Nine-year-old Helen Stor, clad in Bohemian native dress, holds coin boxes against Hitler that will circulate on March 25, 1939, when a "Stop Hitler" parade was planned. Rabbi Stephen S. Wise was honorary grand marshal for the parade, which was sponsored by the American Council to Combat Nazi Invasion. They said they expected 250,000 to attend. Unfortunately, it took more than a parade to stop Hitler.
Photo: Associated Press via the Berkshire Eagle
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Hans Vogel is Dead by Sierra Barnes
Hi folks! If you like fantasy, folklore, and historical fiction, check out and support Hans Vogel is Dead (@hansvogelisdead) ! It's an excellent and timely comic written and illustrated by @sierrabravoart and published by Dark Horse Comics.
And it has a little girl who is a fox and is an absolute delight!
You can pre-order it at Amazon, Barnes and Noble or at your local comic shop and bookstore.
"Hans Vogel is Dead features some extremely spooky art, drawing inspiration from fairy tales and history and then cranking the horror elements all the way up to the max." —Comics Beat
It's been a joy to work on this comic with Sierra to bring this edition of Hans Vogel, and I'm excited to see where it goes next! So go and get your copy—Pre-Order or talk to your local comic shop! Support your local and/or indie comic creators!
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Totally forgot to share this when I first posted, but chapter 2 of my new fic is now up! Some Steve/Bucky hurt/comfort, as always.
It was November of 1941, the air was bright and clear and cold, and Bucky was starting to feel like he was living at the end of the world.
Or, with the world at war, responsibility on his shoulders, and the draft looming closer by the day, Bucky's just trying his best to stay afloat. Drinking seems to help, until it doesn’t.
Main, overarching warning for depictions of unhealthy alcohol use as a coping mechanism. More specific warnings are in the tags and chapter notes, so please be sure to check those as well! Chapter 2 snippet below the cut:
Bucky sat slouched over the bar, staring into the depths of his drink.
It was a dive bar close to the docks, one Bucky always glanced over his shoulder before entering, afraid Jack or someone else from work might be passing by and see him go in. Since he and Steve had finally gotten over themselves, taking the plunge into the relationship that, to Bucky, had always felt halfway inevitable, they went out dancing a lot less. It was both exhausting and unfair, inviting out girls just to keep up appearances. They now spent more time out at bars like this instead – places where Bucky could run his hand up Steve’s thigh or link their hands together under the table and know that nobody would bat an eye.
There had been a time when Bucky had loved it, the openness they found in these places when everywhere else they had to be so careful. He was enjoying it far less now that he had to spend his evening listening to Steve animatedly talking politics to the shiny-haired boy sitting next to them at the bar, leaving Bucky to either try and fail to keep up or drink in silence.
“It’s bullying, is what it is,” Steve ranted, that familiar bit of Irish starting to creep into his voice. “Hitler thinks he can push everyone in Europe around, just like he’s already been doing to his own people!”
The boy beside him was nodding intensely, dark eyes fixed on Steve’s face. Bucky knocked back the rest of his drink and tried to subtly flag down the bartender.
“Exactly,” the boy agreed. “It’s not about glory or adventure or anything, like other guys keep saying. It’s about justice. We’ve finally got the chance to do something good. You’re joining up, right?”
Bucky saw Steve deflate for a moment before quickly squaring his shoulders again. “Trying. Wouldn’t take me the first time around, but I’m gonna prove them wrong.”
“And you?”
The boy beside Steve addressed Bucky just as the bartender handed him his next drink. Bucky winced, hoping that neither Steve nor his new friend had caught on to the fact that most of the empty glasses in front of them were Bucky’s already, or that somewhere along the line he’d switched to ordering doubles.
He wasn’t trying to get drunk, not really — it had just felt so good to loosen up a little, and he could hardly fault himself for not wanting that feeling to stop.
“Buck?” Steve asked, expectant.
“I, uh… yeah,” Bucky said. “Yeah, I think I will. Just gotta make sure my folks are taken care of first. And I mean, I already signed up for the selective service last summer when they told us we all had to, so…”
Bucky knew it wasn’t the righteous answer Steve’s friend was looking for. He only hoped he was imagining the matching frown echoed on Steve’s face.
Bucky was saved from having to sit through any more of the conversation when someone sat down at the old, out-of-tune piano in the corner of the bar. As the first off-key notes of a drinking song permeated the room, the atmosphere shifted, faraway problems disappearing in favor of current celebration.
Steve’s new friend had turned around, talking to another man on the other end of the bar, and Steve’s eyes were on Bucky again. They were glassy and framed with long eyelashes. Their deep blue looked dark in the low light, and Bucky’s stomach swooped with a sensation like falling as he felt himself leaning towards them, tunneling into them.
Steve’s lips parted, saying something that could hardly be heard over the raucous music. They were bright pink, glistening with the last sip of his drink, and Bucky wanted so badly to kiss them, to claim those lips for himself. He forced himself to hold back, pressing a hand flat to the sticky surface of the bar beside his drink to keep himself from touching Steve anywhere he could reach.
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85th anniversary of Kristallnacht.
On the morning of 7 November, a young Jewish man, Herschel Grynszpan, wrote a farewell postcard to his parents and put it in his pocket. Grynszpan went to a gun shop in the Rue du Faubourg St Martin, where he bought a 6.35mm revolver and a box of 25 bullets for 235 francs. Then went to the German embassy IN pARIS and asked to see an embassy official. After he was taken to the office of Nazi…
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