#Bitter/Weber

[satelliteee-com]

Photo Art: The New World of Photography エリナ・ブラザウス、タシタ・ディーン、リュック・ドゥラヘイ、アレック・ソス、イェンス・ウルリッヒ、マイケル・ヴェズリーなど、写真の最前線にいる約120人の国際的アーティストの作品を、豊富な図版でわかりやすく紹介。短いエッセイで各アーティストを紹介し、4ページにわたって作品を掲載。写真家・コレクター・写真愛好家にとって、貴重で前向きな参考書。

ISBN-10: 0500287112, 13: 978-0500287118 p.520, 27.2 x 22 x 4.2 cm 2008/3/24

Photo Art: The New World of Photography

[hewasashe]

Just sayin...

[the-reincarnated-princess]

The Nanny has everything Lore Olympus wishes it had.

lovable background characters

employer-employee romance in which somehow there isn't too much of a power imbalance

a girlboss with great hair and fashion sense (i honestly can't stand her clothes but it's not meant to be ugly either, just flashy)

a bitchy, yet still loveable second female lead who actually has no chance with the guy she's trying to seduce but is convinced she's the first lead.

i know i know it's a reach but i was watching the best bits of The Nanny on youtube and there's the running gag of how Fran Fine can't admit to her real age (at some point a classmate of hers reveals her own but Fran protests that said classmate was held back multiple times so they're not the same age, even the FBI couldn't find her real age when doing a background check, at the beginning of the series she says ''yeah right what a loss to be lodged on the grounds i'll miss being er... twenty-fivee, and living at my parents house" with the butler snickering and saying "yeah right, twenty-five" -might be another age can't remember-) and the whole point is that... it works because we know that even if the male lead is older than her, she's a grown adult and also they might be closer in age than we know because we don't really know how old she is exactly. And that doesn't turn into a "bitter older woman doesn't want to age" like some in lore olympus do, because it's a running gag, it's not a drama subplot.

And C.C. is a much more gracefully written second female lead than Minthe, despite being the live-in friend and associate who's trying to seduce the male lead, because 1) she stays friends with him even when he doesn't show any reciprocated feelings 2) she's constantly ridiculized when trying to seduce him, but so is the main female lead, Fran, at least in the beginning 3) she has her own character arc beyond being a golddigging woman who doesn't want to age and 4) she has her own banter antagonist, Niles, who she has power over while simultaneously not (he's a butler but not hers, so she's higher in the hierarchy but has no direct power over her) and in summary she has her own friends, ennemies, family and character arc.

And we may not know a lot about what Maxwell (the male lead) does at work, but we constantly see him working over files, or discussing work with C.C., and we know what his work is precisely (producer of musicals) and we know he despises Lloyd Weber and there's a running gag of him wanting Cats to close down, etc. He has a life outside of the female lead, she has a life outside of him, they both have jobs, although she works for him, and neither hesitate to call out the other on their flaws, pre and during relationship.

In summary, if RS had written Lore Olympus as a goofy office/nanny&employer sitcom instead of some huge-stakes political thriller with twenty plot lines that she abandonned halfway through, it would have been way better.

Come on, if you've watched The Nanny and read LO, don't tell me you wouldn't want Hermes and Minthe banter a la Niles and CC, or Leuce in the role of Sara (Maxwell's late wife), or even Persephone and Hades just... having a discussion other than sex talk.

[dogmouthhorse]

rocky road, peach, & black cherry!

rocky road: favorite songs at the moment? ummmmm these

peach: how do you relax? i like pictures :) make a picture listen 2 a video essay ive already seen

black cherry: four words that describe you? ouuuuuu. lesbian clown citrus flavour

[zeitenklaenge]

«ТРИ ЗИМЫ» (ZK🜂ЗвукиВремени № 37 ❖ АНАСТАСИЯ ПРИХОДЬКО в 2012 г.) • Н@Звуки ♣︎

Три зимы

♔[Н]‎𐦍 ꩜ .ЗВУКИ ✤ 28th September, Cologne 2022.

🇬🇧 Three winters and we warmed hopefully in the belief that the sun will soon melt the ice… But now the bitter realization that the dark winter nights and the frost will not go away. Icy shadows will never stop darken the sun and the hope of a spring awakening is dissolving… memories of the colorful splendor are fading under the meter-high snow… lights went out!

🇩🇪 Drei Winter und hoffnungsvoll wärmten wir uns am Glauben, dass die Sonne das Eis bald zum schmelzen bringen wird… Nun aber die bittere Erkenntnis, dass die dunklen Winternächte und der Frost nicht vorbeigehen werden. Eisige Schatten werden uns ewig begleiten und die Hoffnung auf ein frühlingshaftes Erwachen schwindet… die Erinnerung an die Pracht der Farben verblassen unter dem meterhohen Schnee… die Lichter erloschen!

Текст песни / Lyrics (2-й куплет и припев 2nd stanza & Chorus)

Занесло дорогу снегом Не видать ничьих следов И со мною в тёмном небе Только месяц молодой В тёмном небе только месяц молодой

Три зимы я верила Чуда светлого ждала Три цветка я сорвала Только в косу не вплела

The road is covered with snow No trace of anyone to be seen And with me in the dark sky The moon is only young In the dark sky there is only a new moon For three winters I believed Waited for a bright miracle I picked three flowers I just didn't tie them into my braid

ZEITENKLÄNGE 🜂 ЗВУКИ✧ВРЕМЕНИ  𝄡𝄞𝄈♬⏑♪♫♡𝄇 ©️ D. Weber & N. Rykova, Cologne 2022-2024. ★ ©️ Д. Вебер и Н. Рыкова, Кёльн 2022–2024 гг.

@ Анастасия Приходько

[jomsimagination]

her muse || Angela weber

“hey, bub.” Angela greets me, as we both enter the school. “morning to you, miss weber.” you kiss her cheek, in which she responds to by wrapping an arm around your waist.

“you seem to like the last name weber so much, huh?” she raises her eye brow, before kissing you on the head. “ewwwww” jessica tells you, as she sees angela kiss you on the head. ”so much for no pda.”

“always so bitter.” you tell jessica, “well yeah, i have nobody to show pda to.” she tells us, sulking quietly. “you’ll find your other half soon jess. i can feel it.”

“woah are you secretly physic?” you look at Angela, then she chuckles shaking her head no. while Jessica rolls her eyes, in bitterness. “you guys are so sweet.” she tells us in a bitter tone, but deep down she meant it.

“hey bells.” you wave hi to your sister as she walks with Edward Cullen, “oh my god. i heard around school that Bella and Edward are dating, right?” you say, picking up your girlfriends camera and taking a pic of the two, while Jessica tells you the gossip she heard, and while you write it down on your notebook. “babe, c’mon.” Angela looks at you. “it’s their private life.”

“it’s not exactly private when they’re walking into school.” you shrug, looking at the pictures, as Angela’s arm around is taken off of you, instead her hands goes back into her pockets.

you were on the gossipy side of the school news, unlike Angela who was on more of the informative not gossip side. Angela didn’t really like gossip—no. she does not like gossip at all. because it ruined her life in middle school. while you on the other hand, you live for gossip, i mean who doesn’t—except for your girlfriend, but still. you were the goddess of gossip. you were releasing gossip on the back pages, since Angela moved your gossip—or as you like to call it; information and accusation. to the back page.

—it's where a person–minimal of five–put in their accusations or gossip, about a peculiar person, whom shall not be named, instead just putting little details of that person, like hair color. and once that accusation was put, it was your job to find out if it was true or false—

now Angela didn’t like that, but to be honest it was the best part of the school news. and that was the reason why Angela absolutely hated it, it was the best part, it was actually just the only part people read, including teachers. well teachers can put in requests too.

why Angela hated it? "it was pure absurd and stupid gossip. that shouldn’t even be posted on the school news!” your girlfriend exclaims. “Ange. calm down. people still read your part.” you say trying to clam her down. in which now your both in your room of your house, fighting on whether to keep your part of the school news.

“oh really like who!? even the teachers don’t read it. to the point people are giving me nothing. it leads me to having absolutely nothing to work with!” she exclaims in anger. “and you know of how much i hate gossip. it’s shit.”

“Ange, come on now. it’s my part we’re talking about. you’re being irrational—

“i’m being irrational!? well you’re being selfish and irresponsible! i mean putting up on wether bella is really pregnant or not?!” Angela’s voice once again rises. “leave. right now. leave. and don’t even bother talking to me anymore, cause i’m selfish. right.” you tell her, your voice stern, your heart broken into million of pieces.

“what?” she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, until she realized. “y-y/n, baby. it-it was a mistake please.” she falls to her knees in front of you, holding your hands while she looks up at you. “no. you’re right i was being selfish. cause that’s who i am, right. leave.”

she knew how much you hated being called ‘selfish’ she knew you weren’t, on some occasions, yes. but you own up to it. but she knows that you are the most selfless person she’d ever met. sharing people food, treats people to hopefully cheer them up. or even doing anything to cheer that person up. sure, you were a loud mouth, a gossiper, and a whole lot of things. but selfish isn’t one of them. she also know it makes you genuinely upset, and she know how to cheer you up.

“y/n, please. i’m sorry.” she says, lifting your head and kissing you on the lips softly. “y/n…” she whispers, her voice and lips soft like feathers. “i-i need time. i just just don’t want to talk to you right now.” that’s what she does, she gives you the time you need, by kissing your forehead, goodbye before leaving your house.

the next day was mostly a blur, Angela not talking to you the whole day as you did the same to her, and mostly staying with your sister's weird vampire? friends. they all looked at you weirdly. looking like they wanna eat you, Rosalie the most.

but she was oddly nice to you, which surprised you, and Bella. though they were a little fun, you stilled missed Angela, but no, you couldn't talk to her. not right now. maybe you two weren't really made for each other. maybe you two aren't gonna get married, adopt two cats, and a kid, and raise them in New York at the age of twenty-one, anymore.

you are the absolute opposite of Angela in the first place, she hates while you live for shopping and gossip. she hates talking bad about a person, while you? well a little, about a person who got on your nerves yes, but not on anyone who doesn't deserve it. and while Angela was the most precious human being, you weren't, you were not precious, cause of a whole lot of things, i mean having your first drink at sixteen? not so precious.

and here you were, waiting for Angela on the side of the stairs, after school, while Bella waits for you far away, giving the two of you privacy. "y/n." Angela said, causing you to look up from your phone.

"Angela." you look up, putting your phone in your pocket. "i. i want to break up. we aren't made for each other, Ange i love you but. we've had the same fight for months now. the same fight that caused you to kiss me. the same fight that both us together, the same fight that became our first official fight as a couple." i sigh, seeing a tear fall from her eyes.

"b-but we can work through this." she says, holding your hands in hers. "we can't. as many time you say or i say it, we can't. i'm sorry. we-we can't" you say, tears falling from your eyes as she hugs you, tight. "we can. i-i believe in us."

"there's nothing to believe in. i'm sorry. but it's never gonna work out." you say ever so softly, hugging her back, then pulling away. "i'm sorry." you kiss her one last time, on the lips and cheeks, before walking away. towards Bella's car.

"i don't want to talk about it." you tell Bella hoping in her car. you were quiet for most of the ride, which was unlike you, bet hey, you just dumped your sweet, oh so sweet and kind and caring, and beautiful, girlfriend of seven months. it hurt, but it was for the best.

you dozed off the way home, but when you woke up, you were not, home, to be exact; you're now outside the Cullen house. "Bella, i want to go home." you tell your sister. "but, Edward invited me."

"Bella. you are way to young for that." you say, with a stern voice. "what!? you're being ridicules, and it's not that. it's just. we just wanted to hang out." Bella tell you, but you are not believing her one bit. "yeah until that hang out leads your period being late."

she just rolls her eyes, and knocks on the door. "Bella. y/n." Edward greets the both of you, Edward could hear your thoughts, and they were loud, it was mostly about Bella leading to pregnancy, automatically. but the one Edward liked hearing from you was, your sweet thoughts about Angela. so when he found out that the of two of you broke up, he was a little sad about it. a little.

his whole family greets us, you didn’t really care that much. since you were a bit sad, cause of the break up. but it’s for the better. and Rosalie was there to cheer you up, she was a fun person to be around. but she has a boyfriend, she’s just straight and friendly.

so when Rosalie walked away, you went up to my sister’s bag, and searched for her keys, and well you sneaked out to many times, so you were an expert, though you did step on a few roses, but it’s fine they won’t notice.

and once you got inside the cat, you were driving off. to where? you didn’t know. you were just driving to somewhere, somewhere where you can think.

so you went to your’s and Bella’s favorite diner, you ordered your favorite got in a table booth, far away from people. and playing games on your phone while you patiently wait for your order.

it’s funny because this was the same diner where Angela takes you for dinner dates every Monday through Thursday. it was sweet that she took you out for dinner for almost everyday. she was so sweet to you, to sweet.

while waiting for your order, you saw mike’s car, with Jessica, Mike and Angela in it, they were going to the next diner. the one next to it. Jessica waved you a little, hi, before going to whisper something to Angela, probably telling her i’m here. but it’s fine.

it’s time to start a new chapter of your life, you say, no crushes no dating, no more parties. and no more Angela, you decided it, all your focus put into studies since it’s your last year now. you were an advanced student, they allowed you to skip senior year and go to collage, so here you are, deciding which one to go to.

you knew Mike always liked Angela in a romantic way, but you got to her first, well not really it was really her. you were a coward, a coward who didn't know how to hide their feelings, so when the information got to Angela, she took her chance and asked you out. you of course said yes. and that was a start of an amazing relationship.

and this day, was the end of it. people who surrounds their life into a relationship, would say it's the end of the world, our their world. in this case, you're the people. she was the best girlfriend, how could you not? she was perfect, but of course perfect things come into an end. not everything lasts forever. true love doesn't exist.

Angela would disagree, she believe in true love, you started to believe too once you met her, but here you are, sulking alone in a diner booth, fiddling with the hem of your shirt while you wait for your order, looking like a lost child.

feeling like a fool. so you muster up all your strength, and leave some money to pay for your order on the table, walk out of the diner. and into Bella's car. you didn't know what to do with your life anymore, she was your other half, but you two were just opposites of one another, you've been fighting for that specific topic for months now. fighting with her was the worst, you'd give her the cold shoulder, while she tries to talk to you.

but in the end you'd always come back running to her. every time. you missed her, a lot. you missed the way she laughed, the way she smiled, the way she’d hold your hand in crowded places so you two won’t lose each other, you missed the way her face lights up just by taking pictures of you. and that was just 2 hours after your break up. but again, some people aren't really made for each other, no matter how hard the other tries, the other one will always be the opposite of the girl.

but you will always be her muse.

A/n, another one. another shitty fic, but yay i posted not proofread, and uh this one is for the most underrated character in twilight and i love her so much. i might post a second part

[jackbugz]

IDK what to ask about your half life OCs, but I love them!! I love seeing Half life OCs! I want to know everything about them!! But that might be a bit of a big ask lol. So for now- can I get some fun facts about em'?

sorry if I'm being weird, I just get really excited about this kinda stuff

ITS NOT WEIRD I’M SO HAPPY YOU ASKED :o) FEEL FREE TO ASK MORE QUESTIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here are so (potentially not) fun facts about my half life characters! (Warning for mentions of cannibalism)

Dr. Weber facts!!!!

He wasn’t at Black Mesa when the resonance cascade happened, he was at Aperture, specifically in a large abandoned testing building

He lived in Holland from the time he was born to the time he was ten years old. He’s fluent in both english and dutch

Despite his cold and rude demeanor along with his large stature and broad shoulders, he is a complete wimp and cannot physically fight at all. He is a million percent bark and zero percent bite. He is also comically clumsy

Unlike his darling field commander counterpart (barney), he hates drinking and rarely drinks

Often he gets so into the zone with his work, like restoring the HEV suit for example, that he neglects his other duties as a communications officer for the rebels.

Alyx and Barney are the two people he can tolerate being around, Barney less so since they both frequently have petty arguments. Being around other scientists like Eli and Kleiner (and probably also Gordon) make him nervous due to his lower status compared to them. (He greatly admires them though)

Tbh he’s just so bitter because he wants to be liked and admired as a “great scientist” but he’s just a rude person for the most part. (In hl1 he shared the same sentiment but he was much kinder and kinda overly-friendly to the point he was obnoxious)

Linda (Dr. Perez) facts!!!

Basically was a child prodigy. She skipped grades.

Where Weber worked on stuff like the HEV suit at black mesa, Linda worked on the “anti-mass spectrometer” thing.

Also was at Aperture during the time of the resonance cascade

Based her design on one of the scientist in the hl2 science team picture

A higher ranking black mesa scientist 

Dr. Weber ate her corpse.

Troy facts!!!

Security guard in black mesa

One of the few people who were kind to Weber in Hl1

Also was at Aperture during the time of the resonance cascade 2x

Did NOT know what he was doing as a security guard. He is very goofy.

Dean's younger brother

Guys he's straight. I know he looks gay but he isn’t! 

Ginger!!!

Dr. Weber ate his corpse.

Mason facts!!!

A very young rebel compared to most, he was two at the time of the resonance cascade 

Assigned as a medic but has NO clue what he’s doing

Very clumsy / accident prone

Tries to seem cool…(He isn’t. he’s chill though)

Thinks Alyx is SO cool……. Wants to talk to her so bad

Likes to draw

Dean facts!!!

I based him on a talking heads song…. (life during wartime)

Before the combine invasion was in the military and fought in the 7 hour war

Troy's older brother

Kind of like soldier tf2 but less crazy

MEAT RIDES ANY IMPORTANT WARFRONT FIGURE ON THE REBELLION SIDE. PROBABLY PRAISES BARNEY AND ODESSA A STRANGE AMOUNT.

[aroundtheworldwithphillyfogg]

December 6th: train goes on.

The train, on leaving Great Salt Lake at Ogden, passed northward for an hour as far as Weber River, having completed nearly nine hundred miles from San Francisco. From this point it took an easterly direction towards the jagged Wahsatch Mountains. It was in the section included between this range and the Rocky Mountains that the American engineers found the most formidable difficulties in laying the road, and that the government granted a subsidy of forty-eight thousand dollars per mile, instead of sixteen thousand allowed for the work done on the plains. But the engineers, instead of violating nature, avoided its difficulties by winding around, instead of penetrating the rocks. One tunnel only, fourteen thousand feet in length, was pierced in order to arrive at the great basin.

The track up to this time had reached its highest elevation at the Great Salt Lake. From this point it described a long curve, descending towards Bitter Creek Valley, to rise again to the dividing ridge of the waters between the Atlantic and the Pacific. There were many creeks in this mountainous region, and it was necessary to cross Muddy Creek, Green Creek, and others, upon culverts.

Passepartout grew more and more impatient as they went on, while Fix longed to get out of this difficult region, and was more anxious than Phileas Fogg himself to be beyond the danger of delays and accidents, and set foot on English soil.

At ten o’clock at night the train stopped at Fort Bridger station, and twenty minutes later entered Wyoming Territory, following the valley of Bitter Creek throughout.

[the-perfect-wagnerite-returns]

Good day to you, out of interest, is your statement concerning biased historians in regards to Christianity more of a general statement or did you read a specific one who published the thesis you refer to (i.e using charity as means of making themselves look good to the lower classes in anticipation of the empires inevitable fall)?

This in particular was a general sentiment I found in the writings of Eugen Weber during his tenure at UCLA, and he was very clearly influenced by the polemical style and content of Edward Gibbon's accounts. He would drop loaded remarks here and there throughout his recorded lectures as well, like suggesting early Christian disapprobation of material wealth and office could be construed as "bitterness" or "sour grapes," when the same sentiments in the Stoics or mystery cults were at worst eccentric and at best heroic.

I don't think I could nail it down to him as a thesis he endorsed, just a general bias that once you notice you can't unnotice.

[howieabel]

“Consequently, if one’s luck is bad, one is liable to be increasingly consumed by feelings of resentment toward the agent or agents that one holds responsible for one’s victimhood, and this twisting of one’s soul in bitterness is a form of damage that the acknowledgment of the real conditions of academic life could have helped one to avoid or, at the very least, mitigate.” ― Max Weber, The Vocation Lectures: Science as a Vocation & Politics as a Vocation

[wgss316blog]

Shoes (1916) and Laura Mulvey's Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema

Lois Weber's film Shoes (1916) gives an interesting insight into women-lead films and gender in early Hollywood which is especially fascinating in relation to Laura Mulvey's Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema. Shoes centers on a young woman, Eva Mayer, whose goal is to replace her broken pair of shoes but is impeded in buying the new pair she wants by her family's struggling economic status, especially her father's unwillingness to get a job.

I enjoyed this film not just because it feels very modern in story but also because it felt visually ahead of it's time. One particular shot that stuck out to me was one which shows Mayer's father laying in bed, carefree, superimposed over Mayer laying in her bed, sick with worry. This is followed by a literal "hand of poverty" appearing onscreen, reaching for the main character. This whole scene felt very creative to me in its use of visual storytelling. Another aspect that felt ahead of its time to me was the portrayal of the main character. The protagonist is a young woman, but she doesn't adhere to the stereotypes of female characters in old Hollywood, especially those described by Laura Mulvey.

The protagonist of Shoes is a struggling woman but her struggle is not romanticized. She is not a waifish object of desire, coyly batting her eyelashes as she faces her problems. Lead actress Mary Maclaren plays Mayer as a realistically bitter young woman who feels very real fear and concern over the issues she is facing. Her choosing prostitution at the end of the film is not sexualized for the male gaze but is shown as a terrifying and tragic result of economic inequality. She is not shamed for this choice either, rather the audience is meant to identify and empathize with Mayer.

This portrayal of the main character in Shoes shows how women like Weber in early Hollywood were making movies about realistic and interesting female characters who had agency and did not exist just for the male gaze. This is important to consider when analyzing Mulvey's Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema as it critiques early Hollywood without mentioning any of the strides some directors were making at the time.

[thewarlocktimothy]

Making a Case for Carburation

In this world of high-pressure fuel injection so precise it’d make a surgeon blush, does the carburetor still have a place in the automotive zeitgeist? Yeah, but I promise I’ll get into it in more detail. Searching the web for any post or article pitting injection and carburation will present such an array of opinions and bitter arguments that you might even say I’m beating a dead horse. I am of course, but there’s always space for another fun article.

Carburation is the oldest form of fuel delivery for engines, evolving from devilishly simple to surprisingly complex. From the basic Zenith updrafts to the side-draft Webers that need a doctorate to rebuild and tune, there’s something for everyone. Utilizing fluid-dynamics in a way I can’t even begin to explain with any competency, but here goes. Carburetors use vacuum in order to draw fuel in metered amounts into the combustion chamber, utilizing the venturi effect and airflow to tumble the fuel mixture and atomize it in the intake for combustion. A wonderfully mechanical way of delivering fuel, delicately balanced and requiring tuning like a musician’s instrument. Both produce a sound that’s wonderful to hear.

Fuel injection on the other hand arrived later than carburation but not as much as you think. The carburetor and injection systems were invented during the 19th century at the dawn of the internal combustion engine. Fuel injection was thought up by George Brayton, who devised a method in which fuel was injected via an air blast system. Compressed air is built via a compressor driven off of the engine and is stored in tanks. The fuel system itself is low pressure and the injection is done via the stored compressed air.

As the years went by this simple system was developed and refined. From pre-combustion chambers to today’s electronic direct injection, fuel-injection has become the dominant system. Not without merit of course but the precise electronic control seems to sap away the personality that classic vehicles seemed to have. Or perhaps I’m wearing rose tinted glasses for a past I never actually experienced. We do tend to romanticize periods we haven’t experienced, or maybe even vilify them.

As inferenced from the title I am pro-carburetor, to a point. I understand the need for injection in today’s strict emissions and economy requirements, and I actually really like injection for its turn-key reliability in all conditions. But I grew up in a world of automation where everything is turn-key, the microwave, the oven, information, even skills that would have taken years to develop can now be done my AI. It’s readily at my fingertips and I barely need to put much thought into my day to day. Which is why I bought the rattiest Toyota that I could find that could still be considered a “running” car. It moves under its own power although reluctantly. I had to learn skills, scrape my knuckles, and wear down my fingertips. The reward of getting it to idle correctly by turning the screwdriver just enough to change the sound, just enough to reduce vibration, to clear the smell of gasoline from the air was indescribable.

For a moment I stepped away from the digitalized world that I normally live in and into a world absolutely analog. Moving out of the expressway and onto the back road and able to finally watch the scenery mosey on by. I’m not here to debate which one is better, nor which one makes the most power or gets the greatest economy. I’m merely saying my piece on why in this fast-paced digital world, slowing down and holding a screwdriver and taking a moment to feel and listen to mechanical whistling and tapping is remarkably therapeutic.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Whumptober Planning, Day 10

For all the misery of the heat, it isn't so bad to just lay here with the air moving slow over his skin like Nanda's softest kisses.

“... investigation reopened by federal agents as new evidence emerges in the cold case involving longtime Rancher's Rest resident Robert Weber, recently revealed to be responsible for a string of disappearances throughout the Western United States over the past three decades when his own sudden death resulted in the discovery of more than two dozen bodies, many still unidentified. New evidence suggests that at least two of Weber's victims may in fact still be alive."

Jameson shoots up to seated so fast he lurches, stomach flipping as he twists at the waist to look to the side, wide-eyed, at the television screen.

A still photo of the front of Robert's house is right there behind the news anchor's shoulder, overgrown by now with a weedy front yard and little saplings popping up from uncleaned gutters, a broken window.

Robert would hate it being so messy outside, Jameson thinks. Even the rosebushes look straggly and dead or dying with no one to water them. Then, a sudden flush of bitter, hateful satisfaction as his mind adds, good.

"Sets of fingerprints lifted from inside the house have long been of interest to investigators, who now say they have been able to locate a match for one set for the very first time."

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne

CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT DOES NOT SUCCEED IN MAKING ANYBODY LISTEN TO REASON

The train, on leaving Great Salt Lake at Ogden, passed northward for an hour as far as Weber River, having completed nearly nine hundred miles from San Francisco. From this point it took an easterly direction towards the jagged Wahsatch Mountains. It was in the section included between this range and the Rocky Mountains that the American engineers found the most formidable difficulties in laying the road, and that the government granted a subsidy of forty-eight thousand dollars per mile, instead of sixteen thousand allowed for the work done on the plains. But the engineers, instead of violating nature, avoided its difficulties by winding around, instead of penetrating the rocks. One tunnel only, fourteen thousand feet in length, was pierced in order to arrive at the great basin.

The track up to this time had reached its highest elevation at the Great Salt Lake. From this point it described a long curve, descending towards Bitter Creek Valley, to rise again to the dividing ridge of the waters between the Atlantic and the Pacific. There were many creeks in this mountainous region, and it was necessary to cross Muddy Creek, Green Creek, and others, upon culverts.

Passepartout grew more and more impatient as they went on, while Fix longed to get out of this difficult region, and was more anxious than Phileas Fogg himself to be beyond the danger of delays and accidents, and set foot on English soil.

At ten o’clock at night the train stopped at Fort Bridger station, and twenty minutes later entered Wyoming Territory, following the valley of Bitter Creek throughout. The next day, 7th December, they stopped for a quarter of an hour at Green River station. Snow had fallen abundantly during the night, but, being mixed with rain, it had half melted, and did not interrupt their progress. The bad weather, however, annoyed Passepartout; for the accumulation of snow, by blocking the wheels of the cars, would certainly have been fatal to Mr. Fogg’s tour.

“What an idea!” he said to himself. “Why did my master make this journey in winter? Couldn’t he have waited for the good season to increase his chances?”

While the worthy Frenchman was absorbed in the state of the sky and the depression of the temperature, Aouda was experiencing fears from a totally different cause.

Several passengers had got off at Green River, and were walking up and down the platforms; and among these Aouda recognised Colonel Stamp Proctor, the same who had so grossly insulted Phileas Fogg at the San Francisco meeting. Not wishing to be recognised, the young woman drew back from the window, feeling much alarm at her discovery. She was attached to the man who, however coldly, gave her daily evidences of the most absolute devotion. She did not comprehend, perhaps, the depth of the sentiment with which her protector inspired her, which she called gratitude, but which, though she was unconscious of it, was really more than that. Her heart sank within her when she recognised the man whom Mr. Fogg desired, sooner or later, to call to account for his conduct. Chance alone, it was clear, had brought Colonel Proctor on this train; but there he was, and it was necessary, at all hazards, that Phileas Fogg should not perceive his adversary.

Aouda seized a moment when Mr. Fogg was asleep to tell Fix and Passepartout whom she had seen.

“That Proctor on this train!” cried Fix. “Well, reassure yourself, madam; before he settles with Mr. Fogg; he has got to deal with me! It seems to me that I was the more insulted of the two.”

“And, besides,” added Passepartout, “I’ll take charge of him, colonel as he is.”

“Mr. Fix,” resumed Aouda, “Mr. Fogg will allow no one to avenge him. He said that he would come back to America to find this man. Should he perceive Colonel Proctor, we could not prevent a collision which might have terrible results. He must not see him.”

“You are right, madam,” replied Fix; “a meeting between them might ruin all. Whether he were victorious or beaten, Mr. Fogg would be delayed, and—”

“And,” added Passepartout, “that would play the game of the gentlemen of the Reform Club. In four days we shall be in New York. Well, if my master does not leave this car during those four days, we may hope that chance will not bring him face to face with this confounded American. We must, if possible, prevent his stirring out of it.”

The conversation dropped. Mr. Fogg had just woke up, and was looking out of the window. Soon after Passepartout, without being heard by his master or Aouda, whispered to the detective, “Would you really fight for him?”

“I would do anything,” replied Fix, in a tone which betrayed determined will, “to get him back living to Europe!”

Passepartout felt something like a shudder shoot through his frame, but his confidence in his master remained unbroken.

Was there any means of detaining Mr. Fogg in the car, to avoid a meeting between him and the colonel? It ought not to be a difficult task, since that gentleman was naturally sedentary and little curious. The detective, at least, seemed to have found a way; for, after a few moments, he said to Mr. Fogg, “These are long and slow hours, sir, that we are passing on the railway.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Fogg; “but they pass.”

“You were in the habit of playing whist,” resumed Fix, “on the steamers.”

“Yes; but it would be difficult to do so here. I have neither cards nor partners.”

“Oh, but we can easily buy some cards, for they are sold on all the American trains. And as for partners, if madam plays—”

“Certainly, sir,” Aouda quickly replied; “I understand whist. It is part of an English education.”

“I myself have some pretensions to playing a good game. Well, here are three of us, and a dummy—”

“As you please, sir,” replied Phileas Fogg, heartily glad to resume his favourite pastime even on the railway.

Passepartout was dispatched in search of the steward, and soon returned with two packs of cards, some pins, counters, and a shelf covered with cloth.

The game commenced. Aouda understood whist sufficiently well, and even received some compliments on her playing from Mr. Fogg. As for the detective, he was simply an adept, and worthy of being matched against his present opponent.

“Now,” thought Passepartout, “we’ve got him. He won’t budge.”

At eleven in the morning the train had reached the dividing ridge of the waters at Bridger Pass, seven thousand five hundred and twenty-four feet above the level of the sea, one of the highest points attained by the track in crossing the Rocky Mountains. After going about two hundred miles, the travellers at last found themselves on one of those vast plains which extend to the Atlantic, and which nature has made so propitious for laying the iron road.

On the declivity of the Atlantic basin the first streams, branches of the North Platte River, already appeared. The whole northern and eastern horizon was bounded by the immense semi-circular curtain which is formed by the southern portion of the Rocky Mountains, the highest being Laramie Peak. Between this and the railway extended vast plains, plentifully irrigated. On the right rose the lower spurs of the mountainous mass which extends southward to the sources of the Arkansas River, one of the great tributaries of the Missouri.

At half-past twelve the travellers caught sight for an instant of Fort Halleck, which commands that section; and in a few more hours the Rocky Mountains were crossed. There was reason to hope, then, that no accident would mark the journey through this difficult country. The snow had ceased falling, and the air became crisp and cold. Large birds, frightened by the locomotive, rose and flew off in the distance. No wild beast appeared on the plain. It was a desert in its vast nakedness.

After a comfortable breakfast, served in the car, Mr. Fogg and his partners had just resumed whist, when a violent whistling was heard, and the train stopped. Passepartout put his head out of the door, but saw nothing to cause the delay; no station was in view.

Aouda and Fix feared that Mr. Fogg might take it into his head to get out; but that gentleman contented himself with saying to his servant, “See what is the matter.”

Passepartout rushed out of the car. Thirty or forty passengers had already descended, amongst them Colonel Stamp Proctor.

The train had stopped before a red signal which blocked the way. The engineer and conductor were talking excitedly with a signal-man, whom the station-master at Medicine Bow, the next stopping place, had sent on before. The passengers drew around and took part in the discussion, in which Colonel Proctor, with his insolent manner, was conspicuous.

Passepartout, joining the group, heard the signal-man say, “No! you can’t pass. The bridge at Medicine Bow is shaky, and would not bear the weight of the train.”

This was a suspension-bridge thrown over some rapids, about a mile from the place where they now were. According to the signal-man, it was in a ruinous condition, several of the iron wires being broken; and it was impossible to risk the passage. He did not in any way exaggerate the condition of the bridge. It may be taken for granted that, rash as the Americans usually are, when they are prudent there is good reason for it.

Passepartout, not daring to apprise his master of what he heard, listened with set teeth, immovable as a statue.

“Hum!” cried Colonel Proctor; “but we are not going to stay here, I imagine, and take root in the snow?”

“Colonel,” replied the conductor, “we have telegraphed to Omaha for a train, but it is not likely that it will reach Medicine Bow in less than six hours.”

“Six hours!” cried Passepartout.

“Certainly,” returned the conductor, “besides, it will take us as long as that to reach Medicine Bow on foot.”

“But it is only a mile from here,” said one of the passengers.

“Yes, but it’s on the other side of the river.”

“And can’t we cross that in a boat?” asked the colonel.

“That’s impossible. The creek is swelled by the rains. It is a rapid, and we shall have to make a circuit of ten miles to the north to find a ford.”

The colonel launched a volley of oaths, denouncing the railway company and the conductor; and Passepartout, who was furious, was not disinclined to make common cause with him. Here was an obstacle, indeed, which all his master’s banknotes could not remove.

There was a general disappointment among the passengers, who, without reckoning the delay, saw themselves compelled to trudge fifteen miles over a plain covered with snow. They grumbled and protested, and would certainly have thus attracted Phileas Fogg’s attention if he had not been completely absorbed in his game.

Passepartout found that he could not avoid telling his master what had occurred, and, with hanging head, he was turning towards the car, when the engineer, a true Yankee, named Forster called out, “Gentlemen, perhaps there is a way, after all, to get over.”

“On the bridge?” asked a passenger.

“On the bridge.”

“With our train?”

“With our train.”

Passepartout stopped short, and eagerly listened to the engineer.

“But the bridge is unsafe,” urged the conductor.

“No matter,” replied Forster; “I think that by putting on the very highest speed we might have a chance of getting over.”

“The devil!” muttered Passepartout.

But a number of the passengers were at once attracted by the engineer’s proposal, and Colonel Proctor was especially delighted, and found the plan a very feasible one. He told stories about engineers leaping their trains over rivers without bridges, by putting on full steam; and many of those present avowed themselves of the engineer’s mind.

“We have fifty chances out of a hundred of getting over,” said one.

“Eighty! ninety!”

Passepartout was astounded, and, though ready to attempt anything to get over Medicine Creek, thought the experiment proposed a little too American. “Besides,” thought he, “there’s a still more simple way, and it does not even occur to any of these people! Sir,” said he aloud to one of the passengers, “the engineer’s plan seems to me a little dangerous, but—”

“Eighty chances!” replied the passenger, turning his back on him.

“I know it,” said Passepartout, turning to another passenger, “but a simple idea—”

“Ideas are no use,” returned the American, shrugging his shoulders, “as the engineer assures us that we can pass.”

“Doubtless,” urged Passepartout, “we can pass, but perhaps it would be more prudent—”

“What! Prudent!” cried Colonel Proctor, whom this word seemed to excite prodigiously. “At full speed, don’t you see, at full speed!”

“I know—I see,” repeated Passepartout; “but it would be, if not more prudent, since that word displeases you, at least more natural—”

“Who! What! What’s the matter with this fellow?” cried several.

The poor fellow did not know to whom to address himself.

“Are you afraid?” asked Colonel Proctor.

“I afraid? Very well; I will show these people that a Frenchman can be as American as they!”

“All aboard!” cried the conductor.

“Yes, all aboard!” repeated Passepartout, and immediately. “But they can’t prevent me from thinking that it would be more natural for us to cross the bridge on foot, and let the train come after!”

But no one heard this sage reflection, nor would anyone have acknowledged its justice. The passengers resumed their places in the cars. Passepartout took his seat without telling what had passed. The whist-players were quite absorbed in their game.

The locomotive whistled vigorously; the engineer, reversing the steam, backed the train for nearly a mile—retiring, like a jumper, in order to take a longer leap. Then, with another whistle, he began to move forward; the train increased its speed, and soon its rapidity became frightful; a prolonged screech issued from the locomotive; the piston worked up and down twenty strokes to the second. They perceived that the whole train, rushing on at the rate of a hundred miles an hour, hardly bore upon the rails at all.

And they passed over! It was like a flash. No one saw the bridge. The train leaped, so to speak, from one bank to the other, and the engineer could not stop it until it had gone five miles beyond the station. But scarcely had the train passed the river, when the bridge, completely ruined, fell with a crash into the rapids of Medicine Bow.

CHAPTER XXIX. IN WHICH CERTAIN INCIDENTS ARE NARRATED WHICH ARE ONLY TO BE MET WITH ON AMERICAN RAILROADS

The train pursued its course, that evening, without interruption, passing Fort Saunders, crossing Cheyne Pass, and reaching Evans Pass. The road here attained the highest elevation of the journey, eight thousand and ninety-two feet above the level of the sea. The travellers had now only to descend to the Atlantic by limitless plains, levelled by nature. A branch of the “grand trunk” led off southward to Denver, the capital of Colorado. The country round about is rich in gold and silver, and more than fifty thousand inhabitants are already settled there.

Thirteen hundred and eighty-two miles had been passed over from San Francisco, in three days and three nights; four days and nights more would probably bring them to New York. Phileas Fogg was not as yet behind-hand.

During the night Camp Walbach was passed on the left; Lodge Pole Creek ran parallel with the road, marking the boundary between the territories of Wyoming and Colorado. They entered Nebraska at eleven, passed near Sedgwick, and touched at Julesburg, on the southern branch of the Platte River.

It was here that the Union Pacific Railroad was inaugurated on the 23rd of October, 1867, by the chief engineer, General Dodge. Two powerful locomotives, carrying nine cars of invited guests, amongst whom was Thomas C. Durant, vice-president of the road, stopped at this point; cheers were given, the Sioux and Pawnees performed an imitation Indian battle, fireworks were let off, and the first number of the Railway Pioneer was printed by a press brought on the train. Thus was celebrated the inauguration of this great railroad, a mighty instrument of progress and civilisation, thrown across the desert, and destined to link together cities and towns which do not yet exist. The whistle of the locomotive, more powerful than Amphion’s lyre, was about to bid them rise from American soil.

Fort McPherson was left behind at eight in the morning, and three hundred and fifty-seven miles had yet to be traversed before reaching Omaha. The road followed the capricious windings of the southern branch of the Platte River, on its left bank. At nine the train stopped at the important town of North Platte, built between the two arms of the river, which rejoin each other around it and form a single artery, a large tributary, whose waters empty into the Missouri a little above Omaha.

The one hundred and first meridian was passed.

Mr. Fogg and his partners had resumed their game; no one—not even the dummy—complained of the length of the trip. Fix had begun by winning several guineas, which he seemed likely to lose; but he showed himself a not less eager whist-player than Mr. Fogg. During the morning, chance distinctly favoured that gentleman. Trumps and honours were showered upon his hands.

Once, having resolved on a bold stroke, he was on the point of playing a spade, when a voice behind him said, “I should play a diamond.”

Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix raised their heads, and beheld Colonel Proctor.

Stamp Proctor and Phileas Fogg recognised each other at once.

“Ah! it’s you, is it, Englishman?” cried the colonel; “it’s you who are going to play a spade!”

“And who plays it,” replied Phileas Fogg coolly, throwing down the ten of spades.

“Well, it pleases me to have it diamonds,” replied Colonel Proctor, in an insolent tone.

He made a movement as if to seize the card which had just been played, adding, “You don’t understand anything about whist.”

“Perhaps I do, as well as another,” said Phileas Fogg, rising.

“You have only to try, son of John Bull,” replied the colonel.

Aouda turned pale, and her blood ran cold. She seized Mr. Fogg’s arm and gently pulled him back. Passepartout was ready to pounce upon the American, who was staring insolently at his opponent. But Fix got up, and, going to Colonel Proctor said, “You forget that it is I with whom you have to deal, sir; for it was I whom you not only insulted, but struck!”

“Mr. Fix,” said Mr. Fogg, “pardon me, but this affair is mine, and mine only. The colonel has again insulted me, by insisting that I should not play a spade, and he shall give me satisfaction for it.”

“When and where you will,” replied the American, “and with whatever weapon you choose.”

Aouda in vain attempted to retain Mr. Fogg; as vainly did the detective endeavour to make the quarrel his. Passepartout wished to throw the colonel out of the window, but a sign from his master checked him. Phileas Fogg left the car, and the American followed him upon the platform. “Sir,” said Mr. Fogg to his adversary, “I am in a great hurry to get back to Europe, and any delay whatever will be greatly to my disadvantage.”

“Well, what’s that to me?” replied Colonel Proctor.

“Sir,” said Mr. Fogg, very politely, “after our meeting at San Francisco, I determined to return to America and find you as soon as I had completed the business which called me to England.”

“Really!”

“Will you appoint a meeting for six months hence?”

“Why not ten years hence?”

“I say six months,” returned Phileas Fogg; “and I shall be at the place of meeting promptly.”

“All this is an evasion,” cried Stamp Proctor. “Now or never!”

“Very good. You are going to New York?”

“No.”

“To Chicago?”

“No.”

“To Omaha?”

“What difference is it to you? Do you know Plum Creek?”

“No,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“It’s the next station. The train will be there in an hour, and will stop there ten minutes. In ten minutes several revolver-shots could be exchanged.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Fogg. “I will stop at Plum Creek.”

“And I guess you’ll stay there too,” added the American insolently.

“Who knows?” replied Mr. Fogg, returning to the car as coolly as usual. He began to reassure Aouda, telling her that blusterers were never to be feared, and begged Fix to be his second at the approaching duel, a request which the detective could not refuse. Mr. Fogg resumed the interrupted game with perfect calmness.

At eleven o’clock the locomotive’s whistle announced that they were approaching Plum Creek station. Mr. Fogg rose, and, followed by Fix, went out upon the platform. Passepartout accompanied him, carrying a pair of revolvers. Aouda remained in the car, as pale as death.

The door of the next car opened, and Colonel Proctor appeared on the platform, attended by a Yankee of his own stamp as his second. But just as the combatants were about to step from the train, the conductor hurried up, and shouted, “You can’t get off, gentlemen!”

“Why not?” asked the colonel.

“We are twenty minutes late, and we shall not stop.”

“But I am going to fight a duel with this gentleman.”

“I am sorry,” said the conductor; “but we shall be off at once. There’s the bell ringing now.”

The train started.

“I’m really very sorry, gentlemen,” said the conductor. “Under any other circumstances I should have been happy to oblige you. But, after all, as you have not had time to fight here, why not fight as we go along?”

“That wouldn’t be convenient, perhaps, for this gentleman,” said the colonel, in a jeering tone.

“It would be perfectly so,” replied Phileas Fogg.

“Well, we are really in America,” thought Passepartout, “and the conductor is a gentleman of the first order!”

So muttering, he followed his master.

The two combatants, their seconds, and the conductor passed through the cars to the rear of the train. The last car was only occupied by a dozen passengers, whom the conductor politely asked if they would not be so kind as to leave it vacant for a few moments, as two gentlemen had an affair of honour to settle. The passengers granted the request with alacrity, and straightway disappeared on the platform.

The car, which was some fifty feet long, was very convenient for their purpose. The adversaries might march on each other in the aisle, and fire at their ease. Never was duel more easily arranged. Mr. Fogg and Colonel Proctor, each provided with two six-barrelled revolvers, entered the car. The seconds, remaining outside, shut them in. They were to begin firing at the first whistle of the locomotive. After an interval of two minutes, what remained of the two gentlemen would be taken from the car.

Nothing could be more simple. Indeed, it was all so simple that Fix and Passepartout felt their hearts beating as if they would crack. They were listening for the whistle agreed upon, when suddenly savage cries resounded in the air, accompanied by reports which certainly did not issue from the car where the duellists were. The reports continued in front and the whole length of the train. Cries of terror proceeded from the interior of the cars.

Colonel Proctor and Mr. Fogg, revolvers in hand, hastily quitted their prison, and rushed forward where the noise was most clamorous. They then perceived that the train was attacked by a band of Sioux.

This was not the first attempt of these daring Indians, for more than once they had waylaid trains on the road. A hundred of them had, according to their habit, jumped upon the steps without stopping the train, with the ease of a clown mounting a horse at full gallop.

The Sioux were armed with guns, from which came the reports, to which the passengers, who were almost all armed, responded by revolver-shots.

The Indians had first mounted the engine, and half stunned the engineer and stoker with blows from their muskets. A Sioux chief, wishing to stop the train, but not knowing how to work the regulator, had opened wide instead of closing the steam-valve, and the locomotive was plunging forward with terrific velocity.

The Sioux had at the same time invaded the cars, skipping like enraged monkeys over the roofs, thrusting open the doors, and fighting hand to hand with the passengers. Penetrating the baggage-car, they pillaged it, throwing the trunks out of the train. The cries and shots were constant. The travellers defended themselves bravely; some of the cars were barricaded, and sustained a siege, like moving forts, carried along at a speed of a hundred miles an hour.

Aouda behaved courageously from the first. She defended herself like a true heroine with a revolver, which she shot through the broken windows whenever a savage made his appearance. Twenty Sioux had fallen mortally wounded to the ground, and the wheels crushed those who fell upon the rails as if they had been worms. Several passengers, shot or stunned, lay on the seats.

It was necessary to put an end to the struggle, which had lasted for ten minutes, and which would result in the triumph of the Sioux if the train was not stopped. Fort Kearney station, where there was a garrison, was only two miles distant; but, that once passed, the Sioux would be masters of the train between Fort Kearney and the station beyond.

The conductor was fighting beside Mr. Fogg, when he was shot and fell. At the same moment he cried, “Unless the train is stopped in five minutes, we are lost!”

“It shall be stopped,” said Phileas Fogg, preparing to rush from the car.

“Stay, monsieur,” cried Passepartout; “I will go.”

Mr. Fogg had not time to stop the brave fellow, who, opening a door unperceived by the Indians, succeeded in slipping under the car; and while the struggle continued and the balls whizzed across each other over his head, he made use of his old acrobatic experience, and with amazing agility worked his way under the cars, holding on to the chains, aiding himself by the brakes and edges of the sashes, creeping from one car to another with marvellous skill, and thus gaining the forward end of the train.

There, suspended by one hand between the baggage-car and the tender, with the other he loosened the safety chains; but, owing to the traction, he would never have succeeded in unscrewing the yoking-bar, had not a violent concussion jolted this bar out. The train, now detached from the engine, remained a little behind, whilst the locomotive rushed forward with increased speed.

Carried on by the force already acquired, the train still moved for several minutes; but the brakes were worked and at last they stopped, less than a hundred feet from Kearney station.

The soldiers of the fort, attracted by the shots, hurried up; the Sioux had not expected them, and decamped in a body before the train entirely stopped.

But when the passengers counted each other on the station platform several were found missing; among others the courageous Frenchman, whose devotion had just saved them.

[lifechangingmoments]

Holding A Grudge Creates PAIN for Others!

Right now, I have someone, who has been holding a grudge against me for many years. They refuse to speak to me or be in the same room with me. They have always tried to be better than me and loved more than I am. I pray for PEACE!

Ephesians 4:31-32 Let All BITTERNESS & Wrath & CLAMOR & SLANDER be put away from you, along with All MALICE. Be Kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you. Photo by Timur Weber on Pexels.com For nothing will be impossible with God. Luke 1:37 I have a dear friend, named Ava, who’s brother has pretty much disowned her, because his family keeps holding…

[haljathefangirlcat]

International Fanworks Day: Feedback Fest Recs: Cheating Edition

Or, after reccing some wonderful crossovers on AO3, here’s my crossovers and fusions! Or at least, the ones in English barring the new one I’m going to post on IFD proper on the 15th.

Finnish It! (or, When Typos Get Stuck In Your Head) (Doctor Who/RPF): Eleventh Doctor, Rory Williams, Amy Pond, Tove Jansson. G, background Rory/Amy and Eleven/River. Tiny misfired comment fill for the Eleventh Era Kinkmeme. Pure, simple crack.

Collaboration (The Librarians/Torchwood): Eve Baird, Jenkins, Ezekiel Jones, Cassandra Cillian, Jacob Stone, Jack Harkness, Toshiko Sato, Ianto Jones, Owen Harper, Gwen Cooper. G, implied Janto, Jack/Jenkins, and Cassandra/Tosh. Humorous ficlet about the two teams working together.

Ships in the night (Voltron: Legendary Defender/Attila’s Treasure): Keith, Hagan. T, onesided Keith/Shiro and Hagan/Waldhari, background Shurtis and Waldhari/Hildegund. Post-series angst, awkward yet hopeful hurt/comfort, two characters who feel more similar to each other to me than they probably should and my attempt to make them bond over similar experiences that (admittedly) sounds more like a very weird Horrible Histories episode.

The (Willingly Sacrificed) Eye of the Heart (Of The Gallows' God) (Rhinegold & Attila’s Treasure/Boris): Ragin, Otter, Hagan, various others mentioned. T, mentions of Waldhari/Hildegund, onesided Attila/Hildegund, and onesided Fadhmir/Brunichild. Fusion AU with the characters from Stephan Grundy’s  Völsunga Saga retellings filling in for the cast of sharp, bitter, satirical Italian tv series Boris. Does it make sense? In my heart, it does.

Out Loud (Ace Attorney/Twilight): Miles Edgeworth, Phoenix Wright. G, pre-slash Narumitsu. A Fusion AU for the Phoenix Wright Kinkmeme that’s crack on a stick with just a hint of angst.

In Patterns So Unlike The Measured Dance Of Stars (Ace Attorney/Swordspoint): Phoenix Wright, with Mia Fey, Alec Campion, and Richard St Vier all more or less in the background. G, implied Narumitsu, background Richard/Alec, (hinted) onesided Phoenix/Alec. Fusion AU and crossover. Pre-canon for the games, post-canon for the book. A slice-of-life Phoenix Wright Kinkmeme fill to a prompt asking for crossover pairings, but it ended up being the Vague Hints Festival more than actually shippy.

sur nos stèles je veux graver (que nos rires ont berné la mort et le temps) (Ace Attorney/Mozart L’Opéra Rock): Phoenix Wright, Maya Fey, Costance Weber, Antonio Salieri, the Judge, and a few cameos from other MOR characters. G, Narumitsu, Mozalieri. A Phoenix Wright Kinkmeme autofill that’s not quite a Fusion AU or a crossover, not quite crack or Crack Treated Seriously, not quite me clinging to my sanity or throwing it to the wind in exchange for musical and historical in-jokes. Post-canon for the musical, with a dash of historically inaccurate accusations.

Oldest Companions (Nibelungenlied/Waltharius): Volker von Alzey, Hagen von Tronje, mentioned others. G, pre-slash Volker/Hagen. Mashing together two different poems from the same tradition, each telling a slightly different story about the same characters, for a Chocolate Box Exchange treat. Ambiguously platonic celebrity crushes, first meetings, and implied angst.