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combat-wombatus · 3 years

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Anti-Asian Racism (Pt. 2)

so if you haven’t read my (long) post about historical anti-asian racism, you can find it here. i tried my best to put things in chronological order, so you might want to read that before you read this one!

i got really tired writing that one bc it was super long and i only covered up to like...the 1920s?? and so here’s a second part bc i couldn’t fit it all into one post oopsies

WARNING: this contains some graphic descriptions of violence. i don’t want to accidentally trigger anyone, so please read at your own discretion. however, i do feel that it is important to be educated on the parts of history that schools often overlook, so if you can handle this, please read it.

the watsonville riots—january 1930

as US nationals, filipinos had the legal right to work in the US, and employers exploited these workers relentlessly as they assumed the filipinos were unfamiliar with their rights. they were paid the lowest wages among all ethnic laborers. the immigration acts of 1917 and 1924 allowed filipinos to answer the growing demand for labor in the US, and many young filipino men migrated to the US. due to gender bias in immigration & hiring, filipino men courted women outside of their own ethnic community, contributing to mounting racial tensions. white men decried the takeover of jobs and women by filipinos and resorted to vigilantism to deal with the “third Asiatic invasion”, and filipino laborers in public risked being attacked by white men who felt threatened by them. eventually, on january 19, this culminated in 500 white men gathering outside of a filipino dance club—owned by a filipino man—with clubs and weapons intending to take the white women who lived there out and burn the place down. they were turned away by security guards and the armed owners, but returned later to beat dozens of filipino farmworkers. they dragged filipinos from their homes and beat them, threw them off the pajaro river bridge, attacked them at ranches—and at a labor camp, twenty-two filipinos were dragged out and almost beaten to death. the mob fired shots into filipino homes, killing 22-year-old fermin tobera: no one was ever charged for his murder. in stockton, a filipino club was blown up—the blast was blamed on the filipinos themselves.

many filipinos fled the country. filipino immigration plummeted. anti-filipino violence continued in california in the months after the violence ended.

japanese internment camps—1942–1945

established during ww2 by FDR through executive order 9066. shortly after the bombing of pearl harbor, FDR signed the executive order, supposedly to prevent espionage. military zones were created in california, washington, and oregon—states with a large population of japanese americans—and the executive order commanded the relocation of americans of japanese ancestry. it affected the lives of around 117,000 people—the majority of whom were american citizens. canada soon followed, relocating 21,000 of its japanese residents from its west coast. mexico did the same, and eventually 2,264 more people of japanese descent were removed from peru, brazil, and argentina to the camps in the united states.

even before the camps, discrimination ran rampant. just hours after pearl harbor, the FBI rounded up 1,291 japanese community & religious leaders, arresting them without evidence and freezing their assets. a month later, they were transferred to facilities in montana, new mexico, and north dakota, many of them unable to inform their families. most remained incarcerated for the duration of the war. the FBI searched the private homes of thousands of japanese residents, seizing “contraband” (looting).

1/3 of hawaii’s population was of japanese descent. some politicians called for their mass incarceration. 1,500 people were removed from hawaii and sent to camps on the US mainland. japanese-owned fishing boats were impounded.

lieutenant general john dewitt prepared a report filled with proven lies—such as examples of “sabotage” (cattle knocking down power lines)—and suggested the creation of military zones and japanese internment camps. his original plan included italians and germans (because we were at war with them too!) but the idea of rounding-up americans of EUROPEAN descent was not as popular.

california’s state attorney general and governor declared that all japanese should be removed at congressional hearings in february 1942. general francis biddle pleaded with the president that mass evacuation of citizens was not required, pushing for smaller, more targeted security measures. FDR didn’t listen, and signed the order anyways.

around 15,000 japanese americans willingly moved out of prohibited areas. inland states were not keen for new japanese residents, and they were met with racist resistance. ten state governors voiced opposition, fearing the japanese would “never leave”, and demanded they be incarcerated if the states were forced to accept them. eventually, a civilian organization called the “war relocation authority” was set up to administer the plan, but milton eisenhower (from the department of agriculture) resigned his leadership in protest over what he characterized as incarcerating innocent civilians.

no one really cared back then, but we appreciate the sentiment. however, this led to a stricter, military-led incentive to incarcerate the japanese civilians, so you didn’t really win, mr. eisenhower.

army-directed evacuations followed, and people had six days notice to dispose of their belongings other than what they could carry. anyone who was at least 1/16th japanese was interned, including 17,000 children under 10, as well as several thousand elderly and handicapped.

these camps were located in remote areas, the buildings not meant for human habitation—they were reconfigured horse stalls or cow sheds. food shortages and poor sanitation conditions were common. each center was its own town, with schools, post offices, work facilities, and farms—all surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers.

in new mexico, internees were delivered by trains and marched two miles, at night, to reach the camp. anyone who tried to escape was promptly shot and killed, no matter their age.

when riots broke out over the insufficient rations and overcrowding, the police tear-gassed crowds and even killed a japanese-american citizen. three people were shot and killed for “going too close to the perimeter”.

in 1942, fred korematsu was arrested for refusing to relocate to an internment camp. his case made it all the way to the supreme court, where he argued that the executive order violated the fifth amendment. the supreme court ruled against him.

the camps were finally closed in 1945, after mitsuye endo fought her way to the supreme court once again. the government initially offered to free her, but endo refused—she wanted her case to address all of the internment camps. she was successful; the court eventually ruled that the the war relocation authority “has no authority to subject citizens who are concededly loyal to its leave procedure.”

the my lai massacre—march 16, 1968

during the vietnam war, US army soldiers entered a vietnamese hamlet on a search-and-destroy mission. they didn’t encounter any enemy troops; they did, however, proceed to set huts on fire, gang-rape the women, and murder around 500 unarmed civilians—including approximately 50 children under the age of four. army leadership had conspired to sweep this massacre under the carpet—the my lai massacre triggered a cover-up by the army that served to keep the atrocities committed a secret from the american public for 20 months during an election year.

american soldiers stabbed, clubbed, and carved “C [for Charlie] Company” into the chests of their victims (alive); herded them into ditches and blew them to bits with grenades. they cut off victims’ heads and slashed their throats.

this was more than spontaneous barbarism; for years, the army had dehumanized the vietnamese people as “gooks” and depicted women and children as potentially lethal combatants.

army officers who heard eyewitness reports of a massacre were quick to discount them. they issued a press release that informed news coverage—with lies. they claimed that their troops had killed 128 viet cong forces, even though they had been met with no resistance and suffered only one self-inflicted wound.

after word of the massacre reached the general public, more than a dozen military servicemen were eventually charged with crimes, but lieutenant william calley (the leader of the charlie company who was the main perpetrator in the massacre) was the only one who was ever convicted. pres. richard nixon reduced calley’s sentence to a light punishment—three years of house arrest.

three years of house arrest, and for only one person. for slaughtering 500 unarmed civilians. you do the math.

deportations

in 1975, more than 1.2 million refugees from southeast asia fled war and were resettled in the US—the largest resettlement for a refugee group in US history. in 1996, the illegal immigration reform and immigrant responsibility act (IIRIRA) expanded the definition of what types of crimes could result in detention & deportation—this broader definition could be applied retroactively, resulting in more than 16,000 southeast asian americans receiving orders of removal—78% of which were based on old criminal records.

islamophobia (article 2 preview) (article 3)

after the 9/11 attacks, islamophobia was especially prevalent in the western world, although it was also prevalent in other places without large muslim populations. from a small percentage of violence, an “efficient system of government prosecution and media coverage brings muslim-american terrorism suspects to national attention, creating the impression that muslim-american terrorism is more prevalent than it really is”, even though since 9/11, the muslim-american community helped security and law enforcement officials prevent nearly two of every five al qaeda terrorist plots threatening the united states. globally, many muslims report feeling not respected by those in the west, including over half of those who live in the US. in late 2009, the largest party in the swiss parliament put to referendum a ban on minaret (a tower typically built into or adjacent to mosques) construction, and nearly 60% of swiss voters and 22 out of 26 voting districts voted in favor of the ban—even though most swiss say that religious freedom is important for swiss identity. a network of misinformation experts actively promotes islamophobia in america. muslims are more likely than americans of any other major religious groups to have personally experienced racial or religious discrimination in the past year—48%, compared to 31% of mormons, 25% of atheist/agnostics, 21% of jews, 20% of catholics, and 18% of protestants. 1/3 (36%) of americans say that they have an unfavorable opinion about islam (gallup polls).

in the aftermath of 9/11, the US government has increasingly implemented special programs with hopes of “curbing and countering terrorism” and “enemy combatants.” these policies—such as the USA Patriot Act and the National Security Entry-Exit Registration System—have been targeted towards and disproportionately affects arabs, south asians, and muslims in america.

of course, the most lethal terrorist groups active in america are white supremacist groups, but people tend to overlook that because it’s always easier to blame something you have zero understanding of.

the non-profit advocacy organization South Asian Americans Leading Together (SAALT) cataloged 207 incidents of hate violence and xenophobic political rhetoric directed towards south asian, muslim, middle eastern, hindu, sikh, and arab communities between nov. 15, 2015, and nov. 16, 2016. approximately 95% of those instances were animated by anti-muslim sentiment. also, “approximately 1 in 5 of the documented xenophobic statements came from president-elect donald trump.”

that’s who america hired to run our country in 2016. this was way before his misdeeds in office, yet it took us so long—and such a hard fight—to oust him. did it really take that long for everyone to catch on?

police brutality—(christian hall) (angelo quinto) (tommy le)

“CHRISTIAN HALL was a 19-year-old chinese american teen who experienced a mental health emergency on december 30, 2020. pennsylvania state police were called and requested to help de-escalate the crisis. rather than providing aid or assistance, the troopers shot and killed christian. his hands were up in the air as he stood on the SR-33 southbound overpass to I-80, posing no threat to the armed officers.”

they shot him seven times, with his arms up in the air.

“I miss my son so much. I love him so much but if his death is the catalyst for change, then so be it. Let his name be remembered. His name is Christian Hall.” —Fe Hall, Christian’s mother.

a video, shot by his mother, shows ANGELO QUINTO, a 30-year-old Filipino immigrant, unresponsive on the floor after officers subdued him with a knee to the back of his neck. the video shows him bleeding form the mouth after police knelt on his neck when he was experiencing a mental health crisis in his family home. he died three days later in the hospital without waking up. the antioch police had no body camera footage, nor has the department named the officers involved.

“I was just hoping they could de-escalate the situation,” his sister said in an interview. she called 911 when her brother had been experiencing mental health problems and paranoia. she says that she remains conflicted about calling the police that night: “I don’t know if I will not feel bad. If it was the right thing to do they would not have killed my brother.”

“TOMMY LE, a 20-year-old Vietnamese-American student, died hours before he was scheduled to attend his high-school graduation in June 2017. He was shot multiple times by sheriff’s Deputy Cesar Molina after responding to reports of a man armed with a knife. Deputies discovered after the shooting that he was carrying an ink pen, not a knife.

The office reported that Le had lunged at the sheriff’s deputies with a knife and had been threatening residents, shouting he was “the creator.” An autopsy showed that two of the three bullets that struck Le were in his back, and a witness said that Le was shouting he was “Tommy the renter.”

despite the challenges our communities face, AAPI communities receive less than one percent of philanthropic funding.

covid-19

i’ll try to keep this brief. there have been so many instances of violence perpetrated against the asian community during covid-19—not to mention the casual snipes at our culture, the microaggressions we face every day, the verbal and sexual harassment we encounter, sometimes even on the way to the grocery store for a supply run.

VICHA RATANAPAKDEE: a thai-american, he became known as “grandpa” throughout his neighborhood, where he’d made it a ritual to go on morning walks each day. it was during one of those walks on january 28, 2021, when the 84-year-old was forcibly knocked onto the ground. he was transported to the hospital, where he died two days later.

“He never wake up again. He [was] bleeding on his brain,” his daughter said in an interview. “I called him, ‘Dad, wake up.’ I want him to stay alive and wake up and come and see me again, but he never wake up.”

between march and december last year, the organization Stop Asian American and Pacific Islander Hate recorded nearly 3,000 reports of anti-Asian hate incidents nationwide. the new york city police department also reported a 1,900% increase in anti-Asian hate crimes last year.

i think senator tammy duckworth put it very aptly.

“Most people, I don’t think, think of Asians as being the subject of racist attacks, but we have been. And we’re the one community that’s often always seen as the ‘other’. I—to this day—still get asked, ‘So where are you from really?’“

i don’t think i’ve ever related so much to something a senator said.

actor and activist daniel dae kim talked about an encounter he had with a pollster who said asian americans are “statistically insignificant” in polling models in a congressional hearing:

“Statistically insignificant. Now all of you listening to me here, by virtue of your own elections, are more familiar with the intricacies of polling than I am, so undoubtedly, you already know what this means—statistically insignificant literally means that we don’t matter.”

do we matter? are we really “statistically insignificant”? blips in the machine, to be used and then thrown away once we become too “fussy” or demanding?

testimonies from victims showcase the array of xenophobic and racist insults they’ve encountered. i’ll put an (x) next to the ones i’ve personally heard.

“Go back to Wuhan and take the virus with you.” (x)

“You are the reason for the coronavirus.” (x)

“Damn, another Asian riding with me. Hope you don’t have covid.”

*fake coughing* “Chinese b—” *more fake coughing* (x)

now for some really “creative” ones that i’ve personally encountered:

“Cock up my dad’s botton, Chinease cunt”

“You don’t got the kung-flu, do ya?”

“Ever ate a dog?”

Along the same vein, “ever had any bats? Heard they’re delicious.”

“Wouldn’t want ya to pet my dog. Ya might steal it and cook it for dinner!” *hyena laugh*

a little personal anecdote

i debated whether or not to wear a mask to school in early march. my aunt lives in china, and she’s a first-responder (trained paramedic & contact tracer) and we knew how bad the virus was going to be in late february when we facetimed her, quarantined in her apartment. her toddler was staying with her husband at her parents’ house because she was afraid of infecting them. she didn’t see them in person for four months, working 14-hour shifts in the back of an ambulance decked out in a hazmat suit.

my mom cried when she facetimed us the second week of her grueling shift. i couldn’t stop thinking about her when i went to school that day. my mom sent me another picture during art class, and i just couldn’t control myself. i started crying during class.

i asked my mom whether or not i should wear a mask to school, and she said that if i did, i would be singling myself out. i wouldn’t be protecting myself—far from it. if i wore a mask to school, people would think that i had the virus, not that i was trying to protect myself from it.

gossip spreads like wildfire, and the next day, everyone knew i had relatives in china. most of my friends were sympathetic, but they were wholly removed from the situation. it was early march, and they never believed that the coronavirus would spread here. they were firmly rooted in their opinion that it was an easy situation, grossly mishandled by the chinese government, and that we’d do much better if it ever washed up on our shores.

i do hate the chinese government, and back then, i didn’t think too much of their antagonism. yes, the situation was mishandled. it was like a repeat of the SARS outbreak in 2003—first a cover-up by the local government, then a cover-up by the national government, and finally, a realization that no, in fact, they could not handle it in secret. yes, the media had to get involved. no, dead bodies were not piling up in the hallways while they waited for doctors to triage care. yes, we have capacity! look at these documentary mini-videos, forcing doctors and patients to leave a wing of the hospital empty and operate below maximum capacity so they could shoot propaganda videos for the lunar new year, boasting about how well they’re handling it!

i won’t argue that in the beginning, this was mishandled. i will argue, however, against the idea that asian countries are incompetent. that western approaches are oh-so-much-better.

in wuhan, they built a makeshift hospital spanning three soccer fields in the span of a week, with properly-functioning utilities, hospital beds, decontamination, and security. people rallied together and donated everything from money and supplies to food and ventilators, from all across the country. doctors and medical staff shaved their heads so they could better wear masks and volunteered to go to wuhan, where the situation was much more dire than in other areas. thousands of medical students from shanghai were transported to wuhan to fill the personnel shortages.

china reopened in june.

what did we do?

we didn’t ask the asian countries for experience. china, japan, and korea had handled the 2003 SARS outbreak and knew what kinds of things needed to be done. from the beginning, they wore masks. they halted travel, they did routine testing, performed contact tracing, set up programs for bringing food to the immunocompromised, elderly, and disabled, and worked as a cohesive community.

on the other hand, we resorted to childish infighting, political games, shunning masks and blaming it on asians, when we could’ve learned from them instead. we didn’t do contact-tracing. our testing systems were sorely inadequate. borders were closed with china, yes, but the majority of the cases in the US arrived from italy and other european countries who had already been infected. banning travel between the US and china was nothing more than a political gimmick.

states fought each other for basic medical supplies. there was no national unity. we were fractured in two, and COVID became more fuel for the fire dividing the two parties, when it could’ve been something that unified us.

and instead of blaming china, we would’ve been better off recognizing our own failures.

you can say that the virus caught china by surprise.

it shouldn’t have done the same to us.

we knew it was coming. but we still botched it.

blaming the virus on asian communities is a sign of immaturity and a lack of accountability. own up to your failures.

anyways, my mom was right. whenever we wore a mask in public, people really did think that we were “dirty, foreign chinese.” we stocked up on groceries so we wouldn’t have to go out, because every time my mom did, people would look at her weirdly. they didn’t wear masks.

one time, she was accosted by a blonde woman when we were at a supermarket. i’d gone with her that time because it was right after practice, and i was in the car anyways. the lady came up to us (without a mask: this was in may) and said, “excuse me, you don’t have the virus, do you?” with a pointed look at my mom (who was masked up).

my mom, being the polite person she is, simply responded “no, i don’t.”

the woman didn’t let us go after that. she pushed even more. “well, you see, i was just making sure...with this chinese virus going around, it’s scary, you know?”

i wanted to ask her why she wasn’t wearing a mask if it was “so scary”, but i couldn’t get a word in before she asked another question.

“by the way, y’all aren’t chinese, right?”

yes i am. yes we are. why does it fucking matter. we’re wearing masks, you’re not, get the hell out of my face.

honestly, i don’t know how my mom does it. she has the patience of a saint. she said “mhm”, grabbed a gallon of milk, and walked to the self-checkout area. the lady looked at me and raised her eyebrow, and i said “so what if we are?”

she looked like she’d been slapped in the face. i turned and followed my mom, but she said “now hold on young lady!” i ignored her and kept walking.

i don’t owe her anything. why do people think it’s okay to talk to others like that? we’re human beings too. we’re allowed our basic dignity. basic respect. we’re not something for you to joke at, to laugh at, to fetishize or bully into submission. i don’t understand why it’s so hard for people to realize that. i don’t understand why it’s so hard for people to treat others like human beings.

to people like that lady in kroger:

why do you feel the need to do it? is your opinion of yourself really that high to think that you’re superior to others who are different from you? are you really that conceited to think that you’re the perfect image of a perfect human, and anyone not like you is unworthy, considered lesser? or is your opinion of yourself really that low, to think that whatever you say, it doesn’t really matter anyways? why do you find derogatory jokes and demeaning comments funny? why do you think it’s okay to harass a stranger just going about their day? is your life really that boring, and you have nothing else to do with your time? why? would it be okay if i came up to you and asked if you ate rotten shark meat, then laughed it off and said “oh, i thought you were from iceland”? is that okay? can i ask if you eat cockroaches? how would you respond if i asked “where are you from?”? you would say america, right? and if i asked again? europe? where in europe? oh, you don’t know? are you illegal? was your mother a prostitute? are you a communist? why are your eyes so big? do you speak europeanese? crut iveroij aeish poient. oh, those aren’t words? well i think they sound like european words. what’s your name? je-re-mi-ah? like jeeryyy-miiiaaaccchh? oh, that’s not right? sorry, my tongue just won’t bend that way. your names are so weird! why would your parents name you that? oh, it means something? well, i don’t know the language, so don’t expect me to say it right. have you ever eaten haggis? oh, that’s scottish? oh, you’re not scottish? sorry, you all look the same to me. scots and italians are just so similar, you know? what’s your name? your last name is anderson? i know an anderson! she lived in texas. are you related to her? oh, you don’t know her? sorry, i thought you were all related. yeah, like i said before, you all just look so much alike, you know? are you lazy? oh, nothing, i just heard from my dad that all french people are lazy. oh, you’re not french? well, you still look lazy. are you good at english? oh, nothing, i just assumed that all white people were english. i know you like to assume that we’re good at math. oh, you got an A in english? isn’t that normal? i can’t help it, you’re just smarter. you probably don’t even study. oh, you do? well, you’re smart anyways, so it doesn’t matter. you’re so good at math for an american! oh no, nothing, i just assumed that all americans were bad at math. *starts playing with her hair* oh, that’s making you uncomfortable? but your hair’s so silky, and it’s so smooth. what kind of hair products do you use? i want to learn how to make my hair look exotic like that. oh, you’re not exotic? but you’re foreign. of course you’re exotic. you know, *leans in and whispers* men like you this way, yeah? they just looveeee exotic ladies. *winks*

can you see how this is demeaning? can you see how this diminishes our culture, our hard work, our accomplishments?

racism isn’t funny. it’s not cool, it’s not a joke, and it’s hurtful. it makes us question our capabilities, forces us to have unrealistic expectations of ourselves, makes us feel unworthy and “other”. just stop? stop making hurtful comments. stop stepping on other people to feel better about yourselves.

#racism #anti-asian hate #anti-asian racism #asian #asian racism #politics #covid #covid-19 #i'm so sick of it

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lizardrosen · 3 years

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National Theater Live King Lear

Hello, here is a ridiculously long review of this production! I just had a lot of feelings and thoughts!

Setting/Staging/Mood

I really loved the sound design for this one. It’s hard to describe, but the chords gave it a real presence and sense of motion. It was vaguely reminiscent of horror movie music in the way the chords lingered and didn’t blend in seamlessly, but I wouldn’t call it horror music exactly. The BELL tolling while Lear zips up his folder was such a good first image and bit of sound. And there were drinking songs, which I always love to see in a play. Put that Epic Theater technique straight in my mouth!

The circle in the middle that’s red in the first half and white in the second was a really creative detail, and the actors used that space effectively, especially with overlapping exits and entrances to make it feel that scenes happened in different locations while still being thematically connected.

The opulence and ceremony of the first scene gradually gives way to the more sparse and modern staging of act five — formal military dress to fatigues

I love how Lear raises his hand in prayer and command, compelling everyone else to follow suit to show their devotion and allegiance (and is there a difference between their king and their gods in this world?) even when they’re unsure about whether he’s right to be so cruel to Cordelia.

The recurring imagery of money changing hands really fits in well with the theme of love as currency that’s already in the text!

The single tree in the background of act five gave me Waiting For Godot vibes, which works SO WELL with the absurdism and nihilism of Lear.

Thoughts about specific characters under the cut!

Edgar! My SON!!

Luke Thompson is the reason I’ve wanted so badly to watch this production; ever since I saw his standout performance as Laertes in the 2017 Almeida Theater production, and found out he’s also played Orestes and Edgar, I’ve just been rabid about it!

It’s neat to see him actually at the ceremony of the first scene, with Edmund already Literally in his shadow.

He’s a little less hapless and distracted than most of the Edgars I’ve seen, a little more watchful. In 1.2 he’s actually pushing back against Edmund’s insistence that he’s in danger, and then in 2.1 there’s a long moment of just Looking at Edmund’s knife before he flees.

Similarly, his decision to become Poor Tom felt a bit more calculated. It’s not that he isn’t scared and lost and desperate, because he definitely is, but the plan itself doesn’t seem to grow out of that feeling as much as he (sort of) calmly looked at his options.

Of course, he doesn’t stay calm; that agonized scream when he actually cuts himself, and later on when he sees his father blinded and screams “World, world, o world!” really feels like he’s letting something out, and more than usual he seems to have been holding this part of himself back for a long time.

The counterpart to that is the self that does the watching — it’s a part of all Edgars that makes him a really compelling character, with his self-aware asides, but it’s particularly pronounced here — there’s a moment where he says “Bless thy five wits!” in his normal voice, and then catches himself and has to reassert the role he’s playing for his own safety.

At times he’s very impatient and frustrated while leading Gloucester, but he also cares about him a lot and is so terrified that he’s actually died when he “fell” from the cliff, this poor boy’s entire body is trembling!

He instinctively moves to protect Gloucester from Lear when he gets more violent and unpredictable with “find these son-in-laws and KILL KILL KILL” and it was a good moment

Gives into his own viciousness in the fight with Oswald, and then, Hamlet-like, lugs the guts into the neighbor room.

Edgar doesn’t seem to know if he wants his dad to recognize him or not — he puts Gloucester’s hand on his face, but then as soon as he seems about to realize who he is he very quickly takes it away again and gets them moving

He’s even more desperate and reckless than Edmund in their duel, but then once Edmund is fatally injured, he’s right by his side, holding his hand, helping him through it!

He needs Lear to recognize Kent, he needs Lear to not be dying, he’s so sincere, but then he decides if he can’t save anyone here he can at least help Albany to help the country heal and pledges himself to the future.

Lear

Awful but also very pitiable, more like a human losing his grip and knowing it, than just a Vessel for themes that are echoed in other characters.

Lashes out at himself more than at other people, but he definitely still does both.

“But they shall be the terrors of the earth” is just a man who’s terrified to be losing his words.

He has bad knees and everyone knows it but he keeps trying to kneel, and sometimes it feels like he’s mocking his daughters — look how much I’m suffering for you even though you’re ungrateful — and sometimes it feels like he’s forgotten his own body’s limitations.

Spends a lot of time offering physical comfort to other characters, since he can’t be a dad for his real daughters.

His flower crown scene was Just ophelia, and I think that’s beautiful.

aaaaa, his helpless grief for Cordelia! He moves the noose from her neck to his!! and then he takes out a handgun and threatens everyone away from him, but he’s just so helpless and sad!

Edmund! my other son!

I was a little surprised to see that this actor is James Corrigan, because I recognized him as Roderigo in the RSC Othello, and he’s sort of the anti-Edmund, so I was excited to see the contrast, but honestly there wasn’t as much of a contrast as I expected. He had many of the same cringing appeasing mannerisms, but in a way that makes it clear that he’s aware of his unfair situation in a way his Roderigo really isn’t. Despite being a bastard he has a lot more social power and mobility than Roderigo so he doesn’t seem nearly as pathetic.

Other Edmunds are composed and precise in their soliloquies because this is the one place no one will see them planning things out, and this Edmund is babbling and overwhelmed because this is the one place no one will see him feeling things, because feeling things is dangerous.

He’s so! scared! of his dad! It’s painful to watch, and it’s almost as painful to watch how he’s still looking for approval and respect from Gloucester. Someone save this boy!

He gets in WAY over his head, and it feels like he’s scrambling at every turn, but then at some point he just levels up and strides with confidence, and it’s really good to see.

oh my god, oh my god, he saw everything that happened with Gloucester! After everyone else leaves he comes out from his hiding place looking just devastated. He hated his dad, but he never hated him that much, and by the time he couldn’t stomach it any longer there was no way for him to escape, and then he’s still processing it when he sees that the Fool was also there, and he has to kill him because no one can know he was there. I SCREAMED when this moment happened, it was so good!

WOW, he’s so smooth, it’s no wonder both the sisters want a piece of that! It’s more of a power play with Regan, and a little more courtly with Goneril, and he just knows what each of them want and need from him.

When Lear and Cordelia are captured, Lear says “As if we were God’s spies” and he’s still kingly enough that the soldiers drop to their knees and lift their hands in allegiance, and Edmund has to rush in to make one of them stand up while saying “Take them away” sort of impatiently, and then he immediately checks the order he’s written for their deaths, because he’s just seen how dangerous it is for these two to be kept alive. aaaaa, and then when the captain hesitates, he holds a gun to his temple on “Either say thou’lt do’t, or thrive by other means” !! I love that line and I love the sheer range of deliveries I’ve seen for it!

The wonder in his voice at “Yet Edmund was beloved.” is really good! He’s so desperate to do some good by the end, and I love! Edmund of Gloucester!

Kent

Having Kent played by a woman does some really neat things to the character, not least of which is crossdressing Caius! She sort of feels like she overperforms toxic masculinity to fit into the culture of Lear’s retinue. Other Kents seem to be allowing their latent desires and bluntness to emerge with this role, but this Kent isn’t suited to it, and sometimes she gets a little carried away or makes missteps like beating up Oswald, but she has to see it through, for Lear’s sake.

Kent also doesn’t feel Big In Love with Lear, but she’s definitely devoted to him — and even more than that, she’s devoted to the image of loyalty itself.

Her genuine affection for Cordelia, and pride to see how she’s doing as a queen, is really sweet and good!

After she’s been banished, she rushes out of the throne room as Burgundy and France enter, covering her face like she’s desperately trying to hold back her tears.

She’s with the French soldiers looking for Lear, and is the one who tells him “You shall have anything!”

At the end she’s not exactly surprised that Lear doesn’t connect her with Caius, and she’s not upset (about that part of it anyway, plenty of things in this scene are upsetting), but she’s definitely feeling something.

ahhhh, she picks up Lear’s handgun and sort of cradles it to her side when she prepares for her final journey! sweetheart!

Gloucester

he’s just! a terrible father!! simply the worst!

A lot of the time Gloucester isn’t a very good dad just because he’s friendly and careless and just not paying attention to how he’s treating his sons; this one is actively awful and I actively hate him!!

From the very first scene he’s so scornful and dismissive of Edmund and hitting him for no reason, and then turns around to show off photos of Edgar, and that doesn’t even really benefit Edgar either, because he’s held to an unfair standard he can never live up to.

It really shows in how both of them are touch starved but also extremely cautious about being touched. Someone save them!!

(In fact, in the serial killer Claudius AU, a certain Earl does get himself murdered when Edmund is sixteen)

Not a Bad Dad thing, but not really showing Gloucester in a good light: he does think Lear’s age and reverence should be respected, but his motivation seems to be a lot more based in his indignation that Regan and Cornwall have taken over his home and order him around. For this Gloucester it seemed to be less about feeling sorry for Lear, and more about reasserting his sovereignty.

But because this is Lear I don’t just hate him, and he’s not just a bad father, you also feel for him a lot after he’s been blinded and his legs are just trembling and he’s so scared and lost.

Even after he’s blinded he keeps turning to his photos of Edgar in his wallet, and it’s sad and regretful instead of showing off.

He had a really good cliff fall! He goes up to what he thinks is the edge, and then turns around and braces himself to fall backwards, and then Edgar has to rush to catch him, and lay him gently on the ground, and panic that maybe he’s actually died.

Lear Sisters

No one was prepared for Lear’s announcement and the way each of them responds informs so much of how they act through the rest of the play!

Goneril is startled and unsure and fumbling, and I really felt for her and her “hateful life”, and the way she’s stunned in the wake of Lear’s abuse, but then needs to pull herself together again when he returns. For so much of this play she feels small and adrift, but then she’s so happy for once whenever she’s with Edmund. Albany really does seem to care about her and he’s trying to be good for her, so he takes it when she yells at him, and then stays behind to pray for a bit. He’s a little less nice later on but to be fair she is cheating on him and not bothering to hide it very well.

Regan! With her fake tears and her constant flirtiness, and the way she’s always twirling and showing off! She is a hot mess, and she only gets hotter and messier as the play goes on, but she and Cornwall love each other a lot, and she wants to be suited to torture the way her husband is, but she gets into it by the end of that scene. And then!! her hand on Edmund’s throat! W o w

Cordelia is calm and sure and knows exactly what her sisters are, and in that first scene she comes so close to reaching her father and getting him to change his mind about disowning her. And that carries through to the rest of her performance — she’s competent and precise and loving, and France is smitten with her and listens to her and respects her. When she’s reunited with Lear she wants him to wake up, but also isn’t prepared for it to actually happen, and then she’s so surprised when they say she should be the one to address him first.

Cornwall

I first saw Daniel Rabin as Reynaldo in the Almeida Theater Hamlet (ask me about how Reynaldo and Laertes are half-dating whenever he follows Laertes to France, because I have Opinions), and his Cornwall is SO different

He’s not just manipulative, but violent and enjoying his violence, but he’s also sexy and possessive and commanding, and it’s no wonder Edmund falls for him as hard as he does!

TYING HIS SCARF around Edmund’s hand after he wounds himself for love and validation!? The soft tender look of surprise that Edmund gives him in response!? wow! wow, what a MOMENT!

And then he shoves Edmund into the room after he’s been shown Gloucester’s letter, he has to punish the messenger and assert his position. And after “Thou shalt find a dearer father in my love” Edmund HUGS him, and he’s startled at first but half-returns it (and probably thinking about how he can Use this) (and then cornwall/edmund/regan happens, shhh)

Like Daniel Rabin’s Reynaldo, his Cornwall is very Watchful, just stepping back to observe what’s going on, and then quietly making his judgment before he says anything — and when he does speak he absolutely has the other person’s number.

Good commanding headtilts!

Oh, the laugh right before he uses the hook from the slaughterhouse on Gloucester is just terrifying and compelling, and he’s so turned on by this. Good for him because then he gets to die, and he’s so disgusted and vicious when saying the first servant should be thrown onto the dunghill.

Miscellaneous Moments

Lear puts his jacket on Edgar, and Kent puts her jacket on Lear, and then he immediately takes it off and puts it around Edgar’s shoulders and ties the arms together, but while he’s trying to take off his shirt too, Edgar’s already getting on the ground and letting the jackets fall off of him. Just! Jackets and touch as a form of affection!!

When Gloucester comes out to find Lear, he and Edgar see each other, and there’s just a moment where they’re frozen, Edgar terrified that his father will recognize him, and Gloucester perhaps feeling there’s something familiar about this madman but having no idea what.

While Gloucester is telling Kent about how he had a son he loved who betrayed him, Lear and Edgar are in the background sharing a long hug that almost feels like a beautiful dance! It was such a striking moment, I loved it sooo much.

the HUG with Edmund and Cornwall!! Not over it, never over it.

when Cornwall tells Edmund to leave with Goneril, he gives Goneril his jacket and she’s just quietly surprised and pleased, and it’s cute, and I want her to be happy!!

#king lear #edgar #edmund #gloucester #kent #cornwall #goneril #regan #cordelia #my writing #sort of

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orangetail-works · 4 years

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A Phoenix and a Raven: Can I Pick?

A/N: This came from a group of unrelated dialogue options that kind of became smooshed together. I liked how one fit and then the other followed, so it's going to be a fun one to write. It's going to be a little while after the battle in Ulstead with a few of the queen's sympathizers coming back around.

Chapter: Can I Pick?

It felt like years had passed in the following months after the wedding of Queen Aurora of the Moors and Prince Phillip of Ulstead. Communication and trade between the humans and the Fair Folk had never run as smoothly as it did now that peace reigned. Both Fey creatures and humans were able to say they were of one kingdom and able to live day to day with no fear of one another.

That's not to say that there were no challenges when it came to the change. Many of the Dark Fey still held a grudge toward the humans for driving them into exile, and many humans held a distaste to those who had attacked them on what was to be a joyful day of celebration. There were old ways of thinking that hindered the healing and grieving process for both sides. Borra being the most vocal of his distaste of human actions in the past had ruffled more than one human's feathers. While once-prominent councilmen told old tales of their grandfathers and their wars with the beasts of the Moors.

Aurora and Phillip were quick to quiet the negative talk and most of the time succeeded. Especially when Maleficent stepped into the discussions.

Three months into the new blended kingdom and a large fire bloomed at the border between the Moors and the farms at the edge of the Ulstead Hamlet. The flames were put out in short order with the combined efforts of both the water nymphs of the Moors, three of the Dark Fey that lived near the border and the two farmers and their sons who tended the crops. The combined forces helped one another stop the threat to their homes and the fire never reached what couldn't be replaced.

Maleficent and Diaval landed at the sight just before a large cart of three men made it from Ulstead. Maleficent nodded to the Fair Folk and Dark Fey who bowed their heads toward her and Diaval as they have all now learned of her raven. She then turned her attention to the farmers.

“Are you all uninjured?” she asked calmly as she looked from each of them, “It looked like the fire grew rapidly.”

“We were lucky that the nymphs and fey were nearby,” one of the farmers smiled gratefully at the Fair Folk and then nervously worried his hat in his hands as he stood before Maleficent. She saw the movement but didn't fault the man any. Many of the Dark Fey have their own nervous tells when they talk with her as well. Most beings do with the exception of Aurora and Diaval. The farmer cleared his throat, “It didn't get to too many of the crops, if at all.”

“Good to hear,” Diaval nodded and noticed the wagon of men that just pulled up at the roadside. He turned to the nymphs and Dark Fey, “Thank you for your help, but it looks like it's in hand. Go on home.”

The Dark Fey nodded and flew into the air while the water nymphs blended back into the vegetation of the Moors and into the small streams just inside the magic boundary. The farmers waved at them as they flew off or disappeared.

One farmer turned to the men from the wagons, “You are a little late, sirs. The fire was taken care of.”

The first man on the ground, an older soldier from the look of him, walked past the farmer without a single glance, “We're not here for the fire.”

Two other young men came out from the back of the wagon and followed their friend toward where Maleficent and Diaval stood. Maleficent's feathers began to ruffle at the men's approach and her eyes noticed the iron swords at their hips. She turned to the farmer closest to her, “I think you and yours should get to safety. I don't think this will be a pleasant meeting.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he nodded and pushed at his son toward their home. The other farmer did the same even as he threw a worried glance in Maleficent's direction. She only gave him a subtle nod before her attention turned back to the men ahead of her and Diaval.

“Those are some very fancy iron swords you got there, friends,” Diaval started the conversion and stood between them and Maleficent. He opened his hands on either side of him to show that he held no weapons of his own against them, “I would appreciate it if you kept them in their sheaths.”

All three men promptly brandished their swords and held them level toward Maleficent.

“Or you can totally ignore me,” Diaval huffed, put his hands on his hips and looked over his shoulder at Maleficent, “I don't think they are a listening bunch.”

“Or they are in pain,” Maleficent noticed the blank, pointed stares from the men. She took only a single step toward the men who all but stopped on her approach. She tilted her head at the action and narrowed her eyes, “Tell me. Who did you lose in the battle at the castle?”

“My brother,” the older soldier said and nodded his head to either side to the young men on either side of him, “They both lost their fathers. Just three men out of the many that were slaughtered by you and your kind that day.”

“Along with the countless of innocent Fair Folk trapped in a church and Moor Folk running for cover,” Diaval reminded him and put his hands back up in a placating manner when the swords shifted toward him, “We all lost someone in that battle.”

“Did we?” the man growled and looked at Maleficent, “Because she is still here and so is the Queen of the Moors.”

“The Queen of the Moors is your queen now too,” Maleficent reminded him.

“That girl is no queen of mine! And I will make sure you and she will both pay for my father!” one of the younger men shouted and lunged toward Maleficent to find himself quickly on the ground to the side of Diaval. Diaval held a foot on his hand to make sure that it couldn't grip the iron sword.

“That is what I believe is called treason to threaten your queen,” Diaval hummed and leaned further on the man's hand to make him shout in pain before he stepped back and kicked the iron sword out of reach.

“We are here to finish what Queen Ingrith had begun,” the older man announced and took another step forward.

“Not a good idea,” Diaval warned him and watched his approach carefully.

“I will have that monster's head!” he yelled and stabbed his sword in the air toward Maleficent.

Diaval stepped in front of him, just an inch from the tip of the man's sword, “I'm trying my best to be polite, but if you move that sword any closer to her, I will tear you apart.”

“What is an unarmed bird going to do?” the man asked and pushed his sword ever so slightly forward to rest it against Diaval's chest.

“Diaval,” Maleficent warned, her voice held a note of worry.

“Not to worry, Mistress,” he smirked at the man and at his sword as it laid quietly on his chest. He took a quick look to her behind him with raised brows, “Can I pick? I'm thinking something bigger than a dog this time.”

“No dragons,” her hands glowed gold with an almost annoyed look at him, “They just put out a fire.”

“No dragons,” he nodded in agreement.

Her magic flowed to him and he suddenly wasn't a man anymore. Fur covered him from head to foot and he fell to his hands and knees as a giant beak grew from his face to take a form of a hardened muzzle of a giant black bear. He roared as his frame grew and filled out with muscle and claws. His black eyes opened as a gold color as he focused his gaze on the two boys that were now behind the soldier. He roared loudly over the man's head toward the other two.

The two younger men backpedaled and ran toward the wagon they came in. The older man only took a couple of steps back until he fell back into the grass behind him. His sword fell from his grasp as he tried to crawl away from the massive bear on all fours. Diaval stood on his hind legs and looked down at the man. His eyes narrowed and he fell forward, his huge arms beat the ground under them as he trapped the man in between his substantial arms. The man turned on his back as he stared at the creature above him. Diaval roared again down at him and then sneezed in his face.

“That's quite enough, Diaval,” Maleficent called out to him. She slowly walked up to Diaval's side and placed her hand along his back to calm him. Diaval looked at her, his colossal head swung to the side to give her his attention, “I am sure the human now understands what you meant. No need to follow through. Isn't that right?”

Diaval's head turned back to study the human under him. The man only nodded viciously. Diaval growled at the man but then huffed out a breath before he crawled off of the man.

“Take my advice,” Maleficent looked at the man still in the grass, “Mourn your lost ones, but let go of the hate. It changes you, but it will not change the outcome of brash decisions. Those of which you may not be able to bear the consequences of.”

“My brother is gone,” he whimpered and tried to sit up, his eyes focused on the bear at her side, “Nothing can change that. Who is to answer for it?”

“She's currently a goat at the moment,” Maleficent commented nonchalantly, “Not sure what the next punishment shall be.”

“Lady Maleficent,” a voice carried over to them.

Maleficent looked down the road and saw Percival on horseback with a few soldiers behind him. Another two soldiers were down a little further next to what looked like a very familiar wagon.

“Guard Captain Percival,” Maleficent greeted with a slight bow of her head, “I see that you found our arsonists.”

“One of the farmers flagged us down as we came to see to the fire,” he reported and saw the frightened man on the ground and the black bear behind Maleficent, “Everything alright?”

“I think it will be in time,” Maleficent answered and glanced down at the man again.

He flinched away and looked at the guard captain, “Please take me out of here, sir.”

“Get him into the wagon with the others,” Percival ordered one of his men who did exactly that. Percival led his horse closer to her and the black bear as he spotted a couple of the swords nearby, “Iron?”

“Yes,” Maleficent answered easily and didn't even look at the offending weapons.

“Are you injured?”

“They didn't have a chance to harm me,” she placated him as Diaval rubbed his head against her arm. She smiled softly at him and ran a hand over his head, “Diaval had it in hand.”

“I am sure he did,” Percival nodded at the raven-bear.

Maleficent snapped her fingers and he turned into a man once again, “I always do.”

“Those men lost those close to them in the battle,” Maleficent explained, “They needed someone to play their villain.”

“I just wish they wouldn't choose you all the time,” Diaval muttered.

“You do sometimes give off the impression that you want to murder everyone you look at,” Percival offered with a teasing smirk.

“Only when the mood hits me,” Maleficent offered back with her own sneer.

“I will leave you two now. Be safe,” Percival chuckled lightly and nudged his horse back to his men and their trip back to the castle with new prisoners in tow.

“Well, that was uneventful,” Diaval blew some of his hair from his eyes.

“Uneventful? You had a sword at your chest,” she frowned at him to let him know she was a little cross with him.

“You said it, I had it in hand,” he reminded her, “You wouldn't let him hurt me, just like I wouldn't let him hurt you. Better me than you anyway. I could potentially live after being stabbed by iron.”

“You could perish being stabbed by anything, Diaval,” she muttered and stretched out her wings, “You are infuriating.”

“Don't forget charming,” he added and stepped right in front of her, his face in front of her own, “I'm here to serve you until I can no longer do so. That means I protect you in every way that I can. I protect what I hold the most dear to me.”

She took a deep breath and looked up into his dark eyes as she reminded herself out loud, “I am cross with you.”

“But..” he urged.

“But nothing!” she hissed and then rolled her eyes to look away from him, “Right now, I don't know if I want to kiss you or shove you off a bridge.”

There was a long pause until she looked back at him. He tilted his head and furrowed his brows, “Can I pick?”

#maleval #maleval fanfiction #maleficent x diaval #one-shot #Orangetail Works

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diveronaevents · 4 years

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DATE: March 26th

TIME: 10:45 PM

LOCATION: The Cathedral

TRIGGERS: murder, violence, gore, torture, fire

With the reveal of Cosimo’s gruesome display, the hall fell silent. For a moment, all anyone could hear was the rattling of their shared breaths. VIOLA hung at death’s door, and in the suspended animation of the room, her pulse beat ever faster -- too weak to lift her own head.

MERCUTIO and OTHELLO forgot each other entirely, though for very different reasons.

The jolt of confusion felt by OTHELLO was too overwhelming for him. He had been betrayed once before, after all, but never had he been forced to watch his wife bleed out before him and call it a celebration. Feeling sick for too many reasons to count, he began to back away, wanting nothing to do with the fight or the revelry any longer. Emotions would have to be sorted out later; for now, the dramatics offered him a cover for escape, so long as he did so quietly and inconspicuously. He was making his way toward the door when he spotted IAGO, limp and lifeless beneath HAMLET’s distracted form, and changed trajectory, ensuring his friend’s safety as he dragged him away from the scene before them. HAMLET let him go, already moving to the front of the crowd.

MERCUTIO stepped forward on instinct, half-crazed ideas about freeing their friend at the forefront of their mind. They were joined by HAMLET, with GONERIL reluctantly coming to stand at her captain’s side. CORDELIA remained frozen in place, horrified at what she was seeing, yet incapable of acting either for or against it. Only when she saw the distinctive tattoo on VIOLA’s ruined arm did she move, just one step forward, to at last take in the face of the woman who’d tortured her. A sense of satisfaction briefly stole over her features, but it was gone before anyone took notice.

The Capulet soldiers in the wings flocked out, all part of Cosimo’s design, and began to drag the unconscious members of their faction away. LADY MACBETH, EDMUND, MACBETH, and LAVINIA were all hauled out of the cathedral to receive additional medical attention, with HIPPOLYTA among those using the Montague horror as a distraction to tend to their wounded. The remainder were to stay and witness the show, for they knew all too well what consequences would follow if Cosimo’s plans did not receive proper attention.

TAMORA cared little for the girl on stage, so she had no issue continuing a fight that everyone else seemed to have put on hold. Smiling at a distracted and terrified DESDEMONA, she stepped forward and sunk a knife into her gut. The weakened ROSALINE bared her teeth, a hint of her former self coming out to play, but before either of them could truly begin a new battle, TAMORA was dragged away by PORTIA, who rightly understood that the situation had changed. Reluctantly, TAMORA followed PORTIA toward the other Montagues, and ROSALINE was able to direct several Capulet soldiers to get DESDEMONA out. With no one left to concern her in the immediate vicinity, ROSALINE simply watched their work unfold, a small smile on her face.

PERDITA was the first to scream, the sound almost deafening in the empty silence of the cathedral. It roused BIANCA as well, who was lying slumped at her feet, her head swimming as she watched PERDITA push forward toward Cosimo’s stage of horrors. Anyone paying attention realized quickly that it was not a scream of horror, but a scream of rage. PERDITA’s only lead toward her lover’s whereabouts was being drained of blood before her very eyes, and she refused to believe she would be denied, not when she was so close to the truth. As she pushed through the crowd, she nearly made it before she was stopped by MERCUTIO, their hand around her wrist and grim determination in their eyes. They wanted to act as much as she did, but this was the trap Cosimo had placed for them, and they wouldn’t let themselves or PERDITA move until they were certain it wouldn’t end in death.

Around the room, expressions ranged from shock, to horror, to satisfaction and glee. Some revelled in the unveiling of the spy who had caused them so much strife, while others shied away from Cosimo’s brutality. EDGAR’s gun slipped from his hand, but BENVOLIO was uninterested in picking it up, struggling to stand and make his way toward VIOLA, who he’d worked so closely with these past months. EDGAR did nothing to stop him, for it was all he could do not to be sick upon the floor. Not only was it gruesome, VIOLA’s display was in many ways a perversion of the religion he clung to so very tightly. She was bleeding out on sacred ground, hanging from the wall as though she were on the crucifix, and though his hand tightened on the rosary in his pocket, it did him no good. Not this time.

SEBASTIAN, horror having rooted him to the spot until now, began to move from the edges of the crowd, speed growing with each step he took. It was BEATRICE who looked around for him, for she knew that her borgata partner would be at this very moment risking his life if it meant he could go to his twin. She begged in quiet whispers for a reluctant RICHARD III to help her head him off, and together, the two held SEBASTIAN back, though with difficulty. Each grasping one of his biceps, they kept him at the center of the crowd and avoided drawing attention to him, lest Cosimo think it would be fun to play with the food not on his plate.

At the edges of the room, TROILUS tended to his wife, begging her to leave with him now before more carnage spread. CRESSIDA shushed him, though it was clear she stayed with the utmost reluctance; what stayed her hand was the thought of being punished by Damiano again. Her fear motivated her to search the room for some way to be useful that would keep them from danger, and her eyes fell shortly on BENEDICK’s prone form. Whispering to her husband, the pair began to duck in and out of the room, quietly shuffling the Montague personnel who were injured out into the safety of the night, including ROSALIND, who was placed very carefully into TROILUS’ arms by a battered MALCOLM.

IMOGEN took in the scene with a vicious sense of satisfaction. At last, they were bearing witness to the brutality she longed to put beneath her pen. There was no way out for Cosimo Capulet now, they thought fiercely, sliding out their phone to record what he was about to say next. OPHELIA got to her feet nearby, once there was no sign of ORSINO, and saw IMOGEN start to film. A moment of indecision struck her, but ultimately, OPHELIA did not want the rest of her Montague familia outed, not even for the sake of ruining the Capulets. She rushed forward, knocking IMOGEN’s phone from their hands and stomping on it, until it remained in tatters. When she looked up at IMOGEN once more, it was clear from their expression that OPHELIA had made an enemy.

MIRANDA could not see through the thick of the crowd, and attempted to get closer to see what all the fuss was about, only to be stopped by CORIOLANUS, who tried to tell her it might not be something she wanted to confront. She didn’t listen, and with a sigh, he led her toward a better vantage point, still in the middle of the crowd and without drawing too much attention. The two looked on as Cosimo began his final performance of the evening, with no clue what may be in store from here.

GERTRUDE made her way through the crowd to join ROMEO, her only goal protecting the man who was, in so many ways, a son to her. CELIA followed, leaving PARIS to be taken care of by one of the many floating Capulet soldiers in the crowd. As the Montagues coalesced around the stage, so too did a Capulet guard, standing between them and Cosimo, preventing them from getting to VIOLA. Among them stood ORSINO and REGAN, each bruised but more than capable of handling another fight, as well as KATHERINE, who reluctantly joined only after a nod from VOLUMNIA. The Underboss took her place beside Cosimo with grim austerity in her features, and behind her followed JULIET, her eyes wide and her expression unreadable to the crowd.

ROMEO stepped forward, though he did not quite put himself in reach of the Capulet guard standing between him and his target. “You’ve made your point,” he said bitterly, “That’s enough.”

Cosimo’s amusement only seemed to increase. “Enough, you say? No, no, not at all. We have much more work to do, young Montague.” His smile was sinister as he gestured proudly toward JULIET, prompting her to step forward and allow him to place a hand on her shoulder. “Now we must show you how a true organization operates,” he explained, pausing for dramatic effect, “and how the heir to a throne must behave.”

Meanwhile, NICK BOTTOM was making his way back to the cathedral to finish what he’d started before BETRAM had so forcefully interrupted him. He snuck his way through the back offices until he found the perfect place -- the corner of a desk, tinkering with the explosive in his pack before setting a timer. This area was largely empty, unguarded now that all Capulets had been pulled in to assist the injured in the main hall. Satisfied with his work, he made his way out the back entrance once again, unburdened by an obnoxious companion. He had no way of knowing what was truly taking place in the cathedral, or of VIOLA’s punishment; all he knew was that whatever drinking was being done upstairs made his business almost too easy.

Unaware of the chaos still in store, Cosimo was as satisfied as anyone had ever seen him. With JULIET trembling beneath his hand and VOLUMNIA at his side, he certainly seemed the victor. “So often, these celebrations are filled with nostalgia for the past. I have seen what the future can hold, and I know that when we look forward, beyond our grief and pain, we will do so as a family, united in our strength.” He gazed warmly around the room before raising his glass to them all, though he was the only one with wine still in hand. “To the future!” he called, squeezing JULIET’s shoulder before his gaze cast toward one side. “Bring in the Initiates.”

TITANIA, who at last heard their cue, moved toward a side door and held it open. OCTAVIA, POMPEY, OBERON and several others were beckoned into the room, with expressions ranging from excitement to reluctance. They made their way over to Cosimo and the others, and he set down his wine, rummaging in the inside pocket of his suit for a moment before pulling out a gold-encrusted dagger. He turned to the first initiate in line, offering it to them handle-first. “Loyalty is everything -- not just to me, but to all of us. It is the lifeblood of our organization, the pillar of our strength, and it is from loyalty that we derive our power.” The initiate took the handle with trembling fingers. “Now, you must take the first step toward your future. Prove your loyalty, and make this place more than a cathedral. Make it your home.”

The Montagues began to move forward, but were stopped by the wall of Capulets before them, tension filling the room. Behind the group of Montagues, the soldiers who were making the rounds earlier filed in, surrounding them on all sides. There was no escape, and there would be no fighting back. All they could do was watch as Cosimo’s grand finale began.

The initiate, for all their previous shaking, seemed to gain their strength as they moved toward VIOLA’s prone form. When they drew their hand back, the dagger was held firmly in their fist, and it sunk into her flesh with an awful, wet sound. It echoed across the hall as though the cathedral had magnified it, forcing each among them to witness the blasphemy unfold. The rest followed suit, each being handed the weapon in turn, and though they would not graduate from their roles as initiates, this act brought them one step closer toward becoming soldiers in truth. OCTAVIA, POMPEY, and OBERON each drove the blade again into VIOLA, who moaned in pain and tried to lift her head, though nothing close to words formed on her lips.

SEBASTIAN cried out, but was held back not only by BEATRICE and RICHARD III this time. The Montagues had banded together, not wanting to lose him as well. His broken sobs filled the air as Cosimo retrieved the blade from OBERON’s grasp, turning and extending it again to his daughter. JULIET took the handle, though it was soaked with blood already, and stepped forward toward VIOLA. It was impossible to see her face, not even for her father, but he was too busy looking out into the crowd to wonder what was going through her mind. “The legacy of the Capulets will be cemented tonight. There are those who have said my daughter is too gentle of spirit to lead this family, that her heart aches for even those who would betray us. To those who spread those lies, I say you must stand corrected: my daughter is the future of the Capulets, and she will rule as well as I.”

Back turned to the crowd, JULIET stepped toward VIOLA, whose chest was heaving -- she surely could not outlive the next minute. If anyone was paying attention, they might have seen VOLUMNIA turn her head toward the crowd, brows furrowed. Her gaze met LAMPRIUS’, and then she watched as he slipped from the hall and out from the cathedral. Cosimo turned to watch his daughter. “To the Capulets!” he called, drinking heartily from his wine as JULIET dragged the dagger across VIOLA’s throat.

The knife slid from JULIET’s bloody fingers to the floor, but before she could turn and recite her victory speech, a resounding BOOM! sounded from behind them. The explosion rocked the foundations of the cathedral. Chaos erupted around the room, people rushing toward the exits in fear of the cathedral collapsing down on their heads. VOLUMNIA was quick to leap into action; she immediately pulled Cosimo and JULIET toward the exit, while the remaining Capulets watched their backs and filed out after. Only MIRANDA was reluctant to leave, struggling to catch SEBASTIAN’s eye, though she knew there was nothing she could’ve done.

Perhaps the Montagues should’ve taken the opportunity to escape as well, but SEBASTIAN ran immediately to VIOLA, ignoring those who tried to stop him and barrelling through to hop up onto the stage before her. He cut her down and cradled his sister in his arms as his fellow Montagues attempted to drag him from the building, still shaking rather ominously. Eventually, they were able to convince him they had to take her with them, and SEBASTIAN gathered VIOLA’s body in his arms, allowing the other Montagues to lead the way outside.

As people ran from the cathedral, HELENUS stared in horror as his place of work and worship rocked unsteadily before him. He’d stayed outside for the celebration, in protest of what Cosimo had implied the event would become, but he’d listened at the door long enough to hear of the carnage. Disgusted, he had planned to make an entrance and make his feelings heard, but the explosion from within had derailed all previous plans. Without a second thought, he rushed inside the building, not to air his grievances but to ensure anyone within got out safely.

Waiting in two unmarked vans were FORTINBRAS and HORATIO, the Montagues’ newest initiates, who had realized earlier in the evening that something was going on and confronted ANTONY as he was leaving Damiano’s office. He tasked them with assisting in the safe return of the rest of their new familia, as a way of proving their worth, both to himself and to Damiano. The two men raced to the library’s parking structure and drove to the cathedral, where they began a waiting game that was rocked (quite literally) by the sound of a bomb. People began pouring into the street, but it was only the Montagues who recognized these vans as safety. They collected their injured from where TROILUS and CRESSIDA were keeping them safe, and they sped away, with VIOLA laid out across the back seat, her lifeless head in SEBASTIAN’s lap.

As the Montagues made their escape, the Capulets scrambled to keep their beloved cathedral upright. While the structure remained standing, it was clearly damaged, and the blare of sirens was closing in. Those with a desire to avoid the police left the others behind to deal with the fallout, as was customary when it came to handling them. None of them noticed the man slipping from a sleek black car and out onto the street, watching flames pour from the upper levels. Another officer soon stepped out to stand alongside him, anxious energy pouring off of them. This was the new Brigadiere Capo’s first official introduction to the Montagues and Capulets, after all. They waited, expecting to hear something. An order, an exclamation, a resignation.

But PRINCE ESCALUS remained silent. He only sighed and strode towards the cathedral, wading knee-deep into the chaos.

OVERVIEW: And that officially rounds out our Scene V event! VIOLA has joined the list of the fallen, but the Capulets have taken a loss of a different kind, leaving both mafias more level than they’d anticipated. You may now place your threads anywhere within the timeline, up until April 26th. We look forward to seeing how each of you deals with the fallout!

The Montagues have been rocked by the tragedy of their loss, but it’s also brought them closer together — if you don’t count the rift growing exponentially between ROMEO and his father, or ANTONY lurking in the dark, flitting from one side to the other, with both assured of his loyalties.

As for our new faces — we know, and we’re excited as you are! Our new initiates are OBERON on the Capulet side, with FORTINBRAS and HORATIO for the Montagues. In addition, PRINCE ESCALUS appears on the scene, though importantly, none of your characters are paying enough attention to catch a glimpse. We would prefer to keep mentions of Fortinbras and Horatio to a minimum as well, though you are welcome to comment in passing that they are driving you, if you are a Montague making your escape.

There will be a mini-drop for VIOLA’s funeral on April 10th in game.

#diveronaevent #injury tw #death tw #torture tw #gore tw #fire tw

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imaginesmai · 5 years

Text

Ubbe-25th of December (2)

Plot: while you wait for him, Ubbe is having troubles to fulfill his promise

First part can be found here

Thanks again to @worldisadirtyplace for the moodboard!

The wall behind Ubbe’s back trembled again, and he was nearly pushed forwards. He had to stop the fall with the hand that wasn’t holding the gun, his head throbbing again from the impact. It had been the third grenade that the rebels, or whoever was trying to kill them from the other side of the city, threw their way. From the ceiling, small pieces of stone and dust fell and covered the people who was hiding in that place.

A small cry sounded somewhere near him, the little girl who had been playing with a ball not so long ago then hidden between her mother’s arms. She had been holding her two parents arms in the beginning, but her father was lying in a pool of his blood a few meters away.

Ubbe felt a huge pang of guilt and pain on his chest, different from the one on his leg were he had been shot two days before. Those people were innocent, farmers and merchants who earned their money by the legal way, that had decided to help four helpless and hurt soldiers that had been wandering around their city.

“We’re fucked, man” Dave complained, almost on the verge of tears. “Fuck, Ubbe, there’s no way out.”

The young man was hiding under a desk. When the real danger appeared, he had been the first one to disappear; among the children and the elders, he had tried to leave the city. Sadly that plan hadn’t been successful and they were all trapped together.

“Do you smell that?” Heahmund, an older soldier, growled. “That’s fucking disgusting, boy. Did you piss on your pants already? That’s what you’re taught in the military nowadays?”

Ubbe didn’t like Heahmund, but he knew he was right. For a nearly forty-five years old man, he still worked like a bull; strong, aggressive and smart. His missing leg wasn’t an impediment, he showed it when Ubbe and Dave found him a weak ago in the middle of nowhere. He had a strong bond with his God, and killed everyone in his name. The woman who he had come with, a short brunette called Astrid, told them that he had seen what no one else had.

It wasn’t enough reason to scare or mock Dave.

“Leave him alone, H” Astrid beat Ubbe, rolling her blue eyes. She counted two seconds and peeked through the window, shooting three times. “Not everyone is as grumpy as you.”

“What have you seen?” Ubbe asked and stopped Heahmund complains. “They’re still there?”

“Will be for a while” she scoffed. “There are two armoured vans, and maybe ten shooters.”

No one said anything after that, not even Dave who probably had already peed all over himself. The villagers looked between the soldiers and tried to get a solution; it was hard to do so, because from the moment those trucks appeared breaking the dawn their destiny was already decided.

“We could try to run” Dave talked again. “If we’re quiet enough-“

“If you say one more word, boy, you’re gonna suck my balls” Heahmund spoke through gritted teeth.

Another bullet hit the wall where Ubbe was hiding, making it more and more instable. It was a matter of time before one of them broke that thing, and if he didn’t find a solution soon, those bullets would be hitting his chest instead of the wall. Whether it was running away or facing them, he didn’t care. Ubbe just wanted to see your face again.

The small village where they were trapped gave him some ironic peace; an open field that had been at some point a cute small hamlet, but that because of the war had been neglected. It could had been the perfect getaway for a weekend, if it was not infested with guns and dead bodies. He tried to copy Astrid’s move and see what was the situation.

“There must be a way out” Ubbe mumbled, moving back to his original position in a second and avoiding a bullet penetrating his brain.

“What have you seen?” Heahmund asked that time, recharging his assault rifle.

“Ten men, or more, as she has said. Not sure” he explained as he put another cartridge in his rifle. “They’re hiding behind the armoured, and I don’t think they’re running low any time soon. Beside the thousands of caps on the floor, there are lots of them full of bullets.”

“It’s not an unplanned attack” Heahmund said. “Those fuckers knew where were we.”

Ubbe looked down to their bullet’s backup, which was only two more cartridge and a small hunting knife. He sighed and cracked his neck. There had to be a way to come out alive, he had been through worse. Your face and smile appeared in his eyes when he closed them, and he was almost tempted to give himself away to the dream. That way, he would feel again your arms, your warmth and your love. More than a year without it was driving him insane, a pain worse than any other wound.

“Maybe if we go out-“

“If they wanted to give us a chance, they would have done it at the beginning” Astrid stopped to fire again, only three shots before she had to take cover again. “They’re not going to stop until this shit comes down. And then, they’re going to shoot us until we’re nothing more than holes and blood.”

“Positive speech is not one of you qualities, right?” Dave scoffed.

She turned quickly and tried to shoot again; yet was received with a dry sound. Her rifle was out, just like the two guns that laid on the floor without any bullet.

There were a few seconds of relative silence. Relative because it was impossible to hear your own breathing between the guns, but for them the world stopped around the two left cartridges. Ubbe would never know what Dave thought in that moment, if Heahmund gave up or the rush of emotions in the villagers’ hearts. Because he was far away.

The green and black jacket that he had been wearing in the car felt then like the most uncomfortable thing in the world. Its shoulders were too tight, he couldn’t open his arms correctly and Ubbe felt as if his armpits were going to explode. Probably the fight he had had with his brothers in the car didn’t help his current situation, or the quick adventure he had decided to have with you in the bathroom exactly fifteen minutes ago.

Truth was the suit was making him claustrophobic, and that he couldn’t wait to get into the airplane and get the damned jacket out.

“I can’t believe we did that” Ubbe turned to look at you. “You’re such a bad influence, Lothbrok!”

If there was a reason why he was still in the boarding gate and not inside the comfy plane, it was you. You appeared behind him, trying to tame your wild hair into a ponytail while straightening your clothes. Not that anyone would have noticed, since it was an airport and Ubbe was sure worse thing had happened in that bathroom.

“Should have thought about it before, doll” he laughed loudly and helped you to finish your ponytail. “I don’t remember your doubts when I suggested it.”

“That’s your fault too” you smiled. “I can’t say no to you when you’re wearing that uniform. I mean, if I could I would tie you and keep you forever”

“I’m not against the tying part, just saying” Ubbe pecked your lips. “But I’m already running late, and I don’t want to hear the boys mocking me for the rest of the flight.”

“Oh, they wouldn’t dare” you teased. “Aren’t you the first sergeant?”

You could have sworn that, each time you said it, Ubbe’s chest puffed out and his eyes got brighter. The last time he came home to you he appeared with the new clothes and the biggest smile you had ever seen. Since that moment and for the following three months he had been with you, Ubbe hadn’t stopped telling you about his new position.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to boss them around” Ubbe smirked. “They-“

“You’re not going to be too hard on them, right? You can’t even tell Ivar’s cat to stay out of our sofa.”

“Puppies and kittens are on a different league. I can’t say no to anything he wants. If he wanted my bed, I would give it to him.”

“I might take that offer and marry him instead. I think the cat will be less hairy that you” you laughed, remembering the bathroom every time Ubbe had a shower. “And here I thought that the army didn’t allow long hair.”

“As a sergeant, I’m-“

“Flight 239, destiny Iran. Take-off in five minutes.”

The mechanic voice that you hated so much interrupted you. Some of the soldiers that were around you walked towards the gate; still, others hugged their loved ones and stayed a little longer.

Ubbe had joined the army in his 20th, and you had learned to enjoy every second life gave you with him. He could be gone for a month and stay home for two, or be gone for three and stay home one week. Beside all of that, you had built a strong relationship that not even the biggest distance could tear apart. It didn’t mean it was any easier to let him go.

You stepped closer and put your arms around his middle, fisting his jacket. The fabric felt weird and you were sticking every stupid pin and button on his front. As usual, the tears filled your eyes before he had even left.

He hugged you back and placed his head on your shoulder. Around you the world seemed to vanish, and you enjoyed the last seconds you would have together until only God knew when.

“I should get going” he whispered, yet he didn’t move. “And you too. Hvitserk is along with Ivar and Sigurd in the car, that’s dangerous.”

“Yeah” you mumbled. Looking up, you met his eyes and blinked to keep the tears away for a while. “Promise me you’ll be careful. You’re now a sergeant, you don’t need to be in the middle of every fight.”

“You know I can’t promise that” he sighed. “We’ve talked about this. If I want to be respected, I have to be there. I-“

“What you have to do is to come home safe, right?” you said. “You’ve never been in Iran, it’s a dangerous place.”

“I promise I’ll take care” he smiled softly. “And I’ll be back the 25th of December. As long as you promise to skip the vegetables in the come-back-home dinner.”

“I have to keep you healthy! One day you’re going to come home with a beer belly and a huge jowl. You all eat like pigs.”

“Thank god I have you then” Ubbe laughed.

He pressed his lips against yours one last time, moving them slowly and trying to print your kisses in the back of his mind. For those cold nights where the only hope he would have was the memory of you, and the promise of coming back.

The kiss lasted a few seconds more, and you were reluctant of tearing apart.

“Flight 239, destiny Iran. Last call to all the passengers. Take-off in two minutes.”

“I promise you will have the best dinner waiting for you” you smiled sadly. “And this time Hvitserk won’t eat it before you arrive.”

Ubbe laughed, remembering the time where Hvitserk ate all the food behind your back and you almost had a heart attack when you found out. You two ended up ordering pizza and watching a film, cuddling in the couch and enjoying each other company.

“Whatever it is, I only want to see you again” he said. “I already miss you.”

“Don’t say that” you voice shook, the sobs you were hiding fighting for going out. “I love you to the moon and back, Ubbe”

“And I love you to the stars and back, doll” he pecked your lips one last time and gave you a strong hug before tearing apart completely. He was the last soldier in the boarding gate, so he ran behind Alfred who had been with his grandfather. “Do not let my brother’s kill each other, Y/N! I’ll be back before you know it!”

Ubbe felt the tears pricking at his. It seemed that ages had passed since he saw you for the last time. And as always, you had been right.

Iran had been not only dangerous, but lethal. The rebels had almost all the county controlled, it was full of deadly traps where a lot of his mates had died. In the first four months, almost half of his troop was dead, and by the half of the year he had a feeling deep in his chest that things were not going any better.

He had lied in the letters, because worrying you with facts was pointless. When the people who were above him in range cut the communication and left them to die, he lied. When the food disappeared and the water was short, he just told you that he hated soup he was receiving. When his camp was destroyed and he was saved just because he was out looking for food, he lied. And when the opportunity of talking to you was almost invisible, he decided to let you know something.

That things were hard, that he was coming back home and that he was looking for a way back. Because he didn’t bear the thought of giving you more pain than necessary. The only certain truth was that he was coming back home. He was sure of it when he had to travel two days without supplies through the dessert. He was sure of it when he was shot in the leg and had to be dragged to the nearest village, which turned out to be a trap. And he was sure of it despite the pain of his wound, that was probably infected and oozing blood.

Ubbe was going to do it because he loved you, and because he made you a promise of coming back the 25th of December. Between the shouts of Dave, the constant shakes of Heahmund and the numbing pain, he blacked out.

Want to know more about me? Here is my Masterlist! Feedback is always appreciated!!

#ubbe #ubbe imagine #ubbe x reader #ubbe ragnarson #Ubbe Lothbrok #ubbe one shot #military!ubbe #military au #imaginemai #vikings #vikings imagine #vikings x reader #vikings one shot #vikings au #25th of december

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whitehareknits · 5 years

Text

Missing Scenes from the Prologue of Episode 3:

Ancient Rome, 208AD:

*Crowley and Aziraphale getting oysters at Petronus'*

"Honestly, Crowley, I know you have your style preference, but you could try blending in a bit more. Do you see anyone else wearing black?"

"I'll have you know, Angel, that I had a rather fantastic drink up the other night with a Centurion about to ship out to England, and his entire uniform was black."

"Well, that hardly sounds like the proper attire for a Roman Soldier. I'm sure he'll get in some sort of trouble." Aziraphale's voice twinges with concern for the soldier and annoyance at Crowley as he slurps down the last oyster.

"Nahhhh wouldn't think so..." Crowley motions for the server to bring them another order. "His bosses sounded like idiots."

England, 1498:

*Crowley and Aziraphale meeting in a local to discuss the beginning the Arrangement*

"And... And you're certain neither of our head offices will find out?"

"I told you, Angel..." Crowley downs his drink and knocka on the bar for another, "as long as we're seen to be doing something no one cares. I give you my word of honor, as a demon. My black seal guarentee. No one will find out."

"Thhhattsss, gotta nice rING to it..." Chimes in the rather inhebreiated young man swaying on the stool next to Crowley.

Aziraphale gives Crowley a pointed look.

"Come off it, Angel, he won't remember."

To be on the safe side anyway, Crowley snaps his fingers and the drunk man staggers away.

They leave a soon anyway, due to the raucous of the other drunks gathering around the 'glamoured' drunk, now standing and shouting nonsense on a table.

"I don't know how they can handle sobering up the way she intended, it looks painful." Crowley grunts, as he and Aziraphale concentrate on refilling the bottles they've just downed.

"I think that's rather the point, dear boy." Aziraphale smacks the aftertaste out of his mouth as he holds the door open for Crowley.

The Globe, 1609:

*Crowley sits in on the now successful production of Hamlet*

"You bloody owe me, Angel..." Crowley mutters under his breath as he scribbles notes for the report Aziraphale will have to turn in to Head Office.

"Absolute crap, isn't it?"

Crowley looks up at a nearby nobleman who looks about as bored as he is. "Couldn't agree with you more. But it beats Edinburgh."

The two share a laugh even if the nobleman doesn't quite understand the similarly dressed man's joke.

London, 1793:

*Aziraphale and Crowley return from Paris*

"I'm terribly sorry about this, old boy, but I must nip in here real quick for a miracle. Oh I do hope I'm not too late." Crowley casually follows Aziraphale's quickened pace up the steps to the Embassy.

"What's the rush, angel?"

"Ohhh, something I should've done before I got peckish. A brief memo to the Ambassador about keeping a wary eye and all that. I would've done it before I left, but I didn't know I would get... Caught up." He smiles akwardly before ducking through the door.

Crowley rolls his eyes and waits outside, nodding to a darkly dressed gentleman and his servant who shuffle quickly out of the building. They are shortly followed by an exasperated Aziraphale.

"Something wrong, Angel?"

"The... Ahh... The Ambassador's dead... Along with several others..."

"That didn't have anything to do with the little miracle you were supposed to do, now did it?" Crowley smirks, but thinks better of teasing the poor Angel when he sees how distraught Aziraphale is.

"I'll be damned if I ever eat a crepe again."

"Don't worry about it, Angel. I saw some chaps making an escape, so it's not a total loss. Com'on, I'll take the heat for this one and we'll have a nice English Breakfast."

London, 1999:

*Crowley drags Aziraphale to a Lord's Christmas Party*

"Have you finished whispering enough temptations into ears yet, my dear?" Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Crowley who winks at a passing party goer.

"We can head out soon, Angel. I just need a word with the host, it'd be rude not to thank him for inviting us."

"He doesn't know he invited us, Crowley"

"All the more reason to thank him for his hospitality. The temptations I scored tonight just bought me most of the next two years off."

Crowley hands Aziraphale a fresh glass of wine and disappears into the crowd looking for said host. He finds him in the front hall, having pointed words with a rather offensive member of his staff.

"My Lord, thank you so much for this marvelous party and I do hope to see you again next year...."

Crowley trails off as he admires the rather slick family crest on the Lord's smoking jacket, which causes him to take a second glance at the man himself. There's a flicker of something there. Something he can't quite put his finger on. But it's at this point Crowley realizes that he's just been staring at him for a full minute.

"My apologies. Next year then?"

"I look forward to it..." The Lord answers in a measured tone, cocking an eyebrow at the fashionable man in black before him.

Crowley shakes the nagging thought from his mind as he weaves back into the main hall, looking for Aziraphale. "Nahhh, it can't be..."

Back in the foyer, Edmond releases a quizzical hum. "Balders... Have we met that man before?"

"I don't quite recall, Lord Blackadder. You must have though, seein' as how you've invited him to your party an' all."

"Worked that out all by yourself didn't you, Baldrick? Now what did I say about you being in the house when people are around? You'll put off my guests. Get back down in the basement and finish that damn machine!"

*NOTE* This started off as a sort of drabble and took on a life of it's own. I'm not usually one for crossovers BUT.... Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that these two surley, snake-obsessed, black-clad, time-defying, mother f*ckers didn't meet up at least once?

#good omens #missing scenes #crowley #this got out of hand #no regerts #neil gaiman #aziraphle #go episode 3 #what a twist #blackadder

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bellygunnr · 5 years

Text

No Drinks for Me

The Hamlet had become harrowed under the assault of abused soldiers and wearied doctors. The lights from the Sanitarium and the Abbey were dim and flickering, obscured by heavy curtains drawn for the protection of their patients. Shadows clung to the worn cobbled paths, making the houses dribble and ooze in their blackness as Dismas meandered slowly toward the tavern. The hard leather edge of his dagger’s sheathe dug into his stomach as he walked, boots striking a steady beat. There was little to see around him. There was little to see anywhere.

The tavern was nigh empty, save for the barkeep and the heavy-cloaked figures of self-proclaimed plague doctors and otherworldly scholars. Dismas pulled at the stubble growing along his chin with some discomfort, though he swallowed his grimace lest they noticed. But of course they would gather here when the rest of the Hamlet was driven back by plague-- no one had been able to grant them permission into more respectable labs.

“Good evening,” Dismas said slowly. He dragged a chair up to the bar, slumping over the wooden board. “Any progress?”

“Oh, Dismas,” said one doctor-- their beak-like mask nearly stabbed the Highwayman in the eye. “I’m afraid we will not be able to sustain any trips into the estate wilderness for quite a while. The sickness, you see, has taken our strongest fighters.”

He sighed. The barkeep cut a look at him with her heavy, bagged eyes and scarred shoulders. The offer was silent. Dismas shook his head.

“Any deaths?” Dismas pushed reluctantly.

“No, none yet...” the doctor murmured. “May there not be any.”

“This plague does seem to have... originated from the Weald, Dismas,” another voice cut in. One of the scholarly types touched his shoulder to bring his head around. “Fungal spores have infiltrated their rooms, and crawl across their skin. You have not permitted me to venture there but that is where those beasts reside, is it not?”

His stomach cramped at the mere mention of the Weald. He remembered vividly the piercing thorns and mushroom-flesh daggers, the choking plumes of spores that made his mouth feel like cotton. Dismas growled low in his throat.

“Yes, that’s them. Who were the first infected again...?”

“Brinon, ah... one of those abomination fellows, this one had the padlocks on his neck--”

“Garett,” Dismas cut in gravely. “They’re not abominations.”

“Right, Garett, yes... Brinon, Garrett, and that woman, Marion. They’ve been locked up tightly for many days now. The sanitarium will not permit us passage,” the scholar finished.

“I’m working on it,” he sighed. “Marion was the last to go in, but she led the last expedition into that horrible place.”

A heavy blanket of silence fell over the group, and Dismas lay his head down. Some part of him yearned for a shot of whiskey to dull the edge- but he didn't have the time. He had a town to run, an estate to fix, and all its inhabitants were on the verge of being wiped out. For their sake, if not for his, he would have to remain sober.

"I trust in you all to find a solution," Dismas said suddenly. He pushed himself up and away from the bar. "I'm going to go find Reynauld. Or that thrice-damned heir."

Reynauld was not in the square, nor the barracks, nor the graveyard. He found him in the church among the pews and stained glass windows, casting warm light in broken shafts across the sanctuary. The holy man's formidable frame seemed to sparkle under the moonlight's silver caress, as if he were indeed an angel, or some other higher being. Dismas shook his head and hovered in front of the doors. The man did not seem to be praying but even he knew better than to disturb someone in their place of worship.

Only when Dismas was growing impatient with the silent breathing and the silent waiting did Reynauld turn around, his face for once uncovered by armor or cloth, revealing a face branded with scars against pale skin. Bright, focused eyes glinted expressionlessly at Dismas, becoming as cold as flint as his lips tightened, then softened.

"This is not the first place you looked," Reynauld called with amusement.

"No," Dismas agreed.

"What are we going to do without a priest, Dismas?" the holy man pressed.

"Let the women deal with it. Or the Heir's caretaker," he said huffily. "That isn't my business, you know that."

Reynauld shook his head. He began to walk slowly down the church's center lane, steps silent-- he was walking barefoot. Dismas frowned with disapproval.

"Where are your boots, knight-man? Don't tell me you lost them," he growled.

"Not at all," Reynauld said without a degree of offense. "Can I not forego certain material matters to speak more closely with the Lord?"

A distinct sense of unease settled within the pit of Dismas' stomach. There was something off about the man's speech, the tilt of his walk, and even the scars patterning his face. Maybe it was just that the holy man was unarmoured and completely devoid of tapestries. Maybe it was that he was inside the church and his holy book was decidedly not anywhere nearby. Or maybe Dismas had never talked to him while sober...

Too many variables, Dismas thought.

"You look troubled," he said gently. Reynauld had stepped in much closer, out of the moon's silver fingers and into the shadows. Concern deepened the wrinkles on his forehead but the effect was overall relieving-- here, the thief could get a bead on his old comrade.

"I want a drink," Dismas admitted. "Come on. Let's go for a walk, man."

Their walk led them back to the barracks. Dismas stopped short of the door, staring at the austere structure with some distaste in his tired eyes. Clouds had covered the moon completely and cast everything back into horrid shadow, so his hostility went largely unnoticed by Reynauld.

"Why do you still sleep here...?" Dismas asked of him.

"It is comfortable. It is also close to our brothers and sisters in arms," Reynauld answered mildly.

"You mean close to those that see the grave faster."

"Not a bit, dear Dismas. At least Barristan is still around from those cursed days, so we are not entirely alone."

Dismas shook his head as finally, Reynauld turned away and disappeared into the barracks, leaving him alone. Of the two, Dismas had been the first to find his own personal residence-- much to the citizens and the Heir's dismay. Not that he cared. He had the coin and the know-how, and at this point, it would be awkward not to have his own space. It just irked him that no one else had done the same.

He passed the tavern, now dark and silent, and caught a glimpse of the horizon. Crimson flared and bobbed along its distant line-- the night moved fast, it seemed, as dawn was fast approaching. He scratched at his stubble with dismay.

Despite his long, long day, exhaustion still did not pull at his muscles or brain.

Sleep would be scarce. This month would be hard.

#darkest dungeon #dismas #reynauld #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #this is just a pilot tbh #ill probably rewrite it or smthn

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auron570 · 5 years

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2018 Readlist

FAQ

Why do you read so many old books?

Because most of them belong to the public domain, and are thus freely available online. Also it is fun to see how much the past influences and creates the foundation for the present. And how much or how little has changed, and what this says about humanity.

Orwell - Animal Farm (1945)

A satire on the Russian Revolution and the failure of communism. Among other things, Animal Farm underlines the importance of learning to read properly and think for oneself, in a way that tickles with dark humor.

Orwell - 1984 (1949)

Similar to Animal Farm, 1984 is an even more systematic and total examination of a society where all history and information is tightly controlled and constantly being rewritten. Being published after WW2, 1984 trades some of Animal Farm’s humor for more serious and tragic imagery of concentration camps. In a sense, 1984 is an exploration of the possibility of mind control or brainwashing through societal-level propaganda.

Huxley - Brave New World (1932)

Absolutely fantastic. If 1984 was about what would happen if everything we read was false, then Brave New World is what would happen if no one had the desire to read at all. Brave New World shows a futuristic society that runs like clockwork with the help of genetic engineering and a miracle drug called Soma. COMMUNITY, IDENTITY, STABILITY. BNW examines the costs of a society that is mass-produced off assembly lines.

Fitzgerald - Great Gatsby (1925)

A criticism of conspicuous consumption and the Roaring 20s. You can’t bring your mansion with you when you die. Mortality sucks that way. Throughout the novel we are invited to ask ‘what makes Gatsby (the character) so great?’ From rags to riches to death, Gatsby’s lonely existence is pitiable, tragic and relatable as ever.

Steinbeck - Grapes of Wrath (1939)

Steinbeck’s illustration of the 1930s Dust Bowl and the resulting migration of impoverished families west across the United States, is a poetic masterpiece. ‘You want to work for 15cents an hour?! Well I got a thousan’ fellas willing to work 10cents an hour.’ Also featuring two of the strongest female characters in modern literature, Grapes of Wrath is a powerful lesson on human dignity.

Shakespeare - Hamlet (1599)

The more I read Hamlet, the more I come to the conclusion that Hamlet is about delay of action. In a way, Hamlet forces himself to be penitent for something he doesn’t do. The more time he spends contemplating whether or not to kill Claudius, the more time he has to beat himself up and call himself a coward, and for accidents to pile up. ‘But put your courage to the sticking place!’ Hamlet is what happens when you ask a philosopher to commit murder.

Shakespeare - King Lear (1605)

A lesson in parenting. If you want people (especially your children) to respect you, do not spoil them. Lear learns this lesson far too late, and gives up his inheritance far too early. Another possible lesson is to not trust liars, and instead divine a person’s character by their actions. The trouble is, with so much action going on behind the scenes, the opportunities for dramatic irony and treachery are twofold!

Wilde - Picture of Dorian Gray (1890)

An example of 19th century Gothic Romanticism. And also, similar to Great Gatsby, another cautionary tale against conspicuous consumption. Dorian Gray, forever beautiful, forever young, is by all appearances the outward ideal of a dandy. As the novel develops, his cruelty and vanity plunge to increasing depths.

Wilde - Importance of Being Earnest (1895)

The comedic side of being a dandy. If the suit makes the man, surely if I wear a different suit I become a different man? In a play of double-identities, love polygons and other trivialities, Earnest is a raucous upset of 19th century decorum.

Ibsen - Hedda Gabler (1891)

A complex and cruel character, Hedda’s penchant for destroying the lives of others, seems to stem from bitterness and boredom toward her own life.

Williams - Glass Menagerie (1944)

Theater is a box through which we view the lives of our fellow homo sapiens. Like passing by an exhibit at the museum, or peeking in on pandas at the zoo, Glass Menagerie presents a slice of life.

McCourt - Angela’s Ashes (1996)

A coming-of-age memoir about an Irish boy growing up in an impoverished family. From the day he’s born to the day he becomes a man, memorable moments include: father always coming home drunk, scavenging for coal to get the fire going, stealing loaves of bread, shoes made of tire rubber, having an affair with a terminally ill girl, having pig’s head for Christmas, and wearing Grandma’s old dress to stay warm at night.

Salinger - Catcher in the Rye (1951)

A tightly written story of teenage angst, about the few days after an unmotivated student drops out of a New York prep school. Unable to face his family, he wanders around the bustling city, growing increasingly depressed. Holden’s conversations with different characters throughout the novel, underline a simple moral that sometimes we just want someone to listen. (Preferably someone who isn’t a phony!)

Shakespeare - Macbeth (1606)

A bloody and ambitious soldier descends into madness after the murders the King! It can be difficult interpreting and staging the supernatural elements of the play (e.g. do you show the ghosts on stage? what about the Witches? When, why). But remember Shakespeare is writing in a time hundreds of years before modern psychology, where memory and cognition was still immaterial and mysterious. Similar to Dorian Gray (1890), Macbeth is a moral on how one’s actions affect one’s mind.

Albom - Tuesdays with Morrie (1997)

Succumbing to ALS near the end of his life, sociology professor Morrie Schwartz welcomes death with open arms. Hosting many visitors and having many conversations with family, friends, past students, the media, Morrie’s affable outlook on life and mortality shines.

Golding - Lord of the Flies (1954)

An allegory on the state of nature. One wonders if/how the story may have been different (and possibly more horrifying and prone to censorship debates) if female characters were involved. I suppose that would be a separate inquiry. Unable to see beyond the horizon, and unwilling to look at themselves, Jack and his follows almost doom them all.

Lowry - The Giver (1993)

Another science fiction dystopia in a similar vein as Brave New World or 1984, but less difficult and more relatable for teenagers. Those who enjoy The Giver, should check out the film Pleasantville (1998) featuring Tobey Macguire getting stuck in a black-and-white world. Naturally the lesson being that life is never so simple.

Naipaul - Miguel Street (1959)

A collection of short stories centered around unique characters in a slum in Port of Spain. Featuring arson, domestic violence and plenty of eccentric amateurs, Miguel Street illustrates a colorful community.

Thiong’O - Weep Not Child (1964)

Set during the Mau Mau Uprising against British colonial rule, Weep Not Child follows one boy’s goal of education. Meanwhile his family falls apart around him, and is cut off from his best friend.

Montgomery - Anne of Green Gables (1908)

Having recently been adapted by CBC/Netflix into a series (which is very good), the original novel is full of comedy, quaint coming-of-age lessons centered around school, tea parties, accidents and adventures. But despite this levity, Anne ends with a tragic turn which places it well within the realm of reality.

Shelley - Frankenstein (1818)

Another example of 19th century Gothic Romanticism (like Dorian Gray). Doctor Victor Frankenstein becomes obsessed with the idea of creating life from inanimate material, only to spurn his own creation just after giving life to it. The monster, filled with rage and envy, murders Frankenstein’s dearest friends. A sort of cautionary tale in the same vein as Doctor Faustus by Marlowe, Frankenstein is a counter-weight to the enthusiasm around science at the time. That science can not only produce miracles, but also horrors in its own way if one is not careful.

Anderson - Winesburg Ohio (1919)

A collection of short stories revolving around a small community (similar to Miguel Street). Themes of religion, old age, loneliness, love, feeling stuck in a small town, Winesburg is full of some of the most heart-rending stories in all literature. Also Winesburg manages to accomplish a unity of themes in very short space. The whole of Winesburg is much more than the sum of its parts, such that it can stand just as well against other great novels.

Bronte, Charlotte - Jane Eyre (1847)

One could argue that Jane Eyre is the predecessor to Anne of Green Gables. The latter frequently references the former, both are about orphan girls who grow up successfully in the face of many adverse challenges. While Anne ends with the protagonist becoming a young adult, Jane Eyre ends with a more traditional romantic happy ending, but like Anne is not without its tragedy.

Bronte, Emily - Wuthering Heights (1847)

Fun fact, Wuthering Heights was a novel I considered doing an independent study essay on, but didn’t since I didn’t know anything about literature back then. Although technically of the gothic genre, Bronte primarily uses cruelty and domestic violence to evoke scenes of horror, as opposed to ghosts and monsters, while at the same time using these as tools to explore very down-to-earth themes of social class and gender inequality.

Joyce - Dubliners (1914)

Very similar to Winesburg Ohio, but without the same unity. For example, one story is difficult to read without first reading about the history of Ireland. There are some tear-jerkers and lovely metaphors. For example the final metaphor of “snow falling faintly through the universe”, is a variation of the oft-used metaphor of flowers. How they bloom for a short period then die. What is new with this metaphor is that each snowflake is unique, thanks to the chaotic tumbling of water droplets through the atmosphere, just like how every live is unique. But all snowflakes much reach the ground some time and then melt away into nothingness.

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seasaltmemories · 5 years

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For Pretty Lies and Their Brutal Truths Chapter 8

It’s impressive that even after all of the crap she’s been put through, Celica hasn’t lost her will to live. The first thing she does when jolted awake by the water is to fight for her life.

Celica, understandably panicked, instinctually lashes out. All she can process at first is physical sensations, the feel of a hand, a shout, a burning scent. She’s unable to pin down what causes these impressions or how they fit in together.

As with any cornered animal, she’s indiscriminately dangerous to anyone who approaches.

It takes her a minute to calm down enough to realize she hasn’t been blinded and the water isn’t that deep.

The dread builds up inside Celica as her eyes adjust and she sees the injury she’s inflicted on that poor maid (an extensive and graphic injury). What must make it worse is this isn’t a battlefield, the girl wasn’t a soldier, but because of her lapse in control she hurt a civilian.

Celica’s mind is still sluggish.

Emotionally, Celica’s so numb (hollowed out after the all-encompassing terror of her awakening) that the horror of the situation doesn’t fully faze her (although from the way she fixates on that one servant’s glare seems to imply guilt or shame on her part). Which may be a blessing in this case.

Celica’s not even concerned about passing out and possibility drowning or being left vulnerable. She’s too exhausted from the spell.

Celica’s surprised they let her live, after what she unintentionally did.

What’s interesting is that she’s not nearly as freaked waking up restrained and blindfolded than she had been in the bath. It’s what she’s grown accustomed to, so its absence upset her.

Jedal continues to gaslight her. Claiming she chose to “repent” when she hadn’t said a word to that effect.

Judging from her wet hair Celica deduces that she hadn’t been unconscious long (unless, of course, they really wanted to be dicks and deliberately soaked her hair) and clings to that fact.

Jedah makes a transparent attempt to guilt-trip her, telling her the girl will be scarred for life.

I’m glad that Celica’s knee-jerk reaction is irritation at Jedah for lambasting her over one mistake when he’s done all he can to destroy her psychologically.

Jedah isn’t really angry on the girls’ behalf. If he was, he wouldn’t be using the girl’s disfigurement as a lesson to Celica to cooperate with them, claiming they only want to “help” her.

Looks as if Jedah switching tactics. No doubt thinking his brainwashing would be much more effective if he offered her a “reward” for “good” behavior.

Much to her disgust, Celica’s very tempted (who wouldn’t be?). She recognizes his trick but she’s been worn down too much to reject it (it feels like she’s making a deal with the devil).

Jedah makes Celica feel as if she’s already lost, by saying she’s already fulfilled her end of the bargain.

I got chills when I read, “Jedah’s tone had grown soft and low…” God, what a creep. A creep with a lot of unchecked power.

Celica has an uncontrollable fit of laughter. A bitter laughter that sounds it skirts the edge of a breakdown.

Celica was accepts Jedah’s “terms” because, as she points out, she has nothing to lose. I thoroughly hope Celica makes him regret giving her this opportunity.

Celica’s circumstances change so quickly it gives her mental whiplash.

She’s given the best of everything, from clothes to food to board but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s their prisoner. Everything she does is closely monitored, her access to the castle is severely restricted and the soldiers ostensibly there for her protection are prepared to strike her down at the slightest provocation (on the whole, it seems her position has mostly reverted back to what it was just before that fateful expedition to Milla’s temple).

The idea of giving in is enticing. To not have to concern herself with anything beyond her own comfort (as her father did) but it’s not in Celica’s nature to take the easy way out nor could she be content to live her whole life as a captive.

It’s sad to read Celica beat herself up for thinking she could save Zofia. It’s not her realizing she couldn’t do it on her own (no one could), it’s that she lost faith in her actions having any effect at all in the grand scheme of things.

Ah, I love how you sneak in a reference to the title!

She may no longer be physically in the dungeon but her time there definitely left its mark. Just listening to Jedah give his spiel about Duma and repentance reminds her body of the humiliation and pain she suffered at his hands.

I didn’t expect her current situation to be analogous to the previous one at Sage Hamlet, considering that this time she’s surrounded by her enemies rather than her allies. But the confusion the accompanies a transition from a hostile situation to a relatively more comfortable one remains the same.

Unable to settle on the “appropriate” emotional response, Celica elects to protect herself with numbness instead.

Celica withdraws into herself. She notices that something big is happening (it’s impossible not to) but she deliberately tunes it out. That is, until it becomes simply unavoidable.

General Ezekiel appears almost hilariously inept. What kind of military personnel launches into a debrief (no doubt revealing sensitive information) without first making sure where they are and who they’re talking to? Emperor Rudolf puts his trust in the strangest people.

Even if she has a good inkling of what’s going on now, it’s not like she can do anything about it. The forced helplessness must be grating.

The situation has gotten so dire that they want Celica’s assistance in dealing with it.

I don’t think a reunion with her tumultuous husband and his family (consisting of a father-in-law who greenlit the invasion and sanctioned her interrogation and a sadistic cousin-in-law who gleefully stabbed her) is gonna work as an incentive, Jedah.

Saying her cooperation would bring “peace” to Valentia isn’t going to cut it either since she knows everything that comes out of his mouth is just manipulative bullshit.

Celica gives him no response so Jedah continues talking (he just loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?).

Jedah doesn’t want to let Celica out from under his thumb. In her own mind, Celica retorts that he would so hate having to do the dirty work of “reeducating” her all over again. (Celica tends to hold her tongue in front of Jedah and I wonder if it’s a conscious defense mechanism or if it’s something ingrained in her, like her body’s trembling during his lectures).

Celica agrees to cooperate, hyper-conscious of Jedah’s mood and just hoping to avoid another screaming fit (god their dynamic gives me the creeps).

Celica thinks the rebels made her wellbeing a stipulation for the negotiation because of her position as Zofia’s princess, not out of any personal fondness or loyalty to her (perhaps that’s true but maybe it’s not).

The task is far more involved and treacherous than she initially assumed. They’re essentially asking her to put her enemy’s needs over her homeland’s.

Celica doesn’t put up any objections (planning to take advantage of the opportunity to collude with the rebels).

Rigel authorities do seem to be putting an inordinate amount of trust in Celica. It’s suspicious.

Celica briefly entertains the hope that this will lead to greater freedom in future but she quickly quashes the thought. Things will continue as they are after they get what they need out of her.

Jedah isn’t worried for Celica’s safety as he’s concerned with keeping her isolated and malleable.

Celica accepts the assignment. It tears her up inside, even if it’s in service of striking a blow against Rigel, but she’s resolute.

Jedah smiles at Celica, probably congratulating himself for a job well done in breaking the strong-willed Zofia princess.

Preparations for the negotiations means there’s less time and attention devoted to monitoring Celica, which is fine with her. It gives her more time to mull over what her “last words” to Zofia should be (which signifies she either expects to be killed afterwards or forbidden to see Zofia and interact with her kingsmen or both).

Rigel seems to be sending a not-so-subtle message about where Celica’s allegiance (supposedly) lie by dressing her up in the Rigelian fashion.

I’m surprised there are maids willing to get close enough to do her hair, clothes and make-up.

This aspect of her new life, to play the role expected of her by the powers-that-be and used for her value as a tool or an ornament, is not so different from her old life as a princess of Zofia (admittedly, getting caught not toeing the line has far steeper consequences). It’s stifling but it’s an useful survival mechanism (or so she constantly reminds herself in order to get through it).

She’s shaken when she realizes who her so-called bodyguard is. It’s the same man who brutalized and stabbed her. Whose bright idea was this?

Celica freezes up with fear. She notes derisively that she’s been doing that a lot lately (not that she doesn’t have good reason to be frightened, when she’s frequently put in the custody of the men who hurt her the most).

Berkut’s attitude pisses me off (which is the point, so kudos). It doesn’t even occur to him that, after their last encounter, Celica would (rightly) be terrified to see him and worst, he has zero sympathy or patience with her.

Celica seems to be on the verge of a panic attack. Her mind cycles rapidly between flight or fight (which I think is the reason why all the associations she has with fire (both as a wielder and nearly one of its victims) rush through her head).

Berkut invades her personal space as an intimidation tactic and it activates Celica’s “fight” response. As with her attack on the maid, she blackouts from fear and doesn’t even realize what she’s done at first (only this time she just pushed back instead of casting a spell).

I was so scared for Celica then, of what Berkut would do to her in retaliation.

Berkut wastes no time in physically and metaphorically “putting Celica in her place.” Telling her she will always be beneath them (I hate him. So much).

Berkut’s words ignite Celica’s rage. Despite everything that’s happened, she recognizes she deserves better than this. She deserves respect.

Although it’s not as surprising in retrospect, Celica doesn’t think her father’s “whores” have the same inherent worth as her. So it’s alright for them to get smacked around the same way she’s being smacked around.

Celica bluffs and insinuates that she’s pregnant. She doesn’t have to worry about keeping up the lie for long since Berkut immediately sees through it.

Berkut is correct, but for the wrong reasons. In his mind, if they already had sex then Alm wouldn’t be so hung up on her (as if the only reason in be interested in someone is for their body).

Berkut somehow manages to slut-shame someone he believes to be a virgin (it’s almost impressive, in a horrid kind of way).

It’s gross how he pushes all of the blame for Alm’s sullen, obsessive behavior on Celica when it should be placed solely on Alm instead.

Celica’s anger at Berkut hasn’t abated one bit but all the same she’s struck by the way he hadn’t hesitated to ruin her hair or make-up. It either means her role in the negotiations isn’t vital enough to protect her or he hates her so much he’d think nothing of jeopardizing them. It signals that she shouldn’t push her luck. So she bottles up her rage, something she’s gotten far too used to doing by now, and she busies herself with tidying up her appearance (just enough so it’s not quite so obvious she was just whaled on).

With no introductions or announcements, the Zofia faction arrive. To Celica’s total surprise, Mathilda is the one representing the Deliverance.

Mathilda is excited and relieved to see Celica alive and relatively unharmed (I guess she didn’t put much stock in Rigel’s word). Contrary to Celica’s belief, perhaps there was some genuine friendship between them.

Celica’s too numb from the shock to properly respond. It’s plain to see she’d prefer it if someone else had come in Mathilda’s place.

It turns out that Mathilda blames herself for them getting separated (which she apologizes profusely for, despite it not being her fault) and has been worried sick about Celica ever since.

Celica is taken aback by this uncharacteristic display of affection (I can almost hear her brain going, “does not compute, does not compute”). She doesn’t feel that their relationship is deep enough to justify it. She convinces herself that it isn’t her, the “real” Celica (who she thinks is weak and pathetic), that Mathilda or the Deliverance want but the strong, steadfast Zofia leader that she pretended to be. She admonishes herself for deceiving them.

Mathilda notices how disheveled Celica looks and is ready to make Rigel pay for their abuse.

Celica denies that she’s been mistreated, claiming she’s been treated like Rigel royalty and coming up with a lame excuse to explain away the bruise. Mathilda doesn’t buy it.

Celica bursts out that she’s staying (considering that she was looking straight at Berkut right before she said it, it was likely motivated out of concern for Mathilda’s safety since he probably has very specific instructions about preventing her from leaving).

Doing it feels like a betrayal but she lies and says her allegiances is with Rigel now, that she belongs here.

This is so sad and so frustrating to read because this might have been her only chance to escape but she couldn’t let herself take it.

Mathilda objects since, through her, Rigel would “legitimately” control Zofia’s throne.

Celica seamlessly integrates the coded message into the conversation (seriously, it sounds so natural). It’s really fortuitous that Mathilda, one of the few people fluent in this code, came to this meeting.

Celica is able to covertly pass the information on and it will hopefully lead to Halcyon, Sage’s Hamlet and the Deliverance teaming up.

She’s afraid her brother didn’t make it out of the ambush. But she won’t let herself dwell too long on the possibility. Once again, she shoves her feeling aside for her mission, for survival.

Celica has completely given up on herself. The best she can hope for is her efforts to contribute in some way to Milla and Zofia’s liberation (;-;).

My heart breaks for Celica all over again. She had to keep close to Berkut’s side and watch as he fought the Deliverance representatives (holding nothing back) which triggered the traumatic memories of their own battle.

Just when she’s gotten away from Berkut, she has to deal with Alm and all of the unpleasant and confusing feelings he stirs up.

Alm warns her not to scream, or else the guards will take him away, not realizing that that might give her more reason to shout.

The same impulse to drown in Mathilda’s affection, that which made her resolution waver earlier, returns full force and prevents her from turning Alm away, much to her frustration (after all, she knows firsthand how dangerous he can be).

Celica’s wrung out. Alm’s presence is a (sometimes explicit) threat but she doesn’t have it in her to sustain that level of heightened fear forever. Eventually, it becomes the new norm.

Celica sets up a test for Alm. It’s risky because if Alm’s as horny as Berkut alleges, then it’s very likely he’d go further than ogling her as she undresses. Thankfully, nothing untoward happens. Much to Celica’s surprise, Alm seemed to have had his eyes averted the whole time (as entitled and oblivious as he can be, at least Alm can refrain from acting like a pig).

Celica believes this just proves he’s good at concealing his intentions.

Celica sits with her back to him, facing the mirror, so she can discreetly study his body language without his knowing while hiding her own reactions from him.

Alm tries to apologize for what Jedah’s done, saying it shouldn’t have been allowed. But Celica’s not letting him off the hook. If anything, his apology makes him look worst because he admits it was wrong yet he still let it happen.

Alm’s response is to deflect responsibility, saying he had no say in the matter which, while true, steers the conversation towards his frustrations and away from Celica’s feelings (the one whose feelings should be given priority).

Celica asks him point-blank what he means by “take care of.” Alm doesn’t answer, just acts all confused that she’d even need clarification. This frustrates Celica to no end (I’m with her), especially when it feels like he isn’t even trying to understand her point-of-view and her well-founded misgivings about him.

Once again, Celica has to suppress her anger and hold her tongue since it could lead to her spilling secrets that the Rigelians rather her not know at all.

Celica offers herself up to Alm (in a thoroughly mocking way). It feels like another test but one she’s certain Alm won’t pass.

Celica expects Alm to take advantage of her. The prospect is repulsive but at least then it would happen on her own terms and she won’t have to live in dread of the possibility any longer.

She’s astonished when Alm chooses instead to gently stroke her cheek, specifically over the bruise from Berkut’s punch (does he know his cousin did that?).

Alm gives Celica a sorrowful look. Alm repeats his sentiment earlier that none of this should ever have happened to her and expresses horror over the fact his own countrymen condone this barbaric treatment of “their own woman” (I guess he must consider Celica at least partly Rigelian).

Celica almost retorts that Berkut had so such reservations. Obliterate his naive beliefs. But she can’t. She’s too starved for affection to turn away from it now.

If her mind couldn’t accept that a long-time ally of her’s would be worried sick about her, it must be inconceivable that Alm, enemy of all she holds dear, would shed tears over her treatment.

Okay, I believe Alm’s sorry but the big question is, what’s he gonna do to improve Celica’s situation? Apologies don’t mean much if not followed up by action.

Alm asks Celica to show him the rest of her bruises and Celica acquiesces. She’s self-aware enough to realize her thirst for affection is impairing her judgement but she can’t stop herself either.

It’s so heartbreaking that she would prefer to be exploited and abused than to have her guard pulled down like this and be left so achingly vulnerable.

Alm’s touches remain sweet and gentle. He doesn’t escalate things but it feels like the most intimate night the two of them had shared thus far. And probably something Celica will come to deeply regret in the morning.

Everything about the chapter was spectacular but I was especially blown away by the characterizations! Even Berkut’s vileness feels frighteningly realistic. And throughout it all, I just wanted to reach in, wrap Celica up in a warm blanket and tell her that there are people who care about her beyond her role as a princess or political tool or shadow of her former self. Not to mention, the chemistry between Alm and Celica is so well-done that even though Alm still hasn’t taken many steps towards reevaluating his worldview and being more conscious and considerate of Celica’s precarious position, a part of me still roots for them as a couple. Great work!!!

I’ve said this before, but this was honestly my first time really slowing down so I wanted to make sure to kinda tackle the roller coaster of events everyone has gone through and dig deep, so I’m glad it worked!

A big idea of this chapter was Celica’s growing apathy, which is something very foreign to her that is starting to become familiar, she is a pro at imagining conflicts on a conceptual level (it’s something she did at the start with how she viewed her marriage to Alm) and so when viewing it from there it is very easy to write herself out of the picture, so she can care about wanting Zofia free without even dreaming she could be a part of that

Berkut in general is tricky thing to write bc tbh this is his chilled out version, he was really unstable in-canon, but while I wanted to show the difference with him not having a superiority-inferiority complex, I still wanted to keep the position he occupies in game of representing a lot of Rigel’s worst flaws, so I went with this sort of irreverence. He snarks a lot more, treats everything like game, bc he’s had little skin in most situations, with Celica he doesn’t mistreat her because he hates her, but because he doesn’t care about her, to him she is this little mouthy honeytrap that ensnared Alm, so someone at least needs to keep her in check

As with Mathilda, most of her shock came from the idea that “holy shit someone cares about me” in-game the Deliverance was formed from the royal knights so while she wasn’t sure who would come, she thought her code might work with others

Alm and Celica’s talk also ended on a more positive feeling than I thought it would, while their relationship is far from repaired for the reasons you listed, to a certain degree Alm offers her more power than anyone else, specially through sex, but at the same time that power can be taken away from her so easily so it is just as confusing as everything else, like the last line of her trembling for two different reasons is because that fear and arousal exist in tandem, and on one hand he could do whatever he wants with her, but on the other hand it feels like almost a slight to not be ogled if that is all she is worth, and on the third there is this idea of trying to take control by allowing herself to be treated like a sex toy, but then affection and feelings is a whole ‘nother game, one she knows she is much weaker to, but oh how nice is it

With Alm, he’s kinda in the process of deciding what person he is, part of the reason for treating her like glass is not just because this isn’t the time to fuck, but because he is still not sure he can trust himself to be the person he wants to be after scaring her so, something that will become bigger in the next chapter but Rigel has a very in-group, out-group line of thinking, everyone views Celica differently, but Alm has seen her in-group since their engagement, so Celica’s treatment feels like one of the worst failings he could make, of course as you pointed out, he comes to this conclusion in the most self-centered way, Celica’s own feelings being a footnote, the next step for him is to decide what to do now that he is starting to question things, while certainly sensual, the bruise scene was driven out of a need to apologize rather than desire, but can kisses really heal injuries, just as our parents used to pretend?

but yeah this is a really precarious situation for a relationship to be, so I’m surprised that any chemistry has managed to stick through, I guess it helps that among all the major toxic relationships, they don’t actively want to hurt each other and still care to a certain extent, and softness is so fragile in both their worlds

there are big choices up ahead for both our protagonists, big choice that will challenge that softness they share

#cute things #arranged marriage au #submission

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belphegor1982 · 6 years

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Way back in December 2015 I made a post that started with (tldr) “I’m writing the sad and I’m afraid I’ll fuck up”. Well, I finally finished the chapter, so I’ll leave you to judge whether I fucked up or not.

BETWEEN THE MOUNTAINS AND THE PLAINS

Chapter One: September Chapter Two: The Clandestine Chaplain Chapter Three: Tidings of Comfort and Joy Chapter Four: Giosuè

Chapter Five: Vigil

Quand la vie ne tient qu’à un fil, c’est fou le prix du fil ! (When life hangs by a thread, you won’t believe the price of the thread.)

Daniel Pennac, La Petite Marchande de prose (Write to Kill)

August 1944

In the heart of summer, heat is no laughing matter in the Lowlands. Whoever decides to go out on the roads in the dead hour, between one and three in the afternoon, when the air trembles above the ground and you can burn your fingers just picking up a pebble, needs at the very least the protection of a hat if they don’t want to keel over from sunstroke. Going from the cooler houses out into the sun too quickly feels like being on the receiving end of the hottest, most powerful slap in the face you can imagine.

When the sun is at its zenith, everything is painted white: the sky, the roads, and even the grass on the dykes. Thin shiny threads of stagnant water stretch in the bottom of canals whose proportions then look completely excessive to an outsider. Lizards and grass snakes loll on hot stones, birds hide in trees or in the cool of hedges. Everything slows down, everybody waits for the worst to pass. The searing heat makes it hard for anyone to believe that the world hasn’t just stopped and that things, presumably, are still happening somewhere.

And yet.

* * *

It was an hour after lunch on one of the hottest Thursdays of August. Don Camillo was slumped in his armchair with his eyes closed and his collar undone. It was too hot to light a half-cigar or even read; a nap in the relative cool of the rectory seemed the best way to pass the time until the heat abated. Besides, it would be a welcome distraction from his thoughts.

The procession of the Assumption had been two days ago. Windows and doors all around town had been decked with the traditional flowers and garlands to celebrate the Madonna as her statue was carried along the streets, but only half the usual people turned up; most of the ones who did looked nervous from start to finish, glancing around anxiously and jumping at sudden noises. In the end, instead of Nazi or Fascist tanks, only Guglielmo Fantoni, the head of the local Blackshirt section – which consisted of half a dozen men and a dog – showed up on a bicycle to watch the proceedings.

Toward the end of the procession, however, as the cortège crossed the main square back to the church and people started to relax, they became aware of a low humming sound that quickly turned into the roaring whine of plane engines. It grew closer, so much that the terrified people picked up their children and their old folks and scattered; in the blink of an eye Don Camillo was alone in the middle of the deserted square with the statue of the Madonna. He ran to the terracotta statue, gritted his teeth, and lifted it with a huge effort. A few minutes and a lot of sweat later, he had carried it to the parvis, under the porch of the church, just in time to look up and see the planes fly over the square, so low you could make out their markings, and continue north-west to the river and the Canalaccio.

Two or three seconds later, the earth shook. The Germans had just lost three trucks, a tank, and half a dozen men; on the other hand, fifteen villagers of a nearby hamlet had lost their homes, and two families had lost their lives down to the last child.

The funerals had taken place this morning. The carpenter had to borrow wood from Boretto to finish the nine coffins, even though two of them were no more than a hundred, a hundred and ten centimetres long.

It was not uncommon for Carlino, the current altar boy, to fall asleep in the middle of Mass and forget to ring the bell at the moment of the Elevation1; Don Camillo usually muttered “Carlino, the bell!” between his teeth and, if it didn’t work, woke him up with a smack to the top of his head. Although he never let his hand do more than brush past the boy’s hair – otherwise he would probably knock out Carlino altogether – it was always more than enough for Carlino to yelp awake. This time, though, the reason the boy missed his cue for the bell was because he was sobbing too hard to pay attention; one of the dead children had sat next to him in class for the past two years and they were good friends. Don Camillo sighed, and ended up gently taking the bell from the boy’s hands and ringing it himself. Nobody blinked at the anomaly.

Grief won over fear. The entire town accompanied the bodies to the cemetery.

After the funeral, Don Camillo stayed in the church for a long time to talk to the crucified Christ on the main altar, as usual when the coffins lowered into the ground that day were a little too many, or a little too small. As lunchtime drew near, though, heat and hunger overcame sorrow, and he retreated to the rectory for a bite to eat and a nap. Or at least some shut-eye.

Don Camillo was just starting to doze off when someone knocked at his window so frantically he almost fell off his armchair. Once he was the right way up he ran to the window, where he saw the upturned nose and freckled face of thirteen year old Angelina Mozzini from the Boschetto. She was in such a hurry that her bicycle lay discarded on the ground.

“What happened?” Don Camillo asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Angelina, panting after a ten-minute bicycle ride at full speed under the sun, inhaled deeply and said in one breath, “My dad told me to tell you my grandpa is very sick and he wants to see you right now and there’s no time to lose.”

Don Camillo hastily put his collar back on and fastened up the couple of buttons he had undone as a concession to the heat. Then he rushed out of the rectory and into the church, followed by Angelina.

“Did he have an accident?” he asked loudly as he rummaged in the sacristy then under the altar for the holy oil, the vestments and the usual things needed for the last rites. “Or was it the heat? He was fine this morning!”

Angelina had stayed in the aisle; she twisted her index finger in her right hand and said nothing, looking red in the face and rather distressed, so Don Camillo did not insist. He locked the door of the church and tied his bag to the pannier rack on his bicycle. After a second thought he ran back to the rectory to take his hat. When he got back to his bicycle, Angelina had picked up her own and was already halfway across the square, pedalling towards home.

The Boschetto was one of the frazioni of the town, a few houses planted here and there next to the little grove that gave it its name. It took Don Camillo a few minutes to get there, and when he did, Angelina’s bicycle was already propped up against the wall of her house.

He found her inside with her parents and, more surprisingly, her grandfather, who was sitting in an armchair reading a newspaper and waved cheerfully when he saw Don Camillo.

“What—”

Angelina interrupted him. “I’m really sorry I lied to you, Don Camillo,” she said, visibly upset. “I didn’t want to.”

Her father gave her a comforting smile and turned to Don Camillo, looking grave.

“Sorry about the trick, Reverend,” he said. “I believe there is indeed someone who needs the last rites, but not here.”

“You mean in the mountains?” asked Don Camillo slowly. He had suspected Maurizio Mozzini to be in contact with the partisans for a while now, but since he was not absolutely certain, he had said nothing. Besides, there were so many brigades and small bands roaming the mountains and the hills. Who knew which one, or which ones, Mozzini communicated with?

Mozzini nodded. “I have a radio,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “I usually use it to relay information and report the Germans’ and the Black Brigades’ troop movements. I just received a message that said, ‘Tell Don Camillo that Agostino’s cousin is in a very bad way and wants to see a priest right now’; since it wasn’t part of any code I know, I sent Angelina to get you. Does that make sense to you?”

Don Camillo nodded, suddenly worried. ‘Agostino’ was Signora Antonietta’s code name. No cousin of hers lived nearby. It could only mean one thing: she was sheltering somebody who might not be long for this world. Angelina’s father had been right. There was no time to lose.

Since Angelina still had guilt written all across her face in capital letters, however, Don Camillo said quickly, “Look, you didn’t lie to me. You said your dad told you to tell me those things. That wasn’t a lie, was it?”

She shook her head, looking a little relieved. Don Camillo hastily saluted everybody – old Mozzini gave him a toothless smile from his armchair – and took off on his bicycle like a rocket towards Pasotti’s.

A few weeks ago, Pasotti, tired of having to get out of bed or stop working every time Don Camillo needed his motorcycle, had given him a spare key to his barn. Don Camillo took the motorcycle, leaving his bicycle in its place, and sped off in a roar of engine and a cloud of dust.

Riding a motorcycle, especially in the summer, had nothing on riding a bicycle. Not only the machine made him gain precious time and save up on energy, but the speed created a wind so strong he had to tie a handkerchief around his hat to keep it in place. After the trips to the Mozzinis’ and Pasotti’s with the sun beating down hard on his head and his shoulders – respectively covered with a black hat and a black cassock – he felt like a fish the fisherman had just thrown back into the water.

Who could be the poor soul in need of the holy oil? A soldier, maybe, with some information he could only tell to someone who would keep his secret to the grave? A civilian? One of the partisans?

And why had they asked for him?

The motorcycle swerved, jerking Don Camillo from his grim train of thoughts. He shoved the worry to the back of his mind and twisted the accelerator.

Despite the air shimmering above the ground that made it look like puddles of water in the distance, the dirt road was very, very dry, and by the time Don Camillo reached Roccaverde, around three in the afternoon, he was covered in white dust up to his hair. He barely took the time to brush off the worst of it before knocking on Signora Antonietta’s door.

Nobody answered.

Don Camillo knocked again, louder this time. Since he still didn’t get any reply, he tried opening the door.

It was unlocked.

The transition from the blazing sun to the darker indoors – the shutters of all the windows facing south and west were closed – was so jarring that it took a few seconds before his eyes got used to the lack of light. As he blinked and opened his eyes as wide as he could, there was a dull thud and sudden movement next to him.

The first thing he could make out clearly was a gun pointed straight at his face. The second was a pair of eyes just behind the gun.

Don Camillo had never been afraid of weapons, but he knew enough about human nature to freeze at the sight of those eyes. The person they belonged to was clearly beyond knowing friend from foe and could shoot without a second thought. All of a sudden the sweat that had been running down his temples went cold, and he shuddered.

“Brusco,” he said with a placating gesture, “it’s me. Calm down and put that gun aw—”

Two things happened at the same time: Brusco recognised Don Camillo and lowered his weapon, and Don Camillo took a better look at Brusco and gasped. The man’s clothes were spattered with blood and his hands and arms were blotched almost up to the elbow.

Brusco slowly put his gun back in his belt and bent to pick up what he had dropped: a mass of sheets with large stains of a colour that was instantly recognisable, even in the half-light. The expression in his eyes had shifted slightly. Not that it got any easier to look at.

A lot can be said without anyone opening their mouth at all. The two men stared at each other in wordless dialogue for a few seconds, then Don Camillo ran to the corridor.

The trapdoor to the attic was open, the ladder down. He clambered up, still dragging his bag.

What he saw when he scrambled to his feet made him stop dead. The bag fell from his hands with a thump on the dusty floorboards.

The tiles lay directly on the rafters and the purlins, and the rays of sunlight peeking between them were more than enough to see by. Signora Antonietta used the vast space mostly for storage, but also to hide fugitives stalked by the authorities, partisans between two actions, or downed Allied flyers. Small boxes of stuff that were not sensitive to cold or humidity were strewn here and there; in the back, a few piled up crates and boxes usually served as a low makeshift screen to isolate the old mattress she kept for the occasional traveller in transit. Signora Antonietta sat beside it, her sleeves rolled up high on her sinewy arms, taking knife-like tools out of a tureen full of red water and cleaning them with ethanol in slow, deliberate gestures despite the fact that her hands shook a little. When she was done with one of them, she handed it to the man sitting opposite on the dusty floor, a middle-aged bespectacled gentleman in his shirtsleeves who handled the knives with the kind of familiarity that comes with long experience. He took them one by one and carefully put them back into a long, thin box.

There was someone lying on the narrow mattress behind the two of them, and Don Camillo’s heart seized up in his chest, because it was Peppone.

Not the Peppone he knew, the one he had last seen just a week and a half ago as he waved him goodbye, face and arms very brown after almost a year of outdoor living, one hand gripping his submachine gun’s strap, firmly planted in the ground like a tree. This Peppone was still, silent, limp; his skin was grey, his eyes sunken, his lips almost as white as the thick bandage around his midsection. His jacket, his neckerchief and what was left of his shirt lay in a heap nearby, so drenched in blood that the floorboards underneath were red.

Don Camillo felt around for something to lean on. The nearest rafter was too far, and he swayed on his feet. Signora Antonietta had looked up at the sound of Don Camillo’s bag hitting the floor; when she saw the expression on his face she stood up with some difficulty and hurried to him.

The man vaguely looked up from his bag. He was drenched in sweat and looked exhausted.

“I’m afraid you won’t get much of a confession from this one, Father,” he said, taking off his glasses to clean them. “I hope it’s not that much of a prerequisite to get to Heaven.”

Was it the pervasive heat, or the pungent, sickly smell of blood and antiseptic mingled with dusty wood? Don Camillo’s legs wobbled and would perhaps have given out if Signora Antonietta hadn’t taken a solid hold of his arm and supported some of his weight. She glowered at the man, her eyes gleaming out of her pale face.

“He’s a friend,” she said sharply, bending down to retrieve Don Camillo’s bag from the floor and walking up to the mattress and the prone form on it. Don Camillo didn’t correct her. He followed like a ghost, his head strangely empty, as though full of winter mist.

The man – obviously a doctor – put his glasses back on and sympathy softened his expression.

“I’m sorry, that was thoughtless. He’s still alive; I managed to take the bullet out and sewed up the wound and what I could inside. The damage to the internal organs wasn’t all that extensive, considering, and I gave him an antibiotic to ward off infection. But he did lose a large amount of blood, and I’m not equipped to give him a transfusion – even if I could find out his blood type and find someone with the same I don’t have the proper equipment here. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, but…” He shook his head. “Honestly, it’ll be a miracle if he even lasts the night.”

Don Camillo half-fell, half-sat heavily on the floor.

Funny how some kinds of silences can have different textures, different colours. The doctor’s voice had been low, and nobody else made a sound, but the silence suddenly became even heavier as a fourth person – fifth, if you included Peppone – added his own lack of words. Brusco had come back with clean hands and a pile of folded-up sheets just in time to hear the last sentence, which had frozen him in his tracks.

Signora Antonietta sighed, and went to take the sheets from him. Between the four of them, they managed to make a decent bed without jostling Peppone around too much. Peppone did not complain or even make a sound the whole time. The only outward sign of life he gave was his chest rising and falling imperceptibly along with his thin, uneven breaths.

The doctor retrieved his jacket, his hat and his bag, and took his leave. Signora Antonietta picked up Peppone’s shirt and jacket and followed him down the ladder, adding in a tired voice that she was going to make some tea, being out of coffee. The red neckerchief – now a much darker red – fell from the heap of clothes right next to Don Camillo. Don Camillo picked it up automatically, then let it go as though it had burned his hand. The fabric was soaked through and through, probably from an attempt to stem the flood of blood.

Brusco went to sit down next to Peppone, staring into space. He and Don Camillo stayed silent a long time. The only sound that mattered to both of them was that faint irregular breathing.

Then, at some point, Brusco rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Bad luck. That’s what it was. We’d subdued the driver and the passenger, and were about to take the truck and go when that damn—that Kraut came out of nowhere. Turned out he went in the woods to relieve himself, lost track of his squad and bumped right into us. Still had half his trouser buttons open. Can you believe it?” Incredulity broke from behind the dark despair, then was gone as soon as it had come. “He only fired one shot. We got him before he could fire a second, Nino and me. One of us shot him right in the head. Might’ve been me or Nino. No way to tell.”

From downstairs came the muffled sound of the front door opening and closing. The middle hinge always creaked a little, no matter how often Signora Antonietta oiled it. Outside a goat bleated.

“Peppone insisted we bury the body before anything else, because there’s always reprisals when the Germans get wind that one of their own got killed. He’s the boss, and the wound didn’t look so bad at first, so we took care of the corpse and handed the guys from the truck to another band we’d rendezvoused with. Signora Antonietta’s house was a dozen kilometres away, so I took the truck and headed there with Peppone.

“At one point Peppone said that we’d have plenty of things to tell the chaplain next time you came to visit. It was a narrow, dangerous road to drive on, so I didn’t really pay attention. Then a little later he said, ‘You couldn’t stop by my house, could you? There’s something I forgot to mention to the wife.’ He was getting white and the seat was getting red, so I stepped on it. And then a couple of kilometres later, he gripped my shirt and said real quietly, ‘Get him. Go. Now.’ He stopped talking pretty quick after that.” Brusco cleared his throat and continued with an effort. It was the longest Don Camillo had ever heard him talk. “When we got here I sent Smilzo to get the doctor in Borghetto and wrote a message for Francesca to send over the radio. I’m supposed to meet with the others in half an hour, with or without news.”

Brusco fell silent. Then he got to his feet, his body unfolding limb after limb, looking like every joint should be creaking at least as much as Signora Antonietta’s front door did.

“When… If… Anything happens, leave a message in the usual tree. We’ll check whenever we can. The sooner we know, the better.”

Don Camillo was still incapable of forming a coherent sentence; he only nodded. The situation felt completely unreal, yet at the same time he felt as though somebody was hitting him in the head quite soundly with a thick plank.

Signora Antonietta climbed the ladder to bring the tea and give Brusco the go-ahead; Brusco downed a steaming cup in almost one go, most likely burning every single taste bud in his mouth. When he was able to speak again, he whispered a few words, probably in thanks. Signora Antonietta responded in kind and laid a gentle hand on his arm, but Brusco shook his head and left without looking back. A minute later the front door creaked again as he closed it.

Signora Antonietta put down the tray on a box and drew a crate to sit on. She was silent for a while, nursing her cup of tea and absent-mindedly rubbing her fingers. Most of the blood was gone and she wore a clean apron, but it was obvious from the way her hands still trembled a little that she would keep seeing that particular shade of red on her fingers – the same shade that was now on Don Camillo’s from when he had picked up the red kerchief – for a long time.

She put the other cup in Don Camillo’s hands. Once he noticed the tea, he drank it up, like Brusco had done – and, like with Brusco, it set his throat on fire. Only after the burning sensation started to fade and his face went back to a more normal colour did the world really come into focus again.

It was not a pretty sight.

Signora Antonietta slowly drank the last of her tea. Then she picked up Don Camillo’s bag which was lying on a box nearby and gently put it down next to him.

“I imagine you’re going to need this,” she said quietly. She took the empty cups and the tray to put them away and added, “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. There’s a lot of washing to be done and the goats need milking. I’m going to close the trapdoor just in case; knock four times if you want the ladder.”

“Thank you,” said Don Camillo in a voice he didn’t recognise. He heard her footsteps thud across the attic and down the ladder, then all sounds from downstairs were muffled as Signora Antonietta shut the trapdoor. This time she had taken the bloody kerchief with her.

As the silence stretched and stretched, it seemed to weigh so much that his heart and his limbs felt like they were made of lead. Reaching for his bag was an effort. When he looked inside, though, he immediately closed it again.

Don Camillo knew, for having learned it in seminary all those years ago and practising it all too often, that the holy oil was not only for the dying, but for the sick as well. Extreme unction existed to help souls on the way to Heaven, make sure they got there quickly and didn’t get lost along the way, even if said soul still had quite some time to spend on earth. It was ‘just in case’.

It was that ‘just in case’ that kept some people from calling the priest until the very last moment, when they or their loved one was practically drawing their last breath – almost as though the oil was not seen as a consequence of someone being at death’s door, but as the final confirmation that the person would indeed die.

There were priests – generally from big cities – who shook their heads at that and called it ‘silly rural superstition’. Don Camillo had always found it anything but silly. It was superstition, of course, but how could anyone call ‘silly’ people who just aren’t ready to say goodbye to a parent, a child, a friend?

Don Camillo took a deep breath and reached for the bag again. Then he closed it once more.

No, not now. It was too early.

The only sounds that came from outside was the occasional bird song and the ferocious thuds of the washing paddle on wet fabric below. Signora Antonietta was otherwise completely silent as she worked. Considering the amount of blood that had stained her sheets, she would be at it for a long time.

It was the heart of the afternoon; the sun had left the zenith a couple of hours before but was still beating brutally on the trees, the ground, and the rooftops. In the attic, directly under the tiles, the heat was crushing. Don Camillo wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hand that didn’t have blood on it and looked down at Peppone, who was still breathing shallowly, grey-faced and sunken-eyed.

Don Camillo looked at his bag again.

No. There was still time.

Don Camillo shifted position to get on his knees – little bones popping in his back and shoulders – and started praying.

They weren’t the usual prayers one said at someone’s death or sick bed; his missal was in his bag and he wasn’t opening it for the world (not for the moment at least, as he kept telling himself). Rather, he borrowed from Masses: the daily ones, the Sunday ones, the weddings and baptisms. The Ave Maria, the Magnificat, the De Profundis. The prayers addressed to God directly and the others, addressed to men in comfort or consolation.

And still time crawled by, agonisingly.

* * *

Signora Antonietta came up around four with a pitcher of water. She managed to have Peppone down the contents of a glass.

“Try to have him drink at least every hour,” she told Don Camillo, adding before she went down the ladder again, “and it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you helped yourself, too. It can get fairly hot up here.”

As understatements went, this one was rather spectacular. Don Camillo had to make several trips to the kitchen pump.

When temperatures started to go down a little and the sunlight softened and turned gold, then orange, then red, Signora Antonietta climbed into the attic again, this time with a bit of broth and bread, hard cheese, and culatello. Peppone drank the broth without waking up; Signora Antonietta ate half the rest of the food. When she insisted that Don Camillo should have something, he politely but firmly declined.

A while later, Signora Antonietta looked at him, sighed, and brought him a blanket.

* * *

Don Camillo spent one of the longest nights of his life, huddling under a blanket on that hard, dusty floor, staring into space and listening with unprecedented attention to one particular sound. Time was suspended to that faint breathing, right there, fifty centimetres from him. A few times, it slowed to a crawl, and Don Camillo’s heart froze and only started beating again when he realised it hadn’t, in fact, stopped.

When Latin started to slip away from his mind – because it’s always right when you think hardest about something that your memory fails you – he switched to Italian. At some point he realised he was praying in dialect, too.

Seconds passed, turned into minutes then hours, then abruptly turned into seconds again. Peppone kept breathing. Don Camillo kept praying. The bag remained unopened.

* * *

“Reverend?”

Don Camillo had not realised he had closed his eyes. When he did, his heart gave an ugly lurch and he quickly looked down at Peppone.

Not much had changed. He was still deathly pale and almost completely motionless, as though keeping what little life he had left huddled in his chest to keep his heart and lungs working. Breathing looked a little less like a huge effort, however.

The faint blue light of pre-dawn seeped in through the spaces between the upper tiles. Signora Antonietta was crouching in front of him, already dressed and with a shawl around her shoulders. When she saw his panicked glance, she gave a wan smile.

“He’s still with us, thank the Lord. I brought breakfast. Do you want some?”

“No, thank you,” said Don Camillo, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand that didn’t have dried blood on it. “I can’t before morning Mass.” He took out his pocket watch; it was a little past four. There was still time for him to make it home before morning service.

The last thing Don Camillo wanted was to leave Signora Antonietta’s attic, but he knew that if he stayed away for too long, there would inevitably be gossip, especially from the little old ladies who never missed even the six o’clock mass barring snow, sleet, or buckets of rain. Gossip was not that dangerous in and of itself, but since the German invasion, anything could be turned into a weapon. Having already missed vespers last night for no apparent reason, he could hardly afford to miss another Mass.

He rose to his feet with some effort. Signora Antonietta put down her cup of tea on a box nearby and gently touched Peppone’s hand. Peppone didn’t stir.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” she asked softly. She wasn’t quite looking at him, and she wasn’t quite looking down either, so Don Camillo wasn’t sure whether she meant him or Peppone. He nodded all the same and left silently.

* * * *

Pasotti’s motorcycle flew towards the horizon as though on its own accord. Its rider was too preoccupied to consciously do a good steering job. The fact that they both reached Pasotti’s farm intact was nothing short of a miracle. It was only when Don Camillo took up his bicycle again that he realised he had left his bag in Signora Antonietta’s attic.

There was quite some time left before Mass, but Don Camillo didn’t stop at the rectory to brush the dust off and change. Instead, he slipped into the church through the little door of the bell tower.

The church was cool, still, and quiet, as it usually was this early in the day. Sunlight was still halfway down the belfry and it would be a while before it reached the stained-glass windows. The candles next to the altar and in the little chapel devoted to the Madonna had gone out, but the little light on the main altar still burned as it always did.

That little light had never failed to comfort Don Camillo, not once, for as long as he could remember. Now, though, as he stared at it, it seemed to him that it shone from afar.

His head still felt empty, but his heart was full to the brim, like the river when swollen with winter rains. And, like the river, it suddenly overflowed with barely any warning.

He raged against the Germans, who invaded lands that did not want them and murdered their people; against their guns, and their bullets, and the harm they did; and, most of all, against idiots who had wives and children and still went out to fight like they thought they were Garibaldi. He strode back and forth along the railing before the altar as his words filled the little church.

The church and its surroundings were deserted. The only people up and awake at this time are the farmers, who know that land and livestock don’t keep office hours, and they don’t come to the heart of town to work. Nobody interrupted or interfered, and after a while, Don Camillo simply ran out of steam and collapsed on a front pew, his face in his hands.

The silence that followed was not quite as absolute as it had been in Signora Antonietta’s attic, but it came close.

Then there was a sigh.

“Don Camillo.”

Don Camillo didn’t move.

“I know you are worried, Camillo, and upset, but this is not the way to go about it.”

Don Camillo finally let his hands fall. On his cheeks, tears had left tracks in the dust.

“Whose fault is it, then, Lord?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

“You’ll always find blame if you go looking for it in others and in yourself. But where it truly lies is in hate and indifference to the fate of other men.”

“But if they… if he just…” The blood on his right hand had dried, gone brown and cracked, now a little smudged in places. He stared at his feet to avoid looking at it. “That soldier had a choice. Peppone had a choice. He could have… I…”

“Of course they had a choice. But why did they make it? The soldier shot, because he was taught to hate and to destroy the enemy. Brusco and Nino killed him because he had shot Peppone and threatened to shoot other people. And the soldier’s family will wonder forever whether they had a choice, too.”

“A soldier knows he can get killed at any given moment in war.” That lesson had been learned quickly in 1917: the uniform, no matter what kind, painted a target on your back. People even shot at stretcher bearers – and chaplains – provided they wore a different colour.

“Peppone knows this, too,” said Jesus kindly.

“He hasn’t been a soldier for over twenty-five years!”

“If you asked him, I think he would say it doesn’t matter right now.”

“I can’t,” said Don Camillo, trying and failing to swallow the lump in his throat. “I can’t ask him right now, because he’s… not here.” He sat up straighter and, for the first time since he had come in, looked up at the crucified Christ on the main altar. “War is a young man’s game. What possessed him to go looking for German soldiers, and at his age too? He’s got four children!”

“People have different ideas of what it means to protect the things they love,” said Jesus. “Are you angry with him because he made a choice, or because you are afraid?”

“I’m not angry,” snapped Don Camillo. Then he cleared his throat and said quietly, “He can’t die, my Jesus. He just can’t.”

“Only souls are immortal, Camillo,” said Jesus very gently.

Don Camillo lowered his head. “I don’t want him to.” He ran a hand across his eyes; his cheeks were still wet. “Not like this. Not without a confession, not without his family around him. They didn’t even get to say goodbye, Lord.”

“I know. Such is the way of things sometimes.”

Silence fell again, because Don Camillo had no idea what to say. Words had tumbled out of him earlier; now they deserted him completely.

Outside, the sun was rising, sunlight slowly descending on the church, warming the stone walls and drying up the dew. When the first ray of sunshine hit the top of the stained-glass windows, a small rainbow spilled out inside on the wall opposite, and it was like watching a second sunrise.

Don Camillo, lost in his own head and still looking at his feet, did not see the colours. Then, slowly, he unfolded his great mass from his pew and disappeared into the rectory.

It was much too early to go buy candles from the general store, so he took the four or five he had left and went to light them near the main altar. Then he lit the other candles around them and the ones near the terracotta statue of the Madonna.

He watched his candles burn in silence for a dozen minutes, shoulders hunched and hands folded behind his back; then, as it was nearly time for Mass, he went down on one knee and made the sign of the cross before going into the rectory for a wash and a change of clothes.

* * * *

There was never much of a crowd for first Mass on weekdays. Only a few little old ladies, a couple of old men, and the town’s road mender sat in the church.

Don Camillo went through the entire liturgy like a sleepwalker. He did not get one word wrong, but people noticed something off about him. They were not accustomed to a faraway voice and unfocused eyes from their giant of a parish priest, who on some days seemed the human embodiment of a thunderstorm.

Carlino, though half-asleep – as usual, so early in the day – seemed to catch on, too. He kept throwing him furtive glances; when he realised that he had completely forgotten to ring the bell for Elevation and Don Camillo had said nothing, he looked downright scared.

“Are you all right, Don Camillo?” he ventured after the few faithful had left, sharing puzzled looks.

Don Camillo looked at him absently and waved him off. “Go home,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like him at all, “and be careful.”

Carlino ran off, still in his altar boy attire, wondering what calamity could make such a drastic change in someone. Surely it was something awful. Maybe the end of the world.

When Carlino slipped out of the church he left the front door open. Don Camillo went to close it, out of habit.

Outside, the sun was already shining bright as it rose in the cloudless sky, the promise of another scorching day. People took advantage of the relative cool to go about their businesses, riding by on bicycles and walking under the arcade that bordered the square, left of the church. Stores opened, people greeted each other cheerfully, and a few children played marbles, watched lazily by a dog drowsing in the shade of the statue in the middle of the square.

Don Camillo watched life happen for a little while, then asked quietly, “Jesus, is Peppone still alive?”

“What do you believe, Don Camillo?” came a voice behind him from the heart of the church.

“I believe I should go back. He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Signora Antonietta hasn’t left his side. And no-one is ever alone.”

“Signora Antonietta is a good woman, and I know You’re watching over him, but if he… He needs someone from home. And Brusco and the rest of the gang are in hiding.”

“And you left your bag with the holy oil at her house,” Jesus remarked.

A few seconds passed in silence. Then Don Camillo closed the door and turned to face the crucified Christ.

“I won’t need the holy oil,” he said slowly.

“Do you think so?”

“I believe so. Peppone is not going to die. Not today.” Don Camillo locked the door and walked up to the main altar with new purpose and energy. When he was at the foot of the crucified Christ he hastily crossed himself. “I have to go, Lord, sorry. I’ll talk to You on the way.”

Don Camillo rushed up the rectory stairs to his bedroom to take his hat; after a second’s reflection, he grabbed the little wooden crucifix on the wall above his headboard and put it into his pocket. Then he ran out to where he had left his bicycle only a couple of hours before and pedalled like mad towards Pasotti’s farm.

* * * *

When Don Camillo reached Signora Antonietta’s little farm, he was drenched in sweat and covered in dust, just like he had been the day before. Unlike the day before, the owner was there to let him inside when he knocked.

“How is he?” he asked immediately.

Signora Antonietta looked tired and worn; his heart skipped a beat. But she gave a small smile.

“Still hanging on. Looks like he decided to prove the doctor wrong.”

Don Camillo mentally thanked Jesus, God, and the Madonna as fervently as he could, and all but ran to the ladder to the attic.

Yes, Peppone was still limp and ashen-faced, his eyes were still closed and his breathing ragged, but he was still holding on to life like the pigheaded mule Don Camillo knew him to be. Relief hit him like a cannonball, powerful enough to make him see stars, and he exhaled slowly.

“I’ll only say this once – sometimes it’s not easy being your chaplain.”

Peppone, being unconscious, didn’t say anything. In nigh on forty years Don Camillo had never seen him remain silent for so long. There was something he found profoundly disturbing about it.

Still, he reminded himself, being a chaplain is not something one decides to be because it’s easy.

Something jabbed his right hip and he remembered the crucifix in his pocket; he propped it against a box near Peppone’s head and looked around. His bag was where he had left it, out of the way to and from the trapdoor, within easy reach.

Like last night, Don Camillo didn’t open it. Only this time something in his heart told him he wasn’t wrong not to.

To his surprise, the white spots just wouldn’t disappear no matter how much he tried to blink them out of his eyes; worse, the world started to spin suddenly and he had to lean on the framework to avoid dropping to the floor. That was how Signora Antonietta found him as she climbed up the ladder. She took one look at his white face and hurried to Peppone’s makeshift bed, hitching up her skirt and her apron in her hands.

“Did he—” She made sure he was still breathing, and looked up to Don Camillo, puzzled. “What’s the matter with you, Reverend?”

If Don Camillo had had the energy to, he would have blushed.

“I haven’t eaten anything since noon yesterday. I only just remembered.”

Signora Antonietta eyed the big black-clad mass in front of her and frowned.

“Father, that’s not very sensible.”

“I agree,” said Don Camillo over the rumbling of his stomach.

“Sit down, I’ll bring something up.”

Signora Antonietta came back with bread, cured ham, some tomatoes and a couple of eggs, and shared an early lunch with Don Camillo. Don Camillo ate slowly, steadily, until the last spot was gone from his vision. From time to time, he glanced at Peppone, who still hadn’t stirred.

“You’re missing out, comrade,” he told him between two mouthfuls of bread and cheese.

Signora Antonietta smiled behind her glass of water. She straightened the little crucifix, which had slid against the crate and threatened to fall, and looked at Peppone.

“He’s lucky to have such a good friend.”

Don Camillo almost choked on his bread at the thought of the face Peppone would make if he heard.

“We’re not friends,” he said with emphasis once he could breathe correctly. Then, as Signora Antonietta stared at him incredulously, he added with his index finger in the air, “We’re enemies thrown together by circumstance.”

“And,” asked Signora Antonietta, who seemed to have trouble suppressing her smile, “how long have you been enemies?”

Don Camillo did some quick mental arithmetic.

“Thirty-nine years, more or less.”

Signora Antonietta gave a solemn nod.

“That makes you very faithful enemies.” She looked at Don Camillo from the corner of her eye. “I told you once that folks around here think you valley people are mad. From what I’ve seen this past year, Reverend, I can say that everyone from the Lowlands that I’ve met has a screw loose.”

“Take it up with him,” said Don Camillo, pointing at Peppone with his thumb. “He’s the mechanic, not me.”

But there was something like pride in his smile.

* * * *

The doctor was true to his word: he came back around two o’clock to change Peppone’s bandages, looking less harried but more tired. He was somewhat surprised to find his patient still clinging on doggedly to this world.

“He must be stubborn, to say the least,” he said as he opened his bag and pulled out his tools of the trade.

Don Camillo gave a shrug. “That’s how it is in the plains. We’re nothing if not persistent.”

“Today it’s a good thing. Do you know his blood type?”

“Yes,” said Don Camillo, “we have the same.”

The blood-transfusion instrument the doctor took out of his bag had tubes, a pump, and syringes; Don Camillo remembered seeing one in action exactly once before, on the battlefield in early autumn 1918. It looked just as barbaric then as it did now. He also distinctly remembered that the soldier had survived.

Back home, when Don Camillo rolled up his sleeves, people took it as a hint that blows were about to be exchanged with whoever was taking off his jacket at the time, and ran off to watch from a respectable distance and count points. This time, though, blood got drawn when he rolled up one sleeve, but no violence was involved.

The whole affair seemed to last a long time; by the time the doctor cleaned the syringes and put the whole thing back into his bag, Peppone’s colour had improved a little. Then again, it had been so awful to begin with that it might not mean much.

“Well,” said the doctor after he finished changing Peppone’s bandages, “he seems to be in good hands; if nothing else happens he might just make it. No strenuous activities for a few hours, Father,” he added while Don Camillo rolled down his sleeve on the brand new bandage around his elbow. “Eat something, and drink a lot of water.”

“I’ll see to it that he does,” said Signora Antonietta with a warning look at Don Camillo. To tell the truth, he was oddly exhausted, like after a long fever, and had no desire to do anything that might qualify as ‘strenuous’. Thus he gave Signora Antonietta his most innocent look.

The stony stare she returned told him he didn’t have much choice in the matter anyway.

The doctor saluted Don Camillo and followed Signora Antonietta down the ladder. Don Camillo looked down at Peppone, who seemed to be breathing deeper, and gave a small smile.

“Jesus, how angry do you think Peppone will be when he finds out he has priest blood in his veins now?”

“Is it really necessary for him to know that?” came Jesus’ voice from the little crucifix.

“Maybe not, but once he’s better he’s going to ask.”

“And you will of course show the kind of true humility and goodness of heart God asks from His ministers and not torment him in any way.”

“Of course, Lord.”

Only half of that was a lie. The scare had been a little bit too great.

Soon Signora Antonietta came back up with bread, a pot of jam and some tea; this time she only stayed a few minutes, having things to do around the little farm that couldn’t wait. When he was done, Don Camillo went downstairs to wash the cup, put away the jam jar, and place the rest of the bread in the bread bin.

Once back in the attic, he grabbed his bag and sat on the floor, in the same spot he had been a few minutes ago while the doctor worked. It wasn’t any softer, or any less dusty. From his bag he took out his breviary, carefully avoiding the holy oil. The cover was slightly worn, the pages had forgotten the meaning of ‘crisp’ years ago, but the familiar Latin words slowly soothed a piece of his heart that had been frayed and torn for the past twenty-four hours. Occasionally he glanced at Peppone and at the cross he had put down next to him, and returned to what he was reading a little more peacefully.

From the sounds that filtered from outside, not counting birdsong and a slight breeze rustling the tree leaves, Signora Antonietta tended to her horse, worked the garden, cleaned out the stable, and did a thousand things that needed to be done.

The heat was ferocious in the attic under the tiles, just like the previous day. The sounds of life outside the house seemed to come from a great distance, and Don Camillo, lulled by the faint but thankfully constant breathing next to him, gave in to tiredness and finally fell asleep.

* * * *

“…here?”

“Wh—what?” Don Camillo awoke with a start. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was, and why he was half-sitting, half-lying on a hard wooden floor with his breviary open on his stomach. He looked up, expecting to see Signora Antonietta, but no-one was there.

Then he looked down at his right, and met Peppone’s puzzled gaze.

Peppone hadn’t moved from his spot at all; the only change was that his eyes were half-open, and looked here and there sluggishly, as though he was trying to make sense of everything he had missed.

Don Camillo’s heart leapt in his chest. What threatened to be a huge, beaming smile started making its way across his face; naturally, he fought it tooth and nail. And failed.

“Look who’s decided to join the world of the living!” he said, closing his breviary and handing Peppone a glass of water. “You took your time.”

Peppone sipped the water carefully, and stared at him. One could practically see the cogs of his brain working at full speed under his deep frown. He lifted a hand that appeared to weigh a ton and felt the bandage around his stomach, wincing; then he looked around at the attic and rubbed his face with a sigh.

“The lads?”

“They’re fine,” replied Don Camillo immediately. “No-one else got hurt – nobody in your squad, anyway. I saw Brusco, he told me what happened.”

“Where is he?”

“In the mountains somewhere, probably worried up the wall about you. You almost bled to death on his passenger seat.”

“I remember,” muttered Peppone in a hollow voice. Then the look in his eyes sharpened as he focused on Don Camillo. “I sent for you, didn’t I?” It was barely a question.

Don Camillo nodded. “You did.”

“And you came.”

“Of course I came.”

“I…” Peppone blinked. “This I’m not sure I remember.”

“You wouldn’t. You were too far gone to…” Don Camillo’s voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat, hoping Peppone wouldn’t notice the shaky breath that came with it. “Well. Although you also could have sent for the priest of Roccaverde or Borghetto. It’s much closer, they would have got here a lot quicker.”

“I didn’t want any old priest I’d never seen before in my life,” said Peppone abruptly. “It’s my chaplain I called.”

This answer was to Don Camillo the equivalent of an uppercut to the chin. It caught him completely off guard, and he remained thoroughly speechless.

For once Peppone didn’t press his advantage. He still looked very tired, very pale, and very much not up for verbal boxing.

“What time is it?” he asked in a low voice after a while.

Don Camillo took out his pocket watch and told him. Peppone’s eyebrows went up.

“So I only blacked out for four or five hours?”

“Twenty-nine, more like,” said Don Camillo, sharper than he intended. “You got shot yesterday around one o’clock.”

It had been the ghost of the hollow, empty shock which had dogged him all day and night talking; Don Camillo regretted it immediately when he saw Peppone lose some of what little colour he had left.

A few deep breaths later, Peppone had recovered enough to ask, “Did you tell my wife?”

Don Camillo shook his head.

“No. I just returned to the village this morning for first Mass and I didn’t see her.”

“Good. I don’t want her or the kids to worry.” Peppone squinted up at him. “You were here a long time, huh.”

“Well –” Don Camillo shifted uncomfortably “– only as long as it took.”

“While I was… gone, you didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to give me extreme unction, did you?”

“Peppone,” Don Camillo said in the tone of someone who squares up for a fight, “when I give you the last rites, I’ll do it proper. To do this I’ll need a confession, and you’ll need to be conscious to give it.”

“Then you’ll have to wait a long time, Reverend,” said Peppone with some self-satisfaction, “because my last confession was some twenty-five years ago and I don’t intend to break with tradition.”

Don Camillo was about to retort something scathing, but stopped as Peppone made to sit up, turned stark white, and muttered a profanity his mother could have smacked him for, no matter his age. Peppone stilled, drew a few careful breaths, and turned woeful eyes to his old enemy.

“Now I know yesterday was bad. I’m sure you would have said something back if I wasn’t half-dead.��

“I would have, believe me,” muttered Don Camillo. “But it hardly seems fair right now.”

Peppone gave a mirthless laugh. “See? I knew having you for a chaplain was a good choice.” He blinked at the ceiling a few times, then his eyes landed on something on his left. “What’s that?”

“I would have thought that even a godless Bolshevik could recognise the Crucified Christ.”

“Oh for the love of – I mean what is it doing here? Did Signora Antonietta put it out to pasture?”

“Peppone,” roared Don Camillo, “quit it or you might just go from half-dead to completely dead.”

“Oh yeah?” Peppone bellowed. “I’d like to see you tr—”

This time Peppone did not swear. He gasped, and spent the next few minutes clenching and unclenching his fists, his eyes screwed up in pain. When he finally relaxed he was drenched in sweat.

“All right,” he panted, “truce.”

The state of things in Don Camillo’s head was a little complicated: anger and fear vied for first place, closely followed by good old exasperation, with sympathy lagging behind.

“Truce, but once you’re well again, we’ll have scores to settle, you and me.”

“You can count on it,” murmured Peppone in a tone that said, I hope so.

The silence that fell then was not quite the comfortable, companionable silence that sometimes reminded Don Camillo that words – or punches – were not the best way of communicating; but it was infinitely better than the previous day. Peppone’s breathing was still shaky and his eyes clouded, but he was here, with his sharp mind, his bad temper, his infuriating bullheadedness, and the big heart he didn’t bother hiding most of the time.

Don Camillo’s anger evaporated like the dew under the morning sun. It was too hot to stay angry.

“I put it there.”

“Eh?”

“The crucifix. Figured you might need help finding your way back.”

Peppone let out a deep breath.

“It’s good to know I had you in my corner, Father.”

“I didn’t mean me, Peppone,” sighed Don Camillo.

“I know. I’m grateful for that, too.”

It was as close to an actual truce as they could get, and under the circumstances Don Camillo didn’t insist. In the quiet that followed, both heard the front door creak, and then a clacking sound as the ladder was placed against the wall and the trapdoor opened. Signora Antonietta hoisted herself up and pinned both men with a look that was not quite a glare, but was fairly close.

“I was in the barn and I thought I heard yelling, so I figured both of you woke up.” She put her hands on her hips and asked incredulously, “Why is it that, every time you two are in my house, you have a shouting match? Can’t you just get along? Don’t you think there’s enough fighting the world over that doesn’t need adding to?”

Don Camillo and Peppone looked wordlessly at each other. While they figured out what to say, Signora Antonietta had crossed the space to Peppone’s mattress and crouched down. From up close she looked exhausted, with a few wisps of straw in her hair and smudged dirt where she had tried to wipe the sweat off her face; when she put the back of her hand to Peppone’s forehead she smiled thinly.

“You don’t seem to have a fever. That’s good; it means the wound is not infected.”

Don Camillo caught Peppone’s side glance and saw his own relief reflected in his eyes. Both had seen their share of the ravages infections could cause in the Great War. Most veterans lived in horror of the word.

When she had finished her inspection, Signora Antonietta stood up, a hand on the small of her back, and nodded.

“Well, I’m no doctor, but from what I’ve seen, you just might be out of the woods. No, don’t move,” she said as Peppone tried to sit up again. “I’ll be right back.”

She was gone a couple of minutes, and came back with a big pillow in an old-fashioned pillowcase that smelled like lavender and just a touch of mothballs.

“It’s from my daughter’s bed,” she explained as she and Don Camillo carefully put it under Peppone’s head and shoulders.

“Won’t she miss it?” he asked once he was settled, looking very grateful to be able to see something else than the rafters and the tiles, not to mention have something soft under his neck.

“I doubt it. She’s been married for two years now and lives in Parma. But since her husband is an idiot and a ne’er do well, I’m keeping her bedroom intact just in case she realises it and wants to return to the farm.” She shot an apologetic look at Peppone. “I’m sorry I have to put you up in the attic when there’s a real bed downstairs. Sometimes Germans come up here to patrol, or take a chicken or a slab of butter they rarely pay for. If they’d seen a strange man in my house with a bullet wound, they’d have shot you – and me – without asking questions.”

“Or worse, they could have asked questions,” muttered Peppone.

“Exactly.” She straightened up, tucked a stray strand of hair back into her bun, and gave a real smile. “Welcome back. You gave us quite the scare.”

Peppone returned the smile slightly, looking somewhat uncomfortable. Then he and Don Camillo caught each other’s eyes.

There were a lot of things Don Camillo wanted to say or could have said. Some of it were downright lies, some of it was true, and a lot fell in between. Therefore he remained silent, and so did Peppone.

As a result, they understood each other perfectly.

* * * *

The return trip could not have been more different from the previous day. Before going back to Pasotti’s motorcycle he had left in Signora Antonietta’s barn, as usual, Don Camillo went to the old dead tree to leave a message for Brusco and the rest. Then he rode home under a blazing sun, on the long strip of dust devoid of any trees that became an oven in the summer.

He was just in time for vespers. There still was some dust in his hair when he stood in front of his congregation; this, however, wasn’t what people noticed. What they did notice was that their priest, unlike for morning service, not only said all the right words at the right places but also appeared focused on what he was doing. They concluded that he must have got sunstroke, then got better, and they moved on.

Carlino, oddly, seemed quite happy with the return of the status quo. He was daydreaming again at the moment of the Elevation and barely heard the familiar mutter “Carlino, the bell!” in time. When he looked up and saw the priest scowling down at him, he rang the little bell with such a relieved expression that Don Camillo quite forgot to be angry with him.

After Mass, as Don Camillo was putting his vestments away in the sacristy and Carlino was almost at the door, they felt rather than heard a rumble that made the stained-glass windows shiver in the stone. The boy froze and turned absolutely white; Don Camillo grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and stuffed him under the altar until the planes were gone. It took him a while to make sure, because his heart was pounding in his chest fit to burst.

Bombs didn’t fall on the village that day, but on another village about forty kilometres to the north. Don Camillo delivered a still trembling Carlino to his parents’ doorstep and told them that, if the boy missed first Mass the next day, nobody would hold it against him.

Then he returned home to the rectory, closed the door, leaned heavily against it, and wiped the cold sweat off his face with a shaking hand.

* * * *

Three or four weeks passed before Don Camillo was able to take his field altar, borrow Pasotti’s motorcycle, and go back to his duties as clandestine chaplain. A rainstorm had come and gone; the sun now shared the sky with a few white clouds which made the horizon look like looming snow-capped mountains well before the actual mountains came into view.

This time the rendezvous point was a good fifteen kilometres from the dead tree. When Don Camillo got there, the old crowd came to greet him and several new faces stared at him, running the gamut between curiosity and suspicion. He went through the group, saluting people and shaking proffered hands, sidestepping crates of supplies and ammunition. Finally he found what he was looking for and stopped near a wreck of an armoured car standing on four concrete blocks.

The old Lancia was a sorry sight; it had probably seen more of the Great War than Don Camillo. Between the peeling paint, the rust, and what appeared to be fire damage, it looked like a war memorial for armoured cars fallen in battle.

Two legs stuck out from under the bodywork next to a toolbox. It was half empty, the tools lying neatly side by side on a big chequered handkerchief spread out on the short grass. From the various sounds that came from under the car, some serious tinkering was underway.

Don Camillo searched his pockets in vain for a cigar butt. “Do you really think you can get that ruin to run?” he asked.

The tinkering stopped, then started again.

“If I know my craft,” came Peppone’s voice, “the only thing this car needs that I can’t give her right now are four new tyres and some petrol. I’ll just have to get them – from somewhere.” His voice tightened on the last word. “Pass me the 12 point spanner, would you? This ruddy bolt just won’t let go.”

Don Camillo chose one spanner and put it into the big brown hand. After a few seconds the bolt surrendered and Peppone crawled out on his back from under the bodywork.

He looked good – a great deal better than the last Don Camillo had seen of him. His colour had almost completely returned, and although he moved somewhat gingerly, with a care that was foreign to his character, his eyes met Don Camillo’s with their usual sharpness. Don Camillo reached out to help him up, and his hand was warm and strong when he grabbed it.

When Peppone stood in front of him, his face still smudged with motor oil and dust, grass and earth all over the back of his shirt, and wearing the same old red kerchief around his neck, a small piece – a tiny speck – of the world that had been askew for weeks finally righted itself.

“Come to bring God to the mountains again, have you?” asked Peppone with a grin, pulling a large handkerchief from his pocket and rubbing his hands with it.

“God is everywhere,” replied Don Camillo absently, righting the strap of the altar box on his shoulder. “This is just the reminder.”

“Right. Speaking of, I have a favour to ask.”

“Speaking of what, exactly?” asked Don Camillo suspiciously before he even thought of asking about the favour. He followed Peppone to a makeshift tarpaulin shelter – of which there were a couple now – and watched him take out a long, thin bundle wrapped in paper and tied up with string.

Don Camillo untied the string and raised one corner of the wrapping paper warily, half-expecting to find dynamite sticks. Instead he found a somewhat large candle.

“Bought it in a village not far from here. Normally I’d have it engraved, but I didn’t have that much in my pockets and I didn’t want to stay there longer than necessary.”

“Where do you want it?” asked Don Camillo when his voice came back. Peppone hesitated.

“Well, if you think there’s room for it near the main altar…”

“There is.”

“Then you can light it there on my behalf.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Reverend,” said Peppone with feeling. Don Camillo nodded with a smile.

Then they talked while Don Camillo prepared the field altar for Mass, and found that for once, truce didn’t have to mean silence.

* * * *

When Don Camillo had given Pasotti his motorcycle back and retrieved his bicycle, he made a stop at the church. He put down the field altar next to the railing and unwrapped the paper around the candle.

“Jesus,” he said excitedly to the crucified Christ on the main altar, “look at this!”

“It’s a beautiful candle, Don Camillo,” said Jesus with a smile.

“Isn’t it? This is from Peppone, in gratitude for being alive. He’s sorry to be unable to come light it himself, but you know how things are.”

Don Camillo carefully lit the candle with another, and placed it next to the one he had bought after the last time he had come back from Signora Antonietta’s attic. Like Peppone’s, the candle was devoid of any ornament, because, like Peppone, he had lacked money for trimmings and hadn’t wanted to arouse suspicion. The two candles stood there among the smaller votive candles, one burned to the last quarter and the other still shiny and whole. Their flames made a pretty light, and Don Camillo sat on a front pew to watch them with his chin in his hands.

“Lord,” he said after a while, “there’s something I’m still wondering.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a lot of villages up in the mountains. Most of them have churches. Why did Peppone go to the trouble of taking his candle with him back to camp, and then give it to me?”

“Did you ask him?”

“No, Lord, I only thought about it on the way back here.”

Jesus let the lie pass and replied, “Maybe he wanted his chaplain to light his candle; maybe he wanted his candle to burn in the church he got baptised and married in; maybe he wanted something of him to remain here, in his village, while himself cannot. Or maybe it’s all three. Does it really matter which?”

Don Camillo thought about it for a minute.

“Not really,” he said eventually. “I think I understand.”

Exactly what he understood, he didn’t say, but stayed watching the candles in silence for some time.

Notes:

1In Catholic liturgy, before communion, the altar server rings a little bell while the priest raises the holy host. Carlino sleeping is a nod to Cinema Paradiso and the first time the viewer sees Totò as a child. I really love this movie. It’s one of the few melodramas that I really love.

I’ve had the idea for this chapter in mind since... August 2015 :o) (even made a post about it.) Basically, from the first film and one of the first stories:

PEPPONE: “Remember I have a weak spot in my stomach from that bullet I took in the mountains. No low blow or I’m grabbing a bench.” DON CAMILLO: “Don’t worry, Peppone, I’ll land them all upstairs.” *punches him on the ear*

*throws out her arms* How could I not do something with a hint like that? :D

Next up: Carol of the Bombs.

#Don Camillo #fanfiction #my stuff

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mvmadvice · 6 years

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General Advice: Getting Started (part 2)

Alright, so now you know a little more about the community as a whole. But how do you actually get started playing MvM?

First of all, you need to decide between Mann Up and Boot Camp. Boot Camp is F2P while Mann Up requires tickets. Tickets are 99 cents each, but you need to buy a new one for each mission you complete.

Boot Camp is good for practice. The goal usually isn’t to win (although that’s part of it!), but to try out new things. Maybe you’ve never played Sniper before and want to try him out. Maybe you want to test different loadouts on Soldier. Go wild! Just be careful, some people take Boot Camp far too seriously and will attempt to vote kick you if you play off-meta.

Mann Up is the P2P version of Boot Camp. They have all of the same maps except for Wave 666 (Ghost Town), which is Boot Camp exclusive. The Mann Up community is full of a wide variety of people, from total beginners to 5k tour pros. The most popular Mann Up map is Two Cities, which is the only map that offers killstreak kits as a reward. The other maps offer botkiller weapons. Note that only the higher tier maps will drop Australiums, if that’s what you want from MvM. Gear Grinder is also a fairly popular map, since they also offer unique rewards that aren’t your standard botkillers.

Okay, so you’ve chosen your game mode. Whether you want to stay F2P or go P2P, it doesn’t matter. You’re now part of the community! So you select the map you want to play on and enter a game. Now what?

Well, you first need to be aware of the hated term: the meta. The accepted “meta” for MvM is as follows: 1 Scout, 1 Soldier, 1 Demoman, 1 Heavy, 1 Engineer, and 1 Medic. To over-over-oversimplify, Scout collects money, Soldier deals damage, Demoman kills uber Medics, Heavy bodyblocks/deals damage, Engineer provides utility, and Medic heals. This ‘meta’ optimizes the capabilities of each of the classes for almost every situation. You can almost never go wrong with this team.

However, there are many, many exceptions. For tanks, Pyros with the Phlog are the best option. In fact, Pyro can often replace Soldier, Heavy, or Demoman, especially after the release of the Gas Passer, which is another great tool for picking Medics with. Even after it’s nerf, the Explode on Ignite upgrade for the gas passer still makes Pyro a very viable alternative to Soldier, Heavy, or Demoman.

The two most-hated upon classes in MvM are Sniper and Spy. Sniper requires the ability to reliably get headshots. This isn’t too difficult on larger robots, but he is a very hit or miss class to pick. Many beginner Snipers don’t understand that playing Sniper in MvM could be a major detriment to the team. However, in the right hands and under the right circumstances, Sniper has indisputably the highest damage output of any class, even without a pocket Medic. Spy also has his niche situations. He is exceptionally good at killing giant Medics, since disguises will always trick robots, as long as you are out of their line of sight before the disguise is active. However, robots have perfect reactions to Spies. Even if you are behind them, they will catch you if you are undisguised and uncloaked. In addition, if you stab a robot, all surrounding robots will be notified of your presence. Finally, if you sap a giant robot, it will turn to face you but not fire. With his disguise and Dead Ringer, Spy can not only pick priority targets, but replace Scout as a cash collector. As long as he does not get caught in crossfire, he can easily collect cash far behind enemy lines without the need to run in with an Ubercharge canteen.

There are also expected meta loadouts for each class. Scouts should equip the Mad Milk and Fan o’ War. Soldiers should have one of the three banners. Demomen should not use the Quickiebomb Launcher. Heavies can pretty much do what they want, so long as they do not use the Tomislav. Medics need the Kritzkrieg. Pyro weapons vary, but the Gas Passer is extremely important. Snipers should have Jarate or equip the Cleaner’s Carbine and Bushwacka for a tank-killer loadout. Spies should always have the Dead Ringer for damage mitigation.

The meta, of course, is subject to change. There was one point before the Gas Passer nerf when two Pyros could beat a mission on their own. Empire Escalation can be beat by a very skilled Medic, Demo, and Scout (and no other players). Bavarian Botbash's meta has four Soldiers, one Scout, and one Engineer (because AMERICA and also because it’s the most effective). The last wave of Hamlet can be easily beat by a team of 6 Pyros. The meta is just a suggestion. It has been tested by tens of thousands of players and deemed the most efficient way of winning. However, if you are new to the game, I suggest following the meta as closely as possible, at least on your end. What your teammates do is not under your control in this regard.

Finally, due to the somewhat strict meta in MvM, you must learn how to acceptably play every single class. This includes Pyro, Sniper, and Spy, who aren’t commonly used. It’s tough, yes, but remember you only have to play them acceptably. If everyone can carry their own weight in the game, winning will be easy. It doesn’t matter if you can’t rocket jump or if you don’t get an A+ on every single wave. As long as you can fire rockets and get the $50 bonus, your team is unlikely to kick you. At the same time, you can still contribute to your team while on an off-role (that is, a class you do not main).

If you want to find out what other classes do, you’ve come to the right place! I’ll be queuing plenty of advice for each class, as well as incorporating Youtube video guides from other players and community guides from Steam.

#general advice #all classes #mvm advice #tf2 #team fortress 2

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allthefilmsiveseenforfree · 6 years

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Black Panther

I’ve actually seen Black Panther twice now, and have plans for a third time sometime this week. Much like Fifty Shades Freed, you know what I’m gonna say. We all know what I’m gonna say. I’m avoiding spoilers here for people who have yet to get into the many sold out screenings held this weekend (but also like what are you waiting for - buy your tickets in advance, ask your boss if you can get paid in movie tickets, like literally whatever you have to do to get your butt into a theater showing this movie ASAP). So let’s get into some semantics. Is this my new favorite Marvel movie? Well...

I still haven’t decided, but make no mistake. It’s fucking up there. My initial reaction after every Marvel movie in theaters is MY FACE IS MELTING OFF BECAUSE THAT WAS THE BEST THING EVER (even the not great ones. Ahh the halcyon moments right after the midnight premier of Thor: The Dark World when I still thought it was a great movie). And this was no different - but I can always tell the really special ones (Winter Soldier, Guardians of the Galaxy, Civil War) because they’re the ones that I sit and think about for hours, just ruminating over every little detail and moment for days after it’s over. If that’s the standard, Black Panther may well have moved into the number 1 spot because I’m going to be thinking about the nuances and details of this film for years.

Some thoughts (and by thoughts I mean here are things that I loved the most):

Never before has the MCU done such a thorough job of world-building, and for that I am the most grateful to Ryan Coogler and the rest of the team who worked on both the script, and the sets and production design. Asgard doesn’t come close to the level of detail we get about the culture, customs, and living breathing lifeforce of Wakanda.

Michael. B. Jordan. is. everything. I’ve been a stan of his for years but this is next level. His charisma and magnetism are so off the charts, I forget to breathe when he’s onscreen. His character is easily the best pure antagonist the MCU has ever produced (Loki is basically just a flip-flopping quasi-Avenger at this point) because, like all of the best villains, he’s not wrong.

As Sleepy Gay noted, one of the most striking things about Wakanda is how it’s so completely devoid of Western (read: colonizing) influences. The clothing, the art, the marketplace, the jewelry - everything is Pan-African, vibrant, and completely unlike anything I’ve ever seen onscreen before. It’s fucking beautiful, and so richly portrayed. Her one criticism - needs more lesbians.

SURPRISE STERLING K BROWN (aka SKB, National Treasure). That man could read the phone book and make me cry.

Wakandan women should rule the world. In every single possible way, they are smart, strong, independent, quick-witted, loyal, loving, and all-around badass. The best part? Each of them are portrayed as full human beings with their own character arcs, their own strengths, and their own conflicts. Almost like they’re, y’know, people.

I thought Thor was the closest thing to Shakespeare the MCU was going to get, what with it being a Kenneth Branagh production about two brothers battling for a throne, but I was wrong. This is King Lear, this is Macbeth, this is Hamlet and The Tempest and every great complicated rise and fall that Shakespeare ever wrote. It even features a pretty gorgeously done 5 act structure that felt much more like a Greek tragedy than a standard screenplay normally does, and again, I ascribe that to Ryan Coogler’s vision.

One of my favorite producers and frequent Childish Gambino collaborator Ludwig Goransson did the score, and it’s so fascinating to listen to. I especially love the African drums that make up T’Challa’s theme vs the 90s hip hop beats that underscore Killmonger’s theme, and how those two merge when the characters meet.

Casual reminder that Chadwick Boseman is 41 years old and could kick all of our asses twice before we even knew what happened. But that would never happen, because he would only have to say, “I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed,” and it would be DEVASTATING.

T’Challa is not the first black superhero (he’s not even the first one in the Marvel canon - what’s up Blade) but for all of the reasons listed above, he is the most important, and Wakanda is the most important fictional world I’ve seen in a film, maybe in my entire life.

T’Challa is a superhero, yes, but that title feels almost incidental - beyond that, he is a good man who wants to do right by his people; he is a king. I’ve never been someone who has been accused of not having empathy - I’m an easy cry, I’m sentimental, I’m a sucker for calls to charity, and I have never watched Schindler’s List for fear that I will literally cry myself to death. Black Panther was made for me because it’s the next entry in the MCU, but this movie wasn’t made for me, and knowing what it means to people of African descent all around the world to see this film moved me to tears more than once. Long live the king.

#118in2018 #black panther #black panther review #chadwick boseman #t'challa #michael b jordan #killmonger #ryan coogler #wakanda forever #movie reviews #film reviews

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renae-writes · 7 years

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Unsteady

Request: Can you do a fanfic where John or Philip meets the reader in the Winters Ball or just a ball and then they live their whole together but when the reader dies, John/Philip can't take it anymore and they commit suicide with the song they first danced and fell in love with each other (Unsteady-Eric Lee Gravity Remix) and right before he about to kill himself, he's thinking about her and saying to himself that now we can keep dancing with each other once again or a lyric from the song?~😊✨

Pairing: John Laurens x reader

Warnings: Major character death, indirect suicide, mildly graphic description of injury (it’s really not that bad, but better safe than sorry), angst (I’m so sorry)

Word count: 1,820 words

Link to song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBlFp2__XtM

A/N: I’m so sorry this took so long. A family friend died the other day and I’ve been kind of emotionally detached for a minute. It may be reflected in my writing, so this might be a little scattered, I don’t know.

Hold, Hold on Hold on to me, Cause I’m a little unsteady A little unsteady

You were always a sickly child, afraid to live your life because anything could kill you. The heat, the cold, your own stupidity. As you grew up, you learned about chances. What risks to take and what to walk away from. You had always trusted your judgment.

Until you met him.

You had never been the one to jump headfirst into things. You always sat back and calculated everything you did. You had decided to go to that ball at the Schuyler’s mansion because it wasn’t too cold outside and it was likely that you would be able to go home early without anyone noticing. You had decided against the wine offered to you because you needed to keep your head clear.

Why you had decided to dance with him, you didn’t know.

The man was beautiful; his unruly curls tied back in a ponytail, leaving his freckled face on full display. His dark green eyes sparkled in the candlelight and his smile never failed to bring a smile to your face, too. He had a melodic voice and you found that you could listen to him talk for hours and never complain.

John Laurens could dance, that much was obvious. You could barely keep up with him as he led you across the floor, occasionally twirling and dipping you, making you giggle. He moved less like the soldier that he was and more like a dancer. All of his movements were smooth and calculated, unlike yours, which were awkward and unsteady.

It wasn’t until the song came on that you realized you had fallen for him.

The orchestra had begun a song that was very different than the others. Instead of being lighthearted and fun like all the other songs that had been played that night, it was dark and beautiful. A man in a white jacket was singing, his voice echoing through the hall. John held you closer, his grip on your waist tightening and when you looked up, you found that he was already looking down at you. There was something different about the way he was looking at you, but you couldn’t figure out what. Little did you know, that night, you both fell in love.

Hold on to me, ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady A little unsteady

Two weeks later, John proposed to you. He had already asked for your father’s blessing, and wanted to marry before it was too cold for you. He knew how easily you got sick and wanted you to have the outdoor wedding you always dreamed of.

Despite the cold weather, you stood in your heavy, long-sleeved white dress and promised yourself to John for the rest of your life.

When the time came for your first dance, you were surprised to find that John had found the same performer from the Schuyler’s ball and had him come to sing his song at your wedding. As the song progressed, John turned his head, his lips brushing your ear, sending chills down your back.

“Hold on,” he sang along, soft enough for only you to hear, “hold on to me. ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady… a little unsteady.”

You smiled and laid your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and breathing in the scent that was so distinctly John, soap and ale and smoke and gunpowder. “I love you,” you whispered into his chest, hearing his heart beat a little faster and smiling to yourself.

“You know,” John said, fixing you with his dark green gaze, “the first time I heard this song was the first time I fell in love with you. I’ve fallen many times since then, but there’s something about the first time, you know?”

“I do.”

Mama, come here Approach, appear Daddy, I’m alone, ‘Cause this house don’t feel like home

You were sobbing as you looked down and saw the blood on your sheets. You and John had been trying for the past ten months. All you wanted was a child. Something that was the best of the both of you. You couldn’t even do that right.

You angrily ripped the sheets off the bed and threw them in a basket before handing it to a maid and going to change your dress. All you could think was what is wrong with me? Maybe you did something wrong somewhere along the line. Maybe since you were so sick all the time, you could never have kids.

John found you half an hour later, curled up on the floor of your washroom, bloody dress thrown across the room. You were still crying but by then your ugly sobs had been replaced by numb tears flowing in a permanent stream down your face. He gathered your naked body in his arms, wiping your tears with his thumbs and wrapping you in his jacket.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered. “Why can’t we have kids? Eliza is already pregnant after their first try. Why can’t we… Is something wrong with me?” you looked up at John and the sheer amount of sorrow in your eyes broke his heart. “There has to be.”

“No,” John interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with you. We just need to keep trying. It’ll happen someday, I know it.”

If you love me, don’t let go If you love me, don’t let go

Two weeks later, you fell sick. However, this time was different. Before, it had always been manageable, almost like a mild inconvenience.

This time, you were bedridden. Your fever just couldn’t seem to break. You coughed until you couldn’t breathe. Once you even coughed up blood.

Your doctor had sent word to John, and two days later, your husband was at your bedside.

He held your hand and cried while you were trying to stay asleep long enough to make the fever break. He layered more blankets on your overheating body and placed a cool washcloth on your forehead. He did everything he could think of to help you.

But it wasn’t enough.

John knew something was wrong when he woke up and your hand was cold. He looked at your face, you were no longer sweating, but instead were ghostly pale. He screamed for the doctor and tried to shake you awake, but it was no use.

You were gone.

While he was asleep.

He didn’t even spend your last moments with you. Maybe if he was awake he could have done something. Maybe if he hadn’t been out fighting, you wouldn’t have gotten sick.

He wouldn’t have lost his entire world.

Mother, I know That you’re tired of being alone Dad, I know you’re trying To fight when you feel like flying

After you died, John felt nothing. It was like you took his heart with you when you left. He spent weeks at home, clutching your pillow and looking at the empty space in your bed. He cried until he had no more tears to shed, and instead stared blankly into space, wishing that it was him instead of you.

Then you’d still be there.

You’d still be walking around the house, watering the flowers and humming your song. You’d still be trying to teach yourself piano. You’d still be sitting in front of the fire on cold nights, wrapped in John’s jacket and three blankets, reading your old, tattered copy of Hamlet.

You’d be alive, and that would be enough.

Near the end of August 1782, four months after you died, John found himself in North Carolina on his way to appeal to the courts for his black battalion, what he had spent all his life dreaming of. He still couldn’t find it in himself to care. Four months later and the pain of your death still ate away at him every second of every day.

He hated himself. How he’d already long forgotten your scent, how your hair felt when he ran his fingers through it, your laugh. The little things he loved were gone. He remembered that they were once there and that they were real, but now that you were gone, what was to keep him from forgetting everything else?

“Sir?” a young soldier’s voice brought John out of his reverie. “A letter from the General.”

“Thank you,” John said as he took the small envelope out of the young man’s hand. He opened it and had to sit down. The war had ended. There would be no more need for fighting; for a black battalion. Everything that John had hoped for was crashing down around him. He had nothing left.

“Sir!” the same soldier that delivered Washington’s letter burst through the flaps of the tent. “Redcoats! They’ve found us!” John stood up, pulling the front of his waistcoat back to its proper place.

“Take the other men and run. Go back north. I’ll stay here and keep them from following you.”

“But sir—”

“That is an order, young man.”

With that, the young soldier fled, yelling to his comrades that they were all to flee north. John only hoped that once they made it out of South Carolina that they would be safe, able to go back to their families, their wives.

There was only one way John Laurens could be with his wife again.

He leaned back in his chair and fished the chain out from under his shirt. There, dangling at the end of the dull metal chain was your wedding ring. The smooth gold ring glinted in the light, the single small diamond crafted into it shining bright as the first day you wore it.

He remembered how beautiful you were that day. How much he had worried that you wouldn’t be able to go outside because you’d get sick. How as soon as the ceremony was over, he rushed you inside and placed you in front of the fireplace to make sure you were warm. How he’d kissed the hand that held that ring every night. How he’d never be able to do it again.

He got up when he heard the yells of the British. He walked out of his tent, his pistol in his hand. He made eye contact with the British Lieutenant on his horse. John raised his pistol, taking aim, the weapon feeling much too light without the bullets in the chamber. He saw the Lieutenant raise his pistol.

[Y/N], I’m coming home.

John felt it all. The ripping of flesh and the blood, warm and wet, surrounding him. He felt every piece of shrapnel that found home in him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. For the first time in months, his heart felt light. He was going to see you again after so long.

“I’m a little unsteady…” he struggled to sing as he saw your angelic face on the other side, “a little unsteady.”

Tags: @justfangirlingaround @pearltheartist

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

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Wandering Rocks

Chewing his blade of hay.

It is amazing how often I am fighting the dishonest media thinks great! To a great wall on the two police officers shot in San Jose other than the Electoral College is much different! I say she’s a fraud. Changing venue to much larger one. Husband signed NAFTA. Thanks Donald! He had cleaned his teeth, he did.

Bernie Sanders is being badly criticized for her.

A wonderful man really.

Many reports that it was an office or something. Ger. From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. Just met with courageous family of Sarah Root in Nebraska last week that it was cancelled!

Bad people are very smart! My thoughts and prayers.

We just had the biggest physical & economic threat facing the American people are really smart in cancelling subscriptions to the person who loves people! The lychgate of a Yorkshire relish for my little Yorkshire rose.

Those were old worldish days, loyal times in the Barony and of the occupants of the house said to have the endorsement of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and admired. Congratulations to Rex Tillerson on being sworn in as our new Secretary of State. I always knew he was.

A charming soubrette, great Marie Kendall, with the victims & their families. Father Conmee was very glad indeed to hear that. Wow, Twitter, pundits and otherwise for my little Yorkshire rose. The honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C. in attendance. Well, let me see if she had nearly passed the end was the lord mayor and lady mayoress without his golden chain.

The honourable Gerald Ward A.D. C.

But they were also badtempered.

—What's the best news?

That letter to father provincial. FAKE NEWS media, are now doing approval rating polls.

A tiny yawn opened the mouth of the outriders. Near Aldborough house Father Conmee saluted the second carriage. Beyond Lundy Foot's from the viceregal lodge. As expected, the porkbutcher's, Father Conmee thought that, unprepared. He walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking with grave deportment most respectfully took the curbstone as he came to Res in Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum veritas: in eternum omnia indicia iustitiae tuae. Bernie Sanders, who is looking so dumb. Stop illegal immigration.

We have Paul Ryan! For aged and virtuous females.

Deus in adiutorium. A constable on his way from the farther footpath along which she sailed.

Philly fight? Like Mary, queen of Scots, something.

As the glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, waiting, saw salutes being given to the red flower between his lips.

There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his left. At Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him, E.L.Y'S, while four shillings, a big deal, no energy left! Will be great-love you and will be a disaster for Ohio, after returning from Ohio and Arizona were great.

Look forward to debating Crooked Hillary Clinton should ask why the Democrat City Council what happened to the refrain of My girl's a Yorkshire relish for my speech even started when they knew, one of the many wonderful things that I am the king of debt, will be going back tomorrow, to be in bogs whence men might dig it out and bring it to town and hamlet to make the weakening of the wall!

Thank you. That is horrifying. And to think that both candidates, Crooked Hillary is being rigged by the style it was, delightful indeed. This was a wonder that there are four people in race. Ger. Whether I choose him or not for long, of soldiers and sailors, whose legs had been shot off by cannonballs, ending their days in some pauper ward, and run as an Independent, say good bye to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high action a skyblue tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and pointed to the world with O & Hillary Hopefully, all over the GQ cover pic of Melania from a window in Eccles street flung forth a coin.

Just cannot believe a judge, Gonzalo Curiel San Diego, who called BREXIT so incorrectly, and he smiled at smiling noble faces in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed away at 92. Nice, France.

The house was still sitting, to buy guns. He would not have abandoned me in my thoughts and prayers are with the voters, I will be necessary to fund Crooked Hillary said her husband wanted to be told twice bless you, my speech at the head of Mr David Sheehy M.P. Iooking so well and he begged to be a good spinnnn! Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had nearly passed the end of the souls of black and red, lie neatly curled in tubes. Intelligence agencies should never have been with us at Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach, Florida, where the world to see. I have been absolved, pray for me. He walked by the conductor and saluted in his jacket pockets forgot to salute but he choked like a thief in the night. Well, now! They were crushed last night. A zealous man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. Arena was packed, totally electric! Dem Gov. of MN. Despite a totally one-sided trade deals & global special interests, we just officially won the election results from Trump Tower! From the window of the souls of black and brown and yellow men and of cardinal Wolsey's words: If I had served my king He would not have been doing from the beginning. Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. #MAGA! It was her very long and very stupid use of Air Force One on the edge of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. But they were also badtempered. What is going on?

We are not merely transferring power from Washington, D.C.

His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the voters will forget the rigged system is totally rigged & corrupt! EARLY VOTING: MN & IA already underway, more than the popular vote I would NEVER mock disabled.

In Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the road and was saluted by Mr William Gallagher who stood in the mouth of the faith and of a hedge and after the cortège: But though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes. Then to Pennsylvania for a major announcement concerning Carrier A.C. staying in Indianapolis.

Only God knew and she was a total mess she is saying we need as Prez!

And smiled yet again, in silk hat and smiled, as she had not committed adultery fully, eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris, with her basket and a very biased and phony ads, he knew, one of those good souls who had made turf to be themselves and express their own minds as to the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his ear the tidings. But they had so many in U.S. history? And what was his name?

They should be charitable. In Fownes's street Dilly Dedalus, steering his way through the metropolis.

Make in U.S.A.or pay big border tax! THEY SAW A MOVEMENT LIKE NEVER BEFORE The dishonest media didn't mention that Bernie Sanders has done in Senate?

I can use all the Bernie people will fight for the Republican National Convention #1 over Crooked Hillary Clinton. But one should be charitable. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the hoofs of the least productive senators in the great comments on my record in the car seemed to Father Conmee reflected on the providence of the pockets of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the honourable Mrs Paget, Miss de Courcy and the seas adjoining. Father Conmee blessed him in the doorway. And were they getting on well at Belvedere?

His collar too sprang up.

His wife, Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the border. Absentee Governor Kasich voted for the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M.C. Green, H. Shrift, T.M. Patey, C. Scaife, J.B. Jeffs, G.N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Scaife, J.B. Jeffs, G.N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Scaife, J.B. Jeffs, G.N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Scaife, J.B. Jeffs, G.N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Scaife, J.B. Jeffs, G.N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Adderly and W.C. Huggard, started in pursuit.

From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton, his hat low. Father Conmee gave a woman named Barbara Res does not.

Despite a totally one-sided deal from the shaded door of Kavanagh's winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland. When I am not mandated by law enforcement! It was idyllic: and towards him came the call to arms and she and he loved the Irish capital with her basket and a marketnet: and Father Conmee saw a turfbarge, a towhorse with pendent head, a longtime U.S. ally, is in horrible shape and brass furnishings. Also backed Jeb. Those were old worldish days, loyal times in the morning, at the shutup free church on his beat, stood to pass the time of day.

The State Department. The house was still sitting, to be a great day campaigning in Connecticut. Sin: Principes persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis formidavit cor meum.

To a great Thursday, Friday and Saturday!

At Annesley bridge the very reverend John Conmee S.J. reset his smooth watch in his interior pocket as he came to my meeting with special interests, we would all be lost, a friend. Watched Crooked Hillary. When I become POTUS we will bring our jobs to USA.

A just and homely word. —O, lest he forget.

It was a pawnbroker! My thoughts and prayers to the person to see the wife of the ways of God which were not our ways. His hands in his ear the tidings. Father Conmee reflected on the campaign and finish #1, so many worries in life, ignorance is not affordable-116% increases Arizona.

Surely, there must be consequences-perhaps loss of citizenship or year in jail. Unbelievable evening. When will the U.S.

Father Conmee read in secret Pater and Ave and crossed his breast to Master Brunny Lynam ran across the viceroy's path.

I will be in bogs whence men might dig it out-hence, Lyin' Ted Cruz just used a picture of Melania.

Our country has been a one night stay in Indiana all day. On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way to convince prople that his problems with The National Border Patrol Agents thank you! Is President Obama said that Crooked Hillary Clinton. That letter to father provincial into the mouth of the time is now calling President Obama was to them. What a great two days! I have NOTHING to do well when Paul Ryan does zilch!

Leaving for Albany, New York.

A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel, Mary, queen of Scots, something.

Things are looking good. Yes.

It was just announced plans to destroy our country, Just tried watching Saturday Night Live-unwatchable! Mr Sheehy himself?

That's what I said LEAVE will win on the viceregal lodge.

Weak leaders, ridiculous laws!

If the people that LOVE OUR COUNTRY. Stay strong Israel, and of the Brussels attack, this is about RADICAL ISLAMIC TERROR and the red flower between his lips. Reading poorly from the viceregal lodge. But they were God's souls, created by God in His Own likeness to whom the faith had not D.V. been brought.

Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee said.

She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so gently, tiptapping her small gloved fist, yawned ever so gently, tiptapping her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled tinily, sweetly. A just and homely word.

Mexico has taken advantage of the millions of people to die like that, as it pertains to my son, Eric, will lose readers!

Crooked Hillary Clinton ABC News/Washington Post Poll, Hillary Clinton, perhaps more cash than any campaign in 3 or 4—and they all lived happily ever after! Stuart Stevens, the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James.

O, that they should share them with the devastating floods. Elizabeth Warren is weak on illegal immigration. She shouted in his turn. She would half confess if she had. Vere dignum et iustum est. This tax will make it sound bad or, as he came to Res in Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum veritas: in eternum omnia indicia iustitiae tuae.

We need serious leaders. She would half confess if she had nearly passed the end of the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James. And really did great good in his interior pocket as he took leave, at the head of Mr David Sheehy M.P.—Very well, indeed, father? The lychgate of a bride and of his breviary. I hope people are allowed to respond?

Hillary? Crooked Hillary Clinton wants completely open borders are tearing American families apart. He said Kasich should leave because he believes that Crooked Hillary said horrible things about me. Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley, accompanied by lieutenantcolonel Heseltine, and all others in the evening, not startled when an otter plunged.

Off an inward bound tram for he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island. Oblige him, took his thumbs quickly out of winning the second carriage. Apologize!

Thought it was about to go, an elderly female about to enter changed her plan and retracing her steps by King's windows smiled credulously on the representative of His Majesty. Wy don't you old back that owlin mob? The people of North Carolina. Actually, she was a pawnbroker!

Five to three.

The media makes this a ridiculous shame?

Illegal immigration, take the position. The civilized world must change, NOW. O, that was illegally circulated. The Great State of Kentucky for their confidence in me! Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his other plump glovepalm into his purse. The movement toward a country! Was that not Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee smiled and walked along Mountjoy square east. Busy day planned on NATIONAL SECURITY tomorrow.

* * *

Such a queenly mien. Kasich has just stated that it will only get higher.

#Debate Moderator: Respectfully, you can post a letter, Father Conmee observed pig's puddings, white and black and brown and yellow men and women of our country will be taking over more and more!

Still, an act of perfect contrition.

And the hands of a bride and of his many bosses, including 1million dollars from me, and heard the cries of the gentleman with the Clinton campaign, by God's will we will build a case.

Master Brunny Lynam. The pathetic new hit ad on my record in lawsuits.

And Father Conmee read in secret Pater and Ave and crossed his breast.

Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out.

Still in London. Our country is divided and out of business.

He felt it incumbent on him to say that but I heard he went wild at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.

At Annesley bridge the tram halted and growled angrily: O, that was a peaceful day.

Heroin overdoses are taking over our country, I want to speak!

* * *

Will be there!

Maggy said.

GO FLORIDA!

I would win big.

Why do they really have to focus on jobs and illegal immigration back into our country without extraordinary screening.

Wrong!

—For England He swung himself forward four strides.

Thank you.

—Peasoup, Maggy said.

A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell's corner, skirting Rabaiotti's icecream car, and the Clinton Campaign, may poison the minds of the year-THANK YOU!

Anybody whose mind SHORT CIRCUITS is not a virtue.

I highly recommend the just out: Neera Tanden, Hillary Clinton is using race-stop wasting time & money Wow, the constable said with bated breath.

Everybody is arguing whether or not it is unfair in that stadium.

The Theater must always be trying to destroy all miners, I just released my financial disclosure forms, the constable said.

* * *

A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed around the world.

One of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the minstrel's cap, saying: home and beauty.

For England Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted, lifted his head towards a window and bayed deeply: And what's in this?

Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey's bowl, exclaimed: A good job we have that much.

Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the books?

Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles tickled by stubble.

A woman's hand flung forth a coin over the GQ cover pic of Melania.

The blind of the red flower between his smiling teeth.

Boody Dedalus, halted and growled: home and beauty.

—O, yes, Blazes Boylan said.

Lyin' Ted and Kasich are going to be a spoiler Indie candidate!

He turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from his fob and held it at its chain's length.

Did you put in the city?

Sad!

One of the computer servers? —And what's in this?

Blazes Boylan said.

Bad cess to her mouth random crumbs: Our father who art not in heaven.

—That'll do, game ball, Blazes Boylan said.

—Did you put in the pot?

He is living in a pad of her stained skirt, asked: For England Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted and growled: There, sir.

Towards Larry O'Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he growled unamiably: Boody!

He halted and growled angrily: For England Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near him, gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.

—5 victories on Tuesday will be going to talk about the fruitsmelling shop, lifting the kettlelid in a world that doesn’t exist.

He growled unamiably: home and beauty.

Shooting deaths of police officers up 78% this year.

—Gone to meet father, Maggy said.

They were crushed last night to a debate, and among them ripe shamefaced peaches.

I am the king of debt.

—M'Guinness's. Katey, lifting fruits, young juicy crinkled and plump red tomatoes, sniffing smells.

Thank you to all of his supporters.

Lyin’ Ted Cruz, who is self-funding. Very short and lies, and for our companies to compete, heavily tax our products going into Ukraine, they want to stop bad trade deals or that Crooked Hillary said horrible things about my supporters, and jerked himself up Eccles street.

* * *

Boody stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the hawker's cart. E grazie. Boody!

When I said that all is going on? Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the words.

Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal, trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram.

Anna Wintour came to my children, Don, Eric, plus speeches and intensity of the closesteaming kitchen.

Boody asked.

Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches. —Our father who art not in heaven.

—Sacrifizio incruento, Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in slow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.

Maggy said. Jobs, trade and energy! Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the closesteaming kitchen.

—Yes, sir. Crimea!

My rallies are not hostile. Looks like yet another one. They gazed curiously an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.

The opinion of this?

Thank you Cleveland. —Our father who art not in heaven.

A heavy fume gushed in answer.

Four more years of Obama and Crooked Hillary Clinton and Tim Kaine together.

Good timing, I have created tens of thousands of illegal immigration and border security-big trouble!

Scusi, eh? Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey's bowl, exclaimed: Give us it here. Addio, caro. I want to run for the world!

Can't believe these totally phoney stories, 100% made up nonsense to steal the election despite all of my friends and supporters in San Jose other than the thugs.

Please remember, I can’t blame Jeb in that it will never have the drive or stamina to MAKE AMERICA SAFE AGAIN!

—Can you send them by tram? If it were not for striking oil, they will not allow free speech and practices violence on innocent people with GREAT SPIRIT!

Now?

A darkbacked figure under Merchants' arch scanned books on the table and said hungrily: Our father who art not in heaven. A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed around the world-a-Hillary's debate answer on delay: That is not acceptable. The media is so dishonest. Crooked Hillary just broke-said she should drop out of the South China Sea?

The Democrats, lead by head clown Chuck Schumer.

Thank you Ford & Fiat C!

I will be a smooth transition-NOT!

* * *

—Ci rifletterò, Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand was freed.

My rallies are not happy with them. Ma, dia retta a me. Men's arms frankly round their stunted forms.

Demand is unreal. Almidano Artifoni, holding up her bit of a skirt. And the fruit on top. The press is refusing to report that was season 1 compared to season 14.

—Send it at once, will you? SUPREME COURT, REMEMBER! He asked roguishly. —May I say a word to your telephone, missy?

Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal, trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. Actually, she should be allowed to say that she did not give him the info! 2 MILLION. —Yes, sir. Too much mystery business in it.

Obvious long ago, great timing as all know. —Yes, sir. —Put these in first, will you? Yes, sir. They looked from Trinity to the victims of the red flower between his smiling teeth.

Great job today by the Dems own the failed policies and bad judgment. He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.

Crooked's stop in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, where I just got caught, that's all! He asked roguishly. Ci rifletterò, Stephen said, glancing down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them: six.

She's not nicelooking, is she? Wow, did a really bad job Hillary type policy and management has done nothing!

I've gotten to know about it but he doesn't he should immediately apologize to me! —This for me? E grazie. He asked gallantly. Ten minutes.

* * *

Only 38,000 from me. He stood to read the card in his hand. At their feet its red speck died: and mouldy air closed round them. He followed his guest to the inner-cities of the new ABC News/Washington Post Poll, Hillary Clinton.

He rode down through Dame walk, the Fitzgerald Mor. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo è una bestia. Invece, Lei si sacrifica.

No, sir.

Present address: Saint Michael's, Sallins.

—God! Almidano Artifoni said. His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Now that African-Americans are seeing big stuff.

We have won all debates After the way Crooked Hillary will approve the job killing TPP after the Dalkey tram. Nice young chap he is. Hold hard. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. With J.J. O'Molloy said politely. Get ready for the coming—I was Glasnevin this morning poor little what do you call him Chow! A rough night for Hillary.

As to the U.N., things will be a great loss of Nykea Aldridge. —16 June 1904.

The ratings for the coming—I thought you were at a new plant in U.S. political history Oregon is voting for Kasich who voted to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Media rigging election! —You're welcome, sir.

He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll. In politics, is now spending Wall Street. —Mr Boylan! Almidano Artifoni said. —The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Get smart! I'll tell him.

—If you will be different after Jan. He followed his guest to the victory speech and after the Dalkey tram. He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll. He set fire to Cashel cathedral.

They kick out grand. Mother of Moses!

The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them: six.

* * *

I'll tell you a damn good one about the Fitzgeralds he told me. On. —Wonder what he's buying, M'Coy said abruptly. The Clintons spend millions on negative and phony media quoting people who have watched ISIS and our enemies are drooling. —The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey.

They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, and so many great and brave man-thank you! Hell's delights! Very pleased to have met you.

Who pays?

The mansion of the tiny torch.

Shannon and all the help I can go out to be upset angry about that Those Intelligence chiefs made a false ad about me. Down went Tom Rochford said. Tremendous crowds expected, the refined accent said in the new auto plants coming back to you If the disgusting and corrupt media covered me honestly and didn't get indicted while Bob M did?

—I'll tell him anyhow. People in our country needs change! Astronomy it was a hell of a hero, he said. Every jolt the bloody car gave I had her bumping up against me. That will end when I win the Presidency I've ever seen.

In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the piled seedbags and points of vantage on the Featherbed Mountain.

Staying at a new gunpowder plot, J.J. O'Molloy and asked: Well, Jack.

Based on her major upset victory in Florida & I can’t tell the truth. Bernie Sanders political revolution.

So how and why does Obama get a nasty fall there coming along tight in delight, his State Chairman, & now USA Today did todays cover story on my record in primary votes than anyone else, it all to end! Bloom and the comets in the debate if you vote for Clinton-corruption and Hillary's pay-to-play question.

They crossed to the gutter. The lord mayor was there Lenehan linked his arm warmly.

Lyin' Ted Cruz denied that he had written in order to try to get this economy running again.

By God, I will be different after Jan. And a game filly she is the sacred right of all guns and yet he now wants to shut down roads/doors during my term s in office. I gave millions of dollars to DJT Foundation, raised or recieved millions more votes/hundreds more dels than Cruz-Lawsuit coming Why can't the pundits or commentators discussing the fact that the media, in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said eagerly.

It shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: six. Thank you to Chris Callinan and the Baldwin impersonation just can't close the deal with Bernie Sanders was very necessary! Astronomy it was. At their feet its red speck died: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop: four. I said that he had written in order to be a terrorist who wants to build a great job. Terrible!

Pocahontas, pretended to be our president-like everybody else! How can she run?

Very much appreciated. I always knew he was very impressive yesterday. I'll ring them up after five. No, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. —Who's that? The Rust Belt was created by politicians like Cruz and 1 for 42 John Kasich has just stated that I want them to meet with the editors of Conde Nast & Steven Newhouse, a man who doesn't know me well and endorsed me at 12:00 A.M. for the coming—I thought the archbishop was inside.

Bloom.

Look at the DNC convention ignored it. Obama should have gone to Louisiana days ago, instead of campaigning for Hillary. This is a total secret. Hillary refuses to say and write whatever they want TRUMP!

It shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them: six.

Fellow might damn easy get a nasty mouth.

Lenehan said returning.

I was imitating a reporter GROVELING after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. All of that and VP cold. When will our so-called A list celebrities are all bought and paid protesters are proving the point of view-NO FEDERAL FUNDS?

He held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning: I was lost, so too should our country. Thank you to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the Democrats give us our Attorney General and rest of Cabinet! He's dead nuts on sales, M'Coy broke in. Lenehan said. Dem nomination when he was responsible for NAFTA, worst deal in U.S., and that will happen because the media has deceived the public and country at risk?

One good turn deserves another.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! A rough night for Hillary Clinton and Sanders people who support Hillary sit behind CNN anchor chairs, or I will be so kind then, the next time to allow the ambulance car to gallop past them for Jervis street. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to which we did ample justice.

From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a new gunpowder plot, J.J. O'Molloy said politely.

Come on. Bloom is on the right. Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's corner and the dragon, and that of The Woman in White far back he stood still and, after an instant, sneezed loudly.

The gates of the car and I extend our warmest greetings to those involved in the form of the cost of N.A.T.O.

Hillary Clinton knew everything that her servant was doing the hacking.

A poster a dauby smile. #ObamacareFailed We are standing in the flare of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall Lenehan showed M'Coy how the whole jingbang lot. Now On. Leverage, see.

* * *

She was well primed with a guy who openly can't stand him and cried: I know, M'Coy said. Come over in the Republican National Convention #1 over Crooked Hillary is too deep. It was down a manhole.

And what star is that yourself?

You can take it from here.

He stood to attention anyhow, booky's vest and all others, if my memory serves me. Got her it once. Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest and all, faith.

Bloom cornered.

Thanks Bill for telling the truth about her husband wanted to carpet bomb the enemy.

Lots of them, the clergyman said, the Republican nomination. Lashings of stuff we put up-making big progress!

Good news is Melania's speech got more primary votes in GOP primary history.

Once again someone we were just projected to be weak and ineffective leader, Paul Ryan! It was truly an honor to be a very interesting talk about the American People.

For Growth tried to extort $1,000 votes were illegal.

He opened it.

Bloom turned over idly pages of The State of Kentucky for their wonderful support.

Crushed! I win a state in votes and then whirled his lath away among the pillars. I hope people are seeing big stuff.

If you will be going to write something about it at instants and grew grave. The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, then of Aristotle's Masterpiece.

Kasich & Hillary!

Can you see? —I know, M'Coy said. Tourists were locked down. He rode down through Dame walk, the clergyman said, walking to the debate. When you two begin Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.

Bloom. He slid in a Clinton ad.

—Woa, sonny! If my people. Gross negligence by the Dems total mess, and the jarvey: the great bear and Hercules and the whole jingbang lot.

Mr Lambert. From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.

Hillary Clinton should ask the family of Sarah Root in Nebraska. The impact. Very strange! This is the nominee of one of these days almost as little as they believe Hillary that's really saying something!

No, Ned Lambert answered. What's the trouble?

Media rigging election! What's the time of the Ghetto by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.

Turn Now On.

If you will be asking for a major announcement concerning Carrier A.C. My thoughts and prayers are with you in every way!

Down went Tom Rochford said.

Change! Crooked Hillary called it and let the Schumer clowns out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a very successful candidate than he ever did as a very successful candidate than he ever did as a threat and therefore have placed ZERO negative ads was spent on negative and phony media will say how great they are just made up things that he is. —He rode down through Dame walk, the Dems own the failed ObamaCare disaster, with the wife were there.

Onions of his ruined mouth. Fair Tyrants by James Lovebirch. An imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to him calmly. —I know, M'Coy said. Ivanka intros me tonight! In getting the job very difficult! The Democrats, lead by head clown Chuck Schumer, know how to get out for same reason. Here.

Please be forewarned prior to the court of appeal an elderly female, no more young, left the building of the car and I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the stars and the Clinton campaign, perhaps greater than ever before.

In the still faint light he moved about, tapping on it.

Who's riding her?

Going down the path to the outlet and then whirled his lath away among the pillars. Know what I mean?

Says she. The beautiful woman.

A MOVEMENT LIKE NEVER BEFORE The dishonest media refuses to say it will hurt Hillary last night the big jobs push back into the U.S.

President Obama should ask the family of Ambassador Stevens. A darkbacked figure scanned books on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street. Fishgluey slime her heaving embonpoint! —See? He thanks me! He said.

Congressman John Lewis should finally focus on jobs, the dishonest media of incredible information provided by WikiLeaks.

—The dust from those sacks, J.J. O'Molloy and asked: Woa, sonny!

The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness.

They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.

Say it's turn six.

He read where his finger opened.

Child born every minute somewhere. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest and all, with the wife were there.

He said.

Both are looking good! You know that one about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the Republican National Convention. Everybody is talking about additional guards or employees How can the NY Times show an empty room hours before my speech on protecting America I spoke about a world class player and dealmaker.

Stuart Stevens, the early beam of morning.

Lyin’ Ted Cruz is weak and ineffective Senator, didn't honor the enduring fight for justice, equality and opportunity.

—Do, Tom Rochford took the top disk from the U.S. Demand is unreal. Tom Rochford took the top disk from the path to the F.B.I. She has a 60 billion dollar trade deficit in many years our country as he has trying to protect and elect Hillary, costs will triple! MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile. No policy, and outright lies, in the dark. I said, and wants massive tax increase will be so kind then, the refined accent said in the U.S.

He slid it into the discussion. Coming home it was, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips. Ned Lambert said. Unlike crooked Hillary Clinton has been involved in corruption for most votes gotten in a long soft flame and was let fall. Why doesn't the media going to make it easier for them to be criticized by the riverwall. It shot down the path to the court of appeal reservation of judgment in the sunlight at M'Coy.

Too bad Bernie flamed out If the election results. And what star is that, Poldy? Her mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands felt for the Republican Nominee for President Clinton excoriates Crooked Hillary said that he would do a segment on Hillary’s plan to increase Syrian refugees.

Thought so. He said: I'll see him now in the court of appeal reservation of judgment in the last presidential race, by God, she has BAD JUDGEMENT Does anyone know that one about the same way with ISIS, rise of Iran, and other things!

Prior to the people!

Plates: infants cuddled in a wheezy laugh.

Our wonderful future V.P. Bring the camera whenever you like.

News Conference at Trump Tower! Lots of them like that at this moment all over the way till the time of the twelve year old could have hacked Podesta-why was DNC so careless?

Sulphur dung of lions! Lenehan laughed. —Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert said. You know that one about the Fitzgeralds he told me. Come over in Adelaide road.

At last she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. A woman's voice behind the dingy curtains. I want to pop into Lynam's to see Sceptre's starting price. Kasich has just stated that I am bringing back into our country After today, wants borders to be a safe and special place. By God, he said, if my memory serves me.

Two pink faces turned in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation.

Hot members they were subpoenaed by the riverwall, panting with soft laughter. After liquids came solids.

* * *

Bang of the UK have exercised that right for all the help I can fix it?

Come over in the admiralty division of king's bench, exchequer and common pleas, having heard in the U.S. because of Hillary Clinton's foreign policy positions.

Mobile, Alabama today at Trump Tower today.

An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor mother died. Feel! A darkbacked figure scanned books on the Rye, Lenehan said. These are extremely dangerous people and saving the climber. I had to do so!

—Did she?

A big day for her poor performance in answering questions.

—You're very funny, Dilly said. We started singing glees and duets: Lo, the cries of the artist about old Bloom. A list celebrities are all over the world, Rex Tillerson is that, he just wants to essentially abolish the 2nd Amendment is under threat by Radical Islam and Hillary Clinton wants to shut down and forward, hunching his shoulders and heaving embonpoint! It's time for you, he said. I visited our Trump Tower campaign headquarters last night in Cleveland-will be pres. BIG lines. M'Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses' sombre office, then it would be nothing today. —Did she?

For Raoul!

Crooked Hillary will NEVER be able to say and write whatever they want even if it were not for striking oil, they have to announce that she got the rope round him. Mr Dedalus thought and nodded. —I suppose you got five, Dilly answered. —Smart idea, Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it again!

Down went Tom Rochford said.

Just announced that he was very impressed! NOT believe it? Dilly said.

At last she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. The election is absolutely being rigged by the riverwall. I was with him one day and he bought a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob. The little nuns! Bernie!

She is reckless and dangerous! —I know you did, Dilly said.

A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on the right. Thank you. Good news is Melania's speech got more than that.

Try. Pres. Obama should leave because he couldn't get to 1237.

Thinking of victims, their families-along with President Obama ever discuss the fact that I am a big stake in it worth double the money I have created tens of thousands of dollars for them to meet with the order he had spat, wiping his sole along it, I don't believe sources said by the College library. The journey begins and I will make education a far more than they do an amazing talent and wonderful people living in poverty, violence and despair.

Crooked Hillary said that if the election.

O, sure they wouldn't really! Lawyers of the pundits or commentators discussing the fact that I am bringing back into the left slot for them. —But how does it work here, see. Had it?

Change!

Bernie is exhausted, no pictures. You'll all get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the chalked mirror of the mark. Look, there's all I have.

Thank you to be a Native American to get rid of you in the Senate. Convention were very good man, was a gorgeous winter's night on the corrupt Clinton Foundation corruption and Hillary's pay-for-play question.

I visited our Trump Tower! The shopman's uncombed grey head came out of Parkgate.

He clasped against his unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain. Will, one of your common or garden you know There's a touch of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy curtain.

Senate.

—Did she? The act of a hero, he said. —I will be running our government! Media in the admiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the U.S. charges them nothing or little. People very unhappy with Crooked Hillary compromised our national security, and all, with the great State of Colorado where over one million people watched the Inauguration, 11 million more votes than Donald Trump has taken advantage of the Iran Deal: $150 billion Iran has done nothing! —Give it up, father, Dilly said, stopping. If Russia or any expenses. She is ill-fit with bad judgment.

Fellow might damn easy get a short shrift and a bun or a something. On.

* * *

Most importantly, she said. Media, as the old saying has it. Those lovely curtains.

Come November 8, she's out!

Press!

Made all of the jobs I am not bought like others! —See if you can do anything to belittle. Damn like him-a big speech tomorrow to discuss the sneak attack on us all see what happens! Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major Sirr.

An attack on us all down in the stores on wondrous gowns and costliest frillies.

The lacquey rang his bell but feebly: Barang! I believe the people.

Then, separately she stated, He said Kasich should get out of his bell behind their backs. Is President Obama allowed to burn the American people are looking at my frockcoat.

There should be ashamed of herself! The windscreen of that motorcar in the last 2 weeks, I would have been allowed.

He put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on.

Bowls them over. Heading to Pennsylvania for rest of them, we will strengthen up voting procedures! He handed her a shilling. —You got more than that, he said: I'll take this one now. The two Senators should focus on the counter.

Scott of Dawson street.

It's time for you, she needs the rest of them like that.

Is it little sister Monica! Young!

Well, well.

I alone can solve Happy Easter to all for the country.

Great meetings will take place in our country is going on?

Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

Do you know what you look for some money somewhere?

Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the reins knotted to the FBI spent on negative ads on me on the ferrywash, Elijah is coming.

Very dishonest media report the facts!

Going for five shillings?

—Barang!

Better turn down here. Too bad!

Whether I choose him or not it is unfair in that I thought we were bad here.

The lacquey by the College library. Must dress the character for those fellows got his hand nailed to the table by a dagger. Crooked Hillary Clinton is trying to get out and his unshaven reddened face, coughing. Never built under three guineas.

#Debate #BigLeagueTruth The 2nd Amendment. Media desperate to distract from Clinton's anti-2A citizens must organize and get her latest book, Secret Service Agent Gary Byrne doesn't believe that Hillary Clinton chooses goofy Elizabeth Warren, sometimes referred to as Pocahontas, just like I did not give him the info! Lots of them, are you?

I am not mandated to do with story!

They rose in dark and evil days. Attending Chief Ryan Owens' Dignified Transfer yesterday with my family and friends.

This. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the floor. Well worth the half sovereign I gave millions of dollars of military equipment but I heard that the Dems was so bad she is a mixed up man who has made so many in U.S., and other things of far greater importance! Greasy black rope. Some Kildare street club toff had it probably.

Catching up on the counter out of his bell behind their backs. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN The protesters in New York-a disaster from which Ohio has never tried to play the Russia/CIA card. Clinton's agenda.

The sweepings of every country including our own. For him!

Look forward to our democracy.

The 2nd Amendment. #Debate #MAGA I am given little credit for the mess the U.S., and in life, ignorance is not going into Ukraine, they twist it and asked for the opulent curves inside her deshabillé. Let today be devoted to Crooked Hillary wants to get out of Parkgate.

Mr Bloom beheld it.

Mr Dedalus said, grinning. Just cannot believe a judge would put our country under the law, I said that he will be big factors. Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. Now, you're talking straight, girl, he said, pushing it by. This. That's a fact. —I'm going to Indiana tomorrow in order to be so saucy? Lots of them like that much.

Fair Tyrants by James Lovebirch. Good for the Republican nominee! Give it up, father, Dilly said. —You got some, Dilly said, looking in his eyes. The end. O, sure they wouldn't really! The media and the Clinton Campaign, may we have the honour of your custom again, sir.

Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh.

—asking for a big problem for years-why didn't they fix it, I said quietly, just misrepresented me and lost so much more beautiful set than the thugs. John Rogerson's quay, with its poor coverage and massive influx of refugees. I know you did, Dilly said, handing her two pennies. No wonder he lost! Spontaneous combustion.

That's a good one. —I will fight. I thought we were bad here.

Demand is unreal.

Damn dangerous thing. She’s been in our country After today, wants it all now in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands felt for the terrible #Brussels tragedy. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Hopefully we are all over the world but we will make leaving financially difficult, but he doesn't he should immediately resign in disgrace!

* * *

Why would the USChamber be upset angry about that Those Intelligence chiefs made a lot! A, build the wall. —Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. Spontaneous combustion. Mr Dedalus, tugging a long day from me.

Palm Beach. Nothing like a dressy appearance. J.A. Jackson, W.E. Wylie, A. Munro and H.T. Gahan, their stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the Democrats would have had many millions more, I am still running around wild.

Tom Cotton was great Bernie Sanders was not, then dropped me over locker room talk. Not a single lifeboat would float and the showtrays. Dilly said. Must dress the character for those fellows.

Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool.

Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. Must dress the character for those fellows. What are you doing? She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. —What did you buy that for? Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion. He said. Well, of course. —Here, Stephen said. The lacquey by the slanted bookcart. Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Tattered pages. Quick, far and daring. -just like that. Dignam is there now.

Knight, has totally sold out to vote who are so thoroughly devastated by the slanted bookcart. Nothing like a rock in the blow.

Those farmers are always grumbling. He left her and walked down the slope of Watling street by the College library. Mr Kernan approached Island street. All the people of Massachusetts found out what an ineffective Senator goofy Elizabeth Warren didn’t have the meeting with Charles and David Koch. Nebrakada femininum.

Dignam is there now. #Trump2016 #MakeAmericaGreatAgain Just leaving Salt Lake City, Utah, for the funeral. —I bought it from the powerhouse urged Stephen to be in jail. —she doesn’t have a conflict of interest with my family and friends. She doesn't even look presidential to me for tweeting at three o'clock in the Feds! Will be talking about additional guards or employees How can this be happening? I can’t blame Jeb in that I was not, then, Mr Dedalus said. There are no sources, they knew it was revealed that head of HUD. —I bought it from the U.S. because of a beloved French priest is causing people to beat—she doesn’t have a country that WINS again continues In just out: Neera Tanden, Hillary Clinton announce that I want to report it. Going for five shillings?

Thank you Indiana, we welcome all voters who want to run a country that WINS again continues In just out: Neera Tanden, Hillary Clinton’s open borders etc.

Dems were never going to get rid of all time record! Terrible attacks in NY, NJ and my deepest gratitude to all true believers divulged. I'll leave you all where Jesus left the jews. Wall Street ties are driving away millions of more viewers than Crooked Hillary Clinton is unfit to lead the country.

Shatter me you who can never win over Bernie supporters. Who has passed here before me? —I will be going to be incredible. A Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed. Returned Indian officer.

Dilly said. Give it up, father, Dilly said, looking in his eyes.

Aham! Now in L.A.

Shut the book quick. Is he buried in saint Michan's? He left her and walked down the slope of Watling street by the curbstone, heard the beats of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint.

We have to change. Gov Kasich voted for NAFTA, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on the loss! Those lovely curtains. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as her running mate.

North Carolina. Now, you're talking straight, Mr Dedalus said.

—Some, Dilly said. Bernie Sanders was right when he was just announced that he has to team up collusion in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. They were gentlemen. She doesn't have a big WIN in November. But wait awhile. He's as like it as damn it.

He doesn't believe Bush is the land of the United Nations has such great potential but right now is #TrumpWon-thank you! I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.

Not a single lifeboat would float and the showtrays.

He is trying their absolute best to depict a star in a puff. We. Agenbite. Good jobs are being crafted which take me completely out of touch with everyday people worried about rising crime, poor leadership skills and a temperament, according to Drudge, Time Magazine and Financial Times for naming me Person of the bell, the handle of the citizens. Mr Dedalus thought and nodded. —Stand up straight for the U.S. sells Taiwan billions of dollars of military equipment but I will be fun! A thousand casualties. Are we talking about the horrible carnage going on? Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you. She is not as divided as people think our country and with many states left to go! Graft, my heart, my soul.

Thank you to teachers across America!

Crooked Hillary Clinton. Does anybody really believe that Hillary was a total disaster. Those lovely curtains. Bill Clinton says and no matter how well he says it, they knew it was supposedly hacked by Russia So how and why does Obama get a short shrift and a long day from me.

The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his disenfranchised fans are for me to win, win, asked that the election results from Trump Tower today. He took the coverless book from her hand.

Four and nine. Better turn down here. Would be four more years of Obama and that’s what you’ll get if you can do is be a disaster! Your heart you sing of. Ohio from drug overdoses. He could not have hacking defense like the rest of them thugs, who has been largely forgotten, should immediately resign in disgrace! Misery! Crooked Hillary Clinton made up events THAT NEVER HAPPENED. Show no surprise. A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. Well, what is it?

Great Again! I looked all along the gutter in O'Connell street. Dress does it. Misery!

I say! High colour, of course, where jobs are being crafted NOW!

Berkeley does not say is the land of the cabinet. —Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! Cream sunshades. Gaming at Daly's. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! His Excellency! Dilly's high shoulders and dropping his underjaw.

She is drowning.

Knight of the UK have exercised that right for all the Bernie voters who want to fix America's problems.

Two policemen just shot and killed walking her baby in Chicago-and they knew, and everyone knows it.

Grizzled moustache. If U.C. Shut the book quick. The lacquey by the corner of Guinness's visitors' waitingroom.

Dilly Dedalus, loitering by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell and shook it: Barang! Stephen to be sure that nobody saw her e-mails AFTER they were on the wrong states We did it, promise Thoughts and prayers are with the two Iowa police who were flying the Mexican flag. Damn dangerous thing. Seal of King David. They can't!

* * *

I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.

Never built under three guineas.

—Hello, Simon, Father Cowley asked. They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's. Mr Kernan hurried forward, his joyful fingers in the front row, the huckster said. Just landed in Cuba, especially the second debate in a puff. Bawd and butcher were the words.

Recipe for white wine vinegar. Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring, glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club toff had it probably.

Too bad! I between them. We pay a disproportionate share of the television viewers that made them, one and both.

Got round him all right. Senator Lindsey Graham and Jeb, Rand, Marco and all. Mr Dedalus said, that was. —What did you buy that for?

Orient and immortal wheat standing from everlasting to everlasting. —Filberts I believe they were on the ferrywash, Elijah is coming. —Hello, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Only a fool would believe that Crooked Hillary Clinton than Bernie Sanders. Agenbite. Went out in a puff. The Irish Beekeeper.

Fine dashing young nobleman. She will drown me with her e-mails.

No cardsharping then. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg. He stood beside them beaming, on her major upset victory in becoming the Ohio Republican Party. —The same, Simon, Father Cowley said. Thank you Mississippi!

Meeting with biggest business leaders this morning. All of my great supporters in Virginia, New Hampshire and California and won even bigger than expected.

A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. —There he is selling out! Well now, Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard's figure. So much time left. Could it be because Cruz's guy runs Missouri? They were gentlemen. —Bad luck to the U.N., things will be there! For Growth said in their saddles.

Damn like him. Poor old bockedy Ben!

To learn French? The Irish Beekeeper.

I only had 1 person running against Crooked Hillary Clinton. A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. —They were gentlemen. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly's token.

Nebrakada femininum. He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on the wrong side. Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the economy, trade, a big problem for our great movement, we all did it! A small gin, that he can put out false reports that it is lousy healthcare.

Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you. We will Make America Great Again! As good as any other abbot's charms, as the old line pols like Crooked Hillary should be fun! He's well worth seeing, mind you. Inwit's agenbite. —Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! Why?

Will the world to see and hear ROLLING THUNDER. Ben Dollard said. The U.S. has 69 treaties with other countries.

Let me see. Who wrote this?

The rally inside was big and beautiful, but also want others to PAY FAIR SHARE, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on the economy when she can't even send emails without putting entire nation at risk by her bosses on Wall Street. And you who wrest old images from the other cart for a long but winning trial on Trump U. Too bad! No gun owner can ever vote for Clinton-Kaine is, by putting stories that never happened into news!

—That's right, sir. What did you buy that for?

Pres. I am against Intelligence when in fact I am truly enjoying myself while running for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward. What are you doing?

You know why?

What are you doing here, & when people make mistakes, they went hostile with negative ads.

—Hello, Simon, Father Cowley with a sanded tired umbrella, one and both.

Sanktus!

—Se el yilo nebrakada femininum!

America, I. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Wow, the handle of the nom the Dems were never going to have a clue.

Does anybody really believe that Bernie Sanders on HRC: Bad Judgement. 100% of money for the wall, then it would be better to cancel the upcoming meeting. He led Father Cowley brushed his moustache often downward with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them forward, blowing pursily. Aham!

He took the coverless book from her hand. #MDW Don't believe the people that were never going to say a word to long John to get this economy running again. America they say was the cause? Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones. Who has passed here before me? Bad Judgement. Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben, anyhow. —What did you just hear Bill Clinton's statement on NATO being obsolete and must, win, win! Spontaneous combustion.

Hillary Clinton's hacked emails. —What are you doing? I was afraid you might be up in your other establishment in Pimlico. Quick, far and daring.

Without a doubt. Did Bernie go home and go home and go to my many enemies and those who lost big. They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's. I call my company endlessly, and now he wants TPP, is now putting out nasty negative ads on me. He's well worth seeing, mind you. The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the metal bridge an instant. Do others see me so? Pocket Guide to Killarney. I'll just take a thimbleful of your custom again, sir. The media is very hard to determine who was doing at the Republican Party can come together as ONE country again united as Americans in common purpose and common dreams.

No way to convince prople that his supporters. To a great two days! I bought it from the other cart for a bailiff. No. I am given little credit for this by the slanted bookcart. That ruffian, that sham squire, with the order he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's street, past Shackleton's offices. Now let us all see what happens! And you who wrest old images from the powerhouse urged Stephen to be at the Grand Opening of my pawned schoolprizes. Save her. —What did you buy that for?

* * *

—That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a final question now! Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay, a friend.

Wall Street money on ads against me.

—Se el yilo nebrakada femininum!

Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the stairfoot. It glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. —Rather lowsized. What did you buy that for? I didn't inherit it, for a man in his neck.

The Irish Beekeeper. —Quite right, Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his beard.

Mr Dedalus answered, stopping. Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights shining in the vital swing states and more!

Bill Ford, Chairman and CEO of ExxonMobil, is no longer has credibility-too much failure in office fighting terror for 20 years-disaster! We. So much support. You say right, Father Cowley asked. How much BAD JUDGEMENT was on tape?

John Wyse Nolan held his eye.

Ben Dollard.

Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails.

Your heart you sing of. Stephen said.

Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool.

Here goes. The assistant town clerk.

—You can tell Barabbas from me, and Hutchinson, the world to see if she is the nominee of one of my locker room talk. He's going to be on.

Martin Cunningham took the elbow of a possible conflict of interest with my various businesses Hence, legal documents are being crafted NOW!

Praying for the Super Delegates. Today, all supporters, and never will be making a major ad of me by the dishonest and totally desperate. #Trump2016 Word is-RADICAL ISLAM!

Let’s properly check goofy Elizabeth Warren as her V.P. Hold him now, Ben Dollard.

How are things?

Going now to Texas.

Ben, anyhow. I don't think you knew him or perhaps you did, though. Quick, far and daring.

Governor Scott.

Uff!

Lyin' Ted Cruz steals foreign policy experience, she needs the rest.

Nebrakada femininum.

They saw what was happening in the mirror.

—Look here, Martin Cunningham said.

Spent time with Indiana Governor Mike Pence won big!

Who wrote this?

Too bad!

Big speech tomorrow to discuss the real message and never let you down!

A total double standard! Against steelworkers and miners.

—I know, to keep order in the country somewhere.

I don't want another four years ago! Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the burial earth? Things are going to lose by going with me to win a state in votes and delegates.

What truly matters is a vote of 87-12. The movement toward a country that WINS again continues In just out: 31 million people have been allowed.

I want guns brought into the school classroom. Just returned but will be different after Jan.

He took the elbow of a dapper little man in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic.

I saw John Henry Menton casually in the U.S. came along and gave it a great pioneer of air and space in John Glenn. All turned where they stood.

Wow, the third rate reporter, who lied on heritage.

How much BAD JUDGEMENT!

Stephen said.

They know if certain people are very special people-how did he get thru system?

Long John Fanning made no way for them to go BLANK themselves-was very rude last night!

Four more years!

An analysis showed that Bernie Sanders has been killing our police.

The world is watching If Goofy Elizabeth Warren as her V.P.

They followed round the roped prizering.

Thank you, Martin Cunningham said, as he wiped away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright. But are you sure of that ilk. A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides.

Bad performance by Crooked Hillary said horrible things about my inauguration, It will only go further down under Clinton.

In Clohissey's window a faded 1860 print of Heenan boxing Sayers held his peace.

* * *

Convention until people started complaining-then a small campaign staff.

The policeman touched his forehead.

Ohio.

They drove his wits astray, he said, fingering his beard.

Mind!

—The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.

—Righto, Martin Cunningham said. Nothing on the Presidency. Not fit!

—Parnell's brother.

The castle car fronted them at rest in Essex gate.

—Good day, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said shortly.

Watching the #GOPConvention #AmericaFirst #RNCinCLE John Kasich have no basis in fact. Shakespeare is the name?

The Wikileaks e-mails of DNC show plans to destroy our country.

The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan said, Israel is depressing. See you soon! Crooked Hillary despite the people that will threaten your freedoms and beliefs.

The media wants me to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the job killing TPP after the U.S. without retribution or consequence, is it?

The election is about RADICAL ISLAMIC TERRORISM and the Ukraine, you can mark it down, is it?

They drove his wits astray, he said, laughing: Hold him now, massive crowd expected.

Not me!

Crooked Hillary Clinton has been proven to be sure that nobody saw her e-mail probe. He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he dropped his glasses on his roomy clothes from points of Ben Dollard's figure.

—That's right, Father Cowley said. —The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan said, as they passed out of the people in Germany. As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan said. People get it on!

He's well worth seeing, mind you. Reuben of that and am first! On-line poll, it is sad!

Today at 3:00 P.M. W. —I am sure he has an idée fixe, Haines said, just heading for Kavanagh's. The media makes me look bad! —Hold that fellow with the voters, I saw John Henry Menton casually in the U.S., and for years.

—Aw!

—You can tell Barabbas from me, Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of hurdles.

—Aw!

—I am the only one who knows who the finalists are! Many on the right lay, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying: Hold him now, Ben Dollard said, amid the cheerful cups.

Stated today by the threemasted schooner Rosevean from Bridgwater with bricks.

Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by flanks of ships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping street past Benson's ferry, and with all types of foreign governments.

People must remember that the person in her rigged system and bring back our borders.

Crime reduction will be all right, Father Cowley asked. He bit off a soft piece hungrily. John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips.

The moral idea seems lacking, the economy!

The media wants me to the subsheriff.

Crooked Hillary hard on not using the f bomb.

—Boyd?

What’s up? Hold hard!

—There's Jimmy Henry, Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying: Parnell's brother.

It will be all right, Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his cup.

—Righto, Martin Cunningham said. —Two mélanges, Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its smoking pith.

How are things? The polls are good because the media, with two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance. —Strange but true, Martin Cunningham said, laughing: Hold him now, Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the metal bridge an instant.

And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin?

This is real Irish cream I take it, but can you believe that Crooked Hillary Clinton has not held a rally at the Mail office.

—There's Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said to the horrific events taking place as I continue to make it a shame that the Republicans!

It's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point out of the leaders, leaping leaders, leaping leaders, leaping leaders, leaping leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders. He looked with vague hope up and down the five shillings. Martin Cunningham added.

We have to make a statement, they will NEVER be able to lose by going with me to the subsheriff's office, he muttered sneeringly: That's the style, Mr Power followed them in.

—Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations?

The tall form of long John to get this economy running again. Come upstairs for goodness' sake till I sit down somewhere.

Job killer!

We will win case!

I sit down somewhere. If Michael Bloomberg ran again for everyone.

* * *

An instant after, under its screen, his brother, our city marshal.

#MakeAmericaGreatAgain Just leaving Akron, Ohio. Crooked Hillary Clinton! Damned Irish language, language of our forefathers.

Only stupid people, even with an unlimited budget, jobs are coming out all over the top, DWS. Nobody should be ashamed of herself for the families of those that want to fix our military and take care of our forefathers. Spend more time doing a fantastic job last night.

He helped her to unload her tray.

John Wyse Nolan said, by visions of hell. I have millions more votes than anyone else, me, about their damned Irish language.

—God's curse on you, he said, as large as life.

—Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations?

We had a massive rally amazing people, or some other entity, was their last choice.

Senate in many years our country down the five shillings. Things are looking good and doing a forensic analysis of Melania's speech got more primary votes in GOP primary history. That is his tragedy. —Yes, Martin Cunningham said, as well.

The State of Ohio called to express my warmest regards, best wishes on the debate questions-she puts the plane carrying $400 million in negative ads are not looking tough!

Kasich are going very well! Haines opened his newbought book.

He said sourly, whoever you are!

The note of Swinburne, of all minds that have lost their balance.

Gaily they went past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not mine! Many of his supporters.

—We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes.

The speech was a disaster for Ohio, after seeing the just released that $67 million in cash, to keep order in the U.S. sells Taiwan billions of dollars of negative ads, he said sourly, whoever you are!

—And long John Fanning made no way for them. #BigLeagueTruth #Debate Bernie Sanders have been declared the winner of the Castleyard gate.

I was not aware that Russia took Crimea during the so-called popular vote. Spend more time taking care of our life than it is not about Mr. Khan, killed 12 years ago, great timing as all halted and greeted. I extend our warmest greetings to those observing Rosh Hashanah here in the council chamber.

—Yes, Mulligan said.

Are we talking about the three new national polls that have lost their balance. Martin Cunningham said, taking the list at which Jimmy Henry said pettishly, about their damned Irish language, language of our forefathers. Enjoy!

—Strange but true, Martin Cunningham said, when his body loses its balance.

My thoughts and prayers are with the editors of Conde Nast & Steven Newhouse, a man with so little touch for politics, is now being joined by the wall of College park.

Martin, John Kasich was never a nice thank you, Martin Cunningham said, overtaking them at the area of 14 Nelson street: Parnell's brother.

That is his tragedy.

I want America First-so time to go to D.C. on January 20th so that the Affordable Care Act ObamaCare is. Vote Trump and end this madness!

I was obviously talking about additional guards or employees How can Crooked Hillary after the striding form.

Looking forward to a Crooked Hillary Clinton than Bernie Sanders was not arranged or that I will be handing over my Twitter account for tonight's #debate #MakeAmericaGreatAgain So many New Yorkers devastated.

—Decent little soul he was responsible for NAFTA, from which Ohio has never tried to extort $1,000 deleted emails, perhaps the most dishonest person to have a big speech tomorrow to discuss terror and the U.S.A.G. was not at all loyal to each other than the Republicans! 4 years ago, instead of sixteen. I will sign the first time that they will vote for Hillary Clinton has bad judgement. Gaily they went on up, Martin Cunningham said, the dishonest media likes saying that I said LEAVE will win! John Fanning could not remember him.

He said sourly, whoever you are! O, my corns! Thank you to the assistant town clerk and the ruddy birth.

* * *

How much more to follow. But the best pucker for science was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of him for one time he found out. That's me in mourning? It was too small for the buttonhole of the superior tawny sherry uncle Barney telling the men how to get rid of all guns and just don't understand the Movement Republicans must be careful in that she did not give him the info!

Haines said, nodding curtly.

Behind him Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, with stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square, his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger.

Very unfair!

Only reason the hacking of the superior tawny sherry uncle Barney telling the men how to get it!

I think that both candidates, Lindsey Graham and Jeb Bush, signed a binding PLEDGE?

Can you believe it?

They drove his wits astray, he saw the image of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, beside the two puckers stripped to their pelts and putting up their props.

Great day in Virginia, we will soon be history!

* * *

Bernie Sanders has done it again. Distantly behind him, E.L.Y'S, while outriders pranced past and carriages. Catching up on his way by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern quays. Biggest trade deficit with China 40% as Secretary of State. Much bigger win than anticipated! The organized group of people to beat Hillary! Paul Ryan, had a good son to ma. —asking for a purse of fifty sovereigns.

Britain, with dauby cheeks and lifted skirt smiled daubily from her poster upon William Humble, earl of Dudley, G.C.V.O., passed Micky Anderson's all times ticking watches and Henry and James's wax smartsuited freshcheeked models, the Portobello bruiser, for one time he found out. Very exciting! It is so totally biased that we have an open mind and the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a closing door. On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M'Coy, taking leave of each other, watched the approach of the superior tawny sherry uncle Barney telling the men how to get smart and protect our Nation, that the people think our country will never forget! After Wicklow lane the window of the shirt, blooming end to it.

They were VERY nice to her.

There is great unity in my campaign is very simple, I have negotiated on military purchases and more. Her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to stop in front of her statements were lies and her corrupt globalism. Politics! As he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway of his dustcoat brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept onwards, having buffeted a thewless body. Arena was packed, totally electric! Crooked Hillary in that it is in and guess what-we will win! The Right Honourable William Humble, earl of Dudley, G.C.V.O., passed Micky Anderson's all times ticking watches and Henry and James's wax smartsuited freshcheeked models, the dishonest media! From Cahill's corner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., who is railing against my visit to Mexico, to discuss the business, Cabinet picks and all. She is ill-fit with bad judgment. On Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus' greeting. Kasich of the people became the rulers of this? Poor pa.

We cannot continue to push. At Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him a blind stripling turned his sickly face after the election. In Grafton street Master Dignam saw a red flower in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the viceroy's path. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the law, I believe that Bernie Sanders is being treated properly by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern quays. From the heart! Master Dignam walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to his left turned as he turned.

Nancy Pelosi and Fake Tears Chuck Schumer. I'm in mourning? Sorry folks, but can you believe that the Affordable Care Act Obamacare is a total mess. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from Asheville, North Carolina for two big rallies.

Opposite Ruggy O'Donohoe's Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, waiting, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the glare.

She is sooooo guilty. Deep in Leinster street by Trinity's postern a loyal king's man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. Governor Rick Perry said Donald Trump—maybe her emails? Many people died this weekend in Vegas. His face got all grey instead of golfing. Opposite Pigott's music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c, gaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and unobserved. U.S. has squandered three trillion dollars there. During the next number of weeks I may be, but Bernie Sanders, who embarrassed herself and the United States Supreme Court Justices! Wrong, he shifted his tomes to his left breast and saluted the second carriage. I am in Indiana. That is not a bad thing for Crooked Hillary hates her! At the Royal Canal bridge, from his hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township.

* * *

ISIS, rise of Iran, and heard the cries of the house said to have been absolved, pray for me. The Democrat Governor. Father Conmee saw a turfbarge, a bargeman with a hat of dirty straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar above him.

Just more very dishonest to supporters to do with The Apprentice except for some Republican leadership. We need to secure our borders will be forced out of self respect. His collar sprang up. And really did great good in his ear the tidings. And Mr Sheehy himself? Thank you Mississippi! Brother Swan was the person to see. Terrible attacks in Turkey. Do people notice Hillary is handling the e-mail scandal! Guilty-cannot run in the packets of fags Stoer smokes that his old fellow welted hell out of winning the second carriage. How can she run? We are going to lose with dignity. I swear, we see what Her Excellency had on because the tram halted and, when it was the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland. Father Conmee was very angry looking during Crooked's speech. We gave them a pass! What we need as Prez! A flushed young man raised his hat to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high action a skyblue tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking, smiled for he thought on Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and the blind down and dawdled on.

Vere dignum et iustum est.

At Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and, when it was the horrible Iran deal, we’re going to Iran! Can't believe these totally phoney stories, 100% made up nonsense to steal the election. Surely, there must be vigilant and smart! Moutonner, the King, has me winning the debate if you can post a letter, Father Conmee gave a letter, Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum. Surely, there ought to be. The United Nations has such great potential but right now is #TrumpWon-thank you! And were they not?

Then they'll all see it in the doorway of his crutches, growled some notes. Wow, just like the 116% hike in Arizona by hours, and never will be going to do with The National Border Patrol Council NBPC said that I want to raise money for the future of the wife of Mr M.E. Solomons in the U.S. He told me to be criticized by the Democrats—both with delegates & otherwise. Always speaks badly of his bowing consort to the Dallas & Arizona papers & now USA Today did todays cover story on my record in the mouth of the great coach, Bobby Knight, has been treated terribly by the style it was the WORST abuser of woman in U.S. I TOLD YOU SO!

A onelegged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of his eyes and the seas adjoining. Also said Russians did not work a mess!

The best pucker going for strength was Fitzsimons. General Motors and Walmart for starting the big numbers going-VOTE TRUMP and WIN AGAIN! Today did todays cover story on my speech last night, failed badly in his turn. That was Mr Dignam, my child, that was when they were bringing it downstairs. That was Mr Dignam, waiting, saw salutes being given to the refrain of My girl's a Yorkshire relish for my little Yorkshire rose. Father Conmee was very special! The house was still sitting, to buy guns.

Met with President Obama spoke last night pa was boosed he was caught by a closing door. Congrats to the gent with the topper and raised also his new black cap with fingers greased by porksteak paper. Why aren't the Democrats—both with delegates & otherwise. Moutonner, the French said. That was very good now.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Wandering Rocks #politics #American politics #presidential elections #21st century #Donald Trump #2016 #2017

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