#marconi-class

[carbone14]

Le sous- marin Luigi Torelli rentre à Bordeaux après sa troisième patrouille – Bataille de l'Atlantique – Bordeaux – France – 4 février 1941

Le 9 janvier 1941, le sous-marin Luigi Torelli de la classe Marconi part pour une nouvelle mission. Le 15 janvier, il coule le navire à vapeur grec Nemea (5 101 t) et le norvégien Brask (4 079 t). Le Nemea n'a pas coulé immédiatement et l'équipage est remonté à bord avec les survivants du Brask. Le lendemain, le vapeur grec Nikolaos Filinis (3 111 t) est coulé. Le 28 janvier, le Torelli rencontre le vapeur anglais Urla (5 198 t), une unité isolée du convoi HX 102. Le navire est coulé et tout l'équipage est secouru. Attaqué par trois destroyers, le Torelli rentre à sa base le 4 février 1941.

[ashes-16-al-wallpapers]

[whiteraven87]

Fallen Time | Chapter 17 | Impact Echo (17/28)

-> Main Masterlist

Fallen Time Introduction | Dramatis Personae

Fallen Time Chapter Masterlist

pairing: Toto Wolff x Emilia Horner (Christian Horner daughter) short summary: Fallen Time is a Titanic x Formula 1 crossover fanfiction. Set aboard the doomed ship in 1912, it follows familiar F1 faces reimagined in a world of class divides, forbidden love, and looming disaster. A story of passion, sacrifice, and what remains when the ocean takes everything. warnings: age gap, forbidden love, tragedy, angst, major character death, minor character death word count: 71 k read on: AO3 - Wattpad - or read below 🎧 Spotify playlist -> Fallen Time playlist

Chapter 17 | Impact Echo

Titanic – Bridge and Upper Deck, April 14th, 1912, 11:35 PM

Tense silence reigned on the bridge. First Officer Murdoch stood by the helm, eyes narrowed into the thick blackness ahead. The temperature had dropped sharply, and the air carried the scent of snow — raw, sharp, unsettling. The night was cloudless, the moon too faint to offer guidance, and the sea stretched out like a glassy void.

Several iceberg warnings had come through the Marconi room. Too many to dismiss. Too few, it seemed, to slow down the mighty vessel. Titanic steamed forward with prideful speed, heedless of the silent threat looming in the dark.

The officers scanned the void with a façade of calm, until — The crow's nest bell clanged out in alarm.

"Iceberg, right ahead!" came the desperate shout of the lookout.

Murdoch leapt to action.

"Hard a-starboard! Full astern!" he barked.

The crew sprang into motion. Engines howled. But the ship was too fast. The iceberg — too close. And in that dreadful stillness, every second dragged like a lifetime.

"Too late!" another officer shouted, white-knuckled against the rail.

A bone-shattering roar split the night.

Titanic scraped along the iceberg with a scream of tortured metal. Her steel hull tore like parchment. The battle had begun — a battle already lost.

Upper Deck, moments earlier

The world was still whole. Still safe.

Toto Wolff held Emilia in his arms, feeling her body tremble not just from the cold, but from everything they had endured. He looked into her face — those eyes he now knew like the beat of his own heart — and saw a mark on her cheek. A thin red line. Too familiar.

His jaw clenched.

"Who did this to you?" he asked, voice low and sharp as a blade.

Emilia turned away. She didn't have to answer.

"Horner," Toto growled. "Goddamned Horner."

She gripped his hand tighter.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I'm with you now."

A few paces away, George Russell watched the two of them, a bitter ache curling in his chest. She clung to Toto as if he were sanctuary itself — and maybe he was. George didn't feel envy. Just a heavy sorrow. And a strange flicker of pride that she had made it.

Beside him, Charles Leclerc smirked.

"Romeo and Juliet. Let's hope this time it ends better, no?"

George nodded faintly. He didn't believe in fairy tales anymore.

Sebastian Vettel, ever watchful, turned to them from the railing.

"Alright, lovers. Time to get inside. It's freezing, and the night's just begi—"

It happened then.

A jolt.

A massive lurch, as if the ship had been seized by an invisible hand. A metallic groan ripped across the deck — long, grating, unnatural.

Titanic shuddered as though an earthquake had torn through her very bones.

Emilia screamed, clinging to Toto, who held her tightly, bracing them both against the rail. George grabbed Charles by the arm; Sebastian scanned the horizon, his face taut with alarm.

"What the hell was that?!" Max shouted, gripping a nearby support beam.

Toto's eyes darted across the deck, heart pounding like a war drum.

"That wasn't turbulence..." he said, voice barely above a whisper. "That was something else."

From below, voices began to rise.

Footsteps. Shouts. Confusion.

And then — silence. A silence that rang with finality.

11:40 PM.

Titanic had begun her final battle — not for glory or prestige, but for the lives aboard her.

First Class Music Salon, April 14th, 1912, 11:40 PM

A graceful waltz drifted through the elegant room.

Lewis Hamilton stood at the head of the string quartet, violin poised, commanding with his usual quiet grace.

Then he felt it. A tremor underfoot. Subtle, but wrong. He froze for half a beat, watching the chandeliers sway ever so gently, the delicate lamps shivering in their sconces. He looked to the other musicians — they continued, faces stoic, hands steady.

Professionals to the end.

Lewis closed his eyes. Inhaled. Continued to play. But his heartbeat was a silent metronome, ticking faster than the strings could match.

Something was wrong. And soon, everyone would know.

Main Dining Room – Captain's Table

There was an air of artificial calm at the table. Captain Edward Smith exchanged a swift glance with Bruce Ismay, and both men offered a reassuring smile, sensing the rising tension among their distinguished guests.

"My dear guests, it's likely just a larger swell," Ismay said with a casual wave of his hand. "Titanic is a giant—nothing can threaten her."

Christian Horner nodded, as though comforted, but his face betrayed a flicker of unease. Geri Horner clutched her wine glass a little too tightly, exchanging a nervous glance with Lady Stroll, whose face had gone pale.

Only Thomas Andrews rose abruptly from his seat. His eyes locked onto the captain's with a gravity none had yet witnessed. He leaned on the table, bowing slightly to the guests.

"Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen..." he said calmly, though with unmistakable firmness. "I need to inspect something below."

Without waiting for a response, he exited swiftly. Captain Smith, with a polite smile masking growing concern, stood as well.

"If you'll excuse me for a moment—I'll return shortly."

Once both men were gone, Ismay casually topped off his wine and offered the remaining guests a composed smile.

"Titanic is a colossus, my dear ladies. There's nothing to fear."

Third Class – The Bottas Family Cabin

Valtteri Bottas bolted upright, startled awake by the horrific screech of tearing metal. His bare feet splashed into icy water already pooling on the floor.

"Bloody hell!" he shouted, grabbing his coat. "Up, all of you—now! There's water coming in!"

His family sprang into action, the children wailing in confusion. Bottas flung the cabin door open and was met with chaos — people running, shouting, water rushing through the corridors like a beast unleashed.

His heart pounded, but his mind was sharp. He scooped up the children and turned to his wife.

"Run! Quickly! We have to get to the upper decks!"

The ocean, it seemed, had decided to swallow them whole — and without warning.

Boiler Room – Engine Deck

Ollie Bearman heard the deafening roar that drowned even the thunder of the engines. He turned — and froze.

A wall of freezing seawater was rushing in, surging with monstrous speed. The steel had been breached. Chaos erupted.

"Seal the bulkheads!" Ollie bellowed, tossing his tools aside. "Now! Move it, damn it!"

Without hesitation, he sprinted for the mechanisms that could close the watertight doors. His crewmates screamed behind him — but he knew one thing:

If they didn't seal those compartments now, Titanic would sink faster than anyone could comprehend.

Hospital Bay

Soft lamplight cast a warm glow over Kimi Antonelli's pale face. He lay unconscious, still bruised from the earlier assault. A weary nurse sat beside him, vigilant despite her fatigue.

Then came the noise. A crack — low, unnatural, tearing through the silence.

The room trembled. The lamp flickered.

Kimi stirred, eyes snapping open in panic, letting out a pained moan.

"Easy, you're safe," the nurse said, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. "It's probably... the engines."

But her eyes flicked toward the door, and her voice wavered.

She knew that wasn't the sound of engines.

Third Class – The Antonelli Family Cabin

Sophie was sleeping peacefully, clutching her fabric rabbit, when the wrenching screech jolted her father awake. Moments later, icy water slithered under the door.

"We have to go!" he shouted to his wife, already lifting Sophie into his arms.

The little girl wrapped herself around his neck, sleepy and confused.

"Papa... why is the floor swimming?" she asked in a whisper, eyes wide.

He didn't answer at first. He forced a smile, hiding the terror in his chest.

"It's nothing, sweetheart. We're just going for some fresh air. Hold on tight."

He exchanged a grim glance with his wife. They both knew. This wasn't nothing. This was the beginning of the end.

The water was coming faster now. And outside, the corridors echoed with screams.

Second Class – Lando and Carlos's Cabin

In the cramped cabin, a fierce chess debate raged on.

"That was a brilliant move, Carlos. Just admit defeat," Lando Norris declared with a smug grin as he moved his bishop.

"Not a chance. Your bishop was unguarded — that's a gaping flaw in your defense..."

Then the floor jolted. The chessboard trembled. Pieces toppled over.

"What the hell was that?"

"No idea. It sounded like... like something tore apart."

Lando reached for his boots. Carlos was already at the door.

"Looks like our match just became irrelevant. Come on — we need to see what's going on."

First-Class Kitchen – Esteban Ocon

Esteban Ocon was loading elegant dessert portions onto a silver tray when something strange stirred beneath his feet. First, it was a subtle trembling of the floor. Then — a shuddering rattle, as though dozens of dishes had shifted at once.

Silence fell.

Everyone in the kitchen froze, eyes darting from one to another, each waiting for someone else to name the unease.

"Was that... a bang?" one of the chefs asked, his voice uncertain.

Esteban set the tray down, slowly.

"Something definitely just happened..."

First-Class Smoking Room – Niki and Alonso

Niki Lauda and Fernando Alonso were lounging in deep armchairs, their glasses of brandy in hand. The air was thick with smoke and unspoken doubts, their conversation reduced to dry, biting comments about Toto's daring plan.

"Think Wolff has her already?" Alonso muttered.

"If not, he's getting ready."

Then — the tremor.

Glasses quivered. The engines stopped.

"Feel that?" Niki asked softly, his eyes narrowing as he glanced toward the windows.

"Yeah," Alonso replied, setting down his drink. "And the engines... they've gone silent."

For a moment, there was only the stillness — heavy, foreboding.

"We need to find out what's happening," Niki said suddenly, rising with urgency. "And we need to find Toto. He should know something's wrong."

Alonso nodded and followed him without another word.

Both men knew — something had shifted. Something far worse than they had imagined.

*

At that moment, no one aboard — not the rich, nor the poor — understood what had truly begun.

That Titanic had less than a few hours left to live.

That in just two hours, all the luxury, all the certainty, all the lives they had known would be claimed by the bottom of the Atlantic.

And by dawn, fewer than half the souls aboard would remain to see the light.

A desperate fight for survival — and for what remained of their humanity — had begun.

A battle that would spare no one.

===========

Next -> Chapter 18 | Strength Prevails

===========

[scotianostra]

Professor Hector Munro Macdonald, one of Europe’s foremost mathematicians, died on the 16th of May, 1935.

Both of Hector Macdonald’s parents, his mother Annie Munro and his father Donald Macdonald, were from Kiltearn. Hector was the older of his parents’ two sons and, as a young child, he lived in Edinburgh. However, not long after he began his schooling in the Scottish capital, the family moved to a farm near Fearn, in Easter Ross. After arriving, Hector attended the local school before attending the Royal Academy in Tain.

He completed his school education at the Old Aberdeen Grammar School before entering Aberdeen University in 1882.

After studying mathematics at Aberdeen University, he graduated with First Class Honours in 1886 and won a Fullerton Scholarship. Macdonald proceeded to Cambridge to take the Mathematical Tripos after completing his first degree in Scotland. He graduated from Clare College Cambridge in 1891 and held a fellowship there until 1908 but in 1914 he was awarded an honorary fellowship of his former College. He was awarded the Royal Society’s Royal Medal in 1916 and, during 1916-18 served as president of the London Mathematical Society. During World War I, Macdonald did war service in London attached to the Ministry of Munitions where he dealt with wages.

This is where it all starts to go over my head, Macdonald worked on electric waves and solved difficult problems regarding diffraction of these waves by summing series of Bessel functions. He corrected his 1903 solution to the problem of a perfectly conducting sphere embedded in an infinite homogeneous dielectric in 1904 after a subtle error was pointed out by French mathematician Henri Poincaré.

The major problem which he tackled was that of wireless waves. About the time that Macdonald published his prize winning essay on electric wave, Marconi was successful in the transmission of the first wireless signals across the Atlantic. However, this posed a major problem, since according to the theory as then developed this should have been impossible.

Maths, it’s all Greek to me!

Macdonald became Professor of Mathematics at the University of Aberdeen in 1905 and remained at the University for the rest of his life.

[alquido]

anyone here know about italian prog rock? i recently listened to Premiata Forneria Marconi's first album Storia di un minuto (as part of a class i'm taking) and i really enjoyed it. e festa and dove quando parte 2 have made the biggest impression on me so far, love the classical music influence

[theboywithburninghands]

Here goes nothing. Arranged Marriage Funnybunny. Mostly worldbuilding and setup in this one. It was... something to make, that's for sure. Uh don't expect like... Jane Austen, but I went for a more... uh I guess... feel that was more old school? Just imagine a British narrator. Anyway here take it- T/W: Mentions of miscarriages, sexism, fantasy casual racism Primum Peccatum Chapter 1: You Don't Own Me

Primum Peccatum was an island a half-mile off the southeastern coast of Blackshell Bay, New Hirnantia. Inaccessible by any method other than ferry or private boat, Primum Peccatum was known throughout the county as a haven for the wealthy. Though Blackshell Bay was hardly a shantytown, those living in the coastal city often found themselves gazing wistfully or covetously at the island whenever they were on the southeastern beach in summertime or in the fish market near the harbor. Close enough to see, but far enough to never quite touch. Unless they were lucky enough to strike oil, inherit a good amount of money from a wealthy relative, or marry into one of the families already living on the island.

The Shutnyk family had lived on Primum Peccatum for two generations now. Originally a family of woodsmen, Nikolai Shutnyk broke the previously thought impermeable class barrier through, as said before, dumb luck. Nikolai, while living at a lumber mill in Telychia, would often go for long walks in the thick Telychian woods to try and curb his insomnia. While out there, he stumbled upon an as of then undiscovered natural gas reserve, and, under the nose of the logging company, managed to keep it a secret. Nikolai was talented with numbers and knew how to read and write despite his lower-class background, and drafted up a series of documents that he sent to several different gas companies along with some samples. In the documents, he offered to reveal the location of this reserve if he was given 100,000 crowns up front, and 5% of the profits from the reserves.

Although he was initially ignored, one struggling company by the name of East-West Renewable Energy sent an inspector to Nikolai, and they met in secret in the nearby town of Perrault’s End. Nikolai took the inspector out to the woods, and, when it was found to be very much real, the company gave Nikolai his up front payment, and began drilling. Nikolai quit his job at the end of his shift the next day, and moved to Perrault’s End. East-West’s earnings exploded overnight, and even though he had only asked for 5% of the earnings, it was enough to keep him sustained without the need of a job for a good two decades.

Newly wealthy and with a steady income, Nikolai Shutnyk caught the attention of several  prominent families in Perrault’s End. He was soon married to the daughter of one Cartofolio Marconi, a magistrate for several industrialists in the much larger neighboring city of Angel’s Peak. Nikolai’s skill with numbers made him a valuable asset to his father-in-law’s corporate clients, and he was given a share of the company’s earnings for his hard work. 

Nikolai and his wife, Clara Shutnyk, took the opportunity to purchase some land on Primum Piccatum, and had their manor built there. Nikolai continued his work for his father-in-law, and had a son with Clara, who they named Vladimir. Nikolai continued working until his death from a ruptured spleen when he was 61. Vladimir continued in his father’s stead, looking after his mother at his island manor and eventually finding a wife, the daughter of a surgeon named Amadeo. Her name was Mirella, and together they had a child of their own, a daughter, named Pomni. Her name was unique, taken from the Telychian word for “forget,” after Mirella’s favorite flower, the forget-me-not.

Pomni was the only child of Vladimir and Mirella, not for lack of trying. Mirella had miscarried three times before managing to have an underweight baby girl 4 weeks early. Luckily, her parents had access to high quality care thanks to their standing, and their newly born daughter lived. Pomni grew only somewhat larger in the following 25 years, never reaching any taller than 5 feet. 

Had she lived in more modern times, there would be better and more scientific terms to describe the way her mind worked, but her parents and teachers only referred to her as “a bit odd” or “not quite there.” She was intelligent, that couldn’t be denied: she was writing full sentences at six years of age and read ravenously, but her social skills left much to be desired. She had few school friends, rarely speaking at all unless spoken to, and didn’t smile unless she was actually happy.. However, her taciturn nature was never to be mistaken for weakness, and she had an intensely stubborn streak. 

When she was nine years old, a young lady in her class named Fredericka and her sycophants, seeing Pomni’s diminutive stature and hearing her unusual name, surrounded her desk one Monday before their lessons. Pomni looked up from her collection of Telychian short stories when the girls called her all manner of things, most of them pejoratives they’d overheard from their nationalist relatives. 

Pomni looked back down at her book, her face placid. Fredericka, confused and angry that her usual routine appeared ineffective on the quiet young lady, turned back to her friends. 

“She’s not just ugly, she’s deaf!” she declared.

Her laugh became a shriek as Pomni lunged for Fredericka’s arm, burying her sharp little teeth into the taller girl’s hand. Blood oozed from the punctured skin between her thumb and index finger and onto the polished hardwood floor. 

Despite the headmistress’s best efforts, Pomni couldn’t be made to apologize. Vladimir had to be summoned to her school, but even her father couldn’t persuade Pomni to apologize to her classmate. She said this to Vladimir. 

“She isn’t sorry, Papa. So neither am I.” 

Pomni was forbidden from the manor’s library for a month for her churlish behavior, but privately, Vladimir was impressed. His own father would never have obtained his fortune without steely resolve. Had he followed the herd, the lumber company would have sold that natural gas reserve to line the pockets of the already wealthy board of directors, and Nikolai wouldn’t have seen a single crown. 

Pomni’s classmates wisely decided to leave her alone after this incident, keeping their insults well out of earshot. Pomni graduated near the top of her class with excellent marks, a sure sign she would make a fine schoolteacher or court stenographer. Indeed, she inherited her father’s skill with numbers and attention to detail, and even began assisting her father with the heaps of paperwork from some of his weightier cases. 

Mirella loved her daughter as any mother should, and just like most mothers, she worried about her quite often. Oddness aside, Pomni had almost no interest in finding a husband. A little independence was important for any young lady, it was the sign of a healthy brain, which Pomni certainly possessed. But whenever Mirella asked her daughter if she saw any young gentlemen that caught her eye when she was across the reach running errands for the family, or in the library or the city park, her answers were unsatisfactory. 

“Oh yes, I did see a man with two different colored eyes. One blue, one brown. I believe the term is ‘heterochromia,’ did you know that, mother?”

“I saw a man who had lost an arm. I suppose he must have been a soldier, or perhaps a mill worker. It’s just terrible that someone’s livelihood can cost someone a limb, don’t you, mother?”

Mirella worried. Pomni was a pretty little thing. She had her father’s snowy fair skin and her own raven black hair, cut into a short little bob. When she smiled, which wasn’t often, it was illuminating. But she was 25, and that beauty wouldn’t last. In New Hirnantia, it was agreed that if a woman wasn’t married by age 30, she was destined for spinsterhood. Just five years… If Pomni wanted to carry on her family’s legacy, she needed to find a husband. She was their sole heir. Mirella couldn’t put herself through another miscarriage… and with her own advancing age, a failed pregnancy was all the more likely. 

There were many young men around Blackshell Bay that would have suited Pomni perfectly well had she just given them the time of day. University professors, magistrates, authors and poets… men who held the same appreciation for learning and the arts that Mirella’s daughter did. And they were steadily decreasing in number as other women Pomni’s age, some younger, took them to be their husbands. 

She confided in her husband one Spring evening before bed, collapsing into tears as her worries burst out like water from a crumbling dam. Vladimir held his wife and listened to her woes, stroking her hair and letting the torrent run its course. By the time Mirella’s sobs had waned into hiccups, Vladimir smiled at her. 

“Darling, I’m so terribly sorry you’ve kept all of this inside. The pain must have been monumental. And yes, I too have worried that our daughter may carry the family name to her grave. But, you needn’t worry any longer, lisichka. I believe a solution is within reach. I simply have to write a few letters. Our daughter will be happily wed by her 26th birthday.”

—

Pomni stepped off the ferry onto the dock, sturdy oak wood imported from the monolithic forests of Ediacara out west. 

“Be careful on your way home, Ms. Shutnyk.” the ferryman said. 

“You say this whenever I exit the boat, sir. I assure you, no sheer cliffs or bottomless canyons have suddenly appeared on my commute home.” Pomni replied. 

The sun set from within the treeline, coloring the horizon a bright tangerine. Pomni walked up the path to the Shutnyk estate, a weighty book under her arm. It was a collection of fairy tales, complete with color plates. Pomni typically preferred her fiction with a touch more verisimilitude, but she had already gone through her father’s library and most of the library in town, so she needed to wait for her favorite authors to actually produce new material. This would satiate her for a time. 

Pomni wore a plain white dress and matching white shoes. She also wore her favorite straw sunhat with the black hatband, although it had been rather overcast today. Not that she minded. She did burn rather easily due to her Telychian blood. 

She continued up the hill past the Rooker estate. She would have stopped to say hello to Mr. Kinger on any other day, but it was getting late, and summer was on the horizon. Mosquitos and other biting insects would surely be emboldened by the evening dark and emerge from the trees soon. 

She saw the manor up the dirt path, second on the right, just after the Rooker house. In the dim light, she could see her mother’s immaculately maintained flower gardens in front of the delicate pink walls of the manor. It was just becoming summer, so the gardens were lush with hot pink roses and silky white gardenias. Pomni had thought about taking up gardening as a hobby, but she found the entire affair tedious. At least with books, you wouldn’t have to wait six months to read them. 

She took her key from her pocketbook and unlocked the manor door, skirting inside and closing it behind her to keep the bugs away. 

“Pomni, is that you?” her father called from the dining room. 

“Yes it is, good evening, Father.” she called back, locking the door behind her and hanging her handbag and sunhat on the foyer hooks. 

“Come and join us, supper is ready,” said Vladimir.

“Just a moment, I haven’t gotten out of my shoes…” Pomni sat on the floor and slid off her shoes, placing them neatly on the shoe rack and peeling off her socks, dropping them down the laundry chute. She set her book down at the foot of the stairs and she briskly walked into the dining room. 

“Good evening, darling, so good to see you!” Mirella said from her spot at the table. Pomni returned her salutation, looking at the plate set out for her. Honey-glazed garlic salmon, her favorite. Usually she only had this for her birthday or to celebrate the start of fishing season.

“Oh, goodness. Thank you, what’s the occasion?”

“No occasion, dear, we just had Zooble cook your favorite tonight. Come, sit, enjoy it!” Vladimir said, motioning her to come and sit at the dining room table.

Zooble stood in the corner of the room in their usual tuxedo, nodding wordlessly at Pomni. Zooble was a shape-person, their head a magenta sideways triangle with no visible mouth and mismatched limbs. Shapefolk originated from a harsh desert kingdom known as Dovicia, found across the southern sea. While they had a much different diet and anatomy from humans, no one shape-person was built the same way, humans and shapefolk had been close allies for centuries. Humans offered them much needed resources that couldn’t be found in the beastly Dovician desert, and the shapefolk in turn offered manpower, often moving into more temperate areas to escape the extreme temperatures. Zooble had been the caretaker of the manor for 3 years, ever since the previous caretaker, Lidio, retired to Blackshell Bay at the age of 70. So far, Pomni liked them a lot, even if she never enjoyed change that much. Zooble didn’t allow her mother and father to walk all over them like Lidio did. Sometimes her parents needed someone to tell them “no” that wasn’t her.

Pomni cut into her salmon filet and sampled it, giving a contented hum. “It’s delicious, Zooble. My compliments.” 

Zooble nodded. “Only doing what I’m paid for, Miss.” Their tone struck Pomni as oddly somber, but she ignored it.

“So how are you feeling, darling? Did you have a pleasant day?” Marella asked.

Pomni took a moment to chew and swallow, looking down at her food. “Yes, mother. I went for my usual constitutional in the park, and-”

“Eyes up, Pomni,” her father said. “Talk to your mother, not your dinner.””

Pomni bit her lip. She was a grown woman, and her parents still reprimanding her for her struggles with eye contact always touched a nerve. Maybe in grade school, but… 

She looked up at her mother. Even looking into Marella’s brown eyes made her feel itchy, prickles of heat running up her arms and down to her toes.

“-and I got a book from the library. I finished the last one.” 

As soon as she finished speaking, she put her eyes back onto her food, scratching her left foot with her right. 

“Molto bene, darling. Well, your father has some exciting news.” 

Marella looked over at her husband, who idly swirled the red wine in his glass. Vladimir glanced at his wife before clearing his throat and setting the glass down.

“Er- yes. A former client of mine has fallen into dire straits. You remember the Krolik family?”

Pomni thought for a moment as she chewed her food. She swallowed, had a sip of water and then spoke. 

“Yes. Yes, they had the embezzlement case. Their business partner, their name was… Dombrowski Worldwide, was charging a non-existent handling fee for their grain shipments and then pocketing it. They took around 60,000 crowns, and the Krolik-”

“Yes dear, exactly right! Your memory is astounding as always.” Vladimir said, the pride palpable in his voice. 

“What about them, father?” Pomni asked, working on cutting herself another piece of fish. 

“Well, as you know, we won the case. But unfortunately, the judicial expenses left the Krolik family in something of a financial rut. Even with all the Krolik siblings working on the family business, they haven’t quite been able to scrape themselves out of debt.”

“I see. How is that good news?” Pomni replied.

Zooble let out a louder than normal cough. 

“Well…” Vladimir took in a lengthy breath. “Their fourth son, er, Jax, is 22 and unmarried.” 

“Oh, I see. So he’s marrying into a wealthy family. That is good news!” Pomni replied. 

“Y-Yes, he does intend on marrying into a wealthy family. A-As a matter of fact-“

“Master Shutnyk,” Zooble suddenly spoke up. “Please. The longer you prolong the issue-”

“I don’t believe I requested your input, Zooble.” Vladimir said. The authority in his voice bordered on draconian. He never spoke to their caretaker like that, even during his foulest moods. 

“Apologies, sir.” Zooble said, bowing shortly. 

Pomni looked from Zooble to Vladimir. Her food sat momentarily forgotten in her cheek, before she chewed hastily and swallowed.

“Papa, is something the matter?” Pomni asked. She rarely referred to Vladimir as anything but “father” since she was twelve years old, only using “papa” when she was deeply anxious or in the midst of tears, be they of joy or sadness. 

“No, piccola, nothing is wrong at all.” Marella interjected. “This is all good news. Your father and I think you should marry that Krolik boy!”

Pomni put down her fork. She picked up her glass of water and quaffed the entire thing. 

“We have everything in order, you won’t have to worry about a thing! Your father spoke with the patriarch of the Krolik family- and what a fine man he is, larger than life, truly!- he’d be more than happy to have you wed his son. Oh, and you should meet his son! I’ve never met a more charismatic beastman! And-”

“Mirella!” Vladimir barked.

“I’m sorry but it’s true! He’s a gentleman, a real ambassador for his kind! And he’s only 22! You’ll love him, Pomni!”

Pomni prodded her filet with her fork. “I’ll… love him.” she echoed. Her eyes stared ahead, at nothing in particular. 

“I’m sure of it! He’s smart as a whip, just like you! He and all of his siblings. And goodness, he’s tall and handsome…”

Pomni picked up her plate and whipped it at the wall behind her. It soared through the air like a clay pigeon before shattering helplessly against the wall, Mirella yelping and Vladimir rising to his feet instinctively. Her half-eaten salmon adhered to the wall for a moment before peeling off and plopping onto the imported carpet, brown glaze stuck to both the wall and the carpet. 

Pomni turned to her parents, her blue eyes crystals of icelike fury. 

“What have I done wrong..?” she whispered. “What sin could I have committed that would motivate you to sell me off? Am I no better than a mare or a sow? Answer me! What was my transgression?!”

“Pomni, you’ve done nothing wrong…” Mirella began delicately. 

“Then I’ve always been nothing more than a commodity?!” Pomni cried. She looked to her father for aid. “Papa, what about your firm? Wasn’t I supposed to take over for you..? You always said I was so talented…”

“And you are, dear! You’re brilliant! But… clients would turn their nose up at a firm run by a woman. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth of our society. It’s why I want you to marry this man so you can-”

Pomni’s eyes lost the spark of fury in them, darkening with grief and betrayal. “…Papa.”

“So you can run the firm in my stead. You just need a man to serve as a figurehead. And believe me, Jax Krolik is charismatic enough to serve as a figurehead, I met with him only yesterday, and-”

“I haven’t! I don’t even know what this man- no, beastman looks like! How could you possibly think I’d be okay with you making such a rash decision behind my back? Are you really that heartless?!”

Pomni turned away from her parents once again. Zooble shook their head. 

“Fiends… heartless, deceitful fiends…” Pomni whispered. 

“Pomni, this was for your benefit.” Marella said stoically. “You’re 25. Time is running out for you. All the men who might have caught your attention are moving on to other women. Or even other men! We acted in your stead to make sure you had a fair shot at finding love, starting a family, being happy-”

“I am happy! Rather, I was happy until you thrust a knife into my back! Who are you to say what brings me joy and what doesn’t?!”

“I’m your mother, Pomni! And I was in your situation once! I was lucky enough that your father came along when he did-!”

“That’s enough from both of you!” Vladimir boomed. “Mirella, Pomni, sit back down.”

Mirella took her seat, but Pomni remained standing. 

“Pomni. Sit down.” 

“I won’t,” she said.

“We’ve already arranged a meeting with the Krolik family tomorrow afternoon.” Vladimir continued. “I assure you that once you meet Jax, your concerns will be assuaged. This wasn’t a decision made impetuously. Now, sit down, please.” 

Pomni’s lips quavered. She gradually slid back onto her chair.

“Good girl. Zooble, please clean that up before it stains the carpet. And the wall.” Vladimir motioned to the detritus on the carpet.

“Right away, Master Shutnyk.” Zooble said with another short bow. They hurriedly stepped out of the room, glancing at Pomni before going to get the dustpan. 

“We know how you feel, Pomni. It’s daunting to get married, but it’s part of a young woman’s life.” Mirella said. “And think about how much more you’ll have to do with a husband! An entire house all to yourself, new family to get to know… it’s an adventure! Besides, it trounces just going to town and back every day, wouldn’t you say?”

“No, mother. I don’t.” Pomni spat out the word “mother” like a poison. “I quite enjoy my time in town, thank you.”

“Well, now you can live in town! We’ve been to see their manor, and-”

“Well if you enjoy it so much, why don’t you live there in my stead? Clearly you’re infatuated with the man.” Pomni snapped.

“Pomni Shutnyk! You do NOT speak to your mother like that!” barked Vladimir. 

“I did not suffer the loss of three children to be disrespected by my only daughter!” Mirella exclaimed.

“If you’re going to treat me like this, then I wish I had died right along with them-”

Pomni put a hand to her mouth, immediately wishing she could reel the words back into her throat. Her mother’s face blanched, and Pomni felt tears well up in her eyes. 

“Pomni..!” her father gasped.

“I-I’m sorry…” Pomni managed to say. “I’m sorry, mother…” 

“You’ve said quite enough.” Vladimir asserted. “To your room, now. And you aren’t to come down until we tell you.”

Pomni, her pretty pale face damp with tears, rose from her chair and went into the foyer. Sniffling, she ascended the first step. She stopped, and turned, and hurriedly put her shoes on, sans her socks. She grabbed her pocketbook from the foyer hook. 

“Pomni?” her father’s voice came from the dining room. “Pomni, I instructed you to go to your room.”

She found her house key despite her blurred vision and unlocked the front door, easing it open. The sky was a dim orange and the trees mere black silhouettes, evening insects chirring. 

“Pomni!” her father called. There was the sound of a scraping chair. 

Pomni slipped through the door and shut it behind her, locking it behind her and pattering down the steps onto the dirt trail. She ran through the garden of the Shutnyk manor, wiping her eyes and nose and not looking back, even as she heard both of her parents shouting for her return. As far as she was concerned, it was no longer her home. 

Soon, she reached the main road, and turned left, hurrying further up the island and towards the church. 

[commodorez]

Vintage Computer Festival East XIX

When: April 12-14, 2024

Where: InfoAge Science and History Museums, 2201 Marconi Road, Wall, NJ 07719

VCF East is awesome, and will feature exhibits on Saturday and Sunday of the event, consignment sales of vintage equipment, talks on a variety of subjects, workshop space for kits and other old computer fun, classes on programming Atari home computers, and all sorts of other fun.

I'll be there all weekend long, and I hope to see you there!

[albatross-lancer]

Sorry for few words. Dying.

You will get distress call from USB-RS Guglielmo Marconi. It's a trap. They have Creighton-class frigates and some black orb that never misses. Tell Union we scuttled most of the database but they stole some data. Don0t know what.

Also tell Erzsébet I'm sorry and she was right and I love h

I realize you probably won't be able to see this, but thank you.

I've directed this to my superiors, who will decide on a course of action. @officialunionhr you might also want to take a look at this.

I don't have much to go on, but if it's possible I'll find Erzébet and pass this on.

[archivist-crow]

On this day:

SIGNALS FROM OUTER SPACE

On June 4, 1956, Washington State's naval observatory believed it had made radio contact with the planet Venus, picking up weak signals identified by its colossal radio-telescope. The following month Ohio State University also reported picking up radio signals from Venus.

Radio astronomer Dr. John D. Kraus said that the waves received were Class Two, quite different from Class One waves that were commonly caused by thunderstorms. At first the signals were thought to be freak interference from a local station, but the abundance of times and variations at which they were picked up when the telescope beam was trained exactly on Venus led to a revised conclusion. Since the invention of radio waves, transmissions believed to originate on Venus have been intermittently received on Earth.

Experience of the celestial signals began in the early 1900s. Guglielmo Marconi, inventor of wireless telegraphy, was on his yacht in the Mediterranean when he began to pick up signals on a surprise frequency, which he regarded as a code. Nikola Tesla, the electrical wizard, also reported picking up the cryptic codes from space at his laboratory in Colorado. In 1924, radio engineers reported and recorded intelligently directed chirps and chatters. A year later, according to Frank Edwards in his book Strangest of All, experiments recording wireless signals on film revealed that the bizarre signals "arrived in such fashion that they recorded in the form of caricature faces."

In 1958 scientists tracked a transmitting device traveling in space in excess of 9,000 mph en route to the moon. The device alternately slowed down and sped up before veering away from the moon and out into deep space. Its signals were picked up for three-hour periods, day after day, at a time when there were no manmade satellites in orbit.

Text from: Almanac of the Infamous, the Incredible, and the Ignored by Juanita Rose Violins, published by Weiser Books, 2009

[good--merits-accumulated]

More Dead Poets headcanons: historical (Belle Époque) edition

Is this just fully self-indulgence now? Yes. (Insert Starship Troopers gif: "I'M DOING MY PART!")

- Todd is the second son of a couturier who prefers writing fairytales about the dresses instead of doing business with them. He often slips away to go play in string quarters in little riverside bistros and sit in on writers' salons. Strictly speaking he doesn't need to sneak as nobody outside his family really knows who he is, but he does it anyway

- Neil is the contrastingly very high-profile son of a government minister who has seen Todd looking uncomfortable at various balls and recognises him one evening playing violin in the corner of a dingy little cafe, because HE'S also been sneaking out

- Charlie is a dilettante and hangs about with artists (to the dismay of his parents) and keeps the gossip rags well stocked. Neil became friends with him at fourteen out of spite for his parents then discovered that they got on extremely well and that was, as they say, that

- Meeks is a student at the newly-formed University of Paris, unfortunately dating these headcanons exactly to 1896. He spends his time working feverishly on investigating radio waves + using them in communication, a discovery he is unfortunately eventually beaten to by Guglielmo Marconi (yeah, the real guy). Meeks keeps up a significant correspondence both with scientific luminaries (on a first name basis with Max Planck somehow???) and the large amount of siblings he's left behind in a village near Drôme, spending all his allowance on ink and foolscap. (Yes, he speaks fluent Provençal!) Pitts is an American classmate (courtesy of his father working in the embassy), and does mysterious things with aniline dyes after classes in the shed at the bottom of his garden. They prudently don't ask

- Chris is one of Todd's father's clients who befriends him after he very succinctly tells her exactly what's wrong with the fabric and colour and silhouette of the dress her fiance ordered for her. Said fiance is Knox, who Chris is marrying not particularly out of anything more than a very lukewarm platonic affection, but more out of a desire to get out, now, and to decide on something, Now. Knox knows this but he's still convinced it will work out (?????). Ginny is Chris' best friend very explicitly disapproving about it the whole time, and half in love with her as well

- Cameron meanwhile is a pencil-pusher at the American embassy (he's French, though, not American) and befriends Knox and then Charlie and then everyone else through strange twists of fate. Secretly reads a lot of dime novels on the sly. Insists he doesn't

- For at least one glorious summer they all get out and go free. Meeks takes them all down to see his family and Neil goes careening down country back lanes on his (new, very handsome) bicycle, with Todd sitting precariously on the handlebars and laughing the whole way. Knox gets a barge ("Where from?" "Well, I came across it tethered, abandoned, just... over there." "Over THERE?" "Yes. What's the problem?" [DISTANT, EXTREMELY HEATED SHOUTING] "Ah, Christ.") and they all end up in the river one way or another. When they get back to Paris the quiet of the countryside has sharpened everything to even harsher brilliance and Charlie pulls them all to visit his artist acquaintances and they go to the bars out of the way where men can be seen with men and the air is thick with smoke enough that nobody can really see each other's faces, and Neil pulls Todd into a clumsy waltz and thinks, this is how it should always have been from the moment that I was born.

[ashes-16-al-wallpapers]

[scottsbifh]

RMS Aquitania. From FB group The Marine Buff

The RMS Aquitania was an ocean liner of the Cunard Line, notable for its long service from 1914 to 1950. Designed by Leonard Peskett and built by John Brown & Company in Clydebank, Scotland, she was launched on April 21, 1913, and embarked on her maiden voyage from Liverpool to New York on May 30, 1914. The Aquitania was renowned for its elegance and was part of Cunard’s "grand trio" of express liners alongside the Lusitania and Mauretania.

The Aquitania was 901 feet long and 97 feet wide, with a draft of 36 feet. She had a gross tonnage of 45,647 tons and was powered by four steam turbines, enabling a cruising speed of 23 knots and a maximum speed of 24 knots. The ship could accommodate up to 3,230 passengers, divided into 618 in first class, 614 in second class, and 1,998 in third class, along with a crew of 972 members. She had ten decks and was equipped with various luxury amenities for her time.

During her service, Aquitania played significant roles during both World Wars. Initially serving as an armed merchant cruiser and then as a troopship and hospital ship, she was heavily utilized by the Royal Navy. After the wars, she returned to commercial service, becoming one of the most profitable ocean liners of her era.

The ship featured a double hull and watertight compartments, designed to remain afloat with five compartments flooded, which was a direct response to the Titanic disaster. She was also one of the first ships to carry enough lifeboats for all passengers and crew, with a total of eighty lifeboats including two motorized launches with Marconi wireless equipment.

Aquitania was scrapped in 1950, ending a distinguished career as one of the last four-funnel liners and one of the longest-serving liners in maritime history.

[scotianostra]

Professor Hector Munro Macdonald, one of Europe’s foremost mathematicians, died on the 16th of May, 1935.

Hector was born in Edinburgh in 1865, the son of Donald MacDonald, originally of Kiltearn, Ross-shire, and his wife Annie, daughter of Hector Munro of Kiltearn.

Hector’s earliest education was in Edinburgh, but after his parents movrf the family to Fearn, in Easter Ross, he went to school there, and afterwards to the Royal Academy, Tain, Old Aberdeen Grammar School, and the University of Aberdeen, where he graduated in 1886 with First-Class Honours in Mathematics and won a Fullerton Scholarship.

Macdonald proceeded to Cambridge after completing his first degree in Scotland. Entering Clare College, Cambridge, as a foundation scholar, he graduated in the Mathematical Tripos of 1889, was awarded a fellowship at Clare in the following year and, in 1891, was awarded the second Smith's Prize.

In 1901 he received the Adams Prize and was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of London (FRS). He was awarded the Royal Society's Royal Medal in 1916.

Macdonald held his fellowship at Clare College until 1908 and in 1914 he was awarded an honorary fellowship of his former College. From 1916 to 1918 he served as President of the London Mathematical Society. During World War I, Macdonald did war service in London attached to the Ministry of Munitions where he dealt with wages. He was transferred to the Ministry of Labour in 1916, where he remained until 1919.

Macdonald worked on electric waves and solved difficult problems regarding diffraction of these waves by summing series of Bessel functions. He corrected his 1903 solution to the problem of a perfectly conducting sphere embedded in an infinite *geneous dielectric in 1904 after a subtle error was pointed out by Poincaré. The major problem which he tackled was that of wireless waves. About the time that Macdonald published his prize winning essay on electric waves, Guglielmo Marconi was successful in the transmission of the first wireless signals across the Atlantic. However this posed a major problem at first because wireless signals, like light, should not be capable of being bent round the surface of the earth as apparently Marconi wireless signals were. Macdonald suggested that the wireless waves were being refracted by the atmosphere. It is now known that in fact the waves are reflected by the ionosphere.

Macdonald became Professor of Mathematics at the University of Aberdeen in 1905 and remained at the University for the rest of his life.

[noneedtoamputate]

Chuck/Ellen, #10 😌

Sorry this took so long. I had free time this earlier this month, and then I didn't. The prompt was for the word "monument," and I know a monument should be a more permanent structure than how I used it in the story, but this idea came to me and I decided to go with it. The picture of Skip and Chuck mentioned in the story is the third one down.

November 2, 1967

The front door opened and shut as Ellen checked the cornbread in the oven. 

“Please go tell your brother and sister that supper is ready,” she asked Ron, their middle child, doing homework at the kitchen table. “And don't …”

“SUPPER’S READY!” He closed his textbook and ran off toward his bedroom. 

“ … yell,” Ellen said under her breath.

“Did I hear supper’s ready?” Chuck walked into the kitchen, home from work.

Ellen rolled her eyes and accepted his kiss to her cheek. “Why walk a few steps when you can just scream at the top of your lungs?”

Chuck washed his hands at the sink and Ellen arranged food on the table as the sounds of children grew closer.

“What’s for supper?” asked Ken. At fourteen, he was already taller than Ellen and towered over Ron, only a year younger but who had not yet hit his growth spurt. 

“Chili,” replied Ellen, as she filled a bowl and handed it to Chuck. 

“Ugh, chili? Mom, you know I don’t like it. You always make what the boys want to eat,” Mary complained. At eleven, she already displayed angst usually reserved for teenagers.

“Your mother isn’t running a restaurant,” Chuck said firmly. “Eat it or make yourself a sandwich.”

Mary decided it was easier to eat the chili. She didn’t really feel like making her own supper, and she certainly didn’t want to hear her dad go on about eating K rations in Bastogne or all the hungry kids he went to school with during the depression.

After the boys helped themselves to seconds, Ellen asked the dreaded question.

“What was one thing you learned at school today?”

Sometimes, it was like pulling teeth, getting her children to recall one fact from the day. But tonight, Mary had something to share, much to the relief of her brothers.

“Today is The Day of the Dead,” Mary stated.

“Never heard of it,” Ken said, his mouth full of cornbread.

“It’s a holiday in Mexico. In Spanish, it’s called Dia … de … los … Ma … Mo …”

“Muertos,” finished Ron.

“Show off,” Ken replied. 

“You’d know it too, if you weren’t taking a useless language,” Ron argued.

“French isn’t useless,” Ellen countered. “I’m sure your father would have liked knowing more French when he landed in Normandy.”

“Did just fine with the War Department phrasebook, but thanks for your concern.”

Ken noticed his parents smile at each other and share a look, like they were saying something with their eyes.

 He wondered why they were so weird.

“But we live in San Francisco,” Ron explained. “And it’s pretty dumb to take French just because of a girl in your class. Carla Marconi,” he teased his brother.

“Shut up!” Ken shouted.

“Hey!” Chuck shouted louder. “Knock it off, the both of you.”

Mary continued, completely unconcerned about the ruckus her brothers made.

“It’s a day when you remember family and friends who have died,” she explained.

“Sounds pretty depressing,” Ron said.

“No, you're supposed to remember happy memories, and the good things about them. It's not supposed to be sad.”

“What else?” Ron asked. Ellen looked up. It was unusual for one of the boys to take an interest in what their little sister had to say.

“You decorate an altar, or a table, with pictures of the dead people in your family, and flowers. Teresa Gonzalez explained how everyone in her family helps put it together.”

“That sounds like a beautiful way to remember loved ones,” Ellen commented.

“I told Teresa we had an altar like that at our house, too. Not with the flowers, but with the pictures,” Mary went on.

“We do?” Chuck asked. 

“Yeah, we do,” Ken said, and Ron nodded in agreement. 

The kids stood up and walked toward the family room. Ellen and Chuck looked at each other quizzically and followed. 

Ken, Ron, and Mary stood in front of the built-in bookshelves Chuck and Ellen installed a few years after they bought the house. On the top row, too high to easily reach a book, were framed photos of family and friends.

“Uncle Ken,” Ron said simply, pointing to a picture of Ellen’s brother in his Marine dress blues, his arm around his proud older sister before he shipped out to Korea.

“Mom said he always told the best jokes and was really good at football. There was that time when the starting quarterback got hurt and he went in and threw a touchdown to win the game,” his namesake recalled about the uncle he never had a chance to meet. 

“He would have loved to watch you play,” Ellen said to her oldest son, who played on his JV high school team this past season, and he smiled.

“And there's Skip Muck,” Mary said, his arm around Chuck after they earned their jump wings. “He got his nickname because when he was little, he skipped everywhere. He was the nicest guy in the company, right, Dad?” Chuck nodded, unable to say anything in the moment. 

“Grandma Thompson,” Ron said. A picture of Ellen’s motger, with a young Ellen seated next to her while she held a baby Ken, before she had given up on life.

“I don’t really remember her, and she wasn't the nicest person, but you must have learned something from her because you’re a good mom,” Mary said to Ellen.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Ellen said, and she felt tears start in her eyes.

“And Grandpa Grant,” Ron continued. Chuck stood next to his dad, mirror images of each other. Chuck looked about sixteen, not long before his father passed away.

“He taught you how to read the box scores and play baseball and loved the Pirates,” Ken said. 

“He drove you and Gran all the way from Pittsburgh when you moved here,” Mary remembered.

Chuck nodded. “I was just a bit younger than you,” he said, remembering that time when his dad had been laid off at the steel mill and they moved to California for the promise of work. He often wondered if he could have been as brave as his father, starting over like that. How many times he wished he could ask his dad for advice, on how to be a good husband or a good father. 

“And there’s Eugene Jackson. He died on that patrol.” Ken pointed at his picture. It was a picture of Second Platoon on the back of a truck, taken after they captured Foy. 

“He was just sixteen when he joined the army. It was the first time in a long time he had three meals a day. He would scarf down everything in front of him, even if the food was terrible,” Ron recalled.

Chuck noticed Ken’s eyes get large, realizing that Eugene was not much older than him when he joined up. He put his hand on his son’s shoulder.  Ellen saw Mary’s eyes glance downwards, perhaps feeling a bit ashamed for complaining about chili when Private Jackson went hungry growing up. 

“He was a good paratrooper. Did everything he was asked and looked out for his squad,” Chuck shared. 

The children looked at the pictures quietly, and Chuck and Ellen looked at each other. They never sat down and shared these stories. They had all come out in bits and pieces. Stories about Skip when the Christensons came over and Chuck and Pat would talk well into the night. Ellen with a passing comment about the difficult relationship with her mother. Happy memories of Ken on Veterans Day. 

The kids had been listening. And they remembered.

Eventually, the boys left to finish their homework and Mary turned on the television to watch The Flying Nun. 

Ellen settled Mary into bed and told the boys it was time for lights out, though she knew the desk lamp would find its way on soon enough.

She finished up in the kitchen and saw Chuck sitting outside on the patio. If asked, most people would have described Chuck as friendly, outgoing, funny. And he was all those things. But he also had a quiet side, and sometimes he needed to be alone with his thoughts, to think things through without the distractions of a business, a wife, three kids. Ellen was more than happy to give him that space and time.

The table cleared, the dishes done, the floor swept, Ellen started the kettle and grabbed a coat and blanket from the hall closet. 

She slid open the patio door.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked.

Chuck shook his head. He loved that Ellen asked, and that if he answered yes, she wouldn't have minded in the slightest. How lucky he was to have someone understand him the way she did.

She sat down next to him, handed him the mug of tea, and laid the blanket over their laps.

They sat quietly, Chuck holding the mug and a cigarette in his right hand. Ellen hadn’t smoked regularly in years, but the smell of Lucky Strikes was comforting. 

It was the smell of Chuck. It was the smell of home.

“Remember when you came back from the doctor’s office after you found out you were expecting Ken?” Chuck broke the silence.

“I do,” Ellen said.

“We were so excited, but I didn't know if I would be able to hack it, and you thought you would turn into your mother.”

She nodded at the bittersweet memory.

He turned to face her.

“I think we’re doing a pretty good job, don’t you think?”

“I do,” Ellen repeated.

“They still have terrible taste in music and their rooms are a mess, but they’re doing okay in the things that really matter.” 

“I read something once that you only live as long as the last person who remembers you,” Ellen said. 

“That's a nice notion,” Chuck said. “It sounds like something Skip would have said.” 

They went quiet again, thinking about their loved ones who would live on just a little bit longer because their children cared enough to know their stories.

[books-to-add-to-your-tbr]

Title: The Butterfly Hill Series

Author: Marjorie Agosín

Series or standalone: series

Publication year: 2014

Genres: fiction, historical fiction, war

Blurb: Celeste Marconi is a dreamer. She lives peacefully among friends, neighbours, and family in the idyllic town of Valparaiso, Chile...until one day, when warships are spotted in the harbour, and schoolmates start disappearing from class without a word. Celeste doesn't quite know what is happening, but one thing is certain: no one is safe, not anymore. The country has been taken over by a government that declares artists, protestors, and anyone who helps the needy to be considered subversive and dangerous to Chile's future, so Celeste's parents - her educated, generous, kind parents - must go into hiding before they, too, disappear. Before they do, however, they send Celeste to America to protect her. As Celeste adapts to her new life in Maine, she never stops dreaming of Chile...but even after democracy is restored to her home country, questions remain. Will her parents reemerge from hiding? Will she ever be truly safe again?

[shadysadie]

Titanic Hot Take: More Lifeboats Likely Wouldn't Have Actually Mattered

There are a LOT of misconceptions about Titanic, and now even 113 years later it remains a subject of interest world wide.

Pretty much everyone knows the basic elements of the story: it was the biggest ocean liner of its time, labeled unsinkable, yet it sunk on its maiden voyage with only enough lifeboats for a little under half of the people on board resulting in the deaths of approximately 1500 people.

Most people also know that many lifeboats were launched half full and that the ship was designed to carry twice as many lifeboats as it did but it was ultimately decided that the extra boats would make the deck look too cluttered so they decided against it.

But realistically, that second row of lifeboats wouldn't have actually mattered.

Here's why:

In the early 1900s ship technology was expanding by leaps and bounds seeing improved safety measures that revolutionized the industry. While it is a myth that the White Star Line itself ever called the Titanic unsinkable (the actual claim was that their new Olympic Class Ships were "virtally unsinkable under most circumstances") it was believed that if the ship did sustain enough damage to sink, it would do so with more than enough time to transfer passengers to another vessel.

Increased ship traffic meant there was always likely to be a potential rescue ship nearby. The Marconi wireless telegram meant those other ships could be contacted to coordinate those rescues. As such lifeboats were meant only as ferries to get passengers from one ship to another. They weren't meant to hold every single passenger because it was assumed that one lifeboat could make multiple trips back and forth to the rescue ship.

Unfortunately, the Titanic hit the iceberg around midnight, meaning the nearest rescue ship, the Californian, had already turned off its wireless set for the night and it's operator had gone to bed. The next closest ship was the Carpathia, about 4 hours away on the other side of a massive ice field.

The Titanic did not have 4 hours, which meant the lifeboats would be expected to hold passengers for an extended period of time in the open water. This was likely the first time anyone actually realized that the lack of lifeboats would be a problem.

Now when it came to loading the boats themselves. It was notoriously difficult to convince people to get into the lifeboats in the first place. Many people didn't believe the ship was sinking or even could sink, and it was difficult for the ship's officers to convince people that the tiny wooden lifeboats being lowered into the endless black ocean were safer than the brightly lit floating palace they were standing on. It's often said that the first lifeboats were launched half full or less for the comfort of the insanely rich first class passengers, and we will never know how much of a factor that actually played. I think it's much more likely that they were simply having a hard time convincing people to get in the boats, and knowing they were racing against time the officers in charge were just trying to get as many boats launched as possible. Another factor at play when it came to the under loading of the lifeboats was a misunderstanding of what "women and children first" meant. Officer Murdock, who was in charge of loading the starboard boats took this as it was spoken. Women and children first, but once there were no more women and children visible, men could get in. Officer Lightoller, who was loading the portside boats, took this as women and children ONLY. As a result once there were no longer any women and children on deck he would lower the boats, even if there were empty seats for men.

Now, filling all the Lifeboats to capacity certainly would have saved lives, but more lifeboats wouldn't have. They simply did not have the time. Even if they had the second row of lifeboats, they wouldn't have possibly been able to launch them within the two hours they had.

How can we know?

Because as it was not all of the lifeboats even got launched. Two of the collapsible lifeboats (A and B) were washed overboard before they could be filled. It would have been simply impossible to load any additional lifeboats in the time they had.

Now, why does this matter? Whether the officers would have had enough time to load all of the lifeboats or not, the result was a change in maritime laws that required enough lifeboats for all passengers, and surely that is a good thing, right?

Yes and no.

Clearly having enough lifeboats for everyone is a good practice, yes, but this law actually resulted in another disaster only a couple of years later.

The SS Eastland was a Great Lake ship that was affected by the lifeboat laws imposed in the aftermath of the Titanic. Now, the Eastland had a number of problems to begin with. Originally built to be an ore ship rather than a passenger ship, the Eastland was already top heavy and really should not have been used to carry passengers in the first place, but I digress. When the new lifeboat law hit all ships, even Great Lake ships had to comply. Adding extra lifeboats to the already top heavy Eastland contributed it capsizing in 1914, killing over 800 passengers.