#underground house publishing

[rafamonzo]

PROTOTYPE / プロトタイプ

Les Editions SHIROKURO / シロクロ出版  - Photobooks & Prints

https://leseditionsshirokuro.tumblr.com/

https://www.facebook.com/ShirokuroEditions

[leseditionsshirokuro]

“WISH YOU WERE HERE” Paco Poyato Signed and numbered photographs, size 30x40cm in a limited edition specially made for LasTresNegras & Les Editions shirokuro at a scandalous price!!!    SIZE : 30X40CM    PHOTOGRAPHIC SMOOTH PAPER 320GR.    FINE ART - GICLÉE PRINT    SIGNED AND NUMBERED BY HAND      LIMITED EDITION OF 50    40EUR + shipping    PAYPAL Order : info@lepetitmammouth.com

[graphicpolicy]

Last Exit to Feral: Little Town. Underground. is a solid horror graphic novel for kids

Last Exit to Feral: Little Town. Underground. is a solid horror graphic novel for kids #comics #comicbooks #graphicnovel #ncbd

Feral is littered with secrets, mysteries, and unexplained disappearances. The town has always been weird… and most residents just accept that. But intrepid young investigators Freya and Monica are sure that Feral is getting weirder. Kids are disappearing more and more, signs of the supernatural are surfacing in new places, and the lights went on in the attic of the abandoned Messner…

[thesoftboiledegg]

What makes JKR's shitshow even harder to process is that she didn't just ruin a book series. Harry Potter was an entire subculture. Like Star Wars and Star Trek fans, Harry Potter fans dedicated their lives and careers to the series. I don't know if I'd call it "underground," but liking Harry Potter got you beaten up when I was in school, so it was more of a dedicated indie culture than a mass-appeal fanbase.

Harry Potter was so huge that fan works developed their own followings. Potter Puppet Pals racked up hundreds of thousands of followers and was nearly as relevant as the series itself. For fanfiction, Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality got so big that it has a Wikipedia page. The band Harry and the Potters spawned the wizard rock music genre. A Very Potter Musical developed a fanbase and launched Darren Criss's career.

Harry Potter also has extensive ties to fandom history. Everyone in my generation (millennials) remembers coming home from school to read Harry Potter fanfiction on the Internet. Today, most people just post their stories on Wattpad or Archive of Our Own. But at the time, the fanbase was splintered between fanfiction.net and dozens of individual websites and forums, some made for specific ships. Since they all had individual hosts, a lot of those sites have been lost to time.

And there's the infamous My Immortal fanfiction, which is an Internet legend with people still searching for the author. Everybody read that one (and laughed at it) in middle school.

Pre-social media, fan sites like The Leaky Cauldron and Mugglenet had massive followings because they were one of few sources for news, theories, essays and fan content. Some of these sites still exist after being around for over a decade and building their own legacy.

Before Deathly Hallows came out, fans were so desperate to know what happened that Mugglenet published a book called What Will Happen in Harry Potter 7: Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Falls in Love and How Will the Adventure Finally End? Yep...Harry Potter was so big that people wrote separate books about what would happen in an upcoming book.

And that's not mentioning all the book release parties, Harry Potter-themed events, monuments, fan films, restaurants and even a theme park. A lot of fandoms have those, but Harry Potter infiltrated every aspect of popular culture.

Today, there's a thriving culture of "Harry Potter adults" with themed weddings, baby showers and Etsy stores. Putting your Hogwarts house in your Instagram bio is pretty much a prerequisite for joining the "bookish" community. Warner still produces new content, like the Fantastic Beasts series, although we've all seen what a disaster that's been.

Everyone has at least a few memories associated with Harry Potter even if it's just watching the movies. I had great memories associated with Harry Potter. But looking back at the subculture, history and thousands of fan works, it doesn't seem fun anymore. Studying the fandom or being part of it comes with an awkward tension because you don't want to seem like you're condoning JKR's bigotry but can't divorce her from the series. This subculture was spawned by a woman who turned her legacy of magic and wonder into one of abuse and hatred.

I don't expect people to write paragraphs about how much they hate JKR every time they post about Harry Potter, but it's still uncomfortable to see people make new content or wear their Harry Potter Etsy tote bags like nothing happened. Even if they clarify that they don't support her, it's just a weird, tense situation for everybody.

People dedicated years of their lives to running Harry Potter fan sites, writing fanfiction, cosplaying characters and making fan movies. If I were in that situation, I'd have a mild identity crisis. I'd ask myself "Did I waste all those years? Should I delete my content? Where do I go from here?"

So ultimately, JKR didn't ruin "just" a book series or even "just" a fandom. She tanked an entire culture, which inspired people to look at Harry Potter more critically. The issues that people brought to the light tainted the series's legacy even without JKR's personal issues.

Once, Harry Potter was a series for generations. Now, former fans hope that the series fades into irrelevancy. Unfortunately, JKR didn't just tarnish her legacy--she took decades of history, millions of fans and a worldwide subculture along with her.

[facts-i-just-made-up]

Oblomov’s Goncharov: The Novel That Started It All

To understand Martin Scorsese’s presentation of “Goncharov” (1973) it is first necessary to understand Oblomov’s original novel on which it is based, and indeed, the time in which it was written.

The author, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov, was a young nobleman who lived in the late 19th century in Moscow. Popular with the royal family and rich beyond all measure, he was targeted along with the royals by Lenin and the Bolsheviks when they took over Russia after the first world war (known then as World War Part I of II). To escape the fate of the royals (he is believed to have escaped the Winter Palace by only hours) he fled to Italy.

Italy was, at the time, a newly unified country of former city-states including Rome, Florence, Milan, and for some reason, Chicago, IL, the people of which may have thought “IL” stood for Italy at the time. Oblomov himself found protection in Vatican City (which was not a city, but a separate country) owing to his significant contributions to the Popesidential campaign of Pius XII. Once the revolution had died down in his former country, now part of the USSR, which is English for CCCP, which is Cyrillic for SSSR, which stood for USSR, Oblomov moved out into the “Country” (which was not a country, but just an Italian city) and began writing of his experiences.

Oblomov began his novel, Goncharov, in 1921. Its narrative was to be an epic escape from Russia to match his own, but this was not to be, as the house he moved into belonged to the family of Francesco Cuccia, known now as “Don Ciccio the All-Around Unpleasant” or “Cuccia the Pretty Damn Bloodthirsty.” Oblomov, having been tricked by certain vindictive members of the Vatican House of Commons, did not in fact have permission to live there.

As Oblomov himself tried to evade not only Don Ciccio’s mafia but Lenin’s assassins, Vatican intrigue, Templar knights trying to kill the Assassins, and of course, the order of assassins themselves, known then as “hidden ones” or simply, The Brotherhood; his novel Goncharov became a venting point for the tribulations to which he was subjected. Thus, Goncharov became the story of an epic battle between the Italian Mafia and Russians that we know today.

The novel Goncharov, published illegally in Soviet Russia as “Ivan Goncharov” or “The Many Sufferings Of Ivan Goncharov: Hope For The Best, Expect The Worst” was an underground hit. Stalin himself is said to have greatly enjoyed the novel before banning it, burning most copies of it, kidnapping its author and sending him to die in a gulag in Siberia. Though no record exists of Oblomov’s death, it does seem he was captured by Soviet secret police while visiting his parakeet in Yekaterinburg, and all record of him is lost upon his arrival in northern Siberia.

But a few copies made it out, and thanks to an English translation by Penguin Classics, the book fell into the hands of Martin Scorsese, who read the novel while in prep for his film Mean Streets, where he would go on to meet producer Domenico Procacci. Scorsese was of course too busy with his first New York epic to direct, but he agreed to co-produce the film. All that was missing was a director.

While filming the riot scene for Mean Streets though, Scorsese and his casting director happened to meet a certain extra with a peculiar name. Matteo JWHJ0715 (whose family name was changed at Ellis Island from “Jones”) had just moved to New York to achieve his dreams of Hollywood stardom, having thought Hollywood was one of New York’s suburbs. Scorsese corrected him and allayed his disappointment by inviting him to join him and Procacci for dinner.

The rest, as they say, is history.

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝟒𝟐! 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, mutual pining, angst♡

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Both are artists, reader is from a very wealthy family, both are living double lives, underaged smoking, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, forbidden love (ish?), swearing, daddy issues, mommy issues, reader is unhinged, both are mentally unstable, lots of flirting.

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ i thought about this plot over and over, and I hesitated publishing it since i don’t want to deviate so much from everything but i said fuck it, so now ere i am, greeting y’all with ‘wassup villain’

Tag list ೃ⁀➷ @sakura-onesan @coffeeandtealol @luvjunie @noetophat @proudgojofucker @depresssedcowboy @shuna-boin

⚠️ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⚠️ Mommy issues, mention of death,, profane language, plot progression. Pronouns keep shifting bc Miles thinks you’re a guy. A bit confusing? Anyways, congrats with your debut. I’ve got uh.. A little surprise? Enjoy.

FIC MASTERLIST

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

"Park behind the building B, McLaren. I’ll have to deal with a separate matter, for now, call backup."

"Yes, miss."

Ring. Ring.

Your head pivots at the sound of your phone’s ringing, eagerly answering the call without having to look into the ID, knowing a thing or two about a certain someone’s timing.

“What’s going on so early in the morning?” Your father haggardly asks. You could already smell the stench of his morning breath from the car.

“We have trespassers in the Warehouse.” You start. “Two of them, partners. The duo we know as the Prowlers.”

“What?” You hear the morning grogginess laced in his voice. “Who leaked the information?”

“I’ve updated Morrison and he’s currently investigating the black market. I suspect a traitor.”

“Evidence?”

“There’d been no reports of outsiders entering the vicinity. All employees have been given fake addresses and all of their gadgets have been monitored— and so far, no one’s been flagged, so my guess is.. A higher up who’s sold us out.”

There you go.

“… I’ll look into it.” Your father mumbles. “Make sure that nothing is released into the media. The election is coming soon, we don’t want to do anything that’ll stir the public.”

“Understood.”

And the call ends just like that.

You blankly look at the road ahead of you, skin itching from the tightness and texture of your leather coat. Laid before your lap was a flat screen, in it were nine boxes— each playing a variety of scenes brought to you by the hidden cameras. Across every box, two swift figures maneuvered past the rooms with incredible ease. Several workers and scientists were sprawled across the jagged floors, motionless like corpses. You grimaced at the possibility of them being dead, but after seeing the thick gas emanating throughout every crevice of the building, you safely assumed that they were simply knocked out.

The Warehouse housed one of your father's investments; an Oscorp-Alchemax experiment funded by the elites, done underground and tested on prisoners to find some sort of super serum. When the new money folks thrusted themselves into the world of High society, most of the higher elites came to applaud the idea of one man.

Harry Osborn.

As a kid, you grew up aspiring to be like Harry. Always so friendly and approachable to anyone and everyone he’s ever met.

He did it so effortlessly that you recognized his niceness as a talent.

Harry came from second generation money— hailing this scientific empire called Oscorp. Having been brought up by his father, Norman, who was an industrialist, Harry was all things sciencey.

After his father's death, Harry sought out a blueprint of his father's past works, finding a journal containing the records of several hypotheses in regard to a variety of drugs. A sort of instruction to turn into a superhuman being, he claims, that his father had put into mind but never really practiced.

A handful of the higher-ups adored the impressionable idea, one of its primary investors being your father. You never really understood his reasons, but when the drug seemingly began showing fruitful results, your father set you up under Antonne's name to supervise Warehouse 317 after Harry entrusted your family to house the experiment.

So at that moment, you weren't you.

And Miles wasn't Miles.

He didn’t know what he was doing here. But he never bothered to really ask since his Uncle seemed tense all throughout the journey.

When Aaron told him to strap up for a sudden mission, he wasn't expecting a raid— nor was he expecting him to bring him to a hidden laboratory containing all these alien-like fuckeries. From glass beakers to drums filled to the brim with some sort of neon liquid, it all varied in levels of strangeness. Everywhere he looked, he could find the same circular, yellow warning sticker staring right back at him. Behind his digital mask, he skims past the unconscious workers— checking every crevice to see if anyone had escaped the incapacitating agent.

“According to the drive, the stuff are located in the north building.” His uncle’s voice snaps him out of the haze. “I’ll be heading there. I’m sure you can fend for yourself?”

“F’course I can,” Miles answered. “I can knock a bitch or two out with these.” He grinned while unfoldding his claw.

“You kiss your mama with that mouth? Watch yo tongue.”

“Yes, sir.”

Aaron pats his shoulder. “Record the evidence, I’ll go find the blueprints.”

With a single nod, Miles sets off with his mission in mind. When the holographic interface materializes from his wrist-mounted control panel, he activates the scanner with a light tap. The digitalized purple light cascades over the room, gathering physical data with each passing step.

He prided in his cut-edge tech— developed into great usage by his and his uncle’s hands. In a way, it reassured him that he had epically great potential, despite the current crisis going on in the city. But of course, his greatest pride was the fact that you liked the idea of the Prowler. That alone harbored him confidence he never knew he had.

Miles never initially thought of himself as a hero, no matter how much he’s worked to save the lower class of New York. Heroes existed in the confines of comic books and kids’ TV shows. He wasn’t super, and he wasn’t a hero either. The term was black and white. Narcissistic, as you would put it.

But he liked playing along to the idea of being a superhero to you.

He wanted you to gawk and admire his vigilante identity. He wanted you to look at the TV early in the morning with a mug of coffee in your hands, pointing at the screen with a squeal, ‘It’s the Prowler!’

Most of all, he wanted you to know about it eventually.

When he passes by the computers, Miles heads straight for the manila folders, unraveling his gauntlet just to grasp the files better.

[ 11 | 10 | 2020 ]

•[𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝: #𝟷𝟷𝟹𝟸] ����𝚊𝚢 𝟻𝟼

𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎. 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚡𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗.

𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝. 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

With the slightest jolt of his palm, the paper crumbles, and behind it sat another file. He peers through it diligently, only to find a name signed at the bottom.

And it crumples from the clamp of his fist.

Anthony Primo-Chávez.

The surname, Primo-Chávez, was the household name of the family who owns the Primm Hotel, and a single mention of it alone only reignited the anger he was sparing for the upcoming plans. All of the rage he kept to himself was seeping out the cracks of his still-grieving heart, and the grief remained a permanent scar.

And with a whisper of the wind, the warehouse falls into darkness.

There was this chill crawling up his back, and it haunted him. And in the silence that surrounded him, he calls out for his uncle.

And it echoes, and echoes. No one replies. Only the silence answered to his desperate calls. At that point, all that he could hear was the sound of his own heart beating out of his chest— a sort of morbid reminder that he was still alive. It made him wonder if that was all his father heard when he was trapped beneath the fallen carcass all those years ago. Just like that carcass, in the midst of all that darkness, screams begin to bellow.

Oh. One of the scientists have woken up.

But all Miles could picture was all what could’ve happened that night, when everything fell apart. Did they scream like this? Call out for help like this? Did his father struggle to breathe like this?

A lone light shines above the metal rails— a watch window, large and square, gleaming in this daunt violent that flickered and flickered. There was a figure there, dark, willowy, and invasive in the way it stared.

Unmoving, watching. A gaze that lingered like the chill running down his back.

What did they do in here?

Like a croak, the question bubbles up his throat and releases.

“Who are you?”

Like a growl, the voice changer emits the query a too many tones lower. At that question, the being tilts its head.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Velvety, low, exhausted— and it oozed from the broadcaster mic like a tease. You stared at the Prowler, almost amused by his size. From above, he seemed much tinier, like less of a threat. You feel your breath cascade against the lenses of your gas mask, sweat sticking to the leather of your gloves. There, you see the digitalized magenta and the gleam of his steel claws, as though he meant to intimidate. You stood partially befuddled at the fact that the vigilante everyone revered and loathed was likely a teenager.

“… You don’t know what this place is, don’t you?”

Ｂ　Ｏ　Ｏ　Ｍ.

The wall beside him crumbles into dust.

Miles shields himself from the impact, the cement’s fumes blinding his sights. Upon the activation of his night vision, he searches in behind the violet screen, finding only his uncle emerging from the smoke and debris, rushing with a USB in his hands. Behind him, a flock of guards came rushing in with their ray guns— flames of red bursting into a shower as the man signaled him to run.

Miles casts a quick glance at the window above.

No one’s there.

“ＥＶＡＣＵＡＴＥ ＡＬＬ ＥＭＰＬＯＹＥＥＳ

ＩＭ ＭＥＤＩＡＴＥＬＹ. ＩＭ ＭＥＤＩＡＴＥＬＹ.”

The digital voice commands along with a blaring alarm.

The warehouse that housed this elaborate labyrinth, it continued on and on like a maze. Bland green tiles and white walls, glass screens— like a pattern he immediately grew to dislike. It all went on and on like a fever dream, but Miles’ head was ringing with the sight of the man he saw up the window.

And he lays it all out in his mind, trying to piece it altogether.

Ｂ　Ｏ　Ｏ　Ｍ．

The walls click and collapse, and the floors shake, but Miles doesn’t look back. The sound of the guards’ heavy stomps cease though, eventually replaced with a sort of screech that irked his ears.

It was unfamiliar to him. He’s faced over a hundred bad people, but only the sight of that being unsettled him more than the rest.

“Up ahead!”

He watches as his Uncle heads right out the window with a fall, the shards ricocheting behind him like specs of snow as he throws a carabiner right back at Miles to snatch. His fingers thinly reach for the cord when he’s suddenly assaulted to the ground with a powerful force.

Ｃ　Ｒ　Ａ　Ｓ　Ｈ.

“Agh!” He grumbles in pain, rolling down to the ground. But even then, it wasn’t the pain that made every hair on his limb stand, it was the sound of your heeled boots clicking against the tiles, and the sound of your metal blade scraping against the wall.

“Mornin’, Prowler.”

Exhaustion made the delivery deeper. He senses it in you, and you sense it him. Though he was unaware of what your head was actually filled of, I’ve got a lecture at nine, I still have to do my literature essay, and I want to sleep. Miles wasn’t all that interested at all in what your mind bore. To be fair, from where he was, Miles only saw this figure towering over him with a long knife poking out its sleeve. Some gas mask, and a black leather coat. Even then as you stood above him, he could only watch as you fixed your gloves, pulling farther beneath your sleeve.

“It’s an honor to meet you like this.”

Fwip. With a crisp cut, the cord that connected him to his partner was severed. You throw it out the window along with the metal piece. “I’m not so usually cruel, but you’re trespassing my family’s property—“

“So this is your family’s property.” He stands back up, hands aching to fight. “Primo-Chávez. As I recognized.”

He claws at you, but instead, the metal meets the end of your unsheathed blade with a clink!

“You’re smart.” And when you pull away, he stumbles backward. “Let’s see if that’ll save you.”

Crack! The walls quivered as Miles narrowly avoided the blade aimed for his neck. He raises his gauntlets, lunging right at you with swift punches, to which you countered gracefully with quick blocks. Eventually, he manages to take hold of your shoulders, shoving you back with feet tangled like knots. You lower down and hook your heel over his ankle, pulling with force as he falters.

You crack your neck, pressing your heel over his shoulder to keep him down. “I’ll be honest with you, I think you’re awfully underwhelming.” You lean down to his level, musing yourself in the way he heaved.

“But I can forgive all that.” Your fingers fiddle with the strap of his backpack. “You’re useful in a way—“

With a gauntlet over your neck, he slams you against the wall.

“I ain’t working for nobody,” He churned. “And I definitely won’t be fucking working for people like you.”

“I never said you had to work for me.” You calmly replied despite his grip. “You just have to make better decisions from now on.”

“Fuck you mean by that?”

From the ache your neck bore, you knew it was gonna leave a bruise.

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart?”

He furrows his brows at that statement, holding himself back as he taunts. “… I wonder how your father is going to abandon you once I set this little investment of his on fire.”

Rather than the silence or panic he hoped, Miles heard you laugh.

“Do it.” You playfully suggest. “Do it, and kill all the other interns, employees, and guards in here.” Despite your façade, he could still sense the smirk creeping up your lips. “Then think to yourself, ask yourself; are you any better than my family?”

That alone catches him by surprise.

“… You’ve got a lot to learn.”

“What do you m—“ Before he could even finish off his sentence, a powerful strike ricochets into his stomach, sending him off to the other wall. A loud grunt emanates from his lips, hands gripping the lower of his belly as you set your foot down. “The next time we meet, do promise me that you’ll be much more of a promising opponent. Today was.. Eventless.” Your gaze sets sights on the camera hidden in the corner.

“For now, I’ll have to let someone else do the job.”

As though on cue, you see his partner rush in with the broken cord in his hand. The same broken cord you’d thrown out. Without another word, he lunges at you with lightning speed, and the way you collide with the glass wall sends ripples across the corridor.

“You goddamn son of a bitch.”

“Long time no see.”

Ｃ　Ｒ　Ａ　Ｓ　Ｈ.

And from then on, Miles watches as this figure and his uncle battled amidst the labyrinth. But your words struck him hard, ‘Long time no see’— what did that mean? Did his uncle have a sort of connection to the elites, or has he worked for the upper class before?

With how his punches flew, Miles sensed this sort of undying rage that crackled with the quiver of his Uncle’s fist.

Why did this battle seem so natural? Like the two of them know each other’s moves too well.

“I see you’ve resigned.” You curtly brought up, grunting as he mercilessly charges at you. “And seems like you’ve brought a little something with you.” Upon the mention of Miles, Aaron struck back with a blow, feigning ignorance at your words. Despite your state, you managed to put up a great fight. “Why did you bring him here? He doesn’t seem fit for the job—“

“Stop the small talk, Antonne.”

Antonne.

Anthony Primo-Chávez.

“I’m simply being polite,” You grinned. “It’s been a while, don’t you think so too?”

With that alone, Miles somehow confirmed that the figure was the heir of the hotel in the flesh. The man responsible for the deaths of many— the man responsible for the death of his father. But something felt wrong, like a sense that was gnawing at his guts.

He couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly.

Just of now, Miles realizes that he had no place here, at least, not yet. But he was just as confused as the other guy, why did his uncle bring him here if it was too dangerous?

“Is your sister also a piece of shit like you?”

Sister?

“She’s a little more pacifist than all of us.”

You lie so naturally, it was like second-nature to you— as though it was your second, utterly ridiculous hobby next to scheming. To play the part of Antonne was excruciating enough, but it was enjoyable in a way. You haven’t seen the Prowler for about four years— last seeing him when you were twelve, when he worked for the Fisks until his abrupt resignation. Next thing you and the elite knew, the mercenary who once worked for the high-class was now a vigilante working against them.

No one particularly knew the reason why. You somewhat guessed what it was.

And when the both of you crashed past the danger zone, you knew that the situation was way beyond your grasps from this point on, and the best you could hope for was a perfect gamble.

The man grabs all that he could in his anger, from glass beakers to steel rods, he figures splashing you with whatever thing he could find can help in making you perish from his sights.

You fight back, without the usage of anything else except the blade, only until Aaron repeatedly smashes your head inside a closed-off frozen cage. The two of you fall right in, breaking some sort of container in the process.

“What the fuck?”

Like a flame, it sears your skin— causing you to panic and recklessly pat away at the tar-like substance enveloping you in its sticky embrace. Without even a shriek, it consumes your system entirely, sending you down on your knees.

And the next thing you know, everything else fades into black.

Aaron pulls away, in shock of the dark matter unveiling before him. Immediately, he places a hand over Miles’ eyes, ushering him away.

From afar, they could hear the police sirens coming.

“Let’s— let’s go.” Aaron hurriedly commands.

“Uncle Aaron.”

Miles exhaustively calls out to him.

“Uncle Aaron!”

As his mask unfolds, Miles squints as the sunlight seeping from the tall trees welcomes him, shielding his face with his hands while trudging across the stones to meet his Uncle’s steps. Aaron pauses for a moment, taking only one look back.

“Why’d you bring me there?” Miles directly starts. “I wasn’t strong enough to be there— who was that guy? How- How did you suddenly know about the location of the warehouse, how did— I don’t— I-I have school in three hours, I don’t get why you had to bring me along—“

“That girl you’re seeing,” Aaron intervenes without a waste of breath. “What’s her last name?”

Miles takes a step back, furrowing his brows.

“[L/n].”

Aaron nods. “… It’s the same as the file.”

“What?”

“Bring her to dinner.”

Now everything further confused him, what did you have to do with all of this?

“I-I can’t bring her to dinner yet— what do you mean part of the f— we haven’t even gone on a date yet!”

The date set for tomorrow. The trick-or-treating date Miles had always longed for. Aaron tosses his hand upward. “Just make it quick and let me meet her.” He commands in a rush, pacing his steps faster. “We’ve got to get moving before they find us.”

“But— I don’t get it. What does [Y/n] have to do with all of this?"

Aaron stops for a moment, looking up before heaving a long, jagged sigh.

“… I got a file last night. Sent by an anonymous number. Someone managed to take a picture of you and your girl earlier when you were walking her home.”

Hearing this, a bundle of worries begin to churn in Miles’ mind. This whole night enough was messy for him, and he couldn’t understand why things were getting so complicated. Like what Antonne said earlier, it was ingrained into his mind, Aren’t you supposed to be smart?

“Along with the pictures, I got sent a file. [Y/n] [L/n], is..” Aaron consequently looks into his nephew’s eyes, a sort of hesitation imbued in his system. “Somewhat connected to the Primos.”

Miles halts entirely, and over and over, like how he’s always asked for the last hour. “What?”

“I.. I’ll just tell you when we get home.”

It was many years ago, when your mother endowed this habit of sitting you down by her vanity just to comb your hair and fix you up like a doll.

At that time, you were a tiny little girl with tiny little legs that were unable to reach the floor, instead opting to dangle them with light kicks from your seat— thinking you were some kind of mermaid. During those times, you could only spot at least the whole of your head staring right back at you, but rather than yourself, you marveled at the sight of your mother and her clothes.

The colors she wore were patterned in dates. Mauve, pink, white, and sometimes vermilion in special occasions. Those were the days she used to pick out your clothes for you, and whenever you complained about the color being too bright or dull, your mother would claim that she'd know your colors the best.

As you got older, and when you started dressing for yourself, in the colors you liked, and in the sort of mauve and pink that suited you, you watched as your mother would stare at you from afar with an irate frown, and silently, you'd think to yourself.

Even in the way I rebel against you, you still see yourself in me, because when you look at me, you see only a mirror of your younger self grimacing in disgust. You'd come so far to convince yourself that you're at the height of your being, but your daughter and your child-self only sees mediocrity.

…

“Miss?”

A flurry of people. Lots of talking. You despised that.

“Miss, are you awake?”

“[Y/n], wake up this instant!”

And at your father’s instruction, your eyes peel open almost immediately. You’re greeted with the sight of the ceiling, and your skin covered in warmth. You look at yourself, finding bruises all over your arms, still wearing your white dress shirt and formal pants. Silently, you force yourself to sit up despite the ache you felt, wincing as you spot several faces surrounding you. There was your father, pacing back and forth, certainly distressed about something; Antonne, with his arms crossed, sitting by the edge of your bed; some physician, silently standing by the side with her hands clasped together; and Harry Osborn standing alongside her.

“What’s going on in here?” You haphazardly asked.

“You almost died.” Antonne stirs the silence. “The Warehouse was set on fire, and you were still inside.”

“The warehouse was set on fire!?” You jolt up, only now realizing the dirty looks from your father. “That’s impossible, how could—“

“There were traces of gasoline.” Emerging from the doors, your father approaches you with a sort of chagrin in his glare. “Since you failed to capture or at least slow down the perpetrators, that happened.”

“… You’re placing the blame on me?” You ask, hardly believing your ears.

“We’re not—“ Just as Harry’s about to speak, your father intervenes. “Yes, we are. Because of your incompetence, we lost millions worth of money in damages!”

“Sir, calm down.”

“Father, this is what I’ve been telling you about.” Antonne pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s sixteen! How could she have possibly fought against a mercenary!?”

“I did better than you.” Poison spewed from your lips, losing all sort of rationality. “This has never happened before. Whenever there was something any of you asked me to do, I did my very best. How could I possibly perform my best when I lacked sleep and I was dependent on coffee!?”

“Your brother is right.”

Hearing that alone was a nightmare.

“Although you’re talented in upkeep and information, you’re too young to fight against an ex-assassin.”

You helplessly scramble off the bed. “Daddy, you’re being unfair.”

Daddy. It’s like you were a ten-year-old fighting for his attention once again. You looked at Antonne, and then your father, shifting in complacency. “I worked for three years, ceaselessly. Even if it meant giving up my weekends and studying so hard that it made my nose bleed. I got the job done, even if no one paid me or thanked me, I still did everything.”

“We’ve lost a lot of resources,” Harry begins. “And we’ve been brought back to square one because of the fire.”

Before Harry could even finish off his explanation, you lift a finger and point at him accusingly. “This is because one of your people decided to leak information—“ In between your rant, Antonne attempts to soothe you. “Had it not been for the fact that you decided to let untrusted people into the faction, we wouldn— stop it, Antonne— we wouldn’t be dealing with this sort of thing. Mother warned you about it, and you brushed off her every warning— STOP IT, ANTONNE!” You finally yelled out. Your brother ceases, lifting his hands off of you after he sees that you’re shaking.

What’s wrong with me?

Why am I being more emotional than usual?

The way the rage consumed you left you in dismay. At a short moment of epiphany, you run your hands across your face and, like a switch, all of your emotions reboot.

“I apologize. I spoke out of line.”

That line alone was chilling.

“I’m sorry, [Y/n].” The tender way Harry called out your name was unfathomable. “I know it’s upsetting that your job is being taken away from you, and you have every right to get upset. However, for your sake and your health, you can pass on these responsibilities to Montrell for now.”

“Montrell’s in London.” You add. “He can’t possibly take over—“

“He’s not in London.” Antonne confesses. You furrowed your brows, shaking your head. “What are you talking about?”

“… It was going to be a surprise but..”

Oh no.

“Oh,” You blankly state, your mind rioting. “I see.”

“It’s an unplanned decision, really,” Your father explains. “Montrell also has no idea that you’ve taken Antonne’s place in taking care of the hotel for the last three years. It’d be better for you, as well, to take a break.”

You wanted to scream, break down, curse at everyone.

“I’m sorry for being too harsh on you, [Y/n].” Harry eases, placing a hand over your shoulder. “However, you have to understand that it’s also for the best.”

“I understand.” Fuck you, and fuck all of you.

“We’ll leave you to rest for now.” Yeah, leave me the fuck alone before I melt the fuck down.

As they step out, all the tension in the room leave along with the squeak of their fine, leather dress shoes. You’re left with the silent physician, whose presence you’d completely forgotten despite the wildness of her dark curls. She shifts uncomfortably, parting her lips to speak, only to find that she didn’t know what to say.

“What is it?” You ask, lowering your voice so as to not intimidate. Prompting to break the silence in her place.

The woman blinks at you, somewhat relieved by your words.

“Can I be direct, Miss?” She sternly asks.

“It’ll be better off that way, frankly.”

She leans a little closer, tugging on the sleeve of your arm. “When you first got here, your body was riddled with cuts, bruises, and broken bones around— oh, can I touch you?”

You squirm. “I’m not a relic.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. Most of the rich people I’ve worked with were usually snobby douches who think their skin shed gold.” She subtly laughs, raising the fabric up higher. “Initially, I believed you were exactly that kind of rich kid, but after seeing what happened, you don’t seem like anything they say.”

You raise a brow. “.. Have we met each other before?”

She looked at you as though you’d just insulted her, her eyes about to pop off her thick-rimmed glasses.

“.. I work at Alchemax. I’m the head of the research team in the particle accelerator project— we’ve spoken many, many times before.”

“.. You’re not my physician?”

Her lips tighten into a line. “I take what I said back. You’re exactly like all those other rich kids.”

“W-well, I’m sorry.” You grumbled. “I work with a hundred different people almost every single day, my mind usually shuts down when I’m at work.”

“Well, your father did just drag me out of the line and forced me to fix you up since they didn’t want to risk calling for a doctor who doesn’t know that you’re parading as your brother.” She spoke so quickly, it made you rethink what she just said three times. “Anyways— I needed to tell you that under my observations, you’ve healed yourself in a supernaturally fast rate that it’s groundbreaking.”

“What?”

“Six hours ago, you had broken bones in here,” She points her fingers at your shoulder. “Here,” Followed by your thigh. “And here.” Then your calf. “But after seeing your little drama session with your father, you were able to move yourself without any sort of pain. Initially, I concluded that you must’ve had some very high pain tolerance, but I noticed that so many of your cuts and bruises have all been healed, and that,” Her fingers trace a line over your neck. “That was red as hell just moments ago. Now, it’s gone.”

Oh, the mark you got from Prowler Jr after he choked the hell out of you.

You liked calling him that. Prowler Jr— a smaller, rustier protégée of the Prowler you grew up with.

“.. I wonder why so.”

There was a wily grin on her face that unsettled you tremendously.

“Well, without your father looking, I ran a test on you.”

“You what?”

Without even a single second to lose, the woman takes out few samples from her bag, laying them all out before you with a couple of handwritten documents.

“Here.” She states so proudly.

You marveled at all that she’s written— unfortunately for you, her handwriting was so messily done that you couldn’t understand a single damn thing.

“… You could get sued for this, you know that?”

“Your father wouldn’t. Unlike his children, he can’t find a replacement for me.”

Your mouth hung in disbelief at what you just heard. Rather than acknowledging the insult, however, she plucks out a print of what you assumed were tiny splotches of black tar on a petri dish.

“What the hell is that?”

“I got that swabbed out of your mouth.”

“Oh fuck, I thought I’d dieted enough for the performance!”

“It’s not sweets, sweetheart.” She answered defeatedly, clearly full of your unsure-weaponized-incompetence. “It’s a mysterious symbiote that we’ve recently caught hold of four months ago, and during your fight with the Prowler, it forged itself into your system.” Her fingers trace down your arm, grasping the center of your wrist while grinning. “And it can make you do this.”

As she squeezes your hand, a black matter ejects from your palm. You jolt away, slapping her hand off as you curse.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!?”

“The symbiote.” She casually replies. “Isn’t it amazing?”

It retreats like a slimey being, pushing itself back into your skin as though it’d all been a mere hallucination.

“You mean to tell me there’s some alien slime living inside my body!?”

“Well, yes—“

“GET IT OUT OF ME!”

She winces at the loudness of your voice, moving back an inch away. “That’ll take a while for me to dissect. You have to come to my lab tomorrow if you want me to find a way to pull that away from you.”

“I can’t go tomorrow.” You had a date with Miles, and that alone was reasonable enough to miss anything and everything else. “I-I have practice for the fundraiser on Sunday, and I’m still the hostess, so I have to make sure that the preparations are seamless.”

“… I have a comment, but I’m not sure if you’ll like it since you probably hear it all the time.”

“What? That I’m just like my mother?”

She scrunches her nose. “I was going to say that you’re too young to be acting so old.” The woman turns away, beginning to pack up her things again. “You’re sixteen. You should be going out to parties, creating fake IDs, sneaking out to make out with your boyfriend— whatever other shit girls your age like to do.”

You try your hardest not to react at the last mention, since that was definitely what you just did a few hours before. You begin to rub your hands, the friction warming you up as your shoulders shrug.

“Well, as much as I want to do all that, I’ve got too much to do.”

“You won’t be sixteen forever, Miss.” She tosses the bag over her shoulder. “Take that from me. I’m forty-six, and I’ve went through a lot. I’d give everything to be your age again.”

As you watch her head for the door, you call out to her one last time.

“.. Call me [Y/n]. I don’t like it when people way older than me call me ‘miss’.”

She raised her brows. “Alright then, [Y/n].” Your name rolls off her tongue gently.

“How about you? What do I call you?”

With a hand over the knob, the woman beamed.

“.. I’m Olivia Octavius, but you can call me Liv.”

[mindblowingscience]

Bumblebees can surprisingly withstand days underwater, according to a study published Wednesday, suggesting they could withstand increased floods brought on by climate change that threaten their winter hibernation burrows. The survival of these pollinators that are crucial to ecosystems is "encouraging" amid worrying global trends of their declining populations, the study's lead author Sabrina Rondeau told AFP. With global warming prompting more frequent and extreme floods in regions around the world, it poses "an unpredictable challenge for soil-dwelling species, particularly bees nesting or overwintering underground", co-author Nigel Raine of the University of Guelph said in a statement. Rondeau said she first discovered queen bumblebees could withstand drowning by accident. She had been studying the effect of pesticide residues in soil on queen bumblebees that burrow underground for the winter when water accidentally entered the tubes housing a few of the bees. "I freaked out," said Rondeau, who had been conducting the experiment for her doctoral studies. "It was only a small proportion… so it was not that big of a deal, but I didn't want to lose those bees." To her "shock", she said, they survived. "I've been studying bumblebees for a very long time. I've talked about it to a lot of people and no one knew that this was a possibility," she said.

Continue Reading.

[zvaigzdelasas]

Huwaida Arraf, who is described on [Twitter] as a social activist, wrote in a post published on Wednesday that Israel built the bunker beneath the hospital in 1983, when it controlled Gaza. She referenced a 2014 story published by Tablet magazine, which alluded to multiple news outlets' reports about conflict at that time between Israel and Hamas. The magazine stated without attribution that the bunker was built in 1983.

Arraf's claim, which has been echoed by some on social media, states that Israel's raid of the hospital it controls does not provide justification but makes the nation more culpable in its purported violence. "Israel has still not presented any proof that Hamas has been using the hospital or the bunker that Israel built as its 'command and control,'" Arraf said. "Both local and foreign doctors have denied any such allegation, and Israel rejected offers to have an international delegation inspect."

She added: "There is no one to document except the military itself, which will show you what it wants the world to believe."[...]

The bunker, reportedly constructed decades ago, includes a secure underground operating room and tunnel network.[...]

Reports by [...] Israeli newspaper Haaretz and other outlets have specifically mentioned the hospital's Building No. 2, which it says was built as an add-on in the mid-1980s and contains a large cement basement initially intended for laundry and administrative tasks. The excavation of the underground concrete floor was corroborated by online English-language Israeli publication Ynetnews.[...]

The Ruling: True

Multiple sources have corroborated that a bunker or basement was built at Israel's discretion in the 1980s. It remains unclear whether Hamas operates the space beneath the hospital as a major military headquarters

15 Nov 23

[melestasflight]

In the Silmarillion fandom, we enjoy grabbing the trope of “Nolofinwëan recklessness” and running wild with it. 

The most common victims of this are Fingon the Rash Prince and Fingolfin the Impulsive King, who rushes into suicidal combat. Both father and son daring death within Morgoth’s domain. 

It’s fun to write and exciting to imagine, no doubt, but I’d like to offer a different take. In fact, what makes Fingon and Fingolfin (and the rest of that family) compelling to me is their patience and endurance.

Yes, I’m aware Fingon rushes to battle at Alqualondë, but that’s a world-altering event. The light of the world has literally gone out, murder has happened in Valinor, Finwë is dead. Most of the Noldor are up on their feet and ready to depart. Everyone is rushing.

But this is not always the case with Fingon. Most significantly, the rescue of Maedhros is NOT an impulsive decision. The published Silmarillion offers no timeline on this, but in The Grey Annals, five entire years pass between the arrival of Fingolfin’s host to Beleriand and Fingon’s decision to look for Maedhros. 

Five years in which the two hosts are quite literally on the verge of civil war because, let’s not forget:

No love was there in the hearts of those that followed Fingolfin for the House of Fëanor, for the agony of those that endured the crossing of the Ice had been great, and Fingolfin held the sons the accomplices of their father. 

Diplomacy is a painfully slow (and absolutely frustrating!) ordeal. Fingon’s decision is born from this strife, from thirty years on the Helcaraxë, and five years of civil restlessness, not to mention the clear signs that Morgoth is ready to attack them at any moment:

Then Fingon the valiant, son of Fingolfin, resolved to heal the feud that divided the Noldor, before their Enemy should be ready for war; for the earth trembled in the Northlands with the thunder of the forges of Morgoth underground. 

This is not rashness. This is the sacrifice of a captain who is willing to make the best of what time is left before full-out destruction begins. It would be rashness if Fingon got his company and crossed Mithrim to wage battle on the Fëanorians. Instead, he chooses differently for the sake of peace, stability, and renewed friendship.

The trek from Lake Mithrim to Thangorodrim could be estimated at around 150 miles, depending on the map we follow, and there are grasslands and two sets of mountains to cross, not to mention the horror of Thangorodrim. Fingon travels on foot. It would take him weeks, maybe even months, to find Maedhros. Plenty of time for the fire of rashness to cool down if that was the case. But he persists because he has no other choice.

Similarly, I often see takes on Fingolfin that he rushes to pointless combat with Morgoth in the same manner as Fëanor had done. Yet again, the timeline is crucial here. The published Silmarillion has the battle lasting at least several months. Bragollach starts in F.A. 455 during winter time: 

There came a time of winter, when night was dark and without moon

The battle slows down presumably a few months later:

but the Battle of Sudden Flame is held to have ended with the coming of spring, when the onslaught of Morgoth grew less.

The onslaught grows less, but it doesn’t fully cease. Morgoth and Sauron reissue their attacks early into Fingon’s kingship.

In the Grey Annals, the timeline  is stretched further out:

Year 455:

The Fell Year. Here came an end of peace and mirth. In the winter, at the year's beginning, Morgoth unloosed at last his long-gathered strength

Year 456:

Now Fingolfin, King of the Noldor, beheld (as it seemed to him) the utter ruin of his people, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses, and he was filled with wrath and despair.

The fighting goes on actively anywhere from a season to a full year! Fingolfin tries to hold his kingdom together for a full year despite an absolute, unquestionable disaster. I mean, look at this description of the battle:

In the front of that fire came Glaurung the golden, father of dragons, in his full might; and in his train were Balrogs, and behind them came the black armies of the Orcs in multitudes such as the Noldor had never before seen or imagined. And they assaulted the fortresses of the Noldor, and broke the leaguer about Angband, and slew wherever they found them the Noldor and their allies, Grey elves and Men. Many of the stoutest of the foes of Morgoth were destroyed in the first days of that war, bewildered and dispersed and unable to muster their strength. War ceased not wholly ever again in Beleriand

Fingolfin’s decision to ride out, again, is not out of recklessness or a spur-of-the-moment decision. It’s everything but that. He has given everything and truly believes it’s all lost: “the utter ruin of his people, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses.” (!!!) 

This is a final stand, the King’s duty to stand by his people, even in death.

[omgthatdress]

("St. William Dorsey Swann," by artist Jason Tseng, Queer Saints)

No known photographs of William Dorsey Swann exist today, but his legacy is undeniable. He was born into slavery in 1860, but as an adult, he organized underground "drag balls" in Washington, D.C., and called himself "the Queen of Drag." The group of men that he gathered with came to be known as "House of Swann."

In spite of numerous arrests and criminal charges, Dorsey kept on with his pursuits. In 1896, he was falsely charged with "keeping a disorderly house," that is, running a brothel. He fought the charges, but was nonetheless convicted, and spent ten months in jail. He wrote to president Grover Cleveland to request a pardon, but was denied. This made him one of the first Americans to make a legal fight for LGBT rights.

In 2022, the book House of Swann: Where Slaves Became Queens-- and Changed the World, by Channing Gerard Joseph, was published, bringing Swann's story to light once again. Later that year, Swann Street in Washington D.C., which was formerly named for a slave-owning politician, was re-dedicated to honor William Dorsey Swann.

[humansofnewyork]

(39/54) “It would have been suicide to fight. There were no courts to petition. No laws to challenge. The only weapon that we had left were our words. I joined together with five colleagues from the Pan-Iranist party, and we formed an underground journal. We met daily in an abandoned office. We wrote with pen and paper, and when each issue was finished it would be secretly printed by a friend that worked at a publishing house. I wrote under the name of Rahdmard. It was the same name Mitra and I would later give to our fourth child, who was born severely disabled. It means a man who is noble. A man who is morally upright. It’s what I wanted for him, and it’s what I wanted for myself as well. In my articles I never attacked the regime directly. I didn’t mention the executions. I never named any names. Instead I wrote about ideals and principles. 𝘋𝘢𝘢𝘥. 𝘙𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪. 𝘈𝘻𝘢𝘥𝘪i. I said: ‘Let us not lose ourselves. Let us not descend back into darkness.’ We had no idea if our words were being read. Each issue would only be one thousand copies, and we’d only pass them out amongst our friends. But we were like a dying person who was desperate to live. If we wanted to survive, these were the breaths we had to take. Just being together gave us hope. Darkness was pressing in all around us. But coming together for a single purpose, a single goal, it gave our hearts energy. Each day we’d share the news we’d seen and heard. We talked about what we could do, how we could help. One of the members had been sheltering Dr. Ameli at his house. He’d been staying there since the first days of the revolution. But after several weeks he began to miss his wife and family. So he decided to leave the safehouse. He knew that he was innocent, so he took a chance. He went back home. And that’s where they grabbed him.” 

(۳۹) پیکار با آنها خودکشی بود. امید چندانی برای نبرد مسلحانه نبود. دادگاهی برای دادخواست وجود نداشت. قانونی برای به چالش کشیدن نداشتیم. تنها کارمان نوشتن بود. همراه پنج تن از یاران ‌پان‌ایرانیست مجله‌ای زیرزمینی راه‌ انداختیم. با کاغذ و خودکار می‌نوشتیم. مجله پنهانی به دست دوستی که در چاپخانه کار می‌کرد آماده می‌شد. از هر شماره تنها هزار نسخه. آن را میان دوستان پخش می‌کردیم. من با نام رادمرد می نوشتم. مرد آزاده و جوانمرد. راست‌کردار . مردی که آرزو داشتم باشم. این نام را برای چهارمین فرزندمان برگزیدیم. او بیمار زاده شد. آن ویژگی‌ها را برایش می‌خواستم. در نوشته‌هایم به رژیم نتاختم. از اعدام‌ها سخن نگفتم. نامی از کسی نبود. درباره‌ی آرمان‌ها و بنیادها نوشتم. داد، راستی، آزادی. می‌خواستم خود را فراموش نَکُنیم، به تاریکی فرو نیفتیم. نمی‌دانستیم که نوشته‌هامان خوانده می‌شوند یا نه. تلاش‌هایی نومیدانه برای زنده ماندن بود. هر روز خبرهایی را که دیده و شنیده بودیم با هم در میان می‌گذاشتیم. درباره‌ی آنچه می‌توانستیم انجام دهیم و کمک‌هایی که از دستمان برمی‌آمد، گفت‌وگو می‌کردیم. ما پشتیبان هم بودیم و برای آرمانی همگانی و هدفی مشترک همگام، و این به ما دلگرمی می‌داد. روزگاری بیم‌آمیز بود و همین با هم بودن امید می‌بخشید. نواری از آژیر با نیمرخی از چهر مهربانش بر آن که درفش شیر و خورشید نشان بر گردنش جنبان بود، جاکلیدی و سنجاق‌سینه‌هایی با نشان شیر و خورشید، جزوه‌ی «کار، تنها سند مالکیت و یگانه پاسدار آن» از کارهای آن روزهاست. یکی از دوستان از نخستین روزهای پس از شورش پناهگاهی برای دکتر عاملی فراهم کرده بود. دلتنگی همسر، فرزندان و دیگر گرامیانش او را از پناهگاه بیرون کشاند. او را در خانه‌ی پدری دستگیر کردند.

[leseditionsshirokuro]

FELT COVER Prototype for the 3 volumes of LOST & FOUND/ LIMITED EDITION

Title: “ LOST & FOUND ”  part A-B-C

Author: R. Tanaka

Year: 2021 / 2022 / 2023

Size : 24X 18CM

Pages:  soft cover DNS 200gr / 88 pages in Nautilus recycled paper 80gr. + 1 colored paper print + print Smooth photo paper 320gr. 10x15cm

Copies: Numbered & limited edition of 15 ( FELT COVER)

Category: Photography

Price : 65eur + shipping

PAYPAL Order : info@lepetitmammouth.com

[graphicpolicy]

Weekly Preview! Parker Girls and Two Graphic Novels!

Weekly Preview! Parker Girls and Two Graphic Novels! See what's coming to GPTV! #comics #comicbooks #graphicnovel #manga

There are a lot of comics coming out every week to be covered. Check out some of what we’ll be reviewing and this is only the beginning! This week’s reviews include: Dona Quixote: Rise of the Knight (Henry Holt) Last Exit to Feral: Little Town. Underground. (Holiday House) Parker Girls #10 (Abstract Studios) Henry Holt and Holiday House provided Graphic Policy with FREE copies for review

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

Today, once more we had Palestinian terrorists shooting at the houses of kibbutz Meirav in the Gilboa mountains. No injuries have been reported. The more grave news are that, for the second day in a row, Hezbollah managed to hit a city in Israel, this time Tzfat (in English: Safed), one of the 4 holy cities in Judaism. Hezbollah's rocket barrage caused the death of a young Israeli woman, and wounded 8, one of which is in a critical state.

Meanwhile, we got some good news, too. The mother and teenage son who were seriously hurt by Hezbollah's fire yesterday (see link above) have regained consciousness. Also, Luis Har and Fernando Merman, who had been rescued by the IDF from Hamas captivity in the Gazan city of Rafah, are being released from the hospital today. They obviously have a rehabilitation process to go through still, but this is a good sign.

The IDF has released footage it found of the leader of Hamas in Gaza, Yahya Sinwar, walking down a terror tunnel. The footage is from early in the war, CCTV from Oct 7, as he was evacuating from the northern part of Gaza, exploiting the humanitarian warning given to civilians to move to the south. He's seen with a woman and kids in that tunnel, presumably his wife and his own children. While the footage is older, the IDF got it recently, which shows that the Israeli presence in Gaza allows for the gathering of more and more intel on Hamas.

Speaking of Sinwar, the IDF also got to the bedroom that he, his wife and kids used underground, and among other things, they found there an insne amount of cash, as well as some luxury items like perfumes, which he prepared there, while he forced the people of Gaza to be evacuated into tents:

While South Africa is asking the International Court of Justice to tighten its provisional measures against Israel in light of a future ground operation in Rafah (I've mentioned that only those who are interested in saving Hamas and keeping the Israeli hostages as its assets, have a real reason to try and stop Israel from entering Rafah and destroying Hamas' last 4 regiments), the families of Israeli hostages have landed in Hague today, asking to file a complaint against Hamas and its crimes against humanity.

The Israeli health ministry is preparing for 20,000 people with disabilities due to injuries caused in the line of serving in the IDF by the end of 2024. I don't know how to put into words what this number, out of all able bodied young people fighting in this war, means in terms of our challenges as a soceity for years to come, but if you know something of the social crisis at the end of WWI, when so many young men returned from the war with injuries, amputations and the psychological harm that comes with them and the battles, and that there was a whole artistic movement (expressionism) changed and conveying this distress, then you have an idea of what this means. I'm even more grateful for programs such as the one I wrote about yesterday.

This is 25 years old Ionatan Dean Chaim.

He was born in the US to a Christian family, but fell in love with Judaism, and converted to it. He then chose to make aliyah to Israel all alone, while his family remains across the ocean. Immigration is always a difficult step, even more so if the person is alone, but he chose to do that. And even though he didn't have to, he decided to enter the Israeli army, to serve the state and the people which he chose to join. He was 3 weeks away from his discharge date, and his friends say he was already planning his post-army life, which he was killed by explosives that Hamas placed in a mosque in Gaza. His service is a testament to how much he loved and respected his chosen religion. The way he was killed is a testament to how much Hamas doesn't respect the religion in whose name they kill. Ionatan's friends said he was incredibly kind, and it was a privilege to know him. Even the city he lived in during his too short stay in Israel, Ramat Gan, published an official statement mourning his death. He chose to be one of us, and to pay a heavy price for it, and we choose to embrace him right back, even after he's gone. Ionatan is and always will be a part of us, flesh of our flesh.

May his memory be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[the-nettle-knight]

Prince Caspian rewatch notes:

-Caspian has a sun on his chemise and Ray like embroidery, which I feel like is a parallel to Peter and a symbol of Caspian's destiny to take on Peter's mantle

- Also a possible reference to Aslan, perhaps it's Dr Cornelius' influence or a suggestion that there might be more part Narnian (or Archen) servants in Miraz's castle

-Caspian's naivety about Miraz's intentions may have been more believable if Ben Barnes wasn't in his mid 20s

-When Trumpkin first sees Caspian he's very obviously got a rubber knife

-Susan is reading a copy of the Picture Post that was published on December 9th 1939 featuring a photo of a girl in the Land Army, so as this was probably 1941 this is an old issue

-This definitely shows her practical and logical nature and might suggest that her role as Queen in Narnia may have focused on the practical elements of farming, land management, supplying their armies etc

- There are at least four schools shown in the Underground scene, St Finbars, Hendon House, a boy's school with a red uniform and a possibly mixed sex school with a grey uniform

-St Finbars' crest is a varient on the Tudor Rose - a lot of the Narnian leather belts/straps have rose motifs

-Hendon house has a cross with three stars over it, which also feels very Narnian and looks quite knightly

-Cair Paravel's ruins look to be in pretty good shape for being 1000s of years old. In our world, when a castle is abandoned, people tend to repurpose the stones and timbers. However, due to the Telmarines' superstition they probably left it completely alone

-There's a big wild rose bush covering the ruins, adding to the rose motif

-Susan is the only one who's throne is partially intact, and she's the only one who survives the series

-On the Telmarine Lord's thrones there is a sigil of their mask-helmet over a horizontal spear with a a personalised image beneath. Miraz has tentacles wrapping around shields, probably a nod to their piratical origins

-Lucy's dress sleeves look like an odd length, as if they were 3/4 length sleeves on a taller person

-Peter Dinklige's accent has definitely improved by the time GoT comes round

- The fact that Cornelius is a doctor suggests that there is a university somewhere in the wider Narnian world to award such a title

-I really like the fact that Edmund and Susan basically have their heads right next to each other

-The trees that move first for Lucy are silver birches. They're one of the last trees to loose their leaves in the winter and they start to bud relatively early

[sleeping-sirens]

lips ღ lee jeno

pairing : jeno x fem reader (reader is called sweetheart but could also be gn)

genre : soulmate!au (telepathy + matching tattoos + healing bond + mind reading), established relationship, fluff, romance, a bit of angst if you squint.

summary : jeno had come yet again from another one of his underground fights, all bruised and scratched up and reader is so worried about him.

word count : 1944 words.

warnings : mentions of blood, injuries, wounds, kisses, slightly suggestive towards the end.

a/n : i wrote this oneshot back in 2021 :0 so not that proud of it :(

i’m publishing it here mainly for 🍬 anon! thank you for your sweet words and encouragement, hope you like it 😔

masterlist

buy me a coffee 🥹🫶🏼

Heart racing inside your chest, you're pacing around the room while nervously fiddling with your fingers. A deep sigh leaves your clogged throat, wanting nothing more than to crumble and succumb to your sobs.

Your lips are bruised by now from how much you've been biting on them for the past hour. Your eyes roam around the room feeling lost in a world of your own, fear and worrisome bubbling from the pit of your stomach and crawling up your throat, lining your eyes with tears. You don't want to let your weakness take over you. At least not until he comes back.

The black screen of the TV is matching the sky outside, dark and lonely with only you in the middle, not knowing what to do and how to react. The broadcast has ended long ago, and you're now just waiting impatiently for Jeno to return home.

The clock hanging on the wall behind you seems to tick more slowly than ever, the sound of it resonating in the eerily silent living room, conducting an irregular melody with your staggering breaths accompanied by your crazy heartbeats.

Without noticing, your teeth take your fingers hostage, your nerves weighing down on you and tugging on your heartstrings like it's their last lap in a competitive race with nobody but you. Anxiety clouds your mind with thoughts that refrain you from thinking straight. On top of being worried about him, you're furious at yourself for being in this state while he needs you the most right now.

Taking your head in between your hands, you clasp the sides of your face and shut your eyes, completely messed up and failing at concentrating on what you should do. With many attempts at activating your telepathy connection with Jeno, you fall victim to the trap made only by you.

When you hear faint knocks on the door, you stumble around to open it. Your eyes meet two pairs of eyes already looking at you with pain swirling inside them, anticipating your reaction. In the middle of your frenzied state, you notice the slumped body squished between Doyoung and Jaemin, shoulders dropping as if he has no bones to hold his muscles up and head looking down feebly.

Your arms fly to your soulmate, and you hug him tightly, forgetting about his bruised body, and he lets out a pained wince, causing you to take a step back and open the door wider for his friends to get him inside the house. Pressing your lips together to conceal the sob that wants to leave your body, you heavy-heartedly look at him struggling to walk on his feet.

They gently put him down on the couch, tucking his shivering body under the fuzzy blanket that you had already prepared for him. You saunter to the kitchen and pull a bottle of water from the fridge, returning quickly to the living room before you crouch down in front of him, handing the bottle to him.

Unable to make a move, Jeno only lifts his arm to shield his eyes from the blinding lights assaulting his blurry vision. Concern filling you to the brim, you sigh, lowering your head on the couch, reaching over to hold his hand.

Doyoung nudges Jaemin and they both exchange knowing gazes, silently getting out of the apartment and leaving you two alone.

"My precious boy..." You whisper, getting closer to Jeno's burning body and brushing the blue strands of hair sticking to his forehead from sweat.

"Can you please turn off the lights?" He croaks out gruffly, voice hoarse and weak from the lack of energy in his body.

You immediately oblige and run back to him, only having the side lamp as a source of light. You hesitantly push his arm away from his eyes so that you can see his face. His eyes gently open to focus on you, but in vain, your face still looks blurry to him. Jeno throws his head back with a groan, doubling his efforts to sit up straight on the couch.

"Come here," He welcomes you to his stretched arms and you carefully join him, cocooning yourself in his warm embrace.

"I'm sorry I couldn't keep you company on your way back," You shyly admit. "I couldn't bring myself to concentrate."

"It's okay, sweetheart." Jeno winces in pain when he wraps his arms around you and you worriedly look up at him.

You can clearly see his face now. Bloody scratches are littering his entire face, some cuts too deep with dried blood circling them, and some still fresh and glistening with crimson. The corner of his left eye is turning blue as your eyes travel all over his face, and when your vision settles down, you see the corner of his lips bruised and damaged badly than the other parts of his face.

Sensing you looking at him, Jeno glances down at you and tries his hardest to smile at you without triggering his wounds, but he fails badly, which causes him to groan and hiss at how painful his injuries are. Your fingers hesitantly fly up to his lips, gently skimming over the dried blood, and he closes his eyes, concentrating on your healing touch.

Your senses perk up and you close your eyes to activate the healing bond between you and your soulmate, scooting your body as close to his as possible, uniting your emotions and thoughts and making your souls feel like one.

Jeno hums in contentment, feeling the bond gradually getting to every injury and bruise in his body, sucking in the warmth you're spreading all over him and healing him in more ways than one. He's feeling grateful to have you by his side when he needs you the most, and he wants you to know just that.

"I'm sorry," He suddenly says, leaning his head on top of yours that's resting on his shoulders, and caressing your side with the gentle tips of his fingers.

You heavily sigh, not wanting to break weak in front of him again. Not because he hates it or because you feel ashamed, but this isn't the first time he's come home all scratched up and you have to heal him.

You're always worrying about him during and after each fight.

You have made your opinion about him doing underground fighting clearer than the gleaming linings of the moon that you both have as a soulmate symbol on your wrists, glowing upon your skins and defining you, and bonding you in the universe until the end of times.

The last thing you both want is to upset the other and as much as he knows how much you don't like what he's doing, he can't stop it, and you can't force him to. At first, it was hard to accept it and you guys have had countless fights over this, but as your bond grew strong, your love grew unconditional that you just couldn't let anything separate you.

You're not ready for such heartbreak.

"You don't have to apologize every time you come home after a fight."

"Yes, but-"

"No buts please," you silence him gently. "I'm not mad at you and I will never get mad at you, baby."

"But you're worried now." He insists.

"I'm not." You avoid his eyes.

Jeno bites his lower lips before gliding his tongue across the surface, placing his index and middle finger under your chin to lift your head up. He anchors his piercingly soft gaze on you and you can't help but maintain the eye contact with him, heat slowly bubbling inside your tummy and traveling up your body to reach your face, tinting your cheeks with a rosy blush.

"Don't lie to me," He whispers, leaning his face closer to yours until you're a breath away from each other. You unconsciously part your lips and close your eyes, enjoying his heavy and warm closeness. “I can read your mind."

"I know," you breathe out. "But I also want you to know that I'm not mad and I will never be mad at you for choosing to do something you love. Yes, I get worried, sometimes I feel like my heart will burst out of my chest when I'm watching your fights broadcasts, but I will never force you to stop."

Jeno keeps looking at you with glistening eyes, admiring your supportive words of encouragement and falling deeper and more in love with you than he has ever been. The feelings thumping through his heart with every beat strengthen the soulmate bond, making your own heart speed up its race and causing your breath to hitch inside your throat.

The fingers caressing your chin travel up your face, delivering feather-like touches that leave your skin burning with a new fiery glaze that naturally pulls your body closer to him.

His thumb runs down the side of your face before settling down on your bottom lip, anticipation building up inside of you with every passing second and as Jeno grazes the pad of his finger over your bottom lip, you let out a hitched breath before gaining control over the situation and pulling away from him.

"I really want to kiss you right now," Jeno admits, looking deeply into your eyes and not planning to look anywhere else but at you.

"Your lip is bruised," you reply with a concern-filled voice, and Jeno shakes his head at that.

"Kiss me to make it better." He brushes his nose with yours and slides his arm up from your waist to secure it on the back of your neck. "It'll speed up the healing process."

Before you get the chance to refuse, Jeno's lips softly lay on top of yours. At this moment, nothing matters as you let yourself free fall in love with the softness of his cushion-like lips.

At first, he starts slowly, making sure not to get ahead of himself and feel the pain of the cuts lining his lips. He delivers small kisses, guiding you slowly until you fall into a rhythmic momentum and you both relish in the melodious harmony blooming from within your bond.

Little by little, you both start to feel greedy. It's like your lips have a mind of their own, guiding your bodies even closer together. You place your palms on his chest, the crazy beats of his heart speaking to you from under his skin-tight black shirt.

His staccato breaths send your mind into overdrive and you mindlessly let out a satisfied hum, igniting a fire inside of him he doesn't think he can control. Having you under his arms, with your lips molding against his and your heated body clinging onto his is only encouraging him to push you back on the sofa, landing gently on top of you.

The closeness between you two is helping his body heal faster than he expected. With gentle yet deep kisses, Jeno gets all the energy he needs and you're there to give it all to him.

"I love you." He whispers in between kisses. "So, so much."

Nobody says that love is easy, but when it's with the right person, it exceeds all the boundaries and restrictions and conquers it all.

And as Jeno pulls away from your lips, eyes closed, chest heaving and face heated, you glance up at him with astonishment and appreciation because if he weren't your soulmate, you'd break all the rules just to find him and love him again and again.

"Now that I've secured yet another win," he starts, smiling gently yet sinfully. "Let's celebrate, our own way."