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eisbae-r · 2 years

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Fixed Version of Sims 2 Knitting

Hi. No idea on how to do this. Totally Tumblr newbie.

I finally reappeared from my PC hiatus and saw the questions about my announced fix for @Tony-Veis Knitting set.

It is an amazing set. I adore all crafting stations for the sims. Now knitting became even better. Thankyou all for staying so patient with me.

Tony Veis got my new files and hopefully will update his set soon.

It might be possible to download it here in the meantime. If I managed to set the rights correctely. Please remove all old files from your Download folder.

There are still some details that could be improved. But I will not continue to work on these files.

Credit to DeeDee/NixSims/Rebeccah for the sell from inventory code. General help from the Sims 2 Crafters Discord. AlmightyHat for her buyable toy, that I used as a base.

Details below the cut.

The following things were fixed:

• Fixed: Crafting station clash, no double entries in pie menu. Toys are no longer based on the firetruck. • Fixed: Spelling in pie menu string fixed. Entries don’t split anymore. • Fixed: Strings in TTAs shortened. Changed TTAB Flags for all entries to remove the joinable function. Join Index set to 0xFFFFFFFF. • Fixed: labled some BCONs for easier use in the future. • Fixed: Animations: removed spaces in file names. • New: Polished the language of the notifications. Added 2 notifications. • Fixed: While knitting (using the object), the pie menu entry “put in inventory” was available by other sims. If executed, object was put in inventory, canceling knitting for all knitters and resulting in Jump Bugs. The used seat of the knitter will glitch and became unusable. No error dialog. Chair needed to be reset by Force Error. BHAVS were missing the “Standard Entry” line. Hence, knitting was not flagged as “in use”, hence the guard line “are you in use” did not work. In addition, guardian BHAV for “add to inventory” called: "are you alive" and "Asking for gardening values"). Created a new guard BHAV. • Fixed: Sims were starting to knit siting in thin air when all seats were occupied. Rerouted each “make” interaction (also changed name from “Interaction” to “Make”), creating a proper exit and linking the unused dialog. Fixed a mistake := replaced by == in line [prim 0x0002] Expression (My person data 0x0000 (Sitting?) == Literal 0x0001). • Fixed: if funds are insufficient, knitting created an error. Fixed and notification of insufficient funds added. • Fixed: Toys disappear in toybox after canceling the play interaction. Not anymore of this nonesence. The toys are totally toybox proof now. Code is free to use for other toys. • Fixed: Did not restock from inventory: Used code from DeeDee and Nixed Sims. • Fixed: unused BHAVs removed. • Fixed: now, mood check implemented. Sims won't knit, when not in the mood for it. • Fixed: animal clothes package error, now you get the colars. A BCON was doubled and corrupted. In addition, in BCON 1001 consant 7 was missing. Buypassed some lines in a BHAV. Now it works on home business lots as well.

Known Issues that bothered me but remain unsolved:

• Knitted objects are not added to the lot owners’ inventory but to the knitters’ inventory. • Choosing a barstool does not trigger the correct sitting high. • No resuming knitting when canceling. Instead, instant finishing of object. • No “knit multiple”. • No conversation between sims. I am too unskilled to get such code implemented. And hell did try a lot of stuff!

#sims 2 custom content #sims 2 download #ts2 mods

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historicity-was-already-taken · 7 months

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Yizkor, 1943 by Rachel Auerbach

I saw a flood once in the mountains. Wooden huts, torn from their foundations, were carried above the raging waters. One could still see lighted lamps in them; and men, women and children were tied to the ceiling beams. Other huts were empty inside, but one could see a tangle of arms waving from the roof, like branches blowing in the wind waving desperately toward heaven, toward the river banks for help. At a distance, one could see mouths gaping, but one could not hear the cries because the roar of the waters drowned out everything. And that’s how the Jewish masses flowed to their destruction at the time of the deportations. Sinking as helplessly into the deluge of destruction.

And if, for even one of the days of my life, I should forget how I saw you then, my people, desperate and confused, delivered over to extinction, may all knowledge of me be forgotten and my name be cursed like that of those traitors who are unworthy to share your pain.

Every instinct in the mass is revealed, entangled, exposed. All feelings churning, feverish to the core. Lashed by hundreds of whips of unreasoning activity. Hundreds of deceptive or ridiculous schemes of rescue. And at the other pole, a yielding to the inevitable, a gravitation toward mass death that is no less substantial than the gravitation toward life. Sometimes the two antipodes followed each other in the same being.

Who can render the stages of the dying of a people? Only the shudder of pity for one’s self and for others. And again illusion: waiting for the chance miracle. The insane smile of hope in the eyes of the incurable patient. Ghastly reflections of color on the yellowed face of one who is condemned to death.

Condemned to death. Who could—who wished to understand such a thing? And who could have expected such a decree against the mass? Against such low branches, such simple Jews. The lowly plants of the world. The sorts of people who would have lived out their lives without ever picking a quarrel with the righteous—or even the unrighteous—of this world.

How could such people have been prepared to die in a gas chamber? The sorts of people who were terrified of a dentist’s chair, who turned pale at the pulling of a tooth.

And what of them ... the little children?

The little ones, and those smaller still who not long ago were to be seen in the arms of their mothers, smiling at a bird or at a sunbeam. Prattling at strangers in the streetcar. Who still played “patty-cake” or cried “giddyup” waving their tiny hands in the air. Or called, “Papa.” O, unrecognizable world in which these children and their mothers are gone. “Giddyup.”

Even the sweetest ones: the two- and three-year-olds who seemed like newly hatched chicks tottering about on their weak legs. And even the slightly larger ones who could already talk. Who endlessly asked about the meanings of words. For whom whatever they learned was always brand new. Five-year-olds. And six-year-olds. And those who were older still—their eyes wide with curiosity about the whole world. And those older still whose eyes were already veiled by the mists of their approaching ripeness. Boys who, in their games, were readying themselves for achievements yet to come.

Girls who still nursed their dolls off in corners. Who wore ribbons in their hair; girls, like sparrows, leaping about in courtyards and on garden paths. And those who looked like buds more than half opened. The kind to whose cheeks the very first wind of summer seems to have given its first glowing caress. Girls of eleven, twelve, thirteen with the faces of angels. Playful as kittens. Smiling May blossoms. And those who have nearly bloomed: the fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds. The Sarahs, the Rebeccahs, the Leahs of the Bible, their names recast into Polish. Their eyes blue and gray and green under brows such as one sees on the frescoes unearthed in Babylon and Egypt. Slender young frauleins from the wells of Hebron. Jungfraus from Evangelia. Foreign concubines of Jewish patriarchs; desert maidens with flaring nostrils, their hair in ringlets, dark complected but turned pale by passion. Spanish daughters, friends of Hebrew poets of the Middle Ages. Dreamy flowers bent over mirroring pools. And opposite them? Delicate blondes in whom Hebrew passion is interwoven with Slavic cheerfulness. And the even-brighter flaxen-haired peasants, broad-hipped women, as simple as black bread, or as a shirt on the body of the folk.

It was an uncanny abundance of beauty of that generation growing up under the gray flag of ghetto poverty and mass hunger. Why was it that we were not struck by this as a portent of evil? Why was it that we did not understand that this blossoming implied its own end?

It was these, and such as these, who went into the abyss— our beautiful daughters. These were the ones who were plucked and torn to bits.

And where are the Jewish young men? Earnest and serious; passionate as high-bred horses, chomping at the bit, eager to race. The young workers, the halutsim, Jewish students avid for study, for sports, for politics. World improvers and flag bearers of every revolution. Youths whose passion made them ready to fill the prison cells of all the world. And many were tortured in camps even before the mass murder began. And where are the other youths, simpler than they—the earthen roots of a scattered people, the very essence of sobriety countering the decay of idealism at the trunk. Young men with ebullient spirits, their heads lowered like those of bulls against the decree spoken against our people.

And pious Jews in black gabardines, looking like priests in their medieval garb. Jews who were rabbis, teachers who wanted to transform our earthly life into a long study of Torah and prayer to God. They were the first to feel the scorn of the butcher. Their constant talk of martyrdom turned out not to be mere empty words.

And still other Jews. Broad shouldered, deep voiced, with powerful hands and hearts. Artisans, workers. Wagon drivers, porters. Jews who, with a blow of their fists, could floor any hooligan who dared enter into their neighborhoods.

Where were you when your wives and children, when your old fathers and mothers were taken away? What happened to make you run off like cattle stampeded by fire? Was there no one to give you some purpose in the confusion? You were swept away in the flood, together with those who were weak.

And you sly and cunning merchants, philanthropists in your short fur coats and caps. How was it that you didn’t catch on to the murderous swindle? Fathers and mothers of families; you, in Warsaw. Stout women merchants with proud faces radiating intelligence above your three chins, standing in your shops behind counters heaped with mountains of goods.

And you other mothers. Overworked peddler women and market stall keepers. Disheveled and as anxious about your children as irritable setting hens when they flap their wings. And other fathers, already unhorsed, as it were. Selling sweets from their wobbling tables in the days of the ghetto.

What madness is it that drives one to list the various kinds of Jews who were destroyed?

Grandfathers and grandmothers with an abundance of grandchildren. With hands like withered leaves, their heads white. Who already trembled at the latter end of their days. They were not destined simply to decline wearily into their graves like rest-seeking souls, like the sun sinking wearily into the ocean’s waves. No. It was decreed that before they died they would get to see the destruction of all that they had begotten, of all that they had built.

The decree against the children and the aged was more complete and more terrible than any.

Those who counted and those who counted for less. Those with aptitudes developed carefully over countless generations. Incomparable talents, richly endowed with wisdom and professional skill: doctors, professors, musicians, painters, architects. And Jewish craftsmen, tailors—famous and sought after; Jewish watchmakers in whom gentiles had confidence. Jewish cabinetmakers, printers, bakers. The great proletariat of Warsaw. Or shall I console myself with the fact that, for the most part, you managed to die of hunger and need in the ghetto before the expulsion?

Ah, the ways of Warsaw—the black soil of Jewish Warsaw.

My heart weeps even for the pettiest thief on Krochmalna Street, even for the worst of the knife wielders of narrow Mila, because even they were killed for being Jewish. Anointed and purified in the brotherhood of death.

Ah, where are you, petty thieves of Warsaw, you illegal street vendors and sellers of rotten apples? And you, the more harmful folk—members of great gangs who held their own courts, who supported their own synagogues in the Days of Awe, who conducted festive funerals, and who gave alms like the most prosperous burghers.

Ah, the mad folk of the Jewish street! Disordered soothsayers in a time of war.

Ah, bagel sellers on winter evenings.

Ah, poverty-stricken children of the ghetto. Ghetto peddlers, ghetto smugglers supporting their families, loyal and courageous to the end. Ah, the poor barefoot boys moving through the autumn mire with their boxes of cigarettes: “Cigarettes! Cigarettes! Matches! Matches!” The voice of the tiny cigarette seller crying his wares on the corner of Leszno and Karmelicka Streets still rings in my ears.

Where are you, my boy? What have they done to you? Reels from the unfinished and still-unplayed preexpulsion film The Singing Ghetto wind and rewind in my memory. Even the dead sang in that film. They drummed with their swollen feet as they begged: “Money, ah money, Money is the best thing there is.”

There was no power on earth, no calamity that could interfere with their quarrelsome presence in that Jewish street. Until there came that Day of Curses—a day that was entirely night.

Hitler finally achieved his greatest ambition of the war. And finally, his dreadful enemy was defeated and fell: that little boy on the comer of Leszno and Karmelicka Streets, of Smocza and Nowolipie, of Dzika Street. The weapons of the women peddlers reached to every market square.

What luxury! They stopped tearing at their own throats from morning until night. They stopped snatching the morsels of clay-colored, clay-adulterated bread from each other.

The first to be rounded up were the beggars. All the unemployed and the homeless were gathered up off the streets. They were loaded into wagons on the first morning of the Deportation and driven through the town. They cried bitterly and stretched their hands out or wrung them in despair or covered their faces. The youngest of them cried, “Mother, mother.” And indeed, there were women to be seen running along both sides of the wagons, their head shawls slipping from their heads as they stretched their hands out toward their children, those young smugglers who had been rounded up along the walls. In other of the wagons, the captives looked like people condemned to death who, in the old copperplate engravings, are shown being driven to the scaffold in tumbrils.

The outcries died down in the town, and there was silence. Later on, there were no cries heard. Except when women were caught and loaded onto the wagons and one could hear an occasional indrawn hiss, such as fowl make as they are carried to the slaughter.

Men, for the most part, were silent. Even the children were so petrified that they seldom cried.

The beggars were rounded up, and there was no further singing in the ghetto. I heard singing only once more after the deportations began. A monotonous melody from the steppes sung by a thirteen-year-old beggar girl. Over a period of two weeks she used to creep out of her hiding place in the evening, when the day’s roundups were over. Each day, looking thinner and paler and with an increasingly brighter aureole of grief about her head, she took her place at her usual spot behind a house on Leszno Street and began the warbling by whose means she earned her bit of bread....

Enough, enough ... I have to stop writing.

No. No. I can’t stop. I remember another girl of fourteen. My own brother’s orphan daughter in Lemberg whom I carried about in my arms as if she were my own child. Lussye! And another Lussye, older than she, one of my cousins who was studying in Lemberg and who was like a sister to me. And Lonye, my brother’s widow, the mother of the first Lussye, and Mundek, an older child of hers whom I thought of as my own son from the time that he was orphaned. And another girl in the family, a pianist of thirteen, my talented little cousin Yossima.

And all of my mother’s relatives in their distant village in Podolia: Auntie Beyle, Auntie Tsirl, Uncle Yassye, Auntie Dortsye, my childhood’s ideal of beauty.

I have so many names to recall, how can I leave any of them out, since nearly all of them went off to Belzec and Treblinka or were killed on the spot in Lanowce and Ozieran in Czortkow and in Mielnica. In Krzywicze and elsewhere.

Absurd! I will utter no more names. They are all mine, all related. All who were killed. Who are no more. Those whom I knew and loved press on my memory, which I compare now to a cemetery. The only cemetery in which there are still indications that they once lived in this world.

I feel—and I know—that they want it that way. Each day I recall another one of those who are gone.

And when I come to the end of the list, segment by segment added to the segments of my present life in the town, start over again from the beginning, and always in pain. Each of them hurts me individually, the way one feels pain when parts of the body have been surgically removed. When the nerves surviving in the nervous system signal the presence of every finger on amputated hands or feet.

Not long ago, I saw a woman in the streetcar, her head thrown back, talking to herself. I thought that she was either drunk or out of her mind. It turned out that she was a mother who had just received the news that her son, who had been rounded up in the street, had been shot.

“My child,” she stammered, paying no attention to the other people in the streetcar, “my son. My beautiful, beloved son.”

I too would like to talk to myself like one mad or drunk, the way that woman did in the book of Judges who poured out her heart unto the Lord and whom Eli drove from the Temple.

I may neither groan nor weep. I may not draw attention to myself in the street. And I need to groan; I need to weep. Not four times a year. I feel the need to say Yizkor four times a day.

Yizkor elohim es nishmas avi mori ve’imi morasi... Remember, Oh Lord, the souls of those who passed from this world horribly, dying strange deaths before their time.

“May God remember the soul of my father-and-teacher and of my mother-and-teacher...”

And now, suddenly I seem to see myself as a child standing on a bench behind my mother who, along with my grandmother and my aunts, is praying before the east wall of the woman’s section of the synagogue in Lanowce. I stand on tiptoe peering down through panes of glass at the congregation in the synagogue that my grandfather built. And just then the Torah reader, Hersh’s son, Meyer-Itsik, strikes the podium three times and cries out with a mighty voice so that he will be heard by men and women on both sides of the partition and by the community’s orphans, boys and girls, who are already standing, waiting for just this announcement: “We recite Yizkor.”

The solemn moment has arrived when we remember those who are no longer with us. Even those who have finished their prayers come in at this time to be with everyone else as they wait for the words, “We recite Yizkor.”

And he who has survived and lives and who approaches this place, let him bow his head and, with anguished heart, let him hear those words and remember his names as I have remembered mine—the names of those who were destroyed.

At the end of the prayer in which everyone inserts the names of members of his family there is a passage recited for those who have no one to remember them and who, at various times, have died violent deaths because they were Jews. And it is people like those who are now in the majority.

#holocaust literature #holocaust

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yellowwithalisp · 1 year

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Rainy Early MorningS

S.T.A.R.S! Wesker x Fem! Reader

Hello! Yellow here! This would be my first Wesker x reader story I've done! If you would like to see more my ask are open for both NSFW and SFW requests! I did not pre-read this so there may be typos!

I hope you like it! - Yellow 💛🌻

It was late as night and the gentle sound of rain hitting the window echoed around the room. Lightning flashed and reviled for a slim second the two pairs of bodies tangled together in the mattress in the silk sheets. The soft sounds of them breathing in and out could be heard as the smaller physique shifted a bit into the large one wrapped around her. Her lover's hand reacted as if he was wide awake and pulled his lover in close. His hand rested against her lower back. Softly but firmly at the same time.

The rumbling of the thunder and the sound of cars passing by the apartment could be heard lightly but it wasn't something the two of them weren't used to. With them both working at the RPD at S.T.A.R.S. They were used to hearing these things, just add people talking in the background, the beeping noises of computers, and people walking past the S.T.A.R.S office and it would be just as if they were taking a nap at work. Just with expensive silk sheets and a door that could be locked. It seemed to be always rainy at Racoon City, feels like the only sessions were sunny, rain with slight sunshine, rainy, and heavy rain. It made whoever was stuck having night petrol a pain to do. This week it was Chris's turn for it. Meaning that he somehow manage to do something stupid and Wesker made him have night petrol for a solid week straight. Wich normal Chris didn't mind but then he saw that the weather was seat to rain nonstop this whole week.

(Y/N) felt slightly sorry for him but then again he should have known better than to try to pull a prank in the office, even with how small of a prank it was. She remembers him bursting into the office and begging her to let him hide under her desk so that Wesker wouldn't kill him. When she asked him what he did this time. She could hear heavy angry footsteps approaching the S.T.A.R.S office before she let out a sigh and pushed back a bit on her chair and he went crawling under her desk, mear seconds later the door swung open as if they were on a rescue mission to revile a very angry Wesker with his hair a mess. Bits of his lovely blond bangs were out of place and the top part of his outfit was wet. Evidently, Chris was trying to get back on one of the cops with a bucket of water on top of the door. Instead of the cop receiving the bucket of water, Wesker walked in and got completely wet. (Y/N) looked up and her eyes widen slightly as Wesker state.

"C-captan?! What happen sir!"

His head shifted over to look at (Y/N) as she sat at her desk before looking around the room and looking for Redfield. There was no one else there as both he and (Y/N) were always there early to get started on their work. Wesker was normally dragged off by the Chief so I was mainly here till the others started to arrive. After Rebeccah arrived Wesker would normally arrive back at the office again. Looking slightly annoyed after having to deal with the Chief. It was always Cris who was the last one running in one minute before his shift started.

He looked around looking for where Chris could be before he slowly approached (Y/N)'s desk. "(L/N)." He started as he looked down at her, his shades still on covering his blue eyes she rarely saw. She blinked as she looked up at him and gave him a nervous smile.

"A-ah um- yes sir?"

"Where is Redfield."

He said sternly as he stays looking directly into her eyes. (Y/N) jumped slightly as she closed her eyes and gave him a nervous smile.

"U-um- I don-"

"You know I don't like liars (L/N)."

"I-I-"

There was still enough room under the table for Chris to quickly crawl out and ran as fast as he could over to the door of the S.T.A.R.S office. (Y/N) blinked as she turned and watched him run away before nervously turning her head and looking back at her Captain.

"He hid under your desk before you could say anything. to stop him."

"Yes sir."

She said as she looked back over at Wesker who was already heading over to the office door.

"Wesker- don't go too hard on him-"

She quickly asked as he paused and turn slightly to look over at him. It was hard to tell what he was thinking with those shades on but in the end, he said nothing and walked out of the office. He didn't need to run to track down Redfield. And by the time everyone was at their desk he came walking in dragging Redfield in by the cooler and heading straight into his office and closing the door. Jill and Rebecca blinked as they bother turned to (Y/N) asking what happen. She smiled nervously and explain to them what happen this morning. Making Rebeccah get up to go get some herbs and a medkit for Chris. Jill sighed and went back to her paperwork as (Y/N) stared at his office for a moment before going back to her own work.

---

The door to the shaded bedroom softly clicked open and a small hand slowly pushed open the door with a tender creaking echoing around the room. A small head of blond hair peeked around the corner of the door to see the two sleeping bodies before slowly tiptoeing across the hardwood floor over to one of the sides of the bed. The little girl was holding a book way too big for her as she approached one side of the bed. Looking down at the book and up ad the bed she placed the book down and used it to help her claim onto the bed with the two in it.

"Dad… Psss- Dad !"

She whispered quietly as her father faced away from her. She heard her mother mumble softly."

"Isabella… It's 3 in the morning…"

Her mother mumbled as she shifted slightly to rest her head against her lover's chest. Isabella blinked and turned to look back down at her book on the floor.

"But I couldn't sleep and I had a question about my book."

She whispered still as her father slowly came to slightly annoyed being woken up but not fully away to move away from his beautiful (Y/N). Her mother slowly pulled herself away from Albert's warmth and looked at their daughter.

"The one that William gave you for your birthday…"

She hardly got out before she let out a big yawn and rubbed one of her eyes. Albert slowly sat up mumbling under his breath as he reached over and grabbed his sunglasses from his nightstand and put them on out of habit.

"Yeah- Mr. Birkin said to ask dad about it if I had any questions."

Albert would have a talk with William about saying that to Isabella later when he was back at the lab. William had given Isabella a book on viruses for her birthday which Wesker wasn't too happy with, but he doubt that she would actually read it. It was a rather large book and he was;t sure if she would understand what was in it fully. Turns out she did, any time. So much so that she learned a lot and had written something on a piece of paper for her father to look over. She crawled over and grabbed the book and paper before handing them to her father.

"Wouldn't a Mononegavirus with things close to like- like would infect it's host cells by endocyosis or full absorption then a- aggressive injection. Would it be enough for a vampire virus?"

Annnddd with that he was fully up and looking at his daughter blinking a few times before taking the piece of paper she handed him and looking down at it. (Y/N) was also up now staring at their daughter with a confused face.

"Honey… Wha- when did you learn those big words?"

"Last night."

(Y/N) smiled tiredly as she reached out and ruffled Isabella's hair sleepily.

"Sweetheart, is 3 in the morning really the best time to bother your father about this? I'm sure William was only joking about asking him for help about it when he gave you the book love."

"Oh…"

She said sadly as (Y/N) took her hand pack and pulled Isabella into her lap.

"We can ask your father if William and his daughter can come up here again sometime for another play date. And you may ask him about it. How's that sound?"

Isabella looked over at her father as a way of asking him for permission. He nods before folding the piece of paper and setting it on his nightstand along with her book before he took the warm blanket off of him and slowly sat up. His bare feet hit the floor as he walked over and took Isabella from her mother's arm into his. (Y/N) smiled as she watched Albert take the daughter back to her room and put her back into bed before he came back and join her in their own bed for what little sleep they could now get before work started.

---

"Albert who on earth wrote this?"

Doctor Birkin asked as he turned in his chair holding the unfolded piece of paper and looking up at Wesker. Wesker had his hands in his lab coat pockets as he monitored a test subject for any changes in his appearance.

"These descriptions- this Vampiric virus could work. And I know it wasn't you. I know what your handwriting looks like-"

"Little (L/N) wrote it last night."

Both Wesker and William know who Little (L/N) was the code name for. He blinked before he turned and looked at Wesker fully.

"She- did this?"

"She brought it up to me this morning with some question."

Wesker replied, never taking his eyes off the current test subject. William stared at him for a few moments before leaning back into his office chair. A hand rested against his forehead as he keep rereading what was on the page.

"Well then.. Your little side project is becoming very promising Albert…"

He said as his eye shifted back up to Wesker. Who was staring at the current test subject's transformation from behind the glass before it let out a loud scream. Another one failed, but it didn't upset him. Little (L/N) was moving along right on schedule.

#albert wesker #yellow wrote #albert wesker x reader #wesker x reader #resident evil x you #wesker x you #reader insert #resident evil #wesker #residentevil1 #S.T.A.R.S #S.T.A.R.S Wesker #S.T.A.R.S Wesker x reader #S.T.A.R.S Wesker x you

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