#America Lost

[wearenotjustnumbers2]

These two kids are Hamza (the oldest) and Qusai (the youngest).

Their mother shares this video and bids them goodbye. They were both killed by Israeli bombardment 5 days ago. She says:

[Two days before Hamza and Qusai were killed, hamza asked me: "mom, when we die, where will I go?" And I told him: "you will be a bird in heaven, my love." He said: "and Qusai?" "Just like you inshallah."

And indeed, two days later, he left and took his brother with him. It's like he was preparing me for saying goodbye to both of them. Heaven is more beautiful than any place on this Earth, habibi. We will meet and be reunited one day, me, your dad and you two].

Our kids don't deserve to die already thinking about what will happen to them, they don't deserve to die already terrified, anticipating their death because the world failed them and decided their lives mean nothing. We are not numbers. Remember their names and their stories.

[mother-lee]

[artschoolglasses]

Americans not giving a shit about the wildfires burning down forests and homes in Canada until smoke starts spreading across the border. Meanwhile Indigenous communities across the country are far more likely to be impacted by the fires and I’ve seen all of one link to a charity and about nine million memes. 🙃

[amtrak-official]

I highly recommend The Lost Subways of North America by Jake Berman.

It is a fascinating exploration of transit systems and the history behind them in 23 cities in the US and Canada. Including the first electric streetcar in Richmond, the inability of the Bay Area to build due to Nimbyism, the failure of the Rochester and Cincinnati Subways, the expensive and drawn out history of the Second Ave. Subway in New York and how Labor issues prevented the creation of a modern high capacity Transit system in Philadelphia.

[cynicalxxskin]

my pics , credit if used

[ed13d1]

starting to forget

the lost house •  jenna barton

[perseuspixl]

King of Nonsensical. Master of baseless Rambling. He lost. Big. A lifelong, professional con man, Jerk & Total failure. Aaaaaand ... we all just love it !!!!

More of this, please !!

[chlobody]

exploring bandos [ shot by @ohseephotography ]

[cr-ok]

that new Netflix show looks cool and all, but isn’t the writer’s strike still going?

update (July 30):

To those explaining WGA has not called for boycott and why, thank you, I genuinely appreciate you all. Sorry this response took so long. I just figured out how to view reposts.

To those who do not know, it is extremely likely a mass drop in subscriptions will turn into an excuse to say “streaming services are not a stable way to get revenue, so your work does not hold any real value for us”. A boycott has not been called as a result.

[hurtspideyparker]

Steve: Do you ever wanna talk about your emotions Bucky?

Bucky: No

Tony: I do

Steve: I know Tony

Tony: I'm sad

Steve: I know Tony

[sher-ee]

Lesson learned? … nah.

[mother-lee]

almost heaven

[forsoobado137]

Love imagining nations at their meetings. Like oh look at their little assigned seats with their little cup of water and their little name plate with their little flag pin!

Aww they're showing off their little slideshows at their little podium! Oh no! England and France are having a little fight! Oh and America has a little plan to save the planet! And he broke the little podium with his fist!

Oh, and Germany has a little migraine! He's going to count to ten in his head because of what his little anger management coach taught him!

Oh and now they're on their little lunch break! They packed their little national dishes for lunch!

And the cycle repeats.

[bruciemilf]

One of my biggest pet peeves is the justice league being labelled as " The Avengers of DC" and its like. No? The avengers are law enforcement. The Justice League are volunteers

[cowboylikeyouu]

the stupid ass pwp car sex poolverine oneshot i wrote three days ago already has more kudos than the ongoing 14 chapters avengers twitter fic i dedicated two years of my life and way too much of my time to, and i really don't know how to feel about that

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Lost 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of loss, grieving, death, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: nomad!Steve Rogers

Summary: You move into a shared flat and encounter a mysterious man.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“And this is your room,” Muriel stops before a door along the short hallway. “You have a neighbour just across the hall, and two more on the other side of the kitchen.”

You nod. It isn’t an ideal situation. Not one you ever saw yourself in. But survival isn’t built for the fussy. There are many others like you. Those not so lucky, those who are dead. Many who never got the choice of a new home.

You keep your hand on your rolling bag, your other on your canvas knapsack. They’re full of items that aren’t your own. Second-hand clothes acquired from shelters and toiletries given out by the support workers. You’re on your own now.

“Anything else, dear?” Muriel asks to your silence.

“Thank you, Muriel,” you murmur.

She hands you the key and leaves. Before showing you your own space, she took you around those shared by the rest of her boarders. You suppose they’re your roommates now. A kitchen, two bathrooms, a front room with a tattered couch and old tube television. You’ll stick to your own four walls.

You slide the key in the slot, the metal grinding loudly. You hear a throat clear and peer towards the noise. The walls must be thin. You’re still alone. You let yourself into the room, pulling the door shut behind you. You flip the lock back into place before you shove your bags by the wall.

There’s a twin bed with a metal frame, a single night table, and a standing lamp. There’s also a shallow closet. It’s not much but you don’t need more than that. It’s good to have a roof over your head.

You sit on the lumpy mattress and the frame squeaks loudly. You stand up again and pace around. There isn’t too much room. It shouldn’t matter, you won’t need it. You’ll be out working and back to sleep again. You start tomorrow at the convenience shop.

You hear a thump and your head pops up. You can’t help but jump in your shoes. Ever since the city rained down around you, every bump, every sudden noise has you skittish. It’s nothing, only another boarder.

You go to your bag and unbuckle the flap. You pull out a can of beans and the pocket knife in the side pocket. You go back to the bed and sit, another shrill whine from the metal frame. You pull out the can open from the pocket knife and peel back the lid. On the same keychain is a small metal spork you use to scoop out the beans, eating them cold as your stomach growls hungrily.

You eat, bite by bite, staring at the wall, just beside the only window. It isn’t home. You don’t expect one of those. It’s just a place to live. To survive.

🚪

You take your toothbrush and your tube of toothpaste with you to the bathroom down the hall. It’s just across from the other bedroom on that side of the flat. The doorway is dark, beckoning you inside. You flip on the light and shut the door as you enter.

You turn on the tap and set to brushing your teeth. Such a basic and simple task but one you didn’t always have the chance to do. It’s almost soothing to feel the bristles in your mouth. It makes you feel almost normal.

You take your time as the mint flavour sticks to your tongue. You rinse your brush and flick off the excess water, sliding it back into the travel tube and capping the paste. You look at yourself in the mirror, not for long, just to make sure you still recognise you.

You clutch your things in one hand and flick the light off. You open the door and nearly shriek at the shadow waiting in the hall. You waver in the doorway as a tiny wisp escapes your throat. You blink as the dark silhouette stands with arms crossed in the dim hall.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” the man says gruffly.

He's tall but mostly obscured. His hair wings out around his neck and his shoulders bulge broadly. You feel his eyes boring into you, as he can see through the darkness and you.

You dip your chin and sidle out, keeping your distance as you sidestep along the wall. You should apologise but your voice is buried deep down. You put your hand up in a show of deference.

“You done?” He asks.

You pause and look at the plaster across from you. You nod then turn your back to him completely. He must be the neighbour. You quickly shuffle to your room and hide behind the door. It’s much better than the shelter, you don’t have someone rolling into your sleeping bag, but still, you’re claustrophobic.

You mourn that most. The sense of privacy. Of personal space. Have a place that’s your own with people you know. People you love.

You toss your toothbrush and toothpaste onto the night table and huff as you sit on the bed. You frown and push your head back, trying to soothe the tightness between your shoulders. You blow out, breath rattling as your nose tingles.

You can never go back to Sokovia or how it was. You can only go forward and the road ahead is very lonely.