#national radio school
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The National Radio School, Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest. Washington D.C. 1920.
The National Radio School (later National Radio Institute-McGraw Hill Continuing Education Center) was a private, postsecondary, for-profit correspondence school based in Washington, D.C., from 1914 to 2002.
The school originally trained students to become radio operators and technicians.
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“Life isn’t all textbooks and grades”
-pg. 406 of Radio Silence by Alice Oseman
#radio silence#universe city#frances janvier#carys last#february friday#national theatre#london#pride#star light#school#alice oseman#adobe lightroom#osemanverse
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If you're confused as to why some Jewish people find the Christmas season frustrating...
It can already be annoying even if you're Christian or culturally Christian. If you celebrate Christmas, you're participating in a religious Christian activity, I don't care how atheist you are.
And Christmas is relentless during the next two months. You literally cannot escape it. Christmas-themed decorations are literally everywhere, from people's houses to banners and lights affixed to public lampposts in every downtown area across the nation. Stores, schools, libraries, government buildings. It's everywhere. Half of all the radio stations play non-stop Christmas music. Every store plays a Christmas sound track. Salvation Army bell ringers dressed like Santa outside every big store. TV channels playing Christmas movies. Every online streamer and YouTuber does a Christmas episode. Christians use the season to proselytize, to convert.
The rest of the year, Christianity in the USA is background radiation: it's there, but it's easier to ignore. During Christmas? It's in your face and in your ears 24/7. For the better part of two MONTHS.
And now you have to remember Christianity's history of, you know, killing Jews, forcing them to convert, etc. And remember how people are so resistant to putting up any other kind of holiday decoration. They'll call something a "holiday party", but still only decorate in green and red and forget a menorah.
And maybe it's a little easier to understand why this is all so annoying, at best.
Note: this post isn't saying Christians shouldn't go hog wild. It IS saying that you need to understand that not everyone celebrates Christmas, and will therefore not share in the "Christmas spirit".
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Stone carving jobs for the young
Stone carving jobs for the young
Students at Hector Guimard high school learn stone carving to help restore Notre-Dame. (NPR)
National Public Radio reported three years ago that the need for stone carvers to help restore the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, in Paris, following its fire in 2019, has caused schools teaching that craft to mushroom in France. They are being taught the same skills required to build the cathedral 900 years…
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#National Public Radio#Notre Dame Cathedral#Paris#Rhode Island School of Design#Traditional Building
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some facts about my father, a perfectly ordinary human being:
got tenure in two years by getting two 2.5-million dollar grants from the government and he's now held that job for the longest time any faculty at his university has ever been tenured. literally almost longer than his entire school has existed.
he's won a fullbright...thrice.
speaks five languages (fluently: english, hebrew, russian; functionally: polish, dutch) and can get around in three others (german, japanese, and "pidgin arabic" whatever the fuck that means)
he was once locked inside the great pyramid at giza. on purpose.
one time i went to austin when he was out of town and when we got back to his house the only food in his fridge was 1) bulk family size cocktail shrimp from costco with all the shrimp eaten out of it and only the marinade left, 2) three boxes worth of frozen yoghurt bars, 3) two bags of frozen mini-wontons that expired two years earlier
has only one demand for his funeral and it's that while his casket is being lowered into the ground i make sure they play "whatever it is, i'm against it!" from the marx brothers film horse feathers
broke into (and out of) martial law poland in the early 80s and brought four hams in his back seat so he could spent six months living with his girlfriend, including a short period of time where he tried to drive from białystok to kraków in the middle of a blizzard, got lost, had no phone, no map, ran into the police, accidentally gave them his fake texas passport and almost got deported, bribed them with a ham, and then somehow ended up at his girlfriend's brother's apartment by complete happenstance and got blind drunk for a week
made friends with his assigned kgb agent in the 70s in russia
his car broke down in the middle of the sinai desert in the 70s and was saved from dying by a roaming passing band of bedouin car mechanics who took his entire car apart and put it back together and drove off without saying anything except "it works."
convinced me and one of my childhood best friends that he had found a way to time travel an hour into the future through the careful use of daylight savings, a radio station, a car clock, and the fact that he has never been on time for anything in his entire life
when he got his house renovated he decided that two attics and two cleverly hidden crawl spaces wasn't enough, so he added two more attics and another cleverly hidden crawl space, and i wish good luck to whatever poor schmuck (my cousin) has to sell his house someday.
broke his cherry-wood dining table under piles of papers...twice.
when in grad school, pretended to be a visiting russian statistics professor named "professor blowjob" (in russian) and somehow got away with this in order to teach a lecture on how s of x = f of n (sex is fun)
conned me into the belief that i had a magical color-changing guinea pig and kept this act up for literally a decade before admitting the truth
became a fellow on one of the yellow river restoration projects by making friends with an old man doing tai chi with a sword in a park in beijing. turned out that old man with a sword in a park in beijing was the head of the national environmental protection office at the time.
#ill add more as i think of them.#and post links to the full stories once i get my dad to tell me them#so i can write them down#his versions are funnier than mine#this is a stable writing tag
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⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ YOU KNOW HOW TO BALL, I KNOW ARISTOTLE
↳ part two / the chronicles of jj & smartiepants!
(american)footballer!jason grace x fem!reader
masterlist | rules
on the radio . . . so high school (taylor swift)
an u can tell i wrote this for me myself and i …. cynjase nation rise ☝🏼 also i’m not american sorry if this isn’t the hashtag authentic experience ! (if one person tells me to write a pt2 i will)
“hi baby, what’cha doing?” you heard a voice ask, snapping you out of the trance you were in. jason couldn’t have come at a more perfect time - the sweet cadence of his words was exactly what you needed to pull you away from the homework you were doing
you turned to face him and couldn’t help but smile as you looked at him sitting on the very edge of your bed, a bouquet of flowers in hand - your favourites, of course. rubbing your tired eyes, you asked, “what’re you doing here?”
taking the bouquet from his hands, you went over to put them in a nearby vase as he explained - the team were having a friendly match with a nearby school in an hour and he passed by to see if you wanted to come along. staring at the pretty bunch of flowers now on your desk, a grin made its way onto your face. somehow, jason always knew when your flowers began to wilt
“i’m confused, they told you about this game today?” you asked, now sitting on a chair in front of him. you didn’t mind going, of course, but this is just how you were - always planning things ahead of time, your calendar neatly organised and your planner colour coded - so the idea of a game being sprung up on jason like this made you feel a little bad for him
he toyed with your fingers, now shy. before you became friends, if someone had told you the jason grace, golden boy of jupiter high (see what i did there wink wink), could be shy, you would’ve laughed in their face
“sorry, you don’t have to come, i was just wondering…” he mumbled. you would’ve gone anyway - hell, he could ask you to go to the opposite end of the world and you’d go - but now you definitely couldn’t say no, not with his crystal blue eyes giving you that look. jason insists he doesn’t do a puppy face, but surely this counted
grinning, you stood up, ruffling his hair as you made your way to your closet, “of course i’ll go, jase! i’m insulted at the fact that you’d even consider the idea of me not going.” at your words, a gooey smile tugged the corners of jason’s lips upwards, one that was only reserved for you, the first person who cared to know the boy behind perfect, popular jason
you rummaged through your closet, pulling out two tops and presenting them to him, “which one?” jason’s eyes widened, suddenly remembering something. he picked his backpack up from the floor and took something out of it - a jersey. his jersey. it was purple with gold accents, the surname, ‘grace’, and your lucky number plastered on the back
“this one,” he threw it to you and you caught it, pulling out bottoms to match. then, you stared at him, waiting for him to get the hint
“what?” jason asked, his brows furrowing
biting your lip, you became the shy one as you said, “i need to change, jason.” immediately, he got up, his face a bright shade of red as he took his bag and almost ran out, mumbling apologies and gently shutting your door behind him
you giggled to yourself, knowing he was going to be apologising for the rest of the day. oh well, a couple kisses should shut him up
#jason grace x reader#jason grace x you#jason grace x y/n#jason grace#jason grace x fem reader#percy jackson#pjo#percy jackson x reader#pjo x reader#jason grace fanfic#pjo fanfic#jason grace drabble#jason grace blurb#cynwrites#˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ jj & smartiepants
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1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]
Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.
Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.
Word Count: 6.6k
Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰
💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜
“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”
“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”
Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”
“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”
Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”
“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”
“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”
You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”
Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”
“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”
“What do people do with sea sponges?”
“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”
He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”
“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”
“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”
“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”
Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”
“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”
“Phil Ochs?”
“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”
“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”
“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”
“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”
“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”
Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.
“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”
Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”
“I think you do.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”
He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”
I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”
“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”
The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.
“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”
“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”
“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”
Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”
“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.
He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”
Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.
“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”
“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”
“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”
“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”
Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”
In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.
“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.
“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”
“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”
Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.
“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.
“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.
“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”
“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”
“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”
“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.
Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.
“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”
Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.
~~~~~~~~~~
When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.
“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”
Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”
Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”
“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”
“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.
“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defending you.”
Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.
“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”
On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.
“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”
“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”
Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”
You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”
There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.
“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”
Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”
“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.
“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”
“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”
“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”
“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”
“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”
The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.
“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”
Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.
As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”
“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”
“What? Why…?”
“Just go!” he barks.
Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.
After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”
Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”
“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.
Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”
“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”
“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”
“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.
“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”
“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”
“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”
“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”
“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.
“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”
Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”
“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.
“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.
Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.
“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”
Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”
There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.
“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”
And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”
There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.
Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.
“What’s wrong with you?”
You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”
“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”
You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.
Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”
Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”
“Okay. I won’t.”
There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”
Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”
You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”
“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”
“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.
“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”
“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”
“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”
You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?
Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”
“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”
“I’m not joking.”
You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”
“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”
“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”
You hesitate.
“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”
“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”
“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”
Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”
Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”
You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”
“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”
“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”
“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”
You exhale in a low, despairing groan.
“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”
You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”
You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.
You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”
“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”
You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.
Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”
You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”
But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”
“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”
“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”
“Fine. Totally fine.”
“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”
“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”
“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”
“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”
Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”
As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. You hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.
Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”
“Just like you.”
He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”
You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”
“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”
“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”
Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”
“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”
“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”
“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.
Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.
~~~~~~~~~~
Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.
Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.
Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.
I would very much like to be rescued.
#aegon ii targaryen#aegon targaryen#aegon targaryen ii#aegon ii#aegon targaryen x reader#aegon x reader#aegon x y/n#aegon x you#aegon ii x y/n#aegon ii x reader#aegon ii x you#aegon targaryen x you
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25 April - Anniversary of Italy's Liberation
25 April also known as the Anniversary of Italy's Liberation is a national holiday in Italy that commemorates the victory of the Italian resistance movement against Nazi Germany and the Italian Social Republic, puppet state of the Nazis and rump state of the fascists, culmination of the liberation of Italy from German occupation and of the Italian civil war in the latter phase of World War II. That is distinct from Republic Day (Festa della Repubblica), which takes place on 2 June and commemorates the 1946 Italian institutional referendum.
Every year on 25 April Italy celebrates Liberation Day, known in Italian as Festa della Liberazione, with a national public holiday.
In addition to the closure of schools, public offices and most shops, the day is marked with parades across the country, organised by ANPI, Italy's partisan association which preserves the memory of the Resistance movement against Fascism.
The occasion is held in commemoration of the end of the Fascist regime and of the Nazi occupation during world war two, as well as the victory of Italy's Resistance movement of partisans who opposed the regime.
Formed in 1943, the partigiani comprised a network of anti-Fascist activists, from diverse backgrounds including workers, farmers, students and intellectuals, across Italy.
Resistance
Together they united in armed resistance against the Nazi occupation and the Fascist regime, making their struggle both a war of liberation and a civil war.
The annual event marks the day in 1945 when a nationwide radio broadcast calling for a popular uprising and general strike against the Nazi occupation and Fascist regime was announced by the National Liberation Committee of Upper Italy (CLNAI), a political umbrella organisation representing the Italian Resistance movement.
This announcement - made by partisan and future president of Italy Sandro Pertini - resulted in the capture and death of Fascist leader Benito Mussolini, who was shot three days later.
The Festa della Liberazione represents a significant turning point in Italy's history, paving the way for the referendum of 2 June 1946 when Italians voted in favour of a republic and against the monarchy which had been discredited during the war and whose members went into exile.
Scurati controversy
This year's event takes place against the backdrop of a political controversy after the state broadcaster RAI stopped a well-known Italian writer from delivering an anti-fascist monologue on television a few days before the Festa della Liberazione.
Antonio Scurati accused RAI of censorship after his monologue was dropped abruptly from the Saturday night talkshow Chesarà for "editorial reasons".
The writer claimed that the move highlighted the alleged attempts by premier Giorgia Meloni's right-wing government to exert its influence over the state broadcaster which has seen several veteran presenters leave over the last year including Fabio Fazio, Bianca Berlinguer and Amadeus.
In his speech Scurati criticised the "ruling post-Fascist party" for wanting to "re-write history" rather than "repudiate its neo-fascist past".
RAI director Paolo Corsini rejected any talk of censorship, as did Meloni who responded to the controversy by posting Scurati's text on her Facebook page, stating that the broadcaster had "simply refused to pay 1800 euro (the monthly salary of many employees) for a minute of monologue".
Meloni added that the Italian people "can freely judge" the contents of the text which was later read live on air by Chesarà presenter Serena Bortone in an act of solidarity with Scurati.
#italy#italia#25 aprile#25 april#festa della liberazione#liberation day#antifascism#history#world war ii#fascism#nazism#antinazi#partisans#resistence#1945#italian history#antonio scurati#giorgia meloni#governo meloni#serena bortone#censorship#storia italiana
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By Allison Pearson
23 March 2024
OH, NO. No. A sense that something was not right, that our wonderful Princess was perhaps in more trouble than we’d been told, was confirmed at 6pm on Friday with an unprecedented TV address that dealt a blow to the nation’s solar plexus.
Some will simply have been stunned by the news, hardly able to comprehend it (what, cancer twice in the Royal family within two months? But she’s so young).
Others will have been in tears, as I was, watching our Princess of Wales, parchment-pale, clearly fragile yet valiantly composing herself to record a message in that crystal-clear voice, reassuring us that, although it had been “an incredibly tough couple of months for our entire family,” she would be OK, given enough time, space and privacy.
One friend who heard it on the car radio pulled over to the side of the road and sobbed. “I am just so upset,” she texted.
Another confessed she was relieved that the Waleses hadn’t separated – one of the wilder rumours that had been flying around since the Princess of Wales was pictured in that photoshopped, too-smiley Mother’s Day picture without her wedding rings.
“For the backbone of Britain, we need those two to be together and happily married,” said my friend. So true.
William ’n’ Kate, Kate ’n’ William, a couple for almost the whole of their adult lives, one unimaginable without the other.
Our monarchy is assured as long as there is them (the Waleses will celebrate their thirteenth wedding anniversary on 29th April, six days after little Louis turns six).
Suddenly, with this announcement, we are reminded that they are only human too, vulnerable at times, and Britain is badly shaken.
As she finished her statement, the ramifications started to sink in. Prince William has to deal with a father and a wife with cancer at the same time.
There are haunting echoes of Diana, too, another beloved princess whose personal challenges played out so publicly.
Poor William must feel like there are snipers in the garden taking aim at his family.
You could tell the children were uppermost in her mind, just as they are for any parent who is told they have cancer.
George, Charlotte and Louis, she spoke their names aloud, her darlings. You know, I think they were the real reason she steeled herself to do it.
To sit there on that wooden bench with spring bursting out behind her. Daffodils on a grassy bank, trees in blossom – a cruelly lovely backdrop for such sad tidings.
How simply dressed she was in a matelot jumper and jeans, stripped of finery and clothed, instead, in a becoming humility, her beauty thrown into sharp relief by the strain on her face.
A 42-year-old who is uniquely privileged yet now confronts every woman’s frightening brush with mortality.
Her statement was carefully timed to coincide with the start of the school Easter holidays so the children could be safe at home and wouldn’t have to endure whispers in class about Mummy’s illness.
(Sparing them the agonies of embarrassment young William and Harry suffered at boarding school when Charles and Diana were getting divorced.)
It’s not easy to protect your children when their grandfather is the King and their father his heir.
The Prince and Princess of Wales have always been concerned to make things as normal, as Middleton, as possible, for their young family; this is their toughest test yet.
Was there more than a hint of rebuke in the Princess’s carefully measured words for a media that really has shown neither patience nor “understanding” since she disappeared from public view to have abdominal surgery?
She could be forgiven for being furious. (Believe me, many of us are furious on her behalf.)
“William and I have been doing everything we can to process and manage this privately for the sake of our young family,” she said pointedly.
“As you can imagine, this has taken time. It has taken me time to recover from major surgery in order to start my treatment.
But, most importantly, it has taken us time to explain everything to George, Charlotte and Louis in a way that is appropriate for them, and to reassure them that I am going to be OK.”
“Back off,” she was saying in the politest possible way, “leave me and my kids alone.”
Of course, she needed time to come to terms with the shattering blow of having a life-threatening illness and three children under 10. Every mother’s nightmare.
But time is one thing the vultures and conspiracy theorists were not prepared to give her.
In the vacuum Kensington Palace foolishly allowed to develop, the vilest rumours flourished.
Had she undergone cosmetic surgery? Wasn’t she just slacking? Why wasn’t William taking up more duties to relieve his sick father?
Had Catherine left William? Was it a lookalike pictured with William at a Windsor farm shop?
The gossip went global, causing universal hysteria.
Imagine feeling as sick and scared as the Princess must have done, yet being under pressure to show yourself in order to disprove the lies and appease the baying online mob. It’s barbaric.
I hope those who made such disgusting comments are burning with shame today now that we know the reason she hid away.
It wasn’t only ghouls with a conscience bypass who were trying to fill the gaps in the story.
Theories also came from people who adore the Royal family and were deeply worried for the absent Princess. We love and respect her so much.
Incredibly, in a poll earlier this month, the recuperating Princess still managed to emerge as the most popular royal, narrowly ahead of her husband.
Despite the slurry of accusations – not least the appalling claim in an early draft of a book by Omid Scobie (media snitch), that she was one of the two alleged “royal racists” who speculated on the baby’s likely skin colour – their figures are broadly unchanged since a previous poll in 2023.
Never Put a Foot Wrong is said so often it’s practically the definition of her.
Turns out there may be stresses and strains to appearing always in control, to aiming for perfection, that can eat away at a sensitive person not born to be royal.
Catherine says her job brings her joy; it must also have caused worry (such remorseless spotlight scrutiny).
We should reflect on that, I think. On what it’s reasonable to expect from one human being who expects so much of herself.
How the Princess came to win such a large place in British people’s hearts is better than any fairy tale.
Bullied at school, the quiet, sporty brunette was famous for her record-breaking high jump and tenacious character.
She had blossomed by the time she met William in their first term at St Andrew’s.
At 29, when they finally exchanged vows in Westminster Abbey, she was the first royal bride to have a university degree; the first to have lived with her husband before marriage; the first to be raised in a house that had a street number instead of a fancy name and a moat with swans.
As second in line to the throne, William was expected to pick his princess from a select group of well-bred young fillies.
Hot favourites included Davina Duckworth-Chad and one Isabella Amaryllis Charlotte Anstruther-Gough-Calthorpe.
Enough hyphens to make plain Catherine Middleton of Bucklebury, Berkshire, feel a little inadequate, you might think.
Except that, when a friend at university told Catherine how lucky she was to be going out with Prince William, a smiling Catherine replied: “He’s lucky to have me.”
The years have proved her right, haven’t they?
The death of Diana left William a damaged, stubborn and angry young man, acutely aware he was a prisoner of fate and railing at the media who pursued his mother.
Catherine has calmed him, rebuilding trust while providing the regular family life he had never known.
She has grown brilliantly into the role and the Waleses are a formidable team, lighting up any event they enter.
Now, it is his turn to soothe and calm her, although he must be deeply worried.
“Having William by my side is a great source of comfort and reassurance too, as is the love, support and kindness that has been shown by so many of you. It means so much to us both,” she said.
The King was right to salute his daughter-in-law for her courage. Imagine what it takes to first tell your small children you have cancer and then tell the whole world.
She did it so naturally, so sweetly, with such great empathy for others with that cruel disease that no one could possibly guess what it cost her. But it cost her.
She has told George, Charlotte and Louis that Mummy is well, and getting better, but the only way she will make a full recovery is if she’s left alone as she completes her treatment.
Will the vultures listen? Will they give her the time she needs or go back pecking for more?
Millions of us are praying for the return to health of our wonderful Princess of Wales. She has all our support and love.
A Britain without her is unthinkable, unbearable. Take your time, Princess, take your time.
💙🌹💙
#Princess of Wales#Catherine Princess of Wales#Catherine Middleton#Kate Middleton#British Royal Family#cancer#chemotherapy
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Steve didn’t want a dog.
The seizures started not long after they officially slammed the gate shut on the Upside Down, but it was suspected that they were probably happening before that. It’s subtle for the most part. It takes a while before anybody notices the shifting behind the eyes, the confusion, the dull drag that sinks into Steve’s body and tightens everything up.
They call them absence seizures. And then when Steve convulsed on the Family Video carpet, they say grand mal. They say brain damage and likely permanent, and it’s scary.
It is always scary when Steve’s brain betrays him, when his memory slips and his body fails, and Eddie knows that it’s frustrating. He knows that Steve hates it. He’s been on the opposite end of Steve’s mood swings, of the tears and the anger at going from a kid with no adult supervision to an adult that can’t drive their own car anymore.
He knows the fear that creeps into Steve’s voice through the phoneline when he’s somewhere he doesn’t recognize and doesn’t remember how he got there because Eddie is there. He is on the other end of the line. He is there for the confusion, for the messy emotions, for every breakdown and the attempted break up and Steve saying that he was holding Eddie back when all he ever did was keep Eddie together.
But it is scary.
It is so fucking scary every time that Eddie sits and waits by Steve’s side for him to come back to himself, fearing – always fearing that there might come a day that he doesn’t. But it’s scarier when he’s not there.
Steve does not want a dog.
The first time Eddie brought up a service animal, there are three adult men living in Wayne’s trailer. He’s flipping through a magazine and Steve says no. He says that they can’t afford a dog, much less a service animal and no, Steve would not ask his parents about it. He was lucky enough that they let him stay on their insurance after they kicked him out.
The second time Eddie brought it up, there is money. There is money for a trailer of their own. There’s money for Steve to go to school. There’s a label that signed them and talks of a nation-wide tour, and there’s a song on the radio, and Steve says no. Steve says that it’s unnecessary. He says that he’ll move in with Robin and Nancy while Eddie tours. That it’s okay.
The third time, they have an apartment of their own. Eddie has more money than he’ll ever know what to do with and Steve says no. He’s teaching first grade and he’s happy all the time, and he tells Eddie no. He says that it’s an almost invisible disorder and that sometimes he can pretend that it doesn’t exist. He says he can pretend that none of the bad stuff ever happened, and if he has a dog then it’s just a neon sign that says he’s got his head cracked open. He says people treat him like he’s something that can break when they know, and he hates it. He says it's like they’re all waiting for him to shake apart.
The fourth time – the medicine change, the overnight at the hospital – Steve doesn’t let Eddie get the words out of his mouth. He’s upset and he thinks that no one listens to him, and he says no. He says when he thinks about dogs than he thinks about dark nights, and the junk yard, and the creatures that weren’t dogs but kind of were, and he doesn’t want to be there anymore. They closed the gate. It’s not fair that the Upside Down still lives inside him.
Eddie does not bring it up again.
It doesn’t matter anyways.
It’s been years. They built a system. There are still seizures, still dissociative episodes and sleepwalking, and still the rare but terrifying grand mal seizures that sits like Chrissy Cunningham cracking to pieces in Eddie’s chest. There are appointments and medication, but there is family and friends, and they take the precautions they know to take and learn to take more. And it works.
It works until it doesn’t.
Corroded Coffins’ popularity started to drop off in the early 2000s. They don’t tour too much anymore, but sometimes Eddie leaves for a week to play a couple shows out of town and that was what he was doing four years ago. Neither of them think about Robin visiting her parents or the research position that took Dustin all over the world, or that half of their friends have moved out of the state. They say their goodbyes and they kiss each other, and Eddie comes home to blood tacky in the carpet.
He came home to Steve at the bottom of the stairs after having a seizure and falling, bleeding and in pain, unable to move and calling for a help no one can hear for three days. They have a system, but there are cracks big enough to fall through. Steve may not want a dog and maybe it isn’t what he needs, but it’s the only thing Eddie knows to ask about.
Eddie asks again for the first time in years, sitting next to him in the hospital. Steve says yes with bruises on his face and taste of a concussion on his tongue, and they get a well-trained dog with light fur that Steve names Ozzy.
Eddie feels for the first time in years like he can take a full breath, a little more of his fear slipping away.
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#so this is sad right?#someone asked for angst a while back and boy howdy am I not having a good day so here it is#also I feel like this contextualizes some of the things in the AU particularly why Eddie retired from touring in the first place#oh! also origin story for Ozzy#I feel like this can stand on its own but as always it’s a part of the#eddie munson tiktok saga#eddie munson#steve harrington
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On 3 September 1995, Jeremy Brett, famous for playing Sherlock Holmes in the Granada TV series of the same name, spoke on behalf of the Manic Depression Fellowship (the predecessor to Bipolar UK) on BBC Radio 4’s The Week’s Good Cause (still running under the title the Radio 4 Appeal). As he explained, his interest was as much personal as it was philanthropic:
“I started my acting career in repertory and have over the years appeared in many plays in London and New York and the National Theatre under the banner of Laurence Olivier. Now, why am I telling you this in The Week's Good Cause slot? Because this week's charity is the Manic Depression Fellowship and I myself have been diagnosed as manic depressive, so I know what I am talking about and I need to remind you that I am a successful actor before admitting to having a severe mental illness.
“When I was admitted to the Maudsley Hospital in 1986, I…I was so confused I couldn't relate to anything or anyone around me. All I could do was lie face down with my fists clenched in my face. I believe I have been coping with these severe mood swings for many more years than I like to think, but being a member of a profession where being a little mad helps, my moods were tolerated far more readily than if I worked in a bank or a school.”
“And it is my success which gave me the courage to admit publicly that I had this illness, as an encouragement to others that it had not stopped me from being employed and leading a fulfilled and successful life. It is an illness which can be treated and managed. It comes and goes, and in between the bouts of illness people are well.”
Sadly, Brett died a matter of days after this radio broadcast, of a cause not directly related to the state of his mental health. The courage he showed in putting his own story at the service of a mental health support charity may have been equalled by that of others since, but it has not been forgotten.
#jeremy brett#granada holmes#bipolar disorder#mental health#mental illness#bipolar disorder awarenes day
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Boyah
Boyah (plural: Boyat) was subcultural identity of AFAB non-binary,tomboy,demi girl & trans-masculine folks of Persian Gulf. Boyat are asigned female at birth,but express gender atypical behaviour. The origin of this queer subculture is unclear, some boyat claimed that it was started through online forums & groups. [citation needed]
Boyah subculture was more visible in Gulf states (including Kuwait,Oman,Saudi Arabia,UAE,Bahrain). Boyah identity may fall under the modern Transgender and Non-binary umbrella. However some people may considered them as people of forth gender.
Sexuality
Boyat folk's sexuality can be confusing in various cultural contexts. Most of the Boyat had intimate and romantic relationships with cis-girls in their past life, but they do not consider themselves as homosexual.
The term Boyah itself does not mean lesbian in arabic.In later life many Boyat had to pursue a heterosexual marriage & had children.Because marriage is a obligatory in local arabic customs.In addition to this, some boyah were androsexual & interested in boys only.
Culture & Lifestyle
Trans-masculine/tomboys/AFAB non-binary/AFAB genderpunk took the “Boyah” cultural identity in their early adolescence. On the otherhand, some boyat took the male role to challenge societal gender norms and stereotypes in Arabic Gulf States.
In general, a boyah is characterized by no make-up, no feminine expressions, no feminine name,feminine pronouns.In boyah subculture, Boyat community may use a massive masculine watches.Boyat people worn loose-fitting male cloth with a touch of the military, vibrantly coloured dresses,shirts and boyah jeans(which are baggy with big prints all over them). Since the age of internet Arab's boyat community started informal groups,online forums.
Most of the boyat have to lead double lives because gulf states has strict cultural gender roles especially for womxn.Many of them are forced to get married.In general Boyah phenomena is considered a disgrace to an arab family's honour.Additionally atypical gender expression is seems to be indecent and deviant in GCC states.Many boyat face stigma for not adhering with rigid patriarchal gender roles.
After leaving home, many undergo a radical transformation,changing their clothes at school/college or a friend's house.While in transition ,they run no real risk of being caught because,while in public, Emirates women are required to wear the national dress - a long black over-garment called an abaya, which makes it easier to switch roles without drawing attention.
Media
In general, Gulf media portrays queerness in negetive ways. A Boyah named Abeer appeared on the Saudi TV Show “Ya Hala” where he/ze said that he/ze was attracted to women while still at school. He/Ze had a complete love relationship with a classmate for a long time. Another person named Hamood joined a show of Radio Sawa where he/ze explained ze was rebelling against social (gender) norms and his/zee family’s restrictions through this boyah phenomena.
On a national television of UAE, a boyah named Bandar openly spoke about his queer relationship with another girl and expressed the desire to marry her and have children with her through IVF. His statement on Abu Dhabi's national television shocked the whole nation.
Decline of Boyah Culture
In the Persian Gulf region, boyah identity became very controversial since 2007. In 2007, the Kuwaiti parliament amended Article 198 of the country’s penal code so that anyone “imitating the opposite sex in any way” could face up to a year in jail and/or a fine of 1,000 dinars ($3,500). A further problem was that the law made no attempt to define “imitating the opposite sex” So it was basically left to the discretion of the police. Within a couple of weeks at least 14 people had been arrested in Kuwait City & thrown into prison. Boyat made their debut as a public concern in 2008 when Dubai police denounced cross-dressing - its chief, Dahi Khalfan Tamim, called on the Ministry of Social Affairs to find out how widespread the practice is and what causes it.
In 2009, Dubai launched a public campaign under the slogan "Excuse Me, I am a Girl", which cautioned against “masculine” behaviour among AFAB queers & tomboys and aimed to steer them towards "femininity". The impetus for this was a moral panic which swept through several Gulf states at that time, regarding the Boyah phenomena. 2 months after announcing the campaign the police persecuted 40 people (for their gender atypical expression), imprisoned them for 3 years in jail.In addition, trans-masculine/trans males,trans women,gender-queers were also shamed & abused by the UAE's police team.
Public Attitudes
Many conservative patriarchal arab people see a greater danger in the Boyah subcultural practices; they fear it can become permanent and cause great distress for the women and their families.
Psychiatrist Yousef Abou Allaban says, "It can go extreme, where they change their sex and have an operation.'' Saudi journalist Yousef Al-Qafari said in an interview on Radio Sawa that family disintegration and lack of true love have led women to act like a man. Al-Qafari said education was the best way to tackle this phenomenon.He called on the Ministry of Education to take up this role.
Social worker Nadia Naseer said, “Families play an essential role in such cases. Families should monitor their female members, especially when they start acting like men by cutting their hair short, wearing men’s clothing, or refusing to wear women’s accessories”. She also said, when a girl or woman does this,she is looking for attention & sending a message that she is a boyah.
Saudi writer Randa Alsheikh, in one of her columns, said that she attended a social gathering where she saw a group of females who appeared almost completely like men.“I would not be exaggerating if I say I could not tell the difference between them and men,” she wrote.She said that they looked, talked and walked like men & “even worse” some appeared to be in their 40s. We need to quickly address this phenomenon to contain these girls so that they are able to build good families and a healthy society,”
#Boyah#Booyah#Boyat#arabic#GCC#Persian Gulf#queer#trans masculine#genderqueer#gender variance#AFAB#Middle Eastern#queer culture#cultural gender identity
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the last voicemail
timeskip!oikawa x gn!reader
warnings: all hurt no comfort, mentions on engagement, iwaizumi mentioned???, not proofread
wc: 532
synopsis: after a rough fight with oikawa, you’ve been staying at a friends house for the time being. while you’re unable to sleep, you find yourself listening to a voicemail from an unknown number.
a/n: this is my first fic ! please be respectful when giving me criticisms !! had to edit due to copy errors…forgot the whole first paragraph oops
rest under the cut !
it had been about four weeks since you and oikawa got in the worst fight you’ve ever experienced. doors were slammed, voices were raised, and rings were thrown. your hand had felt bare without the beautiful silver ring that oikawa gifted to you, a promise of his never ending love. none of it felt real, you wished it were a horrid nightmare, that you could roll over and see oikawa’s sleeping figure.
you’ve been staying at your friends apartment for the time being, quick to pack your bags and get out of the house where the fight ensued. it was radio silence from tooru, no calls or texts of any sort. it slightly worried you, but you figured he had moved on already. he had hundreds of fans that were waiting for him, waiting for *you* to mess up. and you did.
tossing and turning in bed, you found yourself sleepless one night, something felt off. you weren’t late for work, it was still dark outside, there couldn’t have been a problem with a loved one, you had lost the one only who lived in the area. finally reaching for your phone, you saw the notification of a voice message from a number you couldn’t recognize, you couldn’t even recognize the area code.
“hey y/n… it’s quite early there.”
frozen, you took a moment to process oikawas voice on the other end. his breathes were short, it was like he had just played a whole volleyball match, a core memory from your high school years.
“it’s been a while since we talked...i wish i could’ve seen you before i left. i never even got to tell you the news.”
racking your brain, you couldn’t remember what he was looking forward to..did he get into a top university? had he landed a good job?
“i left last week, to argentina. made it onto their national team. crazy right? i remember spending nights talking about this to you.”
he forced out a laugh, it was clear he didn’t know how to tell you. hearing this shattered your heart, you remember how you planned to be there to celebrate the moment with him. you planned to go to the airport with him, wish him farewell. you planned to travel the world by his side, supporting him through every up and down.
“i still have your ring. maybe it’ll bring me good luck. make sure iwaizumi’s okay for me, he’ll work himself to death without someone watching.”
another forced laugh, it felt as if he was hiding who he truly was. it was a pain that couldn’t be soothed. you’ve truly lost tooru, there was no apology that could bring you two back to how you were.
“one day let’s meet again y/n.”
the voicemail ended with a satisfying beep. feeling tears well up in your eyes, you realized this was all too real. desperately trying to call him back, everything went straight to voicemail. you couldn’t send one, you needed to genuinely talk to him. this wasn’t how you wanted to end, but the universe doesn’t things for a reason, hopefully.
you’ll remain watching him on the big screens, cheering for him on the side.
#haikyuu x reader#timeskip haikyuu#haikyuu imagines#haikyuu oikawa#oikawa x reader#oikawa imagine#haikyuu x y/n#haikyuu#haikyuu scenarios#oikawa angst#haikyuu angst#oikawa x y/n#oikawa x you#haikyuu x you#angst#oikawa
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(7/54) ”In Shahnameh there’s one word that Rostam uses more than any other: 𝘋𝘢𝘢𝘥. Justice. 𝘋𝘢𝘢𝘥 is a simple concept. It means that everyone gets what they deserve: both good and bad. Everyone gets a fair share. The Nahavand of my childhood was very poor. People would come to our door each day asking for a single piece of bread. It seemed unjust to me. So I decided I would not eat more than that. My mother begged and begged, but I would not do it. I decided that if I became king, every child in Iran would be given their fair share. But until then I should participate in their suffering. I had no idea how I would become king. In Shahnameh it seemed so simple. Good kings glowed with light. Their wisdom was plain for all to see. I was an optimistic child. I felt that if I could use my voice, and speak about 𝘋𝘢𝘢𝘥 —then a path would open up before me. When I turned fifteen I went to boarding school in Tehran. It was nothing like Shahnameh. Half a million people lived there, and it was a time of great upheaval. A huge debate was being held over the nationalization of oil. The streets were filled with voices of every kind, and nobody could agree on the future of Iran. I realized that many people didn’t want the same things that I wanted, and for complicated reasons. At the end of each week I’d go to the house of a relative to pick up my allowance. His wife was the first person in Iran to have a cooking show on the radio, so sometimes I’d stay for dinner. They had a young daughter named Mitra. Her hair was cut short in the style of a famous American actor. One of her hands was crippled by polio. She was very shy about it, but it was never something I noticed. Back then most Iranian girls were modest and deferential, but not Mitra. And she argued with everyone: her friends, the help, her family, and me. One night over dinner I started speaking about the past greatness of Iran: who we were. Back in the days of Shahnameh. When I finished talking, Mitra was the first to speak. She said: ‘You talk about Iran like it’s a lion. But it’s a cat.” That was the year I discovered something new. There are love stories in Shahnameh too.”
واژهای که رستم بیش از همهی واژگان به کار میبرد: داد است. عدالت. مفهومیست ساده. بدین معنا که هر کس هر آنچه را شایستهاش هست، دریافت میکند. هم نیک و هم بد. رستم میگوید: جهان را همه سر به سر گشتهام / بسی شاه بیدادگر کُشتهام. فقر در نهاوند کودکیام زیاد بود. هر روز میشد تنی چند به خانهمان بیایند و تکه نانی درخواست کنند. غمگین بودم. بر آن شدم که برای همدردی با آنان تکه نانی بیش نخورم. مادرم بارها خواهش کرد، ولی من خودداری میکردم. میاندیشیدم که اگر شاه بودم هر کودکی در ایران به سهم عادلانهی خود میرسید. امروز تنها میتوانم در رنج آنها شریک باشم. هیچ اندیشهای دربارهی چگونگی پادشاه شدن نداشتم. در شاهنامه دنیا بسیار ساده به نظر میآمد. شاهان خوب در هالهای از نور میدرخشیدند. خردشان بر همه آشکار بود. من کودکی خوشبین بودم. بر آن بودم که اگر از عدالت بگویم، راهی پیش رویم باز خواهد شد. در پانزدهسالگی، راهی مدرسهی شبانهروزی البرز در تهران شدم. تهران شباهتی به شهرهای شاهنامه نداشت. نیم میلیون نفر در آنجا زندگی میکردند، و آن روزها هنگامهی دگرگونیهای بزرگ بود. کارزاری گسترده پیرامون ملی کردن نفت در سراسر کشور برپا بود. خیابانها پر بود از صداهای ملیها، ملیگراها و کمونیستها. روشنایی و تاریکی درهم آمیخته بودند. به دلایلی پیچیده بسیاری از مردم با آرمانهای من همراه نبودند. پایان هر هفته، به خانهی یکی از خویشان میرفتم تا کمک هزینهی هفتگیام را دریافت کنم. همسرش نخستین زنی بود که در ایران برنامهی آموزش آشپزی رادیویی داشت، گاهی برای شام میماندم. دختر نوجوانی داشتند به نام میترا. موهایش را مانند یک بازیگر مشهور آمریکایی کوتاه کرده بود. دست چپش به دلیل بیماری فلج اطفال اندکی ناکار بود. میکوشید آنرا بپوشاند. من آنرا نادیده میگرفتم، به نگاه من چیزی از ارزشهای او نمیکاست.در آن زمان بیشتر دختران ایرانی سربهزیر و خجالتی بودند، ولی میترا اینگونه نبود. او با همه بحث میکرد: با دوستانش، با خدمتکاران، خانوادهاش و من. شبی هنگام شام، از بزرگیهای ایران باستان گفتم. و اینکه در روزگار شاهنامه چه بودهایم. و چگونه میتوانیم دوباره آن بزرگیها را بازیابیم. پس از سخنانم، میترا پیش از همه چنین گفت: «تو از ایران به مانند شیری سخن میگویی. ولی ایران گربهای بیش نیست.» در همان سال بود که حس تازهای در من جان میگرفت. شاهنامه داستانهای عاشقانه هم دارد
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Betsy DeVos has been trying to break public education for decades so her “for profit charter schools” can rake in the dough from school districts across the nation.
Most charter schools are non-union, pay slave wages, don’t require qualified teachers, are exempt from the standards public schools are held to. They are failing miserably, offer little to no special needs or bilingual education, and produce poorly educated MAGAs that can not survive in today’s complex job market. It’s a scam that was pushed into the mainstream by Bush/Cheney with their No Child Left Behind. Another tricky Republikkkan misnomer.
NCLB brought us standardized testing to punish public schools, particularly those in inner cities that catered mainly to children of marginalized people. A school superintendent in Texas, that was a crony of Bush, expelled all the failing children (mostly minorities and poor whites) issued standardized tests and proclaimed his district proficient based on the scores. State legislatures across the country started punishing inner city districts by pulling funding from underperforming schools and giving it to charter schools. The charter schools were owned by DeVos and other billionaire Republikkkan donors.
Even blue states were pressured into adopting the standardized tests and the curriculums and texts that came with them. These materials that costs millions per district mostly came out of Texas and other red states. Ironic that Texas supplies the majority of our textbooks and has since before this scam. The Red States control our history and education in general, or at least have a profound impact on it. Many local level Dems on school committees and state boards of education also invested in this get rich scam.
Betsy DeVos runs a propaganda policy agency, the Mackinaw Center, that purports to be a grass roots movement for better education. It sends out emails, to everyone in education, that praise charter schools while denouncing public schools. Mackinaw created an artificial crisis of faith in public schools and largely blamed teachers’ unions-because organized labor is always the enemy of billionaires. DeVos’s agenda has seeped into the consciousness of Americaand even some public school employees have unwittingly bought into her propaganda. Southern Red States was where, and still mostly is, where the underperforming schools are-and that’s by Republikkkan design. Late stage capitalism, when the people have been bled dry the oligarchs begin plundering the government.
Oligarchs have been attacking our society on every level for decades. They have so many policy institutions, propaganda outlets, and political operatives working 24/7/365 that is almost inconceivable. While the main attack ramped up in the 1960’s it’s actually been going on here since the start of the Industrial Revolution.
Hilary Clinton was mocked viciously by Fox, talk radio, and Republikkkan politicos for comments about the “vast right-wing conspiracy” in the 90’s. Today there are college courses about it, books, articles, and documentaries. High ranking Dem party leaders are given briefings about it. RI Dem Senator Sheldon Whitehouse exposes it on the floor of the Senate daily. We’ve all seen charts of the Koch-topus with its tentacles stretching from right-wing billionaires to think tanks that openly write legislation for Republikkkan politicos to introduce. From the John Birch Society to ALEC and the Federalist Society they shape and control our laws and destiny.
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Komatsu D155W Amphibious Radio-Controlled Bulldozer
Komatsu Limited, Tokyo, Japan
Thirty-six units were manufactured in the early 1970s and only the five units owned by the Asunaro Aoki Construction Company survive. These bulldozers were fully restored for reconstruction work following the Great East Japan Earthquake of 2011.
image credit: Komatsu
lower image: "Tall Swivel 155", a childrens book by Komori Makoto celebrating the D155W. National Association of School Libraries, Selected Books (2016).
Published by Kaisei-Sha Publishing Co., 2016.
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