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goodomenscalendar · 12 days

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What is this? | Submit your own event!

Ongoing Events

I Like Pears Zine Volume 2 | Fundraising ends April 19

I Like Pears is a Good Omens cookbook fanzine with a focus on food, beverages, stories, art, and the recipes that accompany these works. This digital zine is free, but any donations collected before April 19th will be sent to World Central Kitchen! - Tumblr - Twitter - Instagram -

GOAD: A Week of WAMEN | Running until May 1

Get your femme ineffable content ready! We want to see your art, soak up your fics, read your comments and meta of all things femme Good Omens! The week-long event will kick off when we reach 8008 members! - Reddit - Tumblr -

It Began in a Garden Zine | Pre-orders open now!

A fanzine celebrating Aziraphale and Crowley's retirement to a peaceful cottage in the South Downs. - Tumblr - Twitter -

Good Omens for Palestine | Fundraising open now!

Good Omens for Palestine: A Charity Fanzine is a project dedicated to raising money for Palestinian aid. All proceeds will be donated to the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA). - Tumblr - Twitter - Instagram -

Twin Passions: A Bildad Zine | Fundraising open now!

Charity digital zine focused on Bildad era Crowley, fundraising period to benefit RAINN and Safeline! There are 2 editions available for instant download, plus digital extras. Both SFW (shoemaking) and NSFW (obstetrics) versions available! - Tumblr - Twitter - Instagram - Bluesky -

Ineffable Romans Contest | Submit your entries now!

Write, draw, cosplay or more the Ineffable Romans and tag @angellilou-art to be included in the digital version of the Ineffable Romans illustrated book! Three lucky pieces will be chosen to be featured in the printed version! Both SFW and NSFW content allowed. - Tumblr - Kickstarter -

Good Omens Minisode Minibang | 16+ | Sign-ups open now!

A reverse bang revolving around the theme of Good Omens historical minisodes. Both SFW and SFW content allowed. - Tumblr -

Good Omens Fairy Tale Bang | Artist Sign-ups open now!

This is a Good Omens Mini Bang themed entirely around Fairy Tales! Writing your own or adapting a favorite! All versions of all Fairy Tales and Mythology are welcome! Both SFW and NSFW content allowed. - Tumblr -

Good Omens Spooky Bang | Sign-ups open now!

A spooky Good Omens bang to kick off the autumn season! Whether it's Aziraphale pumpkin-picking, a pumpkin spice latte coffee shop AU, or Hell hosting a Halloween bash, you're invited to the Spooky Bang! Both SFW and NSFW content allowed. - Tumblr -

Monster Bangers Bang | 18+ | Interest Check open now!

Calling all monster-fuckers! A Good Omens bang devoted to monster banging. - Tumblr -

Flash Fiction Fridays | Weekly on Fridays

Flash Fiction Friday is a fun writer event that’s meant to inspire, share and connect writings of all genres and writers of all ages. - Tumblr -

Upcoming Events

DIWS: Silver Screen Bang | Sign-ups open April 19

The Good Omens Silver Screen Bang brings writers and artists together to retell a movie through a Good Omens lens! AUs and fusions welcome! Hosted by do-it-with-style events; both SFW and NSFW content allowed. - Tumblr - Twitter -

High Pollen Count! | 18+ | Posting begins April 22

A rules-loose Good Omens event centering around sex pollen. Featuring both NSFW and SFW works! - AO3 Collection -

Good Omens Big Bang | Sign-ups open May 1

A classic big bang, all about Good Omens! Both SFW and NSFW content allowed. - Tumblr -

#Good Omens #Good Omens Events #Fandom Events #zine #bang #fest #prompt #april #our first ever post!!#please let us know if we've missed anything big happening in april!#we are a little late on this one so formatting is a bit off and will be changing slightly for may #please note that several of the ongoing events would have been listed under upcoming if this had been posted on the 1st!#2024 #event calendar

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strangehunger · 5 years

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your hair was long when we first met | 1.4k | ao3 | introspection surrounding Crowley, Aziraphale, and a haircut. Completely indulgent and best experienced while listening to Samson by Regina Spektor.

The cottage was quiet, as it often was, except for the soft fall of rain against the kitchen windows. Gentle swells of music filtered in from the living room, where Debussy spilled from the horn of a gramophone. Crowley shook his head nearly every time he saw the thing; archaic, he called it, and but he had yet to replace it with anything so new as even a tape deck. It was comforting, Aziraphale supposed. The rich swell of sound, the faint, cracked hum, was nostalgic. Aziraphale remembered the delight he felt at purchasing the thing, the knowledge that, for the first time in six centuries, music could be played at the drop of a needle.

Aziraphale found himself humming along to the tune, trying to calm himself for the task at hand. Crowley sat astride a kitchen chair directly in front of Aziraphale, the latest edition of The Sun (one of Crowley's inventions, of course) scattered in pieces underfoot. An article about the royal family stared up at Aziraphale, sandwiched between an advice column about infidelity and a tell-all from a reality television contestant. Aside from kindling, this was probably the best use for the newspaper, Aziraphale supposed.

“Will you be getting on with it anytime soon, angel?”

Crowley’s dry words did not match the soft tone with which he said them, but Aziraphale still gave him a light tap on the side of the head with the hairbrush.

“I would like to do this well , thank you,” Aziraphale said primly. “Tilt your head, my dear -- yes, that’s it.”

Miraculously, Crowley complied without any further quips, and Aziraphale smoothed the hair back from his face, gently pulling the length of Crowley’s hair so that it tumbled down his back. He ran the brush through the tresses carefully, every now and then eyeing the pair of shears that lay on the table.

Crowley had given him the fright of his long life when, just minutes before, he had come traipsing through the house with said shears in hand. He had been promptly reminded that to use said shears on anything other than fabric was practically a cardinal sin -- if not in the bible, then certainly in Aziraphale’s book -- especially for something so heinous as torturing his plants.

I’m not subjecting anyone to anything. It needs a trim, Crowley had said by way of explanation, using the blades to gesture to his long braid. It’s driving me mad.

It drove Aziraphale mad, too. In a rather different way, he supposed. A handful of years had passed since the Apocalypse had failed to happen and the two had quietly slipped away from the hustle and bustle of London to these windswept hills. Crowley hadn’t cut his hair since, and it had grown long. Longer than Aziraphale had seen it in centuries, possibly millennia. When it wasn’t pulled back in a plait, it curled long and loose over his shoulders, or dripped wet down his back, or fanned against the cream of the pillows --

At that particular thought, Aziraphale had, naturally, protested. And when that had failed, he had laid a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, slipped the shears from his hand, and said, Allow me.

As he stared down at the long ripple of red hair, however, Aziraphale wondered if he should have tacked “to recommend a barber” to the end of that sentence. Never in six thousand years had he needed to cut hair, not even his own -- Aziraphale quite liked the length of his hair, and therefore it did not grow. Crowley had settled more easily into his corporation, more easily still into fashion. For a couple hundred years, he seemed to have a different style every time Aziraphale had seen him, and Aziraphale was certain from the quality that none of those had been done in the middle of the kitchen by an amateur with a pair of fabric shears.

However Aziraphale might massacre it, he was certain it was nothing a talented barber or a desperate miracle couldn't fix. Aziraphale had helped avert the Apocalypse, for God's sake -- admittedly through an elaborate series of cock-ups, but still. He was older than time itself (though just barely), had seen the rise and fall of civilizations, and yet he was laid low by the thought of potentially giving Crowley a lopsided haircut.

It was ridiculous. It wasn't about how it looked, Aziraphale supposed, but rather that it was a part of Crowley, and for that he loved it, would hate to mutilate it. When he ran his hands through Crowley's hair, he could watch the years slip through his fingers with the red tendrils, every single one they had spent together in this little home. Wind it around his fingers, tighter still, and arch that slender neck, exposing the sharp expanse of his throat --

Aziraphale coughed. His face was certainly nearly as red as Crowley’s hair. Some thoughts were more suited to the bedroom than the kitchen, he supposed.

(But sometimes the kitchen. Or the bathroom. Or the living room. And on one memorable occasion, the conservatory.)

The soft slip of the brush through Crowley’s long hair parted the silence of the kitchen. When it was long like this, free of product, it curled -- long, looping red tendrils that dripped out of hair ties and braids. Aziraphale took his time, slowly brushing from the bottom so as not to disrupt the pattern of the curl. He touched his finger to one soft, well defined ringlet. It looked like this when we met, he thought.

The world had been different then. The world was always different, but it had been so… new. And Crowley -- Crawly, back then -- the only constant. The adversary, with his golden eyes and long red hair. He had worn it in much the same fashion for thousands of years, the strange color a mark of his infernal nature. How brightly it had shone in the light, how deep and lush in the shadows.

And then -- Aziraphale set the brush aside, and took the shears in his hand. How heavy they felt, heavier than any flaming sword. And then Calvary. Golgotha. The slow, sanguine slip of red down the wrists, down the ankles, from a crown of thorns.

I showed him all the kingdoms of the world, Crowley had said, eyebrows knitted together in mourning.

His hair had been short, the next time Aziraphale had seen it, curls pressed tight to the skull. Cut in the Roman style, as it had stayed -- for years. Centuries. He grew it longer, of course, as the fashion sashayed forward, but never again that long, untamed tumble from Eden. And, though it was almost impossible to catalog the merciless march not only of time but fashion, Aziraphale had wondered -- why?

Aziraphale brushed a hand forward, pushing an errant lock back from Crowley’s face, tucking it just behind the ear. His fingers ghosted over the skin there, thoughtlessly trailing down the base of Crowley’s neck. The motion elicited a shiver.

A loss of faith. That was what it was, Aziraphale was certain, but in what? The Ineffable Plan, that arbitrary wheel of time over which they all, inevitably, broke themselves? God Herself, so willing to forsake not only her son, but all of her children? Or humanity itself -- fragile, brilliant, crueler than any ethereal or infernal entity could ever dream to be?

For all his bluster, those damn memos sent Down Below, the ridiculous antics that had humans popping blood vessels all over London, Crowley loved humanity. Of that Aziraphale was certain. Hoped desperately for the best, even at the end of the world. What a betrayal, then, every time they did something cruel. Murder. Warfare. Acid wash denim.

One hand full of Crowley’s brilliant locks, the other wrapped tightly around the shining pair of shears, Aziraphale was reminded of another betrayal, millennia past.

The Nazarite Samson, he recalled. Hair and strength shorn in the lap of the woman he loved, bound and then blinded. Aziraphale’s fingers brushed the back of Crowley’s neck. How vulnerable, or perhaps stupid, Aziraphale thought, to place strength and weakness alike in the hands of another and trust they won’t destroy it. How brave.

Aziraphale gave the air above Crowley’s head an experimental snip. Crowley didn’t so much as flinch.

“Apologies in advance,” Aziraphale said, gathering a lock of hair in his hand and running a gentle thumb over the soft curl, “if I make a mangle of it.”

Crowley shrugged, the loose rise of his shoulders gently rippling the hair that spilled down his back.

“Suppose I’ll just have to trust you’ll do alright,” he said.

With a small smile, Aziraphale lifted the scissors, one curl caught between the flat of the blades.

And cut.

#good omens #good omens fanfic #aziraphale #crowley #rhiwrites #mortifying ordeal of posting fanfic on main! okay #ineffable husbands #gotv #good omens fic #idk man #long post

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dist-the-rose · 4 years

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Section 7: The Struggle for a Normal Working Day. Reaction of the English Factory Acts on Other Countries The reader will bear in mind that the production of surplus value, or the extraction of surplus labour, is the specific end and aim, the sum and substance, of capitalist production, quite apart from any changes in the mode of production, which may arise from the subordination of labour to capital. He will remember that as far as we have at present gone only the independent labourer, and therefore only the labourer legally qualified to act for himself, enters as a vendor of a commodity into a contract with the capitalist. If, therefore, in our historical sketch, on the one hand, modern industry, on the other, the labour of those who are physically and legally minors, play important parts, the former was to us only a special department, and the latter only a specially striking example of labour exploitation. Without, however, anticipating the subsequent development of our inquiry, from the mere connexion of the historic facts before us it follows: First. The passion of capital for an unlimited and reckless extension of the working day, is first gratified in the industries earliest revolutionised by water-power, steam, and machinery, in those first creations of the modern mode of production, cotton, wool, flax, and silk spinning, and weaving. The changes in the material mode of production, and the corresponding changes in the social relations of the producers151 gave rise first to an extravagance beyond all bounds, and then in opposition to this, called forth a control on the part of Society which legally limits, regulates, and makes uniform the working day and its pauses. This control appears, therefore, during the first half of the nineteenth century simply as exceptional legislation. 152 As soon as this primitive dominion of the new mode of production was conquered, it was found that, in the meantime, not only had many other branches of production been made to adopt the same factory system, but that manufactures with more or less obsolete methods, such as potteries, glass-making, &c., that oldfashioned handicrafts, like baking, and, finally, even that the so-called domestic industries, such as nail-making,153 had long since fallen as completely under capitalist exploitation as the factories themselves. Legislation was, therefore, compelled to gradually get rid of its exceptional character, 150 Chapter X or where, as in England, it proceeds after the manner of the Roman Casuists, to declare any house in which work was done to be a factory.154 Second. The history of the regulation of the working day in certain branches of production, and the struggle still going on in others in regard to this regulation, prove conclusively that the isolated labourer, the labourer as “free” vendor of his labour-power, when capitalist production has once attained a certain stage, succumbs without any power of resistance. The creation of a normal working day is, therefore, the product of a protracted civil war, more or less dissembled, between the capitalist class and the working-class. As the contest takes place in the arena of modern industry, it first breaks out in the home of that industry – England.155 The English factory workers were the champions, not only of the English, but of the modern working-class generally, as their theorists were the first to throw down the gauntlet to the theory of capital. 156 Hence, the philosopher of the Factory, Ure, denounces as an ineffable disgrace to the English working-class that they inscribed “the slavery of the Factory Acts” on the banner which they bore against capital, manfully striving for “perfect freedom of labour.”157 France limps slowly behind England. The February revolution was necessary to bring into the world the 12 hours’ law,158 which is much more deficient than its English original. For all that, the French revolutionary method has its special advantages. It once for all commands the same limit to the working day in all shops and factories without distinction, whilst English legislation reluctantly yields to the pressure of circumstances, now on this point, now on that, and is getting lost in a hopelessly bewildering tangle of contradictory enactments.159 On the other hand, the French law proclaims as a principle that which in England was only won in the name of children, minors, and women, and has been only recently for the first time claimed as a general right.160 In the United States of North America, every independent movement of the workers was paralysed so long as slavery disfigured a part of the Republic. Labour cannot emancipate itself in the white skin where in the black it is branded. But out of the death of slavery a new life at once arose. The first fruit of the Civil War was the eight hours’ agitation, that ran with the sevenleagued boots of the locomotive from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from New England to California. The General Congress of labour at Baltimore (August 16th, 1866) declared: “The first and great necessity of the present, to free the labour of this country from capitalistic slavery, is the passing of a law by which eight hours shall be the normal working day in all States of the American Union. We are resolved to put forth all our strength until this glorious result is attained.”161 At the same time, the Congress of the International Working Men’s Association at Geneva, on the proposition of the London General Council, resolved that “the limitation of the working day is a preliminary condition without which all further attempts at improvement and emancipation must prove abortive... the Congress proposes eight hours as the legal limit of the working day.” Thus the movement of the working-class on both sides of the Atlantic, that had grown instinctively out of the conditions of production themselves, endorsed the words of the English Factory Inspector, R. J. Saunders “Further steps towards a reformation of society can never be carried out with any hope of success, unless the hours of labour be limited, and the prescribed limit strictly enforced.”162 It must be acknowledged that our labourer comes out of the process of production other than he entered. In the market he stood as owner of the commodity “labour-power” face to face with other owners of commodities, dealer against dealer. The contract by which he sold to the capitalist his labour-power proved, so to say, in black and white that he disposed of himself freely. The bargain concluded, it is discovered that he was no “free agent,” that the time for which he is free to sell his labour-power is the time for which he is forced to sell it, 163 that in fact the vampire will not lose its hold on him “so long as there is a muscle, a nerve, a drop of blood to be 151 Chapter X exploited.”164 For “protection” against “the serpent of their agonies,” the labourers must put their heads together, and, as a class, compel the passing of a law, an all-powerful social barrier that shall prevent the very workers from selling. by voluntary contract with capital, themselves and their families into slavery and death.165 In place of the pompous catalogue of the “inalienable rights of man” comes the modest Magna Charta of a legally limited working day, which shall make clear “when the time which the worker sells is ended, and when his own begins.” Quantum mutatus ab illo! [What a great change from that time! – Virgil]166

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cryptodictation · 4 years

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Easter football season | Wolf danger

Quarantined soccer abstinence is wreaking havoc on our minds, maybe that's why, in Wolf danger We imagine that all the important events in history always have a sports correlate. How not to think that the events of Easter that end in the crucifixion of Jesus make up the first competition of fans quoted in the Bible. How not to imagine a sports journalist of the time narrating the sequence of Good Thursday and Good Friday, Via Crucis and Easter Sunday on FM Galilea:

Good afternoon friends of Jerusalem. Have omens of a parishioner afternoon. With the arbitration of Pontius Pilate today we will live a day of intense emotions in the imposing Temple of Herod: Barabbas or Jesus, Jesus or Barabbas. For one of them it will be liberation. For the loser, eternal doom. From very early on, the bars of both contenders beat a duel. The plus 1 half of Jerusalem is supporting the acquittal of one of its greatest idols, the ineffable Barabbas:

“I am from Barabbas, lazy and tormenting.

I follow you, you everywhere

I'm going to set Jesus on fire

Barabbas, we absolve you today

Come on Barabbas, Come on Barabbas … ”

Jesus, for his part, is supported by a smaller group – but not less enthusiastic – of Christians and apostles:

“Christ, my good friend,

At Easter I will be with you again.

We will heartily encourage you,

Go Judas, you are a traitor.

No matter Pontius Pilate,

or if there is a crucifixion.

I follow you everywhere

until the resurrection. “

The challenge began, both contestants look at each other suspiciously, the fervent scream of the crowd tries to influence referee Pilate. The high court of the VAR in Rome is also attentive to the arbitration verdict. The official shouting match begins to settle the winner. The local fan begins:

“Bread and wine, bread and wine,

bread and wine, bread and wine.

He who does not shout Barabbas,

what the hell did he come for ”

The breath of the Barravás bar trembles, it is immeasurable, indescribable, one more sign that the temple of Herod does not tremble. Late. When it is the turn of the visiting breath, the enthusiasm does not wane, but as is known, it is not as massive as the song of the local fans.

“I am from the glorious bar of Jesus Christ,

the one that multiplies the loaves and turns water into wine.

despite the Romans and all atheists

I am still by your side, dear Jesus Christ,

Dear Jesus Christ ”

The decision of the referee Poncio Pilatos is about to fall, he consults with his assistants, exchanges an opinion with the members of the High Court of the Roman VAR. This unappealable sentence is sponsored by:

“White Nile Soaps, the best and cheapest.

White Nile soaps, those used by Pontius Pilate ”.

Poncio Pilatos confirms what we all predicted, the winner is Barabbas and the outbreak of the crowds is immediate. The followers of the local bandit explode in a deafening song:

“Pilate, my friend,

Your failure is admirable! ”

The apostles and Christians are a clenched fist that sings with Christian resignation:

“If they throw Jesus into the drum

There will be quilombo,

there will be quilombo “.

The following Sunday, the followers of the Messías will have their revenge and sing the hallelujah:

Lay egg (of Easter?) Jesus Christ

Put egg and heart.

This church deserves,

have your resurrection ”

The Gospels will be able to count it as they want, but for soccer fans thirsty for sporting clashes, this was Easter.

The post Easter football season | Wolf danger appeared first on Cryptodictation.

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#Sports

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