#The Railway Children Return

[placebopilled]

Me when period films acknowledge the predgudice and bigotry of the time

[thepeoplesmovies]

Yorkshire Dreaming: The stunning locations featured in The Railway Children Return

In celebration of home entertainment release of the sequel to one of the most beloved British family films of all time, The Railway Children Return, we have a run-down of all the stunning locations featured in the film. BAFTA-winning Director Morgan Matthews takes us full steam ahead back to Yorkshire in The Railway Children Return, where the film was shot entirely on location to capture the…

[tctmp]

Adventure  Drama  Family

[scannain]

#Review: The Railway Children Return

Graham saw this sweet film starring a new generation of railway children in The Railway Children Return

Out this week in cinemas is the strangely placed sequel to the 1970s film The Railway Children. The Railway Children Return is about three children sent to the countryside during World War II to stay safe during the blitz. Away from their mother Lily (Beau Gadsdon), Pattie (Eden Hamilton) and Ted (Zac Cudby) have to come to terms with a new way of life in the country. During this time this trio…

[mariacallous]

During the first months of the Russian invasion, in one of the frontline villages in the southern Kherson region, I met several firefighters – ordinary Ukrainian men in their 40s or 50s. Their prewar tasks involved putting out fires in the local wood or occasionally buildings.

Since the Russian invasion, they save houses burning from missiles and retrieve their dead neighbours. One of the men began to cry during our conversation. He left embarrassed, but shortly returned. I comforted the firefighters, explaining that even governors and mayors sometimes sob during interviews.

In the following months, I travelled from one frontline town to another. I met doctors, policemen, railway and communal workers, journalists, electricians, civil servants, government officials whose relatives are fighting and dying in the army. They escaped or are still living under Russian occupation, their houses and apartments destroyed. They acknowledged that they were emotional, often angry, horrified, but driven by a sense of duty. In the end this would help them move forward, and even be proud of what they did.

Russia invaded Donbas and Crimea in Ukraine in 2014; the country already knew what the war was. But since 5am on 24 February last year, all citizens have learned how to survive when a foreign army uses its might to destroy the peace. They have discovered how to act during an air-raid warning; how to live and work through blackouts; that they should not walk at night because of curfews. They have learned to forget about planes, as airports are closed, and how to be separated from family. People have adapted to many things, and also learned how to deal with emotions: that tears are nothing to be ashamed of. The initial shock and sadness have transformed into a bigger confidence and determination.

As for today – besides hope in victory, national pride, solidarity and compassion, which you see on the surface – one of the prevailing feelings among Ukrainians is guilt that we are not doing enough. In non-frontline towns and in Kyiv, life has returned to a kind of normal. We are preoccupied with thoughts of those who live under constant shelling or occupation. Those who are not in the army think of those who must fight daily; soldiers who survive think of the fallen. Those who left the country feel guilty about those who stayed.

I recently visited a standup comedy performance in a suburb of Kyiv. Self-depreciation is back following months when society was unable to joke about the war. One of the most popular gags is from a comedian comparing his efforts to those of soldiers and veterans. After Ukraine’s victory, he jokes, he would tell his children he spent the war sitting in an Odesa basement, tweeting that Nato should help by “closing the sky”.

Thousands of crimes have been committed by Russian soldiers on Ukrainian soil. The Ukrainian general prosecutor’s office says it has registered at least 71 000 violations of the customs of war. Since then it has become harder to talk to Russian colleagues. By colleagues I mean not propagandists, but just journalists who oppose the Russian invasion and Putin’s regime.

I still communicate with them, but many exchanges end with excuses about why Russian society can do nothing. They think that those who are against the war have nothing to do with the actions of their state. I do believe guilt is not collective, but shared responsibility exists.

Before Russia’s invasion I reported on totalitarian countries: Iran, Syria, China, Belarus. I understand how dangerous it is to protest in a state that is ready to kill its own citizens. The Ukrainians fought against this in revolutions in 2004 and 2014. In the end we built a government that defends its citizens.

It feels paradoxical that Ukrainians, who defend their homeland and are under attack, feel guilty for not doing more. Meanwhile, Russians who are opposed to war are uncomfortable speaking about personal responsibility, stressing that nothing depends on them. This can be explained not by a lack of empathy or bitterness, but by disempowerment and the detachment of Russian citizens. This is something the Kremlin wants from Russian society. Russians who oppose the war must transform their lack of empowerment into action, and find their strength.

Ukrainians have defended their country for 365 days without a break. They have saved many lives from Russian troops. Our task now is to transform a sense of guilt into a sense of duty. We need to preserve our strength.

[ohsalome]

Not long ago I finished reading @TimothyDSnyder's book "Bloodlands. Europe between Hitler and Stalin".

I wanted to share some quotes from the chapter on the Holodomor that struck me personally the most. It is difficult to imagine what was happening then. A small but heavy thread:

The peasants who were slowly dying of starvation were believed to be saboteurs who were actually playing into the hands of the capitalist powers who wanted to discredit the Soviet Union. Hunger is resistance, and resistance is a sign of the imminent victory of socialism.

Forced to pass off their swollen bellies as a manifestation of political opposition, they came to the conclusion that the saboteurs hated socialism so much that they deliberately brought their families to starvation.

On 22 January 1933, Balytsky warned Moscow that peasants were fleeing the republic, and Stalin and Molotov ordered law enforcement agencies to stop the flow of people. The next day, the sale of long-distance railway tickets to peasants was banned.

The Ukrainian musician Yosyp Panasenko was sent with a group of bandura players to the countryside to bring culture to the starving peasants. Having taken away the last piece of bread from the peasants, the authorities had a grotesque intention to raise the mood and spirit of the deathly hungry people. The musicians found completely empty villages.

Children born in the Soviet Union in the late 1920s and early 1930s found themselves in a world of death, surrounded by helpless parents and a hostile government. The average life expectancy for a boy born in 1933 was seven years.

One father in the Vinnytsia region came to the cemetery to bury two of his children, and when he returned, he saw that another child had died. Some parents locked their children in the house to save them from cannibals.

Parents gave their children to distant relatives or strangers, left them at railway stations. Desperate peasants who held their babies through the windows of the wagons did not necessarily beg for bread: very often they wanted to give their children away, to strangers who lived in cities and did not suffer from hunger.

Countless parents killed and ate their own children and then died of hunger anyway. One mother boiled her son for food for herself and her daughter. A six-year-old girl rescued by relatives last saw her father sharpening a knife to stab her.

The children's stomachs were swollen, their whole bodies were covered in wounds, scabs, and abscesses. We took them, laid them on the sheets, and they were moaning. One day, the children suddenly stopped talking, and we looked at them and saw that they were eating the youngest one, Petrus. They were pulling off his scabs and eating them. And Petrus was doing the same thing - pulling off his scabs and eating them, eating as much as he could. Other children were sucking blood from their own wounds. We pulled the children away from this activity and cried.

There came a time when there was virtually no grain left in Ukraine, and human meat was the only type of meat.

One Komsomol member in the Kharkiv region reported to his superiors that he could only meet the meat supply plan at the expense of human beings.

More than one Ukrainian child has told a brother or sister: "Mum said we should eat her if she dies". This tragic solution was found by love and care

[lilac-5ky]

Roommates from Hell, pt.7 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 7: Stockholm Syndrome

Chapter 6 | Chapter 8 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist | Requests | AO3

A/N: Sorry for disappearing, y'all! Hope this lengthy chapter compensates for my absence.

You were early.

You knew that, not because you’d been checking the time every two stops—doubting your being on the correct railway line even as the voice in the speakers called out Inokashira Park—but because it was still bright when you got off the train platform.

Normally, you were good with those things—time. Having juggled both school and multiple shifts across Tokyo at some point in your life meant you knew exactly how long it took to get from one district to the other, and under no circumstances did Shibuya to Kichijoji amount to three hours worth of travel time. You could’ve left home half an hour earlier and made it in time, but all sense of normality died the moment you agreed to go out with Toji.

It was 3:37 p.m., and you were indeed early. Two hours and twenty-three minutes early.

You’d gone out with him hundreds of times. As friends, as family—as people who dealt their meals and loneliness evenly, yet never as anything beyond that. You didn’t know what a date entailed—or rather, you pretended not to, because the possibilities made your head spin.

This was just an ordinary hangout, and that was why you’d opted for the unimpressive combination of your overworn jeans and cardigan, in spite of casting every article of clothing out of your closet and onto the floor.

The yellow ribbon in your hair—that was hope.

You were meeting at the park’s east entrance, which coincided with the railway’s west exit. The only thing you’d agreed upon was the time and place. Everything else was entirely up to him.

The tracks ended where the grass blades began, out-of-bloom hydrangeas paving the path toward Inokashira Park’s infamous pond. In the winter, the park looked like a shadow of its former self. Desolate and bleak, as opposed to the final spring you visited with your father.

The fragrance of the freshly bloomed cherry blossoms he’d help you reach atop his shoulders lingered ever so vividly in the air, along with the essence of humidity that clung to your skin after every ride on those enormous swan boats. But with the trees stripped bare and the waters stilled by the cold, your memories had also lost their vibrancy.

You felt no joy reminiscing about the past. It was more like an old wound you scratched open to test the pain, except the blood was all dried up. You’d mourned your father before he’d even passed and before your sister finalized the news a week ago. This was just killing time.

You had two hours to waste and were already considering phoning Toji to reschedule. He didn’t have much to do during the day. If he wasn’t at the diner, then he typically loitered around one gambling den or another. Unless he was caught up in one of those shady businesses that earned him entire briefcases full of cash. To think the day would come when you’d be dating a hitman—

—only you weren’t dating. Because this wasn’t a date.

Your plans were put on hold as an elderly woman shoved about a dozen shopping bags inside the public phone booth you’d been eyeing, and you decided not to wait around for it to be freed.

Two hours isn’t all that horrible.

A class of children returning from a field trip to the park’s aquarium passed you by, some of the kids clutching onto different types of marine life plush toys. You walked away from the procession. You weren’t keen on showing jealousy over the little girl with the cute turtle-shaped backpack, and thus you detoured to a quieter path away from all the jeers and cheers. You checked the time again. One hour and fifty-five minutes left. God.

The park’s visitors dwindled the further you strayed from the main attractions, until it was just you and a man who had his back turned all the while he stared off into the unknown. A man whose broad shoulders and discreet slouch seemed more familiar the longer you studied him, and when his jade eyes fell on yours, you reached an epiphany. This was a date.

“You’re early.” You gasped softly, your lips expelling a white cloud of heat.

His gaze hardened below his arched eyebrows—a mix of unfeigned surprise and borderline annoyance as he processed you from head to toe.

You regretted not going the extra mile. Toji wasn’t dressed to the nines either, but his choppy strands were somewhat combed, and the forest green of his sweater brought out his eyes. Even his usual sweatpants were replaced by a fitting pair of black jeans, and at that point, your palms began to sweat because Toji was an objectively good-looking man, and when he took care of himself, he was a real head-turner, while you were just… you.

“You’re the one who’s late.” He shifted the blame without second thought, tempting you to dig your beeper out of your pocket to prove your innocence, but you spared him the embarrassment. After all, he made no comments about your blushing cheeks or shuffling feet either.

One minute and countless beats of awkward silence later, Toji tugged himself from the wooden spikes that ringed the pond’s perimeter and moved closer, his attention instantly drawn to your ribbon’s loose ends.

“Your hair—”

“Looks weird?” You cut him off.

He shook off his scowl, the rough pads of his fingers making light contact with your skin as he flipped the string over your shoulder. “Nah. Just…” and it was no exaggeration to say you were hanging on his lips up until he grabbed you by the hand and dragged you forward—his calling you cute an uncertain figment of your imagination.

Trapped in a never-ending daze of billboard signs and city lights that faded past the passenger’s window, you miserably failed to make out your whereabouts. It’d been a while since you left Tokyo behind, and your last clue was your entering National Route 127 about an hour ago. You were well into Chiba prefecture—home to Japan’s biggest fishing industry, Disney-themed parks, and, of course, peanuts.

As for where in Chiba exactly, your best bet was connecting the passing exit signs in the hope of them helping paint the bigger picture. Kisarazu to Kimitsu. Kimitsu to Futtsu. Futtsu to Kyonan.

Since that final sign that read “15 kilometers to Minamiboso,” you’d gone off the map, and the closer you came to approaching the sparsely planted minka houses on the mountain side of the highway, the further your destination seemed. You didn’t expect this to be a kidnap in the literal sense, but while Toji hadn’t taken your ability to speak or look away, he still refused to let you in on his plans.

He drove quietly, his vision tunneling to the open road while his hand occasionally ironed out the knots of muscle around his neck. His mouth opened solely for his yawns, whose sheer number and frequency would’ve been concerning if Toji wasn’t the one behind the wheel. You trusted he wouldn’t kill you both off. He wasn’t the double-suicide type.

After your seventh unsuccessful attempt at prying out information, you brought out the big guns.

“What’s this?” Toji glanced at the 1000-yen bill you discreetly placed on his lap, his lips twitching into a slight smile. “Little low for ransom, don’tcha think?”

You rolled your eyes. “Just tell me where we’re going and why it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Hmm.” He pocketed the bill. “Wouldn’t be a kidnap if I told ya, would it?”

You leaned against the window, bandages soaking up moisture from where you mindlessly drew figures in the fog. You’d think he’d be less frustrating to deal with now that he’d gotten what he wanted, but he’d instead turned shrewder. He didn’t even let you contact your sister or drop off Kenzo’s waffle cones. The two were left alone at your empty apartment, probably thinking you’d migrated to the North Pole for ice, when in reality you were off playing budget Thelma and Louise.

Maybe he really was trying to kill you—speed toward the next cliff and throw you both into the depths of Tokyo Bay, where you’d spent a comfortable eternity sleeping side by side with the fish.

You were spelling the words Save Me when Toji spoke again, this time on his own accord.

“Someplace we can continue where we left off.” You could hear the smirk rolling off his tongue.

Someplace we can continue where we left off, you mentally repeated. Someplace we can continue where we left off. Someplace we can—oh.

You quickly smudged your cry for help with your shoulder and fell back on your seat, cheeks as red as beets. If he wanted to take things to a love hotel, he should’ve just said so. It wouldn’t have taken much to persuade you to hit one in Roppongi. No need to waste all this gas and worry everyone sick.

Come to think of it, the phone hadn’t rung once since the beginning of your little country escapade—not from a call, and not from a text either. You were positive he hadn’t turned your phone off when he confiscated it, and his was still on him.

That crafty witch. Her lack of concern just about confirmed your suspicions. Your sister wasn’t searching for you because everything was moving according to plan.

“Can I at least make a call?” You batted your eyelashes and smiled at him with your eyes, watching his wariness dissolve instantaneously as his glance shifted to a stare. Men.

“A call, huh?” Relying on his inhumane reflexes, Toji lowered a hand from the wheel to your knee, rubbing his way higher up your thigh.

The part of you that wasn’t used to letting him touch you so freely almost flinched, but ignoring it was starting to become easier. You enjoyed the way his palm cupped your flesh. You liked how supple your skin seemed between his fingers, and you loved how firm his grasp felt—bold and reassuring. It took your mind off your question and his attention off the road as a honk from a passing truck forced you to recoil away from each other.

The unprompted filth that poured between the two rolled-down windows colored both your ears. He was the one in the wrong here. It was his fault that the car zigzagged into the fast lane, and while he wasn’t going to let it spiral out of control, the other driver didn’t necessarily know that.

Once he was done spitting nails, he turned back to you, impatience burning in his eyes to the point where you wouldn’t be surprised if he cut your destination short and pulled over to the nearest rest area for a breather.

“Can’t focus when ya gimme that look.” Toji huffed.

“What look?”

“Like you’re begging me to fuck you on the highway.” He answered with the same ease with which one would talk about the weather.

“Toji!” A red deeper than the one on your ears spread to your face.

He licked his lips together and tipped closer to your seat, audaciously asking, “What?”

You didn’t have a reason good enough to push him away anymore—at least not one that related to how you felt about him. Hiding behind your finger was useless when all your cards were laid out on the table. He counted on you staying still for his lips to brush over yours—a mere tingle of electricity before you remembered you were in a moving vehicle and swatted his face away.

“Eyes on the road.” You whipped out a smile, lest he misunderstand, but it was too late. Toji was already looking at you as if you’d committed an unimaginable sin; a frown riveted to his face even as his focus resumed on the highway.

“Just lost your phone rights.”

“Seriously? Cause I’m watching out for our safety?”

“You heard me.” He grumbled. “Now shut it.”

“Well, forgive me for not being up for a second near-death experience less than 24 hours after the first one.” You said as you fixed your shirt over your knees and coiled closer to the window.

His knuckles grew white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, a deep exhale flaring his nostrils. Be it out of guilt or regret, he didn’t talk back, but you weren’t willing to call a truce just yet.

“You know, none of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t run off on your own last night. Or if you’d asked me whether I wanted to be stuck in a vehicle with your grumpy ass for hours. Putting up with you at home is enough as it is.”

The blinker flashed as he turned left to the next exit, whose name you didn’t catch until a second sign at the intersection welcomed you to Tomiyama. You weren’t even sure if that was your actual destination or if he pulled off the highway on a whim, and you knew next to nothing about the area other than hearing it mentioned in some politician’s speech about recreation.

The car slowed down behind a navy blue sedan, with Toji drumming his fingers against the wheel while waiting for the lights to turn green. You took the chance to look outside, unable to figure out a damn thing in the dark. There were trees on both sides of the road, but you couldn’t tell what kind of trees. There were more cars parked by the sidewalk, but you couldn’t determine their color, let alone their brand. There was a large body of water up ahead, but you could only make out the faint sway of the riptide under the moonlight, a light breeze teasing the pungent scent of the sea.

“Didn’t seem you were putting up with me last night.” Toji interrupted. “Or when ya sucked my face in the middle of the street.”

“Hey!”

“Not that I hated either.”

He didn’t sound half as mad as he seemed, and for a brief moment, you wondered what you’d started this for. You always gnawed at each other like beasts trapped in a cage, each getting a kick out of pushing the other’s buttons into madness, yet you rarely fought for a reason. It was more so out of habit than spite, because that’s what you did best, and it almost felt intimate—affectionate in a way others could never comprehend.

“Go on.” Toji prompted, definitely amused. “That can’t be all. What else ya got?”

“You ate my ice cream!” You almost laughed at your own absurd statement, biting down the chuckle Toji didn’t bother withholding. “You ate it in front of my face and didn’t offer me a single bite!”

“Poor baby can’t use her hands?” He cooed, curling a finger near your cheek.

You dramatically waved your reasons for being incapacitated. “Can’t even use them. Plus, they itch like hell.”

“Pft, don’t pin that on me.” He scorned. “Curse barely touched you, and you spent the whole night cryin’ like a baby.”

An exasperated sigh puffed in your lungs. “I can’t believe you drew a mustache on my face. You knew I was awake, didn’t you?”

“Did I?” He asked with a knowing smile. “So what? Think I’d pussy outta kissing that cute little face just ‘cause of two extra lines?

“Still got ‘em, by the way.”

You manically scrubbed your lips with the back of your bandaged fist before coming to terms with the spotless reflection in his rearview mirror.

“There’s a special place in hell for people like you.”

The car was again put into motion as Toji switched gears and accelerated—much to your delight—toward the seashore, with no intention of stopping even as the village houses got replaced by palm trees dug in the sand; your final accusation being, “What kind of psychopath drives without music?”

“This is just noise.”

His snide remark had you dropping the stack of cassette tapes back at the discount stand and rushing to his aid.

The store-provided headphones appeared comically small compressing his skull, with the metallic wire bent into a taut arc that promised to snap any minute now. Their wearer seemed displeased, which, honestly, he always did, but this time you could hardly blame him. He was out of his element, and if it weren’t for that sliver of curiosity ushering him into the record store by the station, then he wouldn’t be standing there like an absolute idiot, polluting his ears with… pirate metal?

You managed to withstand about ten seconds of incoherent German slurs and Arrrgh’s before you hastily ejected the tape and shoved it back in its case. An entire music library at your disposal, and he’d possibly come across the single questionable track. Even a sniffer dog would envy his ability to nose anomalies out.

“Must be ‘cause you aren’t used to it.” You glanced around the shelves for a gap. “For all we know, this could be a masterpiece.”

“Yeah, right.” Toji kicked at the rolling step stool. Your heel caught it before it had the chance to crash into the vinyl stand, which led to him scoffing. Again.

He was the one who insisted on this date yet acted the exact opposite of his intentions. All that gloating about his past conquests was plain rubbish. He’d planned nothing for your date—your first date—and was disagreeable toward your every suggestion. The new crepe stall was too flashy for his tastes. The regular sukiyaki place was suddenly too expensive. The attractions at the park were tourist traps. You’d purposely led him down the thrift shop packed-alleyway just so he wouldn’t have a reason to complain, but he exceeded your expectations.

If he was having such a bad time, then why bother asking you out in the first place?

You returned to your corner, rummaging through the rows for something even Toji could potentially appreciate, when it hit you: you had no idea what kind of music he liked. Two years of acquaintance, and you’d never discussed preferences.

“Hey, Mr. Nitpicker.” Your nails clicked against the plastic to draw his attention. “What’s your favorite song?”

He gawked at you as if he’d been presented with a complex quantum physics equation, furrowing his eyebrows and tilting his head from one side to the other like a metronome.

“It’s… that one.” You expected him to point at either a cassette or a vinyl, but his hands remained sheathed in his pockets.

“What one?”

“The one that goes like…” You again expected him to hum to the rhythm of the supposed song, but he didn’t. “Ya know, that one.”

Your eyes darted between the tapes in your grasp and the insistence in his expression. He didn’t sound convincing in the slightest. It was when he lied that he acted most certain.

The only argument working in his favor was the inconceivable notion that a person in the growing age of media and technology could do without a song blasting from their car speakers or one they recorded with all the ambient sounds of a cafe tainting the chorus—because you didn’t know how music was treated in the Zen’in household; how whatever didn’t feature a koto or a shamisen was outright rejected; how it was considered a women’s sport—an activity slightly more refined than idle gossip in the shadows of the shoji doors.

“That’s not very helpful.” You sighed.

“Whatever.” He frowned, reclining against the one wall that was equipped with neither shelves nor framed records.

The conversation was over, and you resumed your hunt for affordable hidden gems in the 80s section. They used the word vintage for songs you’d grown up with, which everyone knew was a code word for old. Your twentieth birthday was months away, and you were already deemed old—correction: vintage. In no time, you’d join the club of people who called those below their age kids and constantly reminisced about the golden days of their youth.

“What’s yours?” Toji caught you off guard with how he’d both peeled off the wall and hunched over you without you taking notice.

You hadn’t even opened your mouth, yet you already felt yourself stuttering. He was intimidating—not in a piss your pants kind of way, but in a way that tinkered with the distribution of fluids in your body. You didn’t want to answer his question. You’d rather he bent a little lower and kissed you, because sharing your second kiss at a record store sounded exhilarating.

But sharing that tidbit of information wasn’t.

Flustered, you flipped through the cassettes sorted by the letter ‘A’ to find Anri’s Timely!! mixed between the ‘C’s. You were supposed to ask for permission before trying out the non-samples, but the store clerk clearly didn’t mind, or else he would have stopped you four tapes ago.

You searched for the appropriate track and pressed play once the headphones were back on Toji’s head. He kept a serious face all the while Anri begged for her loneliness to stop, the upbeat instrumental contrasting—without concealing—the sobriety of the lyrics. You heard every word loud and clear, mentally repeating them down to the third chorus, where you got lost in the sentiment.

Love is like a small storm. Both friends and lovers get swept up by it.

The song went on about the end of a relationship, while yours hadn’t even begun. You were one step ahead of being friends, yet a lot more steps behind being lovers. You didn’t want to jinx the outcome of your date but couldn’t stop musing over the pain of a breakup. You’d only experienced loneliness in the form of missing—never in the form of losing. If you let yourself be swept up by this emotion, would you wind up hurting more than you did before he stepped into your life?

The music came to an end of its own, and Toji pulled the headphones from his ears, declaring with a victorious grin that this was his favorite song.

“You can’t be serious.” You snatched the Walkman from his hands. “That’s my favorite song!”

“And?” He tapped his foot against the tiled floor. “What’s yours can’t be mine?”

“We aren’t married.” You wished you could press rewind and write over your own words, replacing them with something far less embarrassing.

“Like I’d ever marry someone this bossy.”

You groaned as you traded the tape for one by Takeuchi Mariya. “Fine. When the time comes, you’re free to marry someone without any backbone, but now, we are finding you a song.”

He groaned back while you repeated the same process of skipping to a specific song, gauging his reaction, and then moving forward while he pig-headedly stood by his first choice. You tried more artists—Matsubara Miki, Akimoto Kaoru, Sugiyama Kiyotaka. You thought Hamada Kingo’s midnight cruisin’ would be it, but it wasn’t. The single thread your patience dangled from finally snapped, resulting in your rising to your toes and forcibly holding the headphones down against his head.

“You aren’t allowed to not like this one!”

You formed the words slow enough for him to read your lips over the climax of first chorus, the song feeling nothing sort but an unconventional confession with how you viciously stared into each others eyes.

Every time I wish, to monopolize your love/Every time I wish, that would you be mine/I want all of you.

There was a change in his expression, a flicker or a speck of something that convinced you to step back before the song reached its conclusion. You called a draw in your staredown, both turning to a different direction, and you weren’t sure if Toji was remotely capable of feeling shame, but his cheeks were tinted a subtle pink when your eyes next met.

“Okay.” He conceded. “Keep your stupid song. I like this one better.”

You walked around the shops hand in hand. It was for precaution, so you wouldn’t get caught between the hordes of starving office workers invading the local Konbini in search of nutrients—his words, not yours. Toji didn’t know lunch breaks were a common breadwinner’s luxury, considering most of these people overworked themselves until it was time to go, but you didn’t mention either. His hand felt too warm to let go, and whenever he spoke, heat radiated from his lips.

You wished he’d kiss you.

He’d missed his chance at the record store, but plenty of other opportunities had since turned up: the giant Christmas tree that sprouted in front of Kitaguchi station; at the back row of some B-rated horror movie screening; behind the arcades on Motomachi Street. Even right where you stood, he could trick you into thinking there was a rogue eyelash he meant to pinch from your cheek, only for his lips to land on yours instead.

It was a given that it would happen. It happened in every single Hollywood rom-com, without exception. You just didn’t know when or where.

The cassette tapes rattled like wind chimes in the paper bag you carelessly swung around. You didn’t intend to charge him with a bunch of impulse purchases, but he told you not to sweat it because you’d be buying lunch. It fascinated you how the richest and poorest people you knew met in Toji’s face. He could afford things beyond imagination, yet he never seemed able to afford the essentials. It was easy to write him off as cheap, but you didn’t want to be in love with someone cheap.

You wondered whether he’d ask you to be his girlfriend or if you already were.

You suffered through a much harsher rejection as you returned to the very same crepe stall that Toji previously dismissed with a simple “no,” this time demanding you treat him to an actual meal. You were more upset about not having crepes than you were about bleeding cash on him.

The sun retired prior to your food quest’s conclusion, parting from the sky in a murky shade of blue. It was getting too cold to be outside, and hiding your shivering came at a price. You clung to his arm as if he were a portable heater, but when he asked if you felt cold, you stupidly claimed to be fine. Really stupid.

Soon, the streets were emptied. Every sensible passerby holed up in the cozy izakayas that lined each side of the pavement. You were the last two sociopaths testing their courage at a UFO catcher outside a greasy Thai restaurant. The aroma of drunken noodles stirred something in your stomach that made you forget all about the crepes, and the Yoshi plushie Toji pledged himself to win on your behalf. You shouldn’t have told him he was your favorite. You’d be stuck here until the morning light.

“Didn’t you swear off gambling for the remainder of this year? Thought you were saving your luck for 1995.” You tried to dissuade him, eyes meeting through the hazy glass. He’d tasked you with inspecting the left side of the machine while he took stock of the prizes on the right. “How’s this?” You pointed at a Yoshi near the corner of the prize pit.

“That’s hardly gambling.” Toji slapped the glass with both his hands and forehead, reviewing your choice. “Nah, won’t do. ‘Tis too far from the center. Switch with me.”

You traded sides, with Toji focusing on the Yoshis while you focused on him. He seemed to know what he was doing, but he wasn’t fooling you. He’d lose, pin it on either the rigged machine or the maintenance guy, and then he’d have you drag the Thai manager out.

On second thought, maybe if he caused a big enough scene, you’d be compensated with a plate of warm food.

A smile of utter triumph emerged across his lips once he got his sights on a target. You still had your doubts, especially with how tightly the machine was packed, but refrained from voicing them. He wouldn’t listen anyway.

“Got any coins?”

You handed him your wallet, and his eyes almost widened as he shook it around like a maraca. “You work a side-gig at the mint or something? What’s with all these coins?”

“Many drops make an ocean.” You moved to the side for a better view. “Spend ‘em all, and you’ll be buying your own lunch.”

He pulled out a mere 100-yen coin and dropped your wallet on top of the machine. “Don’t need more.”

“Why do I feel like I’ve heard those words before?” Your sneer wasn’t enough to shatter his confidence.

“Ya say that cause you weren’t there in ‘87.”

“Why—what happened in ‘87? And where exactly is there?”

“Won three of these with a single draw.” Toji not-so-subtly bragged, at last taking hold of the joystick.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Anyone can win if they bribe a kid to loosen the thing for them.

“Better be if ya want me winning that damn turtle of yours.”

“Yoshi is a dinosaur…” Unsurprisingly, that earned you a glare.

You gestured a zipper over your mouth and gave him an encouraging thumbs-up as he slotted the coin in. The 15-second countdown began, with Toji maneuvering the claw over the plushie by the 10-second mark and Yoshi flying over the hole five seconds later. You watched with bated breath up until the claw unlatched from Yoshi’s nose and propelled him down the machine’s entrails, a series of metallic thuds promising Toji’s irrefutable success.

“You won?” Your gasp turned into a genuine shriek of excitement. “Holy shit, you actually won! Shit, I mean—wow, you’re good at this!”

He snorted, kneeling to retrieve the prize. “You sound surprised.”

“Well, I am.” You admitted. “Never seen you win before.”

“Don’t be. It’s annoying.” He pretended to bash your skull with the plushie, only to softly dab it at your wincing, hands raised in defense. Cute. “Have your big-head. He looks like you.”

A tight-lipped smile curved itself in place of his lips, the rest of his features also softening while he took in yours. Looking like a green dinosaur had its perks. You didn’t feel as cold anymore. All you felt was the tenderness with which he cupped your cheek like the most precious treasure—and he did treasure you. First with his eyes, and then with his fingers, though he treasured you the most when he was kissing you on your open mouth, your impatience dissolving into a wish come true.

“In my next life, I’ll buy myself a house here.”

Your toes sank deeper into the sand, struggling to remain hidden as the sea foam tickled away their concealment. Shards of the moon sparkled like stardust in the ocean, every ripple mirroring another star fallen from the night sky. If magic existed in this world, this was proof of it.

In the end, you were glad Toji brought you out there. Tokyo was smothered by water to the point where you feared it might swallow you whole, but things were different in the countryside. No skyscrapers blocked your view of the quaint horizon. No traffic sounds filtered the sound of the waves crashing to the shore. No exhaust fumes tainted the salty air that filled your lungs.

Even for a moment, you broke free from the shackles of everyday life and stepped into a picturesque world straight from a postcard. Your life could end then and there, and you’d jump to the next one without any regrets.

“What keeps you from doin’ that in this life?” Toji asked, seated a little further from where you stood. You didn’t understand why he’d chosen the beach when he wouldn’t dare dip his feet in the water, let alone feel the crunch of sand. His slippers would get dirty, one way or another.

“Money, for starters. Work, too. Life, maybe.” You mused.

“Bullshit. You can make money anywhere.” He retorted. “And anyone can do your job. Not like serving brick patties takes special skill.”

“Think I can do your job, then?”

“No fucking way.” You chuckled at his honesty. “You’d stab your leg right in front of your fucking target.”

“Right?” You glanced down at your fingers. He’d peeled off the bandages so you wouldn’t get them soggy, but you didn’t need them anymore. Your cuts would heal on their own as long as you didn’t get salt in them. “Then, you think we should only do what we are meant to do?”

“I think we should do whatever the fuck we want.”

“That’s easy to say…”

“Even easier to do. Now get your ass over here.”

You turned around, beaming with a smile he’d find irritating a minute later. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Then suit yourself.”

His apathy lasted until he sprung from his seat and scurried over to you, his arms seizing your waist before you could run away. Your back was pulled flush against his chest, with your ribs silently crying over the ridiculous strength of his biceps. You’d been subjected to more squeezing this weekend than your body could handle.

“That’s how ya do it.” Toji breathed in your hair, his chin comfortably propped on the crook of your shoulder. You were immobilized, but your heart still raced for escape, your cheeks shimmering a rosy pink.

“Actually, you wanted me to come to you, which means you just proved yourself wrong. Meanwhile, I wanted you to come here, which means I—ugh, put me down!”

Water splashed everywhere as Toji hoisted you high above the ground and carried you across the sand plains, your feet pedaling an invisible wheel until you were dropped off like a sack of potatoes. Non-organic at that. Organics received greater care and respect.

“Happy now?”

Choking on a miniature sandstorm, you fought to get your tangled hair off your mouth, inevitably tasting some of the very coarse grains you coughed out.

“How can I be happy when I’ll be shitting sand for days to come?”

“You’re just bein’ dramatic.” He brushed the hair from your face, giving your head a rough pat.

“And you’re being an asshole.” You sighed, recalling your words. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Wouldn’t matter if ya did.” Toji hurled one of the few pebbles at the sea, watching it detonate in a firework of water. “Heard worse.”

“But I really didn’t. You used to be more of an asshole; now you’re just a little bit. A tiny bit, really.” You smiled softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I’m glad we are here. And whatever your reasons for moving in were, I’m glad you did. I love our life.”

A wry smile appeared on his lips. “Better remember that next time you nag me about the dishes.”

“Water alone doesn’t remove grease. You need soap to—” You paused at his groan. “It’s fine. So what if there’s melted cheese stuck at the bottom of the pan and I can taste last week’s dinner in my glass? You are trying your best!”

“I got a job.” He cut in.

An unpleasant taste had you grimacing into his elbow. It’d been a while since you’d last cleaned up after his mess in the hall, but the foul smell of metal was unforgettable. Blood—and although it seldom belonged to him, you weren’t any more comfortable with the idea that the day would come when somebody else would scrub Toji’s blood off their clothes.

“When are you leaving?” You asked in a quiet voice.

“Not that kinda job.” Toji thought a title made a story, not details. He reached for another pebble to throw, but his hand turned out empty. Then he continued. “A shitty 9-to-5 job like all others.”

“Doing what?”

“Office stuff—how the hell should I know? Ask Kong; he’s the one who arranged it.”

“Shiu?” He shrugged rather than nodded. “But why? I never asked you to.”

“You think I’d get a job simply ‘cause you asked?” Right. That’d make no sense. “Can only off so many sorcerer brats per month to make ends meet. Rest of the year I’m left hingin’ on capital control.”

“So it is about me.”

You were dragged down against his body as Toji laid you both on the sand, his one hand draping over your shoulder while you rested your cheek on his chest. His heartbeat resonated like the sound of the ocean in your ear. Soothing and slow. A sound only you had the fortune to enjoy.

“Is that where you went last night?”

“Mhm,” he mumbled, combing through your hair to distract you from the palm that shamelessly climbed down your butt. “Interview.”

You felt his fingers burrowing into your shorts, his touch innocent as far as groping was concerned. “Does this mean I’ll get to see you in a suit?”

“Like hell you are.”

“But you’re gonna have to start wearing one if you wanna make a good first impression. At least a button-up and a tie.”

“Like I care about impressions,” he said, adding a beat later that he didn’t even have one.

“When do you start? We can go shopping on Thursday, I have the day off; we could hit that store in—what are you doing?” You questioned his flipping his phone open and typing something on the screen.

“Quitting.”

“Don’t you dare!” You slapped the lid with such force that the phone bounced away from his hands and wedged into the sand.

Dusting the sand off, he packed it back in his pocket, his arms falling at his sides with no intention of resuming their activities. “I’ll just do it later.”

Silence stretched thin as the two of you gazed at the sky, long enough for you to forget you weren’t astral bodies yourselves until your own mindless admission went through.

“In my next life, I want to be a turtle. They carry their houses on their backs and don’t have to deal with rent or taxes.”

“What a sly way to say ya want me off your back.” Toji quipped.

“Something tells me you’d still find a way to stick around. You are like gum in hair. I’d need to shave my head to get rid of you.”

“Turtles don’t have hair, stupid.”

“Shh, don’t ruin my analogy.” You protested. “And why do you always call me stupid?” Your chin rolled on his chest. “I went to college. I’m at least smarter than you.”

He let out a snort. “Goin’ to college doesn’t make you any smarter. It proves you’re a nerd.”

“But you’re also pretty,” he added once you were about to sit up, the smirk you mistook for a smile forcing you to drop your guard. “Pretty stupid.”

“That’s it—you’re not coming back alive!”

Planting both knees on each side of his torso, you attempted to smack the smugness out of him, only for your wrists to be pulled forward and your head violently brought down to his level—every thought of retaliation stripped away by the proximity of his lips.

“Scary.”

What was scary was how easily you were tricked into kissing him; your feud nothing more than a pretext for Toji to lure your tongue inside his mouth. Your hands slipped from his grip to his cheeks, gently thumbing at his scar, while his palms wandered behind your back and settled on your butt, making you feel just how hard the press of your thighs had gotten him.

To someone who only knew affection in the form of sex, kissing was merely the prelude to fucking your brains out in the sand—and when you started grinding your hips against his crotch, he was convinced he’d finally catch a break.

“T-Toji,” you breathed out, following the expanse of his arms down to where his fingers fumbled with the waistband of your shorts. “We are not doing this here.”

Your warning didn’t seem half as compelling as the little moans that spilled from your agape lips, the friction between your bodies clouding your judgment. “Toji…” You tried again, slotting your fingers in between his knuckles. “Don’t want sand in my vagina.”

“I’ll suck it out.”

It took a third Toji to kill his aspiration of having the entire city of Chikura learn your names. His frown grew in an instant—an improvement to all the previous scowls he’d worn, maybe because he’d gotten further than every previous attempt and had the confidence that success lurked right around the corner.

He retrieved his hands and pieced them behind his head, hooded green eyes having yet to rid themselves of the lust behind them. “Then stop grinding on my dick already.”

You parted from him with a peck he almost denied and sat up on your heels.

“What do you want to be reborn as, Toji?” You tried to change subjects.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“One life is enough to suffer through.” He shrugged.

“And you call me dramatic,” you mumbled. “Then you don’t believe in reincarnation? I thought the Zen’ins were all pious.”

He rolled on his side, staring at the parked vehicles. Yours was not the only car around, but you hadn’t seen a pedestrian since you’d stopped for gas in the previous town. People in the country had an actual bedtime, as opposed to those in Tokyo.

“They serve religion when it serves ‘em back. Not me. Don’t believe in any of that.”

“Why not?” You pressed.

“Cause I don’t wanna be reborn as a damn turtle.”

You took a moment to process what he’d just said, blinking between “He can’t possibly mean…?” and “No way he just said that” at least a dozen times before you scooted closer, nudging him to flip toward you with a hand on his shoulder.

“Ya think turtles fuck a lot?” Toji broke the temporary silence.

“I… haven’t had the chance to ask one,” his sigh prompting you to add, “They do have a lot of babies though, so maybe?”

“Yeah… maybe.”

You fiddled with the hem of your shirt, your eyes inadvertently drawn to the bulge in his pants. You felt less self-conscious about the damp patch in your underwear and the continuous pulsing between your thighs, both of which begged you to reconsider your answer. A few rounds of the most glorious sex you’d ever have were worth weeks of excruciating pain and gynecologist visits.

“I want my shirt back,” Toji suddenly said.

You peered away from all the dirty thoughts and shifted your gaze to his shirt on your body. “Now? You want me to take it off right now?”

His lack of response served as confirmation.

“But I’m not wearing anything underneath,” as if that could possibly dissuade him.

“Nobody’s looking.” He gestured toward the houses that surrounded the coastline, none of them with a light shining through their windows. “And I certainly don’t mind.”

The obvious choice was to dismiss his request as a corny joke and keep your arms pinned over your chest for the rest of the night. But with your mind so far gone and your heart (read: pussy) assuming office, you were pulling the shirt over your head before you could fully mull things over.

You shaped the cloth into a rough ball of fabric that you tossed at him, your adrenaline peaking to new heights as the realization of your breasts dangling in plain sight settled in. Toji didn’t even try to hide his gawking at them, his eyes blown with surprise. He’d underestimated your guts, and you’d overestimated whatever half-baked confidence carried you this far.

“I—I’ll just return it when we get home.” You hurriedly picked up the shirt from where it’d landed on his lap, trying your best to cover yourself up. “It n-needs a good washing too—my, look at all this—”

You halted as Toji caught your hands and slowly tugged them off your breasts, the shirt falling in an empty pool between your bodies. “Can’t believe you hid these from me.” He whispered, absolutely mesmerized by what was quickly becoming his favorite sight in the world.

His touch posed a question that a reluctant nod answered, your face burning hot and your heart thrumming loudly as Toji’s fingers made their way from your stomach to your chest, goosebumps erupting across every inch of velvet skin they traced. His palms stopped short of their destination while he sized up your reaction, half-expecting you to run off into the ocean and butterfly-stroke back home, but you remained uncharacteristically docile, bearing the intensity of his eyes for the sake of being touched.

Without any further delay, his fingers wrapped around your breasts and squeezed at them, feeling out the weight of the supple flesh in his palms before coming to a conclusion. This was worth the wait.

“You’re so pretty.” His thumbs rubbed your nipples in clockwork order, light pinches perking them up. “So damn pretty.”

“Not pretty stupid or anything?” Your smiles turned joint amidst a soft kiss.

“Nah, I’m the stupid one. You’re plain beautiful.”

“Don’t beat yourself over it.” Your breathing grew heavier as he began to kiss the corners of your mouth. “It’s the extra college years.”

“Fucking nerd. Come ‘ere.”

Toji pushed you to the ground and climbed on top, his knee parting your thighs while his hands kept true to their goal of kneading your breasts, playing with your sensitive peaks to draw the sweetest sounds from your throat.

“Y-You agreed to take things slow, remember? Only kissing.” You tugged at a tuft of hair, not minding that your actions contradicted your words—head tilted back and limbs closing around his waist as you rubbed your heat against his clothed cock.

“Relax.” He nibbled at your earlobe, his lips straying lower and lower with every word he mumbled across your skin. “Promise I won’t fuck any sand into your pussy. I’ll wait till ya beg me to fill it up with somethin’ else.”

A sly idea manifested as an equally sly smirk as Toji unlatched himself from your jaw to stare into your eyes. “How ‘bout this?”

He followed his question with a trail of kisses that led down your neck, searching for permission once his breath inched closer to your nipple, his tongue teasing its perimeter.

“This qualifies as kissing, right?”

“Is this seat taken?”

You lacked the willpower to lift your head from the untouched bowl of chao that lay before the vacant chair—the final chair left on the table aside from yours, all previous ones given away to those with an actual use for them.

The image spoke for itself. A girl who kept twisting her neck in the direction of the door, expecting someone who wouldn’t come, all the while dismissing the waiter’s discreet attempts to free the table. You got stood up, but instead of feeling anger, you only felt worry. Almost an hour had passed since Toji shoved you into this Vietnamese joint on the outskirts of Musashino and promised he’d be back after checking on something—and while Toji definitely was the type to leave without notice, he wasn’t the type to leave free food waiting.

You finally glanced at the young man, who patiently awaited your answer. He was more or less your age, stemming from a group of guys in baseball jerseys, all with a beer jug in hand. College athletes. The kind of people you both envied and avoided.

“You can have it.” You replied at the same time he asked whether you wanted to join their table.

He probably wasn’t a bad guy, and he wasn’t so hard on the eye either. At least that was your impression until he stated his reason for inviting you: because you were cute. There was room only for one sordid womanizer in your life.

Muttering an apology in a hushed tone, you pushed past him and walked outside, the cold wind inviting every hair on your body to stand in ovation. With your hands desperately trying to generate some degree of heat over your forearms, you dashed to the closest phone booth and shut the door behind you. You emptied a few coins in your palm and picked up the receiver, holding it to your ear while you dialed his beeper’s number and pressed 2.

“Hey, it’s me. I just left the restaurant and wanted to say, Hah! Your loss, loser. You really missed out. Don’t even think of asking me to pay for lunch again. That ship has sailed—you blew your chance.” A pause. One long enough for the voice in the speaker to ask you to deposit more coins to continue recording.

“That’s not all. What I wanted to say is, I—um, had fun today. I’m not mad that you went away—well, not that mad, anyway. I understand. There are things you can’t go into detail over, and—yeah, I guess that’s it.” You shook your bags near the phone. “Thank you for the Yoshi and the tapes. You should come over whenever you have time to listen to them together. Promise I’ll spare you the boring trivia.

“Actually, the trivia isn’t boring; you are the one who doesn’t appreciate it, and—damn, I’m ranting again. Just gimme a call, okay? Let me know you’re alive. I probably shouldn’t say this, but I really like your voice. If something bad were to happen, I’d miss hearing it. Maybe if my voice was as nice, you’d listen to me more, but I’m not complaining. I really like it, and I really like you.”

Your cheeks felt hot as you awkwardly chuckled. “You can’t laugh, okay? Don’t you dare laugh, ‘cause I know you like me too. I hope you do. Whatever. You’ll never hear me say this to your face, but I really like you a lot, Toji. Everything about you. I love every single thing about you. Thanks for being my friend and family.

“I’m running out of coins, so I’ll end this here. Talk to you soon. Take care.”

You placed the earphone back in its place and opened the door, banking on the negative fives to cool down your body’s elevated temperature. You managed three steps before the phone started to ring. Without second thought, you threw yourself back into the booth, apologizing as you realized the voice on the other line didn’t belong to the one you thought it would.

You were ready to hang up when the stranger’s words made your heart plummet in your chest. He wasn’t the owner of the beeper, but the device had temporarily fallen into his hands. He claimed to have found it in a manhole four kilometers away from Takaido station, and while there were a lot of gaps in his story, you agreed to meet up at a cafe a few blocks from your current location.

Meeting with a man whose face you didn’t know was risky, but the streets were filling up, and someone had to retrieve the beeper in Toji’s stead. It’d be fine.

“Alright, I’ll see you in ten to fifteen minutes, Mister Kong.”

Your footprints chased closely after you on the way to the car, two separate trails merging every few meters when Toji would lean down to press a kiss on your lips. His kisses tasted salty after that many hours on the beach, though you wouldn’t have it any other way. You wanted to cherish those moments before they crumpled and you woke up back on your couch with the memories of a dream you’d never truly lived.

In this dream, where a tomorrow had yet to dawn, he suggested that you one day return with a towel to finish what you’d started. You talked about trying out the local specialties and staying at a nearby ryokan—because in that dream, your shift didn’t start for five hours and you could afford to break the bank.

Your last stop occurred in front of the passenger seat’s door as you dusted the sand off your clothes. He wasn’t thrilled with your covering his artwork—little pink love bites and light purple bruises lacing your collarbones and breasts—but he let you wear his shirt indefinitely this time.

“Good?” You performed a small twirl, hoping that you’d gotten all the sand off your back.

Toji gestured for you to turn around again, his palm smoothing out the fabric until it landed a muted thwack on your butt. “Now ya good.” He grinned, walking over to his seat.

You held off getting in the car, stealing a final glance at the tranquil landscape before it faded away. You said goodbye to the sand, the pebbles, and the waves, leaving the trees for last, when the outline of something crawling among some rocks attracted your attention.

The creature in discussion had eight long limbs and a seemingly liquid head it dragged behind it, bits of seaweed sticking out of its coral complexion.

“Is that a curse?” You pointed at the horizon, forcing Toji to peek outside the window.

“That’s an octopus. Probably hitchhiked on the riptide.” He fixed the right-side mirror and closed the door. “Not everything’s a curse, dummy. Ya might not see another in your life—best forget it ever happened.”

He was right. You’d lived twenty seven years without a curse making a move. There was no reason to believe they’d suddenly start swarming you as if you were dipped in honey.

Once you were both inside the car, he twisted the key in the ignition, only for the engine to sputter and then immediately die. You knew the bare minimum about cars, so you assumed he knew what he was doing when he stepped outside and popped the hood to take a look at the machinery. You even thought the kick he gave the front wheel was part of some ritual to fix the failure, until he opened your door for you and, with an irritated smile, declared you weren’t going to believe this.

[anonymousboxcar]

TTTE/RWS Headcanons: Tabitha

Tabitha is a cat who appears in a TTTE annual story called “Gordon’s Stowaway.” I just really like playing around with the idea of a railway cat who adores Gordon (and whom Gordon adores in return, lol)!

—————————— -Within Tabitha’s first week in Tidmouth Sheds, a workbench became swamped with cat toys brought in by cleaners and engine crews. Yarn, felt mice, battery-powered doodads — you name it!

-This is partly because of Tabitha’s inherent cuteness. It’s also because NWR employees discovered bringing a new toy was the fastest way to curry favor with Gordon.

-Gordon insists on inspecting every new toy, ensuring it’s “suitable” for her. Nine times out of ten, he accepts this latest tribute with the loftiness of a medieval lord.

(-The one time out of ten is anything with catnip. Gordon still hasn’t recovered from what he calls The Incident.)

-But Tabitha’s favorite toy is a simple feather. The engines take turns having someone lay it across their funnels. Then, they let off steam. The feather goes flying and she jumps after it.

-Tabitha doesn’t share Gordon’s musical tastes. The first time they put on his tape of The Magic Flute, she hid under his buffers for an hour. Still feeling guilty, Gordon now refrains from playing his opera tapes whenever she’s there.

-The others sometimes exploit this, coaxing her into the sheds so they don’t have to listen to the “Night Aria” for the hundredth time.

-She seems indifferent to the other engines’ preferences, as long as it’s at a reasonable volume. With James’ jazz CDs, however, she curls up on her cushion and goes straight to sleep. James and Gordon still bicker over whether she’s comfortable or bored by his music.

-If one of them is in a bad headspace, she’ll sit with them on their running board and purr. Nobody knows how she knows, but it’s clear she has a sixth sense for it. And she always makes them feel better.

-Tabitha has her own YouTube channel! Run by a cleaner at the sheds, it mostly consists of short clips: chasing birds, slow-blinking at the person behind the camera, playing with string, etc.

-For a short while, none of her viewers knew she was the NWR’s cat. That changed with a video of her running to Gordon as he came back to the sheds, meowing at him.

-(Not only did the video go viral, but the moment Gordon’s face lit up upon seeing her became the most viewed part of the video.)

-Tabitha’s Internet fame has since been used to spearhead various causes: fundraising for other heritage railways, railway safety campaigns, and so on.

-Thomas also has a tongue-in-cheek, one-sided rivalry with Tabitha over who should be the mascot of the NWR. It’s mostly something he plays up to amuse visiting children or to spur on fundraising. (The others make sure he doesn’t get too into it, though.)

-When there’s no mice to chase out of the sheds, Tabitha joins Gordon on his morning trains. A porter brings along her cushion, from which she watches the scenery go by. The coaches adore her and scold any passengers who disturb her.

-The first time Gordon had to go to the works after Tabitha settled in, he figured she would be fine at Tidmouth in his absence. The others would care for her.

-And they did. So much so, in fact, that they caved to her mournful meowing and pacing in Gordon’s empty berth. Gordon couldn’t be upset after Henry explained this to him, Tabitha jumping into his cab.

-Tabitha’s clinginess is her one bad habit. Since she can’t always be at the works with Gordon, everyone does their best to keep her occupied and happy. Even the Fat Controller will slip her a treat.

[scythesms]

With every step outside the walls of their home, waves of varying emotions engulfed Edmund and his children.

Eugene’s desperate pleas to return home fell deaf upon his father’s ears. He dragged his feet as Cecily and Josiah’s enthusiasm opposed his irritation. Edmund was preoccupied with concealing his own nerves while trying to soothe Elaine, who trembled in his arms. As they grew further from the threshold of their home, he couldn't suppress his concerns about the outside world’s impact on his family. He only hoped everything would be okay, and his fears would finally end.

Edmund ensured the children walked in an unwavering formation as they approached the nearest town. He focused on Cecily and Josiah when they wandered too far ahead, and Eugene for trailing too far behind.

The scenery was nothing new for Eugene. He recalled their last visit as if it were mere weeks ago. It was possible his recollection caused his overt disinterest. Regardless, his attitude didn’t get in the way of his siblings' excitement. Elaine was another story. Her ability to take in their surroundings was hindered by her uneasiness with the number of people pushing past and talking loudly. Overwhelmed, she clung tighter to her father, who was attuned to both her worries and his own observations.

Edmund preferred walking the byways when visiting town for work to avoid the busy streets. His clandestine nature made it all the more surprising for the townspeople when spotting him in passing with the children he’d hidden for so long. He was just as taken aback with all of the new faces in Windenburg, although he shouldn’t have with how often railway tickets sold out. Hundreds of people arrived from the south since the construction was completed, and people commuted to and from Harlem daily. He just hadn’t seen it for himself until then. 

Their short time in town proved to be enlightening for them all. Easing back into life alongside neighbors and a community would require more time than any of them anticipated, but their collective courage marked the commencement of many more to come. 

Days merged into weeks, and weeks turned to months of outings gradually becoming a part of their routine. The once sheltered Ambroise children, excluding Eugene, began to find familiarity with the roads and pathways.

They approached their freedom with boundless energy, embracing the simple pleasures of frolicking and delving into the wonders of the world surrounding them. Even Elaine freed herself from her father’s side to run ahead and join her brother and sister.

It took time for Edmund to grant them permission to immerse themselves into life beyond confinement in their home - particularly Elaine, whom he kept an eye on in the case of overexertion or potential harm. Eventually, he taught himself to watch them do as they pleased within his line of sight. His wariness dissipated with every passing moment spent among their carefree spirits.

The people of Windenburg enjoyed the presence of the children gracing the streets with growing regularity. Their apprehension of the formerly reclusive family was replaced with warm greetings and friendly smiles when passing them.

Cecily once believed that their outings would bring abundant friends and gatherings. In the end, it dawned upon her that her affection for her siblings surpassed any potential friendship. It was never the proximity to her family that bothered her, but their potential limited by their isolation. Watching them flourish as they engaged in new settings, interests, activities, and social interactions brought them closer, and there was nothing she admired more.

previous ➺ next

[writing-time-bitches]

Onward! // Submas drabble

Based on this post by @critterbitter ! Go check it out. Now. 🔫😐

\\\

Zephyr loved his job. He loved being a subway conductor even if the workplace was at times subpar with its safety. Sure the rails needed to be redone, sure the AC sometimes shorted out, and sure people tended to battle on it a few too many times per day but by Arceus’ eighteen plates did he adore the Unovan subway.

The one thing that could possibly outdo his love for trains and railways are children. And there’s a certain trio of kids that come by every time, without fail, when his train comes to a stop in Nimbasa City. They loved the trains almost as much as Zephyr did, particularly the twins. The Sinnohan girl and her Blitzle were quiet, likely due to her language barrier, but they always seemed to be just as excitable.

It was commonplace by now for Zephyr and the kids to exchange greetings when they entered his train. And recently, the Sinnohan has been speaking more too! Zephyr would be lying if he said he didn’t feel like a proud father.

The kids, now with a new companion in the form of dwebble that relaxed in the blitzle’s bags, were seen commonly working on homework when the train was moving. School was starting up again since the summer has drawn to a close. The twins, especially Ingo, would often help their foreign friend with her Galarian and homework.

And today they seemed particularly determined though…

“Right on schedule, Mr. Zephyr!” Emmet and Ingo shouted in tandem, ending off with their hellos. Elesa waved with a grin and their pokemon did the same. Zephyr couldn’t help but let a smile slip through his stoic work facade as he tipped his gray hat at them. They hurriedly approached the subway doors exchanging friendly nods when they entered.

“Oh, by the way…” Zephyr rummaged through his coat pockets and produced four clear plastic bags that were tied with a cute yellow. Blitzle perked and brayed excitedly as he recognized one of the bags’ contents,”I remember you mentioning what treats your pokemon liked so my husband and I made some for you! I apologize if their not the best, I’m not exactly a baker… the sugar cubes are infused with lemon.” Zephyr mentioned, scratching at his growing stubble with an air sheepishness.

Elesa’s and Emmet’s grins grew wider and Ingo produced one of his signature odd Purloin-like smiles. Elesa bowed,”Arigatou! Thank you Mr. Zephyr!” Blitzle drew his lips back in an excited snarl as he sniffed at the bag of sugar, Elesa laughed and sat down in one of the seats close to the door he stood at. The twins were quick to follow her lead.

Zephyr loaded on more passengers, punching their tickets and all, requesting all pokemon larger 3ft be returned to their pokeballs unless they are medically trained. Once the last person was onboard he turned to the twins behind him, and as if they had used Foresight, they turned at the same time. Zephyr didn’t have to say anything they were already jumping to their feet.

Zephyr crouched down and turned on his radio,”Attention all passengers, Line 6 is now departing.” He held the black box towards the boys who screamed into the radio,”ALL ABOOOOAARD!”

All three of them snickered at the yelps and curses of surprises that echoed both within and outside the train. Elesa cackled at a group of teens who turned to glare daggers at Zephyr and the boys while holding their ears.

Emmet grinned with a mischievous triumph, foot tapping,”I am Emmet. I will never grow tired of that.” Ingo nodded in agreement,”Indeed, we owe a gratuitous debt for the times you’ve allowed us to send this train off.”

Zephyr gave a mere chuckle and stood up, straightening his coat,”Ah it’s no big deal. By the way,” he turned to his little passengers,”where are you headed off to this time?”

“Route 10.” Came the synchronized answer. Zephyr’s pale blue eyes widened before a worried frown found its place on his face,”Route 10? Are you sure? You know the cliffs are unstable there… and it right next to the League, plenty of powerful pokemon will be there.” All three nodded their heads, Ingo piped up seemingly having predicted the conductor’s hesitancy,”We are well aware of that. We plan to strictly stay on Boufallant herding trails and on designated hiking trails. And,” he spared a withering glance at his brother,”we will run and hide at the sight of any overly-strong pokemon.” Emmet shrunk at at the glare and exaggerated words,”I am Emmet. I prrrromise to follow the rules.”

Zephyr bite his lip, unconsciously running his hand through the thick brown curled locks of hair under his hat, a few strands fell into his eyes as he glanced between his young passengers,”Are you sure…? Are you going to tell your uncle where you’re going at least?”

Emmet and Elesa gave a shug while Ingo nodded,”That is the first thing we will do when we reach Opelucid. Right Emmet? Elesa?” Under the glare of the eldest twin the two electric-type enthusiasts were quick to nod. Satisfied with their compliance he turned to the other with complete self-assuredness and confidence.

Still, Zephyr couldn’t help but feel a little responsible.

“What if I came with you for part of the hike?” He offered. The trio blinked, apparently having not anticipated that response. Elesa was first to recover,”No need! We handle ourselves perfectly good!” She tried, her Sinnohan accent thick upon her clumsy tongue. Emmet nodded, with his little tynamo sparking,”I am Emmet! Thank you for the offer but no thank you.”

When Ingo hadn’t responded as well the two looked at him with a badly hidden pleas. Ingo, being the ever so responsible young man he was bite the side of cheek in consideration,”… I would not be opposed to the notion…” at that the litwick atop his hat started spewing words a mile-a-minute. Zephyr had no clue what she was saying but from Ingo’s grimace it seemed like something of a scolding. Ingo picked up his ghostly friend and muttered something in argument but the litwick was not hearing it.

Sighing in a dramatic defeat he looked up at the grown he had grown to trust sadly,”I must apologize, it would seem the party’s against a chaperone.” Elesa and Ememt and their pokemon gave a not-so-quiet cheer for independence while Ingo sat in remorseful silence. Zephyr sighed through his nose but gave an understanding smile,”It’s ok, I understand. You’re all growing up to be young adults now, it’s only expected you’d want to go off alone. But promise me one thing, you’ll call your uncle once you’ve reached Route 10’s entrance and when you get back to the city ok?” At that everyone nodded (Litwick gave a begrudging accepting nod and pouted; she will always crave independency and chaos) and Zephyr smiled.

“Good. I hope to see you soon when you’re done.”

Emmet tapped his foot nervously against the cold pavement of the station. Night was starting to fall and the Line 6 train has not arrived yet. Similarly Elesa had begun to pace around the small bench they were seated on, chewing on her already short nails.

Emmet leaned back and complained to his friend,”When is train gonna get heeeeerrrrugh.” He drawled, swinging his legs as he tilted his head to look at his brother who was busy trying to find out why their train was so late. Emmet didn’t like this. Line 6 was never late. Never. Zephyr would never let the subway be so late, especially when he and his friends were supposed to board. Litwick was unusually quiet too, she would definitely be complaining loudly by now but she was statue still as if her wax had cooled off and quiet as the stale wind in the tunnel they were in.

His and Ingo’s moms must be worrying. They should’ve been home by now…

Where the hell was Line 6?

A soft choked gasp erupted unbidden from his brother. Straightening with alarm he and Elesa turned to the eldest of the three,”Ingo? What’s wrong?” Ingo, face sucked pale as the snow that surrounded Iccirus City, turned to face his companions. Emmet felt the unease that was already bubbling in his stomach rise to just underneath his skin at the horrified and grief-stricken look on Ingo’s face. What happ—

“Line 6… had a derailment.”

Two days after the reported crash, the Nimbasan kids stood at the edge of a gathered group of mourners. Their pokemon were tucked in their pokeballs today.

The sun beat down on the group in an almost mockingly cheerful way. Elesa wished the scenery was like what it was in movies. Clouds should be covering the sun, the threat of rainfall thick in the air and congested with sombre music. Not the energetic chirping of pidoves, the yawns of sewaddles and swadloons or the cheerful floating of nearby whismsicott.

It should be depressing. Not single sound should be heard but the barely contained sniffles and sobs of the grieving.

Elesa glanced at the tombstone’s writing: Here lies Zephyr Harrison, loving son, brother and husband. 19xx - 19xx.

Elesa quickly has to look away, hands gripping each other tightly enough that she could feel her nails dig into her skin. She couldn’t bear to think about the kind train conductor who smiled at her proudly whenever she spoke a sentence in galarian, or the man who had given all of them tailor-made gray conductor hats that matched his. She couldn’t bear to think of the man who felt like a doting older brother or a second father.

Next to her Emmet was swaying a little too hard, almost tipping to fall on his face one too many times, and staring— no, glaring— at the earth beneath him like it had wronged him in some inexcusable way. His smile was no where to be seen, replaced by a tight, wobbly straight line instead. His eyes were misty with unshed tears.

Ingo wasn’t much better. His face was schooled into a mask of indifference as he stared distantly past the grave and stock still like a statue. The only thing that told you he was alive was the uneven and short breaths he was taking, as if trying to not burst into fat ugly tears.

To be honest, Elesa was trying to not do the same. She never noticed how constant Zephyr was in their lives until he was 6 feet in the ground. Her mind couldn’t stop replaying all the little moments she had shared with the older man, his fond smiles and the proud glimmer in his eyes, other tics the man had. Like adjusting his hat just before leaving to the control car, or carting his hand through his hair, or how his eye twitched every time he dealt with a Karen on his train. The slightly off-center quirked lips in his teethy grins.

Grief burrowed itself deeper in her heart when she realized she was never going to feel Zephyr’s hand ruffled her hair with unsaid affection.

Elesa was going to miss Zephyr.

The twins were going to miss Zephyr.

[thepeoplesmovies]

Then and Now: The Railway Children through the ages

Then and Now: The Railway Children through the ages #Therailwaychildrenreturn #jennyagutter @StudiocanalUK

In celebration of home entertainment release of the sequel to one of the most beloved British family films of all time The Railway Children Return, we’re taking a look through the ages at the famous faces that have portrayed The Railway Children. The first instalment of The Railway Children (1970) follows the comfortable lives of 3 Edwardian children in their pursuit to uncover the reason for…

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Ayaan Hirsi Ali

Published: Oct 14, 2023

I was raised to curse Israel and pray for the destruction of Jews, writes AYAAN HIRSI ALI... That's why I know all too well Hamas is another ISIS - whatever useful idiots in the West say

All across the West, there is no shortage of people blaming the horrors in Israel on Israel itself — and openly supporting the perpetrators.

The head of policy at the Community Security Trust, which monitors hate crimes committed against British Jews, has said: 'Anti-Semites are getting excited by the sight of dead Jews... Hamas murdering Israeli civilians has exhilarated them... We've had reports of people driving past synagogues shouting 'Kill the Jews'.'

Anti-Semitic incidents in Britain are currently three times higher than they were this time last year, the charity adds.

'Free Palestine' graffiti has been scrawled on a railway bridge in Golders Green, a Jewish area of north London, while in Oxford Street, one young woman — who may well have been radicalised in England — was filmed ripping down posters that pleaded for the safe return of the babies taken hostage by Hamas. 'Free Palestine, f*** you!' she screamed at an onlooker who dared to remonstrate with her.

On Thursday night in Paris, police used tear gas and water cannon to disperse hundreds of people at a pro-Palestine rally, in which protesters chanted 'Israel murderer [sic]' and 'End the siege of Gaza.'

Outside the Sydney Opera House, about 1,000 protesters lit flares and waved Palestinian flags — and some were filmed chanting: 'Gas the Jews.'

In the U.S., meanwhile, 31 student groups at Harvard signed an open letter claiming that the 'Israeli regime' was 'entirely responsible for all unfolding violence', while California's Stanford University displayed a banner declaring that Palestine would be made free 'by any means necessary' — a sinister slogan that tacitly justifies Hamas's slaughter of children in pursuit of its aims.

Not to be outdone, the Chicago 'chapter' of the Black Lives Matter movement posted an image of a paraglider alongside the slogan 'I stand with Palestine'. The reference, of course, was to Hamas paragliders who descended on Israel's Supernova music festival last Saturday to rape and butcher at least 260 young people.

In short, anti-Semites the world over have been emboldened by this crisis, and Jews are once again being blamed for their own massacre. And I am not remotely surprised. In my childhood, I was steeped in the Islamist movement's noxious anti-Semitism — which has been on such ugly display this week.

Born in Mogadishu, Somalia, I spent my early years escaping political strife after my father was imprisoned for being an anti-government activist. We moved between countries before settling in Kenya.

The worst insult in the Somali community was to be called a 'Jew', not that any of us actually knew one. To be called a 'Jew' was so abhorrent, some felt justified in killing anyone who so dishonoured them with this 'slur'.

As a teenager in Nairobi in the 1980s, I joined the Muslim Brotherhood — the strict Sunni Islamist movement, founded in Egypt in 1928, from which Hamas ultimately descends.

I vividly remember sitting with my female fellows in mosques, cursing Israel and praying to Allah to destroy the Jews. We were certainly not interested in a peaceful 'two-state solution': we were taught to want to see Israel wiped off the map.

When I was 16, my school's teacher of religion was Sister Aziza. She read to us the Koran's lurid descriptions of the everlasting fire that burns flesh and dissolves skin — the place reserved for Jews.

Sister Aziza described Jews as physically monstrous, with horns coming from their heads, out of which flew devils that would corrupt the world. Jews controlled everything, she told us, and it was the duty of Muslims to destroy them.

It was a lot to take in for a teenager who read Western romance novels in secret, but I believed every word.

When the fatwa was issued against the British writer Salman Rushdie in 1989, a small crowd gathered in a Nairobi car park to burn a copy of his novel The Satanic Verses.

Sister Aziza urged us to join in the condemnations of Rushdie and I am ashamed to say I took part in the book-burning. I was certain Rushdie should be killed, but the scene nevertheless made me uncomfortable.

That seed of doubt grew over the next few years as I questioned why, if Allah was so just, women were treated as mere chattels in some Muslim families.

Over time, my questions turned into open rebellion against the Muslim Brotherhood, Islam and, ultimately, my family. 

My father sent me to relatives in Germany in 1992 so I could go from there to Canada to join the distant cousin he had married me off to. I ran away from that marriage and travelled to the Netherlands where I sought asylum.

Eventually, I became a member of the Dutch parliament, and later settled in America.

I abandoned my religion, but I have never lost my clear-sighted understanding, forged in my childhood, of Islamism's pathological hatred of Jews, as well as Muslims considered as heretics and non-Muslims in general.

The former Egyptian president Mohamed Morsi — a one-time leader of the Muslim Brotherhood — declared that Muslims should 'nurse our children and our grandchildren on hatred' of Jews. His organisation has done just that — and the despicable sentiment is the underlying context to Hamas's most recent attacks.

The truth, however, is that Hamas is no more a friend of the Palestinians than it is a friend of Israel.

Those who see the conflict as a simple territorial dispute between a colonial state and a dispossessed minority fail to recognise Hamas for what it really is: a gang of genocidal Islamist thugs backed by a theocratic, anti-Semitic regime in Iran.

Useful idiots on the far-Left in Western countries, who blindly support Hamas because they see it as a freedom-fighting group, harm the very people they claim to defend.

They say they want peace —and perhaps many of them do. But real peace talks based on the 2020 Abraham Accords between Israel and Arab countries have made painstaking but undeniable progress despite the efforts of Hamas.

Until Hamas's recent attacks, Saudi Arabia and Israel had looked set to normalise relations. This murderous incursion was an attempt to derail such talks — and thus ruin any chance of lasting peace.

Ordinary Palestinians want to build a prosperous, functioning society. Hamas, in its obsession with annihilating Israel, doesn't care about that. It wishes only to bring about a genocidal Islamist dystopia.

It is Hamas, after all, that holds Palestinians hostage in Gaza, setting up military installations in — and launching rockets from — civilian areas in the full knowledge that counterstrikes will kill innocent people.

It is Hamas that impoverishes Palestinians by stealing humanitarian aid to fund its terror. This is what 'by any means necessary' truly signifies: supreme callousness towards Palestinian life.

If you genuinely want to see peace between Israelis and Palestinians, or more generally between Muslims and Jews in the Middle East, then Hamas should be your enemy.

And even if — like many in the West, as we can now see — you don't care at all about Israeli or Jewish lives, even if you care only about the lives of Palestinians, Hamas is still your enemy. After all, Hamas ruthlessly persecutes any Palestinians who disagree with it: a 2022 U.S. State Department report found that, among other abuses, Hamas detained and assaulted critical journalists.

It is especially hostile to public figures associated with its rival Fatah, the Palestinian party voted out of office in Gaza in 2006, but which still runs the West Bank.

Hamas harasses its own dissidents, and has invaded the home of at least one young critical activist, telling his parents to keep their son under control — or else.

As a Dutch MP in 2004 and 2005, I travelled to the West Bank and met Palestinians.

In public, they spouted all the usual lines about Israel being their 'oppressor'. But once the cameras were switched off, they spoke more truthfully.

They complained bitterly about their treatment by Hamas and other radical groups, and told me how money meant to feed the people was being taken to fund those organisations' activities and their leaders' luxurious lifestyles. Arabs and Palestinians alike told me how fed up they were with conflict, and how ready they were for peace.

Hamas, like other Islamist groups, has done its best over the course of decades to stomp all over those wishes.

And it has been successful. The shocking rise in anti-Semitism in the West owes much to the entrenched Islamist networks that have spent years stirring up this ancient hatred.

Europe must now wake up to these fifth columnists who shamelessly celebrate violence and bigotry, promoting hatred of the Jewish minority in Europe.

The West must also wake up to the moral corruption of its own Hamas supporters, from Left-wing university students to flag-waving street thugs.

Meanwhile, elite human-rights organisations need to do far more to name terrorism when they see it.

It is horrifying to see Amnesty International claiming that one of the 'root causes' of the crisis is 'Israel's system of apartheid imposed on Palestinians'.

Human Rights Watch, meanwhile, should do more than merely equivocating in its insistence that no injustice can justify another.

This is not to argue that Israel should be immune from criticism. My point is that much of the criticism is at best misguided and at worst thinly veiled anti-Semitism.

Hamas, like Lebanon's Hezbollah, Isis in Syria and Iraq, Nigeria's Boko Haram, Somalia's Al-Shabaab and several other groups, are fighting not for the liberty and prosperity of Muslims but, ultimately, for the annihilation of Israel and the imposition of an Islamic state.

If Palestinians and other Muslims have to suffer for that aim, then so be it.

Well-meaning celebrities and broadcasters who, out of wilful ignorance and good intentions, hesitate to condemn Hamas as terrorists need to recognise this truth.

These are dark times for Israel and for the world, but there are some reasons to be hopeful.

This week's strong statement by America, Britain, France, Italy and Germany condemning Hamas while recognising the 'legitimate aspirations' of the Palestinians is a good sign.

Labour leader Sir Keir Starmer's condemnation of Hamas is particularly welcome, given that, until recently, his party was led by a man who called these butchers his 'friends'.

And if Israel and the Arab states do not allow their worst instincts to rule them, talks may continue — and might just secure peace in the longer term.

Hamas is another Isis. They are the enemies of Israel; they are the enemies of all Jews; they are the enemies of Palestinians; they are the enemies of peace and freedom. They are the enemies of Western civilisation itself.

It is about time they were recognised as such.

To achieve a two-state solution — with free and prosperous Palestinians and a safe Israel — the first, fundamental step is for people to stop chanting slogans in support of terrorists and murderers, and for everyone to cry in unison: 'Down with Hamas!'

==

Remember two years ago when everyone was arguing about whether the terrorist assault and takeover of Afghanistan by the Taliban was Trump's fault or Biden's fault? Today, people are scolding us not to call the same thing terrorism. It's "liberation" and "decolonization."

Remember in 2014 when Boko Haram kidnapped the children and everyone was campaigning for their safe return because it was an unconscionable act of terrorism? Now kidnapping and murdering children is an act of legitimate revolution.

Remember when kids rushed to support ISIS the instant they rose, and people were appalled and argued over how could it could be possible to support a terrorist state that seized illegitimate power? Online radicalization was blamed, and many didn't want to believe that indoctrination had primed it well in advance. Now, if your Gender and Postcolonial Studies haven't activated you to support a terrorist state that has seized illegitimate power in the region, you're a bigot.

Remember when we cheered on the Iranians for finally fighting back against the regime of terror that hung over them, hoping for them to finally win the war against the regime? Now, Israel has to simply take whatever assaults of terrorism are dealt at them; it is, as Douglas Murray said, is the only country which is not allowed to win a war.

Remember when certain people liked to call everyone who disagreed with them "Nazis" and that punching them was the right thing to do? Now the extermination of all the Jews is the "Be Kind" position.

How morally confused do you have to be, after all this, to side with the terrorists?

Hamas is to Palestine as ISIS is to Syria and the Taliban is to Afghanistan.

As I've posted about before, Islam is a supremacist ideology. Its goal is world domination. They tell us that. Loudly.

https://quranx.com/Hadith/Bukhari/USC-MSA/Volume-4/Book-52/Hadith-196

Narrated Abu Huraira: Allah 's Apostle said, "I have been ordered to fight with the people till they say, 'None has the right to be worshipped but Allah,' and whoever says, 'None has the right to be worshipped but Allah,' his life and property will be saved by me except for Islamic law, and his accounts will be with Allah, (either to punish him or to forgive him.)"

https://quranx.com/Hadith/Bukhari/USC-MSA/Volume-1/Book-8/Hadith-387

Narrated Anas bin Malik: Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) said, "I have been ordered to fight the people till they say: 'None has the right to be worshipped but Allah.' And if they say so, pray like our prayers, face our Qibla and slaughter as we slaughter, then their blood and property will be sacred to us and we will not interfere with them except legally and their reckoning will be with Allah."

Narrated Maimun bin Siyah that he asked Anas bin Malik, "O Abu Hamza! What makes the life and property of a person sacred?" He replied, "Whoever says, 'None has the right to be worshipped but Allah', faces our Qibla during the prayers, prays like us and eats our slaughtered animal, then he is a Muslim, and has got the same rights and obligations as other Muslims have."

https://quranx.com/Hadith/Muslim/USC-MSA/Book-41/Hadith-6985

Abu Huraira reported Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) as saying: The last hour would not come unless the Muslims will fight against the Jews and the Muslims would kill them until the Jews would hide themselves behind a stone or a tree and a stone or a tree would say: Muslim, or the servant of Allah, there is a Jew behind me; come and kill him; but the tree Gharqad would not say, for it is the tree of the Jews.

It has successfully weaponized intersectional shibboleths to trick useful idiots into thinking that the supremacist is the oppressed victim.

[tornadoyoungiron]

TRAINTOBER | Day 22 - Top Hat

Some kids make fun of Sir Topham Hatt IV's hat. Thomas and Percy discuss plans.

~~~

“Why do you wear that hat?” 

Sir Topham Hatt turned to look down and saw a group of schoolchildren gathered on the platform as they waited for their train to school.

“Ah yes well it looks rather dashing don’t you think?” Sir Topham blustered but one of the little girls laughed.

“No it looks stupid,” she sneered.

“Nobody wears top hats anymore!” Her friend jeered and they all laughed at him.

On the inside, the Railway Controller felt disheartened and deeply hurt. He went to scold the children but they had turned and ran off as they saw Thomas slowly coming onto the platform with their train.

“Is something wrong sir?” Thomas asked as he saw the disheartened look on the Controller’s face. “Sir?”

He didn’t get a response however as the man turned his heel and walked back into his office without another word.

Thomas frowned. He gazed back at the platform at the bunch of kids that were gathered in a group and were giggling to themselves, their gaze towards the man’s office.

~~~ 

“Some kids bullied Sir Topham Hatt this morning, the stationmaster saw them,” Thomas informed Percy as he returned to Ffarqhar station. 

“Snotty little animals,” Percy scoffed. “What should we do?”

“I’m not sure, but I think my driver has a few ideas,” Thomas grinned. “We should get the Fat Controller in on it too, I think he’ll enjoy it!”

Percy sniggered to himself and the two tank engines tittered to themselves mischievously.

~~~

Later that day when the children returned from school, they were met with a surprise. Everyone at the station was now wearing top hats, even the woman.

“Stacy look! Everyone’s wearing top hats now!”

“That’s stupid! Why is everyone being stupid!” The girl huffed and went to exit the train. She was stopped by the guard.

“Sorry ma’am, you’re only allowed on the platform’s while wearing Top Hats,” The guard politely informed them as she held a stack of hats out to them.

“I’m not wearing that!” Stacy scoffed but the boy behind her instantly grabbed one and put it on his head delighted. 

“Speak for yourself, this is cool!” He cried and practically leapt off the train with a childish giggle. His friends followed suit until Stacy was the only one left, standing there with a sour look on her face. 

“This is stupid,” she scoffed but hesitantly took it and followed her friend out on to the platform. 

The group of children were all gandering around at the milling travellers on the station.

“It’s like we’ve travelled back in time!” A boy shrilly exclaimed as he trembled with excitement.

“Haha maybe you have!” Came the booming voice of Sir Topham Hatt. 

The kids turned to look at the man who had a jolly grin on his face. The kids looked guilty now.

“We’re sorry for making fun of your hat sir,” Stacy conceded and the man chuckled. 

“That’s alright young one,” he chortled. “But make sure that it doesn’t happen to me or to anyone else, alright?”

“Yes sir!” They chorused.

Over on the tracks, a blue E2 tank engine and a little green saddle tank exchanged a glance with their controller who winked at them and they both giggled among themselves.

~~~

[denimbex1986]

'David Tennant and Catherine Tate pay tribute to Bernard Cribbins after his posthumous appearance in Doctor Who's 60th anniversary special, "Wild Blue Yonder." In the special, Cribbins briefly reprises his role as Wilfred Mott, the grandfather of Donna Noble (Tate) and longtime friend of the Doctor (Tennant). Sadly, Cribbins passed away on July 27, 2022, making his return as Mott his final TV appearance. He first began portraying the character in 2007 alongside Tennant's Doctor, which adds an emotional layer to their 60th anniversary reunion.

While appearing on Doctor Who: Unleashed, Tennant and Tate paid tribute to their late Doctor Who 60th anniversary co-star following the premiere of "Wild Blue Yonder." Tennant describes how "delighted" they were when they learned Cribbins was returning for the special, while Tate explained that she and Tennant had grown up watching Cribbins' works as children. Check out their statements below:

Tennant: We were beyond delighted when we knew that Bernard was going to be able to come back. It means so much to me, personally, and I think to the show as a whole, really, that he was there. That character meant so much to so many people.

Tate: Bernard will always, obviously, hold a very special place in my heart, because he always did, even before I knew him, because David and I kind of grew up with watching Bernard on TV, and he was the voice of the Wombles and loads of stuff that would define our childhood. And so having him play my grandad was amazing.

Bernard Cribbins' Doctor Who Legacy

Cribbins left behind quite a legacy following his decades-long career, in which he appeared in notable works such as The Railway Children and Frenzy. Additionally, as Tennant described, he held a special place in the Doctor Who universe. His experience with the franchise actually began back in 1966 when he starred in Daleks' Invasion Earth 2150 A.D. The film wasn't canon to the Doctor Who TV series, but it was inspired by the show and marked Cribbins' first stint as a companion of the Doctor. Little did he know that over 41 years later, he'd become an official Doctor Who companion.

Cribbins first appeared in Doctor Who as Mott in the Christmas special "Voyage of the Damned." He was running a newspaper stand in London and was revealed to be one of the few residents remaining in the city over the holidays despite all the extraterrestrial happenings. The Doctor teleported away then, leaving Mott perplexed. However, that wasn't the end of the story. He returned in Doctor Who season 4, episode 1, "Partners in Crime," where it's revealed he is Donna's grandfather. With his interests in astronomy and alien conspiracy theories, he wholeheartedly supports Donna's desire to travel the world with the Doctor.

Occasionally joining their adventures, Mott fought Daleks, made daring escapes, and later helped save Donna's life by ensuring she wouldn't remember the Doctor. However, he was drawn to the Doctor again in "The End of Time" and became his temporary companion. Ultimately, the Doctor sacrifices his life to save Mott, a decision the Time Lord never regretted. "Wild Blue Yonder" brings Mott's story full circle as it's revealed his faith in the Doctor never wavered. His Doctor Who story ends with his reunion with the Doctor and his hope that the world will be saved again.

Note

Showrunner Russell T Davies has confirmed Mott will be mentioned in the final Doctor Who 60th anniversary special, but he won't appear onscreen as Cribbens only filmed one scene.'

[girlactionfigure]

Frank Meisler (above) died in March 2018 at the age of 92. An internationally renowned architect and sculptor he enriched the world with his buildings and his works of art. Yet had others had their way his life would have been savagely curtailed in his teens.  Meisler never forgot how he escaped death, those who made the journey with him and those who made it possible. He left behind a remarkable legacy so that we might remember too.

Image Credit Wikimedia In August 1939 Frank Meisler was a frightened 13 year old boy.  As a Jew he was no longer safe in his home town, the Free City of Danzig (now Gdańsk in Poland), a German enclave which had embraced Nazism.  There had been anti-Jewish riots and the city’s Great Synagogue had been taken over and demolished.  Desperate, his parents requested his evacuation from the city by the Kindertrasport (German, Children’s Transport) an organised rescue that took place just before the outbreak of the Second World War.  Frank Meisler escaped to the UK.  Seventy years later in 2009 he would return to his birthplace with his memorial dedicated to the children of the Kindertransport and those who had made their salvation possible.

Image Credit Wikimedia In August 1939 Frank Meisler was a frightened 13 year old boy.  As a Jew he was no longer safe in his home town, the Free City of Danzig (now Gdańsk in Poland), a German enclave which had embraced Nazism.  There had been anti-Jewish riots and the city’s Great Synagogue had been taken over and demolished.  Desperate, his parents requested his evacuation from the city by the Kindertrasport (German, Children’s Transport) an organised rescue that took place just before the outbreak of the Second World War.  Frank Meisler escaped to the UK.  Seventy years later in 2009 he would return to his birthplace with his memorial dedicated to the children of the Kindertransport and those who had made their salvation possible.

Image credit Wikimedia The railway station at Danzig was the start of a train journey which would take Frank, along with 14 other Jewish children, from their home town to the heart of Nazi Germany, Berlin.  From there they would journey through Germany and on to the Dutch port city of Rotterdam. Thence a boat to freedom in England where another train would take them to London’s Liverpool Street Station and their new life would begin.  Meisler would create monuments for all four places, plus Hamburg (as you will see below).

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URGENT: Russia accuses Ukrainian children of sabotage. They face 10 to 20 years in prison - MIHR

'Tihran was abducted from his home, where he lives with his grandmother. For five days, the family knew nothing about the child’s whereabouts. At the same time, Tihran was brutally interrogated by the “investigative authorities” and subjected to beatings and electric shocks. The investigators demanded that the boy confess that he was preparing a sabotage at the “Melitopol Railway”, which was supposed to prevent units of the Russian Armed Forces from obtaining the material and technical base for their military operations in Ukraine. After five days, following media coverage of the child’s disappearance, Tihran was released on the condition that he would report to local “law enforcement agencies” on a daily basis.

Mykyta Khanhanov miraculously managed to avoid arrest, but later he was also obliged to report to investigators daily and participate in so-called investigative actions – interrogations, investigative experiments, etc.

An attempt by Tihran’s parents to return from Germany for him to take him out of the occupied territory was unsuccessful. The entire family was detained in Taganrog (Russian Federation).'