#Once Upon a Time in Iraq

[haverwood]

Once Upon a Time in Iraq James Bluemel 2020

[drdemonprince]

It’s true that America has one of the lowest voter turnout rates in the industrialized world, with only 62% of eligible adults turning up to the polls on a good year, and about 50% on a typical one. But if we really dive into the social science data, we can see that non-voters aren’t a bunch of nihilistic commie layabouts who’d prefer to die in a bridge collapse or of an untreated listeria infection than vote for someone who isn’t Vladimir Lenin. No, if we really study it carefully, we can see that the American electoral system has a series of unique features that easily account for why we find voting more cumbersome, confusing, and unrewarding than almost any other voters in the world.

Let’s take a look at the many reasons why Americans don’t vote:

1. We Have the Most Frequent Elections of Any Country

Most other democratic countries only hold major elections once every four or five years, with the occasional local election in between. This is in sharp contrast with the U.S., where we have some smattering of primaries, regional elections, state elections, ballot measures, midterm elections, and national elections basically every single year, often multiple times per year. We have elections more frequently than any other nation in the world — but just as swallowing mountains of vitamin C tablets doesn’t guarantee better health, voting more and harder hasn’t given us more democracy.

2. We Don’t Make Election Day a Holiday

The United States also does far less than most other democracies to facilitate its voters getting to the polls. In 22 countries, voting is legally mandated, and turnout is consequently very high; most countries instead make election day a national holiday, or hold elections on weekends. The United States, in contrast, typically holds elections on weekdays, during work hours, with minimal legal protections for employees whose only option to vote is on the clock.

3. We Make Registration as Hard as Possible

From Denmark, to Sweden, to Iceland, Belgium, and Iraq, all eligible voters in most democracies are automatically registered to vote upon reaching legal adulthood. Voting is typically regarded as a rite of passage one takes part in alongside their classmates and neighbors, made part of the natural flow of the country’s bureaucratic processes.

In the United States, in contrast, voter registration is a process that the individual must seek out — or more recently, be goaded into by their doctor. Here voting is not a communal event, it’s a personal choice, and failing to make the correct choice at the correct time can be penalized. In most other countries, there are no restrictions on when a voter can register, but in much of the United States, registering too early can mean you get stricken from the voter rolls by the time the election rolls around, and registering too late means you’re barred from voting at all.

4. We Make Voters Re-Register Far Too Often

In countries like Canada, Germany, and the Netherlands, voter registration updates automatically when a person moves. In the United State, any time a person changes addresses they must go out of their way to register to vote all over again. This policy disadvantages poorer and younger voters, who move frequently because of job and schooling changes, or landlords who have decided to farm black mold colonies in their kitchens.

Even if a voter does not change their address, in the United States it’s quite common for their registrations to be removed anyway— due to name changes, marriages, data breaches, or simply because the voter rolls from the previous election year have been purged to “prevent fraud” (read: eliminate Black, brown, poor, and left-leaning members from the electorate).

5. We Limit Access to Polling Places & Mail-in Ballots

In many countries, voters can show up to any number of polling places on election day, and showing identification is not always necessary. Here in the United States, the ability to vote is typically restricted to a single polling place. Voter ID laws have been used since before the Jim Crow era to make political participation more difficult for Black, brown, and impoverished voters, as well as for those for whom English is not their first language. Early and absentee voting options are also pretty firmly restricted. About a quarter of democracies worldwide rely on mail-in ballots to make voting more accessible for everyone; here, a mail-in ballot must be requested in advance.

All of these structural barriers help explain why just over 50% of non-voters in the United States are people of color, and a majority of non-voters have been repeatedly found to be impoverished and otherwise marginalized. But these populations don’t only feel excluded from the political process on a practical level: they also report feeling completely unrepresented by the available political options.

6. We Have the Longest, Most Expensive Campaign Seasons

Americans have some of the longest campaign seasons in the world, with Presidential elections lasting about 565 days on average. For reference, the UK’s campaign season is 139 days, Mexico’s is 147, and Canada’s is just 50. We also do not have publicly funded campaigns: our politicians rely upon donors almost entirely.

Because our elections are so frequent and our campaigns are so long and expensive, many American elected officials are in a nearly constant state of fundraising and campaigning. When you take into account the time devoted to organizing rallies, meeting with donors, courting lobbyists, knocking on doors, recording advertisements, and traveling the campaign trail, most federally elected politicians spend more time trying to win their seat than actually doing their jobs.

Imagine how much work you’d get done if you had to interview for your job every day. And now imagine that the person actually paying your wage didn’t want you to do that job at all:

7. Our Elected Officials Do Very Little

Elected officials who spend the majority of their hours campaigning and courting donors don’t have much time to get work done. Nor do they have much incentive to — in practice, their role is to represent the large corporations, weapons manufacturers, Silicon Valley start-ups, and investors who pay their bills, and serve as a stopgap when the public’s demands run afoul of those groups’ interests.

Perhaps that is why, as campaign seasons have gotten longer and more expensive and income inequality has grown more stark, our elected officials have become lean-out quiet quitters of historic proportions. The 118th Congress has so far been the least productive session on record, with only 82 laws having been passed in last two years out of the over 11,000 brought to the floor.

The Biden Administration has moved at a similarly glacial pace; aside from leaping for the phone when Israel calls requesting checking account transfers every two or three weeks, the executive-in-chief has done little but fumble at student loan relief and abortion protections, and bandied about banning TikTok.

The average age of American elected officials has been on a steady rise for some time now, with the obvious senility of figures like Biden, Mitch McConnell, and the late Diane Feinstein serving as the most obvious markers of the government’s stagnancy. Carting around a confused, ailing elderly person’s body around the halls of power like a decommissioned animatronic requires a depth of indifference to human suffering that few of us outside Washington can fathom. But more than that, it reflects a desperation for both parties to cling to what sources of influence and wealth they have. These aged figures are/were reliable simps for Blackstone, General Dynamics, Disney, and AIPAC, and their loyalty is worth far more than their cognitive capacity, or legislative productivity. Their job, in a very real sense, is to not do their job, and a beating-heart cadaver can do that just fine.

You can read the rest of the list for free (or have it narrated to you on the Substack app) at drdevonprice.substack.com!

[zepskies]

Lost Time

Pairing: Russell Shaw x F. Reader

Summary: When Russell takes longer than usual on a job out of town, you realize how hard it is to live half a life with him.  

AN: I’ve been wanting to get to this for a while now! Here’s a sequel story in the Every Second Counts world. Also, this is one of my entries for @jacklesversebingo!

Prompt: “Are you trying to get us in trouble?”

Word Count: 4.9K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, fluff upon fluff, implied smut, mild spice.~ **DOES NOT contain spoilers for 2x02. This was written long before the new episode came out. But look out for the little announcement at the end. Some (smutty) bonus content on the way!

💜 Series Masterlist || Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist

Wolfing down lunch alone in your office usually meant you wouldn’t be disturbed. That distraction tended to come in the form of either Dr. Goldstein, History Department Chair (AKA: your boss), or Chris Belmont.

The latter was a language arts professor who liked to pop in on you when you were alone in the teacher’s lounge, often trying to revive yourself with a cup of Keurig coffee. Or he’d sit down next to you (uninvited) and talk your ear off.

Today, however, you made time for your brother between bites of your admittedly sad ham sandwich. You held the phone to your ear while you ate and tried to resist the urge to answer emails. This was the first month that he’d gotten phone privileges. You wanted to give him your undivided attention.

Not to mention, you genuinely wanted to know how Charlie was doing in rehab. He told you that his leg was healing up well after the surgery to repair the damage from Eddie Mendez’s bullet. Charlie was also getting put through his paces in the substance rehabilitation program, but he sounded truly sober. He sounded like himself.

“I finally get visitors this weekend,” he said. “Dave and Manny are coming by.”

“Dave and Manny. They sound familiar,” you said, tapping your chin with a pen out of habit, even though you weren’t writing anything down. You brightened with recognition. “Oh! Didn’t they serve with you?”

“Yeah, they were in my unit on the first go-round,” Charlie said, with a tone of fondness that you recognized. You remembered now. Those guys were like his brothers during his first tour of Iraq. He’d come home for a few months afterward, changed. You saw it behind his eyes.

And then the second tour. That was what almost killed his spirit.

“It’s good that you guys reconnected,” you said. A smile graced your lips. Charlie needed all the support and familiarity he could get, and coming from his brothers in the Air Force, it was all you could ask for really. “You got time to see your little sister?”

“Ha. Younger maybe. Definitely not little.”

“Whatever, gimpy,” you teased. He’d told you that he hated his crutches, made him feel like an old, one-legged pirate.

“I think I can pencil you in,” he said. There was good humor in his voice. “How about the Mountain Man? How’s he doing?”

Your smile dimmed. You twiddled your pen between your fingers. “He’s…good. He’s on a job right now, so I don’t think he’ll make it back in time for this weekend. But I’m sure he’d wish you well. He asks about you every time he comes home.”

“Oh, yeah? How long’s he been gone for this time?”

Your lips pursed. “Couple weeks.”

Three, and counting.

“But he’s supposed to get back next week.”

“Have you heard from him?” Charlie asked.

“Here and there,” you replied, leaning to one side of your desk chair. “He’s not really supposed to contact anyone when he’s on a job.”

“Mhmm.”

“Charlie,” you warned. You knew what he was thinking, even by that placid tone of his voice. Your brother sighed on the line.

“Look, I like Russell. What can I say, after what he did for you? For me,” Charlie said. “But…I don’t have to like what he does, or what it’s doing to you.”

Your teeth clenched, but you tried not to bristle. You knew he was just looking out for you, for once like an older brother should.

“I know what you’re saying, but we’re good. I’m good,” you said. “I knew what I was getting into…”

You saw Dr. Goldstein peek into the narrow, rectangular window in the middle of your office door. He gave you a little wave through the glass.

“Hey, Charlie, I’m sorry but I need to let you go. My boss wants to talk to me,” you said.

Another heavy sigh. “All right, I get it. Evade an unsavory conversation by playing the ‘boss’ card.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. “It’s true! Look, I love you. I’ll see you this weekend.”

“Oh, fine. Evade away… Love you too,” he said begrudgingly, but in the kind of way that told you he was smiling too.

You hung up with him and beckoned Goldstein inside. He let himself in and closed the door behind him before he approached your desk. He didn’t have a stack of essays in his hand, so you counted that as a small blessing. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, however, he dropped a familiar bomb on you.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, sweetheart, but would you mind taking over my 5:00 p.m. class tomorrow? I have to step out early for an appointment,” he said.

You grated internally, for more than one reason. Primarily at the way he once again called you sweetheart. In your whole life, you’d only ever given one man permission to sweetheart you, and it certainly wasn’t Paul Goldstein.

“Well, my schedule is a bit tight tomorrow, but I think I can make that work—”

“Great! Thanks again, sweetheart,” he said, already getting up from the chair across from your desk to head out. Your voice stopped him at the door.

“Ah, you know…” You stood up from your desk. Part of you was hesitant, but the other part of you—the part that had survived nearly being shot and killed in the woods—stood firm. You rounded your desk but left a respectable distance between you and your boss.

“Paul, I would appreciate it if you would just…call me by my name. In a more professional capacity, just like I do for you,” you said. “Sweetheart, honey, that kind of thing just doesn’t make me feel very respected in the workplace.”

Goldstein blinked in surprise. He was taken aback, you could tell, as if what you’d said had never once occurred to him. Or maybe he just never thought you would call him out like that. You saw him mentally calculating though. After some recent sexual harassment allegations in the Sciences department, he likely didn’t want the headache and the red tape of an HR writeup.

“Of course. I’m sorry if I… Well, I hope you know I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said.

“I know, Paul,” you replied. But what you didn’t say was, It’s all right. 

The longer you remained quietly poised with your hands laced in front of you, the more Goldstein seemed to get the message. Eventually, he cast his gaze away and left your office with a parting nod. 

When the door shut behind him, your shoulders slumped as you let out a deep breath. You grabbed onto his vacated chair to steady yourself, smoothing your hand down the length of your pencil skirt. 

“Well, okay then.” You smiled to yourself and grabbed your phone and keys off your desk. That small win deserved an afternoon coffee break.

You ventured over to the faculty break room and started setting up an extra-large mug of coffee from the Keurig. Pumpkin spice, here I come. Finally PSL season. 

While you waited for it to percolate, you checked your phone and found no missed notifications, no calls or texts from your boyfriend. Biting the edge of your lip, you gave into the urge to check your text thread with him. 

Hey, just checking in. You okay? 

That was the last text you sent Russell, a few days ago. The fact that he hadn’t had time to read it worried you.

It had been three weeks since he left town on another job for the Horizon Group. He was able to reply here and there on some jobs, but often you had to deal with days of radio silence in between. This time, it had been a full two weeks since you last spoke to him–a five-minute call after he checked into his hotel, somewhere in Belize.

Despite your attempts otherwise, not a day had gone by where you hadn’t thought about him, worried about him, wondered where he was, and what he was doing. 

Even after four months, this arrangement hadn’t gotten easier. Sometimes, it felt like you were living half a life without him.

The coffeemaker chiming briefly broke you out of your melancholy, but you let the coffee sit there and cool while you deliberated with your phone in hand.

You tried to resist, since you didn’t want to bother him…but you ended up sending him another text. 

Hey. I don’t want to distract you. Just want you to know… 

I miss you.

“Oh, look who’s here.”

You looked up, already wanting to expel a breath of annoyance at the familiar voice. You plastered on a polite smile and turned to see exactly who you expected to see: your colleague Chris. There was really nothing wrong with the French and Spanish professor…except that he talked too much, and was often too eager to get into your business.

“How’s your day going?” he asked. After he grabbed a soda from the fridge, he parked himself in front of you and laid a hand on the counter. With one of the round dining tables so close, it ensured that you would have to squeeze by him in order to leave.

“Pretty good, just have one more class before I head out for the day,” you said. You intended to just make amiable conversation, but you didn’t realize you’d just given him an opening.

“You know, me too. Just my freshman Spanish 1 kids. Dumb as doornails really. They barely even look up when I talk,” he said. “Literally, I could be reciting Mein Kampf and they wouldn’t even know I was speaking German.” 

You couldn’t quite smile. You opened your mouth to reply, but he beat you to it.

“Hey, since we’re going to be clocking out soon, maybe you want to go for a drink with me. I know this bar. A little rough, but the price is right and the food’s not bad. This place called Howley’s,” he said.

Your non-smile dropped further. You really didn’t know where to start on this one.

“Ah, well—” you began, but again, he cut you off.

“To be honest, I’ve kind of been meaning to ask you for a while. I just uh, haven’t been able to find the right time. Since, you know, our class schedules don’t seem to match,” he added with a boyish smile.

He was cute, you could admit, with the dirty blonde hair down to his ears and the dark brown eyes. But it didn’t shake your resolve.

“Look, Chris. I’m sorry, but—”

“Is because we work together?” he said, once again interrupting you. “The whole workplace relationship thing?”

“No,” you said. It was sharper than you meant through your annoyance. “I actually have a boyfriend.”

Chris’s excited-nervous energy gradually deflated, his eyes dimming.

“Really? I’ve never seen you with anyone,” he said.

You quirked a brow at him. “Well, he doesn’t work here, so he wouldn’t really need to come to campus.”

You didn’t tell him that Russell was Dory’s older brother, and had in fact been on campus a couple of times. You shouldn’t have needed to explain it.

Chris gave you a wry look. “Sure. You really have a boyfriend, or are you just trying to let me down easy?”

You almost gaped at the man’s audacity. Instead, your lips pressed together, and your head tilted as you stared at him incredulously.

“Does it matter?” you asked.

He blinked. “Uh, what?” 

“Whatever I say next, are you going to believe it?” You finished dumping in a couple of tiny creamer cups into your likely lukewarm coffee, and you took the styrofoam cup to-go. “Good luck with the freshmen.” 

You slid past him and left the teacher’s lounge. Your path took you, brusquely and irritated, back to your office. You couldn’t help but replay every bit of your interactions with Goldstein, and then Chris, in your mind like a bad movie. 

Jesus Christ. If I have to deal with one more idiotic man today, I swear—

Speak of the devil, and he appears.

There was a man leaning against your office door, his hands in the pocks of his jeans. He looked up at your approach, and he smiled. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

This time, you paused…and you smiled too. There he was in all his rugged glory. Russell Shaw. 

You dumped your coffee in a nearby trashcan and hastened over as quickly as you could in your skirt and heels. Russell bent down to sweep you up into his arms, and you leaned up on your toes so you could wrap yours around his shoulders. You buried your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar mix of his cologne and spicy soap. 

“Missed you too,” he said, a deep rumble. It washed over you pleasantly. 

“I thought you weren’t getting home until sometime next week,” you said, trying to work past the thick well of emotion in your throat. Maybe he heard it in your voice anyway, because Russell soothed a hand over your hair and pressed a kiss near your ear.

“Got finished up early,” he said, with that familiar grin of his. You could hear it in his voice.

You slipped your fingers through his long dark hair. Then you leaned back enough to see his face. 

“How’d you know I wasn’t in class?” you asked. 

He raised his hand off your back to point up at the sign on your door. It displayed your office hours and the times you were in class. He shot you a wink.

“I might’ve called Dory too,” he said. “She invited us over for dinner tonight. I said we’d be there around seven.”

You tsked and smack his chest, making him flinch. 

“Hey!” he protested with a laugh. 

“Don’t agree to stuff without me! Now we’re going to be out all night the day you get back,” you said in annoyance. 

Russell smoothed down your proverbial feathers, namely by slipping his hands down your back and comfortably settling on your waist. 

“Now, come on,” he cajoled. “Need I remind you that she’s my sister, and your best friend, by the way?”

You waved a playfully dismissive hand.

“I know damn well, but I’m also selfish,” you said. You gripped the edges of his familiar green jacket and tugged him closer again. “I want you all to myself tonight.” 

Russell’s grin kicked up into high gear. “Oh, yeah? What for?”

You smiled and leaned up on your toes again, your lips approaching his. 

“I’m gonna—”

“Hey, Professor!” 

Just then, one of your students walked by with a gaggle of her friends. She gave you a little wave, and then an amused look when she noted how you and Russell were intertwined. You quickly set your heels back on the ground and dropped your hands from him. 

“Oh shit. Prof’s got game,” one of her friends whispered. 

“Yeah, a lumberjack,” she replied. 

“Hell, I’d climb him.”

The girls giggled quietly as they continued to make their way down the hall. 

Your hand rose to cover your mouth while your face burned hot in embarrassment. Russell, damn him, was smirking like the Cheshire cat. You shot him a little glare. 

“Shut up,” you said. 

He chuckled, and he allowed you to take his hand and lead him into your office. He closed the door for you, but that was where the chivalry ended. 

He hooked his arm around your waist and brought you flush against him. A stunned yelp escaped you. You grabbed onto his arms on reflex, craning your face up to meet him. A smile played on your lips, before he captured them in a kiss filled with heat, and the torture of longing, only broken by your shared relief.  

You had the presence of mind to reach behind him and lock the door. Russell took that as an invitation to back you up against your desk, knocking down a carton of pens in his wake. You held his bearded face and gave him as much as he asked for. Until the pace of his kisses eventually slowed and warmed into something more tender, with the brush of his hand against your cheek. You smiled a little against his lips. 

He ended up being the first to pull away. His thumb brushed your chin next, and then your thoroughly kissed bottom lip. 

“God, I missed you,” he said. You saw the sincerity in his eyes, all the heat and play and teasing aside.

“Me too, baby,” you replied, and your voice was heavy with the truth of it. You slid your hands down his arms. Suddenly you remembered your internal checklist for whenever he came home. “You okay? No hospital stays or checkups needed?”

Your hands continued their perusal over his chest and down his sides. Russell took your hands and un-busied them. 

“Completely fine. Everything went off without a hitch,” he said. 

You eyed him more warily. After a moment to try and discern if he was downplaying for your sake, you were able to take him at his word. For now. It wouldn’t be the first time he tried to hide an injury from you. You intended to complete a further examination later tonight. You smirked a little at the thought.

“Okay, I’ve just got one more class in a few minutes. Then I can get out of here,” you said.

“All right,” he nodded. “I’ll meet you at home then.”

Your smile turned cheeky. You flattened your palms down his chest, plucking at the edges of his jacket.  

“Yeah? You gonna be waiting pretty for me?” you teased. 

“You bet,” he agreed. He leaned in close to say lowly in your ear, “But not as pretty as you’re gonna be when I get you all laid out for me. Get myself reacquainted with every sweet part of you.”

“Oh, really?” you said, trying to taper your blush. There was something entirely wrong and right about him talking dirty to you in your own office. You grinned as he began to press tantalizing kisses down your neck. “I guess I’m going to be the appetizer tonight.” 

His chuckle resounded in your ears. Russell squeezed your hips and brushed his lips against your skin. Damn him, he knew exactly what he was doing, making small volts of electricity zip down your spine. Warmth plumed between your legs as his beard gently rasped along your neck. 

“Sweetheart, you’re the whole damn meal,” he said, in that voice of his, smooth and baritone and perfect. 

Your blush intensified, even as your smile couldn’t help but brighten at his words. He nipped just under your ear, earning a stifled whimper from you.

“Are you trying to get us in trouble?” you whispered.

“Hey, I don’t work here,” he teased. His lips never left your skin. “I just reap the benefits.”

You fought against the urge to pinch his side. You grabbed your phone from your desk and checked the time. Shit. Almost 5:00 p.m.

All the while, Russell continued to torture you. His hands were no better than his mouth, caressing a path from your waist to your hips, then squeezing your ass as he pressed you more fully against him. He hummed against your neck.

“Oh, please don’t do this to me,” you whined, even as you clung to the front of his jacket and pressed your forehead into his shoulder. “I have to get to class in like, five minutes.” 

“I’ve accomplished quite a lot in five minutes,” Russell said. His nibbling along the shell of your ear was all too distracting as you laughed. 

“Oh, I know,” you dryly replied. “But if I let you get your hands on me now, I’m most certainly not going to be able to lecture on the ancient civilization of Mesopotamia.”

His smile grew. “I like it when you talk nerdy to me.”

Your laugh turned into a giggle. Still, your duty to your students won out. You had to press a gentle hand against his chest to push him back.

Russell let out a long-suffering groan, but he pulled away from you without losing his smile. He tucked an errant strand of hair behind your ear and caressed your cheek. 

“I’ll see you at home,” he said. 

You agreed, though when he aimed to leave, you couldn’t resist the urge to smack his ass on his way out of your office. 

He stopped short and twisted back, pointing a knowing finger at you. 

“You don’t play fair, missy,” he said. 

You smirked and tossed a kiss at him.

“See you later,” you said.

You loved Dory. You really did. But after a day like today, you were happy to finally be home after dinner at your best friend’s house. You were happy to be where you were in this moment, lying in bed with Russell, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts as Speed played on the TV against the wall. 

“You didn’t leave me…I can’t believe it. You didn’t leave me,” you quoted along with Annie, Sandra Bullock’s character. 

“Didn’t have anywhere to be just then,” Jack (the beautiful Keanu Reeves) said on the screen. The couple shared a kiss, and you let out a happy hum, making Russell look down on you in amusement. He had an arm wrapped around you as you laid tucked against his side.

“I have to warn you,” you said for Jack. “I’ve heard relationships based on intense experiences never work.” 

“Okay,” Annie (and you) replied. “We’ll have to base it on sex then.”

Jack smiled. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

As the movie came to an end, you sighed and lowered the volume as the credits rolled. 

“How’d you like it?” you asked.

“Was good! Even though my movie buddy decided to quote half the cast,” Russell quipped. He prodded at your side like a pianist playing a Mozart cantata, making you flinch with a squawk of laughter. You grabbed his hand to try and stop him. 

When he finally let up, you sighed and caught your breath, leaning against him again.

“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen that movie,” you said. “Practically any movie, for that matter.”

“Hey, I’ve seen stuff…it’s just, you know, we didn’t really have much access to pop culture growing up,” Russell said. 

You sobered up; you were reminded that he didn’t have a normal childhood, even less so than yours. 

“That’s okay,” you said, resting a comforting hand on his chest. “I’m gonna keep helping you catch up, long as you want me to.”

Russell smiled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I appreciate that.”

You closed your eyes in content. 

“So,” Russell said, interrupting your peace. You heard the mischief in his voice before he even said anything else. “Am I gonna have to knock this Beaufort guy on his ass, or you got that one covered, slugger?”

You huffed in amusement. 

“Belmont,” you corrected, opening your eyes again to shoot him a wry glance. “And there won’t be any ass-kicking needed on that one. Just a typical hard-headed man with a slighted ego.”

“Oof, cut him some slack, baby. You’re a hard one to let go of,” Russell teased. You smiled.

“Hey. Don’t butter me up unless you intend to do something about it.”

“Oh, my apologies,” he said. He turned over and waylaid you with kisses along your jaw, then down the column of your throat, and further still, until he met the edge of your shirt. You felt his hands move under the hem of it, slowly bunching up the material as they slid up your body.  

Your first coming together when you two got home tonight was fraught, and a bit wild—the kind that nearly broke your headboard (again). 

Now, Russell seemed to want to take his time. He guided your shirt up, inch by inch as his lips explored whatever small expanse he bared, from the soft skin of your stomach, to the swell of your breasts. He stopped there, laying a sweet kiss in between them. You watched him with deeper breaths, but you softened when he turned his smile up at you. You saw nothing but affection in his eyes. 

“You know, the best part of my day is coming home to you,” he said.

You had to blink past the sting in your eyes, and swallow past another lump of emotion in your throat as you reached down to caress his cheek.

The hardest part of mine is watching you leave.

But you didn’t dare say that. You just guided him back up to your lips, and met him with a heated kiss.

You were nearly asleep when Russell finally came back to bed, after double-checking that the house was all locked up. He installed a more sophisticated security system a few months ago. It made him feel slightly better about leaving you alone. 

He padded back over to the bed and joined you on his side. You rested your head on his shoulder again, and he slid an arm around your waist. 

“Charlie’s doing well in his program, huh?” Russell asked. 

You’d been talking about your brother with him and Dory at dinner. 

You nodded. “Looks like it… God, I’m so proud of him. He’s really worked hard.”

Russell hummed deeply. “Glad to hear it.”

You glanced up at him, for a moment admiring his profile. He looked down and met your gaze.

“How long are you going to be home?” you asked, because you couldn’t stop yourself.

When you and Russell first started dating, he tried staying at a motel for a few weeks. You eventually invited him to just stay with you when he was in town. It made it easier to spend more time with him, since you worked a full-time schedule anyway. It was nice to come home to him, when he was here. After the surprise wore off, however, the fear always returned.

When is he leaving next?

“I don’t have another job lined up just yet,” Russell admitted. “Wanna take a couple weeks off, since this one lasted so long. I’m sorry about that.”

You were glad to hear it, so you nodded, but you had a feeling your true thoughts weren’t as well hidden as you intended. Russell searched your face.

“How’re you doing with all this?” he asked.

Your heart seized up, but you tried to play it off.

“What do you mean? We had some good food, good catching up on ‘90s movie magic, good making up for lost time,” you said playfully. You slid your leg across his lap. Russell welcomed you, drawing a hand up your thigh and under his shirt that once again hung loosely from your body. You had to reclaim it from somewhere between the sheets.

He still raised his brows at you. “You know what I mean.”

Slowly, your smile fell. Your gaze lowered. 

“Russ, I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are, sweetheart, and I appreciate that. You don’t know how much,” he said, stroking your back. “I just, uh…I know this is hard on you.”

He understood Tracy, Doug’s wife, even better now. He had been better able to sympathize with Doug too, because for the first time in his life, he had someone to come home to. Someone who was actually waiting on him to come home. It was a bigger responsibility than he thought it would be. 

You sighed. 

“Look, I’m not going to lie, this…it’s been hard as hell,” you began, closing your hand around his. “But I love you. I love you, and I still think we have a good thing here.”

That warmed him, reminded him why this was worth it. Russell nodded in agreement, and he crossed the few inches of distance that allowed him to kiss you, good and slow. 

“I love you too,” he admitted. He could count on half a hand the number of times that happened in his life, but even though it hadn’t been all that long…he thought you might be the one that finally stuck. 

Your pretty smile was just one piece of evidence. You gave that to him, and you reached up for a kiss. He obliged you in turn.  

“How about we put a timeframe on it then,” he said, after parting softly from you. 

You tilted your head in confusion, tinged with disbelief. “What?”

“How about you give me…’til the end of the year,” he said. “I know I’ve been taking a lot of jobs lately. It’s because I’m pretty close to my goal. I’ve almost got enough to find some good real estate and start working on that bar.”

Your drowsiness fell away completely as your excitement grew for him.

“Oh my God. Russ, that’s amazing!” 

Your support softened him that much more, deepening his smile. He framed your face with a hand and stroked your cheek with his thumb.

“Here’s a promise,” he said. “Six months, and no more missions. No more jobs. You’ll be stuck with me, so much that you’ll probably get sick of me.”

Your smile grew to radiant proportions.

“Hmm, maybe a little,” you teased, “but I’ll make that sacrifice.”

He grinned and drew you into another kiss. You paused, holding his bearded cheek. 

“Thank you,” you said. Russell shook his head.

“Aw, sweetheart,” he said. “You never gotta thank me for that.”

AN: Let me know if you enjoyed this little addition to ESC! 💜

Bonus Drabble:

After watching 2x02 yesterday, it gave me...feelings lol. So I ended up writing a new (very smutty) drabble to fill in a small gap in this one-shot! It's called More of This:

Summary: Welcoming Russell home, where he belongs. (18+) 

▶️ Keep Reading: More of This

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[whereserpentswalk]

The word superhero is rarely used in mainstream publications. They always call them something different, "unexplained aggressive phenomenon" or "exoterrorist". Anything that makes them sound not only like things the public should be afraid of, but like things that nobody would ever support. They don't just want you to fear the things protecting us, they want you to forget that they're here to save us. You only here "superhero" in manifestos, on message boards, when people talk about things they're not supposed to talk about.

Chicago, September 23rd, 1998. In an allyway behind a bar near a local college two young men pressure a girl into relations with them. They're young, rich business majors, feel invincible, the threat of violence writhing inside their eyes. But they aren't invincible tonight. A creature jumps out from the shadows, almost human but not quite, a cape flowing from its back sometimes looking more like a set of massive black wings, two white eyes glowing from a form of pure darkness. It leaps upon them, break their bones, makes them bleed, makes sure they can't hurt anyone, and then slips away back into the shadows. This is the forth time that year that creature has attacked someone before they could hurt someone. The newspapers report a monster mutilating two upstanding young men. The local community talks about a young woman who was saved.

Rural Iraq, June 8th, 2003. A village about to be struck by the United States airforce was defended by some sort of creature. Something fast and strong, able to rip apart planes with its hands. Emps flowed from its body, and missiles and bullets dropped from the air at its commands. Those who saw its body said it looked like weapons given flesh, like as if war machines reshaped themselves into something like a human but far more powerful. They say the only flesh they could see was an unbeating heart. And the voice they heard was of a presumed dead arms manufacturer, who wandered off in the desert filled with regret. This isn't the first place that's been protected. The US government considers this a major threat to democracy. The village considers this a gift from heaven.

Kansas, January 12th, 2017. An alt right rally infront of a synagogue is broken up by some sort of entity. They say it hovered above the crowd, it's body red, blue and gold, it's appearance like a combination between a golem and a humanoid alien. It's breath was like the winter wind, and it's eyes cried tears of fire and lightening, and no weapon could harm it nomatter how they tried. The neonazis became terrified when they realized they couldn't fight it. The creature could have killed them all within a few seconds but chose to spare their lives. It got the crowd to flee, assure that everyone was safe and unharmed, and then flew away at a speed like that of light. This new one is fast, and seems to have protected people in similar ways in almost every state. The government is working on weapons that might be able to harm it's body. The people from synagogue are happy to be safe and alive.

New York City, November 5th, 2024. The Ozburn corporation, one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world, is being attacked by some sort of creature. They say the thing attacking them is slender, human in some ways but closer to an arachnid or insect in others, it's body's true nature masked by red and black cloth. Security cameras and metal detectors rendered impotent as tools of violence by a substance like cobwebs, cops and security guards made harmless by inhuman strength. The creature found what it was looking for, and later that night the formulas for almost every drug the company makes is leaked online, their patents rendered useless, and treatments that once cost thousands made free. This isn't the first time the creature struck, it's gone on similar raids before, all before. The ceo of that company threw himself from his apartment after the incident, his belly peirced by two metal spikes, the media mourning his corpse. Meanwhile parents with sick children thank the creature for attacking such a company.

There was a man recently who investigated such phenomenon. He started out trying to stop these unnatural threats, but he's since become their defender. He walked into a church whose statues had started crying blood, and whose preists and nuns were seduced by an unknown god, and whose archbishops were made to fear the rain and thunder. The investigator walked into the church and found a vision, or perhaps a manifestation, of the great god Thor. And the god told him that the petty powers of mortal tyrants were not the greatest power within this cosmos, that divine justice would come for those who rule over humanity, and that this world can be saved.

[lisbeth-kk]

First Sentence Game

Thanks for the tag @thetimemoves

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

Creative Camouflage

John has never been particularly good at mathematics, at least not the more complicated parts, though he can see the beauty of it. He wishes he was better at it, but he thinks that his brain isn’t built for such complicated matters. His mate, Bill Murray, is of another opinion.

Powerless Against Affection

It never occurred to me how similar John and I were as children. Not until he told me his story. He was obviously not as quirky as me, but we had one particular thing in common – our need for closeness and touch.  

For him, it had been his aunt, for me my grandmother. I’m sure a psychoanalyst will have a field day picking that addiction apart.

Enamoured With Poetry

After we moved from Baker Street and London, I had an epiphany. It was rather commonplace, but breathing in the clean air Sussex provided, was a relief. I felt cleansed, if that makes any sense. After all, for the most part of my life, I had inhaled the polluted air of a big city, and my lungs had surely suffered for it, but I had never felt particularly stained. Still, there was no denying that breathing had become easier.

What He Has Been Hiding

Everything about Sherlock is opulent, regal almost. Certainly dapper. From his soft, thick mop of curls, his sharp cheekbones, the plush lips, delicate fingers and hands, the neck, his broad shoulders and chest, the mile-long legs, to his delectable arse.

The first time I met him, I just stared, and that was before I’d heard his voice. If ever a perfect man was created, it was Sherlock Holmes. I felt small and insignificant in comparison.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Irresistible Temptation

I have never told Sherlock about my previous life. At least not the part from before I met Frank. I’m still disgusted with myself that I fell for his charm. Granted, the sex was fantastic, even in the end, but physical attraction shouldn’t be everything. It can be a start, sure, but if a relationship shall survive and grow, there should also be devotion, shared interests and respect. With Frank there was only the hungry need that bound us together. Considering my past, you would think I knew better. Hindsight is an evil beast.

Polychromatic Wrapping

I am currently telling John about how Mycroft and I challenged each other to make the perfect marshmallow. The challenge started at Halloween, but that was just the warmup. We enhanced the game once December was upon us. It became a serious matter. Too serious according to our father.

The Lost Chord

I was not prepared for how insistent Holmes was that he needed to bring his violin and staff paper on our trip.

“You are supposed to rest, not composing,” I scolded him. “Composing always makes you restless and irritable.”

“Nonsense, Watson! I know exactly what it is I am composing this time. Not to worry.”

Beyond the Horizon

He hasn’t been home since November. Now, it was the middle of December. The negotiations with the Balkan PMs, had been exhausting. Mycroft wanted nothing more than to curl up in his luxurious bed and sleep until New Year’s. Alas, he had obligations in London as well as in Serbia. Christmas was around the corner, and Mummy had already pestered him about presents, and to remind Sherlock, again, that he and John must come to celebrate this year.

A Magical World

Books have always been a big part of my life. As a toddler and small child, my books were brightly coloured with more pictures than text. I loved them dearly, which shows. Most of them are worn, with scratches, notches, and some even have tooth marks. I’ve kept some of them in a box under my bed.

Dad thinks it’s fine, but Papa is appalled by such molestations.

Graced by Death

The door creaks, making John wince. They need to be quiet, and that sound seems to reverberate through the mansion. He senses the excited energy from Sherlock, who for once, is behind him. John has his gun ready. Just in case. The house is supposedly empty, but he doesn’t like to take any chances. This case has been so full of surprises that even Sherlock could not predict the outcome.

This was fun! Play along if you like @meetinginsamarra @the-reading-lemon @holmesianlove @elwinglyre @enterthetadpole @chriscalledmesweetie @cumbercurlygirl @stellacartography @keirgreeneyes @khorazir

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jim Acosta at The Jim Acosta Show:

America, you’ve been had. Where to begin? The Gulf of America? Gaza, “The Riviera of the Middle East?” The Kennedy Center? Talk about “the weave.” Can somebody point me to the pivotal moments during the 2024 campaign when Donald Trump discussed his ideas for renaming the Gulf of Mexico or a U.S. takeover of the Gaza Strip? He had plenty of opportunities for laying out such proposals, considering his long, meandering rallies where he rambled about Hannibal Lecter, sharks and windmills. Trump found the time to peddle the outlandish lie that Haitian immigrants in Springfield, Ohio were eating cats and dogs. Never did we consider the notion he would sit on the board that decides whether “Les Misérables” would make its triumphant return to the nation’s capital. In fact, “Les Mis” is coming back in June, well, at least for now. Tickets are available.

What about “The Village People?” Stay tuned. Add Kid Rock and Ted Nugent to the mix and you’ve got a Trumpapalooza in the making. Just think of all of the Trump products that could fill those merch tables (he must have a warehouse of this stuff somewhere), from faux gold sneakers to vintage Trump ties (not made in the USA natch).

Yes, Americans are now waking up to the reality that their downloads of Trump Version 2.0 have come with some serious malware. The pardons and commutations of all of the January 6th rioters and insurrectionists went way beyond what even his own Vice President, the mostly invisible J.D. Vance, contemplated when he suggested that Trump would opt against clemency for the criminals who beat up cops. No wonder 47 doesn’t really see Vance as much of a 48. Trump on Vance 48.

[...]

And then there’s the absurd monstrosity that is Trump’s idea to have the U.S. occupy the Gaza Strip. Put aside his crass promise of turning the region into the “Riviera of the Middle East” or the grotesque notion that America would somehow be a part of the forced removal of the Palestinians from the area. I’m old enough to remember the then-reality TV star and real estate developer savaging President George W. Bush over his handling of the War in Iraq, something Trump once described as “the single worst decision ever made.” Trump on Bush/Iraq After ruling out the idea of putting U.S. military boots on the ground in Gaza, Trump has yet to explain how he would “take over” the area. It won’t be USAID. Were voters ever aware that Trump, upon returning to the White House, would utter this sentence: “The Gaza Strip would be turned over to the US by Israel at the conclusion of fighting.” Take a moment and read that sentence. Read it again. Trump on Gaza The same Trump who ran on “no new wars” during in 2024 has been weaving like an old-fashioned 20th century expansionist, with talk of other takeovers. The Panama Canal? Mine! Greenland? Mine! Canada? Mine! Am I the only one thinking about that classic Daffy Duck cartoon? Daffy Duck: It's mine! [...] Still, in this not-so final analysis, the Trump 2024 campaign appears to have been the ultimate bait and switch. And it’s way worse than Trump’s lie that he had nothing to do with Project 2025. Voters were sold on Trump’s plans for inflation and immigration. But the gap between those proposals and what is being contemplated in the Oval Office these days is about the size of the Gulf of Mexico America.

This Jim Acosta column is a gem: Trump’s 2nd term has come with loads of malware infecting the USA that voters didn’t want.

[mariacallous]

There’s nothing that upsets the British more than being ignored by the Americans. Or, if I’m being cruel, there’s nothing that upsets them more than not being shown love by the Americans. The special relationship between the two countries is an article of faith. It is desperately sought by one side and conferred with a pat on the head by the other.

For sure, there have been bumps in the road. U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson was infuriated when British Prime Minister Harold Wilson declined to help him with Vietnam in 1967; Prime Minister John Major got on President Bill Clinton’s bad side when the Conservatives in the United Kingdom campaigned for George H.W. Bush in 1992. In 2016, President Barack Obama infuriated the Brexiteers by warning voters that it would put the U.K. at the “back of the queue” for any trade deal if it left European Union. His prediction came true, at least for a while.

The most illustrative moment in recent history, however, belongs to Prime Minister Tony Blair and President George W. Bush. After the 9/11 terrorist attacks in the United States, the Blair became the galvanizer-in-chief for the White House. He was spectacularly successful in assembling a coalition of the willing for the invasion of Afghanistan. Within months, however, Bush had turned his attention elsewhere, announcing in a State of the Union address that he would go after the “axis of evil,” at the heart of which was Saddam Hussein and Iraq.

Blair had no idea this was going to happen, and he resolved he would never be blindsided by the White House again. As I wrote in my book, Blair’s Wars, he spoke with Bush in April 2002 and said he would go along with him, come what may. The rest, as they say, is dodgy dossiers, spurious legal advice, elusive weapons of mass destruction, and a disastrous occupation. All the various public enquiries that followed have corroborated this chain of events.

This line of thinking—always being at the United States’ right hand—is deeply embedded in British political psychology. It was that way before the U.K. joined the EU, while it was a member, and since it walked away. It is based in a small amount of hubris and a large lack of confidence. It was born in the hope that the relationship restores the status the U.K. once held on its own and still clings to.

President Donald Trump has upended pretty much every aspect of the world order. One of the byproducts of this is how London behaves in regards to Washington. During Trump’s first administration, it wasn’t that difficult to navigate. Prime Minister Theresa May found him distasteful but was able to work with him. Prime Minister Boris Johnson became a soulmate of his mercurial double across the pond—even though Johnson had made some unsavory remarks about Trump during his tenure as London’s mayor. In any case, Trump’s bark was worse than his bite.

This time around, however, everything is different—far more threatening than even the most assiduous strategists would have predicted.

The recent fraught weeks, during which Trump has humiliated Ukraine and embraced Russia, in which Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky has been called a “dictator” and Russian President Vladimir Putin has been praised as a man of peace, have tested the mettle of all European leaders.

Trump and his people initially didn’t like what they saw in Prime Minister Keir Starmer, not least because Labour officials had gone to the United States to campaign for Vice President Kamala Harris.

MAGA ideologues regard Britain as infected with “woke,” not dissimilar to elsewhere in Europe. Yet they venerate other British cultural symbols like the monarchy, seeing them as a route back to a traditionalism that they wish to thrust upon their own people. Believing the two countries to be joined together by a shared language and other social mores, the Trumpians assume, or rather require, the Brits will ultimately follow along—come what may.

A lawyer by training and instinct, Starmer took the view that the less he said publicly about Trump, the more he might be able to influence him behind the scenes. His first visit into the lion’s den was marked by ostentatious flattery. He brought a letter from King Charles III inviting the president to London for a second state visit, and he talked glowingly about the special relationship. Tickled pink, Trump provided some surprisingly warm words of his own.

On his return to the U.K., Starmer was delighted with his diplomatic handiwork, as was much of a domestic media that had taken to criticizing him at every turn. The media seemed to agree with Starmer’s assessment that the relationship was going well. But not all took that view, however. Writing in the Times, veteran commentator Matthew Parris called it a “cheap stunt.” He wrote, “Going well? Yes, if to watch a British prime minister dancing attendance upon a monster and tickling its fancy is to watch an encounter ‘going well.’”

Starmer was not alone. Three days earlier, French President Emmanuel Macron made a pilgrimage to the White House and even managed to put his hand on Trump’s knee.

Then, barely hours after Starmer had returned to the U.K., came the ambush of Zelensky in the very same room.

To their credit, Starmer and Macron have tried to deal with each setback with as much steely resolve as possible. All Europe’s main players are operating with impediments. Macron is a presidential lame duck. Germany is waiting for its new government, though with the announcement of a $500 billion defense fund, Friedrich Merz has wasted no time in signaling his determination to step up.

Britain’s role is the most intriguing. Many in the European Commission and among EU member states have feared that Trump would exploit the U.K.’s position outside the bloc to drive a further wedge. Trump has already hinted he’ll do so, suggesting to Starmer that he might exempt the Brits from all or some of the tariffs that he’s waiting to slap on Europe. That would, as the British and American right-wing say, help “get Brexit done.”

It is a byproduct of the wider aim, shared by the Trumpians and by Putin, of undermining the EU from inside and out. In the early post-Brexit years, the EU was keen to distance itself from the U.K. and not reward it for its decision to leave. But now, for the EU, it seems everything is up for discussion with the Brits—including some flexibility in London’s arrangements with Brussels— as part of a more immediate task of helping Europe defend itself from the Trump-Putin axis. Trump’s hope seems to be that Starmer will break ranks, recommitting Britain to become an offshore haven for American (and presumably Russian) economic interests.

Which way will Starmer turn? Will he play the part of a teacher’s pet? Or will he stand firmly in unison with his European partners? Starmer has insisted that it’s a false choice and, so far, he appears to have been true to his word.

With Britain outside the formal structures of the EU, Starmer has to rely upon what used to be called variable geometry. He is also using a phrase beloved by former President George W. Bush: coalition of the willing. So far, the European approach is being coordinated by the British and French, with the Germans presumably about to join the top table, along with the EU and NATO. These new permutations are likely to outlast this present crisis—no matter how long it lasts—suggesting a finessing of some of the Brexit boundaries.

Yet, with Trump being Trump, there are many more serious crises ahead. How far will the Trump administration go to appease Putin? How far will Putin penetrate, militarily and politically, into Ukraine—and, who knows, other countries—with the United States’ acquiescence or blessing? Will Trump achieve his wish to take over Greenland? What about the tariffs? These are the known unknowns.

How far will the British really go in standing up to the White House? At what point will they be forced to realize that not only is the relationship no longer special (it hasn’t been for a long time), but that the friend is an adversary? Starmer is hoping that, by hanging in there, he can curb the instincts of his—and Europe’s—abusive partner.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Bill Day, Florida Politics

+

𝔗𝔯𝔲𝔱𝔥 𝔐𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰 :: @politicsusa46

I am incandescent with rage right now. I feel sick to the stomach. A US Vice President stood today on the soil of where so many Americans gave their lives to defeat fascism in Europe. He delivered a disgraceful speech that spat on their graves. Not that we should expect any different, given his boss skipped visiting the graves of fallen Americans in Europe for fear of getting his hair wet. The same man who called the same fallen heroes suckers and losers.

As a Brit that loves America and the American people, I am deeply disturbed at the insults delivered by a man who once described Donald Trump as an “idiot" and said he was "reprehensible." Privately, comparing him to Adolf Hitler. How times have changed. Vance is now part of the most authoritarian administration in American history. An administration actively seeking to deny bodily autonomy to women. An administration pursuing the same mass deportation of immigrants that Europe witnessed in 1930s Germany. Vance is a man that his own president doesn’t even see as his successor. He came to Europe to vomit his Christo-fascist bile on leaders from the UK and across Europe, in what appears to be a retribution tour designed to assert American power.

The U.S. are to my knowledge the only NATO country to have invoked Article 5 of the NATO charter after 9/11. We, his European allies, met that call with no questions asked. We sent thousands of soldiers to the battlefields of Afghanistan and Iraq to fight a war on the false premise of Donald Rumsfeld’s ‘known unknowns’. We did this despite millions of our own citizens protesting in the streets of our cities. Our military stood shoulder to shoulder with his military and we, like many Americans, stood to salute our fallen young men and women returning home day after day. I have tears in my eyes as I write this, thinking of them and their loved ones. Our brave men and women willingly gave their all and far too many made the ultimate sacrifice in support of an American led war. For the record, 6000 Ukrainian solders server alongside American soldiers in Iraq. This, despite Ukraine not being a member of NATO. In 1994 upon signing the Budapest Memorandum they gave up their nuclear weapons in return for security assurances from the US and the UK. These were then reneged upon in 2014 when Russia invaded Crimea. They were told ‘An assurance is not a guarantee’.

Now, despite their friendship and their brave sacrifice on the battlefields of Ukraine, the President of the United States has decided to abandon them and hand a victory to an indicted war criminal, who illegally invaded the sovereign territory of a US ally. An ally who’s soldiers had previously lost their lives supporting America in its war on terror.

SHAME ON HIM. Shame on the man who dodged the draft and never served a day in defense of his nation. He is a coward and I would gladly call him that to his face. To all those Americans on social media currently posting vile insults to those who have always been there for America, I say, democracy is bigger than you, as you sit anonymously behind your phones posting poison.

America might have the most powerful army on the planet, but remember, that same army fled from Saigon after being handed their ass by a bunch of peasant rice farmers, armed with grenades made from discarded US coke cans. Ukraine have been to the Russian army what the Vietnamese were to you and we salute them. You might want to throw Ukraine under the bus while stealing their mineral deposits, BUT EUROPE WILL NOT ALLOW THAT TO HAPPEN. I know for sure that the UK will not abandon the Ukrainian people. Our aid to GDP contribution already exceeds that of the US as does Poland, Germany Finland and others. The U.S. is no longer a reliable ally and if need be, we will stand with Ukraine without America. As for your pathetic tariffs, do your worst. You will soon have no friends but thugs and autocrats, so I’m sure Wun Dum Fuc will be right at home.

[indianamoonshine]

࿐ folklore | joel miller x reader songfic | track 1 ❅ epiphany

summary | while out on patrol, there is a crack in both joel and the ice.

rating | this particular chapter rated t. minors are still not allowed to interact.

warnings | mention of drowning, death, and hypothermia. angst. revelation of feelings. joel is an emotional vault but tommy knows better.

TAGLIST | @stagerightlauren @paanchusblog @lunxramour @casualanxietyblob

࿐

“Keep your helmet. Keep your life, son. Just a flesh wound. Here’s your rifle.”

Joel remembers the first time he saw someone drown.

Wasn’t even a year after the outbreak. He’d been traveling with Tommy and some strangers they met on an abandoned interstate. The way of life had yet to become something of an instinct for them. During this time, they were more prey than predator, and they had little to no knowledge of life outside the south.

The Miller boys had only seen snow once or twice in their lives. No one in their family had ever moved outside of Texas being as big as it was. Tommy had gone into the service, but Iraq had a climate similar to the desert back home. Snow and ice were something of mythical elements they read about in stories and saw in films.

This is why they didn’t see it coming.

“Crawlin’ up the beaches now. ‘Sir, I think he’s bleeding out.’ And some things you just can’t speak about.”

One of the men they’d been trekking across the midwestern landscape with (Joel can’t remember his name even if he tried his damndest) miscalculated the snowfall. It’d been only seconds before the lake he stepped across crumbled beneath him and claimed his life. Ever since then he’s been cautious of frozen bodies of water — even a little frightened of them — but it didn’t stop him from taking the risk every time.

Joel knew for a fact you weren’t a hunter even if he’d only known you for a few months. It didn’t take a damn genius to come to the conclusion that you were far better off as a farmer or…anything other than this. You know how to handle a gun (you had to in order to survive this long) but it wasn’t your strong suit. You were a little off-kilter and fuckin’ jumpy.

How you were still alive he hasn’t the slightest.

Joel had been staring at the back of your head for hours. Tommy led this patrol so he hung back for stalkers. The infected weren’t as active in the winter, especially in such wilderness. The climate causes them to shut down or somethin’ — he didn’t know the science. Just knew that they weren’t around as often when the snow fell.

But while the infected were occasional, winter brought upon other challenges.

Like the freezing temperatures that chilled his bones and bit at his appendages; the snow that clouded his vision and made it difficult to start fires or walk the miles he needed to; and the ice that made fools out of men.

Tommy had crossed it fine, the lake. It wasn’t very big but underneath Joel knew of a bitter current that had little to no forgiveness. The patrol goes in this direction once in awhile, though not often in the wintertime for this very reason. Joel, being as skeptical of lakes as he was, made sure to note its raging waters in the summer. As a survivalist (cynic), he was already prepared for disaster.

For this reason, he waits until Tommy gives the two of you the go-ahead to make a decision.

“It’s good to cross!” Tommy shouts from the other side. He waves a hand to usher you forward.

Joel can see it plain on your face that you’re terrified. You’d only patrolled once before now, but he was certain you were used to the unforgiving climate after so many years of survival before Jackson. He also recalls you mentioning being from the midwest, so he assumed you had enough knowledge of these conditions to accept Tommy’s decision.

You take a deep breath, something changing in your face. He realizes then that you’re good at faking bravery — you just chose not to.

They say fear is an evolutionary response to potential danger.

Joel wishes you had listened to that gut instinct.

“With you, I serve. With you, I fall down.”

You’re barely two feet across the sheet of ice before it crackles beneath your weight. Joel barely has time to register your expression of terror before he’s falling to his knees to crawl upon the lake’s mirror.

“Shit - Joel!” Tommy yells.

Joel doesn’t answer, focusing on shifting his weight just right so that he doesn’t plunge into the depths himself. He can see your shadow beneath the ice, a struggling form that pounds furiously at the frozen sheet above you. He can’t even imagine the panic you must be experiencing now but he attempts to settle his nerves because…

He’d get you out of this. He had to.

It was because of Ellie. She had taken a liking to you in the past year. You were kind to her — showed her how to bake lavender cookies this summer. You welcomed her into your home like you would any member of your family, tutoring her on all kinds of subjects that Joel couldn’t — nor shouldn’t. Ellie needed a woman in her life. You’d become that woman.

It took Joel too long to meet you. He found that he liked you quite a bit himself.

But it was because of Ellie, right?

Yes. Ellie.

He didn’t ever think about the way your eyes shone during golden hour — how they twinkled with a natural aesthetic he didn’t even find in nature. He rarely thought about the length of your hair — how you preferred to keep it braided during the warmer months and down in the cooler opposites. He wasn’t at all distracted by the snowflakes that landed upon your nose while they saddled the horses before going out this morning or how the frigid air blushed the apples of your cheeks.

While he hadn’t known much about you (he’s wanted to — yearned to, but he’s a goddamned pansy) he knew you were something special. Something sweet in a world riddled with rotting flesh and melting tar.

Besides, you were far too young to die.

Yes. Too young to die.

He convinces himself this is why he immediately jumps into action. He’s careful in his ministrations to rescue you, every ounce of strength he has to be clever rather than urgent. Joel figured his decades of fighting would get the job done quickly and with level-headedness. But when he finally manages to grab you from an open pocket within the ice — forty feet from where you initially fell — his hands are trembling.

“Joel! Is she breathin’?!” Tommy yells frantically.

“Watch you breathe in. Watch you breathing out.”

Joel grunts with exertion, dragging your limp and sopping body across the ice and onto the snow covered banks. Once the two of you are out of danger, he finds with horror that…

No. You’re not breathing.

This is when he starts to panic.

“Something med school did not cover. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s mother.”

He thinks of Sarah. It’s an inopportun time to be doing so but he can’t help but see her lifeless body when he looks at yours. The same thing had happened when Ellie drowned before they found the Fireflies in Salt Lake City. Youth quickly deteriorates before him, the Grim’s mangled hand on his shoulder.

“No,” he mutters, shaking his head. “No.”

Joel is a stubborn man and this might be why he’s lived as long as he has. He’s lost too many people. He won’t loose you — not before he had you.

With fumbling hands, he rips away at your drenched clothing which already stiffens from the extreme temperature to check your pulse. He discovers in horror that you have none.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

“Joel! What’s goin’ on, dammit?!” Tommy screams from across the river. It sounds muffled, like he’s underwater himself.

“Holds your hand through plastic now. ‘Doc, I think she’s crashing out.’ And some things you just can’t speak about.”

He begins CPR after unzipping your coat with frantic hands, the heel of his palm inching into your chest the way he’s done so many times before. After a few minutes, he starts mouth to mouth.

It’s not the way he first wanted to touch you.

Instead of a kiss, it’s the attempt at a breath of life.

Your body jostles beneath his endurance, of his precarious attempt at saving your life. Your mouth hangs open like a fish, lips already turning blue, and skin blanching. Images of Sarah — and of Ellie — plague his vision. He thinks of Tess’s body sponging her own blood as she lie dead in the courthouse.

After about five minutes — it felt like hours — he feels the muscles in your legs twitch. You garble, ice water expelling from your lips and onto your chest before gasping for air.

Precious air.

“Jesus,” he whispers in relief, tugging your body close to his chest.

You continue to pant in his arms, body still rigid in shock, before two of you sag in one another’s embrace. Your arms lie limp at your sides from lack of strength. You’re not even shivering — not even crying.

Joel pets your hair, his palm cradling the back of your head. “You’re alright, darlin’. You’re fine…” he whispers.

You nod weakly, eyes slipping shut.

You’re alright.

࿐

Tommy sees something defeated in Joel when the medics take you.

Fortunately, they hadn’t been too far away so it was only an hour before they reached Jackson. Joel had instructed you to take off your clothing and wrap yourself in the wool blankets they’d brought along. The patrol was intended to be much longer than this so they were well prepared for any inconveniences.

Even death.

“Only twenty minutes of sleep but you dream of some epiphany.”

This was what you’d been the verge on when they galloped to the gates with thundering hooves. Accounting for the weather, it should’ve taken them three hours to get back - it usually took two during the summer when rain was their only concern. But Joel rode Old Beardy hard; Tommy was concerned the damn thing would fall over from exhaustion.

But they made it in the knick of time. Joel shouted for help while you slump against his back, your horse Bucephalus galloping alongside of his like the loyal steed he was. You were mumbling something incoherent against him and he shushed you as he slid you off into his arms.

“Help!” Joel’s tone broke something down in Tommy’s chest cavity. “I need a goddamn medic!”

They’d been quick to take you. Joel’s fingers lingered against your shivering form as he passed you along to Kevin, one of the younger boys in town. They exchanged a few words before Joel urged him with a stern growl to get going.

“Just one single glimpse of relief to make some sense of what you’ve seen.”

When she’s gone, he rubs his hands down his face and sags against the horse barn. His chest heaves with heavy breath, eyes shut tightly as though he’s seeing ghosts long gone.

Tommy didn’t have to imagine.

Sarah. Ellie.

“With you, I serve. With you, I fall down.”

Tess was more likely to be the answer. After all, Tommy knew his brother had feelings for the woman. She was rough around the edges, but Joel usually liked them that. He did back then, anyway. His first wife — a spider in every sense — was difficult to say the very least. Joel liked a challenge.

“Watch you breathe in. Watch you breathing out.”

You weren’t anything like them. This is why Tommy finds it so strange when Joel takes a moment to collect himself, clears his throat, and turns towards the horses like it never even happened.

“Almost lost her,” he mutters.

Yes. Tommy knew then. This wasn’t about Ellie. This wasn’t even about Sarah. He was no father figure to you.

This was different — you were different.

[kingripperman]

My name is Mr. Stitch Ripper, once upon a time I was an active duty Marine and I did deploy to Al Asad, Iraq. Now days I've been driving a tractor trailer and in my off time I like messing around with crypto, dapps and web 3. Anyway that's enough about an old bastard like me. I will just be posting some of my pics as well as some digital art I've created. Have a wonderful day and remember keep smiling 😁

[gyspy-moon-rose]

Witchcraft The Beginnings.

Witchcraft. It is a very simple word with a deep meaning and history. The idea of witchcraft stretches over a long period of time and spreads throughout the world. The idea becomes known around 560 B.C. when the two Old Testaments condemn witches, until today. The Salem Witch Trials of 1692 were one of the most well-known witchcraft trials over the world. But many have also occurred before then. The idea originated in Europe and had traveled to the New World.

Witchcraft has been described as working with the Devil. If a person were a witch, that person would have made a pact with the Devil, and would be able to perform black magic. Scientists who study the witchcraft trials say the hysteria has to do with people’s idea about how everyday events can be explained. The events are explained in terms of a belief of witchcraft. People want order in their society and hate chaos. Anything like enemies and catastrophes make people feel they are not part of the natural order. Whatever threatens the order is considered witchcraft.

The two Old Testaments, Exodus and Leviticus, had first condemned witches around 560 B.C. with the quotes, “Exodus 22:18 Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. ” and “Leviticus 20:27 A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones: their blood shall be upon them.” The anonymous Jewish priest wrote them in present-day Iraq during the reign of Evil Merodach, a dark time of Jewish exile. The priest might have been assigned to write them by other priests and scribes.

Many arguments about witches follow 560 B.C. Each statement is contradicting the one before it, and many recent arguments are always accepted as the new and correct theory. For example, around 420 C.E., a church leader, St. Augustine, argued that demons and witches could not function under the face of God. This is accepted as the new orthodoxy of the Church. But in 1273, Thomas Aquinas argued that dangerous demons and witches are roaming the country.

Witch-hunts were popular and people felt it was a necessity to conduct the hunts. From the mid-1400s to the mid-1600s, witchcraft trials erupted, sending death rates up. From 50,000 to 80,000 people were executed throughout Europe. About eighty percent of those executed were women. The deaths per country varied, with a high of 26,000 in Germany to about 10,000 in France, 1,000 in England, and only four in Ireland. The Reformation divided Europe between Protestant regions and those loyal to the Pope, but Protestants also took witchcraft seriously.

Witch hysteria swept France in 1571 after Trois-Echelles, a defendant accused of witchcraft from the court of Charles IX, announced to the court that he had over 100,000 fellow witches roaming the country. Judges responding to the ensuing panic by eliminating those accused of witchcraft most of the protections that other defendants enjoyed.

Once in a while between the witch-hunts, many inspiring and frightening events happened. In 1453, and epidemic swept France and killed several children. The public had blamed the disease on black magic.

The people of France then took several suspects and tortured them harshly. The accusers tortured the suspects until five of them confessed of having caused the plague.

The witches were soon hanged.

Not long after, in 1484, Pope Innocent VIII declared that witches were meeting with the Devil and casting spells that destroyed crops and killing infants. He asked two friars, Heinrich Kramer and Jacob Sprenger, to publish a full report on witchcraft. The Malleus Maleficarum ("Hammer of Witches") was published in 1486. It relegated the old orthodoxy that said witches were powerless under the face of God.

The Malleus Maleficarum suggested that one way to determine a person a witch was to find a Devil’s Mark on their body, and to have the suspect brought to court walking backwards to minimize their chances to cast spells on officials.

In 1566, England executed its first witch, Agnes Waterhouse. She was a wrinkled old woman with a hunched back. She was thrown into jail, and suffered long days of fear and hunger, until she confessed to the evil deeds she was charged with. She had used a cat named Satan to conduct her evil work. Waterhouse had used the cat to kill the neighbor’s hogs, kill widow Goodday’s flock of geese and cow, and kill her own husband. She rewarded Satan by giving him blood to drink from her own face. Agnes Waterhouse was hanged immediately.

Less than thirty years later, King James was sailing with his wife, Princess Anne, from his honeymoon in Denmark when the ship experienced fierce storms and rough waves. The ship’s captain had convinced King James that witches were real when he blamed them for causing the horrible weather. When six Danish women confessed to having created the storms, King James began to take witchcraft seriously. When he arrived in Scotland, he burned many witches. This became the largest witch-hunt in British history.

The famous playwright, Shakespeare had written a play that was performed in 1606. The play was called Macbeth. In Macbeth, Macbeth encountered three witches. These three witches play important roles in the tragedy.

The largest witch-hunt in French history occurred from 1643-1645, but following the witch-hunt of France, trials in Europe start to decrease in the late 1640s. Soon Europe’s history of witchcraft faded away. In 1682, England executed its last witch, Temperance Lloyd.

What contributed to the end of witchcraft execution and hunts in Europe was the Enlightenment, beginning around the late 1680s. The Enlightenment brought reason, doubt, and humanitarianism. Each helped defeat superstitions. The Enlightenment said that there was no real evidence that there were witches that caused harm, and that the use of torture upon them to force out confessions was cruel.

The two Old Testaments, which had the quotes that the Jewish Priest wrote, had affected people of Europe because they influenced so many arguments of witches and God, and people were willing to believe the latest statement made about witches. When the two Old Testaments explained that witches were to be killed, St. Augustine argued that they were actually powerless under God. St. Augustine’s view was accepted, and many people did not worry. But later, the accused confessed on having witchcraft powers, and people in Europe believed them and started freaking out. They wanted eliminate any trace of evil in the area.

Europe was done with witch-hunts, but the history of witchcraft affected the Salem Witch Trials in the Massachusetts Bay Colony area because the Puritans took the history, ideas, and beliefs of witchcraft with them to the New World. The Puritans thought they were safe, but when the afflicted girls started acting strangely, they thought it was witches that were tormenting them. They thought they were witches because they thought back in Europe they wiped out the witches, but the New World was full of unknown things. To the Puritans, any little strange behavior is strange, unusual, and not normal. Anything similar was considered bad, and because the Devil was associated with evil, he himself was involved in the hysterias.

The Puritans were afraid of the Devil because they believe the imaginary world of God and the Devil is as real as their visual world, them, and the Native Americans. The Puritans believe the Devil and the Native Americans are the same. The witchcraft idea comes from people’s religion, beliefs, and fears. The Puritans still had the ideas of witchcraft stuck in their heads.

This is why the idea of witchcraft still lives on today

Timeline:

c. 560 BC: The Bible condemns witches with two quotes.

c. 420: St. Augustine argues witchcraft is an impossibility.

1208: Satan becomes sinister following.

1273: Thomas Aquinas argues that dangerous demons exist.

Mid-1400s: Witchcraft trials erupt in Europe.

1453: An epidemic killed a few children in France. The public blamed it on black magic and tortured five people until they confessed. They were executed.

1484: Pope Innocent VIII and Malleus Maleficarum.

Early to mid-1500s: The Reformation sends death rates up after Trois-Echelles, an accused witch, announced that he had over 100,000 fellow witches roaming the country. Judges responding to the ensuing panic by eliminating those accused of witchcraft.

1566: England executes its first witch, Agnes Waterhouse.

1591: King James authorizes the torture of suspected witches in Scotland.

1606: Shakespeare's Macbeth performed with witches playing important roles.

1643-1645:The largest witch-hunt in French history occurred.

Late 1640s: The number of trials in France began to decrease.

1682: England executes its last witch, Temperance Lloyd.

January 1692–May 1693: Salem Witch Trials in the New World.

[dimonds456]

Historians:

Hello. My name is Dims, and I am currently 21. It is 4:56 AM on May 10th, 2024.

Rafah is currently being bombed and invaded.

I don't know how much of a digital footprint we'll leave behind, if any, but if I can do one thing with my time here on this Earth, I want you all from the future to know that we tried.

Us, the citizens of the United States of America, are fighting so hard to stop the genocide happening in Palestine. We see their suffering, we hear their voices. A vast majority of the citizens of not just the US, but the entire world are on Palestine's side. But no matter how hard we fight to change the world, to give to the Palestinians and let them know they're not alone, it's not up to us.

The only people with the real power to ceasefire and help Palestine are our leaders and politicians. And none of them will help.

We're trying- don't you doubt that for a second- but we can protest as much as we want, and if they still hold any power over us, they won't bend unless they think it's financially beneficial to do so.

President Biden has said he's delivering aid to Palestine, but all he's really been doing is sending them expired food that tastes like shit, dumping it in the ocean, and making them swim for it while Israeli soldiers fire upon crowds of innocent, starving people.

President Biden has said that he will not allow Israel to invade Rafah, but here we are. He hasn't lifted a damn finger to stop them.

President Biden has said that all people deserve life insurance, all while allowing a LITERAL GENOCIDE to occur, with his blessing.

Genocide Joe does not speak for us.

Historians, if you are reading this, please don't let our voices be erased with time. I know about my country's habit of erasing it's own atrocities and painting itself as a shining bastion of freedom, and I have no doubt in my mind that it will do that once again after the dust of this conflict has settled. No matter what happens- a ceasefire, or total destruction, the United States will write in history books that it either helped to defeat a terrible foe, or it came down on Israel with an iron fist and stopped it dead in its tracks.

My country is responsible for the genocide of thousands of indigenous tribes.

My country is responsible for the war, violence, and massacre of many countries overseas, including Iraq, Palestine, Yemen, the Congo, and so, SO many more.

My country is responsible for the colonization of Hawaii, as well as the entire rest of the land we occupy.

My country WILL try to sweep this under the rug.

Don't let them. No matter what, PLEASE don't let them.

To any Palestinians that are reading this message right now, be it once this is posted or far into the future, we hear you. We see you. We will continue to fight for you. It's not over, and I refuse to stop raising awareness and talking about Palestine until you are free. And, if that doesn't come to pass, then by God we won't let them forget. We won't let you all get swept under the rug. This genocide is a stain on my country's already bloody past, and we can't let them pretend it's not there anymore.

We are failing you now. I am so, so sorry we can't do more. But we will continue to fight for as long as we can. I promise.

FREE PALESTINE!

[skyovereuropeldkde]

For the information of the interested world public: 1. Rafael Grossi, Director General of the International Atomic Energy Agency, clarifies that there was NO Iranian nuclear weapons program and NO imminent threat from Iran. 2. The Washington Post reveals to the world that the Israeli attack on Iran had been planned for months and decided upon in March. And had NOTHING to do with Iran's (nonexistent anyway) nuclear weapons program. 3. The US military strike against Iran, which the EU and all European leaders (except Macron) classify as legal, illegal, and who cares, is not only even more contrary to international law than we already thought, but joins the long line of US military actions that use untruth as a pretext and a lie to legitimize military force that they have long been determined to exercise for entirely different reasons. 4. And yes: politicians and the media spread these lies and manipulate you to prevent you from forming your own free judgment. From the Tonkin incident in 1964 to legitimize the Vietnam War, to the incubator lie to legitimize the first Iraq War in 1990, to the weapons of mass destruction lie in 2003 to legitimize the second, to the lies about the (actually decisive) motives behind the illegal military interventions and wars in Afghanistan in 2001, Libya in 2011, and Syria in 2013. 5. In the 249 years of its existence, the USA was NOT involved in wars for a mere 21 years, during which it bombed 101 countries around the world – and bombed the public with the associated lies. 6. The USA's greatest enemy is not Iran, Russia, or China, but the truth. 7. Exactly one year ago today, Julian Assange returned to Australian soil after 14 years of imprisonment. "If wars can be started by lies, peace can be started by truth." Written by Martin Sonneborn

The reporting on the Israeli attack on Iran is, at times, unbearable, even on alternative channels. Not questioning Netanyahu's reasoning and wording without subjunctives has nothing to do with journalism. Countless, and certainly most, wars were started on the grounds of an emerging threat. And even if such a threat existed, whatever one may believe, these attacks are far from necessarily the best solution. How this development in Iran came about is also ignored, or the historical distortion begins with Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. However, the decisive turning point in Iran took place before that; the "rules-based order" had struck once again... HERE

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Tristan Snell:

The Trumpian far right’s approach to deportations is, to borrow a phrase Paul Krugman used in 2002 to describe the George W. Bush administration’s approach to Iraq, “an obsession in search of a justification.” [...]

Whereas before, there had been talk of building massive tent city concentration camps, that seems to have been dropped for now, and Trump moved to a brief-lived attempt to use Guantánamo Bay to detain immigrants. Now the administration has struck upon an even more diabolical avenue: disappearing immigrants off American soil entirely and outsourcing their detention to El Salvador and its infamous prison, Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo (CECOT).

The administration has already sent hundreds of people to CECOT, and it then disingenuously claims that it is powerless to retrieve them once they are there. Detainees are then cut off from their lawyers and families and have no effective way to challenge the legality of their detentions — even if, for example, in the case of Kilmar Ábrego García, the government admits it made an “administrative error” and that García is innocent. In fact, 60 Minutes found that 75% of the immigrants sent to CECOT lacked any kind of criminal record — raising the likelihood that, if properly challenged in court, the administration would be unable to provide a legal basis for their detentions.

The Bush administration’s use of Guantánamo Bay is one of the most shameful acts undertaken by America in the last century — and yet Trump’s use of CECOT is ten times worse. Even during the worst part of Bush’s Guantánamo, there was at least some post-detention legal process established, a Combatant Status Review Tribunal; this was one-sided and constitutionally inadequate, as the Supreme Court ruled in the landmark decision of Boumediene v. Bush in 2008, but at least it allowed some way for the detainees to challenge the legal basis for their detentions. Ultimately, Boumediene provided that the Guantánamo detainees could file habeas corpus petitions, which finally resulted in the court-ordered releases of hundreds of prisoners against the government had virtually no evidence at all.1

At CECOT, though, there is seemingly no way out. This is the utterly execrable set of circumstances now facing the courts, and in particular, the Supreme Court. We received our first glimpse at how SCOTUS will handle this matter in Monday’s decision in Trump v. J.G.G. This was hailed as a victory by Trump and quickly framed as such by the mainstream media — but the truth is not so clear cut. There was a significant upside to the J.G.G. decision: a seemingly unanimous 9-0 view that even those detained and slated for deportation under the AEA must receive advance notice of their removal with enough time for them to mount actual legal challenges and to receive their days in court. Loading people onto planes in shackles and chains before any judge can intervene is, apparently, not something that even Clarence Thomas or Samuel Alito wishes to co-sign.

But the devil is in the details — and the real divide on the Court now appears to be between those who still ascribe to a standard orthodox view of the law in a functioning, legitimate administration and those who realize that the executive branch is now anything but legitimate and simply cannot be trusted. [...] The majority still views the real world as one of normally functioning laws, courts, and government actions. It provided the answer that might have been viewed correct on a law school exam — one that may have been right on technical grounds (although even that is arguable). It still sees the world as one in which it can issue an order asking for plaintiffs to re-file their challenges in different courts, trusting that the administration will not suddenly frog-march the plaintiffs off, hooded and chained, in the dead of night, extraditing them to the Central American equivalent of Siberia, defying all judicial and legal authority, before any habeas challenge could be heard; then shrugging and throwing up their hands when challenged or criticized. The majority justices’ view of the administration is thus somewhere between naively ignorant and willfully blind. The dissenters have a far more realistic view of Trump and his Gestapo. They are making their calculations based on what Trump has actually done — rather than what would normally be true in a normal administration. Plus, they are more shrewdly aware of the realities of these court challenges on the ground: the DC federal judges are likely to be more amenable to the plaintiffs’ claims than federal judges in Texas or Louisiana (where most of these people are being held) will be, all other things being equal.

The Trump Regime’s sending of immigrants (and even US citizens) to CECOT concentration camp in El Salvador is an abomination on par with (and much worse) Bush 43’s use of Guantánamo Bay to lock up suspected terrorists.

See Also:

The Bulwark: Concentration Camps and the Deportation of American Citizens

[einsteinsugly]

Fictober 11 (on the 7th). 2003. The Living Years.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

That's what his dad always said, verbatim. He always fought with brute force, a bare-knuckled fight, rather than with words.

Meanwhile, Eric Forman may not be the best with words, but they've taken him much further than brute force ever could. He has learned to be a mediator, not just as a teacher, but as a father and uncle.

Despite his accrued abilities, however, he can be brutal in a whole other way. When push comes to shove, he can lay down the law. If he has to.

He seldom wants to, though, and he nervously sighs. Facing his stern, elderly father is far from ideal, but here he is. Reaching out there; way out there. On the tiniest, most precarious limb imaginable.

"I didn't come to apologize, Dad," Eric nervously announces, shuffling into the den, "I'm not sorry for what I said."

He has poked the bear, and there is no turning back. "Excuse me?"

"That's right. I don't think America should stomp around and do what it wants. We can be great without...." He trails off, trying to recite the lines he has repeated in his head. Over and over. "Y'know, modern imperialism. Iraq, 'Nam..."

"If you say Korea, get out of my house." Dad is roaring, like a furious bear, but Eric can't back down. Even if he wanted to. "I fought hard for this damn country, and now my son...goddamn it, Eric. I raised you to be more of a man than I thought you'd be, and this is how you thank me?"

Now, he's completely off script. As expected, frankly. "What did you expect of me?"

"I thought you were going to do some Star Wars crap," He insists, "Or work in retail the rest of your damn life, if you didn't keep going to school."

That was his biggest fear, once upon a time. He'd never find his true purpose, and end up making his living off of his geeky hobbies. Beyond just a questionable side gig, as an eBay seller. Well, an avid collector, which arguably has negated his gains. He has filled his own den with various collectibles, like his mother's roosters in her kitchen. And her owls in the living room.

But that's beside the point. He's always wanted to help others, like his mother, and like he and his family helped Hyde. But he didn't like blood and guts, so that made the whole medical field off limits.

He lends a helping hand, as a teacher. A history teacher. One has to learn about the past, in order to address the present. And of course, the future.

'Nam was a failure, Korea was a stalemate. And the latest war in Iraq is just reckless aggression, for something Hussein probably wasn't involved in.

"Well, thank God that didn't happen," He attempts to blow off some steam, but to no avail. "I found my purpose in this crazy world, and it's far from perfect, but teaching is good work."

"You're like your mother." He doesn't know if Dad truly respects that, or if he views such diplomatic, compassionate endeavors as unmanly. Eric's never really known, for sure, but he's probably grown to accept it. "But you're awkward as hell, like me."

"Thanks."

The tension still can be cut with a knife, and his slight snark isn't helping. They've walked a fine, fine line with politics for years, and they've been on a wavering tightrope.

But Eric's still laying down the law, for the sake of what's right. Instead of what's wrong. "I'm not backing down, Dad. I may be a stupid duck, most of the time, but I can be a bear sometimes."

They glare at each other for a moment, and Dad probably hopes he'll crack. But he won't. He's sticking to his guns, even though he can't bare-knuckle box to save his life.

But, finally, Dad fires a warning shot. "You're a good man and father, but sometimes, you can be a dumbass."

As he anxiously exits, Eric runs his hand through his full head of hair.

And in anxious anguish, he lets out some snarky steam. "Well, that worked out great."

[danielpico]

Dawr 'Iraq: Unraveling a Peculiar Medieval Mode

In the medieval treatises on Middle Eastern classical (maqam) music, there are a number of puzzling non-heptatonic scales whose descriptions might appear odd to a modern observer well-versed in its modern descendants. One such scale is 'Iraq, a nowadays rarely performed maqam which is on the other hand well-known in the modal systems of both Turkish and Arabic maqam music.

Making sense of this scale requires a general understanding of how medieval Middle Eastern writers viewed and presented modes, their views on consonance, as well as how their 17-tone system may have obscured the nature of certain modes in some cases or outright distorted them in others.

The Systematist Dawr 'Iraq

Medieval writers on music from al-Urmawi to al-Maraghi are known as the systematists. It is their theories and their 17-tone octave that would become the reference for centuries to come for the musical Middle East.

Aspects of this theory relevant to the present discussion about the 'Iraq mode include:

scales being built out of tetrachords, pentachords and trichords;

the perfect fourth being treated as the primary consonance;

a preference for the conjunct arrangement of tetrachords in scales.

Dawr (cycle or scale) 'Iraq is made up of two conjunct 'Iraq tetrachords. Within the 17-tone system, the 'Iraq tetrachord is represented with the following structure:

Ru-yi 'Iraq: 1—LL—2d—T—3d—CL—4

'Iraq also exists in a trichord form:

'Iraq: 1—LL—2d—T—3d

L = limma; T = tone; C = comma

My other articles posted here may be referred to for more details about the medieval tone system. In this context, what's notable is that the Pythagorean 17-tone model implies the second degree being a diminished third (65536/59049) and the third degree being a diminished fourth (8192/6561). If these intervals were to be functionally interpreted in schismic just intonation, they could be simplified into 10/9 and 5/4, respectively. Consequently, the 3-4 interval in the tetrachord form of 'Iraq is the apotome (2187/2048), which equals 16/15 in the schismic interpretation.

This is exactly in line with how Qutb al-Din al-Shirazi describes one variant of the heptatonic form of the 'Iraq scale with just ratios, constructing it out of two conjunct 'Iraq tetrachords:

Dawr 'Iraq:

'Iraq tetrachord: 1—10/9—2d—9/8—3d—16/15—4

'Iraq tetrachord: 4—10/9—5d—9/8—6d—16/15—7

Whole tone: 7—9/8—8

Properly interpreting this scale before moving on to its octatonic version requires following several steps. Firstly, its final degree ought to be determined.

Where is the Final?

There isn't a strong reason to believe that systematist scales would have had a strict final on the first degree. Rather, like in modern dastgahi music, the first tetrachord in the written scale may have been "the first" in a melody starting its development from below the finalis, which would then move on to present the second tetrachord, upon whose first degree (4) the actual finalis lay. This is common in modern Persian music, where the dastgah scales are still written conjunctly, yet the finalis is often on a degree other than the first. Sometimes, the shahed (dominant) note may at the same time be the finalis.

If this simple provision is made, then so many old mode names suddenly start making sense from the modern perspective. Some have interpreted the systematist Rast scale, for example, as an obscure maqam Nairuz, because they take the first degree to be the final. Yet if the tetrachords are rearranged in a disjunct manner, suddenly it's exactly like modern Rast.

Perhaps the final was once actually on the first degree of the first tetrachord, and then shifted up due to the dominance of the fourth degree (shahed). Modal descriptions beyond the mere scale would have to be consulted for clues. From here, I will move on with the speculative, yet highly plausible premise, that the finalis of this 'Iraq scale was its fourth degree. In order to more easily relate its structure in alphabetic notation, I will thus choose to spell its first tone with a G, making C the actual finalis.

Sikah Baladi and the Soft Chromatic Scale

At this point, what does this scale look like? Does it resemble any modern Middle Eastern mode, or any Western mode, for that matter? There is only one such scale in modern Arabic music, and it's called Sikah Baladi.

Sikah Baladi in modern Arabic/Egyptian music is conceptualized in two different ways simultaneously:

as a transposition of the Sikah trichord (i.e. 'Iraq trichord), which ordinarily starts on a neutral interval injected into the Pythagorean scale, onto a non-neutral scale degree;

as a kind of maqam Hijazkar (double harmonic major) with a very narrow augmented second, perhaps no larger than a whole tone.

The importance of this is huge, because it leads directly into the next issue with this scale: two medieval writers saw it differently. While Shirazi termed it 'Iraq, Urmawi gave two identical scales, calling one 'Iraq and the other Hijazi. Obviously, Hijazi is related to modern maqams Hijaz and Hijazkar, and has two variants which respectively correspond to both of these maqams, if their fourth degree is taken as the finalis in both cases.

Shirazi does have both of these two forms of Hijazi, but for him, the Hijazi tetrachord found in them has the ratios:

1—12/11—2—7/6—3—22/21—4

Urmawi wanted to avoid the augmented second wherever possible, instead rendering it a whole tone in notation. However, he did permit the 8/7 ratio to take its place in the independent just intonation descriptions of tetrachords. In any case, Shirazi is explicit about the 2-3 interval being wider than the whole tone, because he also defines the 3-4 interval as a kind of bakiyye (limma) in the notation.

Shirazi's correction of the augmented second in Hijazi is the first step towards categorically separating the 'diatonic' and 'chromatic' forms of 'Iraq, whereby the 'chromatic' (Hijazi) has a wide augmented second, while the 'diatonic' has either a narrow one or a whole tone in its place. The 'Iraq scales which will be discussed here are the 'diatonic' kind, labeled as 'Iraq (and not Hijazi) in both Urmawi and Shirazi, and described with the same ratios.

The relationship between Hijazi and 'Iraq is thus established. Wright speculates that the Hijazi tetrachord might have been derived from 'Iraq tetrachord, due to the instability of the latter's two internal degrees. If we defer to the Greeks at this point, we find that the Byzantine chant method of Chrysanthos of Madytos from the early 19th century differentiates between the hard chromatic and the soft chromatic scales. What differentiates the two is the size of the augmented second: the hard chromatic scale has a wide augmented second, while the soft chromatic scale has a very narrow one. Relating the former to its maqam doppelganger is very easy: it's simply the modern maqam Hijazkar, or the old maqam Şehnaz, or any of the other older or more modern maqams which share the same scale.

The latter is a bit more difficult to directly compare to a modern maqam. Considering the way in which it is used in the second echos of the chant, it could be compared to Turkish maqam Hüzzam, though these two modes both have their finals on the third (the second echos might vary), with melodies often not even descending to the implied tonic. In both cases, as in the case of Sikah Baladi, the (implied or actual) tonic is on the Ni/Rast note, which will here be transcribed as the Western C.

Chrysanthos, however, didn't explain the soft chromatic scale with tetrachords, but rather with conjunct and equal trichords. Every trichord has two intervals: 1—minimum tone—2—tone—3. Without going into the intricacies of Chrysanthos' intervals, such a scale is virtually identical to modern Sikah Baladi. I remind at this point that one way of conceptualizing Sikah Baladi is as a transposition of Sikah—a 1—3/4-tone—2—tone—3 trichord—onto a non-neutral scale degree, which matches the soft chromatic scale perfectly.

If the old 'Iraq is then likened to Sikah Baladi, and if Sikah Baladi is likened to the soft chromatic scale, then it can be said that 'Iraq is characterized by a small augmented second, while Hijazi has a large one.

Now the question is, where is the Sikah or 'Iraq trichord transposed from in Sikah Baladi?

'Iraq Within the Fundamental Scale

So far, the most important clue about the thread connecting the elusive 'Iraq to modern music wasn't addressed, and that is the fact that one note in what was for centuries considered the fundamental scale of Middle Eastern music—the "Arab scale", as named by some Western writers, or the scale of maqam Rast—bears its name. The 'Iraq note in the Rast scale is the lower octave of its seventh degree, which is a neutral seventh. This is the Rast scale on C, with reverse flats indicating half-flat (quartertone flat) alterations:

Rast: C D Ed F G A Bd C

Bd is the 'Iraq note below C (it's called Awj/Evc in the upper octave). From this note, both the 'Iraq trichord and the tetrachord appear within the structure of the Rast scale:

Iraq trichord (tetrachord): Bd C D (Ed)

The relatedness between the tetrachord/mode Rast and the Nawruz tetrachord/mode starting on its second degree (D) is not subject of much controversy, though the difference in the just ratios with which the systematists described Nawruz and Rast obscures this relationship. Nawruz has a 12/11 second (16/15 in Shirazi), while if it were to start from the second degree of the Rast scale as its mode it would have a 10/9 one, because the Rast tetrachord is:

Rast: C—9/8—D—10/9—Ed—16/15—F

Nawruz: D—12/11—Ed—88/81—F—9/8—G

or D—16/15—Ed—10/9—F—9/8—G in Shirazi

A 17-tone model cannot differentiate between the two either way.

Similarly, if the 'Iraq tetrachord on Bd were invoked to complete the set, it would seem to be completely reversed, because instead of starting with 10/9, it would need to start with 16/15:

'Iraq in Rast: Bd—16/15—C—9/8—D—10/9—Ed

vs. Shirazi's 'Iraq: 1—10/9—2d—9/8—3d—16/15—4

There is no space here to elaborate on this decision, but these different ratios will for the present purpose all be treated as neutral seconds of roughly the same size, wherefore they may be swapped for each other (or confused in the theory, like here).

A bothersome quirk of this set of three tetrachords/modes is that, while Rast and Nawruz as modes of each other form two pairs of conjunct tetrachords, 'Iraq does not: there is only one such tetrachord in the Rast scale. In order for 'Iraq to get its conjunct twin, a chromatic note needs to be inserted into the Rast scale: F half-sharp:

Rast with F#d: C D Ed F F#d G A Bd C

Before moving on, let's discuss the most important matter of all: how does 'Iraq sound? How does it behave as a mode, what kind of melodic progression does it dictate? If these fundamental questions are considered, the reason for there being an 'Iraq trichord and its analogue in Byzantine music makes itself clear. The mode actually behaves like a suspended cadence within the scale of maqam Rast, focusing on the area between Bd and D. Instead of behaving like a tetrachord and having Bd-Ed as the stable notes, it emphasizes the mentioned trichord, and then demonstrates the Nawruz (Uşşak/Bayati in modern terms) tetrachord on D as a separate unit.

What the added F#d note does for 'Iraq on Bd, aside from giving it a perfect fifth, is effect a chromatic tetrachord on D. This tetrachord turns 'diatonic' Zalzalian maqam 'Iraq into 'diatonic-chromatic' maqam Rahat al-Arwah, though the two are often confused by modern Arab musicians, i.e. 'Iraq is played 'chromatically' by default. Whether we term this chromatic tetrachord 'Iraq or Hijazi—perhaps depending on the size of the actual augmented second between Ed and F#d/F#—what this distinction between the way the 'Iraq trichord behaves compared to the tetrachord shows is that there has come to be a clear separation of several distinct categories:

'Iraq as a 'diatonic' trichord within the Rast scale starting on one of the two neutral degrees (Bd and Ed);

'Iraq as a 'soft chromatic' mode/tetrachord on a neutral scale degree;

'Iraq as a 'soft chromatic' mode/tetrachord on a non-neutral scale degree (maqam Sikah Baladi on C);

'Iraq as a precursor to 'hard chromatic' Hijaz (maqam Rahat al-Arwah).

Whence the Octatonic 'Iraq?

Now is the moment to finally consider the strange octatonic scale promised in the title:

Dawr 'Iraq:

'Iraq tetrachord: 1—10/9—2d—9/8—3d—16/15—4

'Iraq tetrachord: 4—10/9—5d—9/8—6d—16/15—7

Divided whole tone: 7—15/14—8d—21/20—9

If the non-Pythagorean intervals are all simplified as three quarters of a tone, in accordance with modern practice in much of the Middle East, then this is structure fits the description of the 'Iraq within the Rast scale with an alternating chromatic note. But for this to work, one needs to make several assumptions:

the final is on the fourth degree

the just ratios are inaccurate and stand in for neutral intervals (3/4-tones)

the systematists chose to start the scale on a chromatic note

If all of these caveats and possibilities hadn't been considered beforehand, and if it was instead simply analysed as-is, within the Pythagorean 17-tone system, the actual structure of this scale would be utterly befuddling. It has no perfect fifth, it uses just intonation ratios, but makes a highly inharmonic scale with them; most confusingly, it has an apparent comma melodic interval inserted below its octave, at an unwieldy ratio of 1048576/531441.

Providing for the finalis being on the 4th degree and the correction of the just ratios into neutral tones makes it perfectly congruous with related modal entites from the present. Still, the final point is strange. Why would someone start a scale from an inserted, chromatic note? Well, the conjunct tetrachord arrangement was used for most scales, and it best illustrates one of the primary consonances appreciated by medieval Middle Eastern writers: the perfect fourth. It also satisfies the general preference for parallelism. Spelling the scale in any other way would be inconsistent with the established method, along with making its structure appear strange. Yet perhaps it would have been truer to practice.

One problem with the theoretical system which the octatonic 'Iraq manifests is the fact that the 17-tone octave simply cannot accommodate all the just ratios as distinct pitches. The 7-8d 15/14 interval in the disjunctive whole tone would have to be the same as the 1-2d and 4-5d in the two tetrachords, but it is very different from the 10/9 that's given in the former two cases, being closer to the apotome (LC) than the diminished third (LL), the latter of which is the only one made possible by the division of the whole tone into LLC. The 8d-9, on the other hand, is a ratio very close to the limma.

Owen Wright and some previous commentators on the medieval Perso-Arabian music system note for this very reason that a more logical division of the disjunctive whole tone would be LCL, which would resolve this problem. However, the 7-9 whole tone in this arrangement isn't disjunctive (doesn't come in between the tetrachords within the octave scale, separating them), and in his commentary Wright takes the reference division of the final whole tone as LLC instead. Still, he divides the F-G whole tone in 'Iraq as F-F#-G, implying that the F# is a chromatic note meant to replace the usual F with a bakiyye (limma) semitone to G. This choice is later corroborated by al-Maraghi, who names this version of 'Iraq "'Iraq ma‘al-baqiyya": 'Iraq with a bakiyye (limma), presumably between 8d and 9 (F#-G).

With this in mind, another possibility which needs to be considered before making the final conclusion is that this form of 'Iraq was a kind of Hijazi (double harmonic scale) with an inserted augmented fourth as an alteration, which wouldn't be too strange and is evidenced to this day in modes such as the Peiraiotikos mode of Rebetiko music. What makes this unlikely is the fact that Shirazi presents this scale with the just ratios he uses for "diatonic" 'Iraq, which differ from Hijazi in not having an augmented second. The actual augmented second in this scale might appear between F and G—as part of Ed-Hijazi or 'Iraq—of which the latter is an unstable degree, like in Sikah Baladi, suspended between a perfect fifth of C and an augmented second of F. The pitch of the G will determine whether the tetrachord is closer to Hijazi (wider F-G augmented second) or 'Iraq (F-G narrow augmented second/whole tone).

This makes the trichord analysis more fitting for this scale, because the 'Iraq trichord C—Dd—Ed is the actual first unit, while the Hijazi (or 'Iraq) tetrachord (trichord) Ed—F—G—(Ad) is the second.

With all of this information, we can finally interpret 'Iraq on G:

G Ad Bb C Dd Ed F F#/Gd G

as a mode of Dd-Rast (according to the finalis), where the first degree (G) is actually the note inserted in order to form a scale with conjunct tetrachords, instead of the Gd/F# being the chromatic/altered note. If Rast is respelled from C, it's abundantly clear how such a structure fits into it, and why the seventh of Rast should be called 'Iraq.

Rast (C): C D Ed F (F#/Gd) G A Bd C

Diatonic 'Iraq (Bd): Bd C D + D Ed F G + G A Bd

Chromatic 'Iraq (Bd): Bd C D + D Ed F#(d) G + F#(d) G A + G A Bd

With the F# note, the maqam Rahat al-Arwah on Bd appears, with Hijazi on D.

Recap

There is a high likelihood that the medieval entity termed 'Iraq, known in various guises as a trichord, a tetrachord, and a number of modes, branched out in different directions and gave rise to many important modal entities in subsequent Middle Eastern music. One path possibly led to the 'hard chromatic' augmented second tetrachord by which it is now recognized around the world (Hijazi); another led to modes of the "soft chromatic" tetrachord on non-neutral scale degrees; yet another led to the elaboration of trichord-based melodic structures upon the neutral intervals of the fundamental scale ('Iraq/Awj and Sikah), and their subsequent incorporation into major and harmonic major tonality: either implicit, as in Turkish maqam music, or explicit, as in the related modal traditions in Greece and the Balkans.