#plymouth adventure

[mia-seth-adventures]

1958 Plymouth Fury - Christine

[misforgotten2]

Tanks for all you do.

Saturday Evening Post   October 9th, 1943

[forestchat]

A PLYMOUTH STORY

High Streets are disappearing or so it seems.  They have certainly changed since Blackstock’s time.  No longer cobbled, and with cafes and department stores it’s a very different type of High Street.  It’s also a long, long time since Dr Blackstock met with the Royal Navy on his way to fetch medicine for his dominant mother. A very different Plymouth from the one it is today.

In those days shops were small and ‘cosy’ places. With bowed windows filled with samples of the goods they stocked. A sword maker where captains went to purchase their swords, or the clothes shop where they purchased uniforms. In a port was always the Chandlers, a place filled with the equipment needed to sail.  It was like an Aladin’s Cave, pots and hooks hung from the beams, lamps and buckets were displayed everywhere. Candles, lamp wicks and oil also abounded. Sacks of flour and other food stuffs to feed a hungry crew, could all be found here.  But for some they were places of danger especially when the Press Gangs were around, something Blackstock found out that day he went for his mother’s medicine. 

When the Press was in town it was no good trying to hide, they knew the roads outside the coastal areas. Knew where young men would go to avoid being pressed into service and would lay in wait for the unsuspecting man who thought it was safe to return to Plymouth. But they also walked the streets of Plymouth looking for strong young men to man their ships. So it was that Blackstock was accosted by the press-gang, knocked out, and woke to find himself aboard a frigate and in the Royal Navy. 

No amount of explaining about his errand for his mother’s medicine could get him off that ship, so he decided to make the most of it and learn to be a sailor. Becoming a doctor was not in his sights, at least not then, but life has a strange way of setting you on your true path.

He saw action during the American War of Independence, learnt how to fight and survive, be sneaky and win battles. All in the life of a fighting ship.

A Plymouth Story is one of action and life in the Royal Navy. Follow Blackstock on his adventures both on land and at sea.  

M D Bosc Author

[travelersadventure]

Discover the Hanmer Springs Retreat Adventure Centre

The Hanmer Springs Adventure Centre is a thrilling haven nestled in New Zealand's South Island, offering an array of adrenaline-pumping activities amidst the stunning natural landscapes of the region.

Book now : https://reservations.travelclick.com/112113

[wonderlesch]

Can’t Miss May 2023 Events

Can't Miss May 2023 Events shares Music Festivals, Block Parties, Sci-Fi Conventions and more. Click the link to learn more and start planning your amazing May 2023!

Hello and welcome to Can’t Miss May 2023 Events. Read on to explore music festivals, sci-fi conventions and more. This travel destination guide has something for everyone to go and see in May. Let’s travel! Beach Life Festival – May 5 – May 7, 2023 The Beach Life Festival will take place in Redondo Beach, California May 5-7 2023. The festival line up shows an eclectic array of acts from across…

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 5: Heads Or Tails, Fairy Tales In My Mind]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, RIP Jace.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Are We The Waiting” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.8k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“I know he has a scalpel in his bag,” Baela says, meaning Aemond. You are sitting with her on the front steps of a two-story house—1970s construction, split foyer, pale blue siding and rust-red bricks—on Trux Street in Plymouth, Ohio. This town was named for the place where the pilgrims stepped off the Mayflower over four hundred years ago, pioneers who crossed through the doorway of an unfathomably changing world to die of disease, cold, accidents, starvation, violence. You wonder if you are so unlike them. “He’s assisted with c-sections before, if it comes to that. And he has needles and surgical thread. But he doesn’t have any way to anesthetize me.”

Luke and Rhaena are on the roof of the silver Chrysler Pacifica parked at the end of the driveway and surveilling the road. Everyone else is inside tearing the house apart as they try to find the keys. You don’t know what to say to Baela. There is no way to console her except by lying, and she’s too smart for that. “How far along are you?”

“I don’t even know.” She laughs like she’s on the verge of losing her mind. You don’t blame her. “The doctors calculate it based on the date of your last period, but mine was all over the place. I had tried a few different birth control pills and had all these side effects, weird spotting and cramping, no sex drive, feeling depressed, so I just figured I’d go all natural for six months and give my body a chance to reset. And we all know how that turned out.” She skims her palms over the globe of her belly, hidden beneath the flowing periwinkle cotton of a maternity dress she found at the Walmart back in Shenandoah. “I’m officially due in four weeks.”

“But it could happen at any time.”

Baela nods miserably. “My mum had me and Rhaena the…you know…the natural way, and it was smooth sailing. But she needed an emergency c-section with my little brother. What happens if that’s how it goes for me? Do you ever think about all the ways people can die now? It’s not just the zombies. I could get murdered, or fall and crack my skull open, or get a cut that turns septic, or rupture my appendix, or get frostbite or heatstroke, or get bitten by a snake. It never ends. We’ll be balancing on the knife’s edge for the rest of our lives.”

You wish you were better with words; you wish you were someone who spoke effortlessly like Rio or Aegon. You reply with the only thing you can think of. “Humans have survived for hundreds of thousands of years, and for the vast majority of that time with no modern medicine. It was dangerous, and it was painful. But there have always been people who made it. We wouldn’t exist otherwise.”

Remarkably, this seems to help. “I know Aemond will do everything he can for me,” Baela says, more steadily now. “He’s always been the most dependable one. So serious, so protective. Daeron was visiting us in Boston when everything shut down, and Aemond wouldn’t let the kid out of his sight for weeks…then Aemond almost died when he lost his eye and Daeron proved he could take care of himself with his compound bow.” Baela unwraps a Twizzler and takes a bite out of it, gazing vacantly at the sky, calm and overcast now that the storm has passed, breezy, mid-80s. She doesn’t even like them, but she’s been eating through a pack of Twizzlers Luke had been carrying in his backpack for Jace, slow mindless chewing like a cow’s. “Aemond feels responsible for you now. And that’s difficult when there’s so little control he actually has over what ends up happening.”

“Baela…I’m so sorry about Jace.”

“Drowning isn’t so bad, I guess. I hope he drowned. I hope he was dead before he washed ashore and they ate him.” Baela turns to you, eyes glazed. “Do you think we should have shot him before we left the river? To make sure he didn’t die in pain? You could have done it if you wanted to. Your aim is good enough.”

“No,” you say, horrified but trying to soften it. “I think that would have been…immoral.”

“I don’t even have a picture of Jace to show the baby, everything was online or on my phone, and now that’s all…gone. Just gone. Like he never even existed. How am I going to explain to my child what Boston was, or law school, or aerospace engineering, or grocery stores or shopping malls or Instagram, or anything else about our lives before this whole fucking disaster? All they’ll ever know is running from monsters, scrounging for shelter and supplies from the ruins of civilization.”

“The world is going to come back, Baela. Maybe not for five or ten years, and maybe looking a lot different than it did before, but humanity will recover. The Black Death wasn’t the end, and neither were the World Wars or the Mongol invasions or the colonization of the Americas, or famines or floods or volcanic eruptions. The zombies won’t end us either.”

“Do you really believe that?”

I want to. “Yeah, I do. We just have to hold on until the tide turns. We can’t give up.”

“In that case, I’ll try not to go completely insane in the immediate future. Thank God Rhaena and Luke are still here. Do you have any siblings?”

You smile vaguely. “Four.”

“Wow,” Baela says. “Do you know where they are now?”

There is an interruption before you have to decide how to answer: a roaring high above in the sky, a remote mechanical growling. You and Baela both look up to see a jet zooming by, just below the steel grey cloud cover and leaving a trail of condensation behind it like a comet’s tail of eons-old cosmic dust. From where he is perched atop the Pacifica, Luke is pointing at the jet to show Rhaena. Aemond, Rio, Aegon, and Daeron come rocketing out of the house to find the source of the noise. After a moment, Helaena moseys onto the front porch as well, tucking flashlights and napkins into her burlap messenger bag. Meanwhile, Aegon is filling his pockets with packs of Marlboro Golds and orange prescription bottles labelled Percocet.

“Is that an airplane?!” Aegon gasps. “People are flying again?! Oh, we are back, baby! We are so back! I’m catching the next flight to SFO, peace out bitches, no more Oregon Trail for me!”

“It’s a jet,” Aemond says flatly. “Not a passenger carrier. Probably military.”

“Doesn’t look like one of ours.” Rio turns to you for confirmation.

“No, I don’t recognize it.”

“Then who the fuck is up there?” Aegon says. “Canada? The U.K.?”

Rio sighs, ruffling Aegon’s already quite disheveled blonde hair. “Who knows, Honey Bun. Maybe it’s China or Russia swinging by to drop nukes on any survivors.”

“Fortunately, nobody’s going to waste a nuclear bomb on freaking Plymouth, Ohio,” Baela says, watching the jet vanish into the west, the droning of its engines replaced by the breeze through the sugar maples and sycamores, the screeching of cicadas and chirps of robins. “No luck finding the keys?”

Aemond frowns as he shakes his head, tapping his chin anxiously. He knows she can’t walk much farther.

“How do none of us know how to hotwire a car?” Aegon demands, exasperated.

Rio replies cheerfully: “Well, Chips and I have been diligently serving this glorious nation since we were eighteen years old, and you’re all clueless rich kids. So…I think that just about sums it up.”

“I need more arrows,” Daeron says, clutching his compound bow. All the ones he had are now speared through zombies along the river where Jace died. When you snuck away from the farm at dawn, Luke used his binoculars to check the shores; they were still swamped with zombies, even more than the night before. They are pack animals; alone, they are aimless and easily confounded, their memories calamitously short. As part of a group—if they were crows they’d be a murder, if they were camels they’d be a caravan—zombies attract and guide each other, moving symbiotically like planets and moons locked in orbit.

“I think you’re going to have to start making them the old fashioned way, kid,” Rio tells Daeron, accompanied by a rough pat of encouragement on the back.

“What, like with sticks?!”

“Yeah. Use a knife to carve one end to make it pointy and you’re good to go.”

“Love it. Very pioneer.” Aegon holds up a Sony Walkman, pink and covered with Disney stickers, Ava spelled out across the top in glittering rhinestones. “At least I found this. Helaena, do we have any more AA batteries?” She fishes around in her bag and hands him a pair.

Baela gapes at him, but she’s smiling. It’s horrible, it’s absurd, it’s something you can’t help but find a macabre humor in. “Aegon, you cannot use that poor eaten kid’s CD player. You know it’s haunted.”

Aegon sings like a jingle from a commercial: “Little Ava died, RIP. Now I get to listen to my CDs.”

“Oh, that is so fucked up!” Rio cackles.

You say, grinning: “Aegon, I’m really going to miss you when we’re all in heaven at the bowling alley made of clouds and you’re downstairs in the fiery version of the afterlife.”

“Don’t feel bad for me, Chipmunk. You’re the one who’s going to die without ever having an orgasm.”

“You don’t need a man for that, Aegon,” Baela says.

“You definitely don’t,” you agree. Aemond glances over at you, intrigued. You stare dauntlessly back. What? You said you weren’t interested. The corners of his lips curl up in a reticent smile; he looks down to try to hide it. He’s touching his chin again. His cheeks flush pink as his mind wanders.

Rio chuckles. “Oh yeah, I remember your little experimenting phase. Lots of trips to the Spencer’s in the Tysons Corner mall when we were stationed at Anacostia.”

You raise your eyebrows, though you’re not annoyed. “I thought you were never going to tell anybody about that.”

“It’s the end of the world, baby. No time to be shy.” Then Rio asks Aemond: “Since we’re here and it’s quiet, you want to go ahead and check every house that has a car with the fuel cap still closed? There are some minivans and SUVs down at the other end of the street. Even a few gallons of gas will take us farther than days on foot.”

Aegon adds, checking his map: “A half tank would get us all the way to Decatur, Indiana.”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Aemond says. He offers Baela a hand and helps lift her to her feet. “You guys go ahead, I’ll meet you down at the driveway with the black…what is that, a Honda Odyssey? You know the one, the van in front of the yellow house. Don’t go inside until I get there.”

“Yup!” Aegon agrees as he speeds off, racing Daeron to the house. Rio—not one for sprinting—jogs after them with his Remington in hand, ready to bash rotting skulls in at a moment’s notice. Baela toddles down to the Pacifica to tell Luke and Rhaena the plan, her periwinkle dress billowing in the wind; then they climb down to walk with her. Helaena floats across the sidewalk like a ghost, pausing to pick buttercups that grow up between the cracks in the cement.

Aemond has been waiting until the two of you are alone. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, sure.” A few houses down, a female zombie—early-twenties, white bikini top, red Ohio State shorts—staggers across the yard and in her attempt to snag Aegon falls and impales herself on the white picket fence. She is suspended there, clawing and yowling, her blackening intestines and dark clotted blood staining the wood. Aegon takes his time getting into a stance and swings his golf club like he’s at a driving range. He hits her dead-on, caves the front of her face in, takes a few more shots just to be sure.

“I get what’s in Oregon for Rio,” Aemond says. “Sophie, the baby, his parents. But why are you going there?”

“Rio’s my best friend. He might be my only friend who’s still alive. And when we left Saratoga Springs, he made me promise that I wouldn’t let him die alone. So before anything else, I have to make sure he gets to Odessa and finds his family. And then I can figure out what’s next for me. But if it really is safe there, I don’t see why I’d leave. I’ve never wanted to be on my own. Maybe I can end up having a family in Oregon too.”

Aemond rests his elbows on the porch railing. He’s teasing you. “We’re friends, aren’t we? I’m still alive.”

You tease him back. He deserves it. “I’m not sure about you and me.”

“I’d like for us to be friends.”

“Would you?”

“Resoundingly.”

“Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

He considers you. “You know, Kentucky might have been a good place for you to hide out. And it would be a lot closer than Oregon.”

You stand up, throwing on your backpack full of bullets for your Beretta M9s, beef jerky and peanut butter crackers and granola bars, lip balm, bottles of water, Kleenex tissues, Juicy Fruit, miscellaneous treasures from the road, practically worthless trinkets made so impossibly valuable. “We’re done here, right?”

Aemond is disappointed, though not with you. He has committed an error he cannot understand. “Yeah, we’re done.” He walks with you to the yellow house, your sneakers pounding in tandem on the sidewalk, squirrels and rabbits darting through the overgrown lawns, eastern tiger swallowtails swooping between blossoms.

Aegon says when you and Aemond arrive in the driveway, nodding to the once-attractive blonde zombie pawing and licking at the glass of the living room window: “Who wants to take care of Ryan Seacrest?”

“Got it,” Rio replies immediately. He kicks down the front door, macerates the zombie’s skull with the butt of his Remington, then sweeps through the kitchen and dining room searching for any other monsters in need of hasty euthanasia. He doesn’t find any. He drags the corpse outside to lessen the stench of decomposition and opens all the downstairs windows.

“Commence Operation Find The Minivan Keys,” Aegon says as he rummages through drawers and cabinets. Helaena joins him, seeking so delicately she is almost soundless, her large blue eyes flicking from place to place. Luke, Rhaena, and Daeron stay outside to keep watch. Baela collapses into a recliner in one corner of the living room and is dozing within seconds.

“I’ll clear the upstairs,” Aemond volunteers, then asks you: “Watch my blind side?”

You can’t help but smile; it is a generous invitation. It is an honor. You shadow him up the staircase of olive green carpet, through the hallway, into each of the three bedrooms and one full bath. When you are certain it is safe—exploring the back of every closet, under every bed—you and Aemond begin searching for weapons and car keys. The main bedroom is like a forest: blankets pattered with trees and deer, wood furniture, paintings of the Battle of the Wilderness during the Civil War. You investigate every drawer of the nightstand and dresser, then go to leave.

“Wait.” Aemond peeks out into the hallway to make sure no one else is around, then closes the bedroom door. Your eyes track him quizzically, shy skittish optimism, your head tilted, your fingers finding the dresser behind you, cool rust-hued oak, a color like dried blood. You slip off your backpack. Then Aemond comes to you like a returning comet—once in a lifetime, once in an eon—and holds your face in his hands as he kisses you, soft, careful, unhurried, then turning famished, sweltering incurable hunger. You lift yourself up onto the dresser; your thighs have parted, and Aemond is between them, still fully clothed and leaving yours in place too, so innocent, so spotless, and yet in your mind you are imagining what it would feel like to lie beneath him as he opens and fills you, to be so irredeemably close to another person, to watch and listen as he teaches you what to do.

Right here? Right now?

It suddenly strikes you as too soon; you want this but you aren’t ready. Your heart races, you can’t catch your breath. “I am obligated to make you aware that according to your own calculations, I am likely dangerously fertile at the moment.”

Aemond grins as he bites playfully at your lower lip. “Relax. We’re not rounding all the bases this time.”

His voice evaporates your panic, lulls your rushing blood. Your muscles turn to seamless rippling water. Your bones crave the weight of his. “Yeah, totally, good, that’s good. Just making sure.”

“I want to touch you. Can I touch you?”

In reply, you unbutton your denim shorts and pull down the zipper, slowly, very slowly, your gaze linked with his like torn flesh stitched together. He’s close enough to kiss you again, but he doesn’t; he takes your chin gently and turns your face to the side, admiring the curve of your jaw. Then his lips are on your throat and his right hand is skimming down the front of your shirt, over your belly, under your shorts. You gasp—the foreignness of another’s hand here, the disorienting vulnerability—and Aemond stops.

“No, I’m okay,” you assure him, smiling. You kiss him deeply, your fingertips tracing his scar, the work of his careful, gifted hands. Aemond does not flinch away. He presses his face into your palm, offering himself fully, taking shelter in you. And everything other than him—this house, this world, this age, this westward journey, this apocalypse—goes quiet, quiet, quiet, like when you are shooting, like when you are hammering nails under the sun. Aemond makes everything horrifying disappear. It is the greatest sort of magic you can imagine.

“So,” he says. “What did you buy at Spencer’s?”

“Green Day t-shirts.”

“Sure.”

“And some, uh, battery-powered companionship.”

“Hm.” Aemond’s fingers are moving against you; it is increasingly difficult to respond to his questions. “Internal or external? Or both?”

“Oh, definitely…um…I stayed on the outside, mostly. I tried…oh wow, okay…inside a few times, but I didn’t get much out of it. It was mostly just uncomfortable.”

“No problem. We’ll work up to that.”

“Will we?” You hope you don’t sound too desperate. The warm coiling pleasure is swelling, strengthening, begging to be released, loosed like an arrow or fired like a bullet. Aemond’s fingers slip through your wetness, circling and pressing down harder, insistently, masterfully. It feels different than using toys: it is more gradual, less sharp, helplessly overpowering.

“That’s my plan. If you’ll allow it.”

You exhale a threadbare ghost of a whimper against his throat and then reach for his shorts, fumbling blindly for the button and zipper.

“No, don’t do anything,” Aemond murmurs, soft and pleading, almost like a prayer. “Let me take care of you. Please let me feel like I’m doing something right.”

“You’re doing a lot right at the moment.” You’re close now, your breaths quick and panting. You throw your arms around the back of Aemond’s neck and fold into him, feeling the thudding pulse of his carotid artery beneath your fingertips, the softness of his lips and unscarred cheek as he nuzzles the side of your face. It’s so quiet, but there’s no need to fill the silence, no words, no uneasiness. You’ve always wondered what you would have to do to please a man, what premeditated motions and praises you would offer him, niceties, perhaps even lies. But this is effortless. The shimmering golden glow like sunlight is here, and he is the one drawing it out of you, water from a well, blood from a tapped vein. The only sound you make is a shuddering inhale, but Aemond knows immediately. He closes his eyes, relieved, proud, beaming, resting his forehead against yours.

He asks: “Can I try…?”

“Yes, do it, please, I want you to.”

Aemond’s hand shifts between your thighs, moves lower, and there is a sudden jolt of pain like a pinch, like a bite. You wince before you can think to disguise it. Immediately, Aemond retreats, kissing your lips and your cheeks. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You were incredible.”

You reach for his shorts again and unbutton them. “Show me what to do.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

He takes a shaky breath, drags his tongue over the fingers he touched you with, moans so quietly you can barely hear him. He frees himself from his clothes: long and thick, harder than you believed flesh could be. Aemond grasps your hand and places it, demonstrates how to move and how much pressure to apply. Then his own hands drop to grip the edge of the dresser as you stroke him. You nip at his throat, his jaw, the shell of his ear; you coax euphoric sighs from him, feel a high in your bloodstream like something illicit and lethal.

“I’ll be honest,” you say. “I have no idea how that’s ever going to fit inside me.”

Aemond chuckles, distracted. “Women stretch, just like men do. It might take time, but it will happen. And I’ll make sure it’s as good as it can be.”

“I want it to be you, Aemond,” you whisper, and you can feel him throbbing in your hand. “You and no one else. Teach me how to do everything.” Make the world go away.

He gasps as he finishes, a thunderous trembling all over, a gush of white heat that flows over your hand. Curious, you lift it to your mouth. “Don’t—!”

But he’s too late; you lick him from your palm and then recoil at the taste, pungent, bitter, salty.

Aemond laughs hysterically, kissing your mouth and then your forehead. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I should have warned you.”

“I hope I taste better than that.”

“You definitely do.”

You peer up at him, dazed, dreamy. “I really like you, Aemond.”

“You can’t fall in love with me.” It is a taunt; it is a warning.

“If I do, I won’t let you know,” you promise. “You’re on first watch tonight, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Then I’ll stay up too.”

“Rio already volunteered to do it.”

“Really, I don’t mind.”

“No,” Aemond purrs, brushing your hair back from your face, marveling at you. “I can’t have you sleep deprived. You’re our best shot.”

“I can handle it.”

“You want to be honest with each other, you want to communicate? I like knowing you’re rested. I like knowing you’re safe.”

The door flies open with a bang; Aegon stands in the threshold. “We’ve got three-quarters of a tank of gas!” he announces ecstatically, jangling car keys in the air. Then he registers what he’s looking at. “Come outside when you’re done fucking.” Aegon slams the door shut; you hear his Sperry Bahama sneakers drumming on the staircase.

“I guess we should go,” you say reluctantly, untangling yourself from Aemond and sliding down from the dresser.

“Wait.” He gets a water bottle out of your backpack, soaks a handful of Kleenex tissues, and gives them to you to clean yourself off. When you’re done, he wipes himself down too. “Make sure you always take a piss after any…activities. We don’t have antibiotics if you get a kidney infection.”

“I know, doctor. I’ve read Reddit threads.”

“Not a doctor. Just a lowly intern.”

“You seem like an anatomy expert to me,” you say, then head downstairs.

The black Honda Odyssey is idling as the last of the supplies are loaded, the windows down, Baela adjusting the driver’s seat so she can accommodate her belly. Everyone piles inside and she steers the minivan out of the driveway and onto Trux Street. Aegon pops one of his mixtapes into the CD player. The song that pipes through the speakers is Prayer In C:

“Yeah, you never said a word

You didn’t send me no letter

Don’t think I could forgive you…”

“So,” Baela says casually, grinning at you in the rearview mirror. “How was the sex?”

“Stop,” Aemond begs, his face going red, smiling involuntarily.

You say placidly: “I appreciate your interest, but that’s not what we were doing.”

Rio turns to Aegon. “Do you know what sex looks like or not, dumbass?”

“They were doing something, okay! Those were not virginal activities!”

“See, our world is slowly dying

I’m not wasting no more time

Don’t think I could believe you…”

You rest your head on Aemond’s shoulder and watch the abandoned houses pass by in a blur.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Odyssey arrives in Decatur, Indiana just a few hours before sunset, gas to spare and plenty of time to find a safe place to spend the night. You break into a house on the outskirts of the west side of the city: a rancher with a screened-in porch, beach décor, bowls of seashells on tables and spray-painted aluminum dolphins on the wall. Baela plummets into sleep immediately, sharing the largest bed with Rhaena and Luke. Helaena writes in her spider notebook for a while before curling up on the living room couch, Daeron sprawled on the floor beside her with a couch cushion for a pillow. Aegon is in what was once a child’s bedroom; you have the bedroom of a teenage girl, perhaps spirited away to friends or relatives in some other part of the country, perhaps dead, perhaps lurching around out in the night somewhere, mad and murderous. Everything is purple, the walls, the blankets, the stuffed animals that form a mountain on the other half of the bed.

You are exhausted, but you can’t sleep. Your thoughts won’t stop racing, stop craving. Aemond and Rio are in rocking chairs out on the porch, keeping watch and working their way through the case of Sunny D they found in the kitchen pantry. You go out to join them, then stop at the screen door that separates the linoleum-floored dining room from the porch. They are discussing you. You sit, legs crossed, listening in the dim silvery light, stars and moon and nothing else.

Aemond is saying: “She doesn’t talk much about where she came from.”

Rio chuckles, a low baritone rumble. “She doesn’t talk much in general. But yeah, don’t expect any juicy revelations. That’s not how she does things.”

“Do you know what her life was like before?”

“I know some of it. I don’t know a lot.” Rio pauses; you can envision him shrugging and running his fingers through his dark curly hair, weighing what you would be okay with him sharing. “I know that when I met her, her mother was calling all the time telling her to send money home. And she’d do it, because she felt like she didn’t have a choice. Then she never had cash for drinks or anything, I was always paying her way, and one day I was finally like ‘Chips, how much do you actually have in your account right now?’ because I figured she must be down real low. Jesus Christ, I couldn’t believe it when she showed me the balance, she had like three bucks left until her next paycheck, and of course then her mother would be calling again. She sent tens of thousands of dollars home that disappeared, poof, gone, without a trace.”

Aemond sounds stunned. “What did they spend it on?”

“Who the fuck knows with those people. Lottery tickets and cigs, probably. Trips to Virginia Beach. Benny Hinn Bibles. And when she tried to hit the brakes, her mother and siblings got nasty, calling constantly and telling her how awful she was and that they were going to starve. I convinced her to stop picking up the phone, but it took forever. I think she knew by then she was going to have to cut them off if she didn’t want to end up back there, but she needed somebody to give her permission. That was my job. As far as I know, she hasn’t spoken to anyone from home in years. Hell, Sophie was her AOP.”

“AOP…?”

“Oh, sorry, Arrears of Pay. It’s the person you designate to get all your benefits if you die in the service. I guess she figured that if our base got bombed or our plane went down or something, at least it would end up with my family.”

Aemond is quiet, thirty seconds, a minute, maybe two. “Obviously my circumstances were a lot different. But I understand having to choose between other people’s expectations and yourself.”

“Why are you asking me all this?”

Another pause; silent thoughts under glimmering stars and the shrieks of short-lived summer cicadas. “She takes me out of this world for a while. She makes the guilt and the fear go quiet. I want to know everything about her.”

When Rio speaks, he is gentle, compassionate. “The hard truth is, the details aren’t my business. They aren’t yours either. When people enlist, they’re starting over. It’s a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It gets them away from home, but it also gets them away from whoever they were before.”

“She said something like that once. Back at Fort Indiantown Gap.”

“It’s a polite way of telling you to shut up.” You know from his voice that Rio is smiling. “If she wants to forget her old life, you have to let her. If you care about her, you’ll want her to be able to move on.”

“I care.”

“She likes you,” Rio says. “But you could still fuck it up. She’s good at finding reasons not to trust people.”

“It’s a bad way to live.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I know. I’m the same way.”

There is quiet now, only the sounds of Sunny D being slurped and cicadas screaming through the darkness. You have intruded enough. You stand and walk back down the hallway, then remember something Aegon said outside a Burger King in Pennsylvania. You go to his bedroom, illuminated by a flashlight pointed towards the ceiling, casting long deformed shadows.

Aegon is lying on his back with his head hanging upside down over the side of the bed—dinosaur blankets, bright red and blue pillows—puffing on a cigarette and listening to his new CD player, previously Ava’s, with both earbuds in. Then he spots you. Still upside down, Aegon hits the pause button on his CD player and says: “Hey, Microchip.”

“What did you mean about people pretending to love you?”

He smirks, shrugs, takes a lazy drag off his Marlboro Gold. “Every friend I’ve ever had has used me for money, mansions, yachts. Every girl I’ve ever fucked has wanted something in return. Mother prefers Daeron, Grandfather prefers Helaena, Criston prefers Aemond, and Father prefers his real estate empire and his model ships. Can you imagine loving a miniature replica of the Titanic more than your own children?”

“No,” you say, honestly and with heavy, gore-red pity. “You shouldn’t have to go back to people who make you feel that way. I wouldn’t.”

Aegon takes another drag as he watches you. “Aemond mentioned you’re from Kentucky.”

“I am.”

“But you won’t be returning.”

“No.”

Aegon nods, like you’ve answered an important question. “Aemond talks about you a lot. It’s cute. It doesn’t make me sick like when he was with Alys. Playing her games, breaking himself in half to follow her rules.”

You peer down at your fingernails, short and functional and unglamorous. You don’t want to hear about the older woman who was his lover, his obsession, his cure, his venom. She was poisonous to him, surely, and yet she was experienced where you are uninitiated and unversed, she had a PhD to compare with your high school diploma. Surely in those seven years he shared moments with her that were divine. Surely even a curse is woven from magic.

“Anyway.” Aegon rolls over, props himself up on his elbows, and extinguishes his cigarette in an empty plastic Sunny D bottle. “I have no particular affinity for my old life or the beach house in California, but that’s where Aemond is going. And I have to be where he is. I have to make sure he’s alright, you know?”

Yes, you do know; that’s how you feel about Rio. “What’s it like? That house up on a cliff all by itself?”

Aegon grins, like he’s caught you in a mouthwateringly compromising position. “Why? You thinking about visiting someday?”

“Just wondering.”

He squirms over to one side of the bed to make room for you, popping in an earbud. “Come listen with me.”

“What is it?”

“Just come over here!”

You cross the room and kick off your sneakers, climb onto the bed, lie down and take the other earbud that Aegon offers you. What you hear when you listen is Don McLean’s American Pie. “Oh, this is ancient.”

“It’s a classic. I wish I’d gotten to live through the 70s.”

“We’ll reinvent them when the world starts up again. Disco and lava lamps and shag carpets. We’ll shoot heroin and listen to vinyl records. Jimmy Carter can be president if he’s still alive.”

Aegon snickers, and then he sings along, hushed but surprisingly melodic, solemn, tender. He’s looking at you expectantly, eyebrows raised, nodding, beckoning for you to join him. You adamantly refuse. You don’t sing in front of anybody, not even Rio.

“I met a girl who sang the blues

And I asked her for some happy news

But she just smiled and turned away

I went down to the sacred store

Where I’d heard the music years before

But the man there said the music wouldn’t play…”

Aegon shoves your shoulder. “I could be dead tomorrow. Don’t ignore me.”

Self-consciously, but smiling a little bit, you begin to sing with him, so softly you can barely hear yourself. Aegon is beaming, small even white teeth beneath sparkling eyes, a murky cool blue like storm clouds, like the ocean, waves lapping at the shores of Diego Garcia, the Gulf of Tadjoura off the east coast of Djibouti, Corpus Christi Bay, places you once never knew existed.

“And in the streets, the children screamed

The lovers cried and the poets dreamed

But not a word was spoken

The church bells all were broken

And the three men I admire most

The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost

They caught the last train for the coast

The day the music died.”

[kisskourt]

stem riri williams headcanons

pairing: riri williams x black!reader

contains: fluff, smut (18+)

taglist: @inmyheadimobsessed @abenomeiiii @shurislover @phantomof-themcu @sapphicvqmpires @sapphicjunglefever @playhousedistee @thtgirlllmona @vixentheplanet @dejaonline @prettymrswright

author’s note: this version of riri lives rent free in my head. s/o to my baby @inmyheadimobsessed for helping me. i love you pookie wookie! anyways, if you would like to be in my taglist, just let me know. thanks for reading!

SFW

🔩 the epitome of a girly tomboy. her closet is a mixture of men's and women's clothing. her go to look is a fitted top, baggy pants, and a pair of sneakers. around the house, she likes to wear a sports bra and boxer briefs. for formal events, she opts for a tailored suit and heels.

🔩 cornrows, box braids, knotless braids; she's tried them all. of the styles, straight back cornrows are her favorite. if she's feeling nostalgic, she'll add beads at the end of her braids. regardless of the style, her edges must be done. when she’s in a rush, she’d rather throw a hat on than to be seen without her edges laid.

🔩 without jewelry she feels naked. gold is her preferred metal but she’ll wear silver if it matches her outfit. her chains are a staple with anything she wears.

🔩 obsessed with getting her nails done. there is an agreement between the two of you that you pick the color and she picks the design. however, sometimes she’s adventurous and surprises you with a random color.

🔩 the biggest baby ever. after a long day of classes, she craves you. engulfed in your arms is her safe space. if she could live in your skin, she would.

🔩 before attending MIT, she worked at a car repair shop in high school. her love for cars stems from her relationship with her step-father. as a child, she would help him repair his plymouth barracuda in the garage. getting her hands dirty reminds her of the time she spent with him. in her free time, you often catch her in her garage modifying the plymouth barracuda. she recently installed a set of brake calipers in the color red.

🔩 legos! legos! legos! your girlfriend is a fein for anything lego. legos allow her to keep her hands busy while keeping her mind stimulated.

🔩 gym rat DOWN! she lives in the gym; it’s a safe space for her. for riri, each set, each rep, are not just pursuits of strength, but a ritual of equilibrium. she chases that release of dopamine; it balances her.

🔩 she’s your personal stylist. riri spends hours on pinterest saving fits and curating looks for you. she enjoys seeing you in the clothes she buys you, and she’s even more obsessed with taking your pictures. you have an entire instagram page dedicated to the outfits she’s made for you, and you must tag her so that 1. your followers know that she put the fit together and 2. you’re absolutely 100% taken, so they better not try anything!

NSFW

🔩 horny 25/8. 3 in the morning? horny. 5 in the afternoon? horny. she’s down for whatever, whenever.

🔩 a strap slinger! she loves seeing the way you react every time her strap disappears in you. her favorite position is missionary because it allows her to look into your eyes as she’s drilling you.

with her hand wrapped around your throat, riri smiles. her pace is relentless; a clear indication that she is determined to overstimulate you. your legs are wrapped around her torso, holding on for dear life.

tears began forming in your eyes; the feeling of pain and pleasure mixing.

"give it to me, baby." she hums.

“let go.”

you know what she desires, and you know how much she loves discovering the intricacies of your body.

the grip on your neck tightened as she hit your g-spot. the aroma of sex and musk fill the room as you close your eyes. seconds later, your right nipple is met with a harsh slap, followed by a demanding suckle.

"did i say you could close your eyes?"

🔩 devouring you is her favorite pastime. you're upset? head. stressed out? head. it doesn't matter when or where; she's always ready to drop to her knees for a taste of you.

with a sigh, riri places her keys on the kitchen counter. picking up her phone, she sends you a series of texts:

🔩 undoubtedly a switch. as much as she loves bending you over, she yearns for your dominance. relinquishing control to you is easy for her.

🔩 has a tramp stamp that reads "lucky you" in red ink.

🔩 she loves the feeling of you tugging on her braids as she cleans you up. slurp after slurp, she doesn't dare complain about how tight your grip is. all she cares about is how lovely you taste.

🔩 tying you up so she can see you squirm is one of the ways she punishes you when you've been a brat.

🔩 when she's frustrated with you, she makes you watch as she rubs her clit.

you extend your arms, attempting to touch her. swatting your hand away, she smirks.

"do you deserve to touch me?” you shake your in defiance.

"then stop trying to touch me!"

[seat-safety-switch]

Many argue that the strength of Western civilization is its strong historical bedrock of legal practices, verified knowledge, and careful study. Others will say that it's ambition, rule-breaking, and adventure that drive success. I disagree with both sides, which proves I am the most intelligent of all. What makes Western civilization great is junkyards.

Sure, other countries have junkyards. Some of them are really great: China has vast miles of industrial refuse, enough that you could build projects for a million lifetimes. The Dutch have charming feral populations that live within their abandoned DAFs. However, I can’t walk to any of those countries when my shitbox Dodge throws a rod, which is what makes our local ones the best in all the lands.

Here, too, is the essential tension. All the scums who want you to buy new cars live here, or at least their rich failchildren do, and they would really rather prefer you stop pulling random components out of the trash heap and slapping them into the vague configuration of an automobile. Otherwise, they can’t afford their own space station. New Zealand? They don’t have a car industry at all. If you want to make a car out of papier maché there, there’s no industry fat cat to call his golf buddy and make some unjust, arbitrary horseshit like “should probably have a windshield” the law of the land. Some of the fun in thumbing your nose at The Man is gone.

That’s why I’m really patriotic about our shitty yards full of garbage that cost you a few bucks to roll around in cancer mud. However, like any true patriot, I acknowledge that our system isn’t perfect. It has room for improvement. And if the small island nation of Japan is willing to pony up a couple bucks for a plane ticket, I am perfectly willing to visit all of their junkyards on a fact-finding mission to figure out if any of them contain an axle for a 1980 Plymouth Sapporo. Call it my little contribution to world peace.

[daddyelliott1979]

Build a bear adventure part 2

Looking super cute and toddlerish we got the train to Exeter.

First up we had to find a post office as Daddy had to put his cash takings from the previous day in the bank.

Then we grabbed coffee.

@squirtdaboi wanted a copy of the new Paw Patrol game, however we couldn't find it. Riley looked a little sad and glum. But Daddy wasn't going to let that ruin the day, so he checked to see if there was an Argos to purchase it from; and there was!

So we made our way to Build a Bear first.

We met a really nice lady who helped Riley with his Chase Stuffie, and asked him if it was for him, or someone else.

Daddy said it was Riley's, and we all talked about how awesome Paw patrol is. I said I was off to hit him the game next and she excitedly told Riley she loves the game.

Daddy chipped in, explaining how I bought him the Bluey game a couple weeks back, and we all laughed about how much we loved Bluey.

This all made Riley feel so much more comfortable. Every time the nice lady asked if he wanted additional options he looked to me for approval; how could I say no, he had been such a good boy all day.

After his Chase was made, complete with sounds, beating heart and strawberry scent, it was time to choose his outfit, of course with all the extras.

We then made an adoption certificate, in Riley's name and little age, then went to speak to a really nice man who who rung up the purchase and gave Riley a special stuffie bag to carry chase in; and the adoption certificate.

I told Riley to say thanks you to the nice man and then we left. Deciding to head back to Plymouth to get the game. Of course Daddy had to carry Chase.

We took the Train home, got to Game, bought the new Paw patrol world game, got food for dinner and then caught the bus.

On the ride home, the bus was busy, there was noise, bright lights and a lot of commotion. Riley appeared distressed, and Daddy realised he was starting to have a sensory overload.

Using Chase Daddy started to play with Riley, pushing his paw to make his sounds, pushing his heart and rubbing him over Riley's face.

We got home and Daddy worked quickly to get Riley wrapped up in blankets, calm, and relaxed. Dimming the lights and providing alternative stimulation. Lots of quiet voices.

He was changed and put into a jogging suit and lots of blankets.

It took a little while but Riley calmed and thanked Daddy for looking after him. We ate dinner and spent the evening watching movies till bedtime.

It was decided to let Riley sleep on his own to reduce any extra stimulation, something that was hard for both of us, but that is another story coming later!

Maybe @squirtdaboi would like to add his perspective if he wants!

[ameliafuckinjones]

Reading Albion's Seed and finding out that the overwhelming majority of the Puritans who left on the Arbella (and other vessels in the Winthrop Fleet that left along with them from England because it was pretty much a Puritan exodus) to officially set up the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1630 were minor nobility who were college educated and relatively wealthy. Also, the Arbella ship was initially going to be called Eagle, but they decided to name it after Lady Arbella Johnson, one of the first settlers of the Massachusetts Bay Colony and the daughter of Thomas Clinton, 3rd Earl of Lincoln.

This ties in so well with my ideas about Amelia being raised in the New England colonies by the Puritans and now I'm considering the thought of her being sent with them (from England) in 1630 as opposed to 1620 with the Pilgrims. The Pilgrims were more of a peasant (?) class of religious dissenters seeking religious freedom while the Puritans - while also seeking religious freedom - were affluent, and such affluence benefitted their adventures in the new world due to money and status. Amelia, for all intents and purposes, would be the equivalent of a lord's daughter, so I hardly doubt Arthur would send her with the Mayflower back to the new world, though he might be more inclined to send her with the noble Puritans on the Arbella. I'm still attached to the idea of Plymouth being America's Hometown buuuut it doesn't seem very feasible when considering things like class and religion ( because the Pilgrims wanted to separate completely from the Church of England while the Puritans only sought to reform it from within) in the early 17th century and how that would affect Arthur’s decisions in regards to Amelia and her upbrining.

Also I imagine that while in England, Arthur makes her attend Anglican church, but her governess, a minor noble woman of secret Puritan faith, takes her to more intimate gatherings for Puritans (without Arthur's knowledge or permission of course). This eventually creates Drama™.

[mia-seth-adventures]

1965 Plymouth Barracuda by David E Nelson

[brokehorrorfan]

John Carpenter will release his fourth solo album, Lost Themes IV: Noir, on May 3 via Sacred Bones Records. The filmmaker/composer is, as always, accompanied by son Cody Carpenter on synthesizer and godson Daniel Davies on guitar.

The album is available to pre-order on vinyl in several colorways, each of which features a foil stamped jacket and comes with a 24x36 fold-out poster (pictured below):

Black ($20)

Red ($24)

Indie exclusive tan and black marble with bonus 7"

Sacred Bones exclusive red on clear splatter with bonus 7" ($30, limited to 1,000)

Rough Trade exclusive oxblood red and black splatter with bonus 7" ($33, limited to 300)

Shout Factory exclusive black and clear cloudy with bonus 7" ($32, limited to 500)

The album is also available on CD ($14) and cassette ($12). Watch the music video for a new song titled "My Name Is Death" below, where you can also read the press release.

It’s been a decade since John Carpenter recorded the material that would become Lost Themes, his debut album of non-film music and the opening salvo in one of Hollywood’s great second acts. Those vibrant, synth-driven songs, made in collaboration with his son Cody Carpenter and godson Daniel Davies, kickstarted a musical renaissance for the pioneering composer and director. In the years since, Carpenter, Carpenter, and Davies have released close to a dozen musical projects, including a growing library of studio albums and the scores for David Gordon Green’s trilogy of Halloween reboots. With Lost Themes IV: Noir, they’ve struck gold again, this time mining the rich history of the film noir genre for inspiration. Since the first Lost Themes, John has referred to these compositions as “soundtracks for the movies in your mind.” On the fourth installment in the series, those movies are noirs. Like the film genre they were influenced by, what makes these songs “noirish” is sometimes slippery and hard to define, and not merely reducible to a collection of tropes. The scores for the great American noir pictures were largely orchestral, while the Carpenters and Davies work off a sturdy synth-and-guitar backbone. The noir quality, then, is something you understand instinctively when you hear it. “Some of the music is heavy guitar riffs, which is not in old noir films,” Davies notes. “But somehow, it’s connected in an emotional way.” The trio’s free-flowing chemistry means Lost Themes IV: Noir runs like a well-oiled machine—the 1951 Jaguar XK120 Roadster from Kiss Me Deadly, perhaps, or the 1958 Plymouth Fury from John’s own Christine. It’s a chemistry that’s helped power one of the most productive stretches of John’s creative life, and Noir proves that it’s nowhere near done yielding brilliant results. “This is who we are, I think,” John summarizes. “Daniel’s the adventurer. He pushes for new sounds, new directions. He tries things that I haven’t thought of. He’s a lot more daring than I am, and he enriches the whole thing. Cody’s the musician. He’s a savant at music. He understands music. We depend on him to rescue us.” And what about John’s contribution? With characteristic understatement, he concludes: “I’m the experience. I’ve done music for movies before.”

[ltwilliammowett]

A light on a reef

Until the end of the 17th century one of the threats facing shipping heading to Plymouth on the southern coast of England was the isolated and treacherous Eddystone reef, 23km directly offshore. Much of the hazard is underwater, creating complex currents, and extraordinarily high seas are often kicked up when conditions are very windy. In 1620 Captain Christopher Jones, master of Mayflower described the reef: "Twenty-three rust red [...] ragged stones around which the sea constantly eddies, a great danger [...] for if any vessel makes too far to the south [...] she will be swept to her doom on these evil rocks." As trade with America increased during the 1600s a growing number of ships approaching the English Channel from the west were wrecked on the Eddystone reef.

King William III and Queen Mary were petitioned that something be done about marking the infamous hazard. Plan to erect a warning light by funding the project with a penny a ton charge on all vessels passing initially foundered. Then an enterprising character called Henry Winstanley stepped forward and took on the most adventurous marine construction job the world had ever seen. Work commenced on the mainly wooden structure in July 1696. England was again at war, and such was the importance of the project that the Admiralty provided a man-o-war for protection.

The Winstanley Lighthouse, by English School, 17th century (x)

On one day, however, HMS Terrible did not arrive and a passing French privateer seized Winstanley and carried him off to France. When Louis XIV heard of the incident he ordered his release. " France is at war with England, not humanity," said the King. Winstanley's was the first lighthouse to be built in the open sea. It was a true feat of human endeavour. Work could only be undertaken in summer and for the first two years nothing could be left on the rock or it would be swept away. There was some assistance from Terrible in transporting the building materials, but much had to be rowed out in an open four-oared boat in a journey that could take nine hours each way. Winstanley's lighthouse was swept away after less that five years, during the great storm of 1703.

John Rudyerd's wooden lighthouse of 1708, by Issac Sailmaker, c. 1708 (x)

Winstanley was in it at the time supervising some repairs- he had said that he wished to be there during " the greatest storm that ever was." The next lighthouse was built by John Rudyerd and lit in 1709. Also made largely of timber and with granite ballast, it gave good service for nearly half a century until destroyed by fire in 1755. During the blaze the lead cupola began to melt, and as the duty keeper, 94- old Henry Hall, was throwing water upwards from a bucket he accidentally swallowed 200g of the molten metal. No one believed his incredible tale, but when he died 12 days later doctors found a lump of lead in his stomach.

Smeaton's Eddystone Lighthouse, by John Lynn (active 1826-1869) (x)

John Smeaton, Britian's first great civil engineer, was the next to rise to the challenge of Eddystone. He took the English oak as his design inspiration - a broad base narrowing in a gentle curve. The 22m high lighthouse was built using solid discs of stone dovetailed together. Work began in 1756, and from start to finish the work took three years, nine weeks and three days. Small boats transported nearly 1000 tons of granite and Portland stone along with all the equipment and men.

  Sir James N. Douglass's Eddystone Lighthouse, Plymouth, England, photochrome print, c. 1890–1900. The remnants of John Smeaton's lighthouse are at left. (x)

The Smeaton lighthouse stood for over 100 years. In the end it was not the lighthouse that failed; rather that the sea was found to have eaten away the rock beneath the structure. In 1882 it was dismantled and brought back to Plymouth, where it was re-erected stone on the Hoe as a memorial, and where it still stands.

The Eddystone lighthouse today (x)

It had already been replaced by a new lighthouse, twice as tall and four and a half times as large, designed by James Douglas, which now gives mariners a beacon of light visible for 22 nautical miles (40,78km).

[haggishlyhagging]

From the first settlement of Plymouth Plantation and Massachusetts Bay, wives came with their husbands or followed close behind. The Mayflower brought twenty-nine women and seventy-five men in 1620, and almost every ship arriving in Massachusetts in the following decades carried some women and children. Some of these women came reluctantly; Madam Winthrop kept postponing the trip to join husband John in Massachusetts Bay until he grew quite out of patience. Others changed their minds after they arrived. Young Mistress Dorothy Bradford's fatal plunge from the Mayflower as it lay at anchor off the bleak Plymouth shore was almost certainly no accident. But the women who settled in Massachusetts (or died in the attempt) in the first half of the seventeenth century were unique: they were probably the only Englishwomen who came to America before 1650 of their own volition. Most women were tricked or coerced. They didn't emigrate. They were shipped.

The first consignment of ninety single women was sent to Jamestown, Virginia, in 1620 at the urging of Sir Edwin Sandys, erstwhile highwayman and treasurer of the Virginia Company. Unlike the Massachusetts plantations, Jamestown had been established by a band of rogues and bachelor adventurers. Sandys shared Captain John Smith's opinion that the lack of wives and family attachments in the plantation made it unstable and easy prey to "dissolucon." The women were supposed to "make the men more setled & lesse moveable who by defect thereof (as is credibly reported) stay there but to get something and then return to England." When the women married, as they all soon did, their new husbands were required to defray the cost of their crossing to the tune of 120 pounds of good leaf tobacco. These young women reportedly came "upon good recommendation," and by 1621 when "an extraordinary choice lot of thirty-eight maids for wives" was sent, the price had risen to 150 pounds of tobacco. The men paid the sales price willingly; by 1622 all the maidens shipped—some 147 in all—were married. (By 1625, due to disease and Indian attacks, three-quarters of them were dead.)

How were these "young and uncorrupt" women persuaded to hazard a dangerous voyage to an uncharted country? Historian Carl Bridenbaugh found that the "means used to assemble them approached kidnapping." He cites the case of William Robinson, a chancery clerk, who was convicted in 1618 of counterfeiting the Great Seal of England. His racket was to use this false commission "to take up rich yeomen's daughters (or drive them to compound) to serve his Majestie for breeders in Virginia." Robinson was hanged, drawn, and quartered. What became of the yeomen's daughters is not noted. Owen Evans, a messenger for the Privy Council, ran a similar business. Pretending to have a royal commission, he extorted money for himself, or maidens for Virginia and Bermuda. Many a father must have been willing to sell his daughter rather than pay extortion to keep her. Superfluous daughters were the price men paid for the supernumerary sons who ensured continuation of the male line, and since England had become a Protestant country, fathers could no longer dump them in nunneries, which had been for Catholics as Milton observed—"convenient stowage for their withered daughters." Customarily, superfluous daughters had to be bought husbands, through a substantial dowry, or supported in idle spinsterhood. In seventeenth-century England, where basic family ties were more practical than affectionate, rich yeomen must have welcomed the patriotic alternative of bartering a daughter for the good of the empire. Bridenbaugh concludes that the Virginia Company's methods of recruitment "were such as to give the Company a bad name." He writes: "Women were transported to America after 1629 in considerable numbers by ruses and devices which will forever remain obscure."

-Ann Jones, Women Who Kill