#and this is translated from Swedish:

[doriana-gray-games]

My father wanted me to send this to you all

He said you needed more dad jokes.

He also wants to draw or smth for you all ❤️🥹

♥️🫖🌹 so, it’s not just Mrs Hudson that is cheering yall on 🥰

[sashayed]

For Nicklas Bäckström, it became extra emotional when he walked over to Ovetchkin's wife Nastya in her box, and the greatness of the moment sank in. – I just hugged her. Then it let go. It was the same as when I saw Ovi here. I was very teary-eyed. It was very special. I've known him for a long time. I've known his family for a long time…, says Bäckström and gets teary-eyed again. You got a kiss from him here, and it was a bit of a beer shower. How has it been here? – Yes, exactly. I'll probably get a kiss on the mouth later tonight too, laughs Bäckström, who was then asked if it would be as wild a celebration as after the Stanley Cup victory in 2018. That celebration became almost even more famous than the victory itself. – Haha, yes, you can come with me to DC and we'll party a little. [Google Translate]

[bogkeep]

Whats the worst thing about sweden

imo it's the aik fans, football fans in general are annoying as hell i dont understand y ppl care

eh, i can't imagine swedish football fans are any worse than norwegian ones, i haven't really run into a lot of them over so far!

my main complaints are: the kiosks sell shitty hot dogs and none of the grocery stores have bread slicing machines. life is so hard you guys

[leesbian42-rp]

Open RP

Saga - a young child with pale sunburned skin, very long platinum blonde hair and the brightest blue eyes, wearing a yellow 70s hippie dress - sat on the floor of her Dad's car, an old red one she didn't know the name of.

She pressed against the old weathered leather seats and hid as much as she could from the explosions and gunshots ringing from the outside. Her Dad had left to find something to eat a while ago, probably dumpster diving or pickpocketing, and he had yet to return. Saga hoped he was out of harms way, as well as anyone could living in Gotham City.

(She missed her home country, in times as these. The government and Authority had been the reason of her mother's passing, and the eviction of their tiny house in Falun. But she hadn't needed to worry about the violent fights as these there, hadn't needed to worry about her Dad getting in the crossfire or exploding alive. Barely had she needed to worry much about goons in general.)

Saga looked up through the windows again, fire casting orange shadows across the buildings across the street, hoping her Dad would hurry back so they could leave this city already. Or at least this part of it. She tugged her knees closer to her chest, hugging herself tightly as she listened to the quickly approaching fight outside.

She'd give Dad a few more minutes before she'd drive away from here herself, despite her being far too small for such a thing. Maybe they could try Metropolis or Fawcett next time? She thought that was the name of the cities at least... Or just some normal city for once!

She hugged herself tighter, covering her ears as the sounds got louder, tears threatening to fall as all she could only think was:

Where is Dad?! Dad, come onnn hurry!!!

Where is he???????

Dad, where are you? Come back! I want my dad, I want my dad, I want my dad-

Jag vill ha min mamma- I want my mommy!!

[designobjectory]

Reproduction Renaissance revival door handle Björkboda 25 by Byggnadsapoteket/Rakennusapteekki, Finland. Originally manufactured by Björkboda, Finland. Nickel-plated brass and wood; steel interior parts.

Most architectural hardware factories in Sweden, Russia, and Finland produced Renaissance revival door hardware of this type from the late 19th through early 20th centuries. This model is from the end of the 19th century and shows the ornate scalloped edge rosette plates and beaded detail common in that period.

[livisart]

det var en gång en konungason, som var ute och red i månskenet

[skydaemon]

moomin comics remain elite

[dxppercxdxver]

do you like cold wet sat men rotting from the inside out and also cold wet sad women rotting from the inside out and concerning shrimpies regarding homophobia and a detective/sidekick romance for freaks and a guy whose relationship in his wife can literally never be categorized and 11 guys named johann?? come on down to niklas natt och dag's the wolf and the watchman to experience all of that And a deep and pervasive sense of dread (this is a good book. i promise)

[blekitnyzamek]

Polish translator was wrong but it wasn't his fault?!

AKA: First translation wasn't based on actual published version BUT on Scottish press reprint?

I'm trying to write my BA thesis (it's going really slow but I'm cooking it) and I wanted to write subsection about Valancy's name, which in 1st Polish edition, is Joanna not Valancy. About this fragment exactly:

As you can see – there is a lot of deleted content. But let's look on the name of Valancy's maternal grandfather: Amos Wansbarra. In Polish version: Amos Barraclud. Which, if I can say that, is totally unreasonable change.

I was also interested how this paragraph looks in manuspript. How changing name of heroine from Miranda (because that was OG name) to Valancy affected that part. And I was really shocked when I read that:

Look at Note G1 and annotation 3. Originaly name of Valancy's maternal family was Barraclough. Very similar to Barraclud. And there is THE question I am asking:

How does Karol knew what was in the manuscript?!

This book shipment took a month to get to me from Canada to Poland in XXI century but suddenly Karola Borawski/Bobrzynowski had access to original text in 1939 at hand? No, something is not adding up.

So i started digging: (and oh Lord I like it and I am good at it)

Blue Castle was reprinted in press after book publication. In Scotish Dundee Courier (March 10 – April 13, 1927) and Canadian Countryman (August 27, 1927 – January 14, 1928). In the second one we have Amos Wansbarra so i guess cased closed. BUT IN THE DUNDEE COURIER THERE IS ORIGINAL SURNAME.

I don't think that they changed it from Barraclough to Barraolouirh; I can theorize that machine just malfunctioned and scanned letters wrong.

But it leaves me with conclusion: that first Polish translator didn't have access to published, final version of the book. So maybe, only maybe, that all deleted content – that wasn't his fault. Maybe it was Scotts all along xD Maybe THEY cut it short to match press format and Karol wasn't aware, that there were some drastic cuts.

I would really like to check that! But I can't! Because I'm not British 😭 My university doesn't subscribe to site containing this paper. I don't have £14.99 right now to spare to pay myself and it's not on internet archive either. So I don't know what I will do with it by now, but I will try to get to it in some way. Free way.

[if there is person, whose university is giving access to British Newspaper Archive... you would be the sweetest and kindest creature on this planet, if you would like to share with me 👉👈]

So, to sum it up:

the translation is wrong (?) but this time it isn't Karol's fault 😳

and it's kinda refreshing

LOL

[0ozie]

A Gift From Him

Chapter 01; The Foggy Abyss

A work in progress primochain fic, written by me. I’m honestly not sure I’ll ever actually finish this, and I don’t even have a clear story in mind, just chain (and someone else) being summoned to serve the ministry and their musical attempt at world domination.

Read here or on AO3!

//cw: passive suicidal ideation, ghouls being ghoulish

Water. It surrounded him for miles, obscured his view and altered the lights from above. Cold, dark, and damp– expansive but claustrophobic. A place he’d call home for all of eternity, or for as long as he lived. The Abyss of the Pit. There were no real buildings, nothing that could be recognized as one. Instead most formed dens under the muddy sand or in the dead carcasses of some ancient hellbeast that failed to be the victor in a battle against another.

The ghoul wandered around the pitch black of the depths. Scarce was the prey, and even more scarce was a friend. He could try to take all he wanted but the familiar and rabid glow of another ghoul’s bioluminescence would chase him off every time. He failed to return the favour every time another ghoul would come to steal his own catch. Still, malnourished and alone, he would persevere. Go home and reread every script carved into sea glass by long dead ancients that praised his Lord. Retreat into the comfort of the bones that made up his home and wait for the snow of some unfortunate souls' remains to fall down into the abyss.

All for what? Everyday was the same. The only advantage he had was his translucent body and even then, other ghouls used it far better than he could ever hope to. Maybe it was because they had packs. Maybe it was because they were bigger. Or, maybe, it was because he was destined to fall and become someone else’s dinner. Sleep tempted him— one only death could bring— but what feasible way did he have? There wasn’t much in the Abyss and starvation would be far slower than any he could bring upon himself. He couldn’t find it in himself to will away his own instincts when other ghouls attacked and so he was left to repeat the same cycle every day.

Wake up.

Read the scripture.

Hunt… and then fail to keep it.

Retreat and come up with a plan.

Scavenge for someone’s leftovers— only to be chased off by another ghoul more desperate.

Retreat.

Read the scriptures.

Sleep.

Wake up.

Read the scripture.

Hunt… and then fail to keep it.

Retreat and come up with a plan.

Scavenge for someone’s leftovers— only to be chased off by another ghoul more desperate.

Retreat.

Read the scriptures.

Sleep.

Wake up.

Read the scripture.

Scavenge.

Return home with another ghouls lungs.

Devour.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep…

Where was he? It was bright. Too bright. Far too bright. He couldn’t see anything. Everything was obscured by whatever was glowing in front of him. And then it all dimmed. He could see again.. or.. he could see better, at least. Something foggy and pale in front of him. Hair darker than the Abyss’ depths. It wasn’t cold here. Much warmer actually. Steaming. He could feel his squishy flesh let go of the cold water it held, only for it to be replaced by something much more humid. The figure’s lower half turned red as it’s.. arms— were those arms?— moved something dark and unsaturated over itself.

The ghoul couldn’t explain why he felt compelled to reach out to it. To them. He reached into the fog and froze up when he hit something cold and invisible. When he pulled his hand away he could clearly see where his hand had been. It was less blurry. Clear. There was someone on the other side. Skin bare for him to see, hair as long as the sea herself. They were blasphemy brought to life. And so, he tried to leave them a message; sliding his webbed fingers along the cool, damp glass, in hopes of them seeing.

Hallå?

[balkanlila]

i torture my good friend mal on a daily basis... yes, this is a lila analysis

[berryesque]

finding out abt arcane dubs

[seele-unter-weiten-falten]

#Repost @swedenrockmagazine

Unser Fotograf Kristian @reutermp Reuter ist in Finnland und erkundet das Rockfest in Turku.

Natürlich hat er seine Kamera dabei. Hier sind die Bilder von Till Lindemann und ein Kommentar dazu.

Morbid, schräg und abgedreht – so lassen sich Till Lindemann am besten beschreiben. Aus Sicherheitsgründen dürfen Fotografen nicht im Fotograben stehen. Nicht wegen der Fische oder Pasteten, die da herumgeworfen werden, sondern weil Till manchmal emotional wird und Mikrofonständer etc. vom Bühnenrand kickt.

Nach all seinen Jahren bei Rammstein weiß Till genau, wie man das Publikum unterhält! Viele Künstler, die ihre Stammbands verlassen und solo gehen, erreichen nie wieder denselben Status. Man denke nur an Steve Harris und seinen British Lion, die kleine Clubs kaum ausverkauft haben, während Till Lindemann Festivals als Headliner spielt!

Till hat einfach das gewisse Etwas, und seine Musik spricht viele an! Ein echter Showman eben!

Weitere Fotos findet ihr auf unserer Facebook-Seite.

#Repost @swedenrockmagazine

Our photographer Kristian @reutermp Reuter is in Finland, scouting the Rockfest festival in Turku.

He has his camera with him, of course, and here are the pictures of Till Lindemann and a comment about them.

"Morbid, strange and twisted are some of the many words to describe Till Lindemann. For safety reasons, photographers are not allowed to stand in the photo ditch, it's not because of the fish or pies that are thrown, or anything like that, but it's because Till sometimes gets emotional and kicks microphone stands etc. from the edge of the stage.

After all his years with Rammstein, Till knows exactly how to entertain the audience! Many artists who leave their main bands and go solo never reach the same status. Just look at Steve Harris and his British Lion, who barely sold out small clubs while Till Lindemann headlines festivals!

There's just something about Till and the music really appeals to many! A showman of its kind, too!"

You can see more pictures on our Facebook page.

[shigussy]

i love technology. google translate isnt the best but when u need to talk to someone that only speaks a language u don't know it's very useful.

[valaratminaforaldrar]

dog island is so real

[designobjectory]

Reproduction 19th century neoclassical door handle in brass or nickel-plated brass by Byggnadsapoteket/ Rakennusapteekki Finland, after an original by Låsfabriksaktiebolaget E.A.Näsman & Co, Sweden, late 19th century.

Neoclassical-style door handles have been produced by many factories in Sweden and Finland up to the present day. The exaggeratedly round curves of this model are typical of the 19th century; later versions tend to be slimmer.