpfully.

“Oh? Oh!” Mingyu’s brow wrinkled before his entire face lit up, the dots connecting in his mind. “What a coincidence! Please, YN, I hope you can excuse my tardiness. Unfortunately Lena’s childcare fell through today, so she’ll be joining me at work today. Lucky for me, you two have already met!”

“Ah? Oh ah!” your mind was a few steps behind Mingyu’s still. “Oh, you’re Mr. Kim? And,” your eyes jumped to Lena in your arms. “Ahhhhh,” you laughed, the understanding finally dawning on you. “Small world indeed.”

“Please, follow me! I’ve asked for my other meetings to be rearranged, so we’re not in a rush. I am excited to review your book concept.”

You nodded, grabbing your bag in your free hand. Lena kept herself busy by updating you about her dinner last night and breakfast since she’d last seen you. She was so engaging with her storytelling that you didn’t notice the handful of curious looks the three of you received while walking.

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have let you carry her all the way. Lena, please come down,” Mr. Kim motioned to his daughter. She pouted slightly, but eventually shimmied her way out of your arms and took a seat at some children’s furniture that was in the corner of his office.

“It’s quite alright, Lena and I are buddies, Mr. Kim,” you laughed, straightening yourself out.

“Please call me Mingyu,” he smiled crookedly at you.

Lena had spent the majority of last night talking his ear off about the nice lady that had comforted her on the plane. She’d been adamant that he acknowledge that you were also on her side regarding the issue of school supplies versus clothes shopping. She’d also mentioned that you were kind, patient, and a good drawer. One of your napkin doodles was currently on Mingyu’s fridge. He’d found himself wishing that he could thank you for being so kind to his daughter on her returning flight, so to have you now here in his office was quite a shock to his system.

“...Mingyu?” he was pulled back to reality as you called his name.

“Sorry, I spaced out for a second. What did you say?”

“I asked if we should review the pitch concept for my book?” you repeated yourself. You had to hide your grin. The look on his face had been incredibly cute when he’d been zoned out.

“Yes, of course!” you nodded, pulling a folio with your storyboard out of your bag.

Mingyu found himself smiling widely as you discussed the concept. It was a children’s book, so the plot was naturally simple, but you were clear that some of the tougher concepts you wanted to touch on were non-negotiables and he respected that.

“I agree completely. I do think given the target age range of readers, it’s appropriate to consider this topic.”

You beamed at him. Mingyu seemed easy to work with and open to your creative direction.

“Well, I think that covers everything that I wanted to discuss during this meeting. Are there any outstanding questions that you need to ask on the publisher’s end?”

“Hmm,” Mingyu reviewed the notes to his right before shaking his head. “No, not at this time. Today’s meeting was mostly a formality. Our team had aligned that we liked this concept and mostly wanted to bring you out to meet you in person. I feel very good about approving the concept formally.”

“Oh!” you clapped your hands together with delight, to which Lena’s head popped over the back of the couch. “Oh that’s wonderful news!”

“It is,” Mingyu smiled at the way your eyes lit up. “Just to give you a sense of what to expect, you will be referred to a different team to work out the details of your contract. Since you typically illustrate your own work, we can bypass the process to identify an illustrator, which should significantly shorten the overall timeline.”

“Ah, perfect,” you nodded.

“So now that that’s out of the way. M-may I ask you a more personal question?”

“Oh, uh yes?” you cocked your head up at Mingyu with curiosity.

“Do you happen to be free tonight?” he smiled at you in an impossibly charming way. “I would really like to take you out to dinner. Partially as a thank you for being so kind to Lena on the flight and partially because I am itching to get to know you more.”

“Can I come too?” Lena interjected importantly.

Mingyu’s canines revealed themselves when he grinned at his precious daughter and your heart jumped into your throat.

“Yes, I’d like that,” you nodded at the both of them.

“Perfect.”

[mariacallous]

Anxious to find precedents for the frightening and ultimately deadly white nationalist, “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville, some media outlets have likened the images of the recent mayhem in Virginia to the chilling ones of theGerman-American Bundrally that filled Madison Square Garden on February 20, 1939, with 22,000 hate-spewing American Nazis.

That rally, the largest such conclave in U.S. history, shocked Americans at the time. They had seen the press accounts and newsreel footage of the Nazis’ massive Nuremburg rallies; they had read about Kristallnacht, the murderous, two-day anti-Semitic pogrom of November 1938, which the Bund — the fast-growing, American version of the German Nazi party, which trumpeted the Nazi philosophy, but with a stars-and-stripes twist — had unabashedly endorsed.

But that was in Europe. This was America. New York City. For Americans wondering whether it could happen here, the Bund rally provided the awful answer.

“22,000 Nazis Hold Rally In Garden,” blared a front-page headline in theNew York Times. Inside, photos captured the restless throng of counterprotesters outside the arena and the Bund’s smiling uniformed leaders.“We need be in no doubt as to what the Bund would do to and in this country if it had the opportunity,” the Times opined in an editorial later that week. “It would set up an American Hitler.”

Some 78 years after the Bund rally at Madison Square Garden, a new generation of hectoring troglodytes descended on Charlottesville, Virginia. In 1939, Brown Shirts at Madison Square Garden felt emboldened to seize a Jewish protester who had rushed the podium where the Bund’s German-born leader, Fritz Kuhn, was speaking, and beat him near-senseless.In 2017, members of the so-called alt-right held a torchlight rally in Charlottesville, and the next day, one of those white nationalists went even further and allegedly used his car to mow down anti-Nazi protesters, killing a young woman, Heather Heyer.

Those who have studied the Bund’s rise and fall are alarmed at the historical parallels. “When a large group of young men march through the streets of Charlottesville chanting, ‘Jews will not replace us,’ it’s only steps removed from chanting ‘death to the Jews’ in New York or anywhere else in the 1930s,” said David Harris, executive director of the American Jewish Committee. “When those young men chant ‘blood and soil,’ it conveys the same meaning as those decades before who chanted ‘blut and boden,’ referring to the Nazi glorification of and link between race and land.”

“I don’t see much of a difference, quite frankly, between the Bund and these groups, in their public presence,” said Arnie Bernstein, the author of “Swastika Nation,” a history of the German American Bund. “The Bund had its storefronts in New York, Chicago, Detroit and Los Angeles — today’s groups are also hanging out in the public space, but in this case, they’re on the internet and anyone can access their ‘storefronts,’ or websites, and their philosophy, if you can call it that, is essentially the same.”

For the Bund, the unnerving 1939 Madison Square Garden rally was at once the organization’s high point and—as a result of the shock and revulsion it caused—its death knell. It’s too soon to know exactly what effect Charlottesville—which was smaller, but more violent than the Bund’s 1939 demonstration—will have on white nationalists or how the American public, which is still processing the horrific event, will ultimately respond to it.Will Charlottesville be the beginning of the end of this reborn generation of American Nazis? To foretell where we could be headed, you need to know how the Bund’s version of it all played out 78 years ago — and how this time is different.

The rise and fall of the German-American Bund in the late 1930s is essentially the story of the man behind it: Fritz Julius Kuhn.

A German-born veteran of the Bavarian infantry during World War I, Kuhn was an early devotee of Adolf Hitler who emigrated to the United States for economic reasons in 1928 and got a job as a factory worker for Ford. After a few years in the U.S., Kuhn began his political career by becoming an officer with the Friends of New Germany, a Chicago-based, nationwide pro-Nazi group founded in 1933 with the explicitblessing of German deputy führer Rudolf Hess.

At the time, imitation Nazi parties were sprouting up throughout the world, and, at least initially, Hess and Hitler hoped to use them to incorporate new areas, particularly in Europe, into the Greater Reich. But soon, FONG’s low-grade thuggery—coercing American German-language newspapers into running Nazi-sympathetic articles, infiltrating patriotic German-American organizations, and the like—became a nuisance to Berlin, which was still trying to maintain good relations with Washington. In 1935, Hess ordered all German citizens to resign from FONG, and he recalled its leaders to Germany, effectively putting the kibosh to it.

Kuhn, who had just become a U.S. citizen, saw this as his chance to create a more Americanized version of FONG, and he seized it. With his new German-American Bund, Kuhn had a vision of a homegrown Nazi Party that was more than simply a political group, it was a way of life — a “Swastika Nation,” as Bernstein calls it.

Although Kuhn dressed his vision in American phraseology and icons — he approvingly called George Washington “the first American fascist” — the Bund was, in fact, a clone of its Teutonic forebear, transposed to U.S. soil. In deference to his Berlin Kamerad, Kuhn gave himself the title of Bundesführer, the national leader. Just as Hitler had his own elite guard, the SS, Kuhn had his,the Ordnungsdienst or OD, who were charged with both protecting him and keeping order at Bund events. Although the ODwere forbidden to carry firearms, they did carry blackjacks and truncheons, which they had no compunctions about using on non-fascist heads, as they did at an April 1938 Bund meeting in the Yorkville neighborhood of Manhattan, when seven protesters were injured by members of the OD.

Like the German Nazi Party, the Bund was divided into different districts for the eastern, western and midwestern sections of the country. The Bund also had its own propaganda branch, which published a newspaper as well as the copies of “Mein Kampf,” Hitler’s testament, which all Bund members were required to buy. Kuhn also oversaw the establishment of a score of gated training and summer camps with Teutonic-sounding names like Camp Siegfried and Camp Nordland in rural areas around the northeast, where his card-carrying volk could be indoctrinated in the American Nazi way, while their dutiful fraulein polished their Germancooking skills and their brassard-wearing kinder could engage in singalongs while practicing their fraternal Seig Heils. Every so often, Kuhn would pull up in his motorcade, bless the proceedings and deliver himself of a sulfurous Hitler-style harangue — in English.

In effect, the Bund was its own ethnostate, as today’s neo-Nazis would call it. And it worked: By 1938, two years after its “rebirth,” the group had become a political force to be reckoned with. Its meetings each drew up to several thousand visitors, and its activities were closely followed by the FBI. With the anti-Semitic radio broadcaster the Rev. Charles Coughlin having faded from the national scene following FDR’s landslide second-term win, Kuhn was now the country’s most vocal and best-known ultra-right leader and anti-Semite.

It was just as the Führer would have wished. Except that the Führer didn’t wish.

One year ahead of the outbreak of World War II, Berlin still hoped for good relations with Washington. The Reich refused to give Kuhn’s organization either financial or verbal support, lest it further alienate the Roosevelt administration, which had already made clear its extreme distaste for the Nazi ideology. Berlin went so far as to forbid German nationals in the United States from joining the German American Bund.

The Führer’s brush-off didn’t deter Kuhn and his volk, who continued to sing the Reich’s praises.

Nor did they mind the Kristallnacht of November 1938, the nationwide German pogrom set off by the assassination of a German diplomat by a Jew in Paris, which led to nearly 100 deaths, scores more injuries and the decimation of what remained of German-Jewish life. Comparing the assassination to the attacks on Bund meetings by anti-Nazis—the spiritual predecessors of today’s so-called antifa — its propagandists claimed the Kristallnacht massacre was a justifiable act of retribution. The Bund’s endorsement of the horrific event increased the American public’s hostility toward it, while causing the most prestigious German-American organization, the Steuben Society, to repudiate it.

That didn’t discourage Kuhn either. Now, he decided, as the sea of opprobrium rose around him, was the moment to step into the spotlight and show just how strong the Bund was.

That’s what the Madison Square Garden rally was about. On the surface, the conclave, billed as a “Mass Demonstration for True Americanism,” was supposed to honor George Washington on the occasion of his 207th birthday. But the unprecedented event was really intended to be the German-American Bund’s apotheosis, proof positive to America and the world — as well as Berlin — that the American Nazis were here to stay. “The rally was to be Kuhn’s shining moment, an elaborate pageant and vivid showcase of all he had built in three years,” Bernstein wrote in his 2013 book. “Kuhn’s dream of a Swastika Nation would be on display for the whole world, right in the heart of what the Berlin press called the ‘Semitized metropolis of New York.’”

Although the mass demonstration was intended for Bund members, walk-ins from sympathetic Nazi-minded American citizens were also welcome. Kuhn had big dreams: One of the posters that adorned the hall optimistically declared, “ONE MILLION BUND MEMBERS BY 1940.”

Skeptics wondered whether the Bundesführer would be able to fill the massive arena. Any doubts on that score were quickly allayed, as the 20,000 Nazi faithful who had driven or flown in from every corner of Swastika Nation filed into the great hall. Meanwhile, an even larger crowd of counterdemonstrators, eventually estimated at close to 100,000, filled the surrounding midtown Manhattan streets.

New York City Mayor Fiorello La Guardia and Police Commissioner Lewis Valentine were prepared for both the Nazis and their adversaries, wrapping the Garden with a security cordon of 1,700 policemen — the largest police presence in the city’s history — including a large contingent of mounted officers to keep the two sides apart. LaGuardia, an Episcopalian whose mother was a Jew, loathed the Bund, but he was determined to see to it that the Bundists’ right to freedom of speech would be respected. Americans could judge the poisonous result for themselves.

Inside the Garden, things went pretty much according to Kuhn’s faux-Nuremberg script. As drums rolled, an honor guard of young American Nazis marched in bearing the flags of the U.S. and the Bund, as well as the two fascist powers, Nazi Germany and Italy. One by one, the various officers of the Bund stepped forth to extol America (or their version of it) and condemn the “racial amalgamation” that had putatively taken place since the good old unmongrelized days of George Washington. Anti-Semitism, naturally, was a major theme of the venomous rhetoric that issued forth as the newsreel cameras rolled.

Finally, after being introduced as “the man we love for the enemies he has made,” the jackbooted Bundesführer himself stepped up to the microphone to deliver one of his trademark jeremiads, scoring the “slimy conspirators who would change this glorious republic into the inferno of a Bolshevik Paradise” and “the grip of the palsied hand of communism in our schools, our universities, our very homes.” When he paused, he would be greeted with shouts of “Free America!”—the new Bund greeting that had replaced “Seig Heil!”but with the same intonation and raised arm salute.

According to Kuhn, both the federal government and New York City government were Jewish agents. Franklin D. Roosevelt, whose antipathy for Nazism was a matter of record — “Nazism is a cancer,” he said — was actually“Frank D. Rosenfeld.” “Free America!”District Attorney Thomas Dewey was “Thomas Jewey.” “Free America!”Mayor LaGuardia was “Fiorello Lumpen LaGuardia.” “Free America!” And so on.

Of course, Kuhn’s followers had heard it all before. Now it was time for the world to listen. The people would rise up, and as Kuhn’s role model, Joseph Goebbels, the Third Reich’s minister of propagandaput it, the storm would break loose.

The storm was certainly rising, both inside and outside the Garden.

The only alteration to the script took place when, halfway through Kuhn’s speech, a young Jewish counterprotester by the name of Isadore Greenbaum decided that he couldn’t bear Kuhn’s diatribe anymore and spontaneously rushed the podium and attempted to tackle him.

He almost made it. On the newsreel footage of the rally shown in movie theaters throughout the country the following weekend, viewers could see Kuhn’s shocked visage as the Jewish kamikazeshakes the podium. Next, they saw the hapless Greenbaum set upon by a gaggle of furious OD men, who covered him with blowsbefore he was finally rescued by a squadron of New York policemen. It was all over in a moment—but it was a moment that horrified America: A bunch of Nazis beating up a Jew in the middle of Madison Square Garden.

The Bundesführer took the interruption in stride. Kuhn proceeded with his speech.

And then it was over, and the thousands of Nazi faithful dutifully exited the arena. As far as the Bund was concerned, the rally was a success — a shining moment for America’s most prominent fascist. But the rally further angered Berlin, which was then preparing to go to war with the Allies — a war Germany still desperately hoped the U.S. would steer clear of.

LaGuardia was proud of the way his city and his police force had handled the Bund’s rally. At the same time, the orgy of hatred at the Garden sealed his determination, along with that of Thomas Dewey, to take down Kuhn, and the Bund along with him, by investigating his suspicious finances (the married Kuhn liked to party and kept a number of mistresses, evidently, at the Bund’s expense).

A subsequent inquiry determined that the free-spending Kuhn had embezzled $14,000 from the organization. The Bund did not wish to have Kuhn prosecuted, because ofFührerprinzip, the principle that the leader had absolute power. Nevertheless, with the implicit blessing of the White House, Dewey decided to go ahead and prosecute.

On December 5, 1939, Kuhn was sentenced to two-and-a-half to five years in jail for tax evasion. On December 11, 1941, while he was locked away in Sing Sing prison, Germany declared war on the U.S. Kuhn’s support for a government now actively hostile to America gave the federal government the pretext to revoke his citizenship, which it did on June 1, 1943. Upon Kuhn’s release from prison three weeks later, he was immediately re-arrested as a dangerous enemy agent. While Kuhn was in U.S. custody in Texas, Nazi Germany was destroyed, its quest for global domination permanently halted, and Hitler was dead. Four months after V-E Day, the U.S. deported Kuhn to war-ravaged West Germany. His dreams of a Swastika Nation had been smashed to pieces. He died in Munich in 1951, a broken man, in exile from the country he had sought to “liberate.”

To be sure, historical comparisons are, to an extent, folly. For all the similarities between the Bund’s 1939 rally and the white nationalists’ Charlottesville demonstration, there are substantial differences.

Fortunately, no one with Fritz Kuhn’s particular demagogic skill set has emerged to lead his neo-Nazi descendants, though there are those attempting to play the part. “I am worried that a Kuhn figure could marshal the disparate alt-right groups,” said Arnie Bernstein, “be it a Richard Spencer, David Duke or someone of that ilk.”

Another difference is while the Bund’s rally and the violence that spilled from it was denounced forcefully by America’s top political leaders, President Donald Trump’s half-hearted condemnation and shocking defense of the Charlottesville mob as including “very fine people” has no antecedent, at least in modern American history. “We have a president blowing dog whistles loud and clear,” said Bernstein. “You never saw that with FDR.”

The Bund’s rally was at once the group’s apex and its death rattle. But it’s only in retrospect that one can make such pronouncements; nobody yet knows exactly what Charlottesville — and Trump’s response to it — will mean for the alt-right. “The striking ambivalence coming out of the White House” could help to galvanize Nazi sympathizers, said David Harris of the American Jewish Committee.

But much as the Bund–generated images of Nazi barbarism and violence drove everyday Americans from apathy 78 years ago, “Charlottesville will also mobilize anti-Nazis to stand up and be counted,” Harris said. Much as the Madison Square Garden rally did on the eve of World War II, said Harris, “I choose to believe the net effect will be to marginalize the ‘blut and boden’ fan base.”