#belgian rail

[godverdomme-toch]

[stateofcharles]

translating vanzini's commentary on charles' wins

spa 2019: the finale is here. last corner, the one that again brings Charles Leclerc on the finish line. IL PREDESTINATO WINS THE BELGIAN GRAND PRIX! CHARLES LECLERC FIRMLY CONQUERS THE FIRST VICTORY OF HIS CAREER!

monza 2019 (do we really need the translation?) he goes by the Ascari, then onto the straight towards the Parabolica. he arrived on Wednesday asking, the first thing he asked: who won? after winning his first race, the second comes immediately, consecutively. there’s 8 of them, there’s 8. and now they become 9, now they become 9. IL PREDESTINATO WINS THE ITALIAN GRAND PRIX! AFTER 9 YEARS FERRARI GETS BACK ON THE FIRST STEP! CHARLES LECLERC WINS IN MONZA! A TRIUMPH, A MAJESTIC RACE, SENSATIONAL. THIS BOY IS PURE EMOTION!

bahrain 2022: ladies and gentlemen, Tifosi, 903 days after the last win. 12 years ago here, there was the last 1-2 on the first race. IL PREDESTINATO WINS THE BAHRAIN GRAND PRIX!

australia 2022: (marc gene) carlo, he’s going for the fastest lap! (vanzini) i cannot believe it, purple first sector, purple second sector. pay attention to Alonso [...] but this is fairly irrelevant, if we want. onto the last corner, even the orange fans stand up, how nice. IL PREDESTINATO WINS THE AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX! AN IMPRESSIVE SHOWDOWN OF FERRARI!

austria 2022: going downhill, the seventh [corner]. there’s only 3 [corners] left Charles, only 3 left. the eight. the ninth comes now. the tenth. ladies and gentlemen, IL PREDESTINATO WINS THE AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX, AFTER AN INCREDIBLE RACE, AN INCREDIBLE SUFFERING

monaco 2024: the last lap is starting for Leclerc. he’s going uphill, right where he would take the bus to go to school. onto the Casino. now downhill by Mirabeau, where he would lean out on the railings to watch f1 cars racing. on his streets, where he was born in 1997. from his dad Hervé, who passed away 7 years ago. that last lie: i signed with Ferrari. it wasn’t true, yet. that lie, he wasn’t feeling well. he would go with his father to the Bianchi family’s circuit, in Brignoles, to try karting for the first time. it’s a roaring Monaco. the pool, now exiting, one last time. Rascasse going uphill. at your home Charles, at your home Charles, at your home Charles, at your home Charles. CHARLES LECLERC WINS THE MONACO GRAND PRIX! FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS CAREER, WHAT A WEEKEND, WHAT A FEELING! perhaps the most boring race in the history of formula 1, but with such a feeling, a deep waiting for a driver who had lots of bad luck at his home race. he brings it home like this, Charles Leclerc. 

monza 2024: it’s such an emotion, Monza [...] Lesmo 2, Serraglio Charles, then Ascari (marc gene: world champion material here). Ascari. his front right tyre is merely a black strip, and so is the front left. it’s incredible, it’s incredible. he gets to Alboreto, to the Parabolica. ladies and gentlemen, 5 years ago we were telling the first Monza win of the Predestinato, so then LET’S ALL GO BACK TO CALL HIM LIKE THAT, BECAUSE THIS IS A PREDESTINATO RACE! IL PREDESTINATO WINS THE ITALIAN GRAND PRIX, AFTER A FANTASTIC RACE, INCREDIBLE. HE INVENTED SOME MAGIC THAT ONLY HIM, ONLY FERRARI COULD THINK OF, IMAGINE AND CARRY OUT. IT’S A FANTASTIC DAY FOR THE TIFOSI, EVERYONE STANDING AND CLAPPING [...] AT OUR HOME CHARLES, AT OUR HOME CHARLES. WHAT A FEELING!

[r1-jw-lover]

Official John Wick Major Arcana tarot cards featuring Chapter 4 characters

Art by Julien Rico Jr, in collaboration with Lionsgate.

Sources: nerdsloveart, behance

Image descriptions below the cut:

[Start ID: 22 images featuring characters and locations from the movie "John Wick: Chapter 4" as Major Arcana tarot cards. The drawings are in black and white against a sandy beige background, and has plenty of circle motives. Roman numerals are at the top, their corresponding card title at the bottom, and the movie title "John Wick: Chapter 4" on the bottom left margin.

0: The number zero, or unnumbered, tarot card features Killa Harkan played by Scott Adkins as "The Fool". Killa is holding a 2 of spades between two fingers while giving a smug smile that shows off his set of golden teeth. He wears a ring on his right hand and the other hand is holding a stack of cards. Behind Killa is a minimalistic design resembling a casino token with details such as the diamond and clover symbols, as well as the numbers on the dice. In front of Killa is a table with two piling stacks of casino tokens, a gun, and the shadow of John Wick's head looming over a large portion of the table.

1: The number one tarot card features The Tracker or Mr. Nobody played by Shamier Anderson as "The Magician". Mr. Nobody has a smug expression on his face and is holding his rifle in a way that lets it rest slung over his shoulder. By his side is Mr. Nobody's Belgian Malinois. The backdrop consists of simplistic, grayish graphics of map vectors cropped into several circles of different sizes. There is a white-coloured infinity symbol on top of Mr. Nobody's head.

2: The number two tarot card features Rooney, aka The Ballerina, who first appeared in "John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum", as "The High Priestess". Rooney's back is facing towards us as she's performing a ballet move on a circular stage. Rooney is wearing a white crown and a dress that shows the cross tattoo on her back. In the backdrop, where Rooney's face is looking towards, are curtains with the initials "JW" written on the far ends of the frame.

3: The number three tarot card features Katia played by Natalia Tena as "The Empress". With a cool expression on her face, Katia is leaning forward against a set of railings, giving off a domineering aura. Katia is wearing a metallic necklace and a cross on her neck. Behind Katia is the crest of the Ruska Roma and a line in Russian circling around it.

4: The number four tarot card features The Bowery King played by Laurence Fishburne as "The Emperor". The Bowery King is sitting on a throne, but behind him is a pair of eyes staring menacingly at us. In front of him is a logo design with the same pair of eyes, though rendered smaller and appear less menacing, with an X crossed in between and a horizontal line capping the top of the X. At the Bowery King's feet, a few pigeons are shown in the foreground while the Brooklyn Bridge appear in the background.

5: The number five tarot card features The Elder as "The Hierophant". Behind the Elder is an Islamic floral design which extends into a more geometrical pattern. Standing in the background are two of the Elder's men.

6: The number six tarot card features John and Helen Wick, played by Keanu Reeves and Bridget Moynahan, as "The Lovers". John and Helen are smiling brightly towards each other in front of a New York night cityscape backdrop, with the Empire States building separating them at the centre. Above John and Helen is a silhouette of them pressed against each other about to kiss in front of a bright sun with the Brooklyn bridge in the background.

7: The number seven tarot card features John Wick driving his 1971 Plymouth Barracuda as "The Chariot". There is a bullet mark on the front glass pane of John Wick's car. On top is a closeup of John Wick surrounded by a circle of road markings and bullet marks.

8: The number eight tarot card features Charon played by Lance Reddick as "Strength". On top of Charon's head is the infinity symbol, and behind is a design reminiscent of a timepiece neatly decorated with knives, guns and bullets in a circle. Further behind is a faded image of the reverse side of the Gold Coin. Filling the bottom of the frame is the New York cityscape backdrop illuminated by the sun.

9: The number nine tarot card features Caine played by Donnie Yen as "The Hermit". Caine wears sunglasses and is holding a cane in his left hand and a pistol in his right. Caine's head is illuminated by a circle of bright light, which is surrounded by a dimmer, slightly bigger circle with Japanese wave patterns and then large protruding rays of black. In the backdrop are two winding trees along with a city landscape of Osaka, but they are overshadowed by Caine's black rays.

10: The number ten tarot card features L’Arc de Triomphe as "The Wheel of Fortune". The location is illustrated in such a way that looks like a clock, with the monument at the centre and twelve roads leading towards it. Surrounding the Arc de Triomphe are the letters from John Wick's name arranged in the exact order of north-west, north-east, south-west, south-east, west, north, east and south directions.

11: The number eleven tarot card features The Harbinger played by Clancy Brown as "Justice". The whole illustration is framed as if the Harbinger is contained inside an hourglass, with a half-body portrait of the Harbinger at the top and a full-body silhouette of him forming at the bottom from the sand flowing downwards. Behind the Harbinger's portrait is the Latin quote, "si vis pacem, para bellum", whereas next to the Harbinger's silhouette is a crescent moon. Along the sides of the hourglass outside are two duel pistols facing opposite directions on each side.

12: The number twelve tarot card features Koji Shimazu played by Hiroyuki Sanada as "The Hanged Man". Except for his feet, Koji is portrayed as an vertically-inverted reflection of himself on a pool of water. Koji is holding a katana and his head is surrounded by a circle of dim light and a brighter, slightly larger circle made of Japanese wave patterns. As seen in the reflection, behind him are cherry blossom trees and the Osaka city landscape.

13: The number thirteen tarot card features John Wick, aka the Baba Yaga, played by Keanu Reeves as "Death". John Wick is holding a pair of nunchucks in his right hand. Behind John Wick is a city landscape of Osaka lighted by the moon while his head is surrounded by a row of skull pictograms and two rows of bullets. There is also an faded image of the reverse side of the Gold Coin behind John Wick.

14: The number fourteen tarot card features Winston played by Ian McShane as "Temperance". Winston is holding up a wine glass with a capital C labelled on it, and there are multiple swords projecting from his back like wings. Behind Winston is the hotel name "Continental" and numerous halos of various fonts and patterns, along with the cityscape of New York, with the Statue of Liberty and the Empire States building in sight.

15: The number fifteen tarot card features The Marquis, Vincent Bisset de Gramont, played by Bill Skarsgård as "The Devil". Behind the Marquis is his signature emblem with two black knives crossed behind his head. The emblem is surrounded by two rows of knives. In the background is the night cityscape of Paris with the Eiffel Tower in view, illuminated by a moon that is surrounded by a snake or serpent that's chasing its own tail.

16: The number sixteen tarot card features the New York Continental Hotel as "The Tower". The top floors of the Continental Hotel are being set on fire as the small dark silhouette of John Wick and the debris carried along fall from its rooftop.

17: The number seventeen tarot card features Akira played by Rina Sawayama as "The Star". Illuminating behind Akira is a star resembling a six-pointed shuriken with two Japanese stork paintings on its left and right, which is further surrounded by a circle of alternating arrow fletchings and four-pointed shuriken. Akira is holding a bow and arrow and standing tall as the bodies of two men lie dead around her. In the background are the branches of cherry blossom trees and the sun or moon shining behind Akira.

18: The number eighteen tarot card features John Wick's and Mr. Nobody's dogs as "The Moon". The two dogs are staring up at the crescent moon, which is shaped as if John Wick's head is covering portions of the full moon. Surrounding the crescent moon are small stars and a illustration of the cycle of the moon phases. The two dogs are sitting on a road leading into an ambiguous city landscape in the background.

19: The number nineteen tarot card features the Sacré-Coeur as "The Sun". The rays of the sun spread out far and wide as wisps of clouds drifts behind the giant church. A dark silhouette of John Wick can be seen on the top open window of the Sacré-Coeur.

20: The number twenty tarot card features Chidi played by Marko Zaror as "Judgement". Behind Chidi is the emblem of the Marquis with a black knife cutting across behind his head. Below Chidi are the High Table's heavily armoured soldiers who are backdropped by a big splatter of sandy beige.

21: The number twenty-one tarot card features John Wick as "The World". John Wick's back is facing towards us with his head glancing back, showing us his face. Overlayed on top of him is his surname "Wick" with the "I" replaced by a bright silhouette of a walking John Wick. A circle of bullets surrounds John Wick and bullet marks scatter around him as the emblems of the High Table, the Marquis, the Adjudicator, and the Gold Coin fill all four corners of the frame.

./End ID]

[guiltreservoir]

in spite of the way that it is ✧ read on ao3

⫘⫘⫘

when buck first brings it up, it's to everyone in the 118, or at least anyone who's willing to lend an ear. he saunters into the kitchen with a smile bright enough to account for the unseasonably grey weather outside, megawatt-beam elation radiating off of his body and bouncing into every corner of the station. the minute he starts blabbing about how tommy came to his place late last night, at least two ears are swiftly discounted — chim walks away with his hands firmly clapped over the sides of his head, saying, "la la la, don't want to hear it," much like a petulant kindergartener.

bobby finds himself suddenly very busy with noisily reorganizing the utensil drawer, but doesn't quite leave the area; hen immediately raises her brows and takes a pointed sip of her orange juice, knowing buck will continue unprompted. ravi, just coming up the stairs himself, has no idea what he's walking into, the poor guy.

and eddie — eddie knows better than to involve himself in this. he could easily extract himself now, fake a phone call with christopher's school, pretend like there's something imperative that he left in the locker room. instead, he remains parked at the table, piping mug of black coffee insisting that he needs mo' joe as it sits untouched in front of him. his own uncertain reflection stares back at him from the coffee's dark surface.

"i think i finally found someone who can match me," buck's declaring, cheeky grin still lighting up his face like a marquee sign. eddie can practically see the colorful bulbs flashing above his head, a giant neon arrow and the brazen announcement: this lucky guy got his brains fucked out last night!!

"bless that man," hen snorts, shaking her head a bit. ravi's brows knit together in confusion, and when he asks for details on what buck's referring to in the first place, hen's head shaking deepens. "ignorance is bliss, ravi, you probably don't want to know."

"buck got laid last night," falls out of eddie's mouth without him meaning to let it, and fuck, he hopes it sounded more casual than it felt, bubbling up his esophagus like bitter-hot bile.

ravi's, "...and?" is reassuring. eddie feigns a laugh, relieved his cover isn't blown. he glimpses at buck, whose gigantic smile hasn't faltered for even a millisecond, and ignores the mass of earthworms writhing beneath the tin lid of his breastbone.

"and it was seriously awesome!" buck pumps his fist into the air, triumphant and ridiculous, sunbeam personified, and god. buck may be the one getting railed into his mattress by his new boyfriend, but eddie is the one who's truly fucked.

⫘⫘⫘

when buck has eddie over for drinks at his place the next night and asks him if he wants to hear more about it, he convinces himself it's a fine idea. how much can really go wrong, anyway? it's just the man who cradles eddie's whole cowardly lion heart in his unknowing palms, telling him about the way that eddie's good, kind, unbearably hot friend fucked him so tenderly he cried.

it's fine. everything is fine.

buck's never been one to spare details, especially not when eddie allows him all of the space and time in the world to lay out how he got laid. the nearly-gone beer in his hand (on his lips, on his tongue, on the collar of his shirt where an errant drop landed) is fuel for his fire, rattling the confines of his inhibitions just enough to knock a few loose, get him spilling details like the belgian white down his throat.

"he was really good, eddie." the glint in buck's eye is evidence enough, but eddie wants more; he's curious, to a detrimental degree, a tabby cat scaling a tree to catch a sparrow whose wings will carry it to safety, leaving him hungry and without the knowledge of how to climb back down to level ground.

"yeah?" he presses, like he needs to.

"yeah," buck continues. the next pull he takes from his bottle is long, slow, draining it empty. eddie's eyes track the movement, the pink curl of his mouth over the bottle's rim, the wet flick of his tongue across the cusp, the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows the dredges. "it was like he could just... tell what i needed."

eddie's stomach drops. he blames the beer. his mind offers, silently, i would know what you needed, too.

he blames the beer.

"he made sure to take it slow, to start. he's— he's not a small guy, you know."

flashes of tommy's sweat-slick skin offer themselves up readily in the eye of eddie's mind. all thanks to their sparring during muay thai, he knows how it feels to be pinned beneath that man, to feel the heft of his strong arms and legs and chest against his own, to feel so utterly surrounded. he can only imagine what it's like to have tommy inside, too. he says, rougher than he means to, "i know."

buck clears his throat, ducks his head. when he meets eddie's eyes again, his cheeks are flushed. "i... i don't have to tell you about this, man. maybe it's too much. i mean, he's your close friend."

"you're my close friend," eddie says thoughtlessly.

the expression that settles on buck's features is complicated, to say the least.

"buck, i told you it's okay. you can tell me whatever you're comfortable with me knowing." eddie's can of worms burst opened wriggles and squirms, a slimy tangle mucking up his chest cavity. he catches and clings onto buck's gaze and adds, unequivocal, "i'll tell you if i want you to stop."

if buck's face wasn't already rosy, it would be now. his mouth falls open before his response catches up to him, and the spit-glint of his bottom teeth against his tongue makes eddie grit his own together, lest he say something he shouldn't.

"are you sure?" buck asks, back turning to eddie while he reaches into the fridge behind him for a third round. when he turns around again he's got two cold bottles in his hands, tilting one towards eddie, an offering that eddie accepts as automatic as breathing.

the fizzzzz-clink of buck popping the beercaps punctuates eddie's answering, "yes."

"alright." another generous swig of buck's drink bolsters his nerve. "i didn't think he was gonna fit at first, eddie. i swear to you, it doesn't seem like it should work. it's not like i haven't had anything up my ass before, i mean, tommy's even been warming me up for the real thing. but."

warming him up, jesus. buck's nonchalance is staggering, even when frankly, this isn't even the first time eddie's been confronted with such imagery. he wishes he could forget buck telling him about the times taylor had used her strap with him. not because it wasn't an appealing thought — eddie might have complex emotions around taylor, but the idea of buck getting dicked down by anyone at all has always been one that twists his guts into feverish knots. hence the desire for selective amnesia.

he fails not to wonder exactly what the thick line of tommy's dick would look like snuggled between the cleft of buck's asscheeks and swirls his beer in its bottle before knocking back a good-sized gulp, saying, "i'm guessing you made it work eventually."

because how the fuck else is he supposed to react while he's busy painting a vivid mural of his two 'close friends' fucking on the ceiling of his overenthusiastic imagination? he might as well be michelangelo with the way he's filling in the blanks with such inspiration.

the sputtering laugh that comes from buck has no right being as charming as it is. "he did indeed get his dick inside of me, yeah, great job putting those pieces together."

"thanks, it was difficult."

"i bet," buck responds. his gaze separates from eddie's and drifts down the length of his torso, catching on the steady rise and fall of the breaths expanding his chest before continuing down his past his bellybutton. he focuses just below eddie's belt before skimming back up to peer into his eyes again. "he took his time getting me ready with his fingers, and even still i felt like he was gonna split me in half. he got maybe halfway inside and i was already seeing stars. thankfully he kinda paused and gave me a second to adjust."

"come on, man." eddie's heartbeat threshes his ribcage and echoes all the way up to his eardrums, frantic and heady, bass drum kicking a chaotic rhythm. he can't help but imagine tommy's big, surprisingly gentle hands working buck open before slicking himself up with lube to nudge inside. he wonders if it made buck gasp, if he cursed and clenched at the blunt shock and slow push and steady tilt of tommy's hips. he wonders if tommy's got claw marks on him somewhere from buck scrabbling for purchase while curling his toes and communicating without words that he needed a minute.

"too much?" the way buck's half-mast eyes glitter reminds eddie of a tiger slinking low through moonlight silver-soaked grasses. all at once he can sympathize with the position of a lone antelope lurking just beyond through the open plains, vulnerable and enticing.

he perks his ears forward, tilts his head down, looking into the eyes of the beast who's about to consume him, and says, "no."

the antelope places its fragile skull straight into the tiger's hanging maw.

⫘⫘⫘

when eddie makes it through the next couple of days without jerking off about it, he considers himself victorious. he's been doing a fine job of distracting himself, hanging out with his girlfriend, his kid. he's been reading before he falls asleep to keep his mind from wandering too far. he's been working out more, burning off the extra energy that's been vibrating through his entire nervous system since buck drenched his subconscious — and his conscious mind, who is he kidding — with the most luscious, arousing descriptions of sex he's ever heard.

he's doing fine, until he's leaving the station with buck after a long shift and tommy's there to pick him up. he's standing outside of his buck's jeep, conveniently parked next to eddie's truck, eyes crinkly with delight at the sight of them. his voice carries through the atmosphere and shudders straight down into eddie's molten core, a simple and swift, "evan! eddie."

"hi, tommy," eddie says at the same time that buck says, "hey, babe!"

evan.

babe.

eddie is going to dissolve into a cloud of nebulous vapor.

he autopilots his way through the rest of their short conversation, ears buzzing with static, cottonmouth setting in. he doesn't pay attention to the small talk, mind too busy reeling with potential. the moment he'd caught sight of buck's jeep, he was a goner.

where is tommy's car? did he stay the night at buck's, hang out at his place for the day just waiting to come play chauffeur and take him back home to pound him into the mattress while kissing him deep and lazy, like his lips are laden with ambrosia?

"catch you later, eddie," he hears tommy say over the ringing in his ears. buck knocks shoulders with him and nods agreeably, lashes fluttering and lips stretching into a pretty smile.

the best eddie can manage in response is a pathetic wave and a half-hearted, "bye, guys."

his drive home is thirty-six minutes too long. he relinquishes his willpower and allows the fog of his daydreams to creep in.

"tommy called me a good boy when he finally bottomed out," buck had told him around a drawn-out exhale, hops heavy on his breath, steaming the air between their faces. somewhere between the third and fourth beer the space between them had collapsed, eddie backed against the kitchen counter and buck looming over him, cool and collected and beautiful and dangerous, striped wildcat on the hunt.

"he told me how incredible it felt inside me, how i was all warm and tight. and god, eddie, you don't understand how crazy it felt. it was so much, but in the best way. it was warm and tight for me, too."

that's when eddie had spooked and bolted, yanking free from within the loose gape of buck's tiger fangs and nicking himself on jagged ivory edges. worms clustered and crawled up from his chest and into his throat as he stumbled away, wounded and wet. he'd choked out, "i can't," and buck had backed off without hesitation, no longer a fierce big cat but a helpless cub, saying, sorry and low, "i know, i know, i should've stopped sooner."

⫘⫘⫘

when eddie finally gets his hand around his dick, it's nearly enough to make him cry. the bittersweet reprieve of it, the way he's been craving his own attention while being even better at withholding it from himself — there's practically nothing he's more practiced at, but just because it comes fairly naturally to him at this point doesn't mean it is painless.

he sinks into a different brand of masochism found in the inviting expanse of his mattress, world narrowed down to the sensation of his slippery grip around his blood-rushed cock, to the white-hot fantasies splaying themselves out in the darkest meadows of his mind, absolutely resplendent. he tries to make his hand feel warm, tight, incredible, like buck's soft aching insides; he speculates whether or not tommy would talk to him like that, if they were to hook up. would he qualify as good, in tommy's eyes?

with barely a second thought, he brings his free hand down to play between his asscheeks, knuckle ghosting across the delicate skin of his hole. tommy's fingers are bigger than his, tommy's bigger all around. a moan wrenches itself free as he swipes up some lube from where it's dripping down his balls and presses a fingertip inside.

eddie's pace picks up along with his breathing, chest heaving like he's been running for hours, days, years. maybe he has been. maybe he still is.

"fuck," he grits out, rolling his hips up into his hand. his mind is playing through scenes of buck opening up for tommy, tommy so careful and confident, scenes of buck wrapping his limbs around him to draw him as close and deep as he can get, buck so open and wanting. buck, such a fucking good boy.

eddie's orgasm shreds through him gut to throat like the sharp starving blade of a hunter, come spattering across his stomach, stickying his fist.

there are real tears streaking down his cheeks, now, damp and unrelenting, a mix of relief and guilt and something else he can't figure out a name for.

he jams the heels of his hands against his eye sockets and thinks, i know, i know, i should've stopped sooner.

[tim-official]

voting in belgian elections (yes, i am a belgian citizen, somehow) and feeling a weird pit of dread in my stomach at how powerful vlaams belang are this year (far-right party that constantly rails against "multiculturalism") but also, like, not feeling a different pit of dread that i do feel about the US elections. because it's proportional voting. so maybe my vote will not be tossed into a fire like it is whenever i send a vote back to the US. so that is weird.

[allthedesiredusernamesaretaken]

... red ...

The Orient Express was born thanks to the Belgian engineer Georges Nagelmackers who, inspired by American trains, created a service similar to a 5-star hotel on rails that crosses Europe.

The maiden voyage departed on 4 October 1883 from Gare de l'Est in Paris.

[yeahcurrahhe-e]

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

𝐈’𝐌 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄

〚 𝐉.𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐁𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐓 〛

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➛ mentions of blood, swearing

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 how many soldiers could be jostled into a transport car, not much concern served towards the reality of being coerced into a position of ass to ankles; the men of Easy were just grateful to be released from the frozen prison of Bastogne.

Staff Sergeant Y/N Y/L/N, Easy’s only female member, relished shortly in the relief from the Belgian town’s bitter pang that resonated to her very bones. Even as they rode miles away from the wasteland of ice and destruction, the chill skated over her bones — a ghost she’s unsure will ever go away regardless of physical distance and crossed out calendar days.

The cinder of relief is quick to be extinguished with a fleeting glimpse to her hands as they clutch the truck bed’s rail; a gesture most of the men do now, some with a scrutiny pooled in their eyes as they traced each fingernail and the skin around it, as if pondering the origin of every blemish and bruise that emerged. She’s no exception for the past time, her own eyes beholding the dried blood that was stagnant in the divets of her nails, the grot from clawing at the earth to scramble over bodies as German artillery sparked across the stars. The hands that gripped the grayish, cold ones of dying boys as they bled out in a cradle of snow, their lips that once mingled with laughter imploring for their mothers or their lives. The hands that would numbly extract the dog tags amidst wounds, pat their shoulders in a silent prayer for salvation. But, after everything she’s seen and done, she doubted God was listening.

She was suffocated with far more irritation than sadness, cheeks flushed a subtle crimson to ward off conversation from all the chattering men encompassing her, some tossing cigarette cartons about to the earnest clutches of their buddies, some passing chuckles through discussion. The irritation wasn’t to be pinpointed towards any man before her, each just accidental victims absorbing the contempt for another man; the man who she had disputed well into a brisk evening a week prior about a night patrol, about excluding Eugene Jackson, only to have it hacked down by him — Johnny Martin.

Now, Eugene Jackson, a young man who fibbed to enlist, was in a shallow alley grave hollowed out by replacements, a somber act she had to oversee by order of the same man who put him there.

A skimming glimpse among the beaming, starry-eyed soldiers around her now, now only ached her head; her cruel mind imagining the missing young men in their midst, the ones presently in similar makeshift graves across the French countryside. None of them seemed to regard the dour gaze being pinned on them by her.

Well, maybe one did. And it was the usual suspect.

“Hey, Sergeant Y/L/N,” the voice shot through her dourness, trembling the contempt that snagged her in an iron clasp, and simultaneously soothed the ache in her chest yet piqued her irritation.

The irritation was a byproduct from an achy soul she could no longer recognize as her own; one that which wished, with a devastating extent, that she was still in her icy foxhole. She had no desire to be cradled in a life where she was broken and bruised, wrecked from the inside out by war. And that’s why Y/N wished that she remained crouched against the icy soil of Bastogne, alright with letting the falling bullets take her away, take her away from the death and dying men.

“Jesus, you’ve been quiet ever since we got on here, just making sure you’re fucking alright,” Joseph Liebgott haphazardly gestured a mock surrender, a prompt wind rumpling about his slick hair that he evidently had passed a hand through numerous times.

“And?” She inquired in something teetering on a disinterested mutter. In stark contrast, her chest was filled with this tightening feeling of misery, letting it scorch her gradually from the inside. It was an emotional juxtaposition that had her brain in an unfair game of tug-of-war presently.

“Lighten up, ya know? We ain’t in Bastogne no more,” Joe muttered, evocative of someone desperate and urgent, rather than the typical pool of blandness in his voice; he had shared a foxhole with her for the entirety of their defense of Bastogne, gazed numerously upon her face blemished with a mix of the dirt that had been flung up by the explosion and blood that belonged to her and those that laid not too far from their carve in the earth, only for her to juxtapose it with a bout of melodic laughter.

Such laughter lingered in the crisp, deathly air for the first few weeks, and he saw as it dissipated with each last drawn breath of fellow soldiers, as more artillery cascaded down in ashy rainfall, and more supplies were spent in a desperate strife for survival. He hadn’t seen a drawing of a smile on her lips for weeks, her throat dry of laughter, how her eyes absorbed the light of the day as she dipped her head to greet him, in weeks.

Y/N shifted to face him, almost amused at his selection of words; their gazes were now fervid with fluttering chaos and madness, a sharp ache in their expressions from either a twist of irritation or guilt. Her radiating dismay and frustration could be felt in the confined truck bed, as if she was burning it off like a furnace. How dare he? Lighten up?! He was welcome to be the one to bury Jackson, pen letters of condolence to the Muck and Penkala families.

“You’re kidding me,” she had a sneer in her voice that extended to her eyes, their exasperation standing equal now, black marks on their consciousnesses, “I’ve gone through goddamn shit — there’s no recovering from it just because they’re buried and their condolence letters have been signed.”

“We all fucking have, but ‘ya still have to be happy. Why give the Kraut assholes the satisfaction of killing you inside out?” Joe asserted firmly, words slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air, “Don’t go and tell me to shut up; you think Muck, Jackson, or Penkala would want you to throw yourself in the shitter? You, the only female staff sergeant in the goddamn military? You, the one who spent every evening checking on each foxhole in Bastogne? If you give up…shit, we’re all good as dead.”

“You’re right,” there was no agitation in her voice, as if wearied with this casting of rather familiar declarations of what they may clinically diagnose as combat fatigue. Y/N knew the extent to which he loved her, and how parallel her love for him burned in return. He worshipped her, the ground that her boots graced, her eyes that scattered the nascent rays of dawn, her body that was flawlessly lined with muscles from physical undertakings, her light skin decorated by subtle freckles, her hair a beam of light if could weave itself into a strand. And her mind, that remarkable brain of hers that solved problems that thwarted military geniuses, and those of any age and more. Hell, she may even selfishly conclude that he fights solely for her at this point. And she fought for him too. “Fuck. You’re too good at saving your ass, Liebgott.”

The lull of his name of her tongue had his eyes drowning with something deviating between satisfaction and adoration, nearly vulnerable, novel territory for Joseph Liebgott to venture into.

“Eh, you give me a lot of experience,” he tsked with a curl of a smirk, a crafty murmur passing by her ear.

“Bite me,” Y/N rolled her eyes, a scoff spurting from parted lips, similar to a wisp of cigarette smoke; a dense proximity was between them now, a sensory overload kindled by her simper of scorn, his none too gentle murmur, and an intense stare bridged between their eyes.

“If you say so,” he hummed, only for Y/N to scuff the rear of his head with the heel of her palm to silence his pride.

[pyramultimuse]

@imhisangelhesmydemon

Winter in london was awful. Winter in general was horrid. Snow everywhere, freezing cold, and everyone is so sickeningly jolly. It made the demon sick. But still he went along with the festivities for Aziraphale. He entered the bookshop and every inch was decorated with christmas-y stuff, there were atleast three trees all with different themed ornaments with tinsel everywhere. But it smelled so amazing, the angel must be baking so many cookies and little christmas cakes. Enough for a bakery. He was sure he would get dragged out later so they could pass them out to all their friends and neighbors.

"I'm here, Angel!" Crowley called out as he set his gifts down so he could take off his hat and first and second jacket. Leaving on his third fur-lined suit jacket as even inside the toasty bookshop he still felt cold. He picked up his gifts, most of them looked like wrapped books that he placed under one of the christmas trees. The giftbag he had the demon brought it to Aziraphale to present to him and leaned in to steal a kiss. "You can open this one now because I want to share some with you." He said with a cheeky grin. Inside the bag was special gourmet belgian chocolate, cream and all the best ingredients he could get his hands on to make hot chocolate.

"I see you've gone completely off the rails this year decorating. Having fun?"

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Salomé Sibonex

Published: Dec 5, 2023

Until just a few years ago, I didn’t feel like I had a place in this world. That’s over 25 years of wondering why my life didn’t look more like the lives of people around me. Even my thoughts were different from the thoughts of people around me, for better and for worse. Before most people were using social media for anything besides posting pictures of food, I was accusing people of cultural appropriation. Insecurity, naivety, and intelligence are a dangerous combination. 

In the last few years, I’ve lost my naivety, improved my insecurities, and kept the intelligence (this too, is a dangerous combination). Where I once played along with destructive leftism, like using any political disagreement as an excuse to attack people and consequently suppress my underdeveloped sense of self, I now follow a different compass. 

Something changed in me after watching people who endlessly argued that words were violence suddenly defend real violence–mobs ganging up on individuals–if it was done in the name of BLM. The leftist ideas I previously scooped up on social media had gone from fringe to mainstream and were playing out in front of me; now executed in the real world, they were spilling blood with no remorse. The familiar feeling of being the odd one out returned. I knew this was a situation where I was compelled to do the unpopular: voice an opinion no one else seemed to hold. But this time, I was driven by my values instead of my insecurities. 

I couldn’t see it from the peer group and media landscape I was in, but I wasn’t the only one finding lines they wouldn’t cross. Speaking out against people misusing the pursuit of racial equality to justify destruction led me to others who were also willing to go against the herd. I discovered principled individualist thinkers like Ayishat Akanbi. But there were many other people still finding the strength to speak up.

The years 2020 and 2021 will be remembered for many reasons, but perhaps the most inspiring is that many people found their voice. I started to notice a pattern: a unique type of person willing to bear insults and isolation rather than go along with bad ideas. These people are the black sheep and they show up any time a group starts going off the rails. 

We saw doctors like Jay Bhattacharya speak out against vaccine mandates and lockdowns; we saw black intellectuals like Ayishat Akanbi and Africa Brooke speak out about anti-racist ideology and cancel culture; we saw academic biologists like Colin Wright speak out against the spread of a gender ideology that denies the existence of two sexes; and we saw a surge of people calling themselves “politically homeless” as a rejection of the rigid political identities being pushed on them. My years of always feeling like the odd one out ended when I found other people who weren’t afraid to be black sheep too. We’ve been too caught up in the madness to notice, but we’re living through a renaissance–not just of the individual–but of the individual who dares to defy the group. 

In a time when destructive collectivism threatens to steamroll over individual freedom, understanding the psychology behind the black sheep concept will help us overcome it.

One of the earliest and most famous psychological experiments about the black sheep effect was conducted in 1988. Researchers had Belgian students rank four distinct groups by their likeability: likable Belgian students (in-group), unlikeable Belgian students (in-group), likable North African students (out-group), and unlikable North African students (out-group). Who would offend you most: an offensive person who’s more or less similar to you? This question adds a crucial element to the equation: identity. It wasn’t the unlikable North African students who the Belgian students found most unlikable, it was the other Belgian students. The black sheep effect explains some of the ugliest group behavior around. It’s how you end up with leftists calling liberals “nazis” and white “anti-racists” diagnosing any black person who challenges them with “internalized racism.” 

The black sheep effect is dependent on another concept: social identity theory. This theory explains how our group identity informs our individual identity. When your group is challenged by someone from within, it isn’t just your group, but your sense of self that’s challenged. Research has found that people are more likely to lash out at ingroup members who deviate from their group’s norms than outgroup members. It isn’t men who challenge a feminist’s identity the most–it’s women who don’t agree with the feminist narrative. 

The key to understanding the black sheep effect is understanding the motives that drive people to hate deviant ingroup members: it isn’t you, it’s them. Even if you’re correct in pointing out that “anti-racism” contradicts the humanistic philosophy that made the civil rights movement successful, as a black person who rejects “anti-racism,” you’re a more dangerous threat to the stability of the anti-racist movement than actual racists. This dynamic is crucial to understanding the black sheep effect today: punishing black sheep isn’t necessarily motivated by people deeply caring about their cause or simply having another perspective. The black sheep threatens the ego of people who gain their identity from that group–often at the expense of progress.

Destructive groups pursue the same, singular goal above all else: self-preservation. Unlike a group of gardeners, a group of feminists is more likely to become destructive because their individual identities are more deeply informed by their group identity. It’s a bigger statement about who you are to label yourself a feminist than it is to label yourself a hiking enthusiast. This might be the most dangerous and yet least recognized element in today’s surge of collectivism. 

The stated goal of a group is not always the true goal of that group. The best way to discern the true goal of any person or group is to look at their actions more than their words. People do what they are most motivated to do; people say what they think is most expedient. When we saw anti-racist activists say that they were concerned about the hardships and inequality faced by black Americans, but we also saw them encourage and praise riots that led to arrests, death, and community destruction for those same people, the stated goals of the group didn’t align with its actions. 

Similarly, neo-conservatives claim to care about protecting Americans, but consistently send Americans to die in unnecessary wars; feminists claim to care about empowering women, but push women to adopt cynical, victimized outlooks; leftists claim to care about the poor, but insist the only solution to poverty is destroying the economic system that’s lifted the most people out of it. In all of these groups, the gap between stated goals and true goals isn’t just hypocritical–it’s blatantly counter-productive. More than ever before, it needs to become common knowledge that actions speak louder than words, especially for political ideologies. 

A lot of the groups that are fighting to control us are primarily fighting for nothing more than their self-preservation. And when a group is more interested in its own existence than the achievement of its stated goals, chaos follows.

These are the foot soldiers you’ve met online today who will attack anything endlessly. They are the people you’ve seen in viral protest videos who rabidly yell about a problem while offering no reasonable solutions. These symptoms reveal a group has entered a death spin of self-preservation for its own sake. 

Healthy groups are genuinely concerned with the variety of perspectives their members have on how to achieve their stated goals. You can see this in any productive business where leaders engineer ways to get honest feedback from employees. Anyone who cares about effectively achieving a goal isn’t just open to criticism, they’re hungry for it. They know about concepts like Johari’s window, which explains that every individual has blindspots other people can fill in. When people are searching for solutions, any input on how to better solve the problem is welcome. 

A group that tolerates its black sheep is more effective because it avoids becoming an echo chamber, where new ideas are kept out and stagnation is inevitable. Because the black sheep is a part of the group but tends to be a person with a unique vantage point or an unusual background, they can offer the most accurate and creative suggestions. The black sheep is a treasure to any effective collective: a genuine member with insider knowledge who’s different enough to fill in the crucial blindspots that members too immersed in the group can’t see. It’s why conversations between feminists and liberal women who reject that label could offer a fountain of insight into women’s needs today, but it’s also why that conversation is rare.

The black sheep’s strength isn’t just the unique perspective they offer to their group, it’s also the red flag they raise when that group attacks them. Any group that can’t tolerate constructive criticism from those who share its goal is no longer primarily pursuing that goal–it's pursuing self-preservation at the expense of that goal.

Black sheep are the canary in the coal mine. The treatment they receive from their group reveals if that group is doing the necessary reflection to hold rational beliefs and stop destructive beliefs from spreading. 

Leftism today is the perfect example of a group that’s lost its mechanism for hitting the brakes on counter-productive ideas. Instead, many leftists hunt for the nearest heretic to punish for minor deviations, like mixing up someone’s pronouns, not using “inclusive” language, or failing to perform the correct level of collective outrage over the latest issue. This practice has been going on for so long in online leftist spaces that most of the heretics being picked on aren’t actually black sheep–the genuine black sheep with considered differences were pushed out long ago. Today’s targets are merely making naive mistakes, but are picked apart by other members desperate to reinforce their own in-group status. When a group has run off all its black sheep and is finding stand-ins for ritual punishment, you can be sure that group is on a path of destruction.

When I started publicly criticizing the destructive elements of leftism, I had no other political group to call home while doing so. I knew the ideology was wrong, but I still felt the pressure to mince my words and tread lightly enough to avoid becoming the next target of a social mobbing. I’d seen how individuals were torn apart in the virtual public square by anonymous attackers joining together to fuel a fire that would burn its victim in 1,000 different ways, 1,000 different times. While I’d much rather be attacked by a cyber mob than a real one, there’s something uniquely freakish about watching a digital effigy of yourself be spit on and ripped apart for all the world to watch. 

For a while, I was torn between truth and fear; I wanted to speak clearly, but I knew that would put me clearly in the crosshairs of people with nothing to do but ruin my life. Once I realized that safety at the expense of integrity is a hamster’s life, I felt ready to bear the consequences of fully pursuing my values. Suffering in service of something meaningful didn’t exactly feel nice, but it felt powerful. Suddenly, bearing the emotional tantrums and attempted abuse from strangers was the obvious choice.

When I learned to see myself as a black sheep, it felt like the missing piece of a puzzle. A life that had always felt unusual suddenly made sense. I was exactly where I belonged all along–the odd one out who held a mirror to the others. If you want to develop your own perspective on life, you have to stand in places that few others are. Humans have created symbols since the beginning of our history. We look to them for meaning to bring it to our own lives. The black sheep is a powerful symbol; it encapsulates both the problem of our time and the solution. Perhaps more people would trust their gnawing sense that something’s wrong and push back on destructive groups if they realized they aren’t just the odd one out–they’re exactly where they’re meant to be.

[dragons-and-magic]

🚂 In need of some cool engines for TTTE OCs? Look no further! 🚃

Here's a list of all sorts of unusual and little known engines to make into your next OCs!

1082 class electric locomotive: Not much is known about this engine, so information is fragmented. This Austrain steam engine was powered by electricity heating up the water in its boiler through electric coils. The hydroelectric system was apparently 50 years ahead of it time and was built in response to the rising prices of imported German Coal during WW2. This engine and ones like it Sweden, were scrapped after the war ended. I'll never understand why. Such a self sufficient engine could have been the key to many break throughs.

2. DRG Class 05: This German streamlined engine was made in response of record breaking streamlined diesel engines made earlier. In 1936, this engine set the world speed record for reaching 124.5 mph, while hauling 217 short tons. However this record was later beaten by Mallard, (Yes, that Mallard. The LNER Gresley one.) on a technicality. Mallard was on a slightly downhill line, and with a heavier train. Interpret that as you will. If you want Gresley family drama, I have a feeling this engine would make a great OC to start it.

3. B&O #305 Camel: This unique engine was trademarked by the Baltimore and Ohio railroad in the 1900s. It's unusual build allowed to pull trains up steep mountains. This build also came with a terrible flaw. Since the cab was placed directly above the boiler, it became very hot and anyone in it would not only be uncomfortable, but in terrible danger if if the engine ever derailed. And there was very little protection for the crew. In short, it was like an overbred dog. Created purely for one purpose, and not with health or safety in mind. More information can be found at the B&O website.

4. The Rail Pickup Truck??? (GMC Switch Engine): Well, if you need a Fankid that's a cross between a steam engine and a pickup, I've got you covered! Haha! Not much information on these, except that they were used during WW2 and were modified for rail use.

5. Ateliers Moës-Freres Diesel: This little guy is absolutely adorable! He'd definitely make an cute OC! This engine one of many diesels built by the popular Belgian company Ateliers Moës-Freres. They're were know for making exceptional small diesel engines. Even ones that looked like steam engines! Unfortunately, I couldn't any information on what exactly this engine's name is. But if anyone does know, please contact me so I may add it!

6. M-497 (Nicknamed Black Beetle by the press): This futuristic engine was once the fastest engine in North America! It was an experiment, developed by the New York Central Railway. Two J47-19 Jet Engines were attached to a streamlined Budd Rail Diesel Car. The experiment was successful, with the engine reaching a speed of 183.68 mph. Despite the successful run and the valuable data gathered, the project was considered to quote "not considered viable commercially". Black Beetle continued to run after the jet engines were removed, until retirement in 1977 and being scrapped in 1984.

And that's it for now! If you guys like these OC ideas, make sure to let me know, so I can make another one! Also, it's important to note, that I am not an expert on engines. If you see any misinformation here, please let me know, so I can correct it.

Thanks for reading!

[ctrl-alt-em]

We Ride at Dawn

It was just before dawn when Edie woke up. She sat up with a groan and rubbed her ribs. Her lungs still aches despite how brief her infection with tuberculosis was.

Edie glanced across the room. The other bed was unslept in. Garnet was still gone. She had only left yesterday with Silas and Nate. Edie rolled out of bed, put on her dress, and tied her hair in a quick bun.

In the kitchen, last night’s cooking fire was now embers. She rekindled the cooling fire in the hearth and put on the coffee kettle.

Once she had a fresh pot of tolerable enough coffee, she took her steaming tin mug and went to enjoy the sunrise. It would be a little while before their host woke up.

Out on the porch, Edie spotted a horse a short ways away across the field by the fence. Next to the horse was a man, no, a boy. It was Delacy and Humble Ned. Delacy was standing next to a saddled Humble Ned, hands on his hips as he studied the horse.

Edie leaned against the railing, clutching her coffee, and watched the boy. The sun had only started to rise.

Delacy placed one foot in the stirrup, his knee practically in his face. The boy struggled to heave himself up and into the saddle. Humble Ned didn’t seem to mind the sliding saddle and flailing teenager on his back.

By the third try, Delaney managed to get in the saddle and got his other foot in the second stirrup. Without his hat, he looked even younger than usual. Not to mention how small he looked on Humble Ned. Humble Ned was a stagecoach horse, a decent sized Belgian Draft. Delacy was shorter than the horse was at the withers.

She knew Delacy had been bluffing when he volunteered to drive the coach when they went after the museum train, but he’d been so confident with the horses for the whole job that it hadn’t occurred to her he might not have actually had much experience riding a horse properly, let alone driving a coach. Not that Delacy would ever admit such a thing. She knew he was self-conscious about his age and lack of experience compared to the rest of the group. Now he was teaching himself to ride a horse at the crack of dawn while three-fifths of the posse were gone and Edie would hopefully still be asleep.

Delacy looked over the reins in his hands and held them just like he did when he drove the coach. “Walk,” ordered Delacy. The horse stood still.

Delacy shuffled in the saddle. After a moment, Delacy tapped his heels into the horse's sides and repeated the order. Humble Ned started into a walk. Delacy quickly gripped the saddle for support.

Humble Ned walked along the fence at a confident stride despite the unbalanced kid on top. By the time Humble Ned reached the corner of the fence and decided to take a right turn, Delacy had found his seat and was sitting taller. Delacy slowly pulled the horse into a right turn, back the way they came.

Edie watched as Delacy rode the horse, practicing left and right turns, going in circles. His position caught more natural and he began to move along with the horse’s stride.

After a while, Delacy spurred Humble Ned into a trot and repeated the process. Grip the saddle to not fall off, get his balance, let go of the saddle, start steering and do laps around the pasture.

When Delacy urged the horse into a canter, he nearly fell off. He gripped the saddle for dear life as he struggled to stay seated.

“Woah! Woah! Slow! Slower!” Delacy pulled back on the reins hard. Humble Ned came to abrupt stop. Delacy was sent forward in the saddle and was now leaning against his neck.

Edie watched as Delacy and Humble Ned just stood for a few minutes as Delacy caught his breath. Delacy finally got back into a proper riding position and spurred the horse into a slow walk.

Delacy directed Humble Ned up towards the horse and ranch stable. As he got closer, his eyes locked on to Edie’s. He hadn’t seen her, she realized.

“Good morning, Delacy,” she called, walking over to them.

Delacy’s face was flushed. She wasn’t sure if was from fear of nearly falling off or embarrassment of her seeing him nearly fall off. “Good morning, Miss Edie.” He stopped Humble Ned and dismounted, sliding off the horse’s back on his stomach. He dropped the last foot down.

She smiled at him. “I saw you out riding Humble Ned.”

Delacy shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. His stance reminded her of Silas. “I’m just getting the fella some exercise is all. No good for him to stay in his stall all day.”

“I see.” She took a sip of her cold coffee, trying to hide the smile on her lips.

He shuffled his boot in the dirt. “I’m going to take him back to the stable,” he said, nodding the ranch stable down the path from the house. He pulled on the reins and started to lead his horse away.

“You know, Delacy,” she called after him.

Delacy paused and looked back at her.

“You’re a natural rider. Best one out of us honestly and I’m sure you’ll only get better with time,” Edie said earnestly to the boy.

Delacy’s blush intensified. He looked away but didn’t lower his head. “Thank you, Miss Edie.”

“You’re most welcome. Once you get Humble Ned situated, go clean yourself up and come inside. I’ll make us some breakfast before we go see what work Victoria has for us next.”

Delacy flashed her a grin and gave her a thumbs up. He walked a little straighter as he led Humble Ned away.

[atotaltaitaitale]

.

Thursday Throw Back… Rails with no train

Walking around the arcades on place des Vosges, away from the side with many art galleries and not far from the oldest graffiti, one will notice rails at the entrance to the porte cochère of the Hôtel de Rotrou. According to the Office de tourisme de Paris, "this building was simply the headquarters of the Compagnie internationale des wagons-lits, and this door gave access to the kitchens, which supplied the stations". Dishes were loaded onto the rails and then onto trucks in the square, before being transported all over Paris in these refrigerated trucks. Sandwiches and snacks for Paris stations and the Grands Hôtels des Wagons-lits were prepared and packaged at Place des Vosges until 1954.

The company was founded in 1872 by Belgian businessman Georges Nagelmackers. Inspired by the model of the night trains launched in the United States by Colonel Pullman's company, with whom he formed an early partnership, he built Europe's first sleeping and dining cars, and in 1883 launched the Grand Express d'Orient between Paris and Constantinople, which became the famous Orient-Express, and the Rome-Express between Calais and Rome, via Paris.

[fictionalred]

Little things from recently;

at the hospital today the nurse was happy with me responding to "Are you (Ephron's) partner?" and went on a rant about how some people got upset with her when she asks it like that because they are A Man and need to be referred at as A Husband!! (She was giving 🌈 vibes)

And our train conductor was wearing 🌈 pride stickers on his little hat (it had the official Belgian Rails logo on it too) and it was adorbs

so we are queer and we are here <33

[beardedmrbean]

Yes they are, next question.

1. Brussels-Berlin night train review: Niche nostalgia or rail for the future?

If nostalgia got the wheels of the night train turning, it must now become a well-oiled machine to shift attitudes towards mass travel. Read more.

2. EU Member States put the brakes on tightening car exhaust standards

All 27 EU member states ruled out a further tightening of pollution standards for exhaust gases from passenger cars on Monday, on the grounds that it could dissuade manufacturers from investing in electric vehicles. Read more.

3. Free concert this Friday evening on Brussels' Grand Place

As part of the French-speaking community's celebrations this week (Fête de la Communauté française), a major free concert is being organised on Friday 29 September on the Grand Place in Brussels, the City of Brussels announced on Monday. Read more.

4. Extensive media coverage of sexual abuse sees rise in calls to helpline

Media coverage of a Flemish radio embroiled in a paedophilia scandal and a recent documentary about sexual abuse in the Catholic Church have seen a significant rise in calls about abuse and violence to the 1712 helpline. Read more.

5. Last Post ceremony takes place for 33,000th time on Monday

The Last Post ceremony took place for the 33,000th time on Monday evening in Ypres (West Flanders). Read more.

6. Sharp rise in use of 'laughing gas' around Brussels North Station

The sale and use of illegal drugs have long disrupted social order in areas around Brussels North station. However, police are now recording a sharp rise in products that are freely available in Belgian supermarkets. Read more.

7. Hidden Belgium: Pistolet Original

Valérie Leplat opened her first sandwich shop in Brussels in a former pharmacy just off the Sablon. Her aim was to revive the traditional Brussels pistolets – the round white buns that Belgians would pick up at the local bakery on a Sunday morning. Read more.

[cynocardia]

you're so much better strange

[ID: 2 anthro dogs, sasha and morgan. sasha is a thin orange and white belgian sheepdog/siberian husky with orange eyes, muzzle freckles, and a snow nose. their face, hands, and throat are atrophied, they have forehead lines, severe tooth decay, and their right eye is lazy. they are wearing a white collared shirt, a brown sweater, and a grey and black coat. morgan is a fat black and white siberian husky with purple eyes. there are splotches over his eyes and freckles near his nose, and his nose and the inside of his ears are grey. his teeth are yellow and 2 of them are sharper than the others. he is wearing a grey collared shirt with a dark grey and black striped tie, and a black coat. both are standing in front of a lake guard rail on a dark night, and appear to be arguing. their eyes are faintly glowing. end ID]

[trainsinanime]

This is a nice video that may or may not tell you anything new, but I definitely recommend it if you’re into that sort of thing. However, there’s one problem, and that’s the comment section. That is always a problem on Youtube, of course, but in this case it’s very particular: It’s full of people “well actually”-ing the part about the Liège-Aachen-Cologne rail link, and they’re all wrong. Some very wrong, some are a little wrong, at least one person has invented a new rail line out of thin air.

So as a rail nerd who lives on this line, let me set the record straight. I’m going to do it once here instead of as a reply to every comment. Yes, that means the people who are wrong won’t see it, but this is really more therapy for me anyway.

Belgium has excellent rail connections to both France and the Netherlands: A direct high speed rail link each, where you can cross the border in trains going 300 km/h (240 mph). It’s not entirely flawless, ticket prices and service levels could be even better, and there’s the issue of AnsaldoBreda that still lingers on, but in a global context, still excellent and world-leading.

When it comes to Germany, Belgium has a high speed rail line from Liège, the HSL 3, that heads east and… stops right at the German border (to be precise: two kilometres from the border line).

Because that’s how Germany does things; that’s just the country we are. The biggest most important European rail link country in both north-south and east-west direction, and a major source and sink of international traffic in its own right, and the government just doesn’t care. For every single German border, I can name you at least one rail project where our neighbours are building better infrastructure or want to run better services, or are planning that or have done that recently, and the German side just drags its feet and doesn't care. Every single border. Yes, including Luxembourg. But that’s a whole other post, so, eh…

From the end of the HSL 3, trains to Cologne follow the old Aachen-Liège line, which is according to some sources the oldest international rail line in the world (definitely the oldest in Germany). There are some odd fun facts due to that, for example that trains from Belgium to Germany run through the oldest still existing German rail tunnel (there were earlier ones but they got replaced by new tunnels or cuttings), or that part of the line used to be cable hauled initially, so it’s still incredibly straight.

The important part is that this is just a conventional rail line. The line has been upgraded recently, but not to high speed standards, just to normal standards after it was in a very sorry state for decades. It now has 160 km/h top speed and is electrified at Belgian 3 kV DC (the tracks in Aachen central station can be switched). There are plans to rearrange what voltage gets used and switched to where in the future, which has implications for regional trains that nobody is dealing with yet, but it’s unclear when this will actually happen.

The line east from Aachen is very heavily used, by high speed, regional and local trains and by freight trains, mostly international ones to Belgium. Freight trains use a different line into Belgium, which starts at a different station in Aachen and is strictly freight-only, but if they’re coming from Cologne, which is frequent, then they’re also going to run through Aachen central station. 

(Fun fact: There are two active rail border crossings between Germany and Belgium, and one that is technically open but only used sometimes by a museum railroad at the moment. All of these border crossings are in Aachen.)

This line section has been officially declared as overloaded, which should in theory release some funds to start some plans to maybe increase capacity. There are a number of useful proposals at various stages, but the only thing currently under construction are some new passing tracks.

The line is fully grade separated (since very recently, 2020, when they replaced the last level crossing with a bridge! Woohoo!), but the first part is still a conventional line with conventional 160 km/h speed limits and some relatively tight turns with even lower limits, in particular one outside of Eschweiler. That is until we come to Düren, roughly halfway between Aachen and Cologne. If you’ve seen my Bördebahn post, you may remember Düren from that.

Between Düren and Cologne, the line has been upgraded. High-speed trains can run at 250 km/h (though I’ve heard some sources say that only ICEs reach that, and Thalys trains only reach 200 km/h). In addition, there are separate S-Bahn tracks for local services from there to Cologne. I’d advise against using them unless you have to because the seats are terrible. Regional and freight trains still share the same tracks as the high speed lines.

(For bonus points, there is actually a mining railway that runs parallel for a short section after Düren. It’s exclusively used to bring lignite from massive open-pit mines to power plants in the region. If you heard about "Ende Gelände”, protests against open-pit mining and lignite burning in Germany, e.g. from the Philosophy Tube video on violence, this is actually the area where this is all going down. I think this line may be what someone in those Youtube comments meant when they talked about “an extra bulk freight line that gets freight trains out of the way”. But that would be wrong; the line is not a public railway and is not compatible with normal electric freight trains. It’s functionally just a lignite conveyor belt that looks funny.)

So that’s the situation: Half of the line from the Belgian border to Cologne has been upgraded to high speed standards; specifically the half that is closer to Cologne. There are no dedicated high speed tracks anywhere on the German side; while parts have dedicated local tracks, the regional and freight trains are all still there, competing for very limited line capacity. Compared to the completely new lines on the Belgian sides, it’s really not much.

Service levels are also not great. Between the German ICEs (which run from Frankfurt via Cologne to Brussels) and the French-belgian-dutch Thalys (which run from Paris via Brussels to Cologne and these days further to Düsseldorf), there is just one high speed train per hour per direction. All of them are only 200 meter long units as well. This isn’t because of lack of demand; these trains are full and the Thalys, which requires advance booking, is frequently booked out days and even weeks in advance. And by the way, ticketing between ICE and Thalys is not integrated at all, for extra confusion and annoyance.

What does this tell us? Well… don’t be Germany, I guess, at least in the specific case of cross-border travel. The 160 km/h from the Belgian border to Aachen central is not great, but probably fine, since it’s only a small section. Beyond that, I would argue that the biggest problem of that section isn’t even the top speed, but the line capacity. Upgrading the line between Aachen and Düren to 250 km/h would sound great on paper and could probably cut travel times by 10 minutes on the entire line, down from 36 minutes in an ICE at the moment (regional trains take roughly an hour). But there isn’t really any room to run more high speed trains here, even though they are sorely needed, and plans to add another regional train line on the same tracks aren’t helping any.

I’ve read idea collections that propose building an entirely new line from Düren to the Belgian high speed line, bypassing Aachen central station entirely (Aachen would get a new stop somewhere to the south of the city). This would probably help a lot with travel times, and the capacity constraints between Düren and Cologne aren’t quite as severe as the ones around Aachen yet. But it would also be really expensive. It’s not an official plan, it’s just what someone wrote in a rail magazine as “this would be a good idea”, and I think it is going to remain that for several decades at least, but most likely forever.

So that’s the situation: The German extension of the eastern branch of the Belgian high speed rail network is a partially upgraded conventional line that is actually a bit quicker than people give it credit for, but manages to be both underserved and over capacity at the same time.