#Mallard loses her humanity

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2023: Day 27 - Record-Breaker

Mallard Broke the World Speed Record; It Broke Her:

4468 Mallard broke the world steam speed record in 1938, changing her life forever…

1938:

The quiet, almost timid engine sat in the works, listening to the workers. “You hear? That engine there is fastest in the world!” one said, pointing to the famous engine. Mallard blinked, amazed. She’d never been told if she’d actually broken the record – but to hear that she had, and to hear that it was major news! It was incredible.

There was no one better than her in that moment – she was the greatest!

“Ah, the engine of the hour!” cheered a voice. Mallard gazed down, spotting Sir Nigel Gresley himself walking over. Mallard gasped in amazement. The Chief Mechanical Engineer almost never visited his engines. “I came to congratulate you again, Mallard. I am proud of you – you are truly a credit to this railway. The poster child for what every Northeaster engine should strive for. Well done, and keep up the good work, Mallard.”

Mallard beamed, thanking her designer. Then, she turned to the gossiping workers. “Well? You heard him – I need to be back in service now! Hurry it up!”

1963:

“So, which of us is to be preserved?” asked Silver Link, staring down apprehensively at the members of the British Railways board. The men had come to decide on a Gresley Pacific to save from the scrapper’s torch.

“Who do you think?” snorted one of the men in the bowler hats. “We must choose the locomotive that achieved the greatest feat of a steam locomotive – 60022 Mallard, you are to be restored to your LNER looks and sent to the Museum of British Transport Museum. The rest of you… hope someone purchases you.”

Silver Link just stared in shock as several diesels sniggered in the background. “But I… but… She didn’t even make it back to London! I am the first! I reached 114—” “Stop speaking 60014, there is no reason for you to complain. You are already withdrawn, and shall be sent away once we have the time.” “Mallard… are you going to allow this?” asked Silver Link, eyes wide in horror. “Well, elder sister, some of us are just… more important than others. I represent our class, and I am the best at such an honour.” Silver Link went red in the face, but Mallard was already steaming away, blowing smoke at her elder sister.

Behind Silver Link, Flying Scotsman and Silver King shared a nervous look.

1975:

Flying Scotsman sat on the points outside the brand new York National Railway Museum, Green Arrow on one side and Gordon on the other. It was the first time that the four had seen each other – the fourth being an indignant Mallard sat opposite them.

“What do you mean, he’s worthy of being the same level as me?” sniffed Mallard. “He’s a mixed traffic engine!” “Green Arrow is an LNER engine, same as us,” reminded Scott crossly, facing down his cousin. “And there are only nine LNER Pacifics left, so your levels are completely worthless! We need to end this… this… this…” “Elitist garbage!” Gordon snapped. “We are long past this, cousin. What’s stopping you from accepting Green Arrow?” “Green Arrow is a simple mixed traffic engine,” hissed Mallard. “I am the greatest steam engine to have ever been built! No one has ever, or will ever, beat my record. There’s a reason that I am in this museum, and you are out slaving away to keep in steam.”

“Slaving away?!” Gordon let off steam furiously. Scott just clenched his jaw. “There’s no point arguing with her,” he sighed. “We’re better off just getting the rest on side.” The three steamed away, leaving Mallard to be pushed gently back into the grand museum by a timid diesel shunter.

None of the other engines in the museum spoke to her as she was shunted into place. Not Evening Star, not Aerolite, not Coppernob. They all just shot her dark glances.

1988:

Mallard sped along the line, feeling the wind rush past her face. “I forgot what this was like,” she huffed, finally arriving back at Doncaster after crossing the country to reach Scarborough and back. Several relatives of her crew from back when she’d broken the world record sat in her coaches – but they were inconsequential. After all, any crew could have gotten her up to her record-breaking speed.

“So, how was the run?” asked Gordon politely, sitting in the next platform over. Mallard ignored him. Gordon rolled his eyes. Green Arrow and Spencer shared a look.

“I’m impressed,” hummed Spencer. “Though I’ve heard that the East Germans have built a steam locomotive that’s almost able to match Mallard’s speed.” Mallard’s eye twitched. “No they haven’t!” she suddenly snarled, spooking several of the passengers on the platform. “I am the fastest. That’s my role! Don’t talk such drivel around me.”

Spencer sighed. As the only one of Mallard’s siblings willing to speak to her, and one of only four engines that had spoken to Mallard (he’d checked with Duchess of Hamilton) in the last ten years, he was uniquely able to see just how much his younger sister had changed.

Where Mallard had once been a healthy pale, her pallor had grown almost dangerously blue – while her formerly vibrant eyes had gone dull, with just a hint of something… unsettling in them. And yet her paintwork was spotless, her brass polished until it glistened in the sun, even after a full run with passengers.

“Are you alright?” asked Spencer quietly. Gordon and Green Arrow pretended not to hear. “I beg your pardon?!” roared Mallard, spooking yet more passengers. “Are you insinuating something?! That such a simple run would tire me out? I am the fastest steam engine in the world – I am more than competent, thank you.” “I just wanted to ch—” “Well don’t!” sneered Mallard. “I am fine.”

Spencer’s tentative frown turned downwards into a scowl, and the great silver engine hissed steam as he started away. Gordon watched him go, knowing deep in the pit of his boiler that the silver engine wouldn’t be back.

Silver King had never truly forgiven his younger sister for the way she’d spoken to Silver Link, even if his name had changed, as had his owners and his lifestyle.

2013:

Spencer, Bittern, Dominion of Canada, Dwight D Eisenhower, Union of South Africa, and Sir Nigel Gresley all stood in awkward silence. Their sister – Mallard – was being wheeled out of the museum for a photoshoot. “So… did you hear her last night?” asked Dwight quietly. “She was screaming at the shunting diesels again.” “I can’t believe they made me agree to his,” hissed Spencer. “I promised myself after 1988 – never again. And yet here I am. At least Scott gets to hide in the workshops.” “It cannot be that bad?” tried Woodcock – only the humans called her Dominion of Canada, “I mean… she has to have made some friends in there, right?” “Unlikely,” snorted Osprey – the humans had given her that name in the 1980s, and she much preferred it to ‘Union of South Africa’, “she spends most of her days just glaring at everyone. Last I heard, it’s a real treat for them when she gets brought out here to be gawked at.”

“Shh! Shh! She’s coming,” warned Bittern. The six all went silent as Mallard was dragged off the turntable and over to the line of engines.

“Ah, good, you all made it,” Mallard said haughtily. “It’s what I deserve, getting the humans to bring you all here to celebrate our class’s greatest achievement.” “What you—” Osprey cut off, indignant. Beyond her, Dwight gawked in shock while Spencer just rolled his eyes. The shunter braked the famous engine to a stop, jolting slightly.

“Did you just jolt me?” hissed Mallard, voice deathly quiet. The shunter gulped. “Don’t you dare!” snapped Spencer, speaking to the world-record holder for the first time in nearly thirty years. “You cannot deride these hard-working engines, I refuse to allow it!” “Oh? As if you are any better, Mr Private Engine,” sneered Mallard. “Silver King, the weird runt of the class who galivants off to that backwards island where our Crewe-rebuilt cousin lives.” “Gordon still pulls his express!” roared Spencer, letting off steam furiously. “Gordon treats everyone with respect! He’s a far better representative of our railway than you are – he’s out there, pulling passengers and acting as the ambassador for Gresley’s work. He holds a record for the longest-serving express engine in the world!”

“He has Midland parts,” snarled Mallard. “He’s a mongrel of parts, and I can’t stand him! I can’t stand him and his righteousness! This is my celebration, my record, my museum! He can talk when he has a proper record of his own. Let’s see him try and beat me – oh wait, didn’t he lose his dome last time he attempted that?”

None of the other A4s spoke, and the moment the photoshoot was over, all four in steam left, taking Dwight and Woodcock with them, leaving Mallard alone.

2016:

Flying Scotsman sat outside the NRM, steam wafting from his funnel. He was the last one left. Spencer had permanently relocated to Sodor after 2013, the other A4s steered clear of York Museum, Gordon had his own work, and Green Arrow had moved to Shildon. So, it was only him left to talk to her.

“Oh, it’s the money pit.” “Mallard. I came to say goodbye.” “Goodbye? Where are you going, Gresley Disgrace?” “I’m going to run mainline excursions,” Flying Scotsman replied evenly. “I’m not going to have to listen to you anymore when you scream abuse at the others or rant about the new PRR engine.” “Rant? Abuse? 4472, you don’t understand! I am Gresley’s pride and joy! I am the greatest – he would roll over in his grave if he saw you now. It’s my destiny to be the greatest – and everyone needs to accept that!” “Sir Nigel Gresley loved us all equally,” snapped Flying Scotsman. “And don’t you forget, any one of your class—”

“I did it!” roared Mallard. “Me! Not any of you! I am the world record breaker – I am the greatest steam engine of all time! You’re nothing compared to me! I am Sir Nigel’s triumph! I am the legacy of the Northeasters! Me! How dare you speed to me like that?! Learn your place!”

Flying Scotsman stared evenly back at the shrieking engine. “I have,” he said simply. “And it’s not here. The other engines can survive listening to your abuse, but I don’t have to. You’re nothing, Mallard. Not anymore. You sit here, on this siding, in this shed, and you cling to the past because that’s all you’ll ever have.”

Flying Scotsman puffed out of the shed, the wrecked screams of his cousin following him through the sliding shed doors. They transformed from howls of rage into a hail of screeching tears, as Mallard’s entire self-worth crashed down on her. The former icon of steam and speed finally lost it, all the rage and anger and simmering hatred growing inside her frames boiling over as she cursed her cousin.

Flying Scotsman couldn’t help but feel sorry for the engine – but all the same, she had spent decades wrecking their designer’s good name with her attitude. Her stardom had placed her up on a pedestal – one where the loneliness of fame had engulfed her.

Back to Master Post

[key-rk]

Today's Doodles of Darkwarrior because I rewatched 'Time and Punishment' I adore this episode so much, honestly in my top five favourites.

(legends I'm gonna nerd out here bc I like sharing my thoughts [THESE MIGHT BE VERY SURFACE LVL SORRY]) - In general, his plot of losing his daughter is a good idea, and I think moving to extremes for him works so well. It's pretty obvious as he eliminated all actual crime, he went off and sort of began, Parenting his city--Eg; the curfews and healthy diets.

But him becoming another Alter ego is so fitting. Gosalyn is the whole reason he went back to his civilian life--to take care of her. And with her gone, there's not really any reason for him to be Drake Mallard. Looking back on "Clash Reunion" and "Paraducks" he obviously didn't have the best adolescent years, and once he felt the praise of being someone else (Dw) as a high schooler, he abandoned being Drake Mallard altogether. (assuming cuz of convos in DDTD pt1+2)

Darkworrior in a way works as a good distraction from reality for him, hence the insane obsessing over small humanely errors--to keep him occupied. Granted as time went on he lost a couple screws to the point of him not even changing when Gosalyn returns but ah well.

Also from this ep it's safe to assume Drake isnt the most mentally put together as his whole 'Sanity' was held together by one person. Add this to his very low self-esteem issues, and his claim, 'getting manically depressed on the weekends' it really does make sense for him to go crazy. In conclusion, i ove him and I need ppl to appreciate him as much as i do xp

ONCE AGAIN SORRY FOR THE LONG ASS CAPTION N ALL THE INFO MIGHT BE SO OBVIOUS BUT I RLLY WANTED TO CHAT ABOUT DRAKE, IF U HAVE MORE TO ADD PLS DO🙏💥

[askyoungiron]

I think Olivia got the cold iron sleep from losing the whistle

PEONY: Maybe. But why does she have gold dust in her eyes? If she had Cold Iron she wouldn’t have any even if she were an engine. Humans aren’t supposed to be able to use it or absorb it.

QUICKSILVER: Perhaps it’s a side effect of sharing her body with Scotsman’s soul to save it from Mallard?

PEONY: But that’s weird too! Even the other Gold Wardens couldn’t do that! Remember what happened when the Southern Warden tried to save one of the Bulleid’s by trying to save his soul the same way? The Gold Dust poisoned him and killed him in days from heavy metal poisoning!

QUICKSILVER: …

PEONY: This is all very strange. Ms Olivia is a strange human.

QUICKSILVER: North would know more about this. I am at a loss for an answer.

[queenboudicaa]

Many inventive theories attempt to explain why ovulatory signals disappeared in the human line, but none of them, in my opinion, propose an advantage so sterling that it offsets the abandonment of the premier genereplicating method used by millions of species over millions of years—females signaling males their sexual readiness at the same moment they are ovulating.

The few species of primates that do not ostensibly signal ovulation are distant from the human line on the evolutionary primate-branching bush. A few other species' females also do not appear to advertise their ovulation—for example, some birds, such as mallards—but the problem of knowing for sure is exacerbated by the fact that human observers can't ask the males of these species whether or not they are aware of the females' ovulation.

Among the more ingenious explanations for why sexual signaling disappeared in humans is the one proposed by anthropologist Nancy Burley. Women lost the ability to monitor their ovulatory moment, according to Burley because those who grasped the connection between sex and pregnancy realized that pain, possible death, and taxing demands were also part of the deal.

A woman so enlightened, Burley theorizes, might prudently decide to abstain from sex . Celibates do not leave offspring. Selection pressure would, therefore, favor those women who were unaware of their ovulation.

Primatologist Sarah Blaffer Hardy proposes that infantile murder coaxed human cryptic ovulation into being in a theory known as the “many fathers.”

Having carefully documented the horrifying fact that male primates some¬ times killed infants, Hardy posits that the loss of external signs of ovulation ultimately protected newborns by keeping all parties guessing concerning the issue of paternity especially males. Unsure whether an infant was due to his copulatory efforts, a male would be less inclined to kill it.

Hardy worked primarily with hanuman langurs, but other studies, including Jane Goodall's chimpanzees in the wild and Alison Jolly's ring-tailed lemurs, have confirmed that males commit infanticide in these species. To date, thirty-five species of primates have been identified in which strange males kill infants.

Social scientists Margo Wilson and Martin Daly found suggestive evidence that this abhorrent practice exists among humans. Surveying crime statistics, they noted that when an adult male murders a child he is sixty-five times more likely to be a stepfather or live-in boyfriend than the child's biological father.

Though I have great respect and admiration for Hardy's work, I wonder whether her theory is the whole story If infanticide was so great a threat to the continuation of affected primate species, why did only the human line adopt the evolutionary strategy of cryptic ovulation to solve the problem?

Chimpanzees, for whom infanticide is a serious problem, have not evolved anything resembling cryptic ovulation. Bonobo males have never been observed to engage in killing infants, yet bonobo female primates come closest to mimicking the human female's reproductive model of loss of estrus and increased sexual receptivity.

The observation that strange males do the killing is in keeping with evolutionary theory. Alpha maledom often does not last very long. A strange male who achieves dominance must make hay while the sun shines. By killing the sucklings of his new group, he can precipitate estrus among the distressed mothers and thus increase his chances of spreading his genes.

Among human populations, it has been a common strategy of conquering armies, after beheading the losing side's warriors, to turn their attention to killing the infants who the conquerors know were fathered by those warriors. This slaughter of the innocents has been amply recorded at different times in disparate locales throughout history. Cryptic ovulation has rarely protected infants of the conquered women from being killed by strangers.

If keeping the male uncertain concerning paternity increases the life span of children, what would be the advantage to the female of remaining in the dark on such a vital issue as her own ovulation?

Another question: The male primates that engage in the practice of infanticide do not seem to care one fig about the offspring they do sire. Since the majority of infanticide is carried out by recently arrived males that are strangers to the group, it would be safe to assume that these animals are equipped with an instinct to kill the infant of any strange female.

Hardy's theory rests on the assumption that a male primate is capable of making the causal connection between sex and birth, either instinctually or consciously. There is minimal scientific evidence to indicate that this quantum leap in logic has occurred in the mind of another species besides a human.

Another problem: Since knowing when a female ovulates is critical to a male's fitness, why did not the human male develop a compensatory counteradaptation to detect the female's ovaries' subterfuge?

Many other theories abound. Donald Symons suggests women use their year-round sexual receptivity to seduce philanderers in exchange for gifts . L. Benshoof and Randy Thornhill propose that cryptic ovulation allows a woman to mate by stealth with a superior man without alerting her husband.

Though the theories outlined above may have been contributing factors in reprogramming Gyna sapiens ’reproductive cycle, they do not seem to offer sturdy enough reasons to explain the origin of such drastic changes in her life strategy.

The rarity of concealed ovulation among the other three million sexually reproducing species suggests that cryptic ovulation is not a mainline solution to any of the problems posed by the various theories.

The primary consequence of cryptic ovulation—the need for increased sexual contact to coincide with ovulation's propitious moment—would appear to be highly disadvantageous, evolutionarily speaking.

In the cold calculus of energy conservation, copulation is both dangerous and a very expensive metabolic activity An ancestral couple in flagrante delicto would have been very vulnerable to a predator. Sex consumes time, calories, resources, and mental effort that might better be used for survival. With a few notable exceptions, other creatures expend minimal time and energy copulating. The mating act of most birds and mammals can be measured in seconds.

The human investment, in terms of time spent thinking about sex, planning, wooing, and actually engaging in the act, exceeds that of any other creature. After their strenuous coitus, humans generally require a longer recovery interval than any other animal.

Additionally without a visible or olfactory lodestar, men and women have found it necessary to engage in frequent, capricious copulations throughout the year to increase the likelihood of pregnancy.

The uncertainty of conception, both for those who yearn for it and those who don't, has been among men's and women's most consistent causes of stress, anguish, and anxiety down through the generations.

Evolutionary processes do not care whether an organism is happy or not. Nevertheless, stress tends to diminish an organism's fitness.

Nonestral females of other species, with rare exception, do not appear to begrudge the attentions estral females receive from excited males. When Gyna sapiens lost estrus and gained the ability to engage in sex anytime throughout the year (if she so desired), the nettlesome problem of sexual jealousy among women reared its ugly head.

The green-eyed monster consumes a staggering waste of spirit and is virtually unknown among other species.

Cryptic ovulation and year-round sexual receptivity also greatly increased the amount and degree of jealousy among many men.

Societies have had to construct draconian legal, social, religious, and cultural barriers to regulate members' sexual competition and minimize the outbreak of violence. Duels, dogmas, eunuchs, taboos, so-called honor killings, chastity belts, and female genital mutilation are just a few of the rituals and devices that attest to the difficulty men have had in dealing with women's robust sexual capability.

Desmond Morris in his book The Naked Ape makes the argument that humans are the first species to elevate sex to the status of a recreational activity’ Morris speculates, “The vast bulk of copulation in our species is obvi¬ ously concerned, not with producing offspring, but with cementing the pair bond by providing mutual rewards for the sexual partners ."

According to this argument, endorsed by many others besides Morris, we are Homo ludens (the Playful Ape) and we have liberated sex from the depths of the Minotaurean labyrinth! in the brain's primitive limbic system of instinctual drives.

By elevating sex to the brain's higher, neocortical planes, according to these authors, we have created a new kind of sex. Proponents argue that the pleasure we so derive and the love that enhances the deep human commitments more than offsets any of the disadvantages of drastic changes in sexual programming.

[thatcheeseycandle]

//SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 31 OF IN PURSUIT OF SELF

DING DING DING IVE REBLOGGED THE CHAPTER ITS TIME FOR THE REACTION TO IPOS CHP 31 WOOOOOOOOO

AGHGHSHDHFBFHSB THE TITLE CARD, AS ALWAYS, GOT ME HYPEDDDD AUDISJHA HD JSHANCBANDNDN

Wiat HWTA WHAT WHAT IN THE WORLD HAPPENED?????

Ay AYYYYYY GREEN ARROW HERE AS EMPTIPNAL SUPPORT BEHAKAHDHD

AweewjahddvAJWSHAHDBDB FOUND FAMILY MOMENT NUMBER ONE

Oh no OH GOSH TORNADO- BEHAHAHAHHAHDJAHDHAHAH NGL WHEN I FIRST HEARD OF IT TOO I HAD THE SAME FEELING HEHAHAHDBNA

Okay boiler sludge is a fair name for it actually HEHAJHDNNNFNF

Oh OH TRUST ME TORNADO THEY REALLY ARE-

Arrow ARROW JUSKO- THE CATS ARE FIGHTING AGAIN THEY REALLY ARE-

Ay AY AN ARGUEMENT???? OKAY IM KINDA RECALLING ON WHAT IT COULD BE- WAIT PARDON????? OKAY THATS GOOD ARROWS TRYNA YKNOW BE GOOD

helahdDGHELAUSGD I NEEDED A FEW SECONDS TO PROCESS WHAT SHE JUST SAID IM SORRY BEHAHABDHD

I JUST GOT A QUICK FLASHBACK TO WHAT TAW VALLEY SAID ABOUT EVERYONE FLIRTING WITH SCOT WHEN I REAF THAT AND I DIDNT THINK IT WOULD BE TRUE NGL

Oh to be not famous and oh to just live peacefully- (insert very loud opera music)

Yes YES FIESTY TORNADO BEHAHF

AHEHAHDBD YES TORNADO ONE OF THE TRUEST WORDS YOUVE EVER SAID THEY ARE A CUTE COUPLE

Im sorry TAW VALLEY SAID WHAT NOW???? OHHHH BOYYY IM ALL EARS I REALLY AM IM ALL EARS ALL EYES AND EARS

Ohhh OHHHSHSHDHDKDBD TORNADO YKNOW ITS TIME SHE LEARNT ABOUT THE LOVE TRIANGLE THOSE TWO HAD BEHAJAHHDHS

Im very VERY EXCUTED THIS BIT NOW GOT ME EXCITED FOR THE NEW BLOG HEKAHFKD OOOHH THE TENSION

Ay AY AY WHAT WHATAFAQ TRURO???

Wait WINSTON KNEW?? HE KNEW ABOUT NORTH WHATAGBSADAKAKA HOW WHEN HUH

Oi OI WAIT AYYYY GOLD AND DP1 LETS GOAOAYDJFB THEYRE HERE

Yeah YEAHH THE COOL KIDS BEJAJDH

Ph wait.. OHW AHATA WAIT WIAY IS TRURO GONNA TURN HUMAN??? IS HE???

Wait WINSTON ITS STARTING TO STACK IP HES GONNA TRUROS GONNA DO IT

Truro TRURO YOU LITTLE YOU DO LOOK GOOD FOR GODS SAKE

Oh OH? WELL.. YEAH I MEAN NGL TRURO HAS A POINT NOW CONSIDERING THAT- BUT STILL HES RIGHT YEAHHH

Yeah YEHJAFJJAHAHSBC

Lady WHATSG OH EHS GONNA GO HES GONNA TODAYS THE DAY HES GONNA DO IT

WOAH WOAGDHQOWAOAGD AYAYAYAY AY AY AY

Oh Gold COME ON- THEYRE MORE THAN RELIABLE THEYRE COOL AND LOTS MORE WORDS I DONT REMEMBER BUT I KNOW FIT THEM

Ayy AYYY YEAHHAHAGD

Wait WIAT KING EDWARD II KING WDMEJSH YEAH SHAKR HER OFF DO IT DO ITYOU CAN DO IT YOU CNA DODO TUTJTKTTTT

King ed wjandd KING ENEEWARDD AHSHGKGJJA NAOOOOOO

Wait wait WAIR SIRNGEL??! 1??1?11!5????? WHATDTH

God HE HAS TO REST SOMEONE GIVE THIS MAN A BREAK-

As soon as I read King George's dialogue I STOOD UP FORM MY BEAD WYAYYEHAHAHSHDHHAHAHAHAHA FINALALAAAYSYYYYYY SHES DEAD SHES GONE SHES GONNA DIE FINALALALDTHAJ 1ST HNWNSNDBD

Ohhh OIHHOHOHOJJ GETETEVHER TSTNANEIRJT YEAHHH LET SGOGOOOOO SHES FINALLYYYYYYY SHES FINALLY DONE FOR LETS GOGOOOOO

Guess shes GOING BACK TO HISTORY CLASS HEJAHFMEKDNFB SHES FINALLY GONNA BR DONE FOR FIMALFYAHBD AFTER SO LONG SHES FINALLYYYY DONE

YOU LTIYKTLEE YOU LITTLESHE IS NOT THAT IF SHE WERENT THERE THE PLACE WOULD PROBABLY BE A MESS

Yes YES EYSGSGDYE GO STANIER HO GOGOGOGOGOGOGOOOO

OHGOHIHOGODOGOHOHON CAINE WAS HER SON????????? NOW PEOPLE THAT IS HOW YOU CONNECG PEOPLE TOGETGER IN WRITING OHGMSUODJSHFBFB I DIDNT WHAT OKAY I DIDNT EXPECT THUS GOGYSMFUUSUFKCJV

ATTEMPTED HOMICIDE????????? GWARATAHSGAGSRA

YOU LTITKLEE MS PARSOSN WHWY WODYSLS DYOSUDBDOTVRHAISI WHY OWUDLD YOU DO THIS TO US WHY WHAYHSHAAAAAAAA

SHE DIDNT HAVE TO DO IT

I had to pause form typing CAUSE MU GODOSHDB I COUDLTJNS LOSE KING EDWARD II ISTG ATLEAST KING GEORGE

MY HEART IS NOT OKAY.

Oughfjfhgv OUGUFJSHF GOD THIS BIT HURT ME THE MOST AGAGSHAHAGGAHAHAA

Oh OH TRURO IS THERE TRUROS THERE YUP WERE ONTO TRURO'S POV NOW

Somebody IMSOEEBOSDY COVER HIS EYES HE CANT SEE HIS FIANCE LIKE THSI HE CANT NOT NOW AAAAAAA

Mallard MALLARD YOU LITTLE AAAAAAVSHRJWHAGDHF NO YOU DO NOT CALL TRURO THAT MY GOSH

I needed a moment of silence to process what just happened.. WHATA WHAT. IM VERY CONCERNED FOR TRURO AND GADWALL- BUT HEY ATLEAST GADWALL CAN TALK NA CAUSE YKNOW ITS GONNA COME IN HANDY

Oh OHHHH WE GOING TO PENDENNIS HERE WE GO

I almost REHFELL GOFF MY BREBD IS THAT HIS TRUE NAME?????? NO WAY HE JUST USED HIS TRUE NAME OGHAMFUSYAJDB

"But it is hard to convince myself of my worth." HERE COMES THE TEARS THEYRE FLOWING

Im aorry CLUNC ASYLE DID WHTACA NOW? SHE HAS THE NERVE TO SAY THAT CAUSE ITS RICH THAT A FACT SHE'S TECNICALLY TOGETHER WITH UNION

BEHEJABDBSHS POOR PENDENNIS HES JUST CONFUSED ON HOW TRURO DID THAT HEHAHAHDBHWBDHDNDMSA

AQERJAUEYEHDB AWESHSB ITS OLD ART OF TRURO AND SCOT AT THE ENSNWHAJDHSNFB

And hey I FINISHED IT BEFORE DINNER HRJAHDNDHF WELL DONT I FEEL FULL ENOUGH TO NOT EAT EHAJDBD (full of tears HEKSFBS)

WOOO OKAY THAT WAS ANOTHER EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER EXCEPT THE MAIN EMOTION WAS SHOCK SO YEAH ANOTHER WELL-DELIVERED PLOT THAT HAD EACH BIT OF IT SMOOTHLY YET SHARPLY DELIVERED

Conclusion: A VERY WELL WRITTEN FANFIC BY REDWYVERNWRITES

(Im very VERY hyped for next chapter BEJAHDJDGC)

[rubbersoles19]

What are the worst fears of the main characters in 7 AM EST?

I wonder if it's too cliche to say they all fear losing their family....

These questions are always so hard for me. I know that every character is motivated by their want and their centers, so their fears should reflect that, but living breathing humans aren't usually motivated all the time by fear, it's a reaction, not an emotion.

So yes, Drake, Diver, and Gosalyn all fear letting their family down and losing them, and are motivated to not do that or let that happen, but is that their biggest fears? Does a more concrete fear, like fear of clowns, count?

I know Gosalyn is afraid of being labeled something bad, like "problem child," "orphan," "trouble maker," "delinquent," stuff like that. We saw that most obviously in Studio, but it also was part of her motivation in Gosalyn Eternal to try so hard at making the movie well. Maybe that fear comes from the fact that one way or another she's always been abandoned by her family, or has been labeled in ways she can't ever get rid of.

Drake has control issues. He's always been a perfectionist, but that probably stems from his fear of being a failure, which evolved over his life. When he was young, he needed to control his reputation so no one knew what a mess the Mallards were, when he was an adult it was so everyone knew how great he was, and after Gosalyn is was so he could make sure no one hurt him, his family, or friends again.

Diver is..... Significantly more complicated. I guess at the end of the day he fears being alone - as in being abandoned, not as in he can't stand doing things by himself. Diver grew up in a household with extremely absent parents (physically and emotionally), then in high school Drake kicked him to the curb, Drake left for college immediately after high school, their parents died while he was gone, and then, you know, Drake became the World's Worst Boss only to turn around and leave again. Everyone knows Diver trusts too easily and is far too loyal, and has lost pretty much all the fear of anything happening to him (dying will do that to a guy). So that leaves him in a compromised position emotionally, and we'll see just what that position got him into later on in The Masked Mallard...

[glcssghosts]

{cis male; he/him; heterosexual} – 𝒹𝒾𝓂𝒾𝓉𝓇𝒾 𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓋 who comes from disney has been spotted in sydney. they are 𝓉𝓌𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓎-𝓈𝒾𝓍 years old and are a human. they have been called +𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒸𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓁, +𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓁𝑒, -𝒹𝒾𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓉. it seems like their memories are 𝒻𝒶𝒹𝑒𝒹. i’ve also heard that they are a dead ringer for felix mallard.

 ‘ why the change of mind ? ‘ / ‘ it was more a change of heart “

-

canon

dimitri was a sly and charming con-artist from st. petersburg whose real interest was in fast money. after working in the romanovs palace as a boy, he survived the russian revolution, facilitating the grand duchess anastasia and her grandmother the dowager empress’ escape through secret servants quarters. having been separated from her granddaughter soon after, years later, the dowager empress has issued a nation-wide search for the grand duchess. using his undercover knowledge of the palace and his hand in the escape, dimitri intends to find a convincing anastasia imposter to fool the dowager empress into the ten million ruble reward. when he stumbles across an orphan named anya, struck by her uncanny resemblance to the missing duchess, he tricks her into believing she may be anastasia (adding that he will be able to take her to paris anyway, where she’s looking for clues of her lost family). dimitri decides not to reveal she is meant to be part of the con to avoid giving her her share of the ten million ruble reward; which he will split one-way with his side-kick, vladimir.

beginning their journey to paris, dimitri and anya soon develop a ~contentious~ relationship. before meeting anya, dimitri feels he’s encountered few people who can match his cleverness. but he is soon outsmarted by her quick witted nature, which often leaves him speechless. their bickering is forever a contest for who must always have the last word, and it’s completely obvious to everyone but them they have hella chemistry and are secretly vibing each other. vladimir and dimitri begin teaching anya everything about her ‘supposed past’, all in preparation to pass a screening interview to gain an appointment with the dowager empress. long story short, dimitri comes to realise that anya really is anastasia. having fallen for her, dimitri suppresses his feelings, convinced that he can’t be with her. and when it comes out to anya that this was all a con devised by dimitri, it all explodes in his face.

eventually anya finds out he didn’t take the money afterall, and after defeating an entire romanov curse like nbd, anya decides she’d rather have a life of adventure with dimitri than take her place as the heir to the throne. which is totes fine and the very best news in dimitri’s book. anya in the end brought out his sensitivity and encouraged him to be more tender hearted and courageous. 

( if you haven’t yet seen the movie, you should for real go do that right now as elle said, because it’s the bestttttt 👀 )

-

sydney, australia, 2021 / what you need to know

dimitri’s memories are faded - a mix of fake memories, a large expanse of nothing at all, and some hazy memories of catherine palace as an outsider. along with a part of him he feels he’s forgotten/lost.

he has no memories of having parents or a real family, but is used to being a drifter only looking out for himself. due to the vague memories of struggling his entire life, dimitri keeps his heart close to him and possesses a cynical outlook on life.

still very much a conman through and through, dimitri charges exorbitant fees to those desparate for ghost-written papers, mysteriously obtained exam papers with answers, and counterfeit documentation at the university. he has connections through his place there as a student studying history (with a weird and detailed interest in the romanovs, for which he passes off as some crazy kind of deja-vu).

he’s super charming and appears friendly enough, but he has the tendency to look at people with the thought of how the could be of value to him. he’s super flawed, AT LEAST FOR NOW, and i’m super sorry.

you’ll rarely ever see him without his right-hand-man, vlad, who helps him with his con antics at the uni.

-

wanted connections

tbh a vladimir would make me lose my mind like i’d die for that (and the shenanigans they’d get up to)

friendships and brotps (and ppl to scheme with) even though he’s pretty closed off

frenemies, aka people who see straight through his conniving ways

anything else! just let me know if you have something in mind!

[melmac78]

Virgil’s story for FABFiveFeb

This is based off a Whumptober story I wrote, “A different perspective of ‘I Can’t Walk’,” but this one from Virgil’s point of view regarding Gordon’s surprise prank on Virgil. You don’t have to read it though to enjoy this story. The names of the locations are current.

Virgil prompts: “I’m trying,” shimmer, duck, hard.

***********************

Virgil smiled as he finished the last few strokes of his charcoal sketch. It had been hard to get that detail of the AutoZone Park’s Christmas tree in proportion, but he had to admit it was nice to sketch one in front of the Minor League baseball stadium in Tennessee.

Hard for him to believe it had been just four and a half hours earlier he had finished his 10K race with his brother Alan.

Scott had completed the full marathon and was likely still finishing up his deep tissue massage in The Peabody’s Spa.

The artist himself had taken a nice long hot shower and was now in his robe and boxers, drawing.

Gordon and John and finished the half marathon about two hours ago, and were doing their own recovering.

Virgil chortled at the last part: Gordon had bet John about whether or not he could complete the half marathon - and lost.

The look on Gordon’s face losing still made him smile, especially with John finishing it with an injured ankle falling into a pothole…

“Speaking of which,” he muttered, and got the mediscan out. John was napping in his room in the suite.

The astronaut said his ankle wasn’t bothering him anymore, but if there was one thing Virgil learned from his brothers, it was adrenaline was going to come into play. He was already going to feel the pains from lactic acid walking 13.1 miles, but if his ankle was hurt worse…

Virgil shook his head at the image of John grumbling as he was being carried, and quietly walked into the room.

John was still resting on top of the bed, pretty much dead to the world as he slept from the long walk. The medic was proud of his middle brother, especially all the training he’d done to win the bet.

But at the same time, he winced at the fact John was still in his astronaut themed sweats, which could be a sign his ankle hurt.

Virgil then gently turned on the scanner, letting the blue light scan over the younger man’s right ankle.

“Virg… you’ve got to stop doing that,” muttered a voice.

The older man looked up and saw that John was wide awake, glaring at him. “That’s the fourth time you’ve scanned my ankle since the race was over,” the ginger headed man said, annoyed.

“I just want to be sure there’s nothing torn in your ankle,” said Virgil, who finished the scan and looked at it. “It was a pretty hard fall you took.”

John sighed and stood up. “Yes, I know, but I feel better,” he said, gently leading his brother out.

Virgil frowned. “You’re limping,” he pointed out, unconsciously starting to do a sing-song voice.

“And I said I’m fine,” responded John as he pushed the man out, complete with a swift, and hard kick in the backside with his injured ankle.

Virgil turned around shocked by the fact his normally quiet, calm brother just put his size 12 grey and silver running shoes to a different use.

“See, perfectly fine,” said John cheekily as he walked a bit like a penguin across the room. “Look, I’m going to go look around the hotel lobby. EOS wanted me to show her the gingerbread village. You can come if you’d like, just don’t bring the scanner. Don’t want to send you home the hard way...”

Virgil waved the man off saying he’d join them later.

He watched as John left, and when the door closed, rubbed his backside…. “I’ll show the Astronaut the way home to Five the hard way,” he muttered.

A lighter snort filtered through his ears, making the man groan. “Gordon… if you say one word…”

The aquanaut choked back a laugh. “I won’t - it would be fun to see you try it, would keep me from having to pay up that bet,” said Gordon. He sobered up. “But John is OK, right? I’d hate he hurt himself worse over a wager.”

The medic looked at the scan and then smiled. “Yeah, he is. Just a twisted ankle, so I don’t need to do any more scans,” he said.

“Good thing - I think John is to the point he’d use the Vulcan Nerve Pinch to keep you from scanning his ankle,” said Gordon, smirking.

Virgil glared at the man. “No thank you… he’d probably succeed in knocking me out,” he said, walking back over to his sketch.

Gordon looked at what was being drawn, then smiled. “Looks nice. Going to keep working on your sketch?” he asked.

“Yes, why?”

“No reason. I’m going to go down to the lobby and chat with John,” said Gordon.

“You mean try to get him to let you welch out of your bet?” said Virgil with a smirk.

The aquanaut shrugged. “Maybe… but even then, I want to tell him how proud I am of him,” he said with a smile. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Yeah, see you in a little while. We’re still eating at Huey’s right?” said the older man as he started to sketch the skyline around the stadium. He loved the restaurant’s burgers and onion straws.

“Oh yes… don’t forget to dress up,” said Gordon, who then laughed.

Virgil rolled his eyes, but nodded and watched his brother head out. The door closed, leaving Virgil surrounded in the soothing pale Tiffany blue shaded walls and duck themed decorations.

He sketched for a while, finessing the details in his drawing, which now included his brothers. Each of them had worn unique outfits for their race… well except Scott, who preferred the event’s race tank and then fairly short running shorts. “At least he has the kind with the running bloomers,” Virgil thought with a chuckle.

The artist was so engrossed in his work he at first didn’t hear the knock at the door. When a louder one finally drew his attention, Virgil put aside his drawing and then opened the door.

Outside was a Peabody bellhop with a package. “Mr. Virgil Tracy,” he asked kindly, and Virgil nodded before he was handed the bundle. “You have been selected to be an honorary Duckmaster this evening. You need to wear this and come down about a quarter before 6 p.m.”

Virgil quirked an eyebrow, but then chortled. “OK, I’m honored. Thank you,” he said, and after giving the bellhop a generous tip, he brought the box to his room.

He then laughed. “Honorary Duckmaster? I don’t believe it,” repeated the artist as he looked at the card. Sure enough, someone had bought him the honor, something he admitted he wanted to do when he was younger.

Earlier on the trip in Memphis, the brothers had gone to the top floor to look at the Duck Hotel, as well as view the skyline. Virgil alone had several photos of the city as well as the hotel he was going to use for future artworks.

Duckmaster was something different however. had always pictured himself in the sharp red jacket, complete with epaulets, cords and black trousers, leading the ducks around with his Duckmaster cane and taking them up and down the elevator every single day.

Probably explained why he wished Gordon would refer to Thunderbird Two as a duck and not a frog.

Today, he thought as he opened up the package, he was going to get to wear that outfit, and…

His mouth dropped open when he saw what was inside.

“GORDON!”

8888888

Well, it was either do this or go down in his boxers and robe. Gordon had taken every piece of clothing he could from Virgil’s suitcases, but at least let him have the pair of underwear he brought into the bathroom.

He admitted he considered the alternative, but really, Virgil wasn’t going to do that.

Grandma Tracy loved coming to the historic hotel and eating their Banana Oreo Cheesecake, and he enjoyed his cup of coffee sweetened with just a bit of Tennessee honey he only found there.

It was a pair of treats for both and he wasn’t going to risk them getting banned due to a prank.

So, “swallow my pride, step out of the elevator and meet up with the Duckmaster” became his mantra as he entered the main lobby.

The Duckmaster, a kind man with dark hair and brown eyes, looked at Virgil a bit in surprise, then mellowed into a smile. “I see you’re very much the duck enthusiast,” he said kindly, but with a soft chuckle at the sight.

Virgil snorted, which made some of the ducks on his Hawaiian shirt shimmer as the metallic threads hit the light. “Oh yes, my brother knew I had dreamed of being a Duckmaster… I just didn’t expect my outfit to be a kilt and Hawaiian shirt,” he said. “Especially with the ducks having their own shimmering shirts…”

“The slippers are a nice touch,” said the older man with a twinkle in his eyes. He wouldn’t admit it to the slightly embarrassed man, but in his 20 years as the Duckmaster, he had seen a few unusual outfits.

Virgil’s duck overloaded outfit surprisingly was a bit tame to several. If anything the top, if longer sleeved, would fit in the Lansky Bros. Store, one of the hotel’s shops.

“I’m trying to figure out how Gordon managed to find character bedroom slippers in my size,” said Virgil as he took a step, watching the fabric mallard heads bob up and down.

“Not here… though I bet the gift store would like to know,” quipped the Duckmaster, who then smiled. “You look great though, and we’ll make the ceremony even more fun. So ready?”

Virgil saw the sincerity in the man’s eyes, and smiled. “Yes, ready,” he said, as they walked to the fountain. Nearby, Virgil caught the tri-colored blue, yellow and orange shirt that belonged to their favorite human fish - Gordon. Predictably, the aquanaut was already laughing, though Virgil admitted he couldn’t tell if it was from the sight or the Long Island Tea the aquanaut was drinking.

“Seriously… he knows better than to drink even a beer after a half marathon,” Virgil muttered, but seeing the man had also purchased what appeared to be a sandwich from the Peabody Deli, sighed in some relief Gordon was being a bit more cautious.

Next to him was John, who had snuck back to change out of the sweatpants but still wore the NASA patch shirt. The astronaut had a shy smile, enjoying the prank Gordon set up but still sympathetic. He did however roll his right ankle to show yes, it was doing well.

Looking up, Scott and Alan were found in the gallery above, having an excellent view of the scene. Alan was cackling at the sight, and while Scott cuffed his younger brother gently over the head, his eyes sparkled in merriment.

He had to admit, the silly outfit was worth wearing for his brothers’ reactions.

“Yeah, I’m ready… let’s show them how Duckmasters do this,” said Virgil with a chuckle.

The elder man clapped a hand on his shoulder with his own laugh, and started the presentation.

Weird outfit and all however - especially the shimmery top, being an honorary Duckmaster was worth every cent for Virgil as it was for Gordon to prank him.

8888888

About a half an hour later, Virgil sat in the lobby with his brothers, enjoying a cup of hot Earl Grey tea before he dug into his Equinox dessert. He relished the taste of hazelnuts, chocolate cake, and ganache.

He first looked at the Duckmaster cane and special rubber duck he received as part of the package, then looked at Gordon.

“Why a duck kilt Gordo?” he said. Of the three items, he was most embarrassed about the kilt. The shirt at least got him a phone number of one girl who found it hot on him, and the slippers were actually quite comfortable. He just wished they didn’t have the knitted cuffs at the ankles.

The aquanaut shrugged as he took a bite of his chocolate Peabody Duck. “You needed to match: I have a squid kilt, Alan a rocket kilt…”

“But Gordon, Scott and I don’t have one,” said John, who hiccupped slightly. “You know better than to not get me one…”

Scott rolled his eyes. “And you know better than to have more than one Old Dominick,” said the eldest, gesturing at the glass of bourbon. He was enjoying a cup of coffee and a chocolate dome, having to refrain from alcohol. It was nice of John to make Gordon pay for a plated dessert for all of them as part of the bet forfeit, but he still had to fly them home tomorrow.

“I only had two,” said John, who hiccupped again. “Though yes, maybe one would’ve been enough.”

Virgil chuckled. “Thankfully, we’re going to still go to Huey’s, so you can get a burger and soak it up,” he said gently. John nodded, admittedly confused they’d eat dessert first, but thankful they were wise enough to still eat something more substantial.

Gordon laughed. “Rate he’s going he’ll forget the ice cream tomorrow,” he said. “I can welch a bit…”

Scott shook his head. “No Gordo… you promised, and I’ll make sure of it,” he said.

“Even if he eats it on the airplane?”

“Oh no, that isn’t happening…” said Scott, who seeing Gordon nearly cheer in victory continued. “Not until all five of us eat a cone. I want to try that Equinox ice cream.”

“That's what I’m getting,” said John with a slightly brighter laugh, which the others joined in.

Scott, seeing the slight shimmer in John’s eyes, smiled. Poor guy was OK but he didn’t want to risk the twisted ankle become a sprain walking the one block over.

“I do think right now we go back to the suite and rest. Huey’s should be a bit less busy in an hour,” the eldest said. “And I for one want to eat their famous onion straws.”

The others nodded, and after paying their tab, went to the elevators.

Alan, Gordon and John took the first elevator, while Virgil and Scott took the next one.

The eldest looked at Virgil. “You do realize - phone number or not - you look ridiculous,” he said, chuckling. “Gordon got you good.”

Virgil gave a half smile and nodded. “Yeah, he did. But you know they say revenge is a dish best served cold right?”

Scott nodded, and frowned. “Virgil, you know he’s not embarrassed to wear anything weird,” he said, then tilted his head. “Or about not wearing anything at all…”

The second eldest smiled. “No, I won’t do that to him. I love Grandma too much to get us banned from The Peabody. Plus I like that honey in my coffee here,” he said. “I’ve got something better. An invasion.”

The eldest quirked an eyebrow, but then seeing Virgil pull out one of the two items he received as Duckmaster, smiled. “Oh no… you didn’t…”

“Oh yeah, tomorrow he’s about to go ‘quackers’,” said Virgil, who laughed when he saw his older brother do a facepalm at the bad joke.

“I’m going to need earplugs…” was all scott muttered.

8888888

That next morning, the sound of quacks filled the suite the Tracy’s were using..

Well, quacks made more of squeakers.

Gordon woke up to find his bed was nearly covered in rubber ducks, all from The Peabody.

They were also on the floor, bathtub, and toilet.

There was even a silver dollar sized duck someone managed to sneak into his reusable water bottle.

Some had shimmery tops on their body.

One was the Duckmaster duck - staring right at him when he awoke.

“Well played Virg,” said Gordon, with a smile.

He conceded defeat this time.

Now, there were only two things Gordon could do:

First, donate all but one or two of the ducks to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, now working to end even more diseases as they had most childhood cancers.

Second, find a way to pay back Virgil for the prank.

8888888

Reference of the Duckmaster ceremony (by me a few years ago). This is an honorary Duckmaster ceremony, and any age can do this:

[mystarsignisno]

Mallard X Nate, 2.5k words

Working title: Memories are tricky things (you can't escape them)

Summary: Losing Nate leaves Mallard with scars. Years later, they get reopened. And oh, do they bleed.

Mallard hadn't had time to think that night.

No time to consider the consequences of his actions, no time to organise cover stories or distractions to take the spotlight off him, mind occupied with a thought that created an unspeakable dread deep inside him.

Nate, better known as Coronation 6220, was being scrapped in the morning.

He pulled into the scrapyard, parking his engine on a siding before his human form materialised in his cab, without any sort of plan.

It was just as well, because any plan would have flown away at the sight that presented itself to Mallard as he tumbled from his cab in a disorganised tangle of barely-familiar limbs.

Nate's engine was parked on another siding, scuffed and grimy and so wrong, complete anathema to everything he had been. Sitting against a nearby crate was the man himself, head in his hands.

With a cry of "Nate!" Mallard rushed over, falling to his knees beside his once-rival. Their rivalry had led to friendship, then to something more that they had never explicitly acknowledged. Nate could barely lift his head, and he met Mallard's worried gaze with exhausted eyes.

"...Mal..."

The single syllable seemed to drain Nate, though as Mallard knelt beside him an invisible weight seemed to ease from Nate's frame.

Mallard leaned close, letting his forehead rest on Nate's, and let out a shaky sigh.

"I... I'm sorry I didn't get here earlier... I had hoped you'd be spared," he whispered.

A dry, raspy chuckle escaped Nate's mouth.

"None of us will be, Mal. We're obsolete now. Old tech, making way for the revolutionary."

Mallard wanted to grab Nate by the shoulders and shake him from his depressed state. The truth of Nate's words stuck like a multitude of pins in his mind and stayed his hands, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks.

"You know," Mallard muttered, "I think I could happily give up my world record if I could keep you with me. It means a lot to me, and the LNER, but I would trade almost anything to save you from this."

Nate's lips twitched upward, a half-formed smile on his face.

"I'm doubt Gresley would be very pleased with you. He's quite proud of that record."

Mallard snorted in a mix of frustration and amusement. "I don't bloody well care. Good grief, Nate... You don't deserve this!"

Nate placed a gentle hand on Mallard's cheek, taking a steadying breath.

"In all actuality, Mal... I never thought you'd care enough to actually come tonight. If it's as short notice as you make it seem, you'll be missed in the sheds. I... You'll be reprimanded for sure. You're technically... consorting with the enemy? I'm not sure what they'd say."

Mallard's eyes narrowed unconsciously, and Nate could feel his brow furrow.

"Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Almost as heavy as the head that did not receive it."

Nate blinked, stunned. "Are you... Spouting poetry?"

Mallard sighed, rolling his eyes.

"That's the seventeenth emotional you've ruined with your bloody logic, you prat."

Nate's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

"I'm sorry. I had to take the opportunity, you know. You can't pass a golden moment like that by."

Mallard's answering huff made it very hard indeed to keep laughter from spilling past his lips, but after a moment Mallard began to smile too.

"Nate, you imbecile. Give me one last kiss, we're far too young to die yet."

Nate tilted his head, and Mallard captured him in a kiss that ended with the two of them panting for breath, pressed close to one another. Nate rested his head in the crook of Mallard's neck, listening to Mallard hum softly and card his fingers through Nate's hair. When Mallard stilled, tears now dry on his face, Nate glanced up at him.

"Do... Do you really think this will be the end of steam?"

"Mal... We were never going to make it out of this together, and both of us knew that from the start. As for the others... You know how the railway is run. The old make way for the new, with a lucky few preserved for posterity."

Mallard shuddered, and closed his eyes briefly as if to rid himself of the thought.

"You're right, of course. Although..."

At Nate's curious expression, Mallard finished his sentence.

"If that is true... The diesels will have their day in the scrapyards too."

Nate sighed, and shook his head fondly.

"You are a vicious bastard, you know that?"

"I'm no bastard," Mallard replied dryly, "I'll have you know my pedigree is beyond reproach."

That finally pulled a laugh from Nate, causing Mallard to grin victoriously. At least, until Nate started coughing.

Mallard sat with Nate through the night, until Nate passed on in the early hours of the morning. His physical form dissipated, and the engine seemed duller. Lifeless.

Mallard made it back to the sheds in perfect time to have Gresley ream him out, in front of the other LNER engines.

"What were you thinking, Mallard! Running off like that, and to a scrapyard too! You can't be this irresponsible anymore. You're the face of the railway!"

Mallard's gaze was fixed on his maker, eyes dull. His voice was soft, almost strained.

"Of course, sir. My apologies. It won't happen again."

Gresley shook his head in barely restrained disgust. "What was of such import that it could not wait until morning? A last gloat over your rival?"

"Nothing so petty, I assure you," Mallard replied dispassionately. "I… I supported my late paramour in his last hours. Had I waited until morning, I would have been too late. He slipped away during the night."

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other engines. Mallard, paragon of the LNER, admitting to having broken the rules? Having snuck off to visit an engine in the scrapyard, from a rival railway and a lover to boot? It was almost unthinkable, and one of the shunters near the back elbowed a silver-clad figure beside him.

"Hey, do you think there was something in the coal this morning?"

Silver Link shot the presumptuous little shit a look, before shaking his head.

"There can't have been. We consume coal at different rates... I just can't believe this. No one so much as suspected him of this... If anyone had known, we all would. Gossip travels far too quickly here."

Gresley narrowed his eyes at the engine he'd been so proud of only days earlier.

"You're quite lucky to be as well known as you are. It stops me from putting you on permanent goods duty, which would reflect badly on our railway."

Mallard seemed to deflate slightly at that, glancing away. Like a bird of prey, Gresley targeted that moment of weakness mercilessly.

"You will pull your trains when they are scheduled, and you will take on water and coal only when necessary to ensure these trains arrive. In addition, you will be required to check in when you are off duty. You have gravely disappointed me, 4468."

The use of Mallard's number instead of his name was an indicator of supreme disgrace, and the engines around Mallard took unconscious steps away from him. Few engines would willingly associate with him until he earned back his name.

"Yes, sir."

Mallard's head was bowed as Gresley walked away, and his vision kept tunneling. Was his maker so enraged that his name was taken? Had he not earned it, through his record and exemplary work since? Was the love of an engine so unforgivable?

Hurried footsteps grabbed his attention, and he glanced up to see the other engines almost fleeing from him as if he carried a deadly plague. Whispers of 'traitor' floated back to him, accompanied by piercing glances.

Mallard was left standing alone, never having felt more lonely in his life.

--

Of course, the years wore on heedless of Mallard's feelings. He found time slipping past, a blur of nondescript faces and people.

He'd thought coming to the museum would be a fresh start, but it hadn't quite turned out like that. The engines had gossiped quite a lot, and the volunteers were... well informed of his failings.

Sir Nigel Gresley had died before Mallard could reconcile with him, a few years after he revoked Mallard's name. In the opinion of the other engines, the privilege of his name was officially lost to him forever. The new controller had used his name anyway, leading the other engines to revile him immensely. His own siblings shunned him, and no sane engine would ever associate with him. He was an A4, a Gresley, in name only; forever tainted by his love for 'an enemy'.

The workers and volunteers at the NRM came to share most of the other engines' opinions of him, and it was almost as if nothing had changed.

The one bright spot was a young girl who found herself fascinated by Mallard, and went out of her way to find him. She would sit beside him, chattering away on one topic or another, and was one of the only people Mallard was willing to talk to.

Then Flying Scotsman, better known as 'Scott', came to the NRM. The little girl began to spend more time with Scott, and when she was talking with Mallard the topic always circled back to the new arrival. His damned cousin stole one of his only companions without even trying!

Mallard had, at one point, asked the little girl who she liked best. At the time, she'd replied that he was the coolest. After Scott's arrival, the title went to him instead. Mallard would have been lying if he'd claimed that this loss was unexpected, but it still stung.

It should have been no surprise that Mallard withdrew, becoming antisocial and isolated. The other engines mostly saw it as one more thing about him to mock: he was the 'grumpy duck of the NRM'. He found himself taking comfort in small, enclosed spaces; like unoccupied cupboards and the corridor of his tender.

Years later, the engines of the museum were offered time with counselors after a long-buried hurt caused a fight during an after-hours movie night. Funny that they had acted now, when the many times Mallard had taken shit from the other engines were brushed off and ignored. There was a photo floating around in an album somewhere of a group photo: right before it was taken, Scott and Truro had dumped a bucket of water over his head. The photo was of him, dripping wet, surrounded by laughing engines.

The counselor, Eva, was a young woman with a kind face, and Mallard relaxed just the tiniest bit more than usual.

She asked him some meaningless questions about how he was feeling and whether there was anything particular he wanted to talk about, before asking the harder questions.

"What's the happiest memory you can remember?"

"Do you want pre-NRM, or more recent memories?" Mallard gestured, replying in an acidly sarcastic tone. "Because there's a larger amount of one than the other."

Eva seemed nonplussed by his prickly demeanor, and noted something down in her notebook.

"Pre-NRM, to start. We can get to the others another time."

Mallard sighed, and got comfortable.

"My happiest memory... Probably setting the 126m/ph record. I remember pulling into the station, and everything ached in the way it usually does when one overexerts themselves, but Sir was standing there on the platform... He had a wide smile on, and he..."

Mallard paused, and she glanced up at him.

"...Yes? What happened?"

Mallard's voice cracked as he spoke.

"...He... He told me he was proud of me."

It was Eva's turn to pause, and when she set her notebook down and actually looked at Mallard, she could see his fists tighten until his knuckles were white. Unshed tears make his eyes seem unusually bright. She stood slowly, walking over and tentatively draping an arm around Mallard's shoulders.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Mallard shuddered, wiping at his eyes in what was likely meant to be a discreet manner.

"I'm... I'm fine."

Eva patted his back comfortingly, before returning to her seat opposite him.

"And what would you say was your second happiest?"

Mallard took a moment to gather his composure, exploring his relatively limited collection of happy memories.

"My rivalry with Nate, better known as Coronation 6220, was one of the happier times of my life. Our competition started quite fiercely, with Nate taking the speed record for the LMS at 114m/ph."

Eva noted down Mallard's mention of his rivalry being a positive experience. He also seemed to refer to Nate with uncommon fondness. Was there something there?

"Of course, I took the record the next year. Nate was understandably miffed, and we began to bicker whenever possible. Bickering became bantering, and we did exchange some correspondence. Due to the hostility between our railways, both Nate and I destroyed letters once they had been read."

"How did you feel about Nate specifically?" Eva prodded Mallard with questions. "Was it purely rivalry, or a more positive relationship?"

Mallard was silent once more.

"...Will this information be made available to others? Museum staff, the other engines?"

Eva was mildly offended, but kept her voice calm.

"That would violate patient confidentiality. If, however, you pose serious and imminent threat to any persons including yourself, I am required to report that to my superiors and certain museum staff."

Mallard calmed, slumping a little with relief.

"Very well. I assure you that I currently pose little threat to anyone, and simply want to keep my personal information from being bandied about."

Eva didn't necessarily believe him, but she signalled for him to continue.

"Nate and I were very close; to the point our makers and siblings would have considered us... odd, and shunned us had they known. We never actually said it to each other, but... I loved Nate. I loved him dearly, and I feel that he loved me back."

Eva nearly dropped her notebook. Oh, this was insane! An inter-railway romance? Between two famous engines? And two males, at that?!

A whole lot of people would be very, very agitated if this ever got out. Now she understood why Mallard was so desperate for privacy.

She glanced up at him, and realised that Mallard was no longer paying attention to her. He seemed lost in old memories; a soft smile and absent gaze on his face.

"Er, Mallard... What happened? When Nate was withdrawn?"

Mallard froze, expression blank. The ever-present pain, anger and loneliness crashed over him; memories of that night so familiar he wouldn't be surprised if they had burnt into his eyes...

He stood abruptly, almost grinding his teeth.

"I think that's all for today, Miss Eva. See you next week."

He strode out of the room, back to his engine.

--

Curled up in the corridor of his tender, Mallard did his best not to make a sound. Tears slipped silently down his cheeks, shoulders shaking with each muffled sob.

He hadn't had time to think that night, but now it was all he ever thought about.

Outside, the other engines happily milled around, chatting about their sessions. No-one even noticed that Mallard was absent.

[plushieprecure]

Kimiko Joue (Cure Patches) Yuna Ike (Cure Stitches) Hibiki Yoshi (Cure Buttons) Anka Emem (Cure Embroidery) Mami (Cure Mami)

Yuna is the 2nd precure. At first none of the other Cures know who the other is. She is a 14 year old autistic girl who ends up best friends with Cure Patches / Kimiko.

Yuna stopped going to school because of being heavily bullied for her special interests (magical girls, stuffed animals, and sweets). She dropped out after they had tried to take Mally, her comfort item, a stuffed Mallard duck she carries every where  with her. She is a single child of a busy but rich family meaning she is often by herself. Yuna would spend most her time in the library reading manga about magical girls, books about food, and stuffed animals. 

Kimiko’s little sister loses her stuffed animal and Kimiko is trying to find it for her sister by putting up lost posters.

She ended up becoming a magical girl on her own after the Bad guy took her duck and turned it into a Negaton, so she started to beat the bad guy up (in human form). The bad guy then turns Kimiko’s little sister’s stuffed animal into a Negaton but Mally detransformed. However with the leftover energy Yuna transformed into Cure Stitches. And defeated the bad guy and the negaton. She took it upon herself to stitch the now damaged toy back up when she detransformed back into her human form. 

After Yuna fixed the stuffed animal and mets up with Kimiko to give her the stuffed animal but the two quickly become BFFs due to their common interest (Magical girls and Stuffed animals mainly) but neither tells the other about being a magical girl until the others reveal who they are.

Yuna stims includes flapping her arms in long sleeves when happy, flapping her wings in Cure form when happy, making little quack noises in cure form,  and chewing things (In human form). She is hyposenstive meaning she needs more sensory input then others. She also has a hard time telling when she is physically hurt because of this.

[video-killed-the-radio-host]

Okay I cant stop thinking about the thing you wrote for Paramedic!Carlos and News Reporter!Cecil. And my mind went to "hey what if there was Cecil taken hostage/as a human shield during a bank robbery and Carlos was at work when a news station covered it. A bomb was planted in the bank as a distraction for the bad guys to escape (after they 'agreed' to free the other hostages). Everyone is accounted for except Cecil and the bad guys after the bomb goes off. The explosion is caught on camera"

You know what? Keep giving me ideas like this and I’ll just write you a full length fic.

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Cecil blinks awake when Carlos presses a kiss to his forehead. “Mm...What time is it?” He asked, sitting up and reaching for his glasses.

“It’s eight thirty. You need to get up or you’ll be late. You don’t want to deal with Lauren lecturing you again, do you?” Carlos teases.

Cecil makes a face. “Don’t even joke about that.

”“Well, soner you get there, sooner you can get home. We have a date tonight.

”Cecil’s face lights up. “Happy Anniversary.

”“And to you. Now get dressed.. I’ll drop you off.”

Cecil slides off of the bed and heads to the closet. He pulls down the purple dress shirt that Carlos called the purple shirt of sex. He digs out a white tie and carries them plus a pair of slacks to the bed. He shrugs out of his sleep clothes and gets dressed, forgoing the vest today. 

The door opens as he drapes the tie around his neck. Carlos crosses the room and comes to a stop in front of him.“Let me.” He says.

Cecil drops his hands and tilts his head back. Carlos works quickly, tying the tie perfectly. Cecil looks back down at Carlos, his lips slightly parted. Taking the silent cue, Carlos pulls him close by the tie and kisses him.

 “We have to go.” Cecil murmurs.

 Carlos signs but nods, pulling away. “Lets go.”Carlos nods and heads for the door, stopping only to grab his bag. The news station wasn’t too far away, so Cecil wasn’t late. He leans over and kisses Carlos’ cheek before climbing out.

“I’ll see you tonight.

”“I love you.”

“Love you too. Go help some people today.”

Cecil strolls into the station with an easy smile. He looks around but sees no Lauren, which is always a plus. He does however, spot Dana near the coffee machine and makes his way over.

 “Oh someone looks dapper.” She teases.

“I have a date tonight.” Cecil blushes a little

.“Like a date date or a date?” She asked with a mischievous smirk.

“Dana!” He smacks her arm.

“Oh!” She laughs. “I knew it!”

Before Cecil could answer, the happy atmosphere was sucked from from the room with the sharp click of heels. Cecil groans into his coffee and downs it before turning around. He now stood face to face with the person everyone hoped to avoid. Well, not quite face to face, due to Cecil being half a foot taller

.“Ms. Mallard. How may I help you?

”“Bank robbery on fifth. Go cover it.

”Cecil bites back a retort and just nods

. “Oh and Cecil? Try not to get shot this time. The paperwork is dreadful.”

Cecil could feel Dana boiling behind him and reaches back to put a hand on her arm. This woman isn’t worth it. Cecil held eye contact as he fights back the urge to smack this woman. Lauren just gives a dark smile and walks away. 

“Take a crew with you!” She calls over her shoulder

.Cecil lets Dana go and takes a deep breath. Dana is still fuming beside him.

“God I hate that woman.”

“I know Dana.”

“I wish she’d die in a ditch.

”“I know Dana.”

“I am going to do something about it!”

“Dana no.” Cecil looks at her. “Because you don’t know what she’ll do to you. And you’re the only one here that I feel safe around.”

“You are lucky I love you Palmer.”

“I know Dana.” Cecil chuckles and hugs her. “I’ll be back soon.”

“

”Hey Mendez!” Rochelle calls from the lounge area of the EMT station. Carlos sticks his head out of the kitchen doorway. 

“What’s up?”

“Your boyfriend’s on TV!”

Carlos joins her, looking up at the mounted TV. 

“There appear to be three hostages inside, but no children. The robbers are armed and very dangerous-”

The news cuts to a woman that Carlos recognized as Dana, Cecil’s best friend.

“That is the report given an hour ago. Cecil Palmer has now been taken hostage, in exchange for the other hostages. He will only be released when the demands are met. There is a bomb planted inside. The bomb squad is on it’s way. We will keep you updated as the situation unfolds.”

Carlos’ blood ran cold. Then he saw red. This was her fault.”God damnit Lauren!” He yells at the screen, before turning and grabbing his keys.

 “Carlos, where are you going?”

Carlos faces her. “Think about it. Cecil was in danger of dying exactly a year apart because of his idiot boss. I’m going to confront her.”

“Carlos, don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t. I’m just going to have a talk. Page me if I’m needed.”And with that, he was out the door

.

Carlos finds Lauren sitting in the lounge, watching the newscast.“Lauren.” He says coldly. “We need to talk.”

She turns. “Ah! Mr. Mendez! To what do I owe the pleasure?

”“Dr. Mendez.” Carlos corrects. “And you need to stop sending Cecil to risk his life.

”“He’s a reporter. He’s doing his job.” She says, with an eerie grin.

 “You’re trying to get him killed!

”“If he gets killed in the line of duty, oh well.” She shrugs

.Carlos fought the urge to strangle her right then. She wasn’t worth losing his license over. A loud noise draws Carlos’ attention to the TV. His stomach dropped and his heart nearly stopped. The bank had exploded. Lauren’s face was blank, unreadable. Carlos growls and runs down, pulling his phone to call Rochelle

.

Cecil wakes yet again, in the hospital. He had a weird sense of deja vu, but at least this time he didn't get shot. 

“Carlos?”He asked, his voice rough, likely from the dust.

“I’m here.” Carlos stands and takes his hand.

 “I hope this isn’t a yearly thing.” Cecil muses, closing his eyes. A dark bruise was prominent against the tall man’s dark skin. “Please don’t smack me this time. I’m not dying.” He smiles a little

.Carlos huffs a laugh. “I’m glad. I couldn’t live without you.” He presses a gentle kiss to Cecil’s lips.

Lauren crosses her legs as she answered her phone.“You failed. Again. How hard is it to kill one man?” She scoffs. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.” She hangs up and leaves the building, hailing a cab.

“Where to, ma’am?”

“Mercy Eastern Hospital, please.”

[faithsfemblog]

The Ending

The Awakening ends very ambiguous, as Chopin does not explicitly state that Edna Pontellier has died. This presumption is most likely correct seeing as though many of Chopin’s works end in death. There is also the fact that Chopin writes “her arms and legs were growing tired” as Edna swims further and further away. Combined with the knowledge that Edna is completely naked, it is the best conclusion one can make. 

As the reading came to a close I was left with numerous questions? What would happen to Leonce and the children? First of all, Leonce is an entirely different city, I believe, when this all takes place. So I wonder how he will learn of Edna’s whereabout and what his reaction will be. Would Mr. Pontellier feel a sense of freedom, not from a life of oppression but from a loveless marriage with a woman who did not fit his wants and needs? He has two young children, so I would assume he would eventually remarry because of his children. However, the fact that the little ones were staying with their grandparents rather than the woman who pushed them from her womb is not a good sign to me.

Edna’s probable death is very confusing to me. Early on in the final chapter it reads “the children appeared before her like antagonists who had overcome her; who had her days. But she knew a way to elude them.” Does Edna commit suicide because her children are a constant reminder of the burden of her sex? Or is it simply because her lover as abandoned her? Is Edna even consciously deciding to commit suicide or is it just an unfortunate side effect of the pressures she feels from those around her? If it is true that Robert’s leaving is what pushes Edna over the edge then I will truly be . . . infuriated and disappointed. 

In my short time on this earth thus far, I have noticed that some older literary pieces show an almost obsessive romantic relationship, for lack of a better term. In these pieces such as Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet two incredibly young lovers commit suicide after only a few days of infatuation because one cannot be with the other. Looking past their age and the short amount of time they supposedly fell in love, genuinely wishing to die because you can not be with the one you love is not something that makes any logical sense from me. This seems to be the case here with Edna and Robert, similar to how it was the case with Desiree and Armand in Chopin’s short story Desiree’s Baby. I recently got into what I can only qualify as a heated argument over this topic, in which the other party stated something along the lines of it being romantic. Suicide is not romantic! Dying from a broken heart, or depression, is more acceptable to be, but feeling as though you are no longer worthy or able is ridiculous. That is not love. “Romantic suicides” are not true acts of affection. They are simply an excuse to pity one’s self. To remove the responsibility one is obligated to them-self to continue living their life. No love is so great that one should lose them-self in the process.

One thing that truly stood out at the end of this tale and invoked an emotional response from me is that Edna feels like she is all alone and no one understands her. She has a last minute thought that maybe someone would have understood her, but it is ultimately too late to return home. As someone who has shared similar thoughts and emotions, I connected with this most throughout the text because like Edna, I constantly feel as though I am lost and unable to understand myself - let alone request that someone else comprehend this. It is parts of the novel like this that remind me that Edna is a human being finding her own way to survive whatever the world throws at her. 

Kate Chopin’s novel and short stories are incredibly eye opening because they beg the reader to reflect on their own time. However, at times it has left me incredibly perplexed and maybe even a little offended. Mrs. Mallard’s desire for her freedom in The Story of an Hour is so overwhelming that the moment it is taken away she dies. Desiree can be considered free from the hold of a love that blinds in Desiree’s Baby. Why does Chopin suggest that women can only be truly free in death? If this is the case, does this apply solely to women or all sexes? Would her thinking still apply today? The notion that death is the only way to gain true freedom makes me question once again what is true meaning of freedom? Words and their meanings vary by cultures and what we, as an American society, considered to be freedom is not necessarily the same in every society. Is there an universal definition for freedom? More specifically individual freedom? Does it have restraints or regulations? Is there an objective moral code, and if so, what decides this? 

It is my hope that there is a recognized understanding of what individual freedom is because it correlates directly with what it means to be human. Yet, I can say that I do not have the answers, that I may never have a set in stone answer.

[peeppeephellofatface]

Oh, I found those mini-fics I did back in like.. August and I guess I had actually finished three of them so here you go.

1. The fabled incident where Duke accidently tried to wear Oliver’s pants.

2. Mal cares for sick Duke

3. Evening Star tries to get Green Arrow to cal down by feeding her.

It was awkward to say the least to meet his much more successful cousins, the Standard 7s.  After all, in service all the engines knew of his faults and to this day he still doubted himself, afraid they would come back or others still resented him.  He couldn't really envision the vision going well at all since he knew it was going to be painful hearing their new praise of him only after he'd been substantial changed, with the knowledge that they surely looked down on him as a burden in the past and only kept it secret to spare his feelings.   Surprisingly, they completely ignored the topic, preferring to chat about amusing things humans do, until Oliver had suggested they quit messing around and go help out the cleaners.  Being a messy affair, they had changed out of their standard Brunswick Green clothes and into more suitable ones.  The task wasn't as unpleasant for them as it often was humans, as they generally didn't mind heat and grime, though the tight spaces proved troublesome for them with their larger builds.   Afterwards, the three dug their clothes out of the heap they had tossed them in. Seeing as the Britannias had had no trouble redressing, the Duke thought nothing of the fact that their pants all looked nearly identical.  Something that was going to give him a moment of indignity.   Oliver quietly raised an eyebrow as he noticed that his felt a bit loose, particularly in the rear.  Perhaps he'd put on Britannia's instead, even as siblings their proportions in this form weren't identical. He looked up blank-faced as his sister seemed to have no issue putting hers on. It seemed they fit the way they always did.  And then he turned around to see... well, quite a sight.   The Duke was something of a cousin to them, having some similarities in design.  They were roughly the same heights in this form, and back in the day had been roughly the same size as well.  Clearly the latter was no longer true.   They were stuck around the tops of his plump thighs as he struggled with the waistband, trying his best to pull them up over his rather ample backside.  Oliver smirked a bit at his predicament as he looked directly into his frantic eyes, blushing with embarrassment.  Britannia noticed the silence of the two and turned to look at whatever seemed to have caught Oliver's attention, only to bust out in raucous laughter at the Duke's predicament. "Preservation treating you well, Duke?" His gaze grew harder and he glared at Oliver's snide comment.  He went to yank what were clearly not his pants up, only to relax again and bite his lip in shame. "Uh, a little help?" Fortunately, he was happy to comply and soon were fully clothed again.   "Er, I need to go now... please don't speak of this again." "Of course we won't." He felt Britannia's hand press into his soft midsection and squeeze at the fat, getting hot from embarrassment again. "You're pretty cute with some pudge, you know. Goes well with your soft personality." He tugged her hand away and rushed out the door, not wanting to be in that situation any longer.   ---------------------------- Mallard had gotten up very late that day after a restless night.  It was probably the excitement of getting to meet the Duke again the next day that had kept him up, but he also just couldn't get comfortable no matter what he did.  He kept hearing every little clack or bang in the museum, every fly landing on his casing, every minute thing going on that could possible distract him from actually sleeping.   It struck him as odd that the Duke hadn't come out to meet him after presumably waiting so long.  Sunlight already shining through the skylights, Mal stumbled over to the room where they usually met to see if he was late as well.   He was there already, but not the way he was expecting him to be.   He was huddled under the blanket, curled up and desperately attempting to avoid eye contact.  He clamped a hand over his mouth as he belched rather loudly, coughing back black smoke.  He looked mortified to see Mal while he was in this state, but sighed in resignation. "I'm not entirely sure what's wrong with me.  All I know is I'm feeling awful and probably look like a wreck." Mallard looked at him with concern and a hint of confusion, not entirely sure what to do with him like this.  He weakly gestured for him to join him under the covers and pulled his hands around his clammy body.  He'd slowly but steadily been putting on weight in preservation, something that presented itself as a new roundness to his rear and thighs and a plump, gently curved belly.  But by the upset gurgles and tightness in his middle, Mal could tell he was bloated. "See if you can press into it a bit.  Or if all else fails, try rubbing." Mal gingerly began stroking light circles, unsure in his actions.  He weakly met his hands with his own and urged him to rub a bit harder. His mouth gaped a bit, trying what he could to get out some of the gas.  He felt some air coming up and Mal braced for one of his notoriously fierce burps. But felt stifled.  Soft.  He squeezed him a bit tighter as he saw him struggling, but he just whimpered in pain as the pressure shot a bolt of pain through his swollen gut.   "It's okay, I'm sure you can do it." "urp." Another weak one.  His face was strained as he tried to muster a stronger belch, but he just couldn't manage it.   "Ugh, I'm usually more than adapt at this sort of thing." Mal was silent, not really sure what he could say in response to make him feel better.  He curled his long limbs around him and began to gently rub him, one hand on his belly and the other drifting between the other places he knew he enjoyed having touched.  The bit of muffin top that poked over his waistband, his broad, somewhat malleable chest, his rounded jawline, his full thighs and rear.  The Duke sighed and rested his head on Mal's shoulder, as he often had done to him when he didn't feel well either.  He closed his eyes and sighed in contentment, flinching as his stomach roiled and weakly managing another soft burp. "Thank you, Mal." ---------------------- Green Arrow wasn't exactly taking static display well.   She could hardly stand to stay in her engine while the visitors were there as she was so jittery and kept popping out to run around and stretch her legs.  She kept up the other engines at night with the rhythmic thumping of her pressing off against the walls at the end of the hallway she had chosen as her raceway.   "Dear Riddles, won't you calm down, Greenie?  Some engines here appreciate having some downtime, you know?" She turned to see Evening Star casting her an annoyed but half-asleep glance.   "Sorry.  Being couped up like this all day is just... intolerable.  Ugh, I'm used to rushing about with freight and railtours, not sitting around like this all the time." "Eh, you'll lose the energy eventually.  I guess I can't really blame you for enjoying it while you can." "What sorts of things do you guys tend to do when you're bored, anyways?" "Eh, you know.  The stuff you hear Mal get up to.  Deviant things, eating too much, arguing, sometimes venturing to the outside world if we feel like nobody wil notice we're gone.  Though that can be tough if we can't find someone in better shape to help us sneak out.  Hard to be stealthy when you can barely walk-" "We can eat?" "Well, plenty of us have.  It's kind of nice, though not exactly necessary..." She suddenly got an amazing idea.  Surely having something heavy to eat would calm her down. "I have some ice cream in the freezer.  Well it's actually Scotsman's, but he goes through it fast enough I'll don't think he'll even care if it's gone.  Want to try some?" She nodded.  Soon she was helping Evening Star walk to the room.   ---- "My heads hurts." "It's just brain freeze.  Get used to it or try pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth.  How's it taste?" "It's wonderful.  So this is what tasting things is like..." "Personally I like the satisfaction of swallowing as well." She winked.  Her statement was both honest and a subtle prod to hurry up a bit, as she was getting rather tired and was hoping Green would settle down sooner if she got this done quicker.   Green seemed content to have her feed her little spoonfuls of it.  Eve sighed in a bit of irritation.  Those Big Four locos were used to having to be fussed after so much compared to other Standards and it showed in this form as well.  Preferred to be coddled and a bit dependent rather than be spared the indignity of having others do so much for them.  Still, it was kind of nice.  The more she looked at her, the more she realized she was rather cute.  Looked a bit like Scotsman had back in the day, but a bit smaller.  Typical straight torso and slight ramp to her hips like the larger Gresley tended to have.  Perhaps not the most conventionally attractive face, but her features were bold and distinct, but approachable and gentle, with somewhat thick eyebrows, large eyes, and a straight, solid nose.  She felt a bit guilty for feeling this way about her, given how she often seemed uncomfortable when others expressed their attraction to her.  Still, she seemed distracted enough by the novelty of eating that she didn't seem bothered by her stare.  She'd never paid much attention to her until now, but she did have nice lips.   Green smiled contentedly and tried to get up, only to groan in pain and flop back down on Eve's lap.   "Why does it hurt?" "Mmm, sometimes if you eat too much it can hurt like that.  It usually happens when you try it the first time unless you only go with a little bit." "Any way to make it go away?" Eve blushed and looked away a bit. "Uhh, I can try rubbing you there... i-if you're alright with that." "That would be nice." She put the near-empty container and spoon down and rested her hands over her middle.  Unsurprisingly, she wasn't as big as say, Mallard or Scotsman who'd been eating for a while and could handle a lot more.  She began to gently stroke and knead at the slight bulge, which made Green squirm a bit from the tickling. "Do you like that?" "I love it, do it some more!" She began to relax a bit, and nodded in agreement.   Green wasn't as soft as a lot of the engines in the museum, as she'd been active until relatively recently.  Still, she had a nice squish to her like most bigger engines did and it felt nice.  Seeing how much she was enjoying it and how her discomfort seemed to be subsiding, Eve began to tickle her sides and squeeze at her.        

[thepoemeater-blog]

By accident my heart lifted with a rush. Gone for weeks, finally home on a darkish day of blustery wind, napped, waking in a few minutes and the sun had come clean and crept around the house, this light from one of trillions of stars falling through the window skeined by the willow’s greenish bright yellow leaves so that my half-asleep head opened wide for the first time in many months, a cold sunstroke, so yellow-gold, so gold-yellow, yellow-gold, this eye beyond age bathed in yellow light.

* * *

Seventy days on the river with a confusion between river turbulence and human tribulation. We are here to be curious not consoled. The gift of the gods is consciousness not my forlorn bleating prayers for equilibrium, the self dog-paddling in circles on its own alga-lidded pond. Emily Walter wrote: “We are given rivers so we know our hearts can break, but still keep us breathing.”

* * *

When you run through the woods blindfolded you’re liable to collide with trees, I thought one hot afternoon on the river. You can’t drown yourself if you swim well. We saw some plovers and then a few yellow legs with their peculiar cries, and I remembered a very cold, windy September day with Matthiessen and Danny when the birds lifted me far out of myself. It was so cold and blustery the avian world descended into the river valley and while fishing we saw a golden eagle, two immature and two adult bald eagles, two prairie falcons, two peregrines, Cooper’s hawks, two Swainson’s, a sharp-shinned, a rough-legged, a harrier, five turkey vultures, three ospreys, and also saw buffleheads, widgeon, teal, mallards, morning doves, kingfishers, ring-billed gulls, killdeer, spotted plovers, sandpipers and sandhill cranes. They also saw us. If a peregrine sees fifty times better than we, what do we look like to them? Unanswerable.

* * *

Nearing seventy there is a tinge of the usually unseen miraculous when you wake up alive from a night’s sleep or a nap. We always rise in the terrifying posture of the living. Some days the river is incomprehensible. No, not the posture, but that a terrifying beauty is born within us. I think of the 20-acre thicket my mother planted after the deaths 40 years ago, the thicket now nearly impenetrable as its own beauty. Across the small pond the green heron looked at me quizzically— who is this? I said I wasn’t sure at that moment wondering if the green heron could be Mother.

* * *

Now back in the Absarokas I’m awake to these diffuse corridors of light. The grizzlies have buried themselves below that light cast down across the mountain meadow, following a canyon to the valley floor where the rattlesnakes will also sleep until mid-April. Meanwhile we’ll travel toward the border with the birds. The moon is swollen tonight and the mountain this summer I saw bathed in a thunderstorm now bathes itself in a mist of snow.

* * *

Rushing, turbulent water and light, convinced by animals and rivers that nature only leads us to herself, so openly female through the window of my single eye. For half a year my alphabet blinded me to beauty, forgetting my nature which came from the boy lost comfortably in the woods, how and why he suspected home, this overmade world where old paths are submerged in metal and cement.

* * *

This morning in the first clear sunlight making its way over the mountains, the earth covered with crunchy frost, I walked the dogs past Weber’s sheep pasture where a ram was covering a ewe who continued eating, a wise and experienced woman. I headed due west up the slope toward Antelope Butte in the delicious cold still air, turning at the irrigation ditch hearing the staccato howl of sandhill cranes behind me, a couple of hundred rising a mile away from Cargill’s alfalfa, floating up into the white mist rising from the frost, and moving north in what I judge is the wrong direction for this weather. Birds make mistakes, so many dying against windows and phone wires. I continued west toward the snake den to try to catch the spirit of the place when it’s asleep, the sheer otherness of hundreds of rattlesnakes sleeping in a big ball deep in the rocky earth beneath my feet. The dogs, having been snake trained, are frightened of this place. So am I. So much protective malevolence. I fled. Back home in the studio, a man-made wonder. We planted a chokecherry tree near the window and now through cream- colored blinds the precise silhouette of the bare branches, gently but firmly lifting my head, a Chinese screen that no one made which I accept from the nature of light.

* * *

I think of Mother’s thicket as her bird garden. How obsessed she was with these creatures. When I told her a schizophrenic in Kentucky wrote, “Birds are holes in heaven through which a man must pass,” her eyes teared. She lost husband and daughter to the violence of the road and I see their spirits in the bird garden. On our last night a few years ago she asked me, “Are we the same species as God?” At eighty-five she was angry that the New Testament wasn’t fair to women and then she said, “During the Great Depression we had plenty to eat,” meaning at the farmhouse, barn and chicken coop a hundred yards to the north that are no longer there, disappeared with the inhabitants. The child is also the mother of the man.

* * *

In the U.P. in the vast place southeast of the river I found my way home by following the path where my shadow was the tallest which led to the trail which led to another trail which led to the road home to the cabin where I wrote to her: “Found two dead redtail hawks, missing their breasts, doubtless a goshawk took them as one nests just north of here a half mile in a tall hemlock on the bend of the river.”

* * *

With only one eye I’ve learned to celebrate vision, the eye a painter, the eye a monstrous fleshy camera which can’t stop itself in the dark where it sees its private imagination. The tiny eye that sees the cosmos overhead.

* * *

Last winter I lost heart between each of seven cities. Planes never land with the same people who boarded.

* * *

Walking Mary and Zilpha every morning I wonder how many dogs are bound by regret because they are captured by our imaginations and affixed there by our need to have them do as we wish when their hearts are quite otherwise.

* * *

I hope to define my life, whatever is left, by migrations, south and north with the birds and far from the metallic fever of clocks, the self staring at the clock saying, “I must do this.” I can’t tell the time on the tongue of the river in the cool morning air, the smell of the ferment of greenery, the dust off the canyon’s rock walls, the swallows swooping above the scent of raw water.

* * *

Maybe we’re not meant to wake up completely. I’m trying to think of what I can’t remember. Last week in France I read that the Ainu in Japan receive messages from the gods through willow trees so I’m not the only one. I looked down into the garden of Matignon and wondered at the car trip the week before where at twilight in Narbonne 27,000 blackbirds swirled and that night from the window it was eerie with a slip of the waning moon off the right shoulder of the Romanesque cathedral with Venus sparkling shamelessly above the moon, Venus over whom the church never had any power. Who sees? Whose eye is this? A day later in Collioure from the Hermitage among vineyards in the mountains I could look down steep canyons still slightly green from the oaks in November to the startling blue of the Mediterranean, storm-wracked from the mistral’s seventy knot winds, huge lumpy white caps, their crests looking toward Africa.

* * *

I always feared losing my remaining eye, my singular window to the world. When closed it sees the thousands of conscious photos I’ve taken with it, impressionist rather than crystalline, from a lion’s mouth in the Serengeti in 1972 to a whale’s eye in the Humboldt current, the mountain sun gorged with the color of forest fires followed by a moon orange as a simple orange, a thousand girls and women I’ve seen but never met, the countless birds I adopted since losing the eye in 1945 including an albino grouse creamy as that goshawk’s breast that came within feet of Mother in our back pasture, the female trogon that appeared when Dalva decided to die, and the thousands of books out of whose print vision is created in the mind’s eye, as real as any garden at dawn.

* * *

No rhapsodies today. Home from France and the cold wind and a foot of snow have destroyed my golden window, but then the memory has always been more vivid than the life. The memory is the not-quite-living museum of our lives. Sometimes its doors are insufferably wide open with black stars in a grey sky, and horses clattering in and out, our dead animals resting here and there but often willing to come to life again to greet us, parents and brothers and sisters sit at the August table laughing while they eat twelve fresh vegetables from the garden. Rivers, creeks, lakes over which birds funnel like massive schools of minnows. In memory the clocks have drowned themselves, leaving time to the life spans of trees. The world of our lives comes unbidden as night.

- Jim Harrison, The Golden Window

[danddorks]

Chelastian Campaign #1

So for the past few weeks I’ve been running a horror-inspired D&D 5e campaign. Although it was originally intended to be a full fledged horror game, it’s veered off into the weird and campy, as most of our campaigns tend to do.

This game was actually played near Halloween of 2016 and was going to be a one-shot to train some newbies. We wound up extending it to a full fledged campaign.

So, an introduction to the PC’s:

Sir John “Ducky” Mallard, a 1st level Human Paladin who has sworn the Oath of the Ancients. Son of Duke Mallard, Ducky was sent to the Diamond Hills mercenary guild as a silencing tactic. 

Tohmoh the Damarrion, a 1st level Human Warlock with Cthulu as a patron. Joined the Diamond Hills mercenary guild as a way to gain power while helping others.

Marrow, a 1st level dhampir Bard, as played by @the-pantsing-panda

Rohss, a 1st level Half-Elf Ranger, guardian of the forest.

Aiyiri, a 1st level Khajit Fighter with a two-weapon fighting style, former assassin

There are other players / characters who join in / swap out later, but this was the cast for the first session.

What I hope to do is keep notes that record a) events that were wonderful or that made my players happy; b) plot points; and c) the basic gist of the story.

I don’t keep fully detailed chat logs or anything like that. It’s just the rundown of the story with any GM notes following with the same session tags.

Character Introductions:

Sir Ducky, as he is infamously named, is the second son of Duke Mallard. While his older brother is in line for the title, Ducky had little choice but to become a soldier in order to gain recognition. However, after discovering that his father may very well be involved in some tax fraud, Ducky is sent to join a mercenary guild with high esteem as a way to intimidate him into silence. 

Tohmoh the Damarrion is the great great grandson of an infamous Mad Warlock. He has dedicated his life to Cthulu, but also strives to help those in need, as chaos doesn’t have to be heartless, and those with power should share it. 

Marrow is a dhampir who has been living on his own for far too long, and has begun reverting to his bloodsucking instincts. He is a hunter, of sorts; seeking out the evil vampires to vanquish them and prove that one is master of their own fate.

Rohss is the heir to the Elven family that, after the human’s conquered in the war, retreated to the forests. They know that the forest has a spirit, and have been tasked with keeping it alive. Lately, though, strange creatures have feasted on the blood of those that live in the forest, drawing Rohss to seek the creatures and destroy them.

Aiyiri was once a young girl who admired her brother. His murder at the hands of an Orc brute redefined her life, and shaped her into a ruthless killer. She became an assassin, and, after losing her partner, she now seeks vengeance. And gold. Gold is good too.

---

Our PC’s have, in one way or another, been made aware of a nearby town calling for help in investigating a house where many travelers have disappeared. They are escorted to the house/office of the Mayor of the former Dwarven Fortress now known as Sapphire Lake Town by his secretary, Carla. The Mayor explains the problem: A man named Karloff had come into town nearly twenty years ago and caused some trouble. Although he’s left, his house remains. They had sent up a demolitions team to destroy it, but they never came back. Ever since then, anyone who has wandered into the house has not come out -- not even experienced adventurers!

From basic roleplaying, the party finds out that Karloff had been a generous spirit that had befriended Mayor Barron, assassinated the town Cleric and Wizard, and then had drained the city’s treasury. It is not outside the realm of possibility that he cursed his estate. Mayor Barron has been trying to get some good men to go cleanse the house of it’s evil spirit, but nobody is willing to work for free.

From a few persuasion rolls, the party agrees to go to the House as long as they get to keep what they find there. Mayor Barron agrees to the terms.

They make their way across town. Marrow traps himself in the well in the front yard while investigating it, convinced it’s somehow evil. It’s not. It’s an empty well with some half-assed installed spike strips at the bottom to kill hapless wanderers. Ducky helps him out, failing a perception check that might have changed his opinion about the completely innocent well.

Once inside the house, a suit of armor they had mistaken for a lawn decoration appears, having followed them. Tohmoh snatches off it’s helmet and peers inside, curious. He finds a magical marking to indicate that a soul has been bound to the armor.

While the armor protests this invasion of privacy, Ducky recognizes the family symbol. It belongs to the Strider family, formerly of the Duchy Ravenna -- a cautionary tale for noble children. 100 years prior, the Strider family had two heirs. The eldest, a knight in the service of the King, disappeared following rumors that he had fallen in love. The youngest wound up dying as a teenager, after it was learned the father was involved in taking a little from the taxes he collected.

Ducky believes the armor belongs to the elder of the two, Dirk. 

Dirk does not remember dying, only that he had found the house and entered it. Then... then...

The suit turns cold and slouches. Dirk appears to be gone from it. As the party tries to figure out what that means, it comes back alive, warning them...

“They come.”

Marrow notices that Zombies have begun to crawl from the fireplace in the first room of the hallway. He unwittingly stands in the doorway so no one else can attack. The next round, he backs up and throws his rapier like a javelin, which sends it sliding across the floor to the other side of the room. While Ducky and Tohmoh take over the zombie slaying duties, Rohss dives out the front door. When he sees the house has legs and is getting up, he tries to jump back inside. He winds up dangling from the doorway. Aiyiri runs up to the zombies to begin her slaughter. She also collects Marrow’s rapier, but decides to keep it for herself.

Marrow has the bright idea to anchor a rope so they can climb down from the house. He critically fails his roll and winds up hitting Tohmoh in the back of the head with a grappling hook, causing minor damage. He then ollies out the front door to join Rohss. (note: the player remembers intentionally trying to knock Rohss down or kill him, since Rohss is unknowingly hunting her character. I personally do not remember this.)

Tohmoh gets the idea to set the house on fire, and proceeds to do just that.

The party bail, all nearly stepping on Rohss, and the flaming house marches all the way to the fortress walls before it collapses, revealing it was actually another creature, a mimic, having been forced into the shape of a house. They collect the best selection of twenty years worth of armor, and then walk away without searching for more treasure.

They are taken to the local inn, the Skipping Seahorse, to relax. Marrow and Rohss decide to stop by the pub across the street first.

-End-

[biofunmy]

Bringing the world’s buried wetlands back from the dead

The ghosts are all around the gently rolling farmlands of eastern England. But you have to know where to look.

These are not the kind of phantoms that scare or haunt — they are ghost ponds. Over the years, landowners buried them, filling in wetlands so they had more land for planting crops and other needs, or let ponds fade away with neglect. Along with those ponds, they erased entire ecosystems — and contributed to the decline of wetlands worldwide.

The result: an array of environmental calamities, ranging from rising floods to species hurdling toward extinction.

There are some who are trying to reclaim these lost waterbodies. In the wetlands of eastern England, a motley team of farmers, university researchers and conservationists is digging into the region’s barley and wheat fields to turn back the clock. They seek out patches of muddy earth that hint at lost ponds lurking beneath.

Using chain saws, an excavator and plenty of sweat, the team takes just a few hours to resurrect one dying pond near Hindolveston, a thousand-year-old village not far from the North Sea. They fell trees and shrubs, then start digging until reaching their goal: an ancient pond bottom that once supported insects, aquatic plants and the birds and animals that fed on them.

“As soon as they get water and light, they just spring to life,” says Nick Anema, a farmer in nearby Dereham who has restored seven ponds on his property. “You’ve got frogs and toads and newts, all the insects like mayflies, dragonflies, damselflies. … You can’t really beat a pond.”

But the battle for the wetlands is a struggle. While efforts are underway to stem losses and regain some of what’s been lost, wetlands around the world continue to be filled in and plowed over.

Almost 90% of the world’s wetlands disappeared over the past three centuries, according to the Ramsar Convention, an organization formed around a 1971 treaty to protect wetlands. The loss rate has accelerated since the 1970s, with wetlands now disappearing three times faster than the world’s forests, the group says.

Every type of naturally occurring wetland has suffered — from ponds, freshwater swamps and coastal marshes, to fens, bogs and other peatlands.

The consequences can be profound:

—Roughly 5,000 wetland-dependent species threatened with extinction, including mammals, birds and amphibians, according to Ramsar.

—Fewer natural storage areas to hold back torrential rains means more severe floods in many parts of the world, including the U.S. heartland, as seen this summer.

—Draining wetlands, such as in Indonesia to make way for palm oil plantations, can release huge amounts of the greenhouse gas carbon dioxide, a major contributor to climate change.

Climate change also threatens to worsen the problem. Warmer temperatures and changing rainfall patterns can trigger drought, leading to more pumping of water reserves that otherwise would feed surface wetlands, scientists say.

Wetlands in northern China, the central U.S., northern Africa, India and the Middle East already have been depleted by the pumping of underground aquifers for agriculture.

“We now know the value of wetlands, and we know with increasing precision how many wetlands we’re losing. The next step is for the governments to act,” says Royal Gardner, director of the Institute for Biodiversity Law and Policy at Stetson University in Florida.

———

A few hours of heavy rain in North Dakota are all it takes to transform the dry, cracked earth of the U.S. prairie into thousands upon thousands of pocket-sized wetlands.

The rain pools in shallow depressions known as prairie potholes and quickly flushes out insects from beneath the soil.

Each pothole becomes a haven for a pair of ducks. Two blue-winged teals dabble in one pothole that’s sprung back to life with the rains. Nearby, a mallard hen keeps her head down to the water, stuffing herself with insects and vegetation to store up the energy she’ll need raise her next brood, while a male, or drake, watches vigilantly for any predators. On the next pothole, two more ducks, then two more and so on, all the way to the horizon.

Each spring and fall bring an even greater influx of waterfowl: clouds of migrating snow geese that descend en masse, lingering for a few days on the larger water bodies as they pass between breeding grounds in Canada and their winter refuges to the south.

But to farmers, these wetlands carved into the earth by glaciers some 10,000 years ago can be an adversary. The muddy holes bog down tractors and rot newly planted seeds and they can kill young crops, leaving patches of lifeless stalks.

Some farmers steer around them, planting seeds in swirling patterns to avoid wet areas often smaller in size than the hulking combines that appear at harvest time. Other wetlands are removed, often to make way for corn.

“It’s the crop of the younger generation and I’ve got to think ahead,” says farmer Barton Schott, who drained several wetlands this summer to improve the corn fields he plans to pass onto one of his sons.

Schott gestured at fields dotted with “nuisance wetlands” as he navigated his truck down a bumpy dirt road.

“We have to make bushels for you guys. I just want to make the land better,” he says.

Despite their mind-boggling numbers — several million potholes are spread across a region that covers portions of five states and three Canadian provinces— these wetlands are steadily blinking out. One by one, they’re being drained or plowed under.

These changes already have rolled through large parts of the prairie pothole region with a profound impact: Iowa has lost 99% of its wetlands and neighboring Minnesota has lost 95%, according to U.S. officials. The Dakotas and Montana have seen smaller declines.

Hundreds of millions of dollars have been spent trying to reverse or at least halt the losses.

That includes payments to North Dakota ranchers like Cody and Deanna Sands in Ellendale. Aided by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the Sands have plugged a series of man-made ditches on their pastures. That lets the water pool, helps grow grass for their cows and creates nesting areas for grassland and water birds.

Now they worry less about having enough rain and spend more time marketing their beef. “Restoring the wetlands made it a better piece,” Deanna Sands says as she wades through knee-high grass.

Just across the road is a reminder that others feel differently — a huge farm where fields have been drained to increase plantable acreage.

The region’s future, experts say, comes down to a numbers game, one that so far is tilting against the potholes as wetlands are sacrificed to feed demand for the corn-based fuel ethanol.

“We’re losing more habitat than we’re gaining,” U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist Jon Beyer says. “The small, shallow wetlands attract the birds, and those are the ones at highest risk.”

———

Only human-made wetlands buck the trend toward global decline. Rice paddies, reservoirs and agricultural stock ponds all increased in acreage since the 1970s, according to Ramsar.

Schott, a third-generation farmer in the small community of Kulm, North Dakota, recently installed networks of perforated pipes beneath some of his fields to drain off the standing water. The water will get pumped into a nearby pond, making each acre drained “as productive as we can get it.”

Under federal regulations, he must offset the losses. He’s doing it somewhat reluctantly at a site about a mile away, installing a berm across a low area in one of his fields to create a small pond.

Schott, other farmers and their political allies in Congress want wetlands less than an acre in size — such as the three that he recently drained — to be exempted from the offset requirement. For now, if he doesn’t build the pond, he stands to lose his federally subsidized farm insurance and be ineligible for other government assistance.

The guiding principle is to have “no net loss” of U.S. wetlands. A similar tactic has been adopted in China, home to about 10% of the globe’s wetlands. Yet in both nations, scientists are concerned that the approach papers over significant differences between natural wetlands and those created by humans.

While Schott’s pond will meet the law’s requirements, government biologists and wetlands advocates say such projects don’t fully restore what’s lost. That’s because a larger pond with water year-round doesn’t fulfill the same ecological role as the smaller wetlands they’re supposed to replace.

A group of researchers at the Chinese Academy of Sciences raised similar concerns in a September study, warning that statistics showing a slight increase in China’s total wetlands acreage between 2000 and 2015 obscured what really happened.

A significant portion of the increase came from the construction of dams that turned areas with many small wetlands into large reservoirs, the researchers found. The combined area covered by natural marshes decreased by almost 3,000 square miles (7,600 square kilometers) during the same period.

“People brag about the fact that there’s been no net loss. But what they’ve done is destroy natural wetlands and created artificial ones,” says Stuart Pimm, a Duke University professor who worked with the Chinese researchers. “It makes it look like you’re doing no harm when the reality is very different.”

———

Since the start of the 20th century, 75% of the United Kingdom’s ponds have been lost.

The initial drive to restore wetlands in East Anglia was guided by a Norfolk farmer, Richard Waddingham, who began protecting his ponds at a time when his neighbors still were filling theirs in, says Carl Sayer, a researcher at University College London who worked closely with Waddingham.

Waddingham drew inspiration from a pair of U.S. bird biologists from Cornell University whose work centered on the importance of wetlands to breeding ducks.

Nick Anema describes how his view of farming differs markedly from his father’s, who regarded the natural world as an obstacle to overcome.

For Anema, farming and preservation are inextricably linked. Farm too intensively and it degrades the soil. Cultivate all the way up to the property line and there’s no room for flowers that draw bees and insects to pollinate his crops.

He’d been leaving the “shelterbelts” that ring his crops untouched for years when in 2013 he saw an advertisement seeking farmers who would be willing to have ghost ponds on their property excavated as part of a research project.

He suspected a low point in one of this fields fit the description of a ghost pond and a check of old maps confirmed it. By the time the excavation wrapped up, water already was pooling at the bottom.

After ghost ponds are dug out, seeds from long-buried water plants come to life, including in one case a pond on Anema’s farm that had been filled in an estimated 150 years ago. And as the plants come back, so do the insects that depend on them, followed by fish and birds that eat the insects.

“We didn’t know what we would find in these holes in the ground until we started digging,” Sayer says. “They’ve done just what we hoped. They’re wonderful, healthy, vibrant ponds.”

———

Brown reported from North Dakota.

———

This Associated Press series was produced in partnership with the Howard Hughes Medical Institute’s Department of Science Education. The AP is solely responsible for all content.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Heroic efforts to revive ecosystems and save species are being waged worldwide, aimed at reversing some of humankind’s most destructive effects on the planet. “What Can Be Saved?,” a weekly AP series, chronicles the ordinary people and scientists fighting for change against enormous odds _ and forging paths that others may follow.

Sahred From Source link Technology

from WordPress http://bit.ly/34CfIr0 via IFTTT