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mariacallous · 10 months

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Hamas’s Oct. 7 attack on Israel has initiated an unpredictable chain of events, and it is too early to determine how the attack might shape the future course of the struggle for Palestinian liberation. The vast destruction of the Gaza Strip and the horrifying loss of civilian life are a painful blow to Palestinians, reminiscent of the Nakba of 1948. Yet, simultaneously, the illusion that the Palestinian question can be swept aside while Israeli apartheid persists has been shattered, and Palestine is back at the top of the global agenda—with growing recognition that it must be addressed, even if the brutal massacres of Oct. 7 have polarized the debate around it.

Since 2007, Hamas’s presence in the occupied territories has been restricted to the Gaza Strip, where the movement has been effectively contained through the use of a hermetic blockade that collectively imprisoned Gaza’s 2.3 million Palestinians. In its containment, Hamas was stuck in what I have termed a “violent equilibrium,” whereby military force emerged as a means for negotiating concessions between Hamas and Israel. The former uses missiles and other tactics to compel Israel to ease restrictions on the blockade, while the latter responds with overwhelming force to build deterrence and secure “calm” in the areas around the Gaza Strip. Through this violence, both entities operated within a framework whereby Hamas could maintain its role as a governing authority in Gaza even under a blockade that enacts daily structural violence against Palestinians.

Beginning in 2018, Hamas began experimenting with different means of changing this equilibrium. One was through its decision to allow for popular protests against Israel’s domination to take place. The Great March of Return in 2018 was one of the most extensive examples of Palestinian popular mobilization. The protest emerged as a civil society-led effort that was given permission, supported, and ultimately managed by a committee comprising the various political parties in Gaza, including Hamas. As a governing authority, Hamas provided much of the infrastructure necessary for the mobilization, such as buses to transport activists. This was a stark departure from the means with which Hamas traditionally challenged the blockade.

Another shift in the equilibrium came a few years later, in 2021, when Hamas leveraged its military arsenal to retaliate against Israeli aggression in Jerusalem. In the lead-up to Hamas’s rocket fire, Israel had been actively working to expel families in the Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood from their homes to make room for Jewish settlers. This initiated widespread mobilization of Palestinians across the land of historic Palestine. The Israeli state responded with force and mass arrests against protests that were peaceful and included prayers around Al-Aqsa Mosque. Israel’s efforts to disrupt the protests and push forward with its colonization of East Jerusalem triggered Hamas to respond with rocket fire.

These examples demonstrate efforts by Hamas to go on the offensive and expand its resistance to encompass demands that extend beyond the lifting of the blockade. Such positioning implies an objective to act as a military power that comes to the defense of Palestinians against Israeli colonial violence beyond the Gaza Strip. Underpinning these tactics was a clear strategic shift by the movement to transition away from acquiescence to its containment to a more explicit challenge of Israeli domination—and thereby overturn the equilibrium that had become entrenched over the course of 16 years.

This shift is in keeping with Hamas’s historical evolution as a movement that has relied on both armed and unarmed resistance, in ebbs and flows, to challenge Israel’s occupation and to push for core demands of the Palestinian struggle, including the right of return, which was central in the 2018 protests. (Hamas’s history is replete with examples in which it read the political context around it and, on the level of the movement’s leadership, altered the strategic direction of the organization, with clear instructions for the military wing to either escalate or de-escalate.)

The recent shift to all-out violence is also in keeping with the movement’s understanding of the role of armed resistance as a negotiating tactic—one that the movement has historically relied on to force concessions from Israel.

The Oct. 7 attack can be seen as the next logical step for a movement chafing against its containment. Some analysts have described Hamas’s move as suicidal, given Israel’s reaction, or irresponsible, given the death toll it has led to among Palestinians. Whether or not either of these characterizations is accurate depends on an analysis of what options Hamas had and on how the dust settles. There is no doubt, however, that the attack itself was a decisive rupture—one that is, in retrospect, clearly the culmination of all the changes that the movement had been experimenting with.

The strategic shift entailed moving from the limited use of rocket fire to negotiate with Israel into a full-throttled military offensive aimed at disrupting its containment, specifically, and the Israeli assumption that it could maintain an apartheid system with impunity.

There is little doubt that the bloody Oct. 7 attack exceeded Hamas’s expectations and that the scale of the massacres in Israel has galvanized Israeli and international opinion in ways that Hamas may not have entirely anticipated. Any significant military operation that Hamas conducted with any degree of success—targeting military bases near the Gaza-Israel fence area and securing a significant number of Israeli combatants—would have similarly shattered the paradigm of the blockade and elicited a devastating Israeli response.

Yet the killing of civilians on this scale—whether or not Hamas’s leadership had actively pushed and prepared for this level of bloodshed—has galvanized a ferocious Israeli response in Gaza, enabled by the carte blanche granted to the Israeli government by most Western leaders. Some scholars of genocide have argued that the Israeli campaign amounts to ethnic cleansing and intent to commit genocide.

It is counterfactual to argue whether or not these responses would have taken place had no civilians been killed or kidnapped. Either way, Hamas’s military offensive and the mass violence that followed have irreversibly shaped the nature of the response against Palestinians in Gaza.

From a strictly military-strategic perspective, prior to the attack the only option other than the use of force available to Hamas was to remain constricted within the framework of the blockade, while Israeli settlers expanded their rampaging violence in the West Bank, Israeli politicians disrupted the status quo around Jerusalem’s Haram al-Sharif/Temple Mount complex, and Israel got rewarded with U.S. visa waiver programs and regional normalization agreements.

Within this climate, the options Hamas had were to acquiesce to the continued assumption that Palestinians had been effectively defeated and to remain confined and strangulated within their various Bantustans—parcels of discontiguous land resembling the apartheid-era South African “homelands” of the same name, where many disenfranchised urban Black people were relocated and governed by supposedly independent local puppet regimes while a white supremacist government continued to exert military control.

The choice, as Hamas saw it, was between dying a slow death—as many in Gaza say—and fundamentally disrupting the entire equation.

It is certainly the case that cornering Hamas—and Palestinians more broadly—into a situation whereby only a powerful military attack of this form emerges as the preferred option for the movement could have been avoided. Even prior to Hamas’s containment, and specifically since the Second Intifada, there were many opportunities for diplomatic and political engagement with it.

Hamas had de facto acquiesced between 2005 and 2007 to a political program that may, if leveraged correctly, have led to the creation of a Palestinian state alongside Israel and the dismantling of the occupation. This was a position that the movement put forward as part of its election victory in 2006 and subsequent entry into the Palestinian Authority. Later, this position was formalized in 2017 in the movement’s amended charter, which called for the creation of a Palestinian state on the 1967 line, without offering formal recognition to the state of Israel.

The Israeli and American refusal to engage with any of the movement’s political concessions since then, while Israel was consistently given a free pass to maintain its violent occupation and ongoing colonization of Palestinian land, undermined any faith Hamas may have harbored regarding the international community’s interest in holding Israel to account or enabling Palestinians to establish a state on a portion of historic Palestine.

Much has been written on the lost opportunities of dealing with Hamas diplomatically. The events that followed the movement’s democratic election in 2006 were premised on a refusal to engage with Hamas’s political platform, with Israel and the U.S. government preferring to pursue regime change and to deal with Hamas militarily, choosing to limit their engagement on the Palestinian file with the PA.

Since then, Israel has supported and enabled Hamas to exist as a governing authority while simultaneously demonizing the movement as a terrorist organization, a paradox that enabled the state to justify the collective punishment inherent in the blockade of the Gaza Strip. This was explicitly the chosen strategy of successive governments under Benjamin Netanyahu, who openly spoke about the benefits to Israel of pursuing a “separation policy” between the West Bank and the Gaza Strip as a means of undermining prospects for Palestinian statehood.

In the absence of any real diplomatic prospects for Hamas, its choices were either slow strangulation as the governing authority of the Gaza Strip, while Israel became ingratiated with Arab regimes that had all but abandoned the Palestinian cause, or a decisive blow that could fundamentally disrupt the assumption that Palestinians were defeated and subservient and that Israel could maintain its apartheid regime cost-free.

That Hamas opted for the latter suggests that it is behaving strategically and remains committed to the belief that it is playing a long game. By this logic, even if Hamas’s military wing were entirely destroyed or expelled, the movement has already secured a victory in revealing the weakness and fragility of Israel’s military, which can be exploited in the future through a reconstituted Hamas or through another future military formation equally committed to armed resistance as a means of liberation. In other words, the disruption itself becomes a space for alternative possibilities to emerge, whereas, prior to that, there was only the calcified certainty of continued Palestinian oppression.

This belief in a long game means that regardless of what happens in the short- to medium-term future, even with the horrifying loss of civilian life in Gaza, Hamas has disrupted not only the structure of its containment but the entire notion that Palestinians can be siloed into Bantustans and forgotten without Israelis incurring any cost. That disruption is existential for Israel, and, supported by Western allies, the state believes that the only way to survive this blow is through decimating Hamas.

Israel will fail—and is already failing—in attaining that objective. Regardless of how the battles against Hamas in Gaza unfold now, the movement can already claim to have emerged victorious in the long term because it irreversibly shattered the false sense of security Israelis had cloaked themselves in, despite all attempts to present Israel as invincible and impenetrable.

But even in the immediate battle taking place in Gaza now, prospects for an Israeli victory are slim. As in any asymmetric struggle, the guerrilla fighters merely have to not lose to emerge victorious, whereas the powerful state will lose if it does not achieve its overarching goals. And the goal of decimating Hamas as a movement is as vague as it is unachievable. For one thing, the movement is much bigger than its military wing. It is a movement with a vast social infrastructure, connected to many Palestinians who are unaffiliated with either the movement’s political or military platforms.

At its core, Hamas is an Islamist movement that has its roots in the regional branches of the Muslim Brotherhood. It is connected to health care infrastructure and educational facilities and charities. If, by decimating Hamas, Western and Israeli leaders are calling for the killing of any Palestinian who espouses any form of Islamist ideology, then that is nothing less than a genocidal call against the Palestinian people, and it should be understood as such.

If, however, the goal is to destroy the movement’s military infrastructure, then this goal is likely to fail in one key way. The breaking apart of Hamas’s military wing will set the stage for the emergence of other forms of organized resistance—whether within Hamas’s ideological garb or otherwise—that are similarly committed to the use of armed force against Israel.

History has already taught us this much. Hamas emerged in 1987 from the embers of the PLO’s historic concession, whereby throughout the late 1970s and early 1980s the PLO shifted toward conceding on the partition of Palestine by recognizing the state of Israel and renouncing the use of armed resistance in pursuit of a Palestinian state. Coinciding with that transition was the establishment of Hamas as a party that held on to the same principles the PLO had before it, couched in an Islamist ideology instead of the secular nationalist one that dominated the 1960s and 1970s.

There is a continuum of Palestinian political demands that stretch back to 1948 and before. Whether or not Hamas survives in its current incarnation is a red herring: Palestinian resistance against Israeli apartheid, armed and otherwise, will persist as long as the regime of domination continues.

At its core, this is a regime that provides more rights for Jews than Palestinians throughout the land of historic Palestine, stratifying Palestinians into different legal categories and fragmenting them geographically in order to sustain an overarching regime of domination. All the while, it prevents the internationally recognized right of allowing Palestinian refugees to return to their homes.

Israel’s model of apartheid is committed to Jewish supremacy from the river to the sea—a recently maligned phrase that has long been used unapologetically by the Israeli right—while Palestinians remain as a dominated people living within the confines of that state and governed in the occupied territories through illegitimate authorities that are collaborationist in nature with the Israeli state.

To overturn this dynamic, and to undo Israel’s conviction that Hamas—through its containment—could be pacified as the PA had been in the West Bank, the movement took a calculated risk with its operation, given that it realistically expected its military infrastructure would be severely weakened in the anticipated retaliation. But in the absence of any willingness by the international community to engage with Palestinians outside of such armed tactics, and given Israel’s ongoing and increasingly violent colonialism, this shift toward an expansive military operation on Hamas’s part was ultimately inevitable.

There is another reason underpinning Hamas’s calculus, and that is its ambivalence toward governance. Hamas was shackled by its role as a governing authority in the Gaza Strip. When the party ran for elections in 2006, it was with no small degree of organizational conflict about taking on a governing role or even participating in the PA.

Hamas leaders articulated that rather than accepting the limitations of governance under occupation, as Fatah had done through the Oslo Accords, the movement was intent on using its election victory to revolutionize the Palestinian political establishment. It asserted its capacity to do that by noting that, through its response to the Second Intifada, Israel had decimated the Palestinian body politic and rendered both the PA and the Oslo Accords obsolete.

Hamas spoke about the need to build a society of resistance, an economy of resistance, an ideology of resistance, through the very body of the PA—and to use this body as a stepping stone into the PLO, from where it could lead alongside other political factions on setting a vision for the liberation of Palestine, and for representing Palestinians in their entirety, beyond those in the occupied territories.

Its election victory, as I argue in my book, Hamas Contained, was meant to be revolutionary toward, rather than accepting of, the status quo. With no real prospects for statehood, Hamas understood that focus on governance and administration meant beautifying a Bantustan within Israel’s apartheid system, that there would be no real prospect for liberation or sovereignty, and that the only path forward was enhancing quality of life while remaining subservient to the occupation. That is indeed the PA’s model in the West Bank, and it would have been a more extreme version of that in the Gaza Strip.

With the successful Western-backed coup against Hamas—which began shortly after Hamas’s election victory and culminated in a civil war between Hamas and Fatah in 2007—for some time it looked as if the movement’s governance in Gaza had pacified it to the extent that its revolutionary ideals had been lost. The lengthy period of containment suggested that the movement may have become entrapped in its own electoral success and shackled by its governance responsibilities—or, in other words, pacified. The violent attack on Oct. 7 has clearly shown that the movement, rather, had been using this time precisely to revolutionize the political body, as it had always intended to do.

All this still does not mean that Hamas’s strategic shift will be deemed successful in the long run. Hamas’s violent disruption of the status quo might well have provided Israel with an opportunity to carry out another Nakba. This might result in a regional conflagration or deal Palestinians a blow that could take a generation to recover from.

What is certain, however, is that there is no return to what existed before. Yet this is precisely what Israeli, U.S., and other Western leaders and diplomats are preparing for. Already, the discussion has turned to the day after, even in the absence of a cease-fire having been formalized.

All indications point to a U.S.-Israeli decision to try to replicate in the Gaza Strip the successful model—in their view—of Palestinian collaborationist rule that exists in the West Bank. Rather than engaging in a process whereby Palestinians have the opportunity to choose representative leaders who could govern them, Israel and the United States are replaying an age-old approach of choosing compliant leaders who can do their bidding and subdue the Palestinians under Israeli hegemony.

This is being done under the banner of supposedly unifying the Palestinian territories, with both parties conveniently erasing their own complicity in facilitating this disunity until now. The goal for both is not reunification but the pursuit of acquiescent rule: the creation of a governing structure in which a pliant leadership governs civil needs under an overarching structure of Israeli military domination.

Such a goal has to contend with Gaza’s historic reality as a hotbed of resistance to Israeli apartheid, given that the majority of Gaza’s inhabitants are refugees seeking the return to their homes in what is now Israel. To facilitate the installation of an authority chosen by Israel and the United States requires nothing less than razing Gaza and killing its inhabitants—the policy that is now unfolding.

Aside from the moral and legal implications of this are the practical ones. It is difficult to envision any Palestinian leader or governing structure that will take over responsibility for the Gaza Strip after Israel destroys it, as they will be seen as having been ushered there on the backs of Israeli tanks. Such leaders will have even less legitimacy than the PA has in the West Bank today, which is hard to imagine.

Such an approach might buy some time. It might produce the semblance of a status quo and a degree of stabilization. But if any lesson must be garnered from Oct. 7, it is that this will not be lasting or sustainable. Any chosen governing entity will not be able to guarantee security for any Israeli as long as apartheid exists and any Palestinian government installed in Gaza will rightly be seen as illegitimate and collaborationist.

However the “day after” is packaged, it will fail unless it comes with holding Israel accountable and dismantling its regime of apartheid, and it will be clear to all Palestinians that it is just another Bantustan solution, cloaked either as humanitarianism or a renewed commitment to a two-state solution.

In this sense, Hamas has indeed dealt a fatal blow to Israel’s fantasy that it could continue its occupation and blockade indefinitely. It is yet unclear, however, if Israeli political leaders—beyond their vengeful violence—have managed to heed this lesson. But grassroots organizers, Hamas’s allies, and other political and military formations have.

Whatever comes next, and however Hamas’s legacy will be written, it’s clear that it is the movement that burst the delusion that Israel and its allies have held on to for far too long.

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niqhtlord01 · 4 years

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Humans are weird: Hope for the future

( Don’t forget to come see my on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord )

The planet Alia near the edge of human territory and had grown from it's species first colony outside of their home system of a sparse few settlers to a thriving metropolis of millions.

The shinning spires of metal and glass of the planet's mega cities pierced the skies like the hand of an angry god reaching out to the heavens and the wealth and prosperity that flowed from it's vast trade network and supported the outlying colonies for further expansion. Yet for all their wealth and prosperity the fate that had been decided for this world was something that could not be changed.

A massive seismic event occurred on Alia shortly after it's new year celebration. The planet's tectonic plates became highly volatile and a series of growing earthquakes began triggering around the globe. Within a week of the events triggering a massive shattering happened and the plates shifted violently without warning.

Oceans swelled and receded, mountains crumbled and volcanos detonated, rivers changed direction and howling winds ripped across the lands so intense it shredded flesh from the bone of any foolish unfortunate enough to be caught in the open. Countless buildings shook and toppled and thousands if not hundreds of thousands died in the ensuing chaos as entire cities were swallowed beneath the cold surface of the planet.

Communication with Alia was lost and though the rest of the wider galaxy was unable to establish contact their response was already put into motion.

The human governing body organized a massive relief effort and was further bolstered by neighboring alien domains that shared trade with Alia and had heard of the travesty. Before the tectonic plates had even stopped shifting a fleet of relief ships from a dozen worlds was already enroute.

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Dust slid off the toppled column like a waterfall as Uto lifted it. The Vorka's muscles straining and bulging as he used all of his strength hefted the massive concrete pillar. His breathing calm and measured as he breathed in rhythm with his lifting. He lifted the mass over his head and in a single motion cast it aside with a deafening *THUMP!*

When the dust settled aide workers rushed passed Uto and cleared the rubble that had been underneath the column and in short order a door was revealed. Uto bent down and punched his fist through the metal door and ripped it off it's hinges. A dozen pairs of eyes looked up at him as he removed the door from his arm and dropped it harmlessly to the ground before gently extending a hand down. One of the people in the shelter took his hand and he carefully lifted them out into the open.

"Res ease, hue-mn." Uto struggled with human language, his tongues struggling to form the correct words.

He set the human, a scrawny female Uto wagered, to the ground. She looked up at him with a mixture of emotions dancing across her face before throwing her arms around Uto and hugging him. Uto stood transfixed as the female wept and thanked him over and over as the other rescue workers began lifting the remaining survivors from the shelter.

Unsure how to react Uto stood still for several moments before one of the rescue workers took the still sobbing woman away with the remaining survivors. Uto watched the frail female leave before turning his gaze back across the now ruins of the capital city.

Numerous fires still burned across the entire metropolis; some scattered around the ground while others burned high up in the few remaining sky scrapers that had not toppled during the quake. Roadways were cluttered with thick dunes of debris ranging from metal beams to massive chunks of concrete turning the landscape into some horrid nightmare forest.

Portions of the city's sea wall had broken and sections of the city itself had drifted into the ocean. Sky scrapers that once stood over 300 stories tall now appeared as nothing more than tiny isles just breaking the waterline.

Though he kept his thoughts to himself, Uto was amazed by the level of devastation nature still could have on modern civilizations.

He stood their for several minutes taking in the catastrophe before heading back and resuming the rescue work. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Several long hours passed with further rescue efforts across the entire city before their overseer called for a crew change and Uto's team began heading back to their hospital ship to rest.

If the shattered city was unpleasant to look at at during the day it was terrifying to look at at night. Nearly all of the power grid sections had been destroyed leaving the vast roadways shrouded in a darkness so thick it felt as if Uto could reach out and grab hold of a chunk of it.

His team was murmuring among themselves with Uto only half paying attention to their conversation when he spotted something down a side street between two toppled buildings. A single light was waving back and forth slowly from beyond the darkness like a beacon of old warning wayward travelers.

Uto held up a hand and pointed to the light and his team stopped and followed his direction.

"Another survivor?"

"Out here? Wasn't this area already swept?"

"Maybe they missed one."

The rescue team debated among themselves before Uto sighed and began walking towards life.

"No mazer," Uto spoke, "we help all."

With that the rest of the rescue team began following after Uto.

As the team came closer to the light they were able to better make out the surrounding area. The weak light appeared to be a lantern hanging from a wooden pole hanging from a small building at the end of the side street. A tiny structure with half it's walls caved in but the remaining structure appearing sturdy enough to support the roof.

"You smell something?" one of the rescue workers said quietly.

Uto sniffed the air and realized there was indeed a strange smell in the air that did not belong in such a wasteland.

"I'd recognize that smell anywhere." Another of the rescue workers spoke before pushing their way forward.

Uto made to grab him fearing the way ahead was unstable but they were too fast and they were already making their way inside through the broken wall section before shouting "Everyone, get in here!"

At that Uto and the other rushed forward expecting the worst but were confounded once they entered the building.

Rather than the gutted remains they had expected the inside of the building was semi clean and well lit. The worker who had rushed forward was sitting at a table on the opposite side of the room with another human handing him a steaming bowl. At seeing the other workers they raised their hand with the bowl to show them.

"It's a ramen store!"

While the word was unknown to Uto it seemed familiar to the others who then in turn piled in and began sitting down at what tables still stood. The man behind the counter appeared to be an elderly human but moved as if the years had only effected his exterior rather than his reflexes and soon there was a warm bowl of ramen for everyone present.

Uto stepped towards the counter and two of his team members parted to allow him a seat. As he took it the old man handed him a bowl.

"For your hard work." the man said as he smiled.

Uto looked at the bowl then at his team. All of them were eagerly eating and the mood was one of joy and comradery; a steep contrast to the dread they had been dealing with as they sifted through the remains of the city.

"Ssank ou." Uto muttered as he began sampling the contents of his bowl. It was a flush of flavor the likes Uto had not had since he was on his homeworld. Warm and delicious, almost disarming in it's nature to such a degree that when Uto looked up and for a moment felt as if he wasn't in the ruins of a once proud city.

When Uto finished his bowl and set it down the elderly man was ready and handed him another.

"Why ssssay here?" Uto asked the man, now curious about this human living alone.

The elderly man waved a hand around the building as he continued cooking. "This restaurant has been in my family for three generations now; I could no more leave it than I could chop off my own arm."

Uto looked back at the ruined walls and roof as portions of the shingles slid off and shattered to the ground. "I am sorry is ruined." To his surprise the elder man chuckled.

"It is not ruined, only broken."

The man must have saw the confusion on Uto's face and he continued. "In my culture when something has been broken it is, like a vase or cup, it is not thrown away and discarded but instead mended with gold to heal the wounds and restore it."

Uto shook his head at the man's remarks. "Iz confusing."

"Is it?" The old man pointed to Uto's arms. "You are covered in cracks and scars yourself, yet you did not resign yourself to languish in the trash and be forgotten."

The man handed out several more bowls before fully turning to Uto. "This city has been broken and many have been lost, the wounds are fresh and feel as if they will never heal again; but in time the city will rebuild and the streets will once again be filled with the sounds of joy once more."

"Ruins are only made when those who remain are unwilling to rebuild what was lost."

Uto pondered the man's words and again looked at his team as they mingled. Their faces were filled with joy and hope he did not think any would have after witnessing such devastation first hand.

"Ou are very wize." Uto tilted his head in acknowledgement to the old man who seemed to blush slightly and laugh.

He sheepishly waved to the store again. "It comes with owning a ramen shop." He leaned in close and whispered "All the best ones have sage advice; it makes the food taste better."

The two laughed and sat the night away, a tiny corner of joy in a city though broken, would never be defeated.

#HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #story

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withastolenlantern · 3 years

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What do you think it was like?” Rafael asked as he hacked at the tough vegetation with his hoe, pulling the dense vines into a pile in the pathway. The soil was nitrogen poor, even when heavily fertilized, and the local flora had a fibrous root that was always threatening to choke out their transplanted species. The ground cover was too thick for the harvesters to handle, so the crops were still pulled by hand at the end of the wet season.

“Why do you always ask that?” I said, stooping down to the ground and dusting the dirt from the now exposed potatoes, gently brushing them clear like an archaeologist might some ancient, precious treasure. I pulled the tubers from the ground and put them into the cart.

“You don’t wonder?” He leaned on the handle of the hoe, brushing the sweat from his dark brow.

“I try not to.”

“Come on, Shan. If I have to have one more meeting about soil nutritiation, I’m going to kill myself. And you’re down there all the time…”

“We’re not having this conversation again.” I hadn’t come out to the fields looking for a fight, but I was always prepared for one. “Stop changing the subject.”

He frowned. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m just saying. The season’s almost over, and we’re not getting any younger.”

He put down the hoe and knelt down next to me, lifting another potato and cradling it. He looked at me plaintively. “I just… are you sure this is what you want? To spend your life toiling in the dirt? I mean, your father…”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “My father is a drunk, and he has nothing to do with this.”

“He didn’t used to be. He might snap out of it. Some of them do,” he said. “I’m just worried you’ll get bored of me, of this. It’s not a glamorous life.”

“No, but it would be our life, Rafe,” I pleaded.

“One more season. The bureau is due to review the allotments soon, and I almost have enough saved up for a down-payment on my own forty.” He kissed me gently on the forehead, then stood, and stared up toward the sky and sighed. “You honestly don’t wonder? What it was like, knowing what was happening out there?”

I stood too, matching his gaze. I put my arm around his wrist and held it gently to my chest. “Come with me. I have to check on him, and then maybe you’ll see why I’d much prefer to farm potatoes with you.”

It had been one-hundred fifty-nine years since we’d last heard from anyone outside the system. The Network had gone down July 17th, 2938, or at least that’s what the history books said. And that is only if you went by the original Earth calendar, which no one did anymore. With a twenty-eight hour day and a rotation period of six-hundred seventeen days, matching time here on New Caledonia to that on Earth was pointless. With The Network, information would take an interminable time to transit the two-hundred eighty-four light year and four relay distance between us; even then, relativity was unclear on whether there was any such thing as simultaneous events at these stellar distances anyway. For me it was irrelevant: the Earth might as well not exist, may not exist, and Sol was just a very dim star you could barely make out in the southern sky.

For us, it had been a normal Sunday, Wet Season 12, CSY 134. New Caledonia is an eccentric planet with a single landmass in its northern hemisphere surrounded by a large planetary ocean. Because of its near forty-five degree axial tilt relative to the ecliptic, the year is divided into two seasons of nearly equal length. During the Wet Season, the more direct sunlight heats the seas, driving strong currents that bring strong storms to the western coast. The moist air blows in and dumps copious rain across the western plains before climbing into the central mountain range that separates the continent, the only remnant of the clash between the two gigantic tectonic plates that formed the land we now call home. This quirk of a jetstream leaves the eastern plains beyond the mountains in a giant rain shadow, barren and dry. For this reason, all the major settlements are here in the west, and in the Dry Season, the ocean gyres cease and we hunker down for a long, cold, arid winter.

The rains were strong that Wet Season, or so the stories go. At first they though the heavy cloud cover and unstable air was interfering with communication to the satellite arrays. Minkowski Transmission provides a supraliminal link through the interstellar void, but it was still subject to the space-time warps of a heavy gravity well; we are forced to rely on more pedestrian broadcast methods to communicate with the Network Relays out in longer orbits free from gravitational interference. But they checked the dishes and the transmission center and everything was fine. Then they checked again. Then they waited until the Dry Season, and checked again. And then they waited.

We walked up the path to the main road where I’d parked my truck, and Rafe loaded the cart, only half-full of potatoes, into the rear cargo bed. “How is he doing?” he asked, hopping into the cab and pulling on his safety belt.

I pushed the ignition switch and the engine purred to life. The battery chimed a plea that it needed to be recharged soon, and I felt that deep in my soul in a way the inanimate vehicle could never understand. “He has good days and bad.”

“How much longer?”

“Too long.” I put the truck into gear and programmed the destination into the navigational system. It lurched forward, the tracks catching slightly in the soft, damp clay of the plain. “Honestly I stopped counting a long time ago.”

We made it maybe half a mile before the rain started again, at first light pricks ricocheting off the windscreen of the truck, but quickly growing to fat blobs that exploded with a violent thud. I opened the valve to the distillation unit on the roof and a slow drip of cleansed water trickled into my canteen. After a few seconds I closed the valve and took a sip; the water was cool and clear. I offered some to Rafe, but he demurred with a slight wave. “Do you think he’ll go back to his career, after?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. At the beginning they said they’d welcome him back, but I think we all expect that was just a pleasantry. I’m… I’m not sure if he could handle it, now.”

We rode in silence for a few more minutes before he spoke again. “I’m not sure he’ll approve,” he said with subtle defeat. “Especially if he goes back to work.”

“He doesn’t get a say,” I replied. I reached across the seats and took his hand in mine. I smiled as brightly as I could in reassurance. “I’ve made my choice. This is what I want, for myself. For us. He can object if he wants, but what’s the worst that happens? It’s not like we can be further apart, not after what’s happened.”

It was several days into the Dry Season before the panic really set in. The original settlers had always known it was a one-way trip out here- four hundred years was a long time in stasis, and there was never a guarantee the planet would provide a sufficient fuel source to power the generation ship’s massive thrust engines back up. So like seeds in the wind humanity scattered itself across the stars, secure in the knowledge that the Network Relays would prevent them from ever being truly alone. Mankind might diverge physically and spacially; over time genetics and environmental factors would certainly breed out several new homo subspecies. But with the Network we could at least stay connected enough to share our stories, our art, our discoveries, and what else has humanity ever been but that?

The governor made an address and appealed for calm. New Caledonia had been self-sustaining since the beginning, she reminded everyone. They’d be fine. It was always a known possibility that this might happen, and the best everyone could do was to go on with their lives. The Network would come back, or it wouldn’t; they’d keep trying to re-establish communication.

The rumors started swirling immediately. The panel show ratings skyrocketed. We watched some of the footage in school, when I was younger; one talking head insisted it could be an alien threat, splitting us up before some pending invasion. There’s never been any sign of extraterrestrial intelligence even exists, let alone in competition for colonization, the other shouted. A third argued it was a sign from God, that humanity had outreached its grasp.

A popular conspiracy stream posited that maybe it was just New Caledonia. What if everyone else’s Network connection still works, and they’re cutting us out? The opposition party saw an opportunity and ran with it- what if the government shut down the link? On purpose! What if this was all a ploy to consolidate power and rule the planet as an oligarchy? The riots lasted three days, with violence and looting in the city streets before cooler heads prevailed. The government stayed in tact, and the opposition leaders were purged for fomenting insurrection. And thus was born the New Caledonian hermit kingdom.

“I don’t think I’d even want it to come back, at this point,” I groused. “Not after all of this.”

“How can you say that?” Rafe asked, incredulous. “You’re not the least bit curious?”

I thought for a moment. “Curious, yeah, I guess. But I don’t know that it would change all that much. It’s been so long. What if it comes back and it’s just… too different?”

“Yeah but think of what we might be missing out on,” he argued. “It might have helped with The Rot. It might have…”

“Don’t,” I warned, feeling the threat of tears welling my eyes.

For one-hundred fifty-nine orbits we’d tended our flocks and tilled our soils alone. Without a broader knowledge base, technological progress slowed. In CSY 204 a plague came, some meta-organic compound released from a pit mine dug too deep. The Rot claimed thirteen percent of the population before we could quarantine it out. When I was nine they finally found a way to inoculate against it. I remembered wincing at the shot as my father looked on, relief evident in his face that I’d be spared the fate that had claimed so many lives, including my mothers.

Maybe Rafe was right; maybe someone out beyond the stars might have helped us avoid that tragedy. And maybe someone here might know or do something that could save lives elsewhere. But in the years since the Network went down, we’d persevered, raised generations on our own. And inevitably just like Rafael they would stare up at the night sky with the same wonder as those before. And then they’d also ask about the abandoned broadcast center in the empty valley beyond the outskirts of the main settlement, grown over with the local moss-analogue from years of disuse.

The truck crested a small hill, the tracks struggling for purchase in the mud as they pulled the vehicle over the incline, and we looked down into the valley where that broadcast center sat. Every two years an adult was selected by random lot to man the station, in the increasingly unlikely event communication with the Network was re-established. The government called it “The Receiver” in an effort to present it as some important position, but everyone knew it was a joke. It came with no real benefits, just a small stipend and the obligation of a community. We all prayed at the Harvest Festival that our number would not be drawn from the bowl.

My father was a proud man, an engineer who helped manage the settlement’s geothermal power station. His luck had run out eight-hundred sixty-three days ago. He swore up and down that the lottery was rigged; that the government thought him being a technical expert instead of a field-hand, that the fact that his wife was gone and his children all grown, made him expendable. He might have been right, but that didn’t absolve him the responsibility. So he’d resigned himself, and us with him, to the doldrums of minding an interface that may never come back online.

He read a book a day, or at least he claimed, and while the library did have a fair amount of humanity’s literary efforts prior to the cutoff, their plots and concerns were divorced from life here on the frontier. He took up drinking, inevitably, as did everyone else assigned to the posting. What they don’t tell you when your name is pulled from the bowl is that the sacrifice is not yours alone- the burden is your family’s to bear. My brother’s and I took turns minding him, bringing him food and checking on his mental well-being but they all had families of their own now, and I was desperate to start mine too. We were all ready to move on, and I hoped by bringing Rafael with me he could see that I was serious about starting our life together.

We pulled up outside the comms center and dismounted from the truck.

“Hang on a second,” Rafe said. “I want to talk to him.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“Just… let me do this, okay?”

I smiled and kissed his cheek gently. He went inside while I unloaded a tote filled with fresh fruits and a sandwich I’d laced with some amphetamines to help keep him lucid. The interior of the building was dark; the lights hard burned out several months ago and no one from the government could be bothered to maintain the place on any expedited time scale. I brushed some of the local vines from the threshold of the entryway as I entered. “Dad? It’s Shan. I brought some food.”

As I passed from the mottled grey sunlight outside to the dark interior I could make out blurry figures backlit by the eerie glow of his reading lamp.. They were both standing, which was odd. Dad was usually in the chair when I visited, most of the time asleep.

Rafe emerged suddenly from the shadows and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Shan. Stop.”

“What is it?” I asked, taken aback. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s… here. Let’s go outside.” He pulled me gently but forcefully toward the door.

“What the fuck, Rafe, stop it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s your dad. He…”

I shoved Rafael out of the way and stepped forward into the comm station. My father came into clearer focus, and I could tell immediately something wasn’t right. I came closer and dropped the basket to the floor in shock. His body hung limply, his feet swaying gently five centimeters from the floor. A length of electrical cord, half-stripped from the wall behind him, was wound tightly around his neck. I grabbed his feet and lifted, crying. “No no no no no, dad, fuck.” I pushed and contorted his body, trying to free him but to no avail. Tears were streaming down my face now, hot and wet.

I pulled a short table across the concrete floor and climbed up onto it, my vision blurred with anger and fear and sobs. I yanked at the cable, trying to unwind it, to free his body. I pulled and wrenched and screamed in desperation, banging on the overhead truss that supported it until I nearly broke my hand. I collapsed onto him, my hands around his shoulders, my face against his chest. His skin was cold and pallid. I was too late to save him.

“Shan.” Rafael stood in the entryway to the station. He offered his hand I took it gingerly, climbing down from the table and following him outside. He pulled me in close as I wailed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t…”

I pulled Rafe to the ground and cried for another few minutes, my chest heaving with agony. “It’s not your fault,” I whispered finally.

“It’s not yours either. You did the best you could.”

“I know.” I pulled the sleeve of my jumper up over my hand and wiped my eyes. “I think a part of me knew it would always end like this. It has so many times before. In a way it might be… I don’t know. Better? I’d always worried about what he would be like after.”

I gulped in air as my breathing stabilized. “Come help me get him down?”

“Sure,” he said, mustering a weak smile.

We went back into the station and looked upon him once more. He looked frail, fragile in a way he hadn’t before. Being alone this long, it just did things to a person. Rafael grabbed his feet as I climbed back up on the table. With Rafe bracing his weight I was able to loosen the taught cable and slip it free, and we lowered the body gently down to the table. He went out to the truck to get a bag to cover my father, and I stood silent vigil, until in the quiet I heard a strange humming noise from across the room. I turned and saw that the Network terminal screen was activated. “That’s… weird.”

I walked across and stood in front of the terminal, suddenly alive with activity. Rafe entered back in with the bag. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. It’s not usually… on.” I leaned in close. “It’s displaying something.”

A line of dots and dashed appeared on the interface. “I… I think it’s old morse code. Dad had to learn it. I helped him practice.”

“What’s it say?” he asked, a sudden dread in his voice I didn’t recognize. I could feel my stomach welling up in anxiety as well.

“It says.... HELP.”

#was thinking about this again the other day #and then i expanded it to... this #i legit think this is one of the better short forms i've ever written #anyway screaming into the void etc

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wdeft · 3 years

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For Labor Day, a re-post of The Battle For Blair Mountain

My great great uncle, LP Somerville, ran away from home to fight in the Spanish American War that made Teddy Roosevelt famous as well as President. Like many of the mountain settlers in Appalachia, LP was proud, adventurous, self-reliant and patriotic. Even ornery. That did not make him unique in West Virginia. I can remember him plowing a garden in his backyard in Parkersburg (with an old hand operated tiller) and cleaning out the gutters on his roof – in his nineties.

“Getting a jury was even more difficult than predicted. Finding jurymen unrelated to the Defendants’ families – including both Hatfields and McCoys – appeared impossible. When the name “Anse Hatfield” was called, a lawyer responded, “He’s dead, Your Honor,” as two men named Anse Hatfield stepped forward. The jury wheel turned again and again, and deputies fanned out across the county to bring in men. Veniremen arrived by car, horseback and hobo-style on trains. Their simplicity and honesty impressed reporters, as did their almost uniform hatred of Baldwin-Felts detectives. One thought he was showing impartiality when he announced he was neither “a union man or a Baldwin Felts thug.” Nearly a thousand veniremen were summoned and more than four hundred were examined. There was even talk of allowing women to serve in view of their newly won right to vote, but West Virginia’s attorney general, in a hasty decision, ruled women could not serve on juries. Someone suggested taking blacks as jurymen, but Judge Bailey refused to countenance it. Finally, on February 9, twelve men sat in the jury box: two school teachers, four farmers, five laborers and an illiterate old backwoodsman who had ridden to town on horseback.”

Thunder in the Mountains: The West Virginia Mine Wars 1920-21, Lon Savage.

West Virginia’s trial of Sid Hatfield and twenty-two co-defendants for the Tug Creek murder of Albert Felts was the fallout of an ongoing dispute between miners and the mining companies that employed them. The Mayor of the rail town Matewan, West Virginia (CC Testerman) and his Sheriff (Hatfield) took the side of striking miners being evicted from their Company owned housing by Baldwin-Felts detectives. Hatfield, once acquitted of killing the Felts of Baldwin-Felts, became a folk hero in Appalachia. Baldwin-Felts men later killed him (and Testerman) on the courthouse steps in Welch. The miners, inspired by Mother Jones, then flew into open and violent rebellion opposed by the imposition of martial law against the miners, the use of Federal forces (primarily planes) to supplement Baldwin-Felts and culminating in the Battle of Blair Mountain.

“A condition obtains in Mingo County that has no parallel, even in Soviet Russia or any land in the world,” said Neil Burkinshaw, union attorney. “All civil processes are abolished, and the entire government is in the hands of a single man.”

Thunder in the Mountains, Page 65.

It was said that the ‘leader’ of the union army was Billy Blizzard but during his trial for treason a miner-turned-revolutionary noted, “A lot of people will tell you that Bill Blizzard was the leader of it all. Now, Bill’s one of the finest people that ever lived, don’t get me wrong … But he wasn’t the leader any more than the rest of us was, from the way I see it. We was just all leaders, in a manner of speaking.” Thunder in the Mountains, Page 136.

In the end, the striking union miners were happy to violently battle the coal mine operators and even the Baldwin-Felts agency. They were even willing to continue and increase their fight in the face of what they viewed as an improper suspension of their rights by the State. But they would not – could not and did not – take up arms against the Federal Government.

#Family #Life2 #civics #labor

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dopescotlandwarrior · 4 years

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Beauty Chooses II-Chapter 12

A special thanks to @statell for all your help. Best beta ever.

Previous chapters at AO3

Chapter 12 A Deal With The Devil

An exhausting two days it was, high in the mountains above River Run. I missed Faith terribly feeling almost hysterical in my need to see her. When Jamie called us to load up, I was filled with relief and a full dose of ants in my pants. As we ambled down the mountain, I sighed a lot and flopped around on the seat shared with Jamie. I could tell he was getting annoyed but could do little to curb my constant movement.

“Murtagh, I’d be grateful if ye gave Claire a turn on the horse before she throws herself over in a restless fit.”

I smiled when Murtagh pulled alongside the wagon and I almost leaped on the horse in my joy to stretch my legs. As the wagon moved again, I trotted circles around it, smiling at the men before pushing the horse to canter a bit. I heard Jamie yelling for me to come back and slowed to a walk before turning around.

I couldn’t have been more surprised when two men flanked me out of nowhere. One of them covered my mouth with his fat hand and pulled me onto his saddle. I was thrashing hard enough to almost get away when he pressed me painfully into his lap and ceased any more movement. I heard the wagon come around the bend quickly and suddenly stop. I glanced at Jamie who stared wide-eyed at the two men, his rifle raised, and his eyes darted around them looking for more I expect.

“Please! We mean no harm to ye, we’re just passing through on our way back to the valley. I’ll thank ye to take yer hands off of my wife.”

The man looked at the two guns trained on his head and shoved me off his lap, quite unceremoniously. That is when I noticed the men were naked to the waist, wore long hair in a braid, and painted their faces. I was terrified looking at what I assumed were savages as stories of their raiding and killing came back to my memory. Before Jamie could utter another word, the men turned their ponies and galloped away.

Jamie pulled me into his arms asking if I was alright. I was so sick of my tears but felt them, once again, leaving evidence of my fright. He kept me close to him in the wagon while Murtagh caught the horse. I was not such a wiggle-worm for the rest of the trip and felt deep relief seeing River Run in the distance. I just wanted my arms around Faith for the rest of the night and tried to turn off my warring emotions as we passed more than a dozen slave shacks.

Jamie spent several hours downstairs with his aunt and I was grateful for the tray of soup and bread I could share with Misses Crook, Glavia, and Faith. The four of us relaxed around the food and spoke of the crazy road we had traveled to end up here again in this century. I was proud of Misses Crook and Glavia for their honest recounting of facts and how easily they had assimilated this truth. I warned them against sharing this information with anyone else and they both nodded their heads vigorously.

Little Faith grew sleepy from all the attention and lifted her arms to me. I put her to bed and we all disbanded for the evening to our separate rooms. I laid in the dark and tried to imagine our lives as we built our home and community so high above the plantation. How long would it take to have a door that locked, or feel safe against the woods, the cold, and the hunger? I wasn’t afraid, just curious, and maybe anxious to be a part of a thriving highlander community where Jamie would once again preside over the happiness and welfare of the people who depended on him. I felt my smile as I drifted off.

It was several days later when Jamie came back from seeing people in town that I finally saw a glimmer of hope and happiness in his face. I felt my stomach tighten, knowing he had secured some kind of agreement for the land. I could hardly make it through dinner, with Jocasta’s numerous guests, before I lifted my skirts and ran up to our bedroom to prepare for bed. I paced our room, straining to hear Jamie’s boots on the stairs and when the door opened, I almost jumped out of my skin.

“My darling Sassenach,” he cooed, “what has ye jumpin so?”

He looked dashing, confident, gloriously handsome in his dinner finery, and I felt my knees go weak from the sight of him. I watched him drop his sword and dirk on the table and remove his coat as he approached me. I was helpless to do anything but stare at his face, his lips, his broad shoulders while I clung to the bedpost. I surrendered to my wanton desire of him, my inability to think beyond this room, and kissing him, licking his skin, watching his eyes devour me eclipsed all else in my mind.

It would be another twenty-four hours before I finally asked about the land and then I stopped talking to Jamie altogether, or even looking at him, while my ire steeped. The deal he made for the land, the price for his soul in this endeavor was unacceptable. He had agreed to an officer’s position in the British army. The same army that drove us out of Scotland, killed thousands of Highlanders and banned our way of life, now had Jamie’s pledge of fealty. I believed he would unwind the deal when faced with my incredible unhappiness and waited for him to do just that.

Jamie made many attempts to talk to me only to see my back before I slipped into bed to sob into my pillow. After three days of silence between us I couldn’t take the brutal fear and unhappiness anymore. I was spent from tears, from fear, and from the disconnection to my husband. I felt like a walking ghost just passing time until we left for the great adventure I had come to dread. When Jamie reached for me the fourth night, he wrapped himself around me and spoke into my ear when I wouldn’t turn toward him.

“Sassenach, please talk to me lass. This is the only way to secure the land we want and need. I swore my service to the British knowin the war is still twenty years in the future. We both know this land faces challenges from Indians and the corrupt local justice, and I can deal with that. Why do ye doubt me to such an extent? I must know before my heart breaks completely.”

The betrayal I felt from Jamie’s agreement would not allow me to feel forgiveness, understanding, or even love. My insides felt as cold as ice and I blocked out his words and steeled myself against his pleading. I said not a word and waited to hear him breathing deep in sleep. I cried again until I was completely spent and fell asleep as the gray light of dawn was seeping into our room. When I woke up, Jamie and Murtagh were gone.

Jocasta bent over backward to make me feel comfortable and filled the house with interesting people and lavish dinner parties. I thanked her for each favor of dresses and introductions but inside I felt dead like I would never wake from this nightmare. Jamie had abandoned me rather than rescind his promise to the British. There was no coming back from that, especially in his absence. His priority was absolute, and Faith and I would have to find a place in his ambition or be forgotten I feared.

On three occasions, a traveler arrived at the plantation with a letter from Jamie. My heart rammed in my chest as I held it in my hands and the paper shook violently as I tried to read it. He poured his soul out with his words and begged me to forgive him for this deal. He explained the progress made on the house and the setbacks from skirmishes with the Indians and the local militia who were victimizing the settlers. My eyes glazed over reading about the events with other people feeling even more abandoned. The third letter was mostly about the challenges he faced, alone, without me. There were two brief lines about his love for me, and that was it. My tears flowed down my cheeks and I let the letter drop to the floor. It was obvious he had left us behind to pursue his dream of a Highland community on the mountain. I felt the tearing of my soul away from him and it physically hurt, like I had been cut with a knife.

Misses Crook gasped at the sight of me when she finally opened my door the next day. My eyelids were almost swollen shut from crying and I looked at her from bloodshot eyes. She rushed to my side and held me like a mother would, rocking and telling me all would be resolved.

“I’m taking Faith back to my century Misses Crook. I will take you and Glavia if you want to go.”

She was silent for a few minutes, “of course I will go with ye mistress, yer my charge and I will see ye safe. Glavia will come too I’m sure. It may be strange, that place in the future, but it was a happy home when we were there. Are ye sure the Laird isna comin back for ye?”

“I’m sure.”

Saying those two words turned my heart to stone and I was filled with the resolve to leave this wretched place. I stood up and started searching my drawers for the blue stones and started to panic until I heard the stones rumble in the drawer I pulled open. I grabbed the sack and we left to find Glavia and Faith.

I read Jamie’s letter over and over through the day, hoping to find something I missed, a promise to come for me, a lonely heart wanting to reconnect, but I found nothing. I sat with Jocasta and told her my heart was broken because Jamie didn’t want to find his way back to me. He was high in the mountain building his dream, so I was moving on. Jocasta was terribly worried, but I assured her we were going to a safe place. I couldn’t answer her questions so I broke away promising to continue the conversation at dinner, knowing we would be long gone by then.

In the late afternoon, while Jocasta was napping, Misses Crook, Glavia, Faith, and I gathered behind a barn and linked our arms together holding Faith tightly between us. I looked up at the mountain and tried to feel Jamie before I closed my eyes and concentrated on Lallybroch in 2019.

I felt the earth under my feet and opened my eyes to Lallybroch, pushing the women toward the house as we were very conspicuous in our long dresses and corsets. I felt the key above the window and opened the house to our sanctuary. I ran upstairs finding all my clothes still in the chest of drawers and knew Joe had not moved anything after our departure. I quickly changed into other clothes and pulled a sweater on against the chill. I felt cold on the inside as well as the outside and wondered if any amount of layers would help.

A neighbor’s boy walked out of the barn and I knew he had come to feed the horses. I ran outside and told him I would take over feeding from now on. He shrugged his shoulders and said okay before heading home. Donus lifted his head and whinnied when I entered the barn. He seemed to be looking behind me, looking for Jamie no doubt.

“We must both forget him Donus. We don’t belong to him anymore.”

Making the lonely walk from the barn I noticed Misses Crook inspecting the garden and pulling the weeds that had taken hold. Glavia and Faith were outside singing her favorite nursery rhymes. The three of them looked happy and relaxed with no sign we had just jumped almost three centuries to the other side of the world. I guess only I felt wasted, tired, empty, and heartbroken. I kept walking straight upstairs to lay down on our bed. My bed, shoving my face into the pillow so no one would hear me fall apart.

When I felt Misses Crook touch my arm I knew I had slept many hours and blinked at her while something sad and painful crept up my spine. Inch by inch I felt it moving toward my brain and my ramming heart wondered what tragedy had occurred. It felt rather like a sledgehammer brought down on my head when I remembered we were back in 2019 because Jamie left me.

Dear Misses Crook rocked me like a baby until my gasping sobs were finally under control. She pressed a whisky in my hand and then passed me a plate of food and told me when to take a bite, when to chew, when to swallow. Another whisky and I felt my muscles unlock allowing me to lie down. The covers were pulled up to my chin and Misses Crook sat in the rocking chair and read to me. It was a book from the Nancy Drew mystery series where Nancy and her trusted friends solved crimes. The characters were too young to know romantic love, too young to know heartbreak and betrayal, so it was safe as one word led to another for what seemed like hours. That act of kindness saved my life that night and the next and the next. Misses Crook’s compassion seemed to have no end.

When his hand touched my cheek the smell of him took me to a safe place in my dream where people were happy and encouraging and I was a queen. His touch was pulling me out of my slumber and I resisted, not wanting to face the pain of a new day.

“Pet, open your famous eyes please.”

My eyelids opened but I couldn’t bear to look up at him, so I stared at his leg and felt the hot tears slide down my cheeks. I wondered why I hadn’t died yet. It was the only solution to the crushing pain, and I had done little to sustain my existence so why was I still waking up each day. When his arms slid under me, I knew my arms and legs would fall off if he lifted me out of bed and I felt a glimmer of excitement the torment was almost over.

Joe pulled me into his lap amid my protests to let me be, but he wasn’t listening I guess. I heard him gasp when his hands touched my rib cage and he pushed my greasy hair away from my face.

“You have company, that would be me, so get up and take a shower, or maybe you would rather have a bath. What is your preference?”

I laid my head on his shoulder and tried to go back to sleep. Back to the black I had come to love. When I landed on my feet in the bathroom I wondered when Joe had become so annoyingly bossy and finally looked at his face. No tears, that was a shock, maybe my tear ducts had emptied a lifetime of tears and I was finally free of them. Joe felt the water and announced it was perfect for a nice shower, then he left me there. This seemed odd. Leave me alone in a room and close the door. It was time to go back to bed but when I opened the bathroom door, Joe was pushing me back while he pulled off my clothes.

The shower water was the height of discomfort and try as I might I could not get out. Joe pushed me right back under the water and finally stripped to his boxers and got in the shower with me. He shampooed my hair and then handed me a sponge gushing with lather from my shower gel. I rubbed it down my arm and looked at him for approval. The strong scent of aromatherapy was waking me up and clearing my head, so I was able to finish my shower without help. When I emerged, there were clean clothes on the vanity. I put them on with a deep sigh.

Joe stayed with us for a week, until Baritone could get back from his Paris show. It seemed like they were passing the baton of who would be in charge of me. I hugged them both hello and goodbye but felt nothing inside, just one more thing to do. Baritone was so happy to be reunited with the women, but Faith had his heart. He spent hours on the floor with her asking questions about what game they were playing to which she answered mostly gibberish while he smiled down at her.

The sun came up each day, I went through my chores, and the sun went down. Day after day, week after week, and I felt like a cold wasteland inside. I didn’t cry anymore, nor did I laugh, but it was okay because I didn’t feel pain.

Three months have passed, and snow now covers the ground. Only the horses are happy about the cold temperatures. We stay indoors and watch movies. Joe and Baritone are both here causing loud laughter during dinners and sparking stimulating discussions that I endure, like everything else. I need to get away from all of these people, so I head for the stairs saying goodnight. Seeing the door to my bedroom fills me with relief but during the first sigh, someone is knocking.

“I request the company of my best friend please.”

“For what?”

“A walk.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Joe, it’s freezing out there, goodnight.”

“Think of it as an incentive to get through our discussion without a lot of arguing. I have a small matter that I need your help with, Pet.”

We bundled up and headed out for whatever Joe needed. I only hoped it would be quick.

“I want to talk about your mental health, Claire.”

I was quite practiced at pretending I was in the conversation and most times it was enough. Not tonight. Joe forced me to look at him as he talked about Jamie and asked how I was feeling.

“Stay with me Pet. No, you cannot go inside and hide away from my questions. Do you realize you left him no way to find you, no way to message you or write to you? Jamie went to the mountain to start work on a home because you judged him and shut him out of your heart. I realize the hurt was devastating to you, so you didn’t speak to him for three or four days. But a deal was struck for the land and he was expected to be there doing his duty. I don’t see he had much of a choice. He had to go.”

“So he went. End of story.”

“Extraordinary love doesn’t happen every day, and it doesn’t go away, Pet. Maybe the only thing he could do is start building a house and hope with time you would forgive him, but you closed that door. Do you ever wonder if he is suffering, as you are?”

“No. He is quite busy chasing after savages and protecting settlers from the watch. He probably hasn’t had time to build his house yet. Who cares?”

“You do Pet, and he does, I would bet my life on it.”

“Are we done here, Joe?”

I was feeling weird inside like a piano was about to fall on my head, and it scared me. Wherever this conversation was going, I felt vulnerable and laid bare. I wanted it to stop.

“You owe him one conversation, Pet. You owe the man time to speak his peace and you speak yours. If you decide to quit each other after that you will have no regrets or guilt. I have never known you to be cruel until now and I don’t think you want to be that person.”

“I didn’t know you had such a thing for him.” I was grasping for something to say and could feel my nose in the air like some ridiculous power posture. I was starting to feel something and I didn’t want to. I couldn’t let this happen.

“Say his name, Claire”

“I am going back to the house, this conversation is over.”

“Say his name.”

“Jamie. Happy now”

One shaky stride after the other, I made my way to the house and then to my room. I didn’t want to see anyone, not even Faith. My back slid down the wall and I crumpled on the floor. I went minute by minute, hoping to gain some control over my emotions again. I wanted more than anything to feel nothing and was willing to give up every emotional high for the rest of my life, so I didn’t have to face the pain that was coming.

Maybe this is what warriors do before battle. I willed my thoughts away, closed my mind to everything I loved, and steeled myself against the coming war in my mind. When Jamie’s image filled my mind, I gasped as if I was mortally wounded. I didn’t want this, but there he was. His head was lowered, and his eyes were full of pain on the last day I saw him. He beckoned me to speak to him, pleaded with me to understand his decision. I could see his face and I felt his pain, but I turned my back on him. The man I swore to love until the end of time was shunned by me, his wife. Every minute of our encounters the last four days went through my head. Minute by minute, I saw him plead, with an open heart that I closed myself to. What kind of person does such a thing? That’s when the pain started, really started in my gut, where I couldn’t reach it to pull it away from me. I tried to imagine the same treatment from him and couldn’t because Jamie would never do such a thing to me.

The pain grew as the minute’s past. It felt like a knife slicing through me from the inside and I couldn’t take it anymore. I moaned and cried, holding myself while I rocked against the wall. When I let myself sob it felt like the end of time had come and I sobbed harder, calling out to Jamie in my mind, screaming at the stones for their passage to this disaster.

Hours passed as my sobbing continued. My gaze fell to the floor under our bed, to Jamie’s secret place. I crawled to it, pushing the bed away until the board was exposed. I had to touch something of my previous life, something of Jamie’s. Through bleary eyes I found the seam and popped the board loose, falling on my knees I tore through the ancient papers. The years had faded the ink so much I couldn’t read them, and I felt a helpless spiral toward everlasting sorrow. The papers fell to the floor and I heard a glass vial hit the wood. When I picked it up, my name was clearly written on the paper inside.

My Dearest Sassenach, Nothing could have prepared me for this heartache. I hoped to bring you back to the land when there was a door that could lock you safely inside. I prayed daily for God to bless yer heart with forgiveness. I did not know what else to do. When I learned you were gone, I lost my mind and jumped on a ship headed for Scotland. Poor weather made the journey twice as long and nearly cost my life from sickness, loneliness, and fear I would never find ye. I have been here for many days, avoiding capture from redcoats while I search the gorge for a blue stone. I won’t stop lookin for ye sweetheart. Not ever. JMF

Jamie’s note shook in my hands as I read it. I could not tear my eyes from the paper as I read it over and over again. My poor sweet Jamie, I thought, what have I done? I tried to think of him, searching the gorge in a country loaded with the enemy and felt my protectiveness over him seep into my consciousness. When I stood up, I felt the muscles of my youth flex and hold me steady while my mind cleared for the first time since leaving him. I’m coming, Jamie. Forgive me please. I’m coming for you.

Yanking my drawers open I layered the warmest clothes I had before searching my closet for the blue rocks. I looked for Jamie’s heavy coat and pulled it on before holding the rock and thinking of the gorge I had searched so many times. When I heard the rushing in my ears and felt the pressure of shooting through the centuries, I finally calmed down a little. I am coming, Jamie.

I felt the wind blow against my face and the earth under my feet. It was so dark I could not see my hand in front of my face and proceeded slowly, feeling my way toward the gorge I hoped. When my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could see the outline of trees and the jutting landmass that formed the gorge. I exhaled in relief that I had come to the right place but in this darkness, how would I find Jamie? I pressed on, stumbling over rocks until I lost my footing and landed hard on the ground. When I got to my feet, large hands pushed me hard into the side of the gorge knocking the wind out of me and I fell forward, caught by arms that seemed so familiar.

“Christ, Sassenach! Dear God, what have I done?”

I tried to pull air into my lungs, making horrible noises in the process. Jamie picked me up and moved us into the trees. He laid on the ground and spoke soothingly to me, telling me to calm myself and breathe. I felt his hand run down my arms and legs, searching for something.

“Are ye wounded, lass?”

“No.”

I could barely see the outline of his head and body, but my hands found his face and held him. He dropped to my side shushing my tears and holding me close. I wanted nothing more than to lay there in his embrace, knowing he was alive and holding onto me. Jamie shook from the cold, so I scrambled out of his coat and wrapped it around him. He tried to protest until I showed him my own coat worn underneath. I buttoned it around him and held him tightly.

I don’t know how long we laid there, asleep or awake, I just gripped his powerful arms and breathed him into me. When I felt a hand over my mouth, I knew danger was close by and my eyes flew open to the dawn. He looked at me and held a finger to his lips and then released my mouth. I heard men talking and rocks being kicked as they searched for something. We were much too close to the redcoats and I suddenly feared we would both be caught. I felt along the ground until my hand settled on my rock in the pillowcase. I held Jamie tightly and pulled the rock out, concentrating on Lallybroch in 2019.

I felt Jamie’s grip on me tighten as we sailed through time. I lifted my face to him, kissing him deeply, and felt time stand still. The wind in my ears stopped, the pressure lifted, and we were suspended in a space without earth, without a century, as we kissed. I clung to him and kissed him with all the love I felt for him and he did the same. When I broke the kiss, I closed my eyes as the wind came back to my ears.

We laid in a field close to Lallybroch for some time. I could not articulate my thoughts, so I just held him close as he did me. At one point, Jamie pressed his forehead to mine until my tears came, warm and wet on my cheeks.

“I’m sorry Jamie.”

“Sh. I know your pain, lass, as ye know mine. I have but one wish, to stay with ye, wherever ye choose. I will not be parted from ye again.”

It was dawn in this century and we stumbled to the house, still wrapped around each other, and made our way to the shower. I shaved Jamie’s long beard and threw his tattered clothes into the wash before making my way quietly back to our room. When I saw him laying on our bed I started to cry.

“Come here, love.”

His arms were reaching for me and I fell into them as he wrapped himself around me. He rocked me until my tears stopped. I wanted to feel his skin next to mine so I pulled my robe off and hugged him as I tried to assemble words into sentences that would convey my every emotion. The only sentence that formed is how sorry I was.

“I am sorry too, mo chridhe, more than I could ever say adequately. I am so damn glad for yer leap of faith to come and find me. I would have lost my will to live without ye lass, that is the truth of it.”

“I know exactly what you mean. But you’re here now, with me, and we can go home and forget the last three months alone. When we get there, I want to destroy these rocks. I have no interest in being anywhere without you.”

“Thank ye lass.”

His kiss restarted my heart, my hopes and dreams, and my belief in the greatest man. He broke the kiss and confessed he had eaten very little in many days. That is when I noticed his hands shake.

“Dear God! You need a breakfast fit for a king.” Come down whenever you’re ready, I love you.”

I bounced into the kitchen and shocked Misses Crook who was preparing oatmeal for the household. She stared at me in disbelief and asked if I was well. I had not said a word to her, but she could clearly see the change in my face. I held her hands and whispered the Laird was here and hungry. Her eyes went wide, and her smile would have lit up a dark night. I don’t often see Misses Crook move that fast, but she was on a mission. Her Laird was hungry.

The house filled with the aroma of bacon, sausage, eggs, and pancakes. Freshly brewed coffee and of course, oatmeal. It didn’t take long for the men to answer the call of morning hunger. Joe hugged me for a full minute and whispered “well done” in my ear. How could he possibly know I found Jamie last night? It seemed they were all mind readers suddenly and I giggled at that. I poured coffee for everyone and looked at the parlor wondering where Jamie was. When Glavia walked in smiling brightly she announced the Laird was with his daughter getting her dressed for the day.

I peeked into the nursery and felt my heart jump to my throat. Jamie sat in the rocking chair with Faith’s arms around his neck pressing into him. Neither of them moved, they just hugged each other. I waited for as long as they needed and tried not to make a sound. Faith turned her head to Jamie and kissed his cheek repeatedly, while Jamie smiled.

“She has grown so much, and where did all this hair come from?”

I had a choice between feeling remorse and guilt or happiness at seeing this reunion. I chose the latter. Jamie and I both had a hand in our separation, and we would forgive each other and get on with our lives. I smiled at him and suggested he could come for the feast we made when he was ready.

It wasn’t long before Joe and Baritone were on their feet shaking hands and slapping Jamie on the shoulder. Glavia smiled from ear to ear and Misses Crook shoveled food onto a plate and set it on the table for him. A tiny plate was set on the highchair tray waiting for one small, happy baby. Once Jamie swallowed two plates of food the mood became festive and lighthearted. I grabbed the cell phone from the counter and started snapping pictures of everyone. When I put it down, Baritone grabbed it and took many more.

“How is Donus?”

“He will be overjoyed to see you. I’ll get our coats.”

When we were all bundled up, we headed out to the barn. It was snowing big flakes that swirled around our faces. Inside the barn, it was warm from the propane heater. Jamie held Faith with one arm and hugged Donus with the other. He spoke Gaelic to the beast and I was delighted to hear it again.

“We ride, later my friend.”

He held his arm out to me and we walked back to the warm house. Misses Crook scolded Jamie with the utmost respect, telling him many days of food and rest was needed because he was much too thin. He looked down at me with his azure sparkling eyes.

“Perhaps we lay down for a bit when Faith takes her nap?”

“Perhaps we will.”

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greencrusader13 · 4 years

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All Were Innocent Once: Chapter 11 - Shootouts and Sand

So I checked when I last uploaded a chapter of this, and it’s nearly been a whole year. Talk about writer’s block! I appreciate everyone’s patience with me in getting a new chapter out. With all the craziness in the world I can’t promise a regular schedule for uploading, but I will do my best.

Without further ado, let’s just back into the adventure!

It had only taken Cirak a few minutes to determine that he unequivocally hated this planet. There was no breeze here; the desert air was still. The sun bore down on them with unrelenting heat, and though he felt that warmth was better than the cold it didn’t change the aggression that the heat possessed here. He wasn’t fully sure how the citizens of Tatooine kept themselves from putting blaster bolts in their head just from living here. Maybe the sun had zapped all of the intelligence from the moisture farmers’ minds.

Tatooine was a planet rife with cheats, smugglers, and swindlers of all kinds; truly a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Cirak was just surprised they hadn’t come here sooner. There seemed to be little shortage of potential work, and he was pretty sure that he could fire his blaster in any direction and hit someone with a bounty on their head. It was like Nar Shaddaa, but without the lights, duller clubs, and half of the fun. He had to give any fugitive credit if they chose this damned planet as their getaway destination: they really did not want anyone to find them.

Traveling with Taelros over the past several years had taken him to numerous planets, each with their own biome and flavor. They never stayed anywhere for very long – only for the duration of the job – before taking off again. Most of their time was spent on Taelros’ ship, The Reaper’s Prophet, with the rest of his crew, but even those faces changed from time-to-time. It was best to not expect consistency of any kind, not go looking for any sort of home.

His mentor had wasted little time acclimating Cirak to the bounty hunter’s lifestyle. Within a week of meeting the man he’d been given a blaster and some armor that was, at best, passable, before being thrown into the fire alongside Taelros himself. It wasn’t until later that he started learning more about the bounty hunter who’d taken him under his wing. Republic Special Forces Division, once upon a time, until he’d been dishonorably discharged from their ranks five years before meeting Cirak. He’d never asked Tael about the incident that purged him from service, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Tael had taught him how to survive as a bounty hunter, and the key philosophies of the career. Most importantly, he’d taught him the one philosophy that guided them above all others: somewhere, in some part of the galaxy, some shmuck was looking to part with their credits to have someone else dead.

In their case, however, that schmuck was some Imperial official, probably reclining on a luxury chair back in some high rise on Dromund Kaas, probably going through some bureaucratic nonsense while sipping on some fancy wine. Definitely someone Cirak would punch if given half the chance. He’d looked like the stuffy type on the holocom, what with his pencil mustache and balding head only somewhat obscured by his officer’s cap. Taelros had done most of the talking, but Cirak had assigned himself all of the judging. He’d watched in silence as his mentor negotiated their way into a wild bantha chase that, ultimately, had led them here.

Their mark, as explained to them, was a former Imp deserter-turned-raider and part-time treasure hunter named Lenurd Woth. After bailing on his assignment he’d given out the locations to several ordinances to the highest bidder, including the Black Sun, which had earned him a sizeable sum of credits from his buyers and malcontent from his former allies. He’d then vanished, only to resurface on Tatooine with a new yacht, guards under his employ, and a profession scamming the local settlers out of credits with whatever junk he’d find out in the wastes.

Killing him would be no trouble at all for the Empire, considering their vast resources. As much as Mr. Woth wanted to hide, he’d done a poor job of it with the ruckus he’d caused on his way out the door, and finding him had been relatively simple, as was tracking his routines. They could’ve dropped in an agent, put a dart in Woth’s neck, and that would be that, except for one simple reason: Woth wasn’t worth their time, not with a war going on. He was, however, worth sending a message about, hence the bounty hunters and the preference for being put in carbonite rather than the ground. Hence being on this blasted hot planet.

At least there’d be credits at the end of it all. That was the one and only solace Cirak could take on this hell planet.

Cirak lay on his stomach flat against the rise of a dune, binoculars raised as he searched the glistening sand for any signs of Woth’s skiff. The mark would be returning from treasure hunting any minute now, far from the defenses of his yacht. He and Taelros had spent the past hour planting ionic charges in the ground. Once he drove over it, Woth’s skiff would come to a halt; he’d be flat-footed and easy to take down. Using thermal or kinetic explosives would’ve made the job far simpler, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t wanted dead. Sadly, there would be no big boom.

With a sigh he pressed the binoculars into the sand. That is, however, if Woth ever showed up.

“Buck up kid,” Taelros said, as if sensing Cirak’s discontent. “Not every day we get asked by someone to go hunting for the Empire. Even less often that they ask us to go after one of their own.”

“And I’m gonna die of boredom and heat exhaustion if he doesn’t show soon.”

“You’re a bit of a whiny little thing today aren’t you?”

He kicked the ground, forming a divot with the toe of his boot. “I don’t like sand,” Cirak grumbled, baring his teeth. “It’s coarse and rough and irritating, and it gets ev-”

“Kid if I have to hear you wax philosophical about sand I’m going to lose my mind. Nobody cares about your whining.”

“Fine. Kriff it, whatever.” Cirak raised his binoculars again. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand. Sand was catching in his face fur, particularly his moustache.

It was a truly immaculate moustache. He’d begun growing it about a year into his life as a bounty hunter, but it hadn’t fully formed until a few more years after that. Now it was perfect: two strands of thin-but-bushy grey hair fell from both sides of his upper lip, framing his face in an edged way. The best bounty hunters had facial hair if they could grow it, or at least that’s what he’d learned from watching holovids in the early days.

Just as Cirak was about to prod Taelros about the veracity of the intel they’d received, a shimmer on the horizon stole his attention. He ducked against the sand dune, clasping the ion detonator in one hand while his other raised the binoculars once more. Three skiffs – not one – sped closer to them, all three mounted with a pair of turrets meant to rend metal from ships, and there was a man stationed at each one of them. Woth was nowhere to be seen.

“Think someone tipped them off?” Cirak asked.

“Looks that way. Plan hasn’t changed though. Just more blaster fire.”

“We’re charging extra for this.”

“Most definitely.”

Despite the increase in protection, Woth’s security didn’t appear as though they knew of Cirak and Taelros specifically. The sentries scanned the sands, but it was an aimless search, a general kind. Cirak recognized it well from the few times he’d been hired for security detail by overly-paranoid aristocrats fearing assassination attempts. They still didn’t know about them, and as such, they were heading right into their trap.

Cirak popped the lid off the detonator as the skiffs neared the ion charges.

“On my count Cirak,” Taelros said, raising three fingers. “Three…”

His thumb hovered over the red button. Red buttons were the best, especially when explosions followed.

“Two…”

The skiffs drew closer, their engines growing ever louder.”

“One…”

They were right over the charges.

“Now.”

Cirak clenched the detonator and slammed his thumb downwards onto the button. Instead of an ionic burst, there was nothing. The motors hummed, still approaching in what now felt like a lackadaisical speed. Cirak pressed the button again. Then a third time. Still nothing. He shook the detonator as though the resulting ionic burst was hiding somewhere within and simply needed dislodged. It wasn’t, because that’s not how detonations work.

Taelros sighed, running his hand down his face and dragging his features along with it. “Cirak, did you arm the charges when you planted them?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?”

“It’s not a stupid question if it makes the most sense.”

“Of course I armed them! They’re live!”

“Then why haven’t I seen any-”

The shrill sound of a singular round of blaster fire cut through the air, and Cirak looked up just in time to see it strike the engine of the outmost skiff. The vehicle burst into flame as shrapnel scattered across the desert sands. Without slowing momentum the wreckage veered into the center skiff, which in turn rotated violently into a collision with the third. In the distance he could hear shouting as panicked scoundrels fought to wrest control back from the increasingly devastating situation in what few seconds they were afforded. Both remaining skiffs flipped, their repulsor engines dying simultaneously and throwing their passengers in various directions before landing in separate dunes. Some flew higher than others, and, Cirak realized, had he been prepared it would’ve made for excellent skeet practice.

He glanced over at Taelros. His mentor looked equally shocked and no less amused. “Well,” Cirak said, storing his binoculars. “I’m not about to look a prize bantha in the mouth. Let’s clean up the security and then deal with poor Lenurd.” He unholstered his twin blasters – among them his father’s old holdout blaster (which, to be fair, he’d now possessed far longer than his father ever had) – and then bound over the dune.

Woth’s scattered retinue was still climbing to their feet as Cirak approached. He twirled his blasters patiently while examining them. For a former Imp he sure employed several aliens. Most Imps only tolerated Chiss. Maybe he found them useful, relatively cheap labor when he couldn’t otherwise afford selectivity. He shrugged at the thought. It really didn’t matter either which way.

From the corner of his eye he saw Taelros heading for the other downed skiff. Time to go to work, he thought. Cirak cleared his throat, aiming his blasters at the wreckage survivors. “Attention everyone having a bad day. We are just after your boss Lenurd Woth. Hand him over, and it’ll be less ammo I have to waste wasting you. There’s no point in dying for him; all you’ll do is increase my paycheck for resistance fees.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than one of the mercenaries closest to the skiff dove for his rifle several paces away. Cirak fired before the man could so much as take aim. The bolt struck him square in the chest, and he fell limp.

“Not smart,” he chided. “What’ll it be for the rest of you boys?”

Death, apparently. Viewing numbers superior to having a blaster trained on them, the remainder of the mercenaries all simultaneously reached for their weapons. It was a common fallacy, thinking that surely they would be the lucky one who got the shot off and ended the threat. No one ever was. Some were faster than others to their credit, actually getting their blasters from their holsters before Cirak’s fire reached them and ended their lives.

He holstered his blasters as the sounds of combat continued from the other side of the sand dune. “He’s not in this one Tael!” Cirak yelled, turning towards the presumed sound of Taelros’ slaughtering. “Any luck over-”

Sudden movement caught his attention, and he only had a mere moment to throw himself prone before an axeblade swung where his head had been. Cirak flipped onto his back. A gamorrean stood over him, axe raised for a second strike. He rolled to the side as his assailant hacked at the sand, pushed himself to his feet, and somersaulted past him. The gamorrean squealed, spit and sweat running down its piggish mouth.

Cirak drew, managing to fire off a single shot into the gamorrean’s chest, but the blast did little when compared to its size and strength. It was a strength Cirak was swiftly reacquainted up close. A backhanded slap sent Cirak sprawling backwards, loosing his blaster from his grip. His ears rang. The image of the gamorrean blurred from heat and pain as Cirak lifted his head.

Another blaster fire rang out, knocking the raised axe free. The pig-man made a sound that could only be described as a surprised snort, head swiveling in the direction of the shot. It was just enough time for Cirak to draw his other blaster, aim, and fire two clean shots into its head. The gamorrean fell backwards, sending a burst of sand skywards.

A blur of red streaked past from overhead, touching down hard in the sand. Cirak wiped at his eyes as he surveyed his savior. The figure stood covered from head-to-toe in brilliant scarlet armor that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. His helmet, which obscured every aspect of his face, had two pincers that met just at the bottom of his black T-shaped visor. It was a unique touch, but Cirak still recognized the style, the symbology of the pieces. It almost made him want to shoot anyways.

The man was a Mando.

Mandalorians were far from uncommon in the bounty hunting business, but common encounters with them did little to mitigate Cirak’s instinctual hatred of those people. Centuries ago they’d invaded his species’ homeworld, partly for sport and partly for retribution for losses experienced in wars prior, and proceeded to butcher or enslave as many cathar as they could manage. It had led to the near-extinction of his people.

Cirak felt he had a birthright to feel bitter.

The Mandalorian in front of him, however, did not seemed particularly concerned about possible grievances pertaining to genocide, and approached him with an outstretched hand. Cirak slapped it away. “I’m fine,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet and recovered his dropped blaster, dusting sand from it.

Although he couldn’t see his face, Cirak got the sense that the Mandalorian was giving him the expression of someone who had just been slapped. “Your man is over this way,” the Mandalorian said coldly. The rocket booster on his back ignited, and he took to the air once again before disappearing beyond the opposite sand dune.

Cirak grumbled to himself before following suit. He found Taelros beyond the dune, leaning against a flaming skiff while deep in conversation with another human man; a fellow bounty hunter from what Cirak could tell of his armor and weaponry. A carbonite slate of some poor soul – probably Woth – floated on a transportation bed beside him, which Taelros kept a steady hand on. The Mando had landed next to this unknown person, arms folded in what Cirak only figured was silent judgment of the situation.

Taelros regarded Cirak as he drew closer. “Ah, see, this is the kid I was telling you about. Braden, this is Cirak Kiht, my protégé. Cirak, this is Braden. He’s an old friend of mine.”

Cirak looked him over. Taelros and his friend seemed roughly the same age, though Braden possessed a more weathered face with fewer scars. His head had been shaved bald, and contrary to Cirak’s personal beliefs regarding bounty hunting he had no facial hair. His suit of armor was that of Golan Arms make, specifically designed with survivability in mind and able to absorb all but the most powerful of blaster fire. It didn’t come cheap.

Braden extended his hand, which Cirak then shook. “I was curious to see how you’d handle a change of plans and if Tael here hadn’t dulled too much with age. You didn’t disappoint.”

“Well, it isn’t the first time one of our plans have gone sideways,” Cirak said, “Usually they’re his that do.”

“Yeah, shut up kid, or I might just ask Braden here to swap protégés.” Taelros snapped his fingers. “Right, your protégé here. What’s his name again? You said it in passing.”

Braden curtly nodded towards the Mandalorian. “This is Dekon of Clan Arrun. One hell of a shot, great merc. Been traveling with him for a couple years now.”

Cirak glowered at Dekon and moved closer to Taelros’ side. “Your man seems rather emotional Taelros. It’s hardly a beneficial trait in this profession,” Dekon said, insultingly matter-of-fact.

“Mando scum tend to have that affect on me. Funny how genocide does that to people.”

“Insult my people again and I’ll drop your numbers by one,” Dekon snapped.

Snarling, Cirak went for his blaster, but Dekon was faster, having his own drawn and in Cirak’s face. Shock gripped him. He hadn’t been outdrawn since he was first learning how. “I wouldn’t,” Dekon said coldly.

Taelros forced his way between them, lowering Dekon’s blaster with one hand while restraining Cirak’s wrist with his other. “Boys, boys, cultural histories aside there is a bigger picture here that we need to focus on. Cirak, can you play nice with the Mando for a little bit?” Cirak glared at Dekon, anger still hot on his ears and face, but he nodded all the same. “Good! Now let’s get the four of us to a cantina. Braden said he wants to team up for a job, and I think you’re gonna want to hear this.”

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #fanfic #star wars the old republic #cirak #cirak kiht #cathar #bounty hunter #my writing #fanfiction #swtor oc #my ocs #star wars #star wars fanfiction

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comradekellzwweapons-blog · 6 years

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Gun Control Lead Off

As a Marxist, I cannot and do not support gun control reforms. American violence did not begin with school shootings, nor will it end with regulating individual weapons. It's important to point out that school shootings are extremely rare, with statistics showing children are more likely to die on their way to school any given day than being shot inside of their school. Though a difficult topic to navigate emotionally, we should not let the media magnifying glass dictate how we approach the issue of violence in our society. With ever-increasing instances of police brutality, imperialist attacks on the working class abroad, deathly poverty and inequality, amongst countless other things, it's understandable to see America as becoming increasingly violent and needing a fix. Sadly, no quick fix exist. Any attempt to address violence in our society must also be paired with an analysis of the root causes of violence, how the State perpetuates and uses violence politically, and how careless reforms will mean increased violence in our most oppressed communities.

Historically, gun control has been used against black/brown people and the working class to uphold white supremacy and the violent capitalist mode of production. This can, and should, be traced back to the conception of our country as a colony and then as a State. The United States was founded on violence, against both indigenous populations native to the lands, and towards the enslaved Black and brown populations who were made to literally build our country. The Second Amendment is a product of this time; the settlers were legally able to continue to use violent means to expand the colony state by waging war against the Natives they found to be in their way. Ridding the Constitution of the Second Amendment will not rid the Constitution, nor the country, of it's violence or hypocrisy. Tidying up the Second Amendment will have grave consequences. You can't erase history or simply smooth over centuries of racism, sexism, and class conflict. Especially not with gun control laws from the same institutions creating and upholding those oppressions. From slavery and colonization, to the Trail of Tears and the black codes, our “justice system” was crafted to uphold this violence for the continuation of capitalism. Mumia Abu-Jamal put it's it eloquently,

“Social structures—courts, police, prisons, etc.—have within them a deep bias about what constitutes crime and what does not. Any social structure is a product of its previous historical, economic and social iterations, and these previous forms bear significant influence on later forms. The present system, in addition to being increasingly repressive, is the logical inheritance of its racist, hierarchical, exploitative past, and it is also a reactive formation against attempts to transform, democratize, and socialize it.”

When attempting to address violence, we cannot take reforms out of the context of the violent State in which laws and reforms are written and enforced. Any guesswork of demands will have very serious real-world consequences, especially in our communities of color and working class areas. These communities already bear the brunt of capitalist violence, with disproportional rates of poverty, homelessness, unemployment, drug and alcohol abuse, and over-policing, to name a select few. Gun control laws will be a double-edged sword in increasing violence by ramping up racist enforcement of superfluous laws, and by leaving those who most need protection personally defenseless while under more policing. Once we acknowledge who the state prefers policed and defenseless, it's only logical to assume our government will act as it always has in the face of any “violence” related reform.

As socialists we understand that our society has enough homes, work, food, medicine, etc., to go around but supplies are increasingly monopolized in limited hands. Upholding this system of capitalism requires violence, from the police who enforce fundamentally unjust laws, the capitalists who enforce wage labor for survival, to the military who plunder the working classes in other countries when sectors our country has been squeezed to its pulp. If this is hard to conceptualize, imagine being homeless and sleeping underneath the window of an empty townhouse. What stops you from breaking inside to get a good, warm nights sleep? The property laws that enforce homelessness, the militarized police that enforce those laws, or the threat of violent prisons where lawbreakers are enslaved? We must ask ourselves, where is the violence in this situation rooted? Is it when the homeless person breaks a window, or when the police break the homeless person, or is it the fact that a home sits empty while members of our community freeze in the streets. This is a violence that effects every person that lives under capitalism and imperialism, as we all must participate in the system for survival. To address the violence we must address the system.

By acknowledging the root cause of our historical and overarching violence problem, we can analyze which reforms help the working class, and which do not address the root and in turn harm the working class. For example, the liberal reform of increasing the number of “school resource officers”. While on the surface this may seem helpful in the specific instance of fending off a school shooter, these officers essentially take on the role of school police throughout the school year when school shootings aren't happening. Armed guards, metal detectors, strict discipline, constant surveillance... These reforms manage to widen the school-to-prison pipeline by simply removing the pipeline. It has incalculable consequences for every black and brown student who are already 4 times as likely to be suspended, twice as likely to be arrested, and nearly twice as likely to be expelled than their white counterparts. This idea of reducing violence in a single theoretical scenario will definitely increase the violence our marginalized students face every single day. The resources could be better spent by hiring new teachers, ensuring classrooms have enough supplies, or expanding extracurricular activities. To quote Angela Davis,

“When children attend schools that place a greater value on discipline and security than on knowledge and intellectual development, they are attending prep schools for prison."

Another liberal reform worth mentioning is the idea that stricter background checks will curve gun violence. Currently through the Brady Bill, firearm retailers must run a background check on purchasers through the National Instant Criminal Background Check System, an FBI database that enforces the Gun Control Act of 1968. The word “criminal” should immediately alert anybody who understands the mechanisms of the State. To quote Mumia once again, “crime is simply a conception of harm held by those who have power to make laws.” Under the Gun Control Act, people prohibited from owning guns include anybody arrested of a crime facing over a year imprisonment, anybody taking illegal substances or medical marijuana, any immigrant that lives in the US illegally, and anybody tried for domestic violence. Granted some these sound reasonable enough, if it weren't for our racialized and inherently violent state upholding these controls. Black people are incarcerated at a rate of 3.6 times that of white people, and poorer people are more likely to be incarcerated than those of a higher class, meaning the “year in jail” limit disproportionately limits the working class, specifically working class black people, from owning arms. The undocumented community is also barred from legally owning arms, despite the constant threat of violence and deportation from ICE. While those convicted of domestic violence are barred, this does not include law enforcement, who's families are 4 times more likely to experience domestic violence than those of the general population. To allow the State to tighten background check criteria will only perpetuate the racialized enforcement of who can and cannot own arms. Men like Stephen Paddock, the Las Vegas shooter who murdered 58 people and injured over 500, routinely pass the background check as it was not crafted to stop them. How could a law be written that restricts certain types of people, frankly white males, usually with a history of DV, militarism, or right-wing ideologies, from owning guns when so many of those same types of people make up our police forces, militaries, and governing bodies?

All of these examples are way the State prohibits people from legally owning guns, but we must not forget that legally obtaining arms is not the only way to obtain arms. Our country has an estimated 300 million firearms, not including black market guns for which we don't have an accurate count. If a person wants to buy a gun legally, they're subjected to State scrutiny that discriminates based on race and class. If a person wants to get a gun illegally, or off the books of the racist State, they risk much higher charges and longer incarceration if caught. Given the States lack of interest in regulating arms manufacturers, who “donate” to the NRA who then buy the politicians who run the State, guns themselves do not seem to be the problem. Rather, it's when the State's monopoly on violence is threatened by those who have the desire or material benefit in addressing the State itself. Gun control laws, and the police who enforce them, are simply self-preservation acts of racist, oppressive institutions.

While this all may seem discouraging or abysmal, analyzing the root causes of violence and the politics surrounding violence is vital to eliminating it. Capitalism and our bourgeois government that upholds it was founded on violence and must inflict violence on the working class to keep itself running. Attempts to address violence without addressing the root cause will fall short, will not bring about a radical change, and can possibly backfire by placing the working class under tighter State scrutiny. If we attempt to change the system within it, our choices are largely between the Democratic and Republican parties. While the Republican party is quickly written off for its strong ties with the NRA, violent militarism, or general disregard for human life over profits, it's worth noting that the same can pretty much be said for the Democratic party as well. They're the "lesser evil” choice between the two, but once we adopt the realization that capitalism is the root cause of what we believe is so bad about the Republicans, we must also realize that the Democratic party is a capitalist party that overall exists to uphold capitalism and is extremely violent as well. For example, the most unarguably “progressive” of the Democrats, Bernie Sanders, supports the state of Israel in its colonization of Palestine, a mirror image of the colonization the white settlers perpetrated on the indigenous here in our own country. Are we willing to ignore violence as long as it's not us, not our country, not our people? Or do we stand in solidarity with the working class around the world in the rejection of violence, be it colonialism, capitalism, imperialism, etc. Democrat Barack Obama deployed drone strikes 10 times as much as his predecessor George W Bush. He spent billions of taxpayer dollars to bail out the failing big banks, while income inequality, homelessness, poverty, and wage stagnation continued to grow. He also built the deportation apparatus, the Department of Homeland Security, that Trump utilizes to deport people today. If I didn't say “Barack Obama,” you probably would have guessed he was of the Republican Party. And if so, it's due time to break with the idea that the Democrats are the “lesser of two evils” when even the “lesser evil” includes deportation, drone strikes, imperial wars, and general negligence to improving conditions of human life.

It's becoming increasingly obvious that we must move away from the two-party, capitalist system and build towards something that prioritizes human life over greed, profit, and violence. Violence cannot be reformed away in an inherently violent system. As a matter of harm reduction for the time being, we must support any reform that challenges the capitalist hold on the working class is a reform that will in turn reduce violence. We need to demand higher wages and an end to austerity, to address income inequality that forces people into poverty while the wealthy exploit and squander. We need to demand guaranteed free housing to eradicate homelessness, as housing is a human right. We need to demand a socialized, single-payer healthcare system, as healthcare is a human right as well. “Demand” does not mean begging the capitalist class to piss pity upon us, but it is a declaration that we will stop at nothing to bring about our demands and the end of capitalism and its ills. It's inevitable that more people realize the violence capitalism perpetrates worldwide, and that is it in the material interest of society to eradicate capitalism by building socialism. We don't need racism, we don't need sexism, we don't need poverty or homelessness, we don't need wars, and we don't need to slave away our lives creating profit for the wealthy. This is in the interest of all of humanity. As Karl Marx once said, “Capitalism contains within it the seeds of its own destruction.”

#gun control #second amendment #Marxist #Marxism #march for our lives

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forsetti · 7 years

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On Guns In America: Full Mental Jacket

America loves its guns. It loves them so much, it is willing to overlook the damage they inflict on individuals, families, and society. It loves guns so much, it denies evidence from around the world that supports the conclusion that fewer guns = fewer gun-related injuries and deaths. It loves guns so much, it eagerly looks for ways to make them more dangerous, more lethal, more accessible. It loves guns because, in spite of being the world's superpower, its past and present have been steeped in insecurity, fear, and a false sense of superiority. Schools shootings are a microcosm of the problem of guns in America-A dangerous weapon in the hands of insecure, angry, testosterone-riddled, white males whose brains and moral compasses are at best not yet fully developed and at worst, seriously and permanently fucked up.

The problem with guns in America isn't that there aren't enough of them. The problem isn't “God has been taken out of schools and society.” The problem isn't immigrants, minorities, or Muslims. The problem is mental health-the mental health of white, male America. To be more specific, the problem is, and always has been white supremacy. If you don't understand the role white supremacy has and does play in how America views and loves it guns, you are part of the problem. This includes a lot of “good guy” gun owners who provide cover for their not-so-good guy gun-owning brethren.

The common thread from the first European white settlers to a large number of current gun owners in America is white supremacy. The first white men on this continent used guns to steal land, resources, and life from the Native Americans. The 2nd Amendment was written, in part, to ratify slavery. It was important for guns to be readily available for whites to keep slaves in line, to be able to fend off any slave rebellion, to protect their women from “violent, sex-crazed” black men. When slavery was abolished, the heavily armed Klan came to power to ensure white rule and supremacy was maintained. The Mulford Act in California was passed in 1967 and signed by then-governor, Ronald Regan, repealing open carry in response to members of the Black Panthers carrying guns while they patrolled the streets of Oakland to make sure the police did their jobs properly. Gun sales went through the roof when the first black president was elected. Right-wing media pushes gun ownership with threats of marauding bands of Mexican gangs, Muslim terrorists, race wars, and imaginary government operations that will imprison God-fearing, gun-owning, PBR-drinking, tobacco chewing, white Americans.

The fact that America has 5% of the world's population and almost 50% of the world's guns isn't by mistake, isn't to protect it from foreign powers, isn't to defend itself from its own government. America has the most guns because it was built on white supremacy. Guns were the tools used to take the land from its native inhabitants. Guns were the tools used to keep the economic resource of slavery in line. Guns were used against fellow countrymen in order to maintain the right to own other people. Guns were used to inflict fear, harm, and death in order to preserve and enforce Jim Crow Laws. White supremacy doesn't carry as much power without means and threat to commit violence. Guns and racism in America go together like Dylann Roof and a Glock .45, like Mom and apple pie.

The main reasons mass shootings are more prevalent in America now than in the “Good Old Days,” are two-fold: First, white America is losing its demographic and cultural power; Second, there are exponentially more guns now than in its mythologized past. This explosion in the number of guns in circulation is not distributed equally among the population. While the number of guns being manufactured and sold has skyrocketed, the percentage of households that own guns has been steadily declining. This means those who do own guns are owning more and more of them. I'm pretty sure the Venn Diagram of homes with guns and racists is damn near one, complete circle.

I'm not saying all gun owners are racists but a lot of the ones who own multiple guns, who purchase semi-automatics, bump stocks, high capacity magazines, push for open carry, are pro-Stand Your Ground laws, reject even the most sensible background checks, are racist as fuck. The NRA, right wing radio, FOX News, and Republican politicians have fed these people a steady diet of fear since the passage of the Civil Rights Act. They've latched onto anything and everything non-white that can be peddled as a threat. They've done this with to great success. If you don't think so, just look at the spike in gun manufactured and sold starting the second Barack Obama was elected in 2008. At no point did he discuss taking anyone's guns during the campaign but the mere fact a black man became president scared the living fuck out of white supremacists to where they went on a weapons-buying spree that would make Adnan Khashoggi blush. There was a small spike in guns sold after Bill Clinton was elected but it went back down to normal levels during his second term. New guns in circulation hit a record high in 2008 and the number more than doubled by the end of Obama's second term. If you don't think race and white supremacists' fears were not the cause of this, you aren't too bright.

This relationship between guns and white supremacy in America is why you can't have a rational discussion about gun control. Racist fears will always override common sense, logic, evidence, social well-being, decency. To make matters worse, their irrational fears have filtered down to a lot of other gun owners. Every day I hear someone say, “I'm a responsible gun owner and I don't do....” or “I know a lot of gun owners who are responsible and they don't do...,” as a rationalization and justification to not only defend the status quo but to argue for access to more guns. A lot of the “good gun owners” are sure carrying a lot of water for the “bad gun owners,” right now to the point it is impossible for me to discern which is which. Practically speaking, there isn't much difference, politically, between an overweight, shirtless red neck posting pictures of himself holding his AR-15 in front of a Confederate Flag and the gun-owning Republican next door who is a CPA who drives a KIA Soul because both are obstacles to any gun reform. The CPA might not think he is giving cover for and be providing support to Cletus's white supremacy when he parrots NRA talking points but he sure as fuck is. If this wasn't true, you'd see these “good gun owners” come out against their fellow gun-owning brethren whenever there was a school shooting or some other horrible run-related incident. The silence of “good gun owners” tells you where they stand and to me, it seriously calls into question just how “good” they really are.

A good person doesn't stand quietly by as children are gunned down in schools, as families are worshiping in church, as people are watching a movie in a theater. A good person doesn't parrot conspiracy theories about gun confiscation, Jade Helm, FEMA camps, race wars... A good person doesn't look at the overwhelming evidence from the American Medical Association, the CDC, and every other industrialized country in the world and come away with the ideas that more guns are needed and teachers should be armed. You can say and think what you will about the people you know and love who own guns about how “good” a person they are but my definition of what constitutes a good person doesn't cover this kind of moral failing.

I never see any of these “good gun owners” coming to the defense of black victims of gun violence at the hands of the police. When 12-year-old Tamir Rice was shot within microseconds by the police for having an air rifle in an open carry state, none of these “good gun owners” came out in his defense. Instead, they parroted the same talking points as white supremacist websites and talking heads. The same for Michael Brown in Ferguson, Laquan McDonald in Chicago, Walter Scott in South Carolina... Unarmed black men and boys who are killed by the police are always labeled with negative terms. Meanwhile, white mass shooters are “mentally unstable,” “misunderstood,” “a good neighbor”... Not only are white shooters talked about in better terms, they are treated with more respect when apprehended. Tamir Rice laid dying in the park, he received no assistance from the police who shot him. In fact, they prohibited Tamir's sister from getting help. When the black church shooter, Dylann Roof, in S. Carolina was caught, the police stopped by Burger King to get him food before taking him in. When the school shooter in Florida was finally nabbed, he was taken unharmed, wrapped in a blanket, and courteously placed into a car. Not a single “good gun owner” said a peep about any of these situations. Instead of seeing the built-in, systemic racism of how we view and treat black victims compared to white killers, they automatically rolled out their NRA-approved talking points. When it is time to speak up about injustice, racism, inequality, if guns are involved even remotely, these “good gun owners” always seem to stand up on the wrong side of the moral fence, if they stand up at all. My definition of “good person” doesn't encompass this kind of shitty behavior. At no point does an inanimate object take precedence, priority over a human being. That many of those defending guns as THE ANSWER are also 'pro-life,” is as ridiculous as it is hypocritical.

The other main factor in America's obsession with guns is toxic masculinity. I know the term “toxic masculinity,” has gotten pushback from a lot of people for being “too demeaning,” “too mean,” “detrimental to the discussion.” My response to this criticism is, I don't fucking care. If you are male and your ego is so fragile you can't handle a negative label and need to rage about it, you've pretty much proved the need for the description. Don't #NotAllMen at me either. This is a lazy, dishonest response. When people use “toxic masculinity,” they are referring to very specific characteristic traits. If you don't fit the description, then shut the fuck up about it so you don't risk joining their ranks.

Men are more violent than women. Some men more so than others. Insecure men of this type, even more so. Add in a heavy dose of white and gender supremacy and you get a toxic mixture. Throw deadly weapons designed to kill and maim at high rates and you often get very dangerous outcomes. The more of these traits a man has, the more likely they are to be violent. Take just about any mass shooter in America the past fifty years and you will find someone who has a history of violence against women and/or racial animus. Men who exhibit toxic masculinity traits are mentally unstable. They do not know how to properly process and deal with a world where they are not the king of every hill by the mere fact they are white men. This is a cognitive problem. To be okay with people like this having access to high powered weapons designed to kill is an epic public safety failure. People in hospitals, jails, halfway homes...who are deemed dangerous are not allowed belts, shoestrings, anything that can be used to harm themselves or others. Yet, we as a society have decided it is okay for mentally screwed up white men to not only own guns but make it easy for them to get as many as they want and almost whatever kind they want. This is fucking insane.

Imagine being in charge of policy for a mental health hospital, coming up with the position that the residents who exhibit violent tendencies, believe they are naturally superior to others, and who are prone to conspiracy theories should have almost unlimited access to things that will inflict the most pain, injury, and death on others. What Board of Directors would vote or this policy? What rational person on the outside looking in would say, “This seems like a great idea”? The easy answer is, “No one,” because it is so fucking stupid.

This brings us to the “the left shouldn't be so critical of the right” stage of the discussion. Every day, I read some article or comment that claims if the left would only stop the name calling, the harsh criticism, the sense of superiority, then the right would “do the right thing.” This argument is so fucking stupid it really doesn't deserve a response but since I'm feeling generous, here goes...

Either your arguments and positions are supported by evidence and tethered to reality and morality or they are not. If they are not, then it doesn't matter what the left says or thinks about you, they are still fucked up. If you don't want to be on the wrong side of an issue, of history, of morality, then the ONLY choices you have is to either continue to be on the wrong side or mea culpa the fuck out of yourself and get on the right side. There IS NO OPTION where you get to believe the wrong things and also get to be on the right side. These are the fucking rules of logic, of morality, of history. Don't blame liberals because you are wrong. Don't blame anyone but yourself for being on the wrong side. Suck it up. Take the personal hit. Learn a fucking lesson. Just don't blame others for your intellectual, moral failings.

If you really believe guns are the answer and the more the merrier, you are a deeply damaged, cognitively delusion person and a big part of the reason why America is so entrenched in a culture of guns. You are mentally unhinged and a danger to everyone around you and to society, in general. And, I'll bet, if I scratched the surface of your personality even the slightest, I'd uncover a whole lot of racism and bigotry just beneath the surface. You can say that guns aren’t the problem, which may be true. The real problem is racism mixed with toxic masculinity. I am all for doing everything possible to address these problems. However, until we do, I think keeping weapons out of their hands that can and do inflict massive damage to others is the very fucking least we can do. To do...to think otherwise is the very definition of “crazy.”

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bookmark-it · 6 years

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The Bounty Hunter

Back in home in Gettons & Yaduru (in Kasu-Kasu City, specifically), Baaba Owusu was an up-and-coming detective. She had recently come off a big solve, and was put in charge of a special task force as a promotion. The task force was created to investigate allegations of a high-profile human trafficking ring.

According to whistle-blowers, Members of the Joint Parliament of Gettons & Yaduru were stealing/kidnapping children from native Pagatowar families, specifically residents of the Palatamco Reservation (home to the Bent-Leg Creek Tribe), located in Todd, a rural territory in south Gettons.

The Pagatowar of Palatamco (Rebekah says: this is pronounced as either pah-lat-ah-em-co or pah-lah-tam-co depending on east/west dialect variations between the people of Gettons & Yaduru) were known for their (relatively) high birth rates of children with the Lamott-Lowrie Gene, more crudely called “Human Familiars.”

Lamott-Lowrie babies are people born with the ability to "harness” raw viv without the use of refining Ley Lines. They are incapable of wielding magic on their own, but they can "boost" the magic performed by a partner Wielder (or Wielders) by "lending” the viv they naturally collect.

In the not-so-distant past, those with the Lamott-Lowrie gene were treated as subhuman. They were called Familiars and kept as "human pets," working as slaves for their Wielder owners. Progress was made and Familiars liberated, their "keeping" officially outlawed with Jenny's Law (named for the Human Familiar whose case helped get protections passed, Governor Borscheid named Nona “Jenny” on purpose as a twisted reference to the law specifically meant to protect children like her).

Though illegal, that has not stopped some Wielders from seeking out Lamott-Lowrie children. Among the traffickers, there is an erroneous belief that if taken from their parents early, Familiar children will "imprint" on their “owner.” Imprinting will make the Familiar loyal and also increase the power of the viv they lend.

Owusu and her task force investigated claims that Senators from the Joint Parliament had been traveling to Palatamco (and other reservations) under the pretext of "Reconciliation Projects," in which they chose impoverished/at risk children to adopt/sponsor. In actuality, these Reconciliation projects were scouting trips. The Senators picked out children with the Lamott-Lowire gene and took them from their families without permission or warning. The children were just gone.

They were dubbed the "Lost Children" by the Gettons & Yaduru media, but Owusu and her task force referred to them as Stolen. The Pagatowar called them Nishnona-yeoc, which literally translates to “Nameless person.”

The naming of children has a lot of cultural significance in Pagatowar society. On their tenth birthday, Pagatowar children participate in a Naming ceremony called Nishwa-télën in which they essentially name themselves, announcing who they are to the tribe. Once Pagatowar people name themselves, their name cannot be changed by anyone but themselves - their True Name cannot be changed, not their parents, their peers, other members of the tribe, or by Outsiders (Karstlanders).

The only way it can change is if the person in question commits a terrible/violent crime, at which point their name is taken away and they are known only as Nishwanona. It is considered the highest disgrace to be Nishwanona.

When the Senators took Lamott-Lowrie children from their Reservation, they purposefully did it before their tenth birthdays so that the kids could not participate in Nishwa-télën and name themselves/develop a Pagatowar identity.

Owusu and her team worked relentlessly to break the case. They even managed to recover a few of the (older) Stolen Children. The turning point for Owusu came when she and her men freed several children. When she asked them their names, the Stolen called themselves Nishwanona. From a young age, Pagatowar children are taught about the importance/significance of Nishwa-télën. But because they had been taken from their people, they never got to participate in the Naming Rite. It was the deepest expression of shame and grief to call themselves Nishwanona.

Owusu was livid/heart-broken for these children, and equally furious that no matter what she did, her task force couldn’t ever pin anything on the suspected Senators. There were too many cover-ups, loopholes, bribes, too many “yes men” willing to take the wrap for their boss.

Again and again, cases were thrown out against the senators because evidence was ruled “circumstantial.”

So Owusu made a decision: she falsified evidence in order to force the case to trial.

She wanted a conviction (instead of a fine/slap on the wrist) for the Senators. She didn’t care about the letter of the law anymore, she wanted justice. Helping those kids mattered more to her than anything else.

Her falsified evidence was convincing enough that for the first time, the case looked like it might go to trial…but then one of Owusu's associates (who was jealous that she had been appointed to lead the task force instead of him) exposed Owusu. In a matter of six months, Owusu was charged, convicted, and sentenced.

The case against the Senators was thrown out for good, and the task force permanently disbanded. And so Owusu was on her way to Meteoria, the land of Monsters. But far worse for her was the knowledge that her tampering had not only not helped, but made everything worse. The investigation was delayed/shelved indefinitely. She had completely and utterly failed those kids.

On the ship to Meteoria, Owusu added Alice to her name, so that she was Alice Baaba Owusu. She didn’t want her true name in the mouths of her “owners.”

At Hipplethwaite, her “labor” was (first) bought by a cruel man who wanted something to beat on. Under his ownership, she suffered greatly. During one violent outburst, her owner beat her so severely that it opened gaping, defensive wounds on her arms. Her left (dominant) took the worst of it and was flayed to the bone. The wounds got infected and her owner sent her off to die in a prisoners’ hospital.

She ended up losing her arm, and also nearly died from sepsis. It was in hospital that Alice met a Durukan (a descendant of one of the Da-rai tribes of Yaduru) missionary named Silas Asenso. Silas had originally come from Yaduru to help advocate for prisoners’ rights in Meteoria. They chatted for a bit and Owusu was delighted to learn that Silas’s hometown was Kasu-Kasu, just like her. They bonded over memories of the city, specifically the sweet rolls (called nana buns) which were sold at the central market in Yasu-Yasu every first Saturday of the month.

Working with Silas, Owusu managed to get placed at Second-Chance Ranch, located just outside Crossings. Second-Chance ranch was run by Silas’s fellow missionaries. Their mission was focused on rehabilitation and lawful re-entry into society for emancipated prisoners.

The missionaries of Second-Chance bought out prisoner contracts in mass, and then put them to work as ranch hands. At the end of their sentence, and upon their emancipation, the Prisoners were given small parcels of the ranch’s land. That way, they could use the skills they’d learned while prisoners to make a life for themselves as emancipated settlers.

The work was demanding, but the workers were well treated. Owusu even came to discover that she had a knack/appreciation for bee-keeping.

Silas lived at the Ranch when she wasn’t out doing mission work. She visited Owusu out in the fields often, to bring her water and homemade nana buns (which weren’t all that good because Silas was a shitty cook, but Owusu ate them anyway). Owusu developed a bit of a crush. One day, after one of Silas's visits, Owusu point blank asked her on a date…in two years' time, when she would be emancipated. Silas (pretended) to weigh the ethical implications of dating someone she’d “mission-worked.” Owusu teased and Silas happily agreed.

Two years passed, and the second Owusu’s Ink went dark (sign of emancipation/fulfillment of sentence), Silas was there to take her on a date. They went to get nana rolls (better ones than what Silas dished up). The date was a success, and so they went on another, and another, and then a few more, and four years later they were married.

Together, they worked the small bit of farmland that Owusu had received as part of her “emancipation package” from the Ranch. Owusu even managed to keep bees and pick back up some Stringent Magic, which she hadn’t practiced since her days on the force.

Silas experimented with potions and "kitchen witchin'". She was mostly awful at it. She occasionally did some mission work, but was away from home less and less often. Silas was ready to settle down with Owusu, and to live a “stable” life.

And against all odds, it was a stable life. Heck, it was even a good life.

They made homemade nana buns. Owusu joked that she’d had to get arrested to find a wife, and Silas teased that nowadays, she was doing more missionary position than missionary work (hands down Owusu’s favorite joke).

Their life was together was surprisingly normal, and to Owusu's amazement, she was happy. When she'd been sentenced, she had resigned herself to a short and miserable life. She expected (and accepted) that the only thing she’d feel for the rest of her life was guilt. But then she’d met Silas, and found work and refuge at the Ranch, and then even a little bit of domesticity...and even though it wasn't the life she’d imagined, it was the life she wanted.

Then, two years later, Owusu was widowed.

One summer evening, police from Port Grace came knocking. They had an arrest warrant for a member of The Coalition for Prisoner' Rights (a group of freedom fighters working to improve life for prisoner-workers through uncivil disobedience). The fugitive in question was one Efia Arusei, alias Silas Asenso, and she was hereby accused of committing terrorist acts, inciting violence, recklessly endangering the public, and committing treasonous acts against the government of Meteoria and the Karstland Kings.

Uh-oh.

Silas Asenso (whose real name was apparently Efia Arusei) had been on the run from Port Grace authorities when she'd sought asylum at Second-Chance Ranch. Somehow, she’s never bothered to mention any of this to Owusu, her fucking wife.

Silas/Efia was arrested on the spot, and taken away, leaving behind a gobsmacked and heartbroken Owusu, who knew that her wife would not be spared the death penalty. People like her were to be made an example of.

In the fallout from this, Owusu shut down. She went back into her shell and once again took up the name Alice. She left her little farm and went to Port Grace (on the off chance that she might see Silas/Efia again - despite everything, she couldn’t hate her) as a bounty hunter, using her (objectively) impressive set of skills to hunt down runaway prisoners and return them to their owners for cash.

She took no mercy, accepted no sob story, just tagged and bagged ‘em. She lived to work, just as she once had back on the force in Kasu-Kasu. But this time justice was not her objective…she didn’t have one. Money to get by, money for liquor, money for rent. That’s all “Alice” cared about. Baaba had cared about justice and look where it got her. Owusu had cared about Asenso (or Arusei or whatever Efia’s name was) and look where it got her. So now she was just Alice, Just Alice who did nothing but take up space and put down runaways.

She no principles, no problems, no purpose.

Then she meets a girl in a dumpster...a girl who calls herself Nishwanona.

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

Abbreviated Timeline:

· Detective at 35

· Sentenced at 36

· Emancipated at 43

· Married at 47

· Widowed at 50

· Gauntlet Runner at 56

Abilities: Owusu is a practitioner of the Stringent Magics, mathemagical principles that allow her to use vectors to write Sigils for weapons’ precision/accuracy, as well as to create pocket dimensions.

With a bit of back alley tinkering, Owusu got her left arm fit with a prosthetic that doubled a Summoning device i.e. she can “summon” a loaded gun into her prosthetic hand essentially out of thin air.

All her weapons are Marked with her handwritten vectors/sigils (Owusu is HIGHLY insulted when Nona asks why there’s “scratches” all over her gun). Owusu is a dead shot, and a bit of a gunslinger. She also uses Stringent Magic to open pocket dimensions. She’s basically a walking armory, with all kinds of guns/weapons and every kind of ammo at her disposal.

World-building note: As an Emancipated-Prisoner, Owusu is not allowed unlimited access to Ley-Line/refined magic. She’s doesn’t have the Lamott-Lowrie gene so she can’t use viv. She gets “vouchers” every month that allow her to use a certain amount of Magic/magical energy. If her voucher runs out she’s shit outta luck. When prisoners (emancipated or otherwise) enter the Gauntlet they are granted Unlimited access to Ley Magic. Governor Borscheid is desperate (besides there’s no actual shortage of magic, no reason for it to be limited or rationed, it’s just another way to belittle/handicap prisoners and to punish them even after their Ink goes dark).

#Gauntlet verse #character profile #Alice Baaba Owusu #backstory #character development

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chrysanthe0-blog · 6 years

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WRITE LEFT - contextualizing the LA in slavery

In May 2017, I published a zine called ‘write left: selections and reflections from the author’s late night #WikipediaWanderings.’ It contains 3 essays inspired by my amateur research into the history of southern California. Here is the first piece.

Recently, my partner was given the opportunity to spend some time in the South. Neither of us were familiar with the area, and we didn’t know what he should expect. We’d heard a tale of two regions. The first view was defined by one of its namesakes - Southern hospitality, where people on the street give you a friendly hello, strangers welcomed you into their home with open arms and a pitcher of sweet tea, a genteel demeanor in strong contrast to the fast-paced city nature of “the North”.

We were quicker to think of the South in the other light, one brought about from its history as the American epicenter of enslavement, debasement and cruelty that is the chattel slave system of Africans/ African-Americans in the 18th and 19th centuries. Where people still proudly flew Confederate flags as if oblivious to the pain and turmoil of black life that that symbol represented. We could tell that the foundations of racism and hatred ran deep, and my partner (white but woke) wondered about walking amongst them.

Of course, we were judging from afar, as we lived in California, the biggest blue state in the nation. Racism was, is and continues to oppressively dictate the lives of people of color in our great state; for a small sampling see pernicious ICE raids & LAPD targeting of black and brown bodies. But the South! Didn’t the systematic barbarity of the transatlantic slave trade take evil to a whole ‘nother level?

As if I could point the finger away from the land I live.

I recall vividly when my 5th grade teacher told our class that America (which I’d only ever been taught to see as the best most freedomest nation ever) was responsible and must account for 2 great evils in its history: how we treated Africans/ African-Americans and the indigenous people of this land**. I don’t mean to minimize the destruction of life methodically achieved through the Southern slavery system, but why am I so quick to bring up one evil, and not that which has been wrought upon the first peoples of this nation?

As an Angelena, I too live in a land that has enslaved members of another race and assumed their inferiority. That this has been perpetrated by the 3 powers that claimed their rule over this land - Spain, Mexico, and finally the U.S. - does not lessen our culpability in owning up to this past.

It was under Spanish rule that in 1799 Padre Antonio de la Concepcion Horra reported, “The treatment shown to the Indians is the most cruel I have ever read in history. For the slightest things, they receive heavy flogging, are shackeled and put in the stocks, and treated with so much cruelty that they are kept whole days without water.” In elementary school in California, children learn about the Spanish missions, making their own replica and going on a field trip to visit the historical site. What is often missing from the lesson is how they were built with Indian labor, with the express purpose of converting Native Americans to Catholicism, after which the native people of the land were forced to live within the settlements and work for the Spanish. Runaways and rebels were punished harshly, but throughout this period, Native Americans resisted their colonizers through uprisings and other attempts to achieve their freedom from bondage.

It was under Mexican rule that the missions and other large land estates were awarded to wealthy ranchos, who counted on the native population as their labor force. Native Americans had no choice but to enter this pact; if they did not, their villages would be raided and their labor would be taken by force anyway. Going further, in 1846, Mexico’s Assembly passed resolutions calling for funding to locate and demolish Indian villages.

It was under American rule where in 1850 state legislators legalized white custody of Indian minors and prisoner leasing. Ten years later, they legalized the “indenture” of “any Indian,” which triggered an increase in violent kidnappings of Indian people. As one lawyer at the time put it “Los Angeles had its slave mart [and] thousands of honest, useful people were absolutely destroyed in this way.”

And during this whole time, the Native American population fell at an incredible rate, further decimated by the onslaught of European diseases. This point is important, because sadly, one of the main reasons our public education fails to acknowledge our genocide of Native Americans is because America has so totally accomplished its goal of annihilation of indigenous people.

Or as comedian Solomon Georgio puts it: “The Native Americans as a people have suffered the worse genocide in human history. Some may say, hey Solomon what about the Holocaust? And I wouldn’t take that away from anyone, the Holocaust was a terrible, terrible tragedy. However…I have seen 10 or more Jewish people in the same room. I haven’t seen 10 Native Americans…in my life. They used to live right here.”

In Mexico, self-identified indigenous people make up 21.5% of the population. In Canada, it’s 4.2%. In USA, the indigenous population is only 1.4% of the general population. The USA has been the most systematically cutthroat in ending the lives of its native peoples, and as a result, it is possible in today’s world to not be visibly reminded of their presence.

But it is our duty to empathize, feel into their struggle, and most importantly act in solidarity with these communities. Here is an incomplete list of concrete steps we can take today, most local to the Los Angeles area:

- We can support indigenous-led movements such as the movement against the Dakota Access Pipeline and divestment efforts from banks that support the destruction of Native American land. In June 2017, LA City Council, pressured by the indigenous-led Divest L.A. movement, voted unanimously to divest over $40 million in investments from Wells Fargo.

- We can pressure LA City Council to follow the example of other cities and turn Columbus Day into Indigenous Peoples Day, as well as formally recognize the genocide of the Native American people. In August 2017, LA did just that, replacing Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples Day.

- We can join the new petition to decolonize our children’s education when it comes to learning about the Spanish missions, recentering the narrative to focus on “the impact and daily life of the native population within these missions.” The 2nd CA Indian Curriculum Summit happened at Sacramento State on October 2017, with the purpose to “provide 3rd and 4th grade teachers with California Indian vetted replacement units that address Common Core Standards.”

- We can use our money to support Native American stories, media and art, such as film festivals like LA Skins Fest. The next LA Skins Fest happens annually in November at TCL Chinese Theater in Hollywood. Find out more at www.laskinsfest.com.

As expected, my partner survived the South. What he saw was appalling - “Drunk Lives Matter” on a T-shirt, a man trying to start a fight as my partner booed a parade’s Confederate flag. But peeking into that world through him, made me think about mine. We can’t even get it right in CA, a state that prides itself on its “progressive values”. For the indigenous people of this land, and for us, the descendants of settlers, who are committed to living by our values and fighting for the liberation of all peoples, it’s time to act. Let’s start locally, in the place that we’re in, with the hope that everyone else is thinking the same.

**Shoutout to Mr. Sig for keeping it real! Although - only 2 evils? The Chinese laborers of the nineteenth century, Japanese families forced into internment camps during WW2, Latino youth of the ‘Zoot Suit Riots’ and many other marginalized groups beg to differ…

References “Demographics of Canada.” Wikipedia “Demographics of Mexico.” Wikipedia “Demographics of the United States.” Wikipedia “A History of American Indians in California.” Five Views: An Ethnic Historic Site Survey for California. National Park Service. November 17, 2004 “History of Enslavement of Indigenous Peoples in California.” Wikipedia “History of Los Angeles.” Wikipedia Madley, Benjamin. “It’s time to acknowledge the genocide of California’s Indians.” Los Angeles Times. May 22, 2016 “Repeal, Replace and Reframe the 4th Grade Mission Project.” California Indian Curriculum. Sacramento State. “Solomon Georgio Stand-Up 02/10/15 - Conan on TBS”

#write #essay #left #america #los angeles #indigenous #genocide

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sassenach4life · 7 years

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Diana’s Daily Lines - “Go Tell The Bees That I Am Gone” (Book 9)

#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #BookNine #Noitsnotfinished#nowherenear #maybelate2018 #maybenot #whoknows #gowatchtheshow

I was startled from a solid sleep by Jamie exploding out of bed beside me. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but as usual, it left me sitting bolt upright amid the quilts, dry-mouthed and completely dazed, heart hammering like a drill-press.

He was already down the stairs; I heard the thump of his bare feet on the last few treads—and above that sound, frenzied pounding on the front door. A ripple of unrest spread through the house: rustling bedclothes, sleepy voices, opening doors.

I shook my head violently and flung off the covers. _Him or me?_ was the first coherent thought that formed out of the fog drifting through my brain. Night alarms like this might be news of violence or misadventure, and sometimes of a nature that required all hands, like a house fire or someone having unexpectedly met with a hunting panther at a spring. More often, though…

I heard Jamie’s voice, and the panic left me. It was low, questioning, with a cadence that meant he was soothing someone. Someone else was talking, in high-pitched agitation, but it wasn’t the sound of disaster.

_Me, then. Childbirth or accident?_ My mind had suddenly resurfaced and was working clearly, even while my body fumbled to and fro, trying to recall what I had done with my grubby stockings. _Probably birth, in the middle of the night_… But the uneasy thought of fire still lurked on the edge of my thoughts.

I had a clear picture in my mind of my emergency kit, and was grateful that I’d thought to refurbish it just before supper. It was sitting ready on the corner of my surgery table. My mind was less clear about other things; I’d put my stays on backward. I yanked them off, flung them on the bed, and went to splash water on my face, thinking a lot of things I couldn’t say out loud, as I could hear children’s feet now pattering across the landing.

I reached the bottom of the stairs belatedly, to find Fanny and Germaine with Jamie, who was talking with a very young girl no more than Fanny’s age, standing barefoot, distraught, and wearing nothing more than a threadbare shift. I didn’t recognize her.

“Ach, here’s Herself now,” Jamie said, glancing over his shoulder. He had a hand on the girl’s shoulder, as though to keep her from flying away. She looked as if she might: thin as a broomstraw, with baby-fine brown hair tangled by the wind, and eyes looking anxiously in every direction for possible help.

“This is Annie Cloudtree, Claire,” he said, nodding toward the girl. “Fanny, will ye find a shawl or something to lend the lass, so she doesna freeze?”

“I don’t n-need—“ the girl began, but her arms were wrapped around herself and she was shivering so hard that her words shook.

“Her mother’s with child,” Jamie interrupted her, looking at me. “And maybe having a bit of trouble with the birth.”

“We c-can’t p-pay—“

“Don’t worry about that,” I said, and nodding to Jamie, took her in my arms. She was small and bony and very cold, like a half-feathered nestling fallen from a tree.

“It will be all right,” I said softly to her, and smoothed down her hair. “We’ll go to your mother at once. Where do you live?”

She gulped and wouldn’t look up, but was so cold she clung to me for warmth.

“I don’t know. I m-mean—I don’t know how to say. Just—if you can come with me, I can take you back?” She wasn’t Scottish.

I looked at Jamie for information—I’d not heard of the Cloudtrees; they must be recent settlers—but he shook his head, one brow raised. He didn’t know them, either.

“Did ye come afoot, lassie?” he asked, and when she nodded, asked, “Was the sun still up when ye left your home?”

She shook her head. “No, sir. ‘Twas well dark, we’d all gone to bed. Then my mother’s pains came on sudden, and…” She gulped again, tears welling in her eyes.

“And the moon?” Jamie asked, as though nothing were amiss. “Was it up when ye set out?”

His matter-of-fact tone eased her a little, and she took an audible breath, swallowed, and nodded.

“Well up, sir. Two hands-breadths above the edge of the earth.”

“What a very poetic turn of phrase,” I said, smiling at her. Fanny had come with my old gardening shawl—it was ratty and had holes, but had been made of thick new wool to start with. I took it from Fanny with a nod of thanks and wrapped it round the girl’s shoulders.

Jamie had stepped out on the porch, presumably to see where the moon now was. He stepped back in, and nodded to me.

“The brave wee lass has been abroad in the night alone for about three hours, Sassenach. Miss Annie—is there a decent trail that leads to your father’s place?” Her soft brow scrunched in concern—she wasn’t sure what “decent” might mean in this context—but she nodded uncertainly. “There’s a trail,” she said, looking from Jamie to me in hopes that this might be enough.

“We’ll ride, then,” he said to me, over her head. “The moon’s bright enough. “ _And I think we’d best hurry_, his expression added. I rather thought he was right.

#Outlander #Diana Gabaldon #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Go Tell the Bees that I am Gone #Book 9 #Daily Lines

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didanawisgi · 6 years

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A depressing and predictable series of events seems to follow mass shootings like the one that took ten lives Friday at Santa Fe High School. First, we learn that an unspeakable act has occurred in a place where we imagine we, or someone we love, could have been—a church, a movie theater, a shopping mall, a dance club, or, in this case, a school. Then we begin seeing the killer’s picture on our smartphones, tablets, laptops, and televisions, along with images of the stunned and tearful survivors. Next come the calls to strengthen America’s gun control laws, as people convince themselves that the latest incident is the one that will finally bring change. Our legislators tweet their sympathy while doing little else. And amidst the furor, those who own guns, roughly a third of the U.S. population, quietly go out and buy more ammunition, if not another gun.

To understand why, after decades of massacres, there aren’t stricter gun laws in this country, one has to understand gun culture. And nowhere is gun culture more evident than in Texas. Guns here, as in many parts of the country, aren’t just about self-defense. They’re also about history, identity, and community. Experts say that ignoring, dismissing, or denigrating that fact is what dooms any discussion of gun control.

The fight for Texas’ independence, like the fight for American independence, was a plucky pushback against government overreach. Back in 1835, the dictatorial ruler of Mexico dispatched troops to seize a small cannon from settlers in Gonzales, Texas. The settlers, who had been using the cannon to fend off Comanches, then turned it on the Mexican soldiers. And to make their feelings as clear as an extended middle finger, they raised a homemade flag with a picture of the cannon on it and the words “Come and Take It.”

Today, some 183 years later, it’s hard to drive anywhere in Texas without seeing a “Come and Take It” bumper sticker. Only, instead of the words paired with a cannon, you’re more likely to see the silhouette of an AR-15, which is America’s most popular gun—and notably, the weapon used during the mass shootings in Newtown, Las Vegas, Orlando, Sutherland Springs, and Parkland. (Friday, Governor Greg Abbott stated that initial reports that an AR-15 was used at Santa Fe were erroneous—a shotgun and a revolver were used.)

The ubiquity of that bumper sticker is a not-so-subtle reminder of how Texans feel about the right to bear arms. And the sentiment cuts across class, gender, and race lines. Whether it’s a beat up pickup truck in Gonzales or an Aston Martin in Dallas, one would be wise to assume the driver has a gun in the glovebox, if not holstered at the hip.

Which is why horrifying mass shootings—even those uncomfortably close to home, such as those in Fort Hood, Dallas, Sutherland Springs, and now Santa Fe—don’t dent Texans’ resolve to keep their proverbial cannons. Particularly when the incident seems to confirm the belief, dating back at least as far as the Texas Revolution, that the only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun. Recall that a resident of Sutherland Springs chased down the assailant while firing multiple rounds from his own AR-15.

“This notion of cultural competence, of being cognizant and sensitive to cultural differences, is something that we typically talk about in terms of race, ethnicity, gender identity, and religion,” says Daniel Webster, the director of the Center for Gun Policy and Research at Johns Hopkins University. “But one of the starkest cultural competence problems we have in this country has to do with guns.”

Webster says that many gun control advocates claim the moral high ground while calling gun owners “redneck idiots.” They question gun owners’ intelligence for ignoring gun violence research, but fail to note that, despite the terrible number of mass shootings in recent years, homicides and other violent crimes have actually decreasedsignificantly nationwide over the past 25 years, even during periods when gun sales have spiked, as routinely happens following mass shootings.

The interpretation of gun violence statistics—what is or isn’t “fake news”—seems to depend on whether you’ve ever used a pistol to shoot a rattlesnake menacing a family pet or scared off a trespasser by just standing on the porch holding a shotgun (perhaps pumping the forestock to show you mean business).

“One common denominator in all these mass shootings is the shooter was in complete and total control to selectively and casually put bullets in the heads of cowering people.” says Jerry Patterson, a former Marine, Texas state senator and land commissioner who pushed through the state’s concealed carry law in 1995, which was signed by then Governor George W. Bush. “The first time someone returns fire, the shooter is no longer in complete and total control.”

In Texas, as elsewhere in the country, there are gun owners who identify as redneck and play up the stereotype that their opponents deride. But gun owners are also in the highest echelons of government and industry. They carry pistols in their briefcases and go on hunting trips together to forge alliances and strike deals. Indeed, hunting camps and leases are often equipped with airstrips to accommodate private jets.

“It’s a ritual of having a couple of drinks and cooking supper and getting up early in the morning to go sit in a deer blind or walk the hills and hunt for birds,” says the prominent Houston attorney Dick DeGuerin.

Those who study gun culture say it’s not only attitudes and beliefs that drive gun ownership; it’s also activities and communities, which give gun owners a sense of identity, connectedness, and meaning. Harel Shapira, an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Texas at Austin says that during his three years embedded with gun enthusiasts in Central Texas he’s learned it’s a mistake to harbor the liberal East Coast condescension that people who carry firearms are those “crazy people down there” in states like Texas. It’s a condescension he himself held prior to his research. “Gun culture is not just a Texas story, it’s an American story,” he says, “Until we understand and appreciate that and start consensus building, people are just going to get further entrenched into their identities.”

Hunting and plinking at cans are recalled fondly by many in Texas as bonding activities with their parents. Guns are heirlooms passed down through generations and used to hunt the Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas goose. Moreover, millions nationwide participate in tactical or sharp shooting competitions and belong to gun clubs that are the focal points of their social lives. Those enmeshed in gun culture take pride in their safety mindedness and technical skills as well as their ability to protect themselves and their families if necessary.

“I put up in my garage the target that I got while training to get my concealed handgun license,” says Gerry Brown of New Braunfels, a 60 year-old grandmother of ten and accompanist for a local high school choir. “So if anyone tries to break in, they’re going to go, ‘Oops, wrong garage,’”

She, like virtually everyone, is appalled by mass shootings, and was devastated by what happened in Sutherland Springs, not far from where she lives, as well as in Santa Fe, not far from where her daughter lives. And yet she says such incidents only stiffen her “Come And Take It” stance, particularly regarding calls to ban or confiscate certain kinds of weapons or gun accessories. “Try that in Texas,” she says. “It won’t work.”

All this has Jerry Patterson, the gun rights advocate and former elected official, surprisingly in agreement with Daniel Webster, the gun control advocate. “We’ve have gotten too invested in our clichés,” says Patterson. “There are things we can do if both sides can just come to the table with an open mind and be willing to accept the validity of the other person’s point of view.”

Points where both sides can possibly find agreement?

Ensuring better data entry, coordination and enforcement of the National Instant Criminal Background Check System, or NICS, used to check the eligibility of anyone wanting to buy a gun. And expanding its use to include online and gun show private sales.

Punishing those who lie on the form submitted to NICS and giving authorities more than three days to vet submissions.

Recovering weapons from people who bought firearms and then subsequently did something that flags them on NICS, such as committing a felony, beating up a domestic partner, becoming addicted to drugs, or having a psychotic episode.

Broadening who is prohibited from buying a gun to those convicted of stalking offenses and violence against dating partners.

Preventing copy cat crimes by taking steps to avoid naming and raining fame on mass shooters in the media (this would likely be done not through legislation, but by getting media outlets to police themselves, much as social media is now being asked to do when it comes to hate speech and fake news).

Garen Wintemute, an ER physician and director of the Violence Prevention Research Program at the University of California-Davis who has spent almost $2 million of his own money studying gun violence, says what opponents and proponents of gun control share, whether in Texas or elsewhere, is that they don’t want innocent people hurt. “We can start the discussion there,” he says.

#santa fe high school #gun control

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ohlawsons · 7 years

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8. Breathtaking Kiss or 5. Can’t Let Go Yet Kiss for Sophie/Reyes :)

kiss prompts: 5. Can’t let go yet kiss [ sophie’s tag ]set at some vague point post-archon, but probably before meridian, ft. my favorite reyes headcanon in all of existence. never once did i think i’d be writing domestic fluff with sophie but here we are

“Curls.”

“Hmm?”

“Curls,” Sophie repeats sleepily, joining Reyes where he stands at the kitchenette, watching as the coffee finishes brewing. She’d been distracted by the discovery of loose curls in his damp, unstyled hair, but now her eyes trace lazy lines across his body; there’s a certain beauty to him, here, olive skin washed in the warm light of the Kadaran morning, and something about the way he’s standing – shirtless and barefoot, all taut muscle and tired pout – is unbearably picturesque in its stillness.

She almost doesn’t want to break the serenity of the moment, but then he yawns and it’s broken anyway so she reaches for him; her arms wrap around his waist and she rests her chin on his shoulder and joins him in staring at the coffee, stifling a yawn of her own.

“You have curly hair,” she clarifies finally. “It’s cute.”

He gives a dissatisfied grunt. “Yes, despite my best efforts.” One hand reaches up, and he combs his fingers through his hair to smooth down the curls; he gives up quickly, settling for swiping away a single lock that falls down onto his forehead. “You like it?”

She gives a low, warm laugh in answer and presses a kiss to his bare shoulder. “I can’t believe I never noticed before.”

It’s… nice, this quiet morning that Ditaeon has given them. When the settlers had first arrived, Christmas had ensured that Sophie had an apartment of her own – it’s just the top floor of a standard prefab, but it’s hers and it’s roomy and oh, the view is breathtaking – but all of her visits to Kadara since then have either been too short or too wrapped up in business to take any real time to herself.

But this trip, even though they’ve told the Initiative they’re on Kadara to resupply, is nothing more than a vacation. Two (mostly) uninterrupted days, where Sophie’s worries are limited to Reyes, Kadara, and the remainder of Sloane’s alcohol.

The first day had gone much like any other trip to Kadara – drinking, dancing, and a long ride out in the Nomad – except they’d ended the night in Ditaeon, comfortably tipsy and speaking just a little too loud as Sophie led Reyes to her apartment.

(She’d felt like she was seventeen and back on the Citadel, where all it took was a sloppy hacking job and a little luck and she was sneaking in and out at night to meet up with whoever she was dating at the time. The long makeout sessions and sloppy, rushed sex had seemed like all she was good at, back then, and it had taken a long time away from Alec for Sophie to shake that mindset.

He’d caught her with a girl, once, half-undressed and pushed against the wall of her bedroom. She’d been so embarrassed and angry that she’d threatened to leave home, and if there had been someplace on the Citadel that was comparable to Ditaeon, she might have actually done it.)

For all they’d had planned the night before, they’d been too exhausted to do much more than collapse into bed; Sophie had awoken content but alone, greeted by the smell of coffee brewing and the sound of the shower running. She’d grumbled about the relatively early hour, but Reyes’ reappearance a few minutes later had been just enough to tear her out of bed.

She still isn’t sure she got enough sleep, but the coffee might be enough to change her mind; as the coffee maker finishes, Sophie pulls away from Reyes to search for coffee cups, finally finding some in one of the cabinets. They’re stamped with the Initiative logo – naturally – and Reyes gives her a look of mock disgust before taking the mug she hands to him.

Sophie settles into one of the barstools at the counter, sipping at her own coffee and watching as Reyes walks over to the large window that makes up the entirety of one of the apartment’s walls. He places his free hand on his hip and surveys the land that sprawls out towards the horizon. and Sophie’s so mesmerized by him that she nearly misses when he speaks. “I like it here.”

“Diteaon?” she asks, keeping her voice deceptively innocent. “Or my apartment?”

From where she’s sitting, she can just barely make out the little half-grin that forms on Reyes’ lips. “Oh, definitely both. But I was referring specifically to Diteaon.”

“It’s nice.” Leaving her coffee on the countertop, Sophie stands and makes her way towards Reyes, unable to leave so much distance between them. “It’s a good start,” she amends, crossing her arms. “Nice view, big backyard, the neighbors are decent – but I’ve always wanted something pretentiously flashy, y’know? Tall archways, enormous chandeliers, maybe an indoor pool.”

He gives her a sidelong glance, one eyebrow quirking upwards. “On Kadara?”

She shrugs. “Why not? I’m the Pathfinder. I’ll have a mansion on every goddamn planet out there.”

He laughs at that, but he’s still distracted, staring out across the Badlands. The apartment falls into silence, and just as Sophie is about to ask if Reyes wants breakfast – there’s nothing decent in the apartment, but they can always head to the Tempest – he sighs and shakes his head and turns towards her. “Kheema called this morning,” he reveals. “There was an… incident in the Port last night. Protests from Outcast supporters. Violent protests.”

“And you have to go deal with it,” Sophie guesses, pursing her lips and hoping she can hide the worst of her disappointment; there’s a pang in her chest at the news, a little like having the wind knocked out of her, and for a second she wishes she hadn’t helped win Kadara for Reyes, that he hadn’t outplayed Sloane.

But he had, and that victory came with responsibilities that he now has to attend to, so Sophie lets Reyes finish getting ready while she settles back onto the barstool and tries to look like she isn’t pouting.

“You’re sure it’s nothing I can help with?” she asks, leaning up against the doorway to the bathroom as Reyes finishes styling his hair – perfectly straightened and slicked back, as usual.

“No. It’s… delicate.” He looks up, catching her eye in the reflection in the mirror. “I’m not Sloane – I’m not planning to beat the problem until it disappears. That’s how you end up with people like me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“People who work from the shadows because rising up ends with your head on a pike.”

“Oh.” She moves aside as Reyes brushes past her, grabbing his boots from where they lay beside the bed; when he’s finished pulling them on he joins Sophie again, one hand resting at her waist and the other gently tilting her chin upwards. She knows he’s going to apologize, but the look he’s giving her is filled with such softness and regret that she doesn’t think he really needs to. “Make it good,” she instructs.

“I’m sorry.” He kisses her, then, just a light brush of his lips against hers. “If it were anything else, I would let someone else take care of it.” Another kiss. “I know you can’t stay any longer and I don’t want to ruin your trip, so maybe I can work something out for before you leave tonight.”

She tilts her head, pretending to be deep in thought; it doesn’t matter, not really, because she knows she’ll take any chance she gets to spend time with Reyes. “Hmm. That depends on what you had in mind.”

“We could go to that old outpost, the one that overlooks the valley,” he begins, his thumb gliding across her cheek as his gaze flicks down to her lips; she can almost hear the wheels turning in his head – she can certainly see it in his eyes, in the distracted way he’s staring at her. “We could start with dinner and a bottle of wine, and see where it goes from there.”

She doesn’t miss the suggestion in his tone, and any pretense of consideration is gone. “Deal.” She leans up to kiss him, and maybe it’s meant as a goodbye – as a quick thing, something normal and easy and routine – but as soon as Reyes begins to pull away, Sophie curls a finger in his belt loops and gives him a gentle tug towards her, closing what little distance is between them.

Reyes complies, his grip on her waist tightening as he dips his head down; it isn’t until one of Sophie’s hands slips beneath his shirt that he pulls away again, giving his head an apologetic shake. “I have to go take care of this.”

“Right, I know,” she sighs. “Sorry.” She loops her arms around his neck, letting him simply hold her for a moment. “But just so you know,” Sophie adds, voice nearly a whisper and lips close enough to just barely brush against Reyes’ ear, “I’ll be waiting, wearing nothing but that jacket you left on the Tempest last time, and if you take too long – well, I might have to get started without you.” With that, she untangles herself from Reyes and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “Have fun.”

#daydreamsonacloudyday #sophie ryder #reyes vidal #reyder #otp: steal the stars #mass effect #andromeda #fic: sophie #brooke writes things #brooke replies

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